Yuletide Knights 3

by Johnny Miles

  Bucket expanded his throat muscles to further accommodate what Kris had to offer and performed nothing short of magic as nearly half of the veiny chocolate shaft disappeared down his throat. His throat bulged perversely, and the sight as well as the sensation pushed Kris to the brink.

  ”I…I don’t know that I can hold back…much longer,” Kris gasped. Bucket opened his eyes, a look of wanton desire on his face. It was a look so intense Kris came on the spot.

  “Ohhh yesss. Feed me!” Bucket demanded.

  And Kris did. He came with a growl that filled the room and echoed through the house. It was the sound of demons let loose as spurt after spurt—months of accumulated seed—shot down Bucket’s throat. A yummy sound escaped Bucket, and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to swallow every pearl, his throat milking Kris of every last drop. Then with a whimpering sigh, Bucket furiously humped the mattress and came. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his tiny body shuddered. And still, Bucket did not stop sucking.

  Kris endured the pleasure-pain as long as he could before eventually pushing Bucket away with the heel of his hand. His cock came away with an audible slurp from the viselike grip and suction Bucket had created with his mouth and throat.

  “You still taste like eggnog.” Bucket finally spoke aloud when their breathing had returned to normal. He then scrambled to wrap his arms about Kris, who groaned at the flavor of his own cum as they kissed. As their passion grew, Kris rolled them both over, pinning Bucket beneath him.

  “I should fuck you, you sweet little bitch.” Kris licked every inch of Bucket’s flesh. “Take you like the pig that you are. Make you howl like a wild, mad dog.” Bucket threw his legs up in the air, and Kris shot him a lopsided grin. “But not now. I’m still…woozy.”

  Kris rolled onto his back and, within seconds, felt himself drifting back to sleep. Then he remembered.

  “Have you found him yet?”

  Bucket hesitated before replying in kind. “Not yet my love. I’m sorry.”

  Kris opened his eyes to find Bucket gazing at him. They stared at each other for a long, quiet moment…a moment that filled the space between them. Then, perhaps because his reply seemed so final—hopeless, even—Bucket actually did speak.

  “I will find him, Kris. I promise.”

  Even if it’s the last thing I ever do.

  Later, as Kris drifted into a dreamless, uncomfortable sleep, he felt Bucket snuggle up against him. Even in his sleep Kris would have sworn he felt Bucket’s hot tears on his flesh.

  Chapter Two

  December, Present Day—One Week After Thanksgiving

  Griffin Kloss stared out the window of his darkened studio apartment in suburban Greensboro. He sighed. A little over two years ago he’d been living in a two-bedroom, refurbished loft apartment downtown. He had a boyfriend then. A slender, brown-eyed beauty named Thomas, who had a dark and brooding quality about him. Griffin had thought he’d been in love. He’d thought Thomas felt the same. And then Griffin got taken for the financial ride of his life. Love proved to be a difficult thing to nurture when your ex was a user and a prick.

  The only thing that had held him aloft then, kept him from going back home to his mother, had been his job. But when that also went tits up six months later, Griffin had had no choice. Penniless and defeated, hoping to lick his wounds, he had driven down to Fort Lauderdale and shown up at his mother’s doorstep. Except he’d come face-to-face with the demon ravaging his mother’s mind. A demon called dementia.

  His problems paled by comparison.

  That was also when Griffin had met…him.

  “Jackson Frost.” The very sound of his name, the way it rolled off Griffin’s tongue, made him feel both sad and light.

  They’d gotten into a fistfight at the Elbo Room with three drunk, homophobic biker types who were a cross between ZZ Top and Rob Zombie. When sirens began to wail, Griffin had run away with Jackson, only to end up at the beautiful stranger’s hotel, where they fucked their brains out.

  Griffin allowed himself a moment to remember the wicked, almost otherworldly deliciousness that was Jackson’s body.

