Pumpkin Pounder Read online

  Pumpkin Pounder

  A Halloween Romance

  Laura Lovely

  A Fairytale Remix

  Copyright © 2019 by Laura von Holt Creative Enterprises.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Cover: Romanced by the Cover

  Editor: Mayumi Shimose Poe

  Created with Vellum

  A Gift for Clever Beauties

  Hello, you gorgeous creature!

  Congratulations on making the excellent decision to pick up this book! Want something special, just for you?

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  You’re worth it! xoxo

  P.S. I promise you won’t get too many emails - I’m too busy having fun to be a bother.

  For my friends, who have been there for both the great nights and the mornings after.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Sneak Peek: Splash Me

  Also by Laura Lovely

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Halloween, one year ago…

  * * *

  “Awoooo!” My roommate Rachel howls at the full moon as we tromp three long blocks from the subway to the West Side Highway. Normally, this stretch of warehouses and parking garages would be deserted at night, but on Halloween, it’s littered with groups of rambunctious, costumed people ready for a good time. This year, Halloween is on a Friday, the moon is full, and the whole city feels electric.

  We pass two women making out against the rolled-down gate in front of an auto shop. Rachel and I high-five each other. Women have to support women, and we always support a woman getting hers. “I love New York on Halloween! It’s a total fuckfest!” Rachel says.

  “Everyone gets laid on Halloween!” I yell. On the opposite sidewalk, a trio of dudes dressed like the dudes from The Hangover cheer at us in agreement. “It’s in the city charter,” I tell Rachel. “That’s why people pay the high rents here. You get 99 cent pizza and a fuck buddy on Halloween.”

  “Worth it!” crows Rachel. She would know. Rachel was born in New York, unlike me. I’m a transplant from Virginia. Virginia may be for lovers, but it could not contain this femme fatale. I’m like the urban version of that Dixie Chicks song, I need “wide open spaces, lots of room to make mistakes.”

  I hold out my hand for Rachel to pass me the plastic bottle of orange juice and vodka we’d brought for the train ride. Our friend Seiko is bartending tonight, and she’ll hook us up with free drinks, but it never hurts to pre-game on the MTA, especially when we are trekking from Bushwick to the west side of Manhattan. Free drinks are not the only draw tonight; it’s the location as well. We’re headed to The Tug Boat, an old ship docked along an abandoned pier that’s been transformed into a somewhat secret bar. It’s dark, inconvenient, and a possible death trap—only in New York would that qualify it as an amazing place to party.

  Rachel adjusts the top of her costume. “How do my tits look?” She’s dressed as a sexy alien, with a fake third breast stuck in the middle of her admirable cleavage. The bare fake nipple is painted with roll-on glitter from my show choir days.

  I smack my lips. “Gorgeous! The glitter nip really elevates your look from doxy in an extraterrestrial brothel to doxy in a luxury spaceship. That costume is going to get you laid three times by 10:30pm.”

  Rachel pumps her fist. “I love Halloween! You can be anything you want to be…”

  “…as long as it’s sexy!” I chime in.

  “You look bangin’, too. Those stitches are giving me hot Frankenstein vibes!”

  I smooth the jagged patchwork dress that hugs my hips. I’m dressed as Sally from The Nightmare before Christmas, stitched seams for joints and all. It’s a great costume because it includes long sleeves and tights, so I can stay warm without bothering with a coat. Like Sally, my arms and legs are long and pasty. I don’t need to add any white makeup because I’m already pale, so I threw on some eyeliner and lipgloss and called it done. I may not be the sexiest rag doll in Halloween Town, but I have a nice figure and an uncanny knack for seducing men with the brute force of my personality. My costume is also an inside joke with myself. Sally loves Jack Skellington, The Pumpkin King.

  If there’s one thing all my friends know about me, it’s that I love redheaded men. Yes, redheads. Carrot Top, Copper Kettle, Firemuff, Big Red, Ginger Ninja. Whatever you call it, I’m into it. Any shade from strawberry to bright sunset to hot rod red. I love them all.

