by V. L. Locey
“Shithead,” I stated as the clump of hot pooh and dirt hit him in the back of the head. Maybe it was the look of utter shock on his face when he turned around, or the heat, or the alignment of the planets. Hell, maybe it was something as simple as desire, that ancient need that drove people to do monumentally asinine things. Like throwing cow shit at the man who was in charge of your community service hours. Bran’s turn was slow, his gaze unreadable. Oh man, I was well and truly fucked now.
He was much quicker than I’d thought he would be. A ball of shit flew at me with speed. I jumped to the side but still got an earful of dirt. Things kind of went downhill from there, or uphill actually, at least for me. It was a fucking monumental shit fight. Clods of composted cow pooh were lobbed from both sides, several hitting the truck, the greenhouse, and the side of the customer cabin as we ducked and bobbed. The final blow came from Bran when I peeked around the back of the truck, saw a clear path to the compost pile, and made a mad dash for it. His shot hit me right upside the head. The clod exploded, and I stumbled, falling over my own big feet and landing in the steamy pile of fertilizer on my side. That worked to my advantage for a minute because I could fire two-handedly. Bran tried to leap over the pile but I grabbed an ankle and jerked him down into the mound, face first. And then I laughed, out loud and so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath. He pushed up to his hands and knees, his cheeks and eyebrows coated, and began spitting to clear the crap from his lips. That made me roar in amusement. Then he began to laugh, lightly at first, and then harder.
“That’s not very tasty.” He chuckled, falling to his back in the pile of fertilizer. I rolled to my side, hand bolstering my head, and reached out to flick a small clump of brown from his chin.
“I bet you are,” I murmured as my index finger lingered on his stubbly chin. He inhaled through his nose and pressed his lips together.
“What the hell are you doing here, Nathan?” The question seemed silly. Wasn’t it obvious?
“I’m flirting with you. I think—no, I know—I want to kiss you. Or lick you or suck you off. Fuck you? Yeah, sure, we can do that too.”
“Nate…” He stalled saying more because my finger now traced his lips. The sounds of the world were muted, the buzz of bees and flies, the whisper of the summer wind through the trees, the soft sound of birds and distant traffic. All blurred and soft. The loudest things to be heard were his skittish breaths, my thumping heart, and the noise caused when the lives of two men shifted on a pair of wobbly axes. “Nate, this isn’t…I’m not ready for this.”
Yet he lay there beside me, his eyes closed, his mouth making words, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Yeah, I know, but you want it just the same, yeah?”
He smiled then, pushing up to sit, my hand slipping from his face to land on his lap. “Wanting something and doing something are two different things.”
I sat up as well, my arm still across his thighs, I moved to the side, getting my shoulder into his chest just like I would an opposing player in the corner. I was shutting off his ability to leave with the puck. We’d have to scrabble with each other a bit more. His eyes widened a little as I got my face into his. I could see lots of indigo in his gaze, the gray flecks softer right now.
“You tell me you don’t want me, say it flat out, and I’ll go back to jerking off to fantasies of you on your knees in front of me.”
“Nate, for God’s sake.”
“Just say it. Say you’re not hot for me. Say it and I’ll never toss another sexually suggestive grenade at you again. Say it while looking at me.”
I nudged him a bit when he sat silently staring into my eyes. “Yeah, I can’t do that,” he finally admitted. A hoot of glee nearly escaped, but I locked that shit down. “This is not at all good, though. You’re just…fucking tats and attitude.” My eyes lingered on his mouth. He wet his lips. My balls tightened. “But saying I’m hot for you and us falling into bed—”
“Sounds good to me.” I leaned in for a kiss. He moved away, rolling to the side then getting to his feet as my lips met air. With a huff, I stood and faced him, itchy now to touch more of him.
“No, it’s not good and we’re not going to act on those desires. Nate, people will say I’m using my power to coerce you into a sexual relationship.”
“Pfft, seriously? You think that? People will take one look at us and see the jock top and the power bottom.” I brushed at the dirt clinging to my clothes. When he didn’t reply, I glanced up from my filthy shorts. “What?”
“I’m not a power bottom.”