  Oh what joy—what bliss!—to once again connect with another in that way. After Thomas, Griffin hadn’t been sexual with anyone. Even masturbation held no appeal. But it was more than just sex. Something about Jackson had touched Griffin. He had enjoyed Jackson’s company, and their energies had meshed on a level he’d never felt before, least of all with Thomas. Even if a large portion of Griffin’s time with Jackson had been, for lack of a better word…odd.

  It was Jackson who had somehow helped Griffin’s mother find herself again. Her mind intact, the future had looked bright then. Jackson had returned to Asheville, but he and Griffin both agreed to work through the distance until they knew for sure Griffin’s mother would be okay without him. That was when Griffin would move back to Greensboro, and Jackson would move closer to be with him. But one sweltering and disgustingly muggy, early September afternoon—a day with such oppressive humidity it wreaked havoc with Griffin’s lungs—and a week before he was to leave, Virginia slipped.

  Griffin, honey? Will you please tell me again why you don’t you have a girlfriend?

  It was the one question Griffin dreaded above all others, the one she had latched on to from the moment he returned, asking it repeatedly. It was the one question that still burned because it had revealed to Griffin just how far the mental illness had rotted his mother’s brain, especially since she knew the answer.

  She’d gone right back to making sense again a moment later, but the effect had left the imprint of worry in Griffin’s heart. Was he doing the right thing in leaving?

  Three days later, the morning Griffin was to pick up the moving van, he’d been awakened by a brusque knock at the door in the wee hours of morning. The police had found his mother miles from home in robe and slippers, lollipop handbag in tow.

  The rest of the day, Griffin had watched his mother walk through her own home with a look of hopeless confusion. She’d reverted to being the frail old woman Griffin had found when he moved back home, and it broke his heart. Certain he’d go mad, Griffin canceled his move.

  And now she’s gone.

  And here he was, back in Greensboro—his mother’s house sold, her things donated or thrown out—living over a garage in an apartment he rented from a retired Chicago couple. A part of him wondered why he’d come back to a place that held as many bad memories as Fort Lauderdale, but a part of him hoped he might somehow run into Jackson.

  Imagine Dragons startled Griffin when the alarm on his cell phone, his one and only luxury, went off. Still standing at the window, Griffin listened to the lyrics.

  We all are living in a dream, but life ain’t what it seems

  Oh everything’s a mess.

  The words weren’t lost on Griffin.

  With a sigh he walked toward his phone, picked it up, and slid the screen right to turn off the alarm. He noted the time: 5:49 p.m. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon.

  Better get ready for work.

  Griffin placed the phone back on the table and, on autopilot, shuffled to the bathroom until he remembered…he had the day off. He didn’t want to waste it in bed, wallowing.

  Maybe I’ll go to the mall and walk around a bit. Sarcastically, he thought, Who knows? Maybe I’ll find some Christmas cheer. Griffin chortled and emptied his bladder. He brushed his teeth and took a hot shower. Ten minutes later he stood at the sink with a towel around his waist, looking at the razor in his hand, surprised to see it. When had he grabbed it? When had he picked up the razor? He hadn’t shaved in close to a year, and it wasn’t like he was hunting for a new job anytime soon. Not that he was satisfied with being a bouncer at the Precocious Puss, but it was the only place willing to hire him despite the charges on his record.

  His mom had given him the razor as a present when he turned thirteen. It was a piece of art, really…heavy…ornate with silver scrollwork. Unlike modern-day plast
ic shaving tools, this was a razor with substance, an antique. The sort you twisted at the bottom for the twin guards to open.

  It had belonged, she’d said, to Griffin’s father. The man who left and never came back. The man his mother had waited for.

  “My father,” Griffin scoffed. “Fucking Santa Claus. Right.”

  It had sounded wonderful and exhilarating when, as a child, his mother spoke to him of the man she claimed to be his father. Then, as Griffin grew older, it reeked of an insanity that made him uncomfortable. He’d left so he wouldn’t have to see it or hear it every day, but his escape bit him in the ass.