  I love the way their freckles stand out. I love the way their necks get red when they get hot, sunburnt, or turned on. I love the way I can spot one in a room and know they’re going to be mine. There’s a name for what I am, and I like it. I’m not going to add it to my LinkedIn profile, but I still wear it proudly.

  Pumpkin Pounder. “People who prefer to have sex with redheads.” My other favorite definition, courtesy of Urban Dictionary, “Women who seek out redheaded men in bars with the intention of having intercourse.” I know in some places ginger is a derogatory term, but to me it’s the highest compliment I could give. I’m predatory about gingers—but in a caring way.

  “I wonder who the lucky gingerbread man will be tonight,” says Rachel.

  I shrug. “What do I always say? There are no strangers on Halloween, only gingers I haven’t slept with yet!”

  We high-five again.

  “Pumpkin Pounder!” crows Rachel. It’s important to have friends who love you exactly the way you are.

  “What’s your goal tonight?” Rachel and I love having goals. We record them in a notebook on our coffee table. We write down everything from “make dentist appointment by Tuesday” to “fly private at least once before age 30.” Making goals is the one thing that keeps us from thoroughly failing at adulting.

  Rachel fluffs her smooth brown hair. Ugh, she’s so good with a flat iron and I am not. Rachel likes to joke that it’s a mandatory skill for every Jewish girl who attends high school on the Upper East Side. “These alien tits sell themselves. Tonight I’m either going to end up engaged or at the center of a political scandal.”

  “Political scandal! That is big goals.” I have my eye on a few redheaded government officials. If I ever run for office, they are welcome to compromise me.

  We pause at the crosswalk that marks border of the West Side Highway and the Manhattan waterfront. We both check our bras, where we keep our emergency cab fare. Rachel hands me the water bottle that contains our “roadie” and I drain its contents. We reapply our lip gloss, dig through our little purses to flash our IDs at the bouncer (who barely checks), and strut together toward Pier 62. The city is fixing up a pedestrian walkway and bike path along the Hudson River, which makes this area a picturesque vision of grassy, urban recreation during the day. At night, however, it’s rusted stairs, flickering streetlights, and a treacherous walk from the highway to the edge of the pier. Rachel and I are regulars, so we know to wear flats. Our fellow Halloween revelers, however, teeter in their stilettos and high-heeled boots along the neglected tracks that line the pier. Back in the day, those tracks were used to transport cargo from shore to land. Now they’re both an authentic decorative element and equally authentic hazard.

  “Are you sure this place is legal?” a sexy nurse asks her sexy ladybug companion as they step over
a hole in a wooden plank.

  Rachel and I smile at the ladies as we walk past them. “You’ll be fine, just watch the grates,” I assure them. The best part of the Tug Boat is that while it may feel illicit, mostly it’s just good fun.

  The Tug Boat is one of those uniquely New York nightlife curiosities. Some enterprising man bought a retired tug boat that had been sunk on the ocean floor, fixed it up, attached it to an abandoned pier, slapped a drink list to the pier, and called it a bar. Then, he went the extra step of installing speakers in the belly of the old ship and called it a nightclub. It shouldn’t be legal, but it makes money, which, to a New Yorker, qualifies as legit enough. The Tug Boat is so far west on the island of Manhattan that no official has noticed that it shouldn’t exist. Soon, The Tug Boat’s Yelp rating will go up, some douchebro will put it on a “best bars” list, the owners will have to bring it up to code, and it will get lame. But for now, it’s amazing.

  We can hear music blasting from both the pier and the boat. They’ve gone all out tonight, two deejays and flashing lights, plus a newly installed roof with a catwalk over the dance floor, so you can take in the views from multiple places. Rachel lets out a low whistle. “This is going to be awesome. For one more year.”

  I laugh. “Make it count, Rachel. Let’s find Seiko.”

