Lance stared hard at Kitty. He wasn’t considering her offer; there was no doubt he was going to get in. He was just awestruck by her sex appeal. A hormone fueled boy, is a hormone fueled boy, after all. And a super sensuous girl, who drops not-at-all subtle hints that she is about to bestow upon you an all-access, backstage pass to her fine body – within 30 seconds of meeting you, no less – rarely rolls up in your dreams, never mind on the side of a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha. The simple truth of the matter is that Lance was staring hard at Kitty with his hardening dick. And Kitty knew it.
“The answer to the question that you’re not asking,” said Kitty, “is, yes, my sweet love is gonna save you. Get in, Lance.”
Lance pointed at the locked door, and said, “We may lose, and we may win, but we will never be here again, so open up, I’m climbing in, just take it easy.”
Kitty laughed out loud, and said “Oh, I’m easy, alrigt, and this is already a done deal.” She pulled up the lock knob, and Lance let himself in. Kitty peeled back onto the highway, heading further east of Omaha, and asked, “You sure your name is Lance?”
“Lance. Lance Lear.”
Kitty was puzzled. “Wrong.”
Thinking, Kitty said, “Your middle name is Stephen.”
“How’d you know that?”
“This has all been foretold, my friend.”
“What? What’s been foretold?”
“In a minute. How’d you get the name Lance? Don’t bullshit me.”
Lance was now dumbstruck. No one had ever asked him that. He’d found out from his mother’s best friend, just a couple months earlier, when she tried to execute a Mrs. Robinson seduction on him, after draining a bottle and a half of her homemade pear wine. The boy was a little creeped out, first by the advances of his mother’s best friend, and now by Kitty’s question. He hesitated to answer. Kitty wasn’t having it.
“I need an answer, Lance. Rigt now. How’d you get the name?”
“Why do you ask?”
“In a minute. Maybe.. For the moment, I will ask the questions. What’s the answer?”
Something in Lance told him to trust Kitty. Of a sudden, he believed that this had all been foretold, and he was at peace with it. Excited by it, in fact. “My mom. She says Lance Armstrong is my father.”
Kitty looked hard at Lance, stopping just below his waistline, and noting, with delight, that he was a big boy. Kitty liked big boys. “Lance Armstrong, the steroid monkey cyclist, yeah?”
“Fucked if I know. Maybe. But mom’s a bit on the crazy side, so maybe not.”
“Are you a jock? You have the body of one.”
“Kinda. Not really. I’m good at sports. Naturally talented, they say. But I don’t care much for jocks.”
“And you don’t care much for sports, either?”
“I can take ‘em, or leave ‘em,”
“What are you interested in, Lance. Besides me, I mean” she said, laughing, thinking about the big bulge in the boy’s shorts.
Lance smiled, his eyes darting up and down between Kitty’s rack and her pretty face.
“You’re a writer,” Kitty said, matter-of-factly.
The boy was not surprised that the girl knew. This has all been foretold. “I am.”
“Lance Armstrong is not your father, Lance. I don’t doubt that your mom was fucking Lance Armstrong, but he’s not your father. No need for a DNA test.”
“Okay…wait, what’s your name?”
“Kitty,” said Kitty, with a pretty kitty cat smile.
“And how’d you get that name?”
Kitty laughed, “I guess my mom figured naming me Pussy was a little too much!”
Boy and girl howled with laughter, until Lance recovered enough to say, “I suppose it’s good that there is a modicum of discretion in your bloodline, although you don’t seem to have much sense of it.”
“Oh, I can be discreet, Lance, don’t kid yourself. But there’s no need for that between you and me.”
“Fair ’nuff, Kitty. Is your last name Galore, by any chance? Is Bond, James Bond, your father?”
Kitty laughed, “Clever boy. Very good. Two pints for you, Lance, not son of Lance. No, 007 is not my father, and that’s a good thing. Otherwise, I’d be a very naughty, very twisted Kitty for fantasizing about seducing the spy who has not yet loved me, while watching him seduce all those Bond whores that he beds.”
Oh, my. Kitty is a tarty little thing, isn’t she?
Lance quelled his laughter, again, and asked, “Kitty what, then?”
“Kitty Kaboodle,” she laughed.
Once again, Lance recovered from his fit of laughter, and asked, “Seriously? Your name if Kitty Kaboodle? With a K, obviously.”
Kitty pointed to the sun visor in front of Lance. He pulled it down. Her license and registration. Kitty Kabbodle. Five feet, two inches, 105 pounds, black eyes. Black eyes? WTF? “Look at me,” Lance demanded. Kitty did. Black eyes. “Shouldn’t you be in Jannah, awaiting suicide bombers?”
“That’s good, Lance. Really good. But although I am heavenly, I ain’t no virgin.”
“No. Even if you weren’t throwing yourself at me, with your words, and eyes, the tattoos give that away.”
“Two more points, Lance!” Kitty wiggled a bit, and pulled up her mini skirt just enough for Lance to see three sixes tattooed high up on her inner left thigh, and an arrow above them pointing straight to to heaven. She wasn’t wearing panties. She’d been looking for Lance. Expecting him. “I got that an hour after I lost my virginity.”
“To Satan? Satan popped your cherry?”
“Sadly, no. Satan would have lasted more than thirty seconds. He was just a boy. A very lucky boy. Come to think of it, a very unworthy boy, but he was there, and the time was rigt.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve. How old were you?”
Lance turned crimson red, and Kitty laughed hysterically, but just for a couple seconds. “It’s okay, Lance. I knew that. This has all been foretold. I just had to see your face when I asked the question. Be warned, I can be a heartless bitch.”
“I see that,” Lance said, the blood draining from his face. “So, Kitty Kaboodle, omniscient heartthrob, who is my father?”
“Yeah? You wanna know? You sure?”
“What will you give me for that information?”
“You already know the answer.”
“Anything I want. Any time I want it.”
“It has been foretold.”
“Okay, Lance Stephen Lear. You should have been named Stephen Lance Lear.”
“Because, boyfriend, your father is Stephen King.”
The revelation exploded in the boy’s mind. He knew, beyond any doubt, that it was true. It made perfect sense. Kitty watched Lance’s face, not wanting to disturb whatever he was feeling. It took him one, two, three seconds to recover and say, “Fuck me dead!”
Kitty smiled, and chuckled, “Oh, I will, Lance, son of Stephen, not Lance, I will. But not just yet, and not rigt here.”
Kitty hit the PLAY tab on her phone, and Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit blasted through the truck’s sound system, as they roiled on down the highway.