by Layla Wolfe
“Well, how fucking far is the ranch?” asked Rover. “It’s all pretty flat out here. Maybe a little sandy in spots, but it’s all pretty damned flat.”
It pissed me off that Rover made another good point. “It’s really only—what, Ormond? About five miles past Parker city limits?”
“Five exactly.”
Rover asked, “Are there any rivers?”
“Dry as a bone,” stated Ormond. “Especially now in November.”
Everyone looked to Turk for a consensus. The Prez said, “All right. Let’s split into three groups. That makes more sense than everyone going as one group and losing our fucking way. This way, at least one group will get there first, and can guide the other two by phone.”
That was how Ormond, Rover and I came to be skirting the runway of a broken-down old airport. Ormond and I were thought the two most likely to find the cook house first, since we’d been there the most recently. Turk blazed off with Dipstick and Mayo, already fishtailing down a sandy gulley. Twinkletoes, Hobie, and Dr. Moog chose another direction, Twinkletoes also having been to the ranch with Turk six months ago.
It was awkward as hell being stuck with Ormond again after I had just given him the bum’s rush. Normally I would think it was the highest of the high, going off the beaten track like that, carving our way past the runway, blurring past the line of pickups and cages that were literally standing still. The clumps of white crosses that prickled the highway’s shoulder to show where someone had died looked like one long picket fence when we zoomed by.
But riding behind Ormond, keeping a keen eye on his proudly erect spine, the breadth of his muscular shoulders, I’d never been on such a fucking long ride in my life.
As they say. “It didn’t look that far on the map.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ANSON
“There’s no way to find them,” said Dipstick. “You said there was an RV here before, but it’s gone now. All the lab shit inside this shack is gone except for all these empties.”
“I agree,” said Hobie. “How are we supposed to find them now without a satellite drone?”
I was adamant. It was part of my job description to track down the untrackable. “I need to find a resolution to this whole mess. I can’t accept that Iceman has just vanished along with that other kid and God knows how many other kids in his crew. And you, you Bent Zealots, you need to stake a claim to your turf.”
We were staring blankly at the shuttered remains of the cook shack. Hoses, empty cans of acetone and Drano, and red-stained coffee filters and bed sheets just caked the entire area. Ormond told me it hadn’t been a pleasantly manicured ranch while Stumpy had been alive. But now it looked like a ghetto that had been firebombed, with burned areas where someone had placed smoldering garbage bags of chemicals.
Turk nodded. “We could arrange a sit-down with Iceman.”
Ormond said, “We tried that. He just laughed in our faces. He basically told us he was going to move his lab. According to what Anson said about Diné ghosts, he might not’ve known he’d be forced to move it after killing that kid.”
“He can’t have gone far,” said Rover. That guy was scaring me with his penchant for thinking the same way I did. I didn’t want him along, but was beginning to grudgingly agree he might be an asset. “The RV could be stuck in that traffic jam.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Send a few guys back to ride up and down the highway, scoping out the vehicles. Like, now.”
Turk dispatched Dr. Moog and Mayo as a traffic team. As they rumbled off, Ormond said,
“I could reach out to this Rez cop I know. He’d know if an RV was seen parked where it wasn’t before.”
This riled me even higher. “Yeah, but I don’t want you—” Then I realized several brothers were looking inquisitively at me. What did I not want Ormond doing? I thought I made a great save by continuing, “—don’t want you letting that cop know what we’re doing.”
Ormond nodded. I’m sure he knew that I really meant “don’t want you blowing that fat married cop again just to get information out of him.” I was batting a thousand now, letting Ormond know that my harsh words of earlier were bullshit.
Turk butted in. “Might be good to have a Rez cop on our side, though, Anson. Maybe you two go follow that Rez cop lead. I’ve got to get back to the dispensary. I’m still not too sure about that ganjier I hired. He doesn’t seem to know his sativas from his indicas. Can you imagine, he told a customer the other day that our Orange Sunshine had the taste or rubber and pepper with a dry bud?”