“Even better. I really don’t like having to jockey for dominance in the bedroom.”
“Christ,” he huffed before leaving me with a hard dick and compost in my BVDs. I sniggered then crammed a palm into my erection to get it moved into a less noticeable position like that was possible. My feet were already in motion to follow him wherever he’d gone and push my advantage. Phil came loping along then, the keys to the store in his hand, Bran beside him. I skidded to a halt, my plans foiled by my friendly coworker.
“Come on, Nate. After we get done here, Bran’s going to take us for burgers then drop us off. No mass transit for us tonight!”
I caught the sly smirk my boss wore as he led Phil into the greenhouse. I muttered under my breath as we loaded forty flats of pink and white flowers. Damn Phil and his need to be around his place of employment when I was trying to pick up the boss. I was still disgruntled two hours later when Bran dropped me off, waved, and then pulled off to take Phil home.
“You may have stood on your head this period but next time we hit the ice I’m going to sneak it past you,” I told the Apache’s cool old taillights. Great. Now I was using hockey to sound all sexy and provocative. Obviously, I needed to get on the ice and to get into my boss. Wonder which would come first?
Chapter Five
Neither. Neither hockey or seducing Bran came first.
What did pop up next after another long, hot day spent with old people who reeked of arthritis cream and got mad when I didn’t know the name Louis Prima, was my first addiction group meeting. The county made it easy for us. We did our IDP class—where I got a dark look and a new journal from Marion—then we could stroll down the street to a small community center and sit in a circle with uncomfortable looking strangers.
A couple of the men there recognized me, I caught the glimmer of recognition in their eyes when the head dude, a skinny guy with glasses named Barron introduced me. The women glanced at me, some with admiration, some not. The others all spoke. I studied my sneakers, fingers rapping on my new journal, praying this hour would speed by. It didn’t. It was too long and too fucking depressing. I so did not belong here. All these people were truly alcoholics. Losing jobs, spouses, kids, and or money to drink. That criteria didn’t fit me. I’d lost nothing by partying. Well, okay, I’d lost my license, sure, and a few thousand dollars and maybe—
“Nate?” Barron’s voice slipped into my wandering thoughts. I looked up from my shoes to find the whole group staring at me. “It’s your turn to talk.”
I inhaled slowly, the strong scent of coffee from the corner tickling my nose.
“I’m just here to make Monica over at the IDP class happy,” I said, shuffling my feet a little, the soles squeaking on the floor. “She made me come. Made it part of my recovery.” I threw up some air quotes around that last word. Several people mumbled or nodded. “Told the judge she thought I would benefit from a few meetings, so here I am, just doing my time.”
“So, you don’t have any issues with alcohol at all?” Barron asked. He was an uptight looking guy. Shirt pressed, shorts ironed, hair slicked down. Kind of the opposite of me in my sloppy cargo shorts, Stallions tank top, floppy ball cap, and sneakers with no socks.
“Not really,” I replied, rolled a shoulder, and gave the group a ‘whatcha gonna do?’ look.
“But you’ve been arrested for driving while under the influence, or you wouldn’t be in the ID
P classes,” Barron pointed out, his dark blue eyes pinning me to my seat.
“Yeah, obvs, but those were just due to bad timing. I’m not a drunk or anything,” I said then realized what had come out of me. “I mean, I’m not an alcoholic. I don’t drink every day or anything. I drink sometimes…when it’s fitting. Like…social events, on the weekends, at clubs. You guys know,” I appealed to the men and one guy bobbed his head. “See, he gets it. It’s just beer, right? I mean, beer and sports and fun. Totally acceptable pastime for a young dude.”
“Totally,” Barron said but he didn’t sound like he believed in what he was saying. “Or society would like us to believe. And for most people, it’s just that. A beer on the weekend, maybe a few at the football game on Sunday. America, right? Beer, food, and sports!”
A few of us agreed. “Don’t forget chicks,” one of the guys said.
“We really wish you would,” a pudgy girl to my left tossed out and the women giggled.
