The Jerk-Off

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The Jerk-Off

By

Jack Lynch

Chapter 4

Footprints.

Gretchen Millerberg stood next to her metallic silver Nissan Murano, arms crossed, staring intently across the bay at Ledecker Island, a frown on her face. Dressed in a deep lavender suit, skirt cut conservatively at the knee. Prim. Proper. Officious. A Crow Wing County Commissioner, someone who took her very part-time position very seriously. Her reputation--crossing every "t" and dotting every "i."

This...incident...the only term she could attach to it at the moment, could be a stain on Bay Lake's reputation as a wholesome family destination. Translation--lower tax revenues. She sucked her breath in through her nose, taking in the sweet chemical smell of gas mixed with oil, made more pungent with the aroma of rotting fish.

"Ugh," she growled as she stepped down on the path, careful to avoid getting her three-inch heels stuck in the sand. Her chestnut colored hair, loose curls down to the middle of her back, blew softly in the breeze. Brown eyes, an oval shaped face, The perfect nose, if there was such a thing. A forty-year-old looker.

"Mr. Elwinde," she yelled. "Mr. Elwinde!" Still louder, waving her arm.

Ten Ethyl was on the dock, turning after she yelled his name a second time.

The morning after.

Law enforcement activity from the night before had been replaced by the buzz of activity from fishermen loading up and leaving the docks at The Bar and Gas. The Sheriff's Department skiff was still ferrying men and equipment back and forth but the trips were now intermittent instead of continuous.

"Boy!" Ten Ethyl screamed.

Thayer had been down on one knee trying to loosen a knot on one of the dock posts. He jerked up straight again as if he'd received another electric shock. Dressed this morning in jeans and a navy blue hoodie. The day was cool, gray, and a bit windy, a cross between mist and fog painting a dull veneer over everything.

"Take Mrs. Millerberg over to Ledecker Island," he ordered.

A couple of minutes later he was guiding one of Ten Ethyl's outboards toward Arthur Ledecker's dock, Gretchen seated ahead of him, perched on a forward bench, her back bone straight as she gazed ahead at the island.

As they rounded the turn to head toward Mr. Ledecker's dock, he spied his family's boat on the shore adjacent to Deck's house. He'd completely forgotten it had been left there last night in the hubbub following C.O.'s accident. Alarmed, he observed two cops standing on the shore looking over the boat.

"Oh, shit!" He involuntarily muttered.

"What was that?" Gretchen turned to him with a frown.

"Nothing! I'm very sorry, Mrs. Millerberg," Thayer responded as he quickly pulled the hood further over the top of his head.

A short time later, Gretchen stood with her arms crossed again. Hips thrust slightly forward, her legs spread pulling her skirt tautly against her thighs. A concerned look on her face as Sheriff Concannon completed his briefing.

"So, in other words, you've got nothing."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that," Concannon replied, tugging on his ear.

That bitch is something else, he thought. He glanced quickly at her skirt, the outline of her legs visible where they joined together, tight across her hips. He unconsciously licked his lips. What I wouldn't give to shove my hand between those legs.

Elsewhere, behind Arthur's cabin, Shamus Bueller stood with one arm across his abdomen, supporting the other arm's elbow, a finger lightly tapping his lips. He watched as two deputies carefully combed the ground with small toy rakes. They were picking away at leaves and broken twigs below the small round hole in the cabin's siding. Shamus had speculated last night that a bullet fragment had gone right through the wall.

"There it is!" One of the deputies exclaimed.

They all stepped forward, bending to look at the small irregularly shaped piece of lead. Shamus took out his phone and snapped a quick photo of it.

"Bag it," he said.

Having just returned from Ledecker Island, Thayer ran up the dock to the boathouse.

"Romey, I need your help."

Rome jumped off his stool. "Sure! Anything!" He blurted.

A minute later, they were headed back to Ledecker Island. Rome ran the outboard, Thayer sitting one bench ahead of him.

"Pull your hood off," Romey yelled over the noise of the engine.

Thayer twisted around to look at him, a questioning look on his face. "Why?"

