Dreamspinner Press Year Eight Greatest Hits

by Brandon Witt

  I hesitated just a second too long, and his impatient fingers tunneled through my hair, not pushing, not tugging, but caging my head in front of his dripping cock.

  “Suck me,” he demanded, and my cock leaped in response.

  If anyone else had said that, I would have been irritated. Angry. But the contrast between patient, unfailingly polite Jordan who wasn’t sure if he was gay and authoritative, turned-on Jordan instructing me to suck him right-the-fuck now pretty much emptied my head of ninety percent of my thinking capability. The burst of flavor on my tongue when I finally took him in my mouth blew out the rest. Suddenly I was an empty-headed sex doll who wanted nothing more than to be face-fucked.

  I groaned as the hot flesh slid through the suction of my mouth.

  “God!” He clenched his fingers in my hair as I made my way up and down his cock—up, and then down again, losing myself in the rhythm. “Fuck!”

  I had a moment of satisfaction that I’d reduced the professional wordsmith to grunts and monosyllabic words before tightening my fingers on his hips. I concentrated on taking as much of his length into my mouth as I could while stroking the rest with a firm hand.

  He knocked my hand away and gripped my head on both sides. My eyes went wide, and my mouth parted in surprise. That apparently was the only opening he needed, as he surged between my lips again. My eyes fluttered shut, and I reminded myself to keep them open so I wouldn’t miss a minute. When he started pumping his hips to meet the rhythm of my bobbing head, I realized he was going to fulfill my wish. I let him face-fuck me roughly, his balls slapping against my chin with every thrust of his cock down my throat. My voice was going to sound fucked out, but I didn’t care as I tightened the tunnel of my throat.

  He made a strangled sound like he was trying to hold back, and then a shout followed when he failed. He exploded in my mouth, hot blasts of cum shooting down my throat in unbelievable volume.

  I only had a second’s notice before my sac went tight and my throbbing cock shot off, sending white cream shooting God knows where. I groaned as my body shook, a little shell-shocked. I didn’t think I’d ever come without even touching myself.

  I licked every drop from his cock, pulling back when the head became sensitive. I closed my eyes for a minute, enjoying the moment, that satisfaction that comes after bone-rattling sex.

  “Goddamn, Mackenzie. I don’t think I’m going to be able to move for a month.” When I opened my eyes, Jordan was surveying me with a lazy expression I knew mirrored my own. And that was wrong.

  “Even though it’s a case of when the wrong one loves you the right way?” My eyebrows climbed my forehead like Mount Kilimanjaro.

  He flushed. “Come on. You’re so good at making me out to be a villain.”

  “You don’t get hurt feelings, Jordan. I’m the one who just got face-fucked before you came down my throat.”

  The words made his eyes drop to my mouth, and suddenly the room was very quiet. Yeah, I could see a round two. And a three and a four, until we were both sweaty, sticky messes, exhausted husks of our former selves.

  My hands clenched on the arms of my chair. What had I proven? That he liked getting a blow job? That he loved sex? Who didn’t? I was no closer to making him mine, and I wasn’t clueless enough to pretend I didn’t want him. But I wanted all of him, not just to be his… goddamned booty call.

  My gaze shot up to his, and he sat up straighter at the fury in my expression. Yeah, I’ll admit, I changed gears pretty quickly. But the fact that he was so hot he’d distracted me from my leaving-him-high-and-dry plan just served to make me madder.

  I ignored his “Oh boy, here it comes” mutter as well as I stood. He busied himself, pushing off my desk and then tucking back into his pants.

  “Good enough, then? Better than Rachel?” I gave him a push, and he stumbled back a bit. “I’m not an experiment. You come find me when it’s more than a curiosity, Jordan.”

  He frowned. “What about you?” Of course he would be the kind of guy that cared whether I came or not. Which made me even angrier. I didn’t bother to tell him that he’d been so hot coming that I’d shot off in my pants like a fucking teenager.

  “You sure you’re ready for that, Jordan? Ready to take me in your mouth? Feel me, taste every bit of me? Have me hitting the back of your throat with my dick until you don’t know where I start and you end? Taste me coming in your mouth and swallow it all down like a good little cocksucker?” Despite his denials, his eyes were still dilated and his nostrils flared in arousal. I certainly knew what it was doing to me. “Because that’s really, really gay, Jordan. All of those things.”

  He stared at me for a minute, the expression in his eyes completely unreadable. And then he jammed his hands into my hair. “Damn it, Mackenzie, you drive me absolutely crazy.”

  He pushed me up against the wall, even as I pushed back ineffectually. He ground against my suddenly hard cock. Hard. Again. His hands weren’t gentle as his mouth slanted over mine. Hungry. Seeking. Tongues and teeth and everything else as we rubbed against each other like two cats in heat. I pushed at his shoulders, and he didn’t move at all. He was so much stronger than me, in fact, that I realized suddenly that he’d always been in control.