A few guys, familiar with pot, chuckled. Turk had become the pot critic for a local paper, and he was becoming entirely pretentious about it.
I pointed at the ground. “Well, I’m not leaving the Rez. I know he’s here somewhere. He’s safe on the Rez where no feds can reach him. You guys can go back to your stoner dens or your restaurants and make broccoli pizzas—”
“Cauliflower,” stated Dipstick. He was a chef. “Cauliflower is the new kale.”
“—or whatever. Ormond and I’ll stay out here until we get to the bottom of this.”
Rover wanted to stick around, too, but we convinced him to ride in a different direction searching for the RV. Soon I was alone with Ormond, kicking some cold medicine boxes while he made an appointment over the phone with Leroy Sinquah. When he hung up, we stared at the same Sudafed box.
“I guess Turk had to leave,” Ormond said uncertainly, “to take care of his shop. Still, I don’t think this is any way to get to the bottom of shit, or let those Hellfires know we mean business.”
“They killed a fucking kid!” I protested needlessly. “They killed a Diné kid for telling us where our own fucking weed was, then they hung him from a fucking bridge. I don’t take this sort of thing sitting down. If Rover wants to go hit some other Hellfires who might not even know about Iceman’s meth op, well that’s Rover’s business, but it’s going to cause blowback on the entire club, incite a giant war over the doings of one renegade.”
“Exactly,” agreed Ormond, “although I can see Rover’s point. He’s pissed off, understandably.”
“I think Rover’s always pissed off,” I muttered. “It might come in handy sometimes.”
Ormond tried to come around to face me. I didn’t want to face him, so we side-stepped each other. I finally relented and let him speak.
“Look. I know you don’t want to be with me. I know you just want to finish this job and go home. I want to tell you I appreciate you staying here with me, even though you’re stuck with me as your partner.”
I had to respond. This sort of honest, one-on-one communication wasn’t my style. I was a love ’em and leave ’em type. The closest I’d ever come to having an actual homosexual lover was Farokh, the student in Kandahar. I’d been stationed at the airport, waiting for a mission, bored, drinking too much, and, well, there really wasn’t any fucking excuse for getting carried away with the young, nubile Pashtun boy. I just wanted to ride him like a mare. Farokh was educated, intelligent, and probably using me for my ability to discuss the developing world. But I didn’t care. All the men I dallied with overseas were “using” me in one way or another. We used each other to achieve sexual satisfaction. It was the name of the game. In between our outrageous, almost violent fuck sessions, he’d pump me for information about technology, finances, business in general. No, he wasn’t a fucking spy. I can tell fucking spies a mile away. He just loved getting fucked up the ass by a long, thick cock. Occasionally I’d even jack him while reaming him dog style, an activity unheard of for a stubborn Dom like me. That’s how strongly I felt for him.
I thought it was only sex I craved, and I was safe. But when my mission finally came and I had to ship out of the airport, I went looking for him in a crazed fury. I found him at a club we liked to frequent, another guy’s hand on his ass. I guess I went apeshit in a way that overseas mercenary operatives aren’t supposed to do—in public, that is. That was the first time word ever got back to m
y boss that the rigors of war might have been getting a bit much for me. I broke the guy’s neck with my bare hands and ground his face into a pile of broken glass and in general didn’t foster a good American image to the Afghani people.
So yeah, never again. Since then it had been strictly a series of one night stands. I’d allowed Ormond Tangier to blow me twice, a record not heard of since Farokh. Allowing myself to be that vulnerable had made me lash out at Ormond earlier that day. I felt bad about the shit I’d said to him. “Look. I’m not ‘stuck’ with you. You’re one of the best partners I’ve ever had. You’re smart as a whip, fast on the uptake, and yeah, you’re banging hot, Ormond. I do wish you’d value yourself more highly. The idea of you sucking off that John Redcorn cop turns me all shades of pissed off.”
Ormond grinned impishly. I fucking hated when he did that. It made him even more attractive. It was easy to picture a whole group of uniformed cops giving a kneeling Ormond a bukkake facial—and easy to imagine him gulping every drop, loving it. “You’re jealous.”
