Road Trip, Volume 1

by BA Tortuga

  “It’s got a hell of a lot less play in the back end than your ’stang, a lot more stable on the road. And she’s fast. A ’62 Starfire. I did the engine mods myself.” Grinning, Sonny shoveled in the last of his egg and then poked his fork at MJ. “You’ll have to drive me back up to get it.”

  “I will? Dude, I’m going to the beach. I’m on vacation. Getting on a boat and getting the hell out of town.” He’d have to drive. Right. Asshole.

  “Sounds good. I like the beach well enough.”

  “What?” Had he missed something?

  “I’ll just get Woody to put the old girl in storage. That way we don’t have to backtrack. How do you feel about Hawaii?”

  While he sat there, mouth hanging open, his food steadily disappeared into Sonny’s. Mouth, that was.

  “Hawaii’s beautiful. It’s the drive to San Francisco to get a ship that’s a bitch.” What the hell…?

  “A ship.” That finally got him a look, Sonny’s brows drawing together. “What the fuck? Why not a plane?”

  “I don’t do planes.” He didn’t do enclosed places. Period. No way. No how.

  “Oh-oh. That little thing about…. Yeah. But you know, you can look out the window.” The very last piece of biscuit went whoosh.

  “I’m aware they have windows.” Not that it mattered. Man, he needed to pack the ’stang.

  “So what’s the big deal, Precious? Or, you know, you have enough drugs for me to knock you out for at least twelve hours.”

  Where exactly did he lose control of this conversation? MJ got up, poured himself another cup of coffee. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t fly. Simple as that. My jobs are spaced to accommodate.”

  “Nice work if you can get it.” Sonny winked, managing to look devilish as hell with the bruises and scrapes. “You want some more? I think I can stand on one leg and cook this round.”

  “One-legged cooking? That’s either a sport or a terrible idea looking for a redneck.”

  “What’s being a redneck got to do with it? Look, you wanna take a shower? I’ll make the second course.” Those eyes were wide, and butter wouldn’t melt in that mouth. “Oh, hey, you got a passport?”

  “Yes….” Of course he had a passport. Hell, he had five of them, just in case.

  “With you?” Sonny asked, popping up off the stool and doing a decent job of one legging it around the tiny counter to the kitchen.

  He found himself nodding before he stopped short. “Like that’s anything to you. You couldn’t pass as me.”

  Hell, a small-time moonshiner would be a fool to try to pass as him.

  “Precious, I may make a pass at you, but I won’t try to pass for you.” That drawl got deeper, just plain infuriating.

  “I can’t begin to tell you how comforting that is.” He stood. That shower sounded better and better.

  Shower. Jack off. Get his head on straight. Pack the car.

  “I know it. Amazing what you’ll do when you think someone is out to get you.” Sonny gave him a wink as he limped away, whistling a jaunty little tune.

  Bastard.

  MJ grabbed himself a couple of towels and his ditty bag. Water.

  Hot water.

  Then he’d get himself out of this current mess and onto a nice sandy beach.

  Chapter Four

  SONNY HUMMED to himself as he cooked up some sort of meat that the guy at the market had assured him was pork. He wasn’t so sure, but he hadn’t argued. As soon as he got it browned and got those weird banana things and the sauce in it, he’d go check on MJ.

  Really, he was getting a little worried about the guy. Maybe the last time he’d given MJ a shot he’d used too much.

  Could that lead to brain damage? Fuck knew if the guy could stand to lose any more.

  There. Spices. Water. That milk-like substance. It kinda looked like gravy. Sonny liked gravy way better than “sauce.” Unless it was booze.

  Booze. He should check in with Woody too. He’d called his buddy before he’d stuffed MJ on a first-class flight to Jamaica, claiming fear of flying and an overdue vacation when the flight attendant had asked. Woody had about shit a brick when Sonny had told him what he was doing.

  But Woody’d said he would pick up the car and make sure it got stabled. And that he’d take care of finding a new location for their business, so it was all good.

