Cowboy by J. M. Snyder

by Неизвестный

  But he's not talking to me. He means Luke, I realize this when he adds, "I don't like freeloaders." His words fade in and out like the tide, and I tiptoe up to the screen door so I can hear better. From his spot against the railing, Luke glances up at me before turning his attention back to Kent, who can't see me where I'm standing. "You run off from home," he's saying, "that's your business. Don't bring it in here. Just keep running for all I care."

  Luke doesn't respond -- what's there to say? I don't like you ... I fiddle with the tab on the top of the beer can as Kent continues. "I'm only letting you stay because he likes you." He means me. "If it were up to me, I'd have kicked your sorry ass out the first night."

  Clearing his throat, Luke folds his arms over the tops of his knees and stares at me as he asks, "I'm sorry? I don't know what you want me to --"

  Kent's harsh voice interrupts him. "I know what you did this afternoon." The beer can slips from my nerveless fingers, hits the floor with a hollow thud, he knows ... Luke's eyes go wide and he looks from Kent to me then back again. My mind is a whirl of incoherent thought, he knows -- "You think I wouldn't see?" Kent goes on. "You break my goddamn wheelbarrow and think I won't notice?"

  The wheelbarrow -- he's not talking about ... my knees go weak in relief, thank the Lord, he's not talking about what Luke and I did in the barn, thank God. With trembling fingers I pick up the beer can and set it on the counter. From the fridge I snag another as outside Luke starts, "I can explain, man."

  "I broke that," I say, coming out onto the porch. Kent frowns up at me as I lean past him for his mug, and I give him an overly bright grin. "The wheelbarrow," I explain before he can ask. "I broke it, babe. Meant to tell you earlier but I guess it just slipped my mind. I'm sorry."

  I fill his mug, set it and the can on the table, and give him a quick kiss on the forehead before sitting back down beside Luke, who looks at me with something akin to fear. I want to hold him, tell him it's alright but I can't, not with my lover right here. When Kent doesn't say anything, I give him another smile and promise, "I'll fix it in the morning. Just needs a splint, it won't take long."

  Kent stares into his mug and mumbles, "I still don't like him." As if Luke's not sitting next to me, as if he can't hear every word that's said.

  "He's pulling his share," I point out. "Helping out in the fields? And he's a good cook." And he loves me in a way you won't or can't, I add silently. I don't care if you like him or not, he's mine.

  Taking a swig of his beer, Kent doesn't respond.

  It seems like hours pass before Kent starts to nod off. With him sitting right in front of us, I don't dare say much to Luke, I don't smile at him or even look his way, not when every fiber of my being is screaming for his touch. Kent will see the desire in my eyes if I look at the boy, he'll hear the lust in my voice. It's only from the corner of my vision that I see Luke, his knees pulled up to his chest, arms crossed and chin resting on his wrist, and when he speaks, it's in clipped tones that belie the excitement I know must still course through his blood. "Fix the wheelbarrow tomorrow," he says, and I nod, yes, we'll do that. He laughs nervously, runs a hand through his hair to push it from his eyes, glances at Kent and then looks away into the night. "Doesn't like me none. Why am I not surprised?"

  I look up at my lover, sure he's heard the remark, but his chin rests on his chest and he's begun that wet snore he has that tells me he's out for the night. With my hand on Luke's arm, I push myself up from the porch and grin down at him when he looks at me. "I like you," I whisper. That makes him smile. Now that Kent's more or less asleep, I can tousle Luke's hair and kiss the top of his head. I'm only half-kidding when I add, "He's just jealous."

  And there's Luke's sunny grin. I offer him my hand to help him stand, and as he wipes the dust off his butt, I turn to Kent. This is old hat now, one hand beneath either arm, haul him to his feet, murmur comfortingly when he starts. "It's okay, babe," I say, holding my breath to keep from getting a good whiff of acrid sweat and stale beer. "Come on, Kent. Time for bed."

