I crack my neck, releasing a shuddering breath. I’m sitting in my Mustang, my dick still painfully pressed against my zipper. Just as I decide to say fuck it—jacking off in a car is the /east of my sins and wouldn’t be the first fucking ttme—my phone blares in the console next to me. I curl my hand into a tight fist, my muscles straining as I fight the overwhelming urge to bash it into the fucking window. I don’t think I’ve had blue balls like this since high school when Sarah Forton jacked me off in the locker room. It was the first time a girl touched my dick, and I didn’t even get to finish because Coach walked in before I could shoot my load off on her pretty tits. I snatch up the phone and bring it to my ear without even looking. “Yeah?” I snap, my frustration boiling to dangerous levels. “Didn’t get laid tonight?” Jay croons through the phone, his voice laced with mocking amusement. I crack my neck again, growling when my muscles don’t pop and give me any relief. “Jay,” I growl. I refuse to touch my dick while on the phone with him. As much as I need to lessen the pressure, Jay’s voice would make me feel sick. “Satan’s Affair is coming to town,” he starts. I open my mouth—gearing up to ask him why the fuck that would matter to me. “And I got confirmation there’re tickets with four little birdy’s names on them,” he continues. I snap my mouth shut. “Why would they go there?” I ask, completely confused why four grown-ass men would go to a haunted fair. “Prime girls for the pickin’, my friend. And now there’s a ticket with your name on it.” I sigh. “When?” “Three weeks from now. Plenty of time to go to the clubs a few times and start showing that pretty face of yours.” Sighing again, I pluck the pack of cigarettes from the console, bring it to my mouth, and slide out a cigarette with my teeth. I grab my lighter and flick the flame, inhaling deeply as the cherry blares red. “You’re smoking, aren’t you?” Jay says. I offer a noncommittal confirmation as I roll down my window and blow out smoke. The raging hard-on is gone, but my dick still hurts. “You said you were going to quit,” he whines. “Do you know how many chemicals are in that? According to the—” “Jay,” I snap, cutting off his tangent. If I let it go on, he’d list off the ingredients in a cigarette like he’s listing off all the components in the periodic