Road Trip, Volume 1

by BA Tortuga

  His mother always told him he was born under an auspicious sign. Unfortunately the damned thing read “Fuck with me.”

  “Well, if you’re coming with me, let’s hustle.”

  “I’m right behind you, man. Move it or lose it.”

  He’d lost enough in the last twenty-four hours or so to last awhile. “Be nice or I’ll forget why I haven’t shot your ass yet.”

  He fucking hated hills.

  “Oh, because I gave you your gun back so you wouldn’t be unarmed when they started shooting at us, dickhead?” The tenor of Sonny’s breathing told him a lot about how much pain the guy was in, but he kept up.

  “Well, if you didn’t do naughty things, Sunshine, the bad men wouldn’t come to shoot you.”

  “If you hadn’t fucked up the only escape route, I would be long gone.” They were going in circles. Well, at least in conversation. In their trotting, they were heading straight uphill. It took them about a half hour, but damned if they didn’t make his car. Sunshine had a good sense of direction.

  The ’stang was there, black and pristine and fast as anything. “Oh, that is just what I need to see.”

  Man. Sun. Sand. Sea. A hotel room with a hot shower and tequila from room service.

  “Hell yes. Nice ride.” Sonny was drenched, pupils dilated.

  “Come on, man.” He shook his head. Fuck. He’d give the man a couple of Vicodin and drive a few hundred miles.

  “Thanks.” That was probably the most sincere thing he’d heard out of Sonny’s mouth the whole time. That and the heartfelt groan as Sonny settled into the passenger seat.

  He pulled out his keys and his stash, then handed over three pills. “Vicodin. They’ll take the edge off until I can look at it. I imagine you’re not the hospital type, and I’m not playing field medic with those bastards this close.”

  MJ didn’t wait for Sonny to answer; he just turned on the radar detector and floored it.

  “I’ll live.” Sonny nodded, popping the pills and leaning his head back, hat long gone, face looking like he’d been through a war.

  “Good. Dead men are hard to explain. Even in Wilmington.”

  Chapter Three

  SONNY SHIFTED, cursed the whole fucking world. He hadn’t broken that ankle, but he knew a torn tendon when he felt one. His whole leg felt like it was on fire, his foot and ankle swollen impossibly.

  They’d stopped in Asheville, even though he’d had to threaten MJ to get him to do it. But he had his new ID and his stash of money, along with a .45. As soon as they’d gotten back to the ’stang, he’d taken off his boot so they wouldn’t have to cut it off later. Nearly six hours of riding later, he woke up, groggy as hell and hurting so hard he gritted his teeth on a moan.

  “You need another pill, man?” It was black as pitch outside, and MJ’s eyes were a touch wild. He must’ve taken something to keep him running. “We’ll be at the place in about half an hour.”

  “No. No more or I’ll get all pukey. Can only take so much of the shit before I start.” Damn it. He shouldn’t have wasted that ’shine on setting a fire. Oh, to have that truck he’d left sitting in the woods. Ah well, he’d call Woody, tell him where it was. If he wanted it, he could have it.

  “’Kay.” The music throbbed, something raucous, deep and irritating. Not as irritating as the way MJ’s leg jittered, over and over and over.

  “What the fuck did you take, man? You shoulda woke me. I can do irritating as well as this crap music.” Might as well needle the man to take his mind off the pain.

  “Well, I don’t have ‘Dueling Banjos’ on CD, so I just sort of made do with what I had.”

  “Oh damn. That’s my favorite.” He drawled out the a in favorite, really letting the Alabama out in his voice. Shithead. Goddamn, he hated smug, highfalutin California boys. Even pretty ones.

  “Next time? We can use your vehicle for the getaway car and you can pick the radio station.” They pulled off the highway, MJ reaching over him to tug a cell phone from the glove compartment. It didn’t take a second to plug that bitch into the cigarette lighter, and then MJ started talking.

  “Yeah. It’s me. No. No, it didn’t. Yeah. I want the fucking money wired, and I want it now. No. Now. I’m not waiting another two days in the cottage. You have until noon tomorrow.”

  Nice. Son of a bitch did commanding almost as well as he did. Sonny grinned, waiting for MJ to hang up before grabbing the phone and dialing Woody’s number. His own phone was crushed somewhere at the bottom of some hill in Appalachia.