  Scratching his ass, Sonny wandered back into the bedroom and looked down at MJ, who was all mussed, his mouth half-open. The guy was moaning some, making these weird-assed noises that sounded kinda like pain, kinda not. Was kinda a pretty sight, though. The man was tanned from here to there, covered in big black tattoos in strategic places. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  He grinned and sat on the edge of the bed so he could prop his sore ankle up. MJ’d done a pretty good job with it, according to the local witch doctor. It was healing. Then he reached out and picked a random spot, poking MJ’s hip.

  MJ rumbled, brushed his hand away, turned over, giving him a nice look at that butt.

  Pretty. Firm. Sonny grinned and poked that.

  Hard.

  “Goddammit. Lemme alone!” MJ’s voice wasn’t doing a damn bit better after the last shot. Sounded sorta… dry. Well, he knew he’d been dry as a bone when he’d woke up from that shot MJ had given him that first night in Wilmington. Maybe some water would help.

  “Can’t,” Sonny said, getting up by means of putting a hand square on that sweet ass and pushing up. “Want some water?”

  “Yeah….” MJ’s eyes fluttered open, forehead creasing. “Shit, I got a headache.”

  “I can get you some….” Shit. Was he supposed to give someone who’d been drugged repeatedly aspirin? “Lemme get the water.”

  He hobbled out, got a glass of water and ice, and stirred his… soup? Stew? Gravy? It smelled good, just like the old lady with the weird bananas had promised. He took the glass on back, peering into the room carefully before going in. MJ had managed to sit up, head in his hands, swaying a bit, breathing deep and slow.

  “Hey.” Man, he hoped he hadn’t permanently damaged the guy. He’d just been having a touch of fun. “Here, drink up.”

  “Thanks.” MJ was shaky, water splashing on his fingers some. “Man… I must’ve slept hard, sorry.”

  “Yep. Like a log. You were out, man.” He couldn’t resist copping a feel, well, okay, more just touching that sturdy back as it flexed. Such smooth, warm skin.

  “I guess. Weird fucking dreams.” MJ stretched up, wincing as he raised his arms. “Stiff too. I probably just need a hot shower. You decided where you’re going, dude?”

  “Uh. Yeah.” He grinned a little, since MJ wasn’t looking. “I was thinking Jamaica. Take that vacation you mentioned.”

  “Good for you.” MJ drained the glass, belly rumbling loud enough to hear. “Well, I’m willing to drop you off somewhere.”

  “Oh, hey, that’s almost as nice as I decided to be. I have soup… stew… somethin’ on the stove. Want some?” Gravy. Whatever.

  “Yeah, I guess the eggs are cold.” MJ sighed, stood… sorta. For a second. Maybe three seconds. Then he teetered and plopped right back on the bed. “Dude.”

  “You okay?” Sonny watched closely. Impaired motor functions were a bad sign, right? Maybe he should get the local doctor again. He’d only cost twenty dollars American.

  “Yeah. Just feeling a little dizzy. Maybe I’m coming down with….” MJ looked around the room, frowning.

  Sonny gave him a winning smile. “Coming down with what? You’re probably just suffering delayed jet lag.”

  “Considering that I don’t do planes, that’s unlikely.” The room got another look, that frown getting deeper.

  “Well.” He paused, pondered the distance to the door, factoring in MJ’s dizziness. “You did this time.”

  “What?”

  Oh man. Those eyes were real awake.

  Real, real awake.

  He backed up a step. That damned ankle had him off-balance, so he needed ev
ery advantage he could get. “Well, you know how I said I thought Jamaica was a good idea? How do you feel about banana stuff with gravy?”

  Damn, the man could look almost dangerous.

  Impressive.

  “What. Did. You. Do?” MJ stood, one hand on the bedpost, muscles tensing up.

  Sonny drew himself up, knowing he could do puffy and large better than this piece of shit. “I took you on vacation with me.”

  “What?” MJ took a step toward him, a dark flush crawling up that ripped belly.

  That almost distracted him. Because, damn. Sonny braced himself, good foot taking all of his weight. “You’re with me. In Jamaica. It’s a miracle.”

  “Bullshit.” MJ shook his head, eyes rolling a bit, looking more than a little wild.

