3. Penn

Chapter 3

Penn

“ H it harder, you fucks! Pussies can take better poundings than you,” I bark, taking another tackle with a grin that would make the devil blush. My body slams into another player, sending us both sprawling to the ground. The taste of dirt and sweat mingles in my mouth. I shove myself up, adrenaline pumping. The guy I just mowed down groans and rolls to his side. Weakling. I yank him up by the shoulder pads. “That all you got?”

“What the fuck, Blackwood! You can’t do that shit!” One of the linemen spits out, glaring at me.

“Come on, big guy, you scared?” I taunt O’Bannon as he grumbles and kicks at the turf as he walks away.

The air smells of dying leaves and fresh-cut grass, mingled with the metallic tang of blood from someone’s busted lip. My heart pounds in my ears, louder than the thud of bodies colliding on the field. This is my own little twisted playground at school when I can’t get away. When I can’t feel someone’s life in my hands.

“Wildcard! Enough!” Coach’s voice slices through the chaos. He’s been calling me that since freshman year. He says I’m too goddamn unpredictable on his field and that I either am going to ruin his life or win him the game. Practice comes to a screeching halt, and I saunter over, pulling off my helmet.

“Aw, come on, Coach. Us girls are just having fun,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow as I flash him a cocky grin.

“Cut the bullshit, Penn.” He grabs my arm and pulls me aside, close enough for me to smell the stale coffee on his breath. “Your behavior’s extra fucking erratic today. You don’t usually come out on to my field and buck my fucking rules so much. What if this was a fucking game? You would have been kicked the hell out. You need time off. Go deal with whatever your old man’s putting you through.”

“Time off?” I snort. “What, so Daddy Dearest can get his claws in deeper? My time is better spent here.” I wave a hand at the field, where the rest of the team is either nursing bruises or staring at us like we’re a car wreck they can’t look away from.

“I’m not a fucking idiot,” Coach growls. “I know your father. I’ve known Robert Blackwood longer than you’ve been alive. He’s a piece of work, but you—” He pauses, looking like he’s choosing his words carefully. “You don’t have to turn out like him.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I like being a piece of work.” I pull my arm free, feeling the weight of his words settle somewhere deep in my gut. I brush it off with a laugh. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep these guys in fighting condition.”

“Penn,” he sighs, rubbing his temples, “you’re gonna get yourself killed. Just be careful.”

“Relax, Coach,” I say, clapping him on the back harder than necessary. “I’m just blowing off steam. I’ll dial it back. Maybe.”

“Figure your shit out, Penn. Before it’s too late.” His eyes bore into mine, searching for something I’m not ready to give.

“Sure thing, Coach,” I say with a wink, turning on my heel. But as I walk away, the smile fades. It’s not that easy. Nothing ever is, and no one is going to take football from me. I love this game and the number of things I love can be counted on one fucking hand.

“Alright, you bunch of fucking degenerates, hit the showers!” Coach yells, dispersing the team. I hear the muttering, feel the stares, but I keep walking, head held high.

I’m stripping off my gear in the locker room and I can feel some of the other players’ wary gazes on me. Everyone fucking loves me until they don’t. Until my anger, my torment, my blade or bat or lighter is turned on them. Fuck ‘em. They’ll never understand what it’s like to be me, to be a Blackwood, constantly battling the darkness in me and trying to keep it held back by fishing line and duct tape.

“Penn, what the fuck was that out there?” Lincoln’s voice cuts through the haze. Yap, yap, yap is all I hear. I’m not answering someone who’s questioning me that’s fucking his sister. Stepsister, but still. Tomato, tahmahto .

“Just a bit of fun, Linc. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Fun? You’re gonna get yourself killed one day. Your recklessness has escalated,” Jeremiah snaps.

“Better than dying of boredom,” I retort, grabbing a towel. “You two should try it sometime.”

“What’s your deal, man?” Lincoln steps closer, his eyes searching mine. “You’ve been acting like a psycho.”

“Newsflash, Linc—I’ve always been a psycho.” I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “Maybe if you pulled your head outta Iris’ snatch sometimes you’d see that the world keeps fucking moving and we don’t bow down at your feet.”