  The “bar” is really a square of wide countertops with a leaning roof, made of metal sheets welded together from old ships. Party lights strung along the roof of the bar provide some of the only light on the pier. The other draw of The Tug Boat is its lackadaisical approach to formality and accurate bar tabs. Drinks are served in rounds, so bartenders pass buckets of Corona or trays of shots in plastic cups into the grabby hands of customers. So what if the bartenders are drinking as much as their patrons? Take your crappy drink and love your life!

  Centered in the midst of the bar, partying just as hard as her customers, is our friend Seiko. Her dark hair is piled as high on her head as her tank top is cut low on her chest. Her brown eyes are lined black, and an exquisitely painted collar of blood rings her tan neck. Five bucks says if you ask her what her costume is, she’ll answer, “Bite me.”

  Rachel and I push our way to the front of the bar. Seiko pauses mid-shot to scream when she sees us. “Oh, hell yeah!” We preen for Seiko, who tweaks Rachel’s third nipple and cackles. Seiko calls for the barback. “César! It’s time for the jello shots!”

  César is our favorite barback because he’s so dreamy and has great dance moves, which has us convinced that he’s part of a Mexican boy band but won’t admit it. César blows kisses at us as he passes us jello shots in paper cups, grabbing two for Seiko and himself. Seiko raises her shot. “To Glitter Tits and Pumpkin Pounder!” We all laugh as we slam our shots.

  Seiko passes us double vodka sodas and gestures to the south railing. “April is somewhere over there. Happy Halloween, gorgeous and gorgeous!”

  “Don’t lose your voice!” Rachel warns Seiko.

  Seiko sticks out her tongue. “Okay, mom!”

  Most of Seiko’s acting jobs are voiceover work. Friends don’t let friends fall down on rent just because they are having too much fun at their side gigs. Did I mention The Tug Boat pays in cash and doesn’t care about W-2s or any other paperwork? They’re really doing the Lord’s work for the real New Yorkers who keep this city going. New York is a magnet for talent and dreamers, and it’s my opinion that any break those talented dreamers can catch is just the tax New York must pay to keep its citizens interesting.

  Rachel and I cut through the crowd to find April and her new boyfriend, Kevin. We find them tucked against the railing on the south side of the pier, watching people dance on the deck of the boat.

  April’s first comment to Rachel is, “Oh shit, you really did it!”

  “You look great!” adds Kevin. To his credit, he keeps his eyes on Rachel’s face, not her alien tit.

  April is wearing a close-fit red mermaid skirt under a tight sparkly blue dress. Kevin is wearing a tux. My eyes widen when I get it. “Wait, are you Tom Hanks and the mermaid in the party scene? That is weirdly specific...and cute.” April has a freaky thing for the 80’s mermaid movie Splash. I’m not supposed to know how far Kevin has gone to indulge her fantasy, so all I will say is that he went above and beyond. Beyond beyond. Like, put a ring on it beyond.

  “Sexxxxxy….” Rachel thinks she’s speaking quietly, but it comes out quite loud.

  April blushes and Kevin grins, flushed beneath his neat orange beard. I was the one who made April swipe right on every redhead in her dating app. I might be slowly converting all my friends into becoming Pumpkin Pounders, and that’s okay. There are more than enough to go around.

  Truthfully, I am beginning to get tired of the self-elected responsibility of sampling every redheaded guy in town. Pumpkin Pounding isn’t just a sexual identity; it’s become vocation, a calling, an outlet for my true self. By day, I’m an underpaid, underappreciated nonprofit arts administrator who can barely find her checkbook or do her laundry. My accomplishments include completing an unimpressive bachelor’s degree, renting a crumbling apartment and cultivating the ability to swallow my screams while overreporting to an underqualified, ineffective boss. By night, I’m a glamorous, desirable sex machine who has two speeds: turned on and turned up. I can get anything I want, be anyone I want. When I’m Pumpkin Pounding, I’m everything the media says women are supposed to be but are never allowed to be: unstoppable, capable, powerful. I’m like a goddess who feasts on the bones (or boners, heh) of men and emerges rebirthed and renewed. As a Pumpkin Pounder, I know I exactly what I’m doing, and I like myself that way. So even if my enthusiasm flags, I can’t give it up. No way. It’s the best I’ve got.