“Am not.”
“Just admit it, Anson. You’re jealous.”
“Am not! How can I be jealous if you’re not even my lover? And I don’t even have lovers!”
“Look, I don’t even want to suck off anyone else, Anson. I can’t explain why. It just suddenly doesn’t sound appealing. I wasn’t about to offer Officer Sinquah a tongue job. I wanted to approach him as fellow officers of the law, interested in seeing justice done. Doing right by the Rez.”
That was smart thinking, actually. “True. It’s in both of our best interests to bury Iceman and find something else for those kids to do.” But curiosity tore at the edges of my brain. “Why do you think that is? You’re such a badge whore. What if a muscular fireman came out here in his shiny red truck? You wouldn’t be on your knees drooling?”
Ormond appeared to give this sincere thought. With arms folded across his broad chest, he gazed into the middle distance, past Stumpy’s house. He didn’t look at me. “I think it’s you. I wouldn’t want the fireman. It would only make me want you even more. I know you don’t wear a badge but you’re the dominant, domineering sort of man I adore. I can live without the badge, as long as I have you.”
I was stunned senseless. Now Ormond dared to look at me. “Your semen, Anson, has got me hungering for more. It’s like I need more of your spunk’s DNA. My cells crave you—I’m an addict for your testosterone. I feel powerful when you explode in my mouth. Your alpha energy has stirred me up like no other man ever has. From the very first drop of your semen on your prepuce, the taste of you has got me excited. Over the top, like no man has before.”
I didn’t know what to say. “But all those hundreds of other—”
“Those other men were just training for you, that’s how I feel. You’re like a mood-altering drug that turns me into a happy pig content to wallow in your mud. I just want more, more, Anson. You are one hundred percent male, male made just for my consumption. Don’t you see?”
I sort of did see. It suddenly made sense. When fucking Farokh, I used to feel we were both contributing to a never-ending cycle of chi. Farokh balanced out those parts of myself that were both male and female. We could be both, embracing both simultaneously, while humping Farokh made me infinitely more macho, if that makes any sense.
But I couldn’t express this. I wasn’t a terribly wordy guy. Ormond’s arms were folded to protect himself, but they just served as a sort of shelf to display his amazing Technicolor pecs, adorned with monsters he’d designed himself. Curling auburn chest hair peeked from the U neckline of the wifebeater shirt, and I wanted to leap on him. He couldn’t have known how desirable he was. He belittled himself, thinking his only talent was his deep-throating skill, his stretched throat. No one had to be a good-looking son of a bitch in order to give good head. No one particularly cared if they stuck their dick into a handsome guy’s mouth or a gargoyle’s, as long as one was happily drained.
Hands dangling at my sides, I stepped up to him. “I recognize you’re one hot stud. I recognize you’re here on earth to please men. We don’t desire each other to make life pleasant. We desire each other to make life as fucked-up and miserable and ungodly as possible. I want you only to please me. No one else. I’m the one you’re going to please from now on.” I pointed my finger. “Now get in that fucking house, undo your belt, and make yourself available to me.”
Ormond must have hesitated for a split second. I remember grabbing him by the back of the neck and shoving him toward Stumpy’s sorry excuse for a house. He stumbled, but went like a good submissive. He was practically running by the time we breezed through the unhinged kitchen door.
I realized that basically I was instructing him to be my sex slave. By telling him I didn’t want him blowing another man, I was basically telling him I owned him. He was mine. That implied an agreement that was about more than sex. I’d never seen any purely sexual arrangement require fidelity. And that’s what I was asking of him.
I barely gave him a second to unbuckle his belt. A giant wave of lust washed over me as I slammed him between the shoulder blades with my palm, forcing him to break his fall with his hands against the grimy kitchen counter. Grinding my erection into the cleft of his ass, my other hand snaked around the front of his crotch. Rarely had I ever grabbed a handful of another man’s package before. Suddenly all I wanted was to feel his pulsing dick in my grip.
