Cowboy by J. M. Snyder

by Неизвестный

  "Nothing dead in there," he interrupts, and the look he gives me stems any other argument I might have. "I went in this morning, Marcus. I'll take care of the payments today, you just get that hay up."

  Send Luke, I think, frowning into my plate. Suddenly I'm not hungry anymore, and I have to force myself to swallow the eggs in my mouth, dry as sawdust, they scrape my throat on the way down. The hay is Luke's mess -- he tore open a bundle when he spent the night out there, threw that shit all over the stall. Let him clean it up, not me. "You hear me?" Kent asks again.

  I push my chair back and stand up so quick that it knocks against the stove, rocks back on two legs, threatens to fall but doesn't. "I hear you," I growl, pissed. Picking up my plate, I turn from the table so they can't see my shaking hands, and as I scrape the rest of my eggs into the trash, I say bitterly, "I know you too well, Kent. Any money you get today won't go in that register and you know it. You'll pocket the cash and when you ride into town, you'll use it to get shit-faced all over again. And then what? You got lucky once but what happens if you hit a tree the next time you're too damn drunk to drive home? What happens if you kill yourself?"

  I feel his rage like a caged animal, snarling at me even though he doesn't say a word. Angry myself, I throw my dish into the sink, my silverware, my cup, and what's left of my coffee splashes the stainless steel before spiraling away down the drain. Fuck him, I think. If he doesn't care enough about himself, doesn't care enough about me, then fuck him to hell. I tell myself I just don't care.

  Luke watches me as I storm around the table, behind his chair so Kent can't reach out and grab my wrist, I don't want him touching me. I'll clean the goddamn barn, fine. Let him steal from his own profits, fine.

  Down the hall, into my room, I slam the door behind me hard enough to rattle the window. Too hard -- it pops back open an inch, I can hear Kent's boots echoing towards me. "Fuck you," I cry out.

  The words come unbidden, tear through me like knives, slash at my body and I hope he hears them, I don't care anymore. I kick at the door to close it, hear the slap of wood on flesh, and Kent pushes his way into my room. His eyes are hard glints below his damn cowboy hat, and his lips are twisted in a sour scowl. "What the hell is your problem today?" he wants to know.

  "Get out," I tell him. He reaches for me but I pull away. "Don't fucking touch me, Kent. Get the hell out of my room." Before he can reply, I tear open my closet, yank down the first shirt I grab, shrug into it without looking at him or his reflection in the mirror above my dresser. "You don't sleep here," I mutter. "You never wanted to come in here before. Don't start now."

  "What's this all about?" Kent asks. His voice is hard, and from the corner of my eye I see him, arms crossed, blocking the door because he's in the mood for a fight and I'm not getting out of this snit so easily. He'll want an apology -- he's that way, can't say sorry himself but damned if he doesn't want to hear it for the littlest slight against him. "Marcus --"

  Then he notices the flower on my table, the gerbera daisy that Luke picked for me, and I swear I see his already sunburnt face turn a darker shade of red. "I thought I told you about this shit," he says, nodding at the cup of water and its inhabitant. The stem is already starting to droop. "This is our livelihood, Marcus. You pick one flower and that's one less plant I can sell."

  "One less beer you can drink," I counter. And I didn't pick it, I think -- I should tell him that. Luke did, he picked it for me so there. Only then he'll get mad at Luke, he's just looking for trouble today and if he turns his gaze on the boy, he's likely to kick him out and I don't want that. Right now Luke's the only thing keeping me from shoving my handful of clothes into a pillowcase and hitting the road. Then what will you do? I want to know, watching Kent watch me. If I leave your sorry ass, what'll happen to you then?

  I expect an outburst, maybe a swing of his fist -- he hasn't hit me before but there's always a first time, right? And he has a little buzz on, I know that wasn't just coffee in his mug. Hell, he's probably still drunk from last night. So the last thing I'm ready for is the defeated sigh, the hand that rubs at his eyes, the soft voice that asks, "This is about the other night, isn't it? When I ..."