  He mutters something incoherent and swats at his mug, which Luke grabs up from the table before he can knock it to the floor. Then Kent leans against me, heavy and awkward, and I stagger back beneath his sudden weight. "Hon, come on," I mutter, steering him to the doorway. I hear a splash as Luke tosses the beer out into the grass and then we're inside, the screen door slapping shut behind us. Kent's arms are hot in my hands, his bare chest and back like fire beneath my touch. "Are you okay?" I ask as I lead him down the hall to his bedroom. My fingers brush against his forehead and come away sweaty and warm. "Kent, you're burning up. Are you --"

  "Fine," he grumbles, pushing me away. His hands claw at my shirt, my waist, and somehow he trips over his own feet and pins me to the wall. I groan his name, shove him off me, but he fingers my belt, my zipper, feels the hardness at my groin, the erection that lingers from the few stolen moments with Luke. In the darkness of the hall, Kent leans into my face, his breath like a furnace along my skin. "Marcus," he sighs, digging into my crotch. He giggles drunkenly, presses me back against the wall, his hips grinding into mine. "You little fox."

  "Kent?" I ask. Easing my hands between us, I push against him but he doesn't budge. Please don't want to fuck tonight, I pray. I don't want him, I want Luke. Please don't, Kent, just please -- he tries to kiss me but I turn away, and his damp lips smear across my cheek as he laughs breathlessly in my ear. I want to call out to Luke, I don't want Kent, please ... "Baby?" I try, sidestepping away from him. "I don't think you're really up for it tonight, you know? Maybe tomorrow, what do you say?"

  I break away from him but he's quick, he grabs me around the waist and hugs me back to him, this is fun for him. "You want it now," he slurs, groping at my crotch, and it takes everything I have not to hurt him to get away. Not from you, I think, but I can't say that, he doesn't know and now isn't the time to tell him, not with so much alcohol in his system. In the morning, I promise myself, after we've both had a good night's sleep but not now and sure as hell not when he's in this sort of mood ...

  "Marcus!" he curses as I stumble out of his grip. I make it to the end of the hall, him right behind me every step of the way, and as I push the door to his room open, I hear his jeans hit the floor. I turn to find him half-naked in the hall, his briefs pulled down below the thick erection that stands up from pale skin and dense hair between his legs. "Dammit, kid," he mutters, encircling his shaft with one hand. He steps towards me, closing the distance between us, his hand working at his dick and he's going to want some release, I've known him too long not to see what's coming next. Me bent over the foot of his bed, him thrusting into me a few times, what'll it hurt? We've done it before -- before Luke, I think, stepping into Kent's bedroom as he advances on me. Luke said he's cool with how I feel for Kent but right now I don't want this, I don't want just sex, I don't want him. I look past him down the hall at the boy watching us from the living room and he's what I want -- how did I get myself into this?

  When Kent's in the room, I close the door behind him, I don't want Luke watching. This won't do anything for me -- I feel like a condemned man, I don't want to do this, but I have to. I must. A few thrusts and Kent will be done. We've done it before. Then Luke's hands and lips can wash the memory away, and in the morning I'll talk with Kent, I'll tell him about Luke and how it is between us, and all this will be over. Another couple hours, I can make it that long. I must.

  But Kent's more tired than aroused, and before I even get my jeans unbuckled, he's facedown in his pillows, one hand still squeezing his swollen length as he starts to snore. "Thank you," I murmur. Staring down at him, I feel used and dirty and horrible, simply unclean. My hands shake at the thought of what Kent wanted, I feel nauseous and sick, sex with him? After that wondrous time with Luke in the barn? After what we had last night? I want to throw up, I'm so disgusted at myself.

  Luke is waiting for me.

  I manage to get Kent's boots off, his jeans, his hat -- I toy with the
idea of taking the briefs off, as well, but that would mean touching his ass and cock and I don't want to do that. So I settle for throwing the sheets over his legs and I almost kill myself when I stumble over his boots. If I were a drinking man, I'd consider a glass of whatever Kent has in those bottles beneath the sink, anything to calm my stomach and soothe my nerves. That's what I have Luke for, I tell myself as I open the bedroom door just wide enough to slip out.