  I finally managed to push him off, ignoring the fact that I really wanted to pull him closer. Near me. On me. Inside me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He sighed, shoving a hand through his hair in mute frustration. After a moment, he said “Should be fairly obvious.”

  “You got what you wanted,” I said hollowly, unsure of why, exactly, I felt so angry. “Now go.” I couldn’t say why tears had sprung to my eyes, but I’d be damned if he’d see me shed them. “Go.”

  So he went.

  I sank down in my chair, fumbling in my drawer for the one thing I needed more than air. I found the crinkled pack and my lighter easy enough, and lit one with shaking hands. I really didn’t need a cigarette. I needed a fucking exorcist, because every cell of my body was crying out for someone I couldn’t have. I let it burn to ash between my two fingers without taking a single puff, staring at the gleaming end.

  Chapter 14

  “YOU SHOULD come up and see the bed-and-breakfast. It’s everything I ever dreamed of. And I know Peyton is practically dying to meet you.” There was a long pause. “I’m not going to stop calling until you answer. You really should know me better than that by now.”

  “End of message,” the automated voice taunted me, as I stared zombielike into the fridge, drinking my orange juice slowly.

  I pressed the play button again and listened to his voice on speakerphone as I tried to make a decision for breakfast. Nick sounded like himself. He sounded normal. It was hard to picture.

  “I’m not going to stop calling until you answer. You really should know me better than that by now.”

  I did. I let the fridge door slam shut as I dropped the handle, and rinsed out my juice glass. I pressed a button on my phone. “Message deleted.” Well, that was done. If only I could erase my mind that easily.

  My foot landed on one of Finn’s squeaky toys, and I winced. After checking my toes for permanent injury from the Daily Growl, aka we’re-so-clever dog toy newspaper, I stared down at the offender, lying silent on the linoleum. I missed that dog like a front tooth, and I still had no ideas for getting him back. I picked up the worn, abused toy, touching the tooth marks with my finger. After a moment, I tossed it in his dog toy bin with new resolve. We wouldn’t be separated too much longer if I had anything to say about it.

  I suddenly remembered that I’d promised to bring the food and drinks to our fishing trip, and groaned, scratching my bare belly above flannel bottoms. I had a lot to do for it being only 5:00 a.m.

  I pulled the cooler out from under the sink and washed it out slowly, rinsing away the months of nonuse under the soapy spray. I mean, really, what did Nick think we had to talk about? How I had walked away from the accident and he hadn’t? How he
had, ironically enough, walked away from me and our relationship? Just like everyone else. I didn’t care what Nick said, I wouldn’t be going up to Vermont to meet his partner, Peyton. Nor would I be staying at their quaint B and B.

  I began emptying ice trays from my freezer into the cooler, building up a nice mountain of ice, and left them on the counter for refilling later. Then I went back to one of my favorite activities, staring into the fridge, as I debated what to bring. I was really the worst kind of host, and I didn’t know what they’d been thinking, asking me to contribute in this manner. I had plenty of leftovers, but I didn’t think anyone wanted the rest of my Kung Pao chicken or my Chicken Masala in the middle of the Everglades. In the end, I packed away the remainder of some KFC in a Ziploc container, and lunch meat and cheese in another. I tossed in a few containers of precut fruit and began jamming longnecks into the ice mountain, wishing I’d sprung for a bigger cooler. I fit in as many as possible, tested the lid to make sure it’d close, and dusted my hands. There.

  And then, because I’m not a healthy individual, I undeleted the message and played it one more time. My ringtone broke through my playing of the message for the third time, and I answered reluctantly. “Hello?”

  “You ready?”

  “Hello to you too, Robert.”

  “We’ll be by in ten, so if you don’t want the old man in your place, you’d better be outside and ready.”

  I looked up toward the ceiling with a quick prayer of thanks. “Sometimes you’re a good brother.”

  “See you, twerp.”

  I growled as we disconnected. After a long glance at the cooler, I thought about my irritating brother and removed the fruit. Then I crammed another half a case of beer into the container. We would need it to make it through the day with one another.

  I sped through my living room and dove into my closet, digging through my abundant Florida wardrobe for anything weather appropriate to wear. As I sifted through at least three dozen tees with mostly foul sayings, beer slogans, and No Fear mantras plastered on them, I kept an eye out for anything long-sleeved. While the weather made you want short sleeves and short pants, I had no intention of being bitten a million times over—the Everglades Mosquito Posse rode deep and took no prisoners. I finally decided on a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved Nike shirt warning me in white letters about being a first-place loser.

  I jammed on my Hurricanes baseball cap on my way out and hurried to grab the cooler. Just as I lifted the handles, my dad started in on the horn, and I gritted my teeth.

  “A pause between honks would be nice,” I yelled.

  I thought better of my earlier decision and removed the lunch meat and cheese and stuffed them back in the fridge. Then I crammed the other half of the case of beer into the cooler. It was going to be a long day.