“Cut the crap, Penn.” Jeremiah’s fists clench, the veins popping on his forearms. “This isn’t just about football. It’s about Dad, isn’t it?”

“Or maybe it’s about me not giving a shit,” I shoot back, wrapping the towel around my waist. “Sometimes you should take my words at face fucking value.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lincoln mutters, looking away. “Just…fucking talk to us or something. You keep all that shit bottled up inside and none of us are going to survive the aftermath of you snapping.”

“Too late for that,” I say, flashing them a grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got better things to do than this family therapy session.”

“Like what?” Jeremiah asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I reply, heading for the showers. The sound of water hitting tiles drowns out their voices, but I can still feel their eyes burning holes in my back.

Exiting the shower, I pass Coach’s office. A basket of bananas catches my eye. Perfect. I pluck one from the bunch with an exaggerated flourish, peeling it with a smirk.

“Please do not deep throat that banana. I can’t deal with your porn-like sound effects.” Oh Graham, if you’d only just learn to not say shit like that to me and I wouldn’t exaggerate.

“I feel a calf cramp so gotta get my potassium, right? Nothing like a yellow tree dick to keep the energy up and keep these as the best ranked calves on campus.” The assistant coach snickers while the others just shake their heads. Graham flips me off before walking away.

I take a big bite, relishing the sweet taste as I stroll out of the building. The late afternoon sun hits my face, making me squint. My Ducati Superleggera waits for me—a sleek, pretty machine, all-black with blood-red accents, a reflection of everything I am. She’s a real fucking pretty ass bitch.

I swing a leg over the bike, feeling its power hum beneath me. The vibrations from the tank and the scent of the exhaust are almost enough for me to sport wood. A restlessness stirs in my chest, and I have to get out of here. I need therapy, the kind that’s two wheels, the asphalt beneath me and the air barely entering my lungs as it flies past me.

I speed off, not even bothering to put on my lid. Tires screeching against the asphalt. Wind slaps my face, but it’s a welcome sting, a reminder that I’m alive, reckless, and untouchable. The campus blurs past me, reduced to mere blobs in my peripheral vision.

“Fuck ‘em all,” I shout into the wind, twisting the throttle harder. The Ducati responds instantly, surging forward with a burst of speed. The world narrows to a tunnel of adrenaline and my engine, the scent of gasoline sharp in my nostrils.

I lean into a turn, my tires barely gripping as my knee drags along the pebbles and little shards of glass. I love this little gamble with fate, and the freedom two wheels gives me.

For now, it’s just me, my bike, and the open road. No brothers, no coaches, no fucking responsibilities. Just raw, unfiltered freedom.

They don’t get it. They never will. This is where I belong—on the edge, where every second counts and every mistake could be your last.

I spot a police cruiser parked up ahead. A smirk curls my lips. They’re like vultures, always circling.

I rev the engine; the roar echoing against the buildings. I pop a wheelie, the front tire lifting off the ground as the bike surges forward. Adrenaline spikes.

“Yee-haw, fuck the law!” I shout, flipping the cop the middle finger as I zoom past. The officer’s eyes widen in surprise before narrowing in determination. Challenge accepted Officer Wilbur.

His lights flash, siren wailing. Here we fucking go.

“Come on, you pig,” I whisper, leaning into a turn. The cop’s on my tail, but he’s no match. Not today or ever.

I weave through traffic, each car a potential obstacle, a game of high-stakes dodgeball. My senses are razor sharp, though. I’ve never crashed my bike and today won’t be the day either.

The city sprawls out, a maze of concrete and chaos. Perfect for losing dead weight.

A sharp turn, tires screeching. The cop’s still behind, persistent little fucker. But I know these streets—every alley, every shortcut. Another sharp left, then down a narrow side street.

The speed on that overpriced fucking Challenger is no match, as I twist the throttle. The Ducati leaps forward, the cop’s struggling now, his bulkier cruiser not built for this kind of chase.

“Bye-bye, piggy,” I hiss, taking another tight corner. I glance back—he’s gone.

Yep, still got it. I slow down just enough to savor the victory.

My bike purrs to a stop at the rusted gates of the junkyard, the smell of oil and decay thick in the air. I kill the engine, swing my leg over, and pocket the keys. The place is a graveyard for metal, but tonight, it’s gonna give me a present of lips wrapped around my cock .