  I head for the porch but Luke has other plans. He meets me in the kitchen doorway and, taking my hand, leads me back down the hall. Through Kent's closed door I can hear his rumbling snores, like thunder in the night. Then we're in my own room, and Luke shuts the door behind us, throws the lock, the sound is loud in the darkness. Gently he guides me to the bed, clicks on the lamp by his flower, which is open like a heart in bloom -- diffused light pushes back the shadows, rims the petals with golden dust. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at that flower, those petals, red as blood. "I have to tell him," I whisper. I feel Luke's hand on my face and I lean into his touch, so warm, so alive. Squeezing my eyes shut, I press my lips into his palm. "God, I'm sorry," I sigh. "I'm just ... I mean --"

  "I know," he assures me, and his gentle hand tells me that yes, he does know. I love you, I want to say, but I'm afraid it's too soon, I'm technically still with Kent. I should just call it a night and go to sleep. As if reading my mind, Luke tells me, "Lie down."

  His voice is soft like his hands. In the dusky lamplight, the buttons of my shirt disappear beneath his fingers. I let him ease the shirt off my shoulders and down my arms, his touch golden on my skin. Then those hands are at my waist, unzipping my jeans, pushing them to the floor as well, my boxers too, until I stand naked before him. "Marcus," he sighs, my name amazing in his voice. He kisses my bare thighs, my hips, my stomach, as his hands guide me onto the bed. The sheets are cool against my skin, the pillow like a dream I've had before, I simply melt into it again. I'll feel better in the morning, I'm sure of it.

  Luke's hands trace the outline of my body through the covers, and when I look at him, he's so close, his face draped in shadow because his shoulder blocks the light. His lips touch mine, a brief kiss, and he whispers, "I want to love you, Marcus. I want to stay here tonight and hold you but if it's not the right time yet, let me know. I'll do what you want me to do. Just let me know."

  I should thank him and turn him away. But he's what I want, more than anything else -- I've been aching for him all night, I've been living for this moment, my head tells me I should just go to sleep but my heart, my body, beg to differ. "Luke," I breathe, and that's as far as I get before his mouth covers mine, his tongue licks into me, the sweetest goodnight kiss I've had in years. "You can stay."

  He steps back from the bed and pulls his shirt off over his head, drops it to the floor. He unbuttons the fly on his jeans and slips them and his boxers down in one motion, kicks them away as he climbs over me into the bed. For the few dear moments he's above me, the covers are the only thing keeping us apart, and his weight is so delicious that I roll over beneath him just to feel as much of his body press against as much of mine as I possibly can. Then he's sliding beneath the sheets, his naked body finally lying alongside mine, and I feel like this is my first time with a boy, I feel trembly and anxious and I could come just looking at him leaning over me. He brushes the hair back from my face, kisses the corner of my eye, whispers that he thinks I'm lovely. Lovely, I'm sure Kent doesn't even know that word.

  I close my eyes as Luke's hands trace the curve of my jaw, down my throat, down my chest and lower, until his fingers coil in the hair at my groin and lower, until he's touching the tender flesh he licked this afternoon, and the memory of that makes me pull him down to me for a hungry kiss, three, a dozen. His breath is mine, his words lost in me. It's like a slow dance, him moving above me while I follow his lead, my leg draped around his hip, the hardness at his crotch pressing into me. Kent doesn't do it like this, this easy, this unhurried, each movement deliberate, each kiss lingering, his hands holding me back against the pillow and his lips, his mouth, his tongue and fingers rubbing me until I have to bite into his shoulder to keep from crying out. When Luke enters me, he presses me to the mattress, his whole body covering me, his heart thudding against mine, his arms holding me to him like a precious memory.

  I'm used to Kent's rapid thrusts, his pulling out before the deed is done -- I'm not at all prepared for Luke. He thrusts into me once, so far inside that I'm sure he'll pull out and ram back in, that's how Kent does it, I'm waiting for that ... but it's not his way. Instead, he stays inside, moves within me in an almost circular motion, tiny little thrusts that send slivers of pleasure shooting through me and dig him in further, deeper, his nails scratching at my back as he moans in my ear, uh uh uh in rhythm with his dick. My own erection throbs between us, and each small thrust rubs his lower belly against my cock, crushes my balls, until I'm sure I'm going to come, I have to. He pulls out slightly like a reprieve, then shoves back in, deeper than before, is that possible? He's reaching into parts of me I've never let anyone touch, he's bringing me to a climax that I'm sure will tear the roof off, rip me apart with desire, leave me whimpering and weak like a child in his arms. I raise up on my elbows, push against him, meet him thrust for thrust, uh uh uh, a breathless mantra that makes me grip his ass, raise my knees, flex my muscles until he's so far in, he'll never find his way out.