  He’d seen that look on a fractious pony. Sonny nodded, holding up both hands, speaking calm and clear. “Look, this is the deal. I drugged the fuck out of you, bought you a plane ticket, dragged you on the plane. With a goodly bit of fine playacting and a doctor’s note about sedatives, I might add. And now you’re here. And I got bananas.”

  MJ’s head tilted, sort of like a pit bull puppy looking toward a new noise. “Bananas.”

  “Well, they’re not really bananas. They’re green.” Lord, the man just looked flummoxed. Sonny shrugged. “You want some more water? Some aspirin?”

  MJ looked down at the glass in his hand, then back up, fingers clenching. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  It was pretty fascinating, how fast that little motherfucker could move.

  How hard he could hit.

  They slammed into the floor so hard the whole bungalow shook, and Sonny’s breath went out with a whoosh as he tried to pry MJ off. Without hurting him. Go figure.

  “What the fuck did you do, you crazy bastard? Where the fuck are we?” MJ had hold of his shoulders, shaking him like a limp rag, his head glancing off the wood floor every now and again.

  Finally he gave up, heaving up with his one good leg and his hips, rolling MJ off to one side. Little fucker was just damned surprising with the muscles. “I told you. I brought you with me on vacation. What the fuck is your problem? You didn’t even have to buy a ticket.”

  He got a look, completely fucking disbelieving. “You are a fucking lunatic, aren’t you?”

  “No. Well, at least I don’t think so. Maybe I am, since I thought it was a good idea to bring you to the beach. Sun, sand. And that was before I had even seen your ass. Which is very nice, by the way.” He really liked it. Kind of a bubble butt, but with those hard-muscle dimples on the sides.

  MJ stared at him, that flush spreading higher and higher until he thought maybe the top of MJ’s head would just come off. Then MJ stood up, sorta vibrating a little, mouth opening and closing.

  Sonny rolled out of harm’s way before trying to struggle up himself, his hands scrabbling at the doorframe. “Are you gonna stroke out? Because we’re out of shots.”

  “No. I am going to kill you, whether or not you’re telling the truth or fucking with me.”

  He snorted. “You’re welcome to try, you ungrateful little prick.” He’d bought goddamned bananas.

  Man, he could hear MJ’s teeth grind. Like for real.

  At least he could before MJ stepped up and landed a solid fucking punch to the side of his jaw.

  He staggered, tried to right himself, and went ass over teakettle, yelping as he thudded to the floor. The doorway fouled him up too, and all he could do was pull his arms and legs in around his tender parts as MJ closed in, waiting for his chance to move.

  “You fucker! Do you think that I’m a fucking fool? Out of morphine?” A sharp kick got his ass; the growled questions getting louder, getting sorta hysterical. “How long have I been out? What the fuck did you do to me?”

  “I fucking told you!” Jesus, a man could only take so much. Sonny caught the next kick square on the shoulder as he wiggled around, launching himself at MJ’s legs. He caught those tanned knees and let all of his weight tumble forward against them.

  MJ went down like a lead balloon, hitting the floor with one hell of a thud, knees first, then elbows.

  Sonny crawled up MJ’s body, his damned ankle just throbbing like there was no tomorrow. “You’ve been out just over two days.” He hadn’t planned for the guy to be out that long. Hell, he hadn’t given him that big a dose the second time, but it took days for some people to recover from the good shit.

  “Two days.” Those lean muscles shuddered against him, just shaking. “Why?”

  “Because you’re wound too fucking tight, man. You needed a vacation.” Right. That was all it was. Sure. Sonny really didn’t get why he’d done it himself, except it seemed like a really fucking good idea at the time and funny as hell.

  “A vacation.” MJ’s eyes closed. “You put me on a plane. Unconscious.”

  “Wasn’t easy either. They had to use a special wheelchair. Could be worse. I could have gotten you a new tattoo. Something in color.”

  Damn. Somehow in his head this had gone easier.

  “Where’s my ’stang, my stuff?”

  “Your car is in storage with mine. So is most of your gear. I brought your laptop and shit, just in case you needed it.” See? He’d been good. He’d planned.

  He thought.

  “Very thoughtful.” The words were growled out. “I don’t suppose you managed to get my pistol here with me?”