Barron chuckled a bit too then zeroed in on me again. I wished he would stop talking to me and just let us leave. This whole thing was making me twitchy. Pretty soon we’d be blabbering about our childhoods. Yeah. No. Leaving was imperative. I stood, tucked my journal under my arm, and gave Barron a wave of my ballcap.
“I’m out,” I said. Barron looked at his watch. I flopped back into my folding chair.
“We have ten minutes left and I’d like to touch on something important that Nate brought up. How beer is such an integral part of professional sports in this country. Those of us who are sober now have to be subjected to beer ads steadily if we watch any kind of televised…”
Whatever he said next I blocked out. The more he talked about beer the more I wanted one. So, I disconnected and thought about Bran, and work, and my journal and what the hell I was going to write about, and hockey. The memories of the championship win floated around inside my head as the group sounded off about beer ads and boobs. Guy stuff, you know. I personally preferred smooth balls in my hands as opposed to boobies, but to each his own. I wondered about Bran’s balls, if he manscaped, or if he was one of those natural sorts.
Everyone started to rise, so I got up as well, tucked my journal under my arm, and left the community center after getting a chip after Barron insisted I reveal how long I’d been sober to the group. Two months, nearly three. Not one beer. Not one visit to a club.
“Congratulations,” Barron said after dropping the chip and a business card into my hand. “I hope we see you next week. If you find that you’re thinking about partying and need someone to talk to.” He tapped the card lying on my palm. “My number is on there. Call anytime. We can meet up and talk you through it.”
“I got it under control,” I lied then shoved the chip and the card into my pocket and left, my goal simply to get home, lock the door, pop open a bottle of pink lemonade and see if I could find Gilbert and Gottfried to hang out with. I was kind of filled up with talking. Which was why when my phone rang at nine, I looked at the name coming in and groaned. Chris. Maybe I could ignore it. I tried. For four rings and then I picked up because Dad…
Nope, Dad was fine, or as fine as he could be given his state. It was just Chris reminding me that I was slated to come out and help with Dad for the summer, and how now that I’d fucked that up his vacation plans had screwed the pooch thanks to me. Blah, blah, blah. I grunted along, his tirade slipping into my brain as I stared at the post-apocalyptic landscape in my game and wondered, just for a second, if Dad had been on the right track that night he tried to end it all. It was just a fleeting thought, but it scared me, and so I hung up on my brother right after he told me, yet again, that I was a waste of air and space.
“I know,” I told the now silent phone in my hand before I got up, found my shoes, and went to the pizza place to try to buy some beer.
Tried being the keyword. I kind of forgot that the cops had confiscated my fake ID when they’d pulled my drunk ass out of my car that had been resting in Barney’s shed. The old dude behind the counter told me to fuck off. I even tried to play my celebrity card.
“Look, Zinkan, I know who you are. You’re kind of hard to miss with all that stupid hair and ink and that fucking diamond in your nose,” he growled at me around a tall glass case with rotating pizza slices. “Selling you beer isn’t happening, hockey star or not. I’m not getting shut down because I like how you skate. Go home and learn how to be a grown-up.”
I slinked back home, tail tucked, and curled up on the sofa where I watched the sunrise the next morning. One good thing about not sleeping as visions of past horrors danced in your head was that I wouldn’t be late. Maybe I could tease/flirt a smile out of Bran today.
Or not. I got busted by the big man napping under a tree in the community garden. How he found me I do not know. Maggie had been lax on lookout duty. Probably wandered off to talk to Mrs. Quincy about blowjobs she’d given to Jimi Hendrix or something. Bran booted me in the hip, pointed at Mr. Meyers trying to run a cultivator through Mr. Panton’s summer squash plants and then thundered off. I got the old gent steered into the right plot then ran the cultivator for him while he showed me pictures of his grandkids.
“Cute kids,” I repeated over and over and debated if I should have it tattooed on my forehead. I said it at least forty times a day now. After the cultivator crisis had been averted, I slipped through the garden gate to use the men’s room and maybe grab a bite of pizza that had recently been delivered. Phil passed me as I reached the rear door to the log cabin.
“Thought you dozed off in the petunia patch,” the lanky black guy joked.