  He trails off, unable to say it. When I slept off the booze in jail. "Marcus," he murmurs, and this time when he reaches for me, I don't pull away. His arms come up around my shoulders, he hugs me close, presses my head against his shoulder and I can feel his heart beat in time with my own, I can smell the sickening sweet scent of alcohol rise from his naked skin. But his hands are so strong, so gentle, and his chest is a solid wall I can't fight against, I just let him crush me in his embrace, my arms limp at my sides, his hand mussing my hair. "I didn't mean to scare you," he says, still speaking low. He rubs my back like he's trying to cheer me up. "I'm -- don't be like this. It won't happen again, I swear."

  I don't answer. Of course it won't happen -- he's going to court for that little mishap, isn't he? And he'll lose his license, I'll have to drive him into town, he'll get as drunk as he wants because he knows I'll drive him home. I'm well aware of the fact that he still hasn't said he's sorry. "Marcus?" He kisses my forehead, a rough press of damp lips that leaves a smear I want to wipe away. "Just work with me here, please, that's all I'm asking. I'll keep count of the sales and give you all the money for the deposit."

  "It's not about the fucking money," I say, pushing away from him. I slip out of his arms easily -- he just lets me go. "Jesus, Kent. You could've been killed. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" When I see the confused look on his face, I hug myself and turn away. "You'd think it'd be a wake-up call, babe," I tell him, my anger still clinging to me. "A sort of maybe I shouldn't drink so much, you know?"

  The edge is back in his voice. "I can handle myself," he says. "I took my eyes off the road for two seconds, Marcus. It could've happened to anyone --"

  "It happened to you." I glance at him over my shoulder, see the hard eyes, the set mouth, and I know this isn't getting through to him. He's not an alcoholic, not him. "Forget it," I mutter. His hand touches my shoulder and I shrug it off. "Leave me alone. I've got a barn to clean, remember?"

  I push past him towards the door. "I'll give you the damn money," he says as he trails behind me.

  "Keep your money," I tell him. I shake my shirt on to settle it over my shoulders, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. Luke stands in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, a slight frown on his face -- I glance at him, see the hurt in his eyes, and have to look away as I shove through the screen door and out into the backyard, Kent on my heels. Ahead, the barn looms ominous, the lock off the door because he was out here earlier and forgot to latch it. "You want to piss away your profits?" I say, my voice ringing out in the still morning air. "It's all the same to me. Just let me know before everything's gone so I can still get out when the getting's good."

  That makes me stop, makes him stop, and my hands tremble as the impact of what I've said hits me full force. So I can still get out ... is that where we're heading? Me leaving him? Is this all because of Luke? "Kent," I start, turning. My lover stares at me incredulously, did I just say I would leave him? Behind him I see Luke on the other side of the screen door, watching us. Did I honestly admit ... "Oh shit," I murmur. Now it's me reaching for him, it's my touch that's shrugged away. "Kent, I didn't mean it like that."

  "Like what?" he wants to know. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes are dark and unreadable -- whatever emotions whirl through him right now, whatever he's thinking, he's keeping it to himself, I'm not privy to it. "Don't let me keep you here, kid. If the money's not good for you, don't let me stop you from leaving."

  I ball my hands into useless fists and lean my head back to stare at the cloudless sky. "It's not the money," I tell him, frustrated. Can't he see that? His little business makes enough to pay the bills and keep us fed, that's about it. "This has nothing to do with your money, Kent. I don't ask for any, do I? I don't want any." When I look at him, I see the hard set of his jaw and
know that he doesn't believe me. Lowering my voice so Luke won't overhear, I say, "It's your drinking."

  "Spending my money on drinks," he clarifies.

  He doesn't get it. "No!" I cry. "It's nipping at the bottle when you get up first thing, Kent. It's finishing a six-pack by noon. It's being too goddamn drunk by end of the day to want to fool around, that's what this is about. I'm sick and tired of being pushed aside for everything else in your life."

  Taking a step closer to me, Kent pokes at my chest with one finger, a sharp touch that I swear bruises, the hurt lingers long after I brush his hand away. "Whether you've noticed or not, I'm trying to run a business here," he snarls. "I work hard, every day slaving out in that market just so we can make it. I don't ask for much from you, Marcus. I don't make you pay for your meals or your room, do I?" I try to turn from him but he grips my shoulder, forces me to look into his angry face. "So I like a drink or two now and then to unwind. Lay off me about it, you hear?"