Romey shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno. You look better that way." He smiled, immediately feeling a bit foolish.

Thayer's mouth fell open. He shrugged, pulling the hood off and running his hand through his hair.

Romey let out a satisfied smile, the dick between his legs thickening, at least for the moment.

As they approached the narrow strip of sand in front of Deck's place, Thayer was relieved to see the two cops had disappeared. Minutes later, he pushed the Dunn family skiff away from shore and jumped in. Giving the starter cord one pull, the outboard came to life. In short order, the two boats were racing in tandem back to The Bar and Gas.

"Well, when are you gonna know?" Gretchen demanded.

"Mrs. Millerberg, as soon as I know, you'll know." Sheriff Concannon growled, unable to hide his tone of exasperation.

After viewing the crime scene, they were back on Arthur's porch. The body of the victim, currently unidentified, had been removed sometime earlier in the morning.

"Not a local and not a Laker, as far as anyone knows right now. We're sending fingerprints off to the FBI," Concannon continued. "Laker" was the label attached to the summer people, the legions of seasonal home owners occupying hundreds of cabins and lake homes in the area.

Two deputies stood just off the porch, patiently waiting for the Sheriff to finish talking to Gretchen.

"What do you guys want?" Concannon asked.

Deck had just finished a video call with his senior management team. Rather than lead the discussion, as he normally did, he mostly just nodded. An occasional, "Uh huh."

The previous night was a disaster on so many levels. Was it a blessing or a curse that this guy was dead?

It could have been called a blessing. Two days ago, late at night, Deck had just gotten back to the house, done for the day after schmoozing up some county people about a new road construction project. He was whistling a little tune as he mixed the contents of his favorite beverage, a dirty martini. Just as he put the cover on the cocktail shaker and prepared to give it a good shake, he spied someone standing behind him, his reflection faintly visible in the glass of the bar cabinet.

"Jesus Christ!" he yelled as he turned around. "Who the fuck are you?" It was that guy, the dead guy.

"Deck," he nodded in acknowledgment.

After getting him to settle down, the guy told him in a matter-of-fact tone that Linnie Lee was about to make him an offer for his piece of the island. He was going to accept it.

"Hah! Really?" Deck guffawed.

"Or else, that contract, the one you're up for, the one for the new hospital? It's gonna go bye-bye," the guy said in a monotone. "Not to mention, some other unfortunate things that could happen to your business."

After telling him to go fuck off several times, the guy just looked at him, a look that could only be described as dead, and walked out the door. Deck followed him, trying to see where he'd come from. But, he just vanished into the gloom of the woods adjacent to his house.

That hospital project was going to make his year. He'd already greased enough palms to the tune of several thousand dollars to insure he got the winning bid. Deck didn't know what that guy had, but he had something, and it creeped him out.

So, the curse part. The guy was out of the way now. But, who was he? And, what did Linnie Lee have to do with it, anyway?

All of these thoughts and more whirled around in his brain, making it impossible for him to concentrate. To top it all off, he kept getting flirtatious IM's during his call this morning. Kat knew how to push his buttons, immediately distracting him even more.

What are you wearing? When he didn't answer, she continued, Wanna know what I'm wearing?

Disgusted, Deck shook his head as he deleted her IM.

"Don't like that idea, Chief?" His operations manager asked, seeing Deck's response and the look on his face.

"No, ah, well..." Deck hadn't been paying attention. "Go on," he finally commanded.

Deck closed his eyes for a moment, pinching his nose between them. Tired, but also, visualizing what Kat might or might not be wearing. His latest squeeze. Good looking, to be sure. But, it was the vibe that got Deck as well as almost every other guy she came in contact with. Sex, sex, sex. It just oozed out of her.

Ending the call as expeditiously as possible, he grabbed his coffee mug and strode out of his home office onto the deck. Two deputies were standing down by the shore talking to the sheriff.

"Jesus Christ!" Concannon complained.

"Aww, Sheriff. That boat was right here just a little bit ago," Deputy Blaisdell whined.

"Did ya think maybe it was a good idea for ya to write down the registration number before ya came and got me?"