About a hundred times before, I’d happened to notice that Ormond had a nice, juicy, plump penis too. I normally didn’t care. Maybe I was equating him with Farokh in my mind. But suddenly I wanted to drive his desire higher, too, by handling his meat. His admitted addiction to me was sending me to a strange place of service, of gratitude. I was grateful for his lust.
“I’ve never seen all your ink. Take off your shirt.”
Ormond jumped to obey, stripping his cut and wifebeater off with slow, panther-like movements, like a stripper at the pole. As the extent of his ink was revealed, I slipped one hand over his burning hot ass, enjoying the fullness of the curve under my palm. He writhed with pleasure, probably not having been really touched by anyone else in months. Each undulation moved the monsters splayed across his shoulders in gentle waves. I couldn’t resist bending to take a bite from a Frankenstein, maybe hoping that would distract him from the fact I was slyly moving my other palm over his pubic mound. I wanted a handful of dick.
Leaning forward on the debris-strewn counter, Ormond swiveled his hips and uttered the most agonizing open-mouthed moan. I squeezed his fat dick just as I took my pleasure in my handful of rounded ass. I never did this, never.
“Your cock was made to be seen,” I murmured against his spine. I watched him intently. My partner’s response and pleasure was always the main stimulus for me. Anyone who didn’t enjoy my fucking was of no use to me. It got me off, seeing my man in bliss.
“Ah, Anson,” he groaned. “Let me suck you. Let me show you respect by swallowing you down to the root.”
I jacked his dick faster, its tight heat allowing my hand to move up and down without lube. My other hand yanked his jeans down around his knees, and I took huge pleasure in rubbing my hard-on against his nude butt. “No. We’re going to service each other equally. You do for me and I’ll do for you. We’re together in mutual respect and desire.”
Experienced in such things, Ormond spat in his fingers and rubbed it against his own asshole. By the time I fumbled my own prick into the warm afternoon air, Ormond was wide open for me. Just inserting my bulging cockhead between his tender cheeks was enough to almost bring me off. I knew I had to go slow or I’d embarrass myself by showing how much I craved him, so in between thrusts, I slapped the rounded ass.
“Do me, Anson. Offering you my body is my job, my only task. The deeper you are in my hole, the hotter I get. Your alpha energy is getting me higher and higher.”
I tried concentrating more on arousing his dick. I shuddered as I covered his torso with mine, arching into him
inch by inch. He probably wasn’t used to being touched so much, so I knew he wasn’t faking it as each pump of my fist sent him closer to the edge. With his burning hot penis in my hand, I remember the power in another man’s ejaculate. I remembered how it added to my sense of control, having power over another man’s orgasm. I knew that each stinging slap on his buttocks sent a thrill through his balls. Each pump of my fist made his groin tense as his testicles filled with jizz. For the first time in years, I ached for the seed of another man.
“You were made to be fucked,” I growled. “I want you to show me how much you love being drilled by me. I want to see you splash your spunk across that dirty counter. Your joy is going to be my joy.”
The concept seemed alien to him. “You want to watch me jizz?”
“Exactly. Each stroke of my hand is bringing you off. I want to see how far you can shoot, how much pleasure I’m bringing you—ah!”
Before I could even finish the sentence, Ormond gasped loudly, stiffened, and shot across the tiles. He shot so explosively it hit the wall, I almost want to think with a splashing sound.
I wouldn’t really know, because in the next split second I was coming too, deep inside his heat.
It was so intense it choked me. I stiffened like an epileptic, my mouth wide open in a silent scream. It was as though I hadn’t come in months. The ecstatic flood was so copious, I just pumped my slave full of my seed. His penis still pulsed in my fist before the final ebb of my orgasm seized me.
Ormond gasped like a beached fish. He inhaled raggedly, each breath in sync with his asshole’s contraction around my still-hard dick. Giving his cock one last longing squeeze, I released him and detached from him. Automatically I slapped my own ass for a pack of cigarettes, but they were back in my saddlebags.