  I twist out of his hands. "Fine," I mutter. Get yourself killed, I think, heading for the barn. Drink yourself to death, fine, see if I care. I don't, I tell myself, I don't. I kick open the wooden door, feel the dry stench of hay rise up at me from inside the barn, and tears blur my vision, I have to wipe them away with the back of my hand. If I don't care then why the fuck am I crying over this?

  He's going to come in after me, I just know it. I sit on the bales of hay and wait, the dark barn hot around me despite the early hour. He'll come in and talk to me, tell me I'm wrong, tell me he loves me -- does he love me? He's never said the words out loud. I can't even imagine what they'd sound like in his voice.

  Time passes -- I'm not sure how much, how long it is I sit there in the heat and the hay, waiting. At some point I lie down, stretch out on the itchy straw, stare up at the warped boards that form the roof and squint at the sky beyond. He's not coming in here. He doesn't care, either. Fuck him.

  Sometime later, I realize I'm not angry anymore. Tired, yes. Weary ... God, so damn weary. But in the center of my chest where my anger roiled is nothing, just a deep, empty ache, and that scares me. What happened to the way we were? What happened to the easy relationship we shared, the camaraderie, the sex?

  Luke.

  He happened, came into our lives and shook us up, shook me up, made me see what I've been too blind to admit to myself all this time, made me see what it is I want and God help me, it's not Kent. It's Luke, I want him more than I'm willing to admit. He makes me feel like I haven't felt in years -- desirable and young and free, virginal again, everything about him is heady and exciting and new. How can I not want someone like him in my life?

  I'm just mad. What the hell am I thinking? So we get in a fight once, I'm ready to walk out? What does that say about me?

  I don't know. And right now I don't care to know, I'm not going to think about it anymore. I've had it with thinking, my head hurts and the more I sit here stewing, the less I'm getting done. So I slide off the bale I'm on and look around the barn, hands on my hips. I'll clean this up, it's not that bad -- I could be out in the fields picking ripened vegetables, that would be hot work in this sun, but at least here it's shady and a little cool, and there's not really a lot to do. The hay in the stall needs to be pitched, the bales scattered around need to be stacked, that's about it. A few hours of mindless labor and I'll get whatever mood's eating at me out of my system, I'll work past this indecision tearing me apart, I'll be able to move on. I won't think of anything until I'm finished in here, not Luke, not Kent, nothing. It'll be a relief really. Nothing at all.

  Only it doesn't quite work out that way. I concentrate on the bales of hay and get them stacked up against the side of the horse stall by the way the sun's traveled across the roof. I guess it's still early, just after noon, no later than two at the most. I'm making good time, I'll finish up in here in another hour or so and then head inside, shower, take a nap ... dream of Luke, I think, but I shake that away, I'm not entertaining those thoughts right now, am I?

  But Pandora's box has been opened and images rise unbidden in my mind. Luke in my bed, twirling that daisy between his fingers, listening to me and Kent in the shower. Last night on the couch, the two of us pressed together, his genitals so soft against mine, his kisses the very breath of heaven itself. And when I turn towards the stall to start on the hay there, I see him again, stretched out on the tamped straw, that hat covering his face while he pretended to sleep. I play out the scene in my mind, me peering in at him with the thrill of discovery coursing through my body, only this time he's naked, the hat the only thing he wears, and his dick lies along the curve of his thigh, his ass begs to be entered, his skin is a burnished gold in the shadows. I see myself kneeling beside him, my fingers tracing along his belly, his balls, he moans beneath me and rolls onto his back, exposing himself to me fully. I ease his legs apart, kneel between them, lean down until the scent of his musk fills my nose and stirs my groin, and when I lick up his thick length, already hard, his hand grasps the hat that hides his face to stifle his low cry.

  I can hear how he'd sound, it makes me weak and I fall to my knees on the hay where he slept a few nights back. Before I can stop myself or even think about what I'm doing, I unzip my jeans, push them down my thighs, pull down my boxers and I'm already hard myself, my dick stands out from the patch of hair at my crotch like a steel rod, throbbing for release. It won't take long -- kneeling in the hay, my pants down, my ass exposed, one hand on my erection and squeezing my balls, rubbing below to the tender skin that Luke called the taint, the other hand cupping my ass, parting my cheeks, rimming until I gasp out his name, I push into myself and want to sob, I need him so bad, I want him and not just my hand on my ass and cock, I want him --

  The door creaks faintly as someone steps into the barn.