Blaisdell's mouth opened and closed, trying to think of a good excuse. His partner, Gary Porter, just rubbed his chin.

"I think it had a name stenciled on the side," Blaisdell said haltingly.

"And what would that name be?" Concannon glared.

Both men looked back at the Sheriff, frowning in concentration. There was a pause.

"It was, ah, something. Something about...wind I think," Porter said.

Another pause. Both men looked at the Sheriff with blank stares.

"Get back to me when your brains get engaged," Concannon growled as he stalked away.

Ozzie rolled over, stretched his arms over his head, and yawned loudly.

Instinctively, he reached under the covers and grabbed his dick, feeling it thicken quickly as blood rushed to it. Morning wood.

"C'mon, Brockster," he rasped, using the other hand to nudge the hip of the guy sleeping next to him. "Either get out of bed or stuff your tool up my sweet little boy bud again."

Brock coughed once and slowly rolled out of the covers, standing up just before he hit the floor. A quick trip to the bathroom. He was back a minute later, still naked. Sniffing once, he looked around the room, grabbed up his clothes, and dressed quickly.

"Later, man." He said in a hoarse voice.

Ozzie didn't bother saying goodbye, just barely making enough effort to raise one arm and bend two fingers.

He lay there for a moment trying to decide if he should jerk-off. If ya gotta think about it, he thought, maybe ya should just go fishin.' He chuckled at his own joke as he pulled himself out of bed and went to the nearest window. One arm up on each side of the floor-to-ceiling window frame, he leaned on one hip, then the other, his dick still half hard, blithely unaware that his naked self was exposed to the world. Not the whole world, just Consuella, the cook's helper, who happened to be coming from the kitchen garden. She glanced up, her mouth open in surprise.

Ozzie laughed out loud, giving her a wink.

Oscar Aristedes de la Renta, III. Nineteen years old, having just finished his freshman year at Brown University. 5'7," 120 pounds soaking wet, light tan skin, and brown eyes. A narrow face, small mouth with luscious lips, his head longer than it was wide. Dirty blond hair cut in a swooping comb over. Short on the left side, a shock of long hair on the top, falling across down, covering his ear on the right, all the way down to his neck. Bi-gender, fluid, metro-sexual, call it what you want. From the left, he looked like a guy. From the right, easily passable as a girl.

Fine features, thin eyebrows, a nubbin of a nose. Smooth flat chest with small light brown nipples, a cute little tummy and an innie belly button, narrow hips. He kept himself clean shaven everywhere, especially around his cut 7-incher. He loved his thick unit, grateful for the skill he developed to be able to curl his hips up over his head and give himself an exquisite blow job--when necessary.

His late grandfather was THE Oscar de la Renta, the designer. His dad, Oscar, who was referred to as just "O," ran the company or as almost everyone called it, The Empire. They were now about as far flung from the fashion world as you could get. Their splendidly appointed Manhattan offices were filled with accountants and lawyers. A treasure trove of licensing and franchise fees were collected every year. Nary a designer or swatch of fabric were to be found.

Ozzie's dad inherited most of his abuelo's Dominican features with his perpetually tanned skin, oval shaped head, and long nose. His mother, however, was of Norwegian extraction. Raised on her family's sprawling North Dakota ranch, the Lundrigan's all sported pink skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. Ozzie was lucky. He'd inherited most of the attractive characteristics of each parent, uniquely setting him apart. More than one of his parents' friends had encouraged him to go to modeling school. Unfortunately, his diminutive stature effectively disqualified him from a career as a fashion model.

"Abuelo, are you Gay?" A precocious nine-year-old Ozzie once asked his grandfather.

Oscar smiled at his grandson, a twinkle in his eye. He remained silent. Ozzie suspected he was. Rumors had it that he had taken up with several men, in spite of the fact he'd been married twice. O's mother, who had produced all of Oscar's children, was openly bisexual. For himself, Ozzie knew how he'd answer that question himself, even at his tender age. Yes, he was Gay.

He waited until he was sixteen to come out to his parents. His father grimaced and just shrugged. Ozzie's mother, Kara, was supportive. After all, she loved him with all her heart.