  “No. But they’re….” Well, it probably wasn’t wise to tell a man who was out to kill you that you could get one for about fifty bucks about three blocks away. Sonny sighed, gingerly rolled off MJ’s legs. “You’re just grumpy as all fuck. I used that patch on you. You shouldn’t be feeling so rotten.”

  “Yeah, well. I haven’t been kidnapped by you in hours. I don’t know quite what the fuck to do with myself.”

  “Kidnapped is such a strong word.” Scooting, Sonny moved until he was leaning against the bed, dropping his head back and closing his eyes. Fuck, his ankle hurt. He shoulda bought rum too. He should go stir the gravy. Maybe he ought to get him a life too. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “You took a perfect stranger, who you’d held up at gunpoint, who helped you blow up your meth-lab cabin, and who was in a gunfight with three of your closest friends. You drugged me. Moved me out of the country. Stripped me. And this sounded logical to you?”

  “Sure. And it wasn’t a fucking meth lab.” Goddamn. And he’d been about to share his supper with this fucker? “And trust me—those so-called friends were actually looking for you.”

  “Just so long as we’re on the same page. I’d hate to be confused.” MJ stood up, headed for the door.

  Sonny’s eyes popped open. “Where are you off to?”

  “I need a shower. I stink.” MJ looked back at him once. “I wouldn’t come after me with another syringe, if I were you.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” They were out, anyway. Man, if they weren’t, he’d drug the man to the gills and send him back home. What the fuck had he been thinking? Or thinking with?

  That tight little ass swayed, heading out as MJ looked for the bathroom.

  Oh.

  Yeah.

  Right.

  OKAY.

  Okay.

  MJ looked out the little window by the bathtub, staring at the very-much-not-North Carolina people wandering down a very-much-not-North Carolina street.

  Goddamn.

  How did he…?

  On a plane….

  Jamaica.

  Jamaica.

  He shook his head, standing under the water and feeling vaguely like he’d been….

  Well.

  Drugged.

  Drugged and kidnapped by a weirdo redneck bastard and taken—taken on a plane—to Jamaica.

  He could remember eating eggs. He could remember taking a shower, sort of. Then nothing until this… afternoon? Evening? Until about an hour ago.

  Christ.

  Fuck.

  He couldn
’t stay in here forever, could he? MJ’s stomach made a noise like a starving tiger, and he sighed. God knew when he’d eaten last.

  Probably those fucking eggs.

  Bastard.

  “Hey, don’t drown yourself or nothin’.” That voice. He would hear that voice in his dreams for years after he killed that man, he’d bet on it.

  He found himself growling just as loud as his stomach. Fuckwad. “God fucking knows when I had a shower last.”

  “I would have given you a sponge bath, but I thought you might object later. I only took your clothes off because you were lathered like a horse, sweating up a storm. You want supper?”

  He opened his mouth to say no, but then his stomach clenched, trying to climb up out of his body to get some food. “Is it drugged?”

  “No. I told you we were out. Sheesh.” Loud, offended footsteps told him he was alone again.

  Out. God. He stepped out of the shower and gave himself a once-over. Scruffy. Wet. A touch panicky-idiot. Not a great look. He needed some pants and his cell phone.

  MJ wrapped a towel around his waist and went in search of his suitcase, opening doors as he went.

  He couldn’t find the damned thing anywhere. No suitcase, backpack, laptop case. Not even his wallet.

  Fuck.

  Fuckfuckfuck.

  And also fuck.

  He followed his nose to the kitchen. “Where’s my stuff?”

  “Your cup is there, and your plate is here. I’m fixin’ it. Jeez.” Sonny gave him the most patently false innocent look he’d ever seen.

  “My clothes? My phone?” He could probably beat the man to death with the spatula….

  “They’re safe.” He got a damned angelic grin, those dark eyes just dancing. “You want some of the greens on top?”

  “It depends. Are they good?” Christ, but his head hurt. “Safe where?”

  “They are. Kinda tangy but not bitter.” The full plate of… whatever it was got shoved right at him. It did smell good. “And safe. Nearby. I just didn’t want you to bolt.”

  “I….” He took the plate, blinking a bit. Okay. Okay, surely if he ate, his head would clear up and he could think, right?