Cowboy by J. M. Snyder

by Неизвестный

  "Yeah." I don't expect any gratitude, but it still hurts when he doesn't even say thank you. How hard would that be?

  Instead, he takes another mouthful of spaghetti and nods, yes, that's good, it's done. Then he glances at Luke, who tells him without prompting, "Got the seed down like you asked. Marcus helped me cover it with the hay --"

  Now Kent glares at me. "You busted a bale for that?" he asks.

  "I used what was in the stall, babe," I say, stumbling over the word. Kent frowns into his plate -- how much has he had to drink today? -- and I think that this might not be a good time to mention the broken wheelbarrow. Across from me, Luke raises an eyebrow but stays quiet. Softly, I tell Kent, "I didn't open another bale, just used what was already out, is all." When he doesn't answer -- I don't expect him to -- I curl my hand into a fist around the money on the table and murmur, "Thanks for the deposit."

  "Told you I'd give it to you," he grumbles. Then he pushes the plate away and stands a second time, shoves his chair in, opens the fridge for a can of beer, and I think that's it, that's all he's going to say, when he adds, "Don't fight with me, Marcus. I'm about tired of it."

  I have to swallow back my anger, don't fight with me. As if the whole episode this morning was my fault. As if he's the only one who worked up a sweat today, the only one tired now, the only one who doesn't want another argument. Fuck you, I think, biting my lower lip to keep the words inside, where he can't hear them and they won't get me into trouble. What's keeping me here with you? I wonder as I glare at his broad back. He doesn't look at me, just disappears into the living room and doesn't even look over his shoulder. What's keeping me from taking off with Luke tonight and leaving you to drink yourself to death?

  Nothing. Not a damn thing.

  Across from me, Luke gives me a halfhearted smile and whispers, "It's okay, Marcus."

  "I didn't ..." My words trail off in a sad sigh, I don't know what I want to say. It doesn't matter anyway, does it? I twist my fork through my noodles but I'm finished eating. I don't want any more.

  Beneath the table Luke's foot comes up between my legs, his toes curling into my crotch gently. "I know," he says. "It's okay, I know."

  I wash the dishes and hand them to Luke -- even though we have a drainer, he insists on drying each plate. "It's an excuse to stand close to you," he says, his voice low so it won't carry out into the living room, where Kent's watching TV. He has it up so damn loud, I'd be surprised if he could hear anything else. The more he drinks, I swear the louder it gets.

  And Luke is practically standing on top of me, he's so close. When I scrub a plate, my elbow pokes into his side, and every so often he'll bump my hip with his to make me smile. At one point, I'm scouring the pot and he's leaning over the sink, waiting for me to finish so he can towel it off, and his arm snakes around my waist, his hand eases into my front pocket, his fingers slip beneath the money I've shoved in there to squeeze at my crotch. "You're stacked, baby," he tells me, but I'm not sure if he means the money or my dick, already hardening beneath his touch.

  I turn away and his hand falls from my pocket. "Kent," I warn -- the last thing I need is to have him amble into the kitchen for another beer and find us cuddling.

  "We could leave now," Luke says. I look at him sharply, only to find those violet eyes staring back, serene. Is he serious? Just walk out now and never look back? I couldn't do that to Kent. With a nod at my pocket, Luke adds, "You've got some money. How far do you think that'd get us?"

  I hand him the pot, a little too roughly. "It's Kent's money," I remind him. I'm not quite sure how to take him -- his quick smile tells me he's joking but the eager gleam in his eyes, that suggests something more. "Not mine."

  Luke drops his gaze to the pot as he dries it, a slight pout on his lips. "I've got some," he mumbles.

  Turning on the spigot, I rinse my hands and try to figure out just what it is he's saying. "You want to leave?" I ask, frowning at him. When he shrugs, I want to know, "Where'd you get money from?" I hate the suspicious part of me that feels like checking the deposit but I know he hasn't been in it, I keep the bank bags in Kent's closet, Luke hasn't been in there. He doesn't answer immediately, and I prompt, "Luke? What's this all about?"

  With another shrug, he tells me, "Maybe nothing. I'm just ..." He rubs at the pot in his hands, doesn't look at me. "I just don't like seeing you like this," he says, speaking softly. I have to turn off the water to hear his words as he explains, "All bent out of shape because he's being a bastard. I was just talking shit, Marcus, saying maybe we could run away together. You know, like dreaming out loud? Just talking shit, that's all."