“Hey, Penn,” Weston’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He steps out from behind an old Chevy, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. His eyes light up when he sees me, and I can’t help but smirk.

“Evening, Wes. Got time for a quick chat?” My tone drips with sarcasm, my grin widening as I lean against a stack of tires.

“Always got time for you,” he says, dropping the rag and making his way over. There’s hunger in his eyes that matches mine.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m in desperate need of some…stress relief.” I don’t give him a chance to respond before unzipping my fly. His knees hit the ground like he’s been waiting all day for this moment. The grimy floor of the office doesn’t seem to bother him one bit as he does like the good boy he is and sucks me down in one swallow.

“Fuck, yeah, that’s exactly what the fuck I need,” I murmur, tangling my fingers in his hair. The world narrows down to the wet heat of his mouth, the raw need coursing through me.

Weston’s eager, sloppy, and perfect for taking the edge off. I let out a low groan, feeling the tension along my spine unravel. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. Nothing matters right now except the sensation, the escape.

“You always know how to make my day better, don’t ya?” His muffled moan is the only response I get, but it’s more than enough. The slick, wet sounds fill the small room, echoing off rusted metal and broken machinery. My hand finds its way to the back of his head, guiding him, pushing him deeper.

“Just like that,” I encourage, my voice a husky drawl. “You’re doing great. Suck dick like a goddamn pro. Gold medal in the blowie Olympics. ”

I hiss as the phone buzzes again, more insistent this time. I yank it out, glancing at the screen. Graham. Of course.

“What?” I mutter, flipping the phone open.

“Where the fuck are you?” Graham’s voice is sharp, cutting through my haze.

“Getting my willy tickled, if you must know,” I say, biting back a laugh. “You know I behave better once I empty my balls.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, why is it always me having to call you when you’re doing this shit?” Graham sounds exasperated, and I can practically see him rubbing his temples.

“Because you love me, Grammy,” I reply, winking at Weston who’s still working diligently. “And because no one else can handle my charming self.”

“Just fucking checking on you,” Graham snaps before hanging up.

“Always such a killjoy,” I mutter, tossing the phone aside. I refocus on Wes, tugging him closer. “Now, where were we?” Poor guy’s eyes are wide, mouth eager. He’s good—too good.

I tighten my grip on his hair, pulling him back into position. His lips wrap around me once again. My mind shuts off, allowing pure feeling to take over.

“Goddamn,” I groan, thrusting deeper. Graham’s voice fades away, replaced by the slick sounds of Weston’s devotion.

“You’re doing a hell of a job,” I rasp, feeling the tension coil tighter inside me. “Keep going.” My words are clipped, almost feral.

“Faster,” I command, pushing him deeper. He complies without hesitation, gagging slightly but never stopping.

“Fuck!” I snarl, releasing into the back of his throat. Wes swallows eagerly, a twisted sort of reverence in his eyes as he makes sure to lick every drop off my half hard cock. I pull back, catching my breath, the intensity slowly ebbing away.

“Good job,” I say, patting him on the head like a well-trained dog. There’s a gleam of pride in his eye, sickeningly obedient. I tuck myself back into my jeans and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still looking at me. Almost expectantly, so I wave my hand, giving him a reward.

“You can jerk off now, if you want.” I tell him, as I tap his cheek condescendingly.

“Really?” he asks, his voice shaky but eager.

“Yeah, knock yourself out,” I reply, stepping back, already losing interest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice thick with gratitude.

“Don’t make a mess. Remember to clean up after yourself,” I add, flashing a grin before turning away.

As I speed down the empty roads back toward the house, thoughts of Reagan invade my mind like an insidious obsession that I can’t shake off.

I crave her honey-brown eyes on me, watching me, wanting me. Fuck, I’m hard again just thinking about her.

I picture her under me, moaning with pain and pleasure as I ruin her for anyone else. Her dark hair spread out like a halo against the rough concrete floor where I fuck her throat while her head smacks into the ground with each thrust.

Without realizing it, I’ve pulled up outside her apartment building. I was here less than twenty-four hours ago as I crept out from underneath her bed as she slept. The lights inside are dimmed, but I know she’s there; I can sense it like some animal instinct guiding me.