  “Woody. That thing in the truck I left in that place? You can go get it, make the delivery. Keep the change.” He hung up after leaving the brief message, not wanting to take any chances.

  “No, man. I don’t mind if you borrow my phone.” They slowed down as they got closer to the low-key beach rentals, moving right through Wilmington proper, MJ squinting. “Fuck. Which road is it…?”

  “Where are we going?” He might remember, though it had been years since he’d been there.

  “There’s a cabin. Not ugly. Bought it fucking forever ago…. It used to be blue.” MJ kept muttering. Then those eyes went wide. “Fucking A. Andover Street. Andover to Gregory.”

  “There. Andover. Left.” One thing he could do was read signs. Sonny grunted as he smacked against the passenger door.

  “Oops. Sorry. Little buzzed. Property manager broad said she’d stock the fridge, clean sheets. Towels and shit.” They made the left on Gregory on two wheels. Christ.

  He scanned the street, getting close to the end of town, way out. “There. Is that it?”

  “Yep. Porch light and everything. We’ll park in the back.”

  They swung around, the carport waiting there for them. The ’stang’s engine got cut, and they sat there for half a minute, breathing.

  He just… man. He had to move. If nothing else, he had to pee. “Man, can you stop bouncing a minute and come help me out?”

  “I’m not bouncing. Asshole.” MJ bebopped out of the car and came around, pulled the door open, then held out one bruised-up hand. “Come on.”

  Sonny grabbed MJ’s wrist and levered himself out of the low-slung car, panting a little as he teetered. Fuck. Fucking goddamned fuck. He nearly tossed his cookies, ended up standing there, head down, breathing hard.

  “Shit. Breathe, man. I can’t carry your ass and my equipment.” MJ came up under his arm, hand wrapping around his hip. “Tell me when to go, and we’ll hobble you in.”

  He nodded, just resting a minute, jonesing on the feel of that sturdy body against his. Then he took a couple of deep breaths through his nose. “Okay, let’s go.”

  They moved pretty easy; MJ was stronger than he looked, steadying Sonny as they walked through the fine sand. MJ pulled a key out, popped the door without a word, and ushered him in. Man, the place wasn’t bad, wasn’t bad at all.

  In fact it was a fucking hot pad compared to what it looked like outside. He got a mixed-up impression of chrome combined with more earthy shit like willow bark and canvas before MJ plopped him down on a bright red sofa and left him there.

  Man, he didn’t know how big the fucking trunk was on that Mustang, but five huge-assed bags came in, toted right down the hall without a word. Then Blondie came back with a bag, dropped it at his feet, and started locking up. “You want a soda or a beer before I look at your foot?”

  “I want a beer. I’d best go with a soda.” Damn. They were almost being civil. Must be the drugs.

  “’Kay.” Two Cokes came out, along with a big-assed bunch of grapes in a froufy little bowl. Damn. The boy must be fucking the real estate lady. No one got that kind of service.

  “Mind?” He grabbed a couple of grapes, knowing that some food would start settling his stomach.

  “Go for it.” MJ swiped the fucking remote and spread out on the floor, flipping until he hit a news station. Then a roll of heavy-duty Ace wrap came out, along with this long piece of curved metal. “Okay, I’m going to wrap it up. It’s going
to fucking hurt. Don’t scream.”

  “If I’m a good boy, do you kiss it and make it better?” Fuck, it already had him sweating.

  “No, if you’re a good boy, I’ll give you a shot of morphine and let you sleep.” A quick snip with the scissors and his sock was history.

  Oh, that sounded good. ’Course he might wake up by himself, but oh well. He’d get all the toys.

  “Lemme have it.”

  “Let me get you bandaged up, and then you can flash your ass for the needle.” The tape was wrapped around, MJ surprisingly careful, not jostling his foot too much.

  It looked pretty gross, but he’d hurt himself enough to know that while it would take a few weeks to be right again, it wasn’t going to have to come off. Grinning at the thought, Sonny stared at the ceiling until MJ finished, his eyes only watering up once.

  “You got good hands, Precious.”

  “They seem to work for me. Almost done, man. Just breathe and don’t puke on me.”

  Oh, good time for that warning. All of that sweet, gentle lead-up was just a prelude to the excruciating pain that came after, when MJ wrenched his foot into a ninety-degree angle with his leg. It was like the guy in prison who kissed you nice and tender before bending you over in the shower and ramming you without any lube.