  Then, when Jackson had come along and confirmed what Griffin’s mother had said, he thought perhaps he might be the one losing his mind. Strangely, once he allowed the possibility that there was more to this realm than met the eye, more to his tiny universe than his limited knowledge or personal experience could handle, then anything was possible, wasn’t it? Magic just might very well exist!

  Except it didn’t. Magic had failed Griffin in the worst way possible, and his mother died all the same.

  And it’s all my fault.

  Griffin felt his own personal demons near. He’d managed to keep them at bay since moving back to Greensboro and starting work at the Puss. The job, shitty though it was, allowed him to survive and helped keep his mind occupied. When he was away from work, however, when he was alone…the smoky veil of depression tenaciously toyed with him. As it had done this past week. Now it crept ever closer, ready to feed on his soul. He felt its presence, thick and cloying.

  Griffin tried, with great effort, to wrench his mind away from the dark space yawning before him. But he could see nothing else. He tried to push the thought of his mother aside, but her memory was still too vivid, too fresh even now. Almost a year to the day since she’d passed, and Griffin keenly felt her absence as if she’d only just died.

  If only it didn’t hurt so damn much.

  Twisting the bottom of his razor, Griffin gingerly grasped the sides of the blade. He contemplated the razor’s edge.

  Why not? Who’ll miss me? For that matter, who would I miss?

  With Jackson and his mother gone, what difference would it make? How better to cope with the pain of losing both than to let go and end it? At least the pain and struggle would be over.

  It would be so easy. The blade was not dull. All he needed was one good slice. He pressed the tip of the blade against his wrist. A tiny drop of red blossomed, and a sudden gush of warmth filled him. It seemed to originate from his brain, as though he’d taken a pain killer.

  Do it! a throaty baritone voice urged and laughed excitedly in Griffin’s mind, so loud he expected to see someone standing with him in the tiny apartment. He glanced about, but he was alone.

  Jesus fucking Christ! Is this how the madness starts? Is this how it was for her?

  Time, Griffin decided, though unsure where he’d heard the expression, was definitely fleeting, and madness did, indeed, take its toll.

  He let out a heavy sigh and took in his reflection. He looked small, much more so than his six-foot-plus frame. Small and puny. Sea-green eyes were lined with red. He hadn’t slept in weeks. Then Griffin’s gaze fell to the blade in his hand. Appalled, he flicked it away. It clattered to the floor and skittered across the black and white tile like an insect.

  Suddenly drained of energy, Griffin broke down, ashamed of his own tears. The last time he’d cried was a year and a half ago, after finding his unconscious mother naked in her bathroom. He’d thought he’d lost her then, and his emotional release had been to cry in front of Jackson on the beach.

  Much had happened since then, and it rushed him all at once. Griffin sank to the floor and sobbed. He cried for the loss of his mother and the countless nights she clung to the hope his father, her lover, would one day return. He cried over the endless doctor visits and the meds his mother had taken that seemed to leave her worse than if she hadn’t taken them. He cried over the frustration of having to take a menial job for less than minimum wage, all because they were running out of money and he couldn’t find anything better. He cried, too, over having to leave Virginia each and every single day, sometimes for up to twelve hours with a home attendant who ended up stealing from them.

  Mostly though, Griffin cried for himself, for the hell he’d slipped into and his inability to reach out for help. Griffin knew in his heart it was that more than anything that led to his lack of communication and eventually losing touch with the one person who might have been able to help him through the all-consuming darkness.

  What have I done, Jackson? Have I lost you forever?

  Griffin’s cell phone once again brought him back to reality with a twinkling ringtone, an instrumental version of “When You Wish Upon A Star.” It was the only tone his mother had been able to tolerate, and Griffin hadn’t yet found the heart to change it.

  In the living area, he snatched up the mobile from the table next to his open futon and looked at caller ID: WORK. It was an odd reminder that snapped him back to reality.

  Griffin truly didn’t want to speak to anyone right now. Especially to anyone from work. Still, the call had kept him from suicide. He shuddered at the thought as he answered.

  “Hey. What’s up, Rankin?” Griffin wiped away the last of his tears, then exploded, all thought of offing himself a thing of the past. “You want me to what?”