In exchange for life in an expansive apartment on Manhattan's east side, O agreed to build Kara a luxurious vacation home in Minnesota. Not exactly close to her family in North Dakota, but close enough. Rather than trying to buy an overpriced lot on Bay Lake, they found an unspoiled parcel buried deep in the woods a couple of miles away. A New York starchitect was hired, proceeding to design an ultra modern mansion that looked more like a home in the Hamptons, worthy of a spread in Architectural Digest.

Turning away from the window of his second floor bedroom, Ozzie caught a glance at himself in the closet mirror. Pretty nice, he thought objectively, his eyes dropping to his still stiff member. He swiveled his waist a bit to the side to reveal his bare hip and butt. His first thought: I'd fuck me. His second thought: I wonder what kind of trouble I can get into today?

"Inspector, if you have a moment."

"Deputy, that's Agent Bueller, if you don't mind," Shamus responded, his voice sounding annoyed.

"Ah, yes sir. We've found something you should take a look at," the Deputy said.

Less than five minutes later, three men stood around a rock in the woods. A reddish brown substance had been splashed over the top of it. They all bent over, looking it over closely, careful not to disturb the ground around it.

Taking his cell phone out of his pocket, Shamus snapped several photos in a row.

"Get one of the CSI guys over here right away," he ordered. "I want all views of the area and then get a sample of that material collected."

Standing up straight, he looked around. "What's that over there?" He asked pointing to a structure just barely visible through the trees.

"That's Deck's place," one of the deputies responded.

"Hmmm." Rather than walking straight toward the house, Shamus stepped carefully over some ground cover and a fallen tree, winding his way in a circuitous fashion toward the house. A couple of minutes later, he emerged from the woods onto the narrow beach, trudging through the sand toward the lake side of Deck's house.

"Is your dad home?" Shamus asked Cutie when she answered the door.

Wiping the sleep out of her eyes with the back of her hand, Cutie cleared her throat and stared at the mustachioed man standing on the deck in front of their house.

"I don't know." Turning to the side, she yelled, "Dad! Someone's here!"

Shamus looked down at the young girl with the tousled blonde hair. Wearing a ribbed t-shirt with spaghetti straps and very brief sleep shorts, she looked rather delectable, even if she had just been rousted out of bed. Tiny hard nipples poked at the fabric of her top. His imagination whirled for a moment. Maybe there was a way to inject a girl into his latest story.

A few minutes later, Shamus finished his first interview with Deck. First, because there was sure to be another. Finished as in Deck cut him off and declared the conversation over. Shamus didn't really have anything on him. He had been busy entertaining his party guests. They would easily be able to corroborate that. Did he somehow orchestrate the murder, perhaps hire someone to do the dirty deed? Maybe, but what was the motive? It was really more his attitude that Shamus didn't like. Didn't know, didn't hear, didn't anything. For all practical purposes, didn't care either. He was mostly annoyed and frustrated that an important meeting with his brothers and sister had been put off yet again.

Hands on his hips, Shamus squinted at Deck. "I'll be in touch," he said finally.

As he turned to leave, Deck called out, "Why don't you talk to my sister? Maybe she can help ya out."

Shamus stopped for a moment, turned back to stare at Deck, then he looked down and stepped off of Lee Ledecker's deck. Rounding the corner of the house and heading toward the backside, he observed several officers crouched down, carefully searching the ground.

"Footprints!" One of them yelled, raising his arm straight up in the air.

C.O. lay back on the chaise lounge on the wide deck of his parent's house on Brighton Point. The place where he'd grown up--mostly. When he was twelve, his parents picked up, sold their Twin Cities home, and took up year-around residence on Bay Lake. Rather than enrolling him in the nearby Crosby-Ironton schools, C.O.'s parents sent him to Brainerd where he would have a better chance to develop his basketball skills.

Even before, his father was already a successful real estate attorney. With most of the big developers in the city already on his client list, Rehnquist Wilson earned a partnership in his law firm at least ten years ahead of schedule. After a win in one massive case, he exercised his considerable leverage. Locate permanently to Bay Lake and go into the office as needed. The firm provided a limousine or a Lear Jet, whichever was requested, on demand.