“Dude, a petunia patch napping spot? I am so there.” We bumped knuckles then he went out and I cruised in. There by the register was a box with two cold slices of pepperoni pizza. I dove on them like a lion on a limping gazelle. Dixie appeared from the back of the store with a can of lemon-lime soda and a smile. “You are a goddess.”
I took my drink and my now one slice of pizza and went to sit by a little bubbling fountain. Someone had placed all kinds of plants around it and even set up a stone bench. That was where I dropped my ass. Dixie lounged behind the register, eyeballing me as I inhaled that last slice of pizza. After a good drink, I burped into my fist, mumbled an apology, and then pinned her down with a look.
“Go ahead and ask,” I said. She bit down on her lower lip. Very cute and very vixen.
“Phil said you’re gay.”
“Phil’s right. You got an issue with that?”
“Nope, I was just kind of crushing on you. I love inked up bad boy jocks.” She sighed as if the world were ending. I chuckled at her drama. “That’s why me and Uncle Jim always got along so well. Even when I was young, I was totally in love with him even though he was with Uncle Bran. You know, when you’re six you don’t really get all that sexuality stuff. You just want to marry a handsome prince and live in a castle.”
“Yep, that was my dream as a kid too. Still is.”
She giggled and shimmied up onto the counter, her bare knees dimpled. I liked how she dressed. Totally retro with mini skirts and funky knee highs, fringed vests, love beads, and big round hoop earrings. It worked well for her, even if she did have to wear a shop shirt and apron over her groovy threads.
“What happened to Jim, if it’s okay to ask.” I slugged back more soda.
Her smile faded away. “He was shot when trying to talk down some tweaked-out guy who was robbing a gas station.” I grimaced and let my eyes close for a moment. “He’d known the guy. Had defended him when he was younger and had been up on drug charges. Jim had helped get him into rehab and thought he’d gotten his life back on track. Guess not because four years later there he was, cranked to the rafters on meth, trying to get forty bucks from a cash register when Uncle Jim walked in. Guy spun, freaked out when Jim spoke to him, pulled the trigger, and then ran off with only a pack of stolen cigarettes. Police shot him dead later that day when he aimed his weapon at them. Jim died in Uncle Bran’s arms.”
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br /> “Christ. Was Bran out in the car when Jim had been shot?” I couldn’t even imagine how horrible it would be to look up from your phone as you waited for your husband to run in and pay for the gas—maybe grab a bottle of water or a lottery ticket—and watch him being shot.
Dixie nodded.
“Oh shit,” I whispered then rubbed at my face with a hand that still smelled of dirt despite the scrubbing I’d given it. I was starting to think I’d always smell like compost and mulch.
“Yeah, it was…bad.” She took a shaky breath. “Jim made Bran promise him that he would continue his dream of helping troubled youth. Bran made that vow and now here you are.”
“But I’m not a youth and I’m not troubled,” I quickly shot back.
“Nate, you’re under twenty-one and you’ve been arrested twice for driving while under the influence. I’d say you’re a classic example of a troubled youth.” I had no sound rebuttal, so I just shut my mouth for once. “Jim was only thirty-two. Uncle Bran was devastated.”
“Yeah.” I coughed to clear my throat, opening my eyes to stare down into my soda can. “Yeah, I bet so. Sucks to lose people you love.”
Dixie chattered on about this and that but I’d lost interest. All I could seem to do was study the hole in my can and try to call up my mother’s face in the sugary-sweet depths. I’d been three when she had left so all I could dredge up was a smile that I wasn’t sure hadn’t belonged to someone on TV. Mom I barely recalled but I remembered Jacob clearly. Maybe his smile was Mom’s. Yeah, that was a nice thought. Maybe all three Zinkan boys had her smile…
“You okay?” Someone shook my shoulder gently. I came back to the present, my gaze on my can, my left hand rubbing the tattoo over my heart.
“Yeah, just took a quick doze. Up too late playing video games,” I joked, grinning up at my concerned coworker.
“You got pretty pale,” she said then pressed the back of her hand to my brow. Bran chose that moment to appear out of the ether, his gaze tightening as soon as he saw us. He’d ditched his yellow store apron.