  He didn’t scream, puke, or hit MJ. Hell, Sonny didn’t even pass out. It was a near thing, though.

  “Okay. Okay, Sunshine. Come on. Breathe. I’m drawing a shot for you, yeah? Just fucking breathe.” He was rolled to one side, jeans unbuttoned and tugged down.

  “You just… want my ass….” He was panting, but he had to maintain his damned reputation, didn’t he? Sonny clutched the couch cushions, feeling the shot start to relax him almost immediately. Morphine worked great on him. Too bad he’d wake up puking his guts out….

  “You know it, man. It’s a fine specimen. You can ride me tomorrow when you’re sober.” His jeans were tugged back up, cock tucked right in as he was zipped up.

  He just shook his head, a ghost of a grin on his lips. “Fuckhead,” he slurred, flopping as MJ got him all arranged on the couch.

  “Yeah, yeah. Morphine make you sick, man? I got a patch. I don’t want fucking puke on my carpet.”

  “Yeah. I… makes me. Gross.” Whoa. Fuzzy tongue.

  “’Kay. I’ll patch you.” Something sticky got pressed to the back of his neck. “Night, Little Mary Sunshine.”

  “Hold me, Precious.” He laughed his way right into sleep, listening to MJ chuckle. The guy wasn’t all bad.

  For such an asshole.

  DUDE.

  Note to self. Waking up after your reds crash on you? Harsh.

  MJ blinked, looking around the room at all the equipment strewn everywhere. Man, he’d been busy.

  Real busy.

  He logged in, checked the date (man, he’d slept eighteen hours), his bank account (fifteen thousand dollars happier), transferred funds around, and gave himself a thirty-day vacation.

  Then he pulled up the weather reports for Maui, Aruba, and Cozumel. Somewhere nice and sunny.

  Oh.

  Damn.

  Sonny.

  MJ got up and wandered out toward the front; hopefully he hadn’t killed the man. This town was a bitch to hide a body in.

  The guy was asleep on the couch. MJ could tell Sonny wasn’t dead, or at least hadn’t been a while ago, because he was naked, his jeans, boots, and shirt strewn across the floor on the way to and from the bathroom. A little plastic-lined wicker trash can and an empty Coke can sat next to the couch.

  Jesus, the man was built like a brick shithouse.

  He’d take two, please.

  Of course, dude, one fucked things up well enough, didn’t he?

  MJ spent a minute looking, long enough his cock started to really take an interest, his fingers sliding over the soft-soft material of his shorts. Okay. Whoa. Just whoa.

  Big, hurt, meth-lab-running redneck.

  Not a possible fuck buddy.

  Of course the guy looked as banged-up as he did, bruises blooming all over Sonny’s skin, scratches on his arms and face lurid in the bright daylight.

  “You gonna look all day, or are you gonna come help me unkink my back?”

  “I was considering looking. Then you woke up.” He headed over, staring down at Sonny, enjoying being the tall one for once. “You need another shot, Sunshine?”

  “No. I’ve seen enough of my insides, thanks.” Sonny grabbed the waistband of MJ’s shorts and used them to… well, to try to pull himself up, it looked like. Too bad the man was so stiff. Yep. Too darned bad.

  He sort of just stared as the waistband stre-e-e-e-e-e-e-etched, just showing off all he had. “And what? Now you want to see what I have?”

  “Why not? You’ve been ogling mine. And since I’m stuck here, I might as well.” Sonny craned his neck, peering. “Nice.”

  He arched an eyebrow. Right. Better than nice. Hell, the ink around the base qualified for better than nice all by itself. “I didn’t get your ass naked.”

  “I know. It was a slow, laborious process. Trust me.” The man was still staring at him, licking his lips. Sonny had a fucking pretty mouth.

  Uh. Okay. Hands off the shorts before he got a stiffy. Seriously. That would suck. And possibly put Sonny’s eye out, as close as the man was leaning. “Okay, man. No drooling.”

  “Not drooling.” Those eyes snapped up and met his as Sonny let go of his shorts. “Help me up.”

  “Say please.” Oh. Ow. Elastic. Pubes. Ow.

  “Oh fuck you, man.” Grimacing, Sonny pushed himself up, muscles rippling in his belly and chest, heavy cock sliding on his thigh.