  Dreaming out loud, I like that. I give him a shy smile and now it's my hip that nudges his, causing him to finally look up at me. "And you'd use Kent's money," I joke. "Somehow I don't think it'd get us very far. He kept most of it himself."

  Luke's pout dissolves into his sunny grin, and his eyes light up. Setting the pot into the drainer with the rest of the clean dishes, he reminds me, "I've got a little cash."

  "From where?" I ask again. I seem to remember him telling me about stashing a wallet in our barn, that first night he stayed in the house, when it was just me and him and Kent wasn't around to curb our talk or keep our voices low. "How much are you talking, Luke?"

  Wringing out the towel, he lowers his voice until I can barely hear him speak. "Couple hundred," he says, and my mind whirls out in a million directions all at once. A couple hundred? Where's a boy like this get money like that? He must see the incredulous look on my face because he hastens to add, "It's not what you're thinking. Well, it sort of is, but not like that."

  I'm thinking -- "You stole it," I whisper.

  From the way he can't meet my gaze, I know I'm right. "I didn't rob anyone," he assures me. "Like hold up a store or something, I'm not that bad. It's my dad's, okay? I took it before I left. He has this cookie jar full of dollars in the kitchen behind the stove, I know he didn't think I knew about it, but I'd seen it once after school and I counted it when he wasn't home, just to see how much he had." He looks at me, fear written in his eyes, he's scared I'm going to hate him now, he thinks I'll turn him away. Don't, I can read the plea in his purple gaze, please don't. "Believe me, Marcus, I only took a little bit. Just a few big bills from the bottom of the jar, that's it. If he even knew how much he's saved up in there, he'd never miss it, I promise."

  I don't know what to say. I find myself thinking to the deposit bags in Kent's closet, I wonder if Luke knows about them. Tentatively, he touches the bulge of bills in my pocket, looks at me with beseeching eyes, and whispers, "I was just teasing about this, Marcus, believe me. I wouldn't take Kent's money. He's been nothing but good to me, and I know how you feel for him. I was just kidding about running away. Really."

  Taking a deep breath to steady my racing heart, I say, "I'm not running out on him, Luke." He nods quickly, yes, he knows, and this time when his fingers ease into my pocket, I don't brush them away. "I'm going to tell him about ... about us," I say, and Luke nods at that, too. "I just -- I don't know when or how, and it probably won't be pretty, but I have to tell him myself. You see that, don't you? I owe him that much, at least."

  A gentle tug on my pocket brings me a step closer to Luke, who closes his eyes and presses his lips to mine in a brief kiss. "I know," he murmurs, his words mere breath against my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut as his hands find my waist and he kisses me a second time. "I'm cool with whatever you decide," he says. "If you want to go, I'm leaving with you. If you stay, I want to stay, too. You're what I've been looking for my whole life, Marcus. I'm going to do whatever I must to keep up with you."

  And why doesn't Kent ever say such lovely things?

  From the other room he calls out my name. I push against Luke and he calls out again. "Kent," I whisper, turning away. For good measure I take a step back and when Luke leans against me, I put a hand on his chest to keep some distance between us. Staring into his eyes, I raise my voice and reply, "Yeah
, hon?"

  Luke sniggers at that, hon. I poke at his stomach to keep him quiet, and he rests his head on my shoulder. "Kent? What do you want? I'm sort of doing the dishes here ..."

  Which I'm not, we're finished, but he doesn't need to know that. Luke's breath tickles along my neck, beneath my collar, and I wonder how much longer Kent's going to be up. Hasn't he had enough to drink yet? Can't he head off to bed and leave us alone already?

  Apparently that's asking too much. "Another beer," he grumbles, and I sigh as I push at Luke. Another beer. Like he hasn't had his fill yet. Like he can't get up off his drunk ass and come in here to get one.

  "I've got it," Luke murmurs before I can object. As he ducks into the fridge, he asks, "Maybe we can go for a walk or something? If you want."

  Good idea. "Sure," I say. I lean back against the sink and watch him, he moves so gracefully, all thin lines and flat planes, I remember the barn this morning and want him above me again, his arms around me, his hands on me, his tongue and lips in delicious parts of my body. At the doorway between the rooms he turns to wink at me, and that makes me grin. What did I ever do to find someone like him, after all this time? And what am I going to do keep him?