  I freeze, one finger in myself, my dick already weeping, I'm so close to coming, I have to bite my lower lip to keep from whimpering in desire. I hear footsteps and want to call out, who's there? Kent, and he'd see me here masturbating, he'd probably tell me I could've asked and just push my hands away, enter me and thrust a few times before growing bored. Or Luke, what would he say if he caught me? Would he want to watch? Join me? Take matters into his own hands? I imagine his strong hands moving mine aside, one finger slipping deep into me, others encircling me, kneading, working me hard ... I'd rock back into his hand, pull him as far inside as he could get, I'd fuck his hand and scream out his name when I got off. What if it's him?

  It is. His voice echoes through the rafters when he calls out softly, "Marcus? You still in here?"

  Suddenly embarrassed, I pull out of myself, wipe my hand on the hay as I stand, shove myself back into my jeans and haul them up. My boxers catch in the zipper and for a few tense moments I can't get them free, I'm struggling here, I swear my crotch is growing damp and he'll come around the bales of hay and see me here, he'll want to know what I'm doing, he'll want to know why my pants are undone -- "Marcus?"

  The zipper slides up with a sigh, thank you, Jesus. "Here," I call out, my voice shaky and uneven. I run a hand through my hair to push it out of my eyes and busy myself with the hay, I'm supposed to be cleaning up, not making more of a mess. When Luke steps into view, he leans against the bales I've stacked and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, grins at me. His shirt hangs open to reveal his bare chest, the muscles glistening with sweat that I want to lick away. "Hey Luke."

  "Hey Marcus." His cowboy hat rides low over his brow, but he tips it back and winks at me. "Come here."

  I shouldn't, I'm with Kent, I shouldn't fool around with him but the look he gives me does me in, despite whatever resolve I think I might have, I'm weak against it. My fingers tremble as I reach for him -- he lets me touch his flat stomach, his hard chest, and the brim of his hat fits easily on the top of my head when we kiss. I feel like he knows what I was doing, he tastes it on my lips, feels it when his hand trails down my body to toy with the zipper of my jeans. "Missed you," he sighs. How long has
it been? Just a few hours. Kent was gone almost a full day and never said that to me.

  "What's he have you doing?" I ask, taking a step back. I want to widen the distance between us because when I stand so close to him, I don't trust myself.

  But my hand stays on the waistband of his jeans, my jeans, and my fingers ease behind the buckle of his belt to press along fluttering skin. "Grass seed," Luke tells me with a laugh, and he catches my wrist before I can move too far away. "I've got to reseed the plot behind the sunflowers. Come here, Marcus, he's not around." He reels me in like a prized catch, drapes one arm around my neck to keep me close. Tentatively I rest my head on his shoulder, thread an arm around his waist, Kent's not here. Luke kisses my forehead and when he speaks, his words tickle my skin. "I was hoping you hadn't thrown out this hay yet. I'm gonna need it to cover the seed." His lips press against my cheekbone, my upper lip, and he breathes, "That's my story, if he wants to know why I'm in here with you."

  I let out a thin giggle that he cuts off with a kiss, this one deeper than the others, insistent, it presses me back against the beam that makes up one corner of the horse stall and I stagger beneath the need I feel in him, my hands clench into fists in his shirt. "What happened this morning?" he asks, kissing me before I can answer. "Was it about me?"

  "I don't know," I admit, my words lost in his lips. His mouth moves lower, around the curve of my jaw, down my throat, sucking at me as I lean back and gasp his name. "Luke --"

  "Did he ask if we fool around?" he persists. I shake my head -- as far as I know, Kent doesn't even suspect us of anything. "Did he say something about me staying here?"

  "No, nothing like that." I cradle his face in my hands, raise him to me for another kiss. "He got a little pissed about the flower but he thinks I picked it. He likes you."

  With a coy grin, Luke kisses me again. I feel the curve of his smile against my lips, taste his breath as he murmurs, "The way you do?"