  “Careful.” MJ reached to help, hand on the small of Sonny’s back. His other hand caught the center of the man’s chest, giving Sonny something to lean against.

  “Thanks.” Sweat popped up on Sonny’s shaved head, face going pale under his tan, but he held it together. Kind of like MJ had when Sonny had tried to bash his head in. Tit for tat.

  “Yeah.” This had to be the weirdest fucking situation. Honestly. Up until the whole naked-looking thing? Singapore was still at the top of the list, but now? Definitely number two.

  It got even weirder when Sonny sorta… climbed him, grabbing on to various body parts and shimmying up to a standing position, swaying against him. “Spinny.”

  “Breathe, and don’t tear any important body parts off. I need them.”

  “Oh, you’ll definitely need them, Precious. I have plans for them.”

  Oh, that son of a bitch, hardly able to stand without him and making cracks like that….

  “Don’t make me beat your tight little ass, man. You’re not in any shape to go head-to-head with me right now.” He kept holding on, reminding himself that his face was fucking black-and-blue and his throat looked like he was a leper.

  “You got a point.” That voice sounded blown, rough and gravelly. Must have had a bad night. “You help me to the bathroom so I don’t have to crawl again? I’ll even shut up about it for five whole minutes.”

  “You got a deal.” They shuffle-slid to the bathroom, MJ helping Sonny keep the weight off that foot. “You good, man? I’ll go make coffee. Food. Something.”

  “I can take it from here.” A deep bass rumble came from somewhere at belly level. “Food good.”

  “Yes, cave-redneck. Food good.” He amused the fuck out of himself, really he did. “Maybe there’s eggs.”

  “Maybe there’s sausage.”

  O ye hungry but hopeful. MJ left Sonny standing in the bathroom, batting stupidly long eyelashes at him.

  He stopped in the bedroom and got jeans and a T-shirt on before he got to the kitchen. Burning dangly bits was never good, no matter what the freaks in the tattoo parlors said. He got coffee started and found sausage patties and biscuits in the freezer, eggs in the fridge.

  Score.

  He plopped the sausage and the biscuits in the microwave and grabbed a skillet to stir eggs in. See h
im. See him be domestic.

  “God, that smells good.” Hobbling out, Sonny looked down at his jeans, wrinkling his nose. “You got some sweats or something?”

  “They’ll be high-waters, but yeah. Gimme a second.” He stirred the eggs and then went to find those old, thin sweats. They were long on him and would be tight on the man’s ass. “So what’s your plan, Sunshine? Where do you go from here?”

  Taking the pants, Sonny shrugged, sitting on one of the cane stools to put them on. “Wherever, I guess. Someplace where I can set up again.”

  “Good for you. World can never have enough of whatever illegal shit you’re making.” He rescued the eggs, plopped them down on two plates with the not-too-hard biscuits and sausage. He was going away, no question. Somewhere tropical.

  “It wasn’t a meth lab, you know. Kinda out of the way of the customers way out there, don’tcha think?” Leaning, Sonny snagged a plate, pulled it over, and took the cup of coffee he offered as well.

  “How the hell would I know? That’s outside my realm of expertise.” Mmm. Cream. Sugar. Coffee. Good. Oh, he might live.

  “Obviously. Lemme tell you, buddy, C-4 is a hell of a lot more dangerous than white lightning.” The man could shovel down the food, no doubt about it.

  “White lightning?” Some heroin thing or…. Oh. Oh, wait. That was, like, booze. “That’s still illegal?”

  “Hell yes. The kind I make is, anyway. Pure grain, baby, and enough to give you hallucinations.” He got a wide, feral grin. “Not to mention the whole not-taxed thing.”

  “And people like it?” Okay. So the logic there escaped him. Hallucinations tended to suck—even those fucking peyote ones.

  “Hey, I don’t judge them. I just sell it to them. Or rather, to the guys who sell it to them. I’m in production and… goddamn it! My car.”

  “What car?” He hadn’t seen any car around that shitty cabin. Making moonshine must not pay very well.

  “Fuck. My car. The one I use for runs that need interference. Woody drives the truck; I drive the car. It’s in Asheville. Fuck a duck.” Sonny smacked the counter for emphasis.

  Okay. Well, he felt enlightened now. Instead of asking again, he ate a bite of sausage, a bite of egg.