At Rhennie's behest, Dinwiddie Partners, his biggest client, managed to pick up one of Brighton Point's choice lakefront properties for a shockingly low price. The previous owner never intended to sell but was "persuaded" to accept a discounted offer after being caught in a compromising position. That position being standing behind a young college stud with a particularly inviting ass, bent over a saw horse in the garage, his stiff cock ready to pierce it. Unbeknownst to him, the whole scenario had been orchestrated by one of DP's legal assistants, a guy who was known to most of his colleagues as simply, "The Ghost."

It took less than a day to plow down the old house. In its place, one of the area's most opulent residences rose, dominating the Brighton Point shoreline. Dominating for awhile, at least. Over the intervening years, Dinwiddie Partners managed to acquire almost a thousand feet of shoreline, usually under sketchy circumstances. More traditional lake cabins were slowly replaced by Wilson knock-offs, equally ostentatious edifices that transformed the area from simple lakeside cabins occupied by regular folk into McMansions owned by privileged wealth.

C.O. closed his eyes waiting for the throbbing to fade away from the injury on the top of his head. Hopefully, the super-charged Advil he had taken a few minutes ago would do the trick. Sixteen stitches and the awkward looking strip on his scalp where the hair had been shaved away made him look a bit like a teenage Frankenstein. Albeit a good looking one.

As the painkiller started to take hold, he ran through a favorite fantasy, one of many in the library of the C.O. Wilson Self-Admiration Society. In this one, he's in a crowded bar. Naked, of course. Everyone else is fully dressed. At first, there's that fluttery feeling of humiliation and embarrassment, the one where you don't know what to do. Run away? Try to cover yourself up? Then a light gasp, a quick glance around to see if anyone notices. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. Blondish brown, mostly straight hair, a little too long, just over his ears. He'd have to get it cut shorter before basketball season. In the meantime, it looks pretty damn sexy.

Nicely muscled shoulders, pecs perfectly shaped and smooth, a deep indentation between each breast, pinkish brown nipples. He looks down at his dick, somehow satisfied and a bit proud of how big it is, long enough that it sticks a bit out and then collapses on top of his balls from the weight.

A hand snakes across his chest, scraping across his nipples, then cupping one of them. Someone else places a hand on the side of his hip, halfway onto the upper slope of his ass. He's getting hard now. He doesn't look but he knows it's at least halfway up to full attention. Instead, he looks around. They're all older men, some of them bearing a vague resemblance to Santa Claus. All holding beverages, smiling and nodding back at him.

"Would you like to walk around and show everyone?" One of them asks politely.

"Oh, yes! I'd like that a lot!"

As the man winds his fingers around his thick cock, C.O. tips his head back, squeezing his eyes shut, and lets out a small groan. Just at that moment, a mosquito buzzes his ear.

Wait a minute! Not a mosquito. The sound of an outboard motor. C.O.'s eyes sprang open, the fantasy quickly melting away. A small boat, propelled by a Yamaha outboard, ran by the Wilson's house, several hundred feet from shore.

He shivered a bit, hugging his arms around his body. It had been one of those cool, blustery days. The sun had finally broken through now that the afternoon was ending. Even still, more on the unpleasant side, especially for midsummer.

Staring blankly out at the lake, another boat, this one a Sea Ray Sundancer rumbled by, the occupants all staring at the houses along the shore. One of them held a pair of binoculars up to his eyes. A favorite pastime amongst Lakers. Troll along with their guests, ogling at the million dollar edifices, and either spreading gossip or making shit up about the people who lived in them.

There was that small boat again, speeding past, going in the opposite direction. Closer this time, maybe around five hundred feet away. A single occupant, staring at him at first, then quickly looking away.

Was that? Nah, couldn't be, he told himself.

Thayer held the throttle on the Yamaha, glancing furtively at the shoreline as he passed the Wilson's place on Brighton Point.