  And then, one final shove and he comes, fire racing through my groin and flooding into me. He sighs my name, presses me back against the bed, moves above me until the sensation of him in me explodes in an orgasm that drowns out every lover I've ever had. There is no other, he's the only one. With his soft lips on mine I break down and tell him I love him because I do.

  I cry afterwards, like he's my first. Luke holds me, murmurs into my hair, it'll be alright, it's okay, and I believe him. It's going to be okay.

  Sometime before the sun rises, I wake to find him climbing over me. "What?" I ask, groggy with sleep. The room is a washed-out morning gray that tells me it's too damn early to be up. I grasp at the blankets covering us to hold him before he can slip away. "Where are you going?"

  He kisses my jaw, noses the hair away from in front of my ear and whispers, "The couch."

  I'm more awake now, and when he tries to slide out of bed, I won't let him. "Luke." I speak in the same whispered tones that he uses, as if Kent's asleep in the room with us and we don't want to wake him. "No ..."

  He kisses me again -- so persuasive, his kisses. "It's still early," he explains, his words mere breath that tickles my neck as he nuzzles against me. His arms are strong around me, I had almost forgotten what it felt like to wake beside another's warm body. "If I get to the couch now, Kent won't know I was here. You want to tell him yourself, right?" I nod into his shoulder, my hands fisting at his back, unwilling to let him go. "You don't want him to find the couch empty," Luke reasons -- yes, I realize that would be a bad thing. "It's just for a few hours, Marcus. I love you."

  I haven't heard that one in years. "Then love me now," I whisper, clinging to him. Before he can reply, I stroke his leg with one foot, press my knee into his crotch, bite at his earlobe and moan into him, his name, please, I want him again. It doesn't take much to get him aroused -- he's young and hungry for someone to love him, same as me, and I'm ready for him this time, I know what to expect. But he still surprises me, with his quick little thrusts and his slow hands, his tender kisses. He pins me to the bed like a captured butterfly, pushes into me, deeper, deeper, without pulling out deeper, and when he comes, he's so far inside that I swear I taste him in the back of my throat. He's a spark that ignites my blood, and this time I don't cry. There are no tears, no regrets, nothing but him in me and above me and pressing me to the bed with soft, persistent kisses. He tells me he loves me again, in that whispered voice he's using like he wants no one else in the entire world to overhear us, and I kiss the words from his lips. Then he says he has to go.

  Almost re
luctantly, I let him crawl from between the covers, and I hug the sheets to my face to breathe in his musky scent as I watch him dress. He kisses my forehead like an indulgent parent, tousles my hair, trails his hand over the blankets and down the curve of my spine, and I sit up just enough to land his next kiss on my mouth. I had almost forgotten this post-coital play could exist, him giggling against my lips, me reluctant to let him go.

  But another hour or so and Kent will be up. So Luke leaves my room, closing the door quietly behind himself, and suddenly I'm alone again, almost cold. I huddle into blankets that still smell like him and stare at his flower as I drift back to sleep.

  The daisy is the first thing I see when I wake up a second time. The stem's just beginning to droop in the early morning light, and most of the water in the glass has evaporated, no wonder the flower's dying. I almost want to press the petals between the pages of a book, or maybe in my folder full of cowboy ads, anything to keep it. But I don't need just the flower: I have the boy who gave it to me, and he'll give me a hundred more if I only ask. As long as they're not from Kent's garden, I think, smiling wryly at myself as I throw the covers back and climb out of bed.

  Luke's shirt is still on my bedroom floor. I'm tempted to pull it on, it's mine and probably smells like him, I could wear it and feel him holding me again. But I think of Kent -- he'll notice the shirt, he'd recognize it as the one Luke wore yesterday, and I don't want to clue him in before I get a chance to talk to him about ... well, about us. About how we're through.