  And what am I going to do about Kent?

  Luke slips out the back door and waits for me to follow. "We'll be outside," I tell Kent, passing between him and the TV so he has to see me. Even though I already know the answer, I ask anyway, "Do you want to come for a walk?"

  "I'm watching TV," he replies, in that slow, are you stupid? tone of voice he has that he uses with me when he's drunk. When I start to say something else, tell him be back soon, he raises one hand and glares at the television, he doesn't want to hear it. Fine, I think, pulling the screen door shut behind me.

  Luke's hand eases into mine and he kisses my cheek, a small peck that Kent doesn't see because he's glued to the set. "Come on," he whispers, pulling me along after him into the night. His hand is warm in my own, his fingers strong and sure, and with each step we take, he swings our hands in the space between us. "Where do you want to go?"

  I shrug -- there's really nowhere to go. I'd suggest the barn again but what if Kent comes out looking for us? Another hour or two and he'll fall asleep, and I can curl up beside Luke on the couch again, we'll kiss and cuddle and make love the way we did yesterday, no intercourse but God, somehow so much more.

  So we just hold hands, and Luke leads me around the side of the house to the front. On the porch I ignore the wicker chairs and glass-top table we have set up to look out over the market. Instead, I sit down with my back against the railing, my legs stretched out towards the kitchen door -- from here I can see the doorway that leads into the living room, and the footrest of Kent's recliner, the bottoms of his bare feet. "Sit down," I say softly, tugging at Luke's hand. He sinks to the porch beside me, his hip and leg pressed against mine. "Can you see him?" he asks, leaning in front of me to glance through the screen door.

  I push him back playfully. "I see him," I say as I ease an arm between Luke's waist and the railing. Watching Kent's feet, I pull Luke a little closer, until his head drops to my shoulder, and he touches my chin to make me look at him. Here in the dusk, the light that falls through the kitchen window and screen door illuminates his face and deepens his eyes until they're the color of inky pools, I could drown in their depths and never resurface. I love him, I know it utterly and completely, I've fallen for him harder in these past few days than I ever fell for Kent in the two years I've known him. And I need to tell him that. I need to let him go.

  Luke's lips touch mine, a tender kiss that I pull away from despite the lust roiling through my veins. "I have to keep an eye on him," I murmur -- this close, our noses touching, our temples together, there's no need to talk above a whisper. I sure as hell don't want Kent stumbling into the kitchen for another beer only to see us on the porch making out. My hand on Luke's hip tickles beneath his shirt, along his flat stomach, and I give him another kiss before leaning back against the railing. The porch floor is hard beneath my ass, almost uncomfortable, but Luke is soft in my embrace, warm against me, and the night is young. Soon, I think, rubbing his side as I stare into the living room, vigilant.

  Luke buries his face in my neck, his breath hot along my hair, his lips damp and warm on my skin. His tongue licks out, tastes the flesh below my ear. His fingers find the top button of my shirt, the next, and the next, until my shirt's parted enough for his hand to slip inside. He thumbs over my nipple, already hard from the breath in my ear, the lips sucking at me, the body against mine, and then his hand smoothes over my ribs, under my arm, around my back as he half-climbs onto me. I wonder how stoic my face looks as I sit here in the midst of these caresses. In the living room, Kent's recliner hasn't moved -- his pale feet form a V above the foot-rest and the sounds from the TV drift out to where we sit, my body slowly responding to Luke's lips, his hands, his tongue.

  Nosing the collar of my shirt aside, he kisses the curve of my throat, the shelf of my collarbone. Almost without realizing it, my hand finds the cleft between his legs, my fingers know their way around without my having to look away from the open door and Kent beyond. When I unzip his jeans, unsnap his boxers, take his solid length in my hand and start to knead gently, Luke's moans fill the night. So loud, drowning out the rest of the world, the TV, the cars that pass down the road, and I giggle as he thrusts into me, practically crawling on top of me in his need. But Kent doesn't hear him -- these breathless gasps, these soft groans, my name whispered in a heated rush, they eclipse my world but don't stray far from the porch. His lips are pressed against my ear, his hands strum my chest, his dick hardens in my hand with each squeeze, each thrust. Maybe we won't have to wait until Kent goes to bed to get together. Maybe I can help Luke find release here, and just thinking of his juices in my hand makes my jeans chafe my own erection. I imagine him fucking into my fingers until he comes, thick white cum that'll slick my hand and wrist, and I'll lick them clean while he watches me with hooded eyes, I'll touch the tip of his nose with one wet finger and lick the dampness off that I leave behind. I haven't tasted another boy in forever, sure as hell not Kent and his thin cum that's more beer than anything else. I wonder if Luke tastes like I imagine he does, sweet and maybe slightly salty, just a little bit bitter and completely insatiable --