This was a kind of foolish, juvenile idea, riding by C.O.'s house in the hopes of seeing him. Not since he was like twelve had he done something stupid like this. Then, it was Devin Daly's house and, at the time, he was riding his bike. Back and forth he'd go, each time staring hard at her house, wondering what she was doing, hoping she would come outside and he could talk to her.

After around the fifteenth time, she finally opened the front door, skipped down the front strips, and walked to the curb. Thayer slammed on his brakes and stopped. They looked at each other, Devin turning her toe inward in a very cute way.

"My mom said I should come out and talk to you."

Thayer's mouth dropped open. The only thing he could think of to say was, "Oh."

Now, here he was. Squinting his eyes, he realized someone was laying on a chaise lounge on the Wilson's expansive deck. Navigating to the left, he throttled back as he approached the no wake zone between Church Island and Brighton Point. A quick turnaround and Thayer sped up, heading back along the shore adjacent to C.O.'s house. Closer this time, he observed the person on the lounge chair looking up, directly at him. Definitely, C.O.

Thayer's pulse quickened. He was just going to keep going but some invisible force caused him to turn back, crossing this time less than a hundred feet from shore. C.O. was standing up this time beckoning him with a wave of his arm.

C.O. chuckled as he waited for Thayer to glide into dock and quickly tie up. He was so cute looking in his navy blue hoodie. C.O. nodded as he thought about what a great color that was for someone with dark hair and pale skin.

"How ya doin'?"

"I'm okay," Thayer responded, a bit out of breath from trudging up the hill from the dock. "Better yet. How are you?"

C.O. suddenly remembered his injury. All at once, he was aware that his head had started throbbing again. He felt mildly faint. With a grunt, he collapsed back down on the chaise lounge.

"Does it hurt?"

"Ah, yeah. Sometimes."

There was a pause. Thayer stared at C.O. with a concerned look on his face. C.O. gazed straight ahead, as if in a trance. Thinking. Abruptly, he looked up at Thayer. Those eyebrows and those lips, so full and tasty looking. His narrow chin and luminous skin, delightfully in contrast to his dark sweatshirt. Narrow hips. C.O.'s breath caught in his throat.

"Wanna sit down?"

Thayer started to sit on the adjoining chaise lounge, but just as he turned to plop himself down, C.O. scooted to one side of his own chaise and patted the surface. Obligingly, Thayer sat down next to him, acutely aware that his hip was pressing against the side of C.O.'s leg. He pulled his hood off and fluffed his hair. They chatted for a couple of minutes about the murder, how crazy it was, and all of the activity that occurred the previous night and all day today.

A brief pause. "Why don't you lay down next to me?" C.O. nudged over a bit further, looking up at Thayer, a serious look on his face.

With his heart pounding in his chest, Thayer stared back at C.O. before swiveling and lowering himself down on his back next to him. C.O. automatically wrapped his arm around Thayer's shoulder. Without thinking, Thayer turned slightly and swung his arm around C.O.'s waist. Anybody looking at the two of them crushed together on that chaise lounge would have said they were cuddling.

Thayer took a deep breath in. C.O.'s smell was tantalizing. Probably just laundry detergent but, even still. Feeling C.O.'s diaphragm push against his arm, Thayer used all of his might to keep from running his hand up C.O.'s side and onto his chest to cup his firm breast, the point of a nipple again pushing against the fabric of his shirt.

"Boy. Ya know, I kind of like that name."

"You said that before. Why?"

"It sort of fits. You're kind of a boy." Pause. "A cute boy."

Thayer chuckled, but it came out sounding more like a "tee-hee."

They looked at each other, their faces and, more importantly, their lips ever so slowly drawing closer. Thayer could feel C.O.'s hot breath against his face. He started breathing rapidly.

What is happening? This is happening?? What is...? The words repeated over and over in rapid fire, inside his brain. His eyes began to close.

Just then, a bang and a thud from behind them, coming from inside the house. Thayer fairly leapt off of the chaise lounge.

C.O. sat up and turned to look. His dad was inside the house standing at the kitchen island, his phone to his ear, yelling at someone about something. He glared at the two teenagers on the deck.