  “I said I need you to come in!” the club owner yelled through the phone. Then again, Rankin always yelled, always in crisis mode. Unfortunately, Rankin’s behavior grated on Griffin to the point where he almost always found himself yelling back whenever they had to communicate.

  “No, I can’t come in now!”

  “Well, why the hell not? Are you doing anything special?”

  Griffin hated the way Rankin always seemed to imply there was nothing going on in Griffin’s life. He forced himself to remain calm before replying.

  “No, I’m not doing anything special, but that’s not the point. Rankin, I’ve worked two weeks straight. No breaks.”

  “Listen, Griffin. I’ll level with ya. I’m between a rock and a hard place. That new bouncer I hired flaked out on me. He hasn’t shown up. I need a bouncer here tonight, and you’re my best guy. Besides, I thought you said you could use the money?”

  Griffin rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  “Yeah. I can use the money but…dude. It’s my day off. And you do realize it’s not my fault you can’t find reliable employees, right? I warned you about that dumb fuck. What about Brick? Why don’t you call him? His wife is ready to pop, and I know they could also use the mo—”

  “Goddamnit, Griffin. I don’t want Brick! I want you, all right?” Rankin hollered.

  Griffin pulled the phone away from his ear a moment and acquiesced with a sigh that shook him to the core. “Okay, fine. Keep your panties on. I’ll come in. But I’m taking tomorrow off, come hell or high water. And, Rankin? You will not stop me or I walk. You got that?”

  “Thanks, Griffin. You’re a fucking savior.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Right. Savior my ass.”

  Griffin ended the call, wishing he had a landline just for the satisfaction of slamming the phone down in Rankin’s ear.

  Within minutes, he was dressed: gray slacks, black belt with matching shoes, and a button-down black shirt—tucked neatly into his trousers—open at the neck so some of his ginger hair peaked through. A deep-purple sports jacket finished off the ensemble. Just because he was this side of piss poor didn’t mean he couldn’t dress with a bit of flair.

  Outside, in the unusually cold North Carolina December, flurries swirled around him as he made his way to the end of the driveway and to the curb, to the new but used and beat-up red pickup truck he’d bought when he moved back. Strangely, he found himself smiling, all traces of darkness forgotten.

  Climbing into the truck with a lightness of heart he hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity, he rolled down the window and looked up at t
he night sky. It was the snow, he realized. It reminded him of Jackson. He sent his thoughts out on the wind. “Is that you making it snow, Jackson? If you’re near…if you can you hear me…please. Find me.”

  Griffin cranked the engine over, then drove off with a smile still on his face.

  Chapter Three

  Filled with a barely controlled anger, Jackson Frost fled from the brawl at the mall food court—a brawl started because of his inability to keep his big mouth shut. Had he remained, he knew he would have hurt someone. Unfortunately, leaving the scene meant leaving Michael, the guy he’d been dating, alone to deal with the aftermath. As Jackson walked away, a voice spoke in his mind.

  You’ve changed ever since him.

  Jackson caught his reflection in the display window of a shop and stopped. The inner voice he struggled with, that annoying tiny moral compass that spoke up from time to time with hurtful truths, was correct. He had changed. Only it hadn’t been since Michael, had it?

  Griffin fucking Kloss.

  Hurt, angry, and feeling abandoned, Jackson did what he always did. He sought, found, and escaped with a plaything. Sex was always a good way to forget. In doing so, his appearance changed, as per usual, to be more in sync with his companion and the sort of guys they liked.

  And for what? This isn’t even how I dress.

  Jackson removed the gray knit cap that hid the thick dark hair he usually spiked with product. As he continued through the mall he tossed the cap in the bin, then ran his fingers through his hair. Cutting through a department store to exit, Jackson took off his glasses, which he didn’t even need, and chucked them into the open bag of a passerby.

  Outside in the cold of December, Jackson felt his mind clear. He could think now that he was away from Michael. Jackson took a moment to pause and reflect. He dug into his soul, and the answer was clear. The breakup had to happen.