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I reached into my pocket, and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. All along, I figured I’d be in charge of the disposal. “Here,” I said. “You’ll need these.”
She took the gloves. “Thanks. Be back in a minute.”
Crip and I looked at each other, but we didn’t talk while she was gone. After the toilet flushed six or eight times, the sound of running water followed. Then, she walked past us and into the kitchen.
“Trash bags?”
“Under the sink,” Crip said.
“Here.” She handed me neatly folded a trash sack. “You probably want to throw that away somewhere else. Or burn it. Get rid of the DNA.”
I looked at Crip. He shrugged.
“I needed that,” Peyton said. “You know; victims of sexual abuse say they need closure. Well, flushing their dicks down the toilet felt pretty fucking good.”
I made a fist and held it at the center of the table. “Good enough?”
She pounded her fist into mine. “Good enough.”
And, just like that, those two words made riding around all night with a bunch of cocks in Zip-Lock bags worth it.