  In the living room, Kent pushes the footrest of the recliner down.

  He stands, wavers unsteadily on his feet, then clicks off the TV. "Oh shit," I mutter, letting Luke slip from my fingers even as he thrusts into my palm. I tug my shirt closed, fumble with the buttons, watch as my lover crosses the living room, heading for the kitchen. "He's up."

  "Up," Luke murmurs, not quite comprehending the word. I glance at him and see eyes dull with lust, lips swollen, and I wipe at my neck, did he leave any marks? I button my shirt up to the collar as he sits back against the railing, his hard cock peeking through his open jeans. "Coming here?" he asks.

  Kent stumbles into the kitchen, I see him fully now, his low-riding jeans, his tanned chest. "You're hanging out," I tell Luke, poking at the tender tip of his dick for emphasis. His eyes close at the sensation. "Come on, Luke, he's headed this way."

  Somehow Luke manages to cram himself into his jeans. Not bothering with his boxers, he just buttons his fly and pushes down the erection that tents through the gaping zipper. That brings another moan and he rubs at himself, he's as bad as I am. "So close," he sighs. From the kitchen I hear the crush of a beer can, the clatter of aluminum tossed into the trash, feet shuffling along the tile floor. Holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart in front of my face, he tells me, "Marcus, I was this --"

  Kent pushes through the screen door and steps out onto the porch.

  I shove Luke's hand away. "Hey babe," I say, giving Kent a tight grin that he doesn't return. Stepping over my legs, he sinks into one of the wicker chairs across from us, sets his beer mug on the table beside him with a jarring chink of glass on glass. As Luke pulls his legs up to
his chest and out of Kent's way, a strategic maneuver to hide the erection still straining the front of his jeans, I try to calm my racing blood and beating heart, try to erase the memory of Luke's lips on my skin, his dick in my hand, and I'm hoping I sound nonchalant and not the least bit guilty when I ask Kent, "So what's up?"

  He grunts in reply. "Thought you were going for a walk," he mutters.

  "We did," I say, and Luke adds, "A short one."

  Kent looks around the porch, out over the stunted grass that stretches between the house and his produce lot, out at the road. His eyes are dark, unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until he speaks my name. Looking up at him, staring off past us into the night, I ask, "Yeah?"

  He nudges his half-empty mug with the back of his hand. "Get me a beer, will you?"

  Anger floods through me. He interrupted us for that? "You were just in there," I sigh. "Why didn't you --"

  Turning towards me, his watery eyes pin me with a hard stare and he lashes out, "Just get me a fucking beer, will you?"

  For a brief second I consider saying no. Get it yourself, but that'll just piss him off more and I'm not in the mood for him tonight. I'm in the mood for this boy beside me, and the sooner Kent drops off, the sooner we can get back to where we were a few moments ago. "Jesus," I mumble, pushing myself up off the porch. I catch Luke's sympathetic smile and roll my eyes. What was he saying about leaving tonight?

  You ain't leaving just yet, a voice in me whispers, and I storm through the screen door, let it slam shut behind me, because it's true. No, I'm not walking out, but when Kent pulls shit like this I wonder if I should even bother to stick around. Who am I to him? A lackey, a servant, a sometime sex-toy, nothing more. Who'll get his beer when I'm gone? Answer me that, I challenge the voice in my head as I duck into the fridge for a cold can.

  When I close the fridge, I hear Kent's drunken slur from outside, and at first I'm almost sure he's talking to me. "I don't like you, kid," he says loudly, as if he wants me to overhear. Me? I want to ask, my heart in my throat -- that would make it so easy, wouldn't it? If he didn't like me anymore, if he wanted me to leave, he'd be making the decision for me, he wouldn't have to know --