  Kevin suggests he take a picture of us three girls. As April moves her blonde wig over her shoulder and squishes between me and Rachel, I think about how she has won the dude lottery. An “Instagram boyfriend” who likes to role-play. I hope they have a dozen cosplaying babies together.

  The music changes and Rachel pulls me to the dance floor. We join the sweaty, thrumming mob. All around us are painted faces, shiny accessories, everyone grinning and singing straight into the faces of complete strangers. I love New Yorkers so much. They can be squished together and still have a good attitude. When people notice Rachel’s third breast, they cheer and push aside their friends to move us closer to the center of the dance floor.

  At some point, I duck under an elbow and end up face-to-face with a guy dressed like he’s on Jersey Shore. No shade to the real Jersey Shore, but I’m not sure if this guy’s self-tanner is a costume or not. His drunken eyelids droop, and he screams into my ear, “Do you want to smush-smush?” Ew. Ew. Did he really use Snooki’s word for sex? Is Jersey Shore still a thing? I have to get out of this.

  “No, I do not want to smush-smush!” I yell. I rip my body away from his, lurching toward the metal staircase at the corner of the dance floor. I’m still gagging over the use of “smush-smush” so I don’t see where I’m going…and that’s when I smack straight into what’s about to be the highlight of my night.

  * * *

  My forehead thumps against someone’s chest.

  “Sorry!” I detect a soft Irish accent. Yessss. Have I won the jackpot?

  I have my face planted into a tight red shirt, bearing a jagged slash of white tape with the letters FDNY crudely written on it. The soft shirt is stretched across a firm chest, not too slim, not too broad, just right. Firm pecs. Nicely rounded biceps. I draw my eyes up and clock the most important factors first.

  Red hair, of a deep russet shade, neatly cut, but mussed enough to look cool. Strong jaw. Bright blue eyes. Pale skin, dusted with freckles. Thank you, O Great Pumpkin in the Sky. On this most holy hallowed night, you have delivered unto me a true miracle. A Fassbender with freckles…and an accent.

  Those intense blue eyes are squinting at me. I realize my mouth is open and maybe also I have let out a soft moan.

  “You alright, love?�
�

  Love. Me. His voice. Yes. I love it. Now I’m leaning into him, my body limp against his chest.

  He puts his hand gently on my upper arm and sets me upright. I don’t see a ring. “Em, you okay?” He gives his accent a more American edge, as if perhaps his brogue was too thick for my American ears and I couldn’t understand him.

  I’m not okay, actually. I am dead of lust. Now I am a lust ghost. Boooooo. Can I do youuuuuu? Did I say any of that aloud? No. Good. I can still save this. I clear my throat. “That’s not a costume, that’s a t-shirt.” That was not my best open, but it’ll do.

  He blushes. “The lads made me wear it.” He indicates a group of guys on the dance floor, each dressed as different versions of Lady Gaga.

  I shake my head to clear it. I cannot blow the best opportunity of the night. I have to land this ginger. “That meat dress is impressive.” I squint at the hasty craftiness of his shirt and back to his friend’s impeccable costumes. I don’t want to stereotype anyone, but I’m pretty sure I can confirm that this one plays for my team, even if his friends don’t. It’s cute that they wanted to help him pick up girls with his costume. They’re one hundred percent correct that you can slap the words FDNY on a straight man on Halloween and call your work done. Especially when that man is lyrical in both face and vocal lilt.

  “What d’ye call a group of Gagas?” His smile crinkles into the short scruff he’s sporting. I want to pet it so badly.

  “A party?” I guess.

  Another blush creeps over his cheeks to join the sparkle in his eyes. “A Gaga-le!”

  My cackle almost ends up in a snort. I am so gone.