  My dad’s black Dodge Ram was a bit of a monster truck, with a quad cab and dual tires in the back. The headlights cut through the early morning gloom like spotlights, and I waved as I locked my door.

  I slung the cooler in the backseat, barely avoiding Robert’s lunge (to give me a noogie, no doubt), and closed the door on his irritating face. Robert’s son, Case, slept peacefully on the other side. Thank God. I don’t think the little shit said anything that didn’t begin with “epic fail” or (an oldie but a goodie) “your face” nowadays. I slid in the front after levering myself up and shut the door.

  “Dad.”

  “Mac. You like the new fog lights?”

  I was proud of myself. I didn’t say one snarky word about him not needing fog lights. “They’re nice.”

  “Grill guard is new too.”

  I grunted.

  “You going to be this talkative the whole way, boy?”

  “Dad. It’s early.”

  “Can’t fish at noon, son.”

  When I was a kid, my dad had had a small stick-shift Isuzu that jerked like the very devil. I remember sitting in the back of that truck, clinging to the silver toolbox on the bed, ears laid back in the wind. I guess sitting comfortable in the cab is one of the perks of being almost thirty. The conversation? Not so much.

  A stop at McDonald’s for coffee and Egg McMuffins all around had me two steps closer to feeling human again. By the time we pulled into a tackle shop, it was nearing six fifteen, and my dad didn’t even wait for us to all clamber out of the truck before disappearing inside the shop. Case finally woke and joined us, dragging at least ten feet behind.

  One foot inside the tackle shop, he sniffed the air and announced, “I’m going to the car. It stinks in here.”

  “It’s a bait shop,” I managed to get in before the teenager plugged his ears with whatever MP3 player he had in his pocket. Disturbed’s “Criminal” blared out briefly before he slammed the Ram’s cab door.

  I wandered around the shop, seeing what was new in bait and tackle since the last time I’d been fishing. In a word? Nothing. I could hear laughter on the other side of the shop, and I peered through a bucket of rods and reels to see my dad introducing Robert to another guy in tall fishing boots. A manly man from the looks of it. No one would wear all that flannel unless he was okay crushing beer cans on his forehead. I rolled my eyes as Robert preened under the attention, and slunk off to the Pepsi machine.

  I’d brought enough beer for a NASCAR race, but I’d forgotten about Case. As I fed the machine quarters and bought three cans of Pepsi, I wondered how someone as old school as my retired police officer father had ever accepted a gay son. I guess it helped that I still watched sports, built things with my hands, had no idea of how to decorate, cook, or keep house, and was basically, well, let’s face it, a bit of a slob.

  I’d actually told him over Sports Center blaring on one TV and C-SPAN on the other—how the man listened to two televisions at once, I’d never know. As my voice had warred for supremacy with Ted Koppel and Charles Barkley, I’d snatched the remote and muted both televisions in my version of a hissy fit. I’d repeated myself firmly and slowly. “I said, I’m gay.”

  “I have ears, boy.”

  “Then say something about what I just said.”

  “What do you want me to say? Nothing you don’t already know.”

  “Say it anyway,” I’d demanded, my eyes hot and dry.

  “Oh for God’s sakes. If I didn’t know you were gay before, I’d know it now.” He’d cut a glance my way, and something in my face had made him sigh. “All right, then. I ain’t happy about it. I think you’re making a mistake. I think you’re a little touched in the head. But you’re my son. And I love you.” He’d gone as red as the plaid on his ratty old armchair. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna change that.”

  “That’s… all you have to say?” I’d asked. Nothing about dishonoring the family? No f-word? No slinging my clothes out on the lawn?

  “No. Turn back on my damn C-SPAN. That’s all I have to say. Damned Republicans,” he’d muttered for no reason at all. He’d always loved to blame everything on the damned Republicans.

  I’d shrugged and done as he’d asked. If he wanted to blame my gayness on the damned Republicans, that was fine by me.

  “Minnows or fly fishin’?”

  I blinked to find my dad standing in front of me with a bucket and a questioning look. “Sir?”

  “Minnows or fly fishin’?”

  I don’t know how long I’d been there clutching Case’s sweating Pepsi cans, stuck in the past, so I shrugged. I may have always tried to be manly for my pops, but there was no way I was touching live bait. He knew that by now. He just had a strange sense of humor.

  “Up to you,” I said gamely. “I’m not touching anything living.”

  Robert snorted, and I made a face in his direction. Yep, my father still baited my hook, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

  As our dad made off to the minnow tank, I touched one of the ice-cold cans to Robert’s neck. He yelped and swatted at me.

  “You look stupider than usual,” I said, pointing at the strange glasses he was wearing. He looked li
ke the henchman in a steampunk film.

  “They’re high-power fishing goggles,” he said, taking them off and turning them over in his hand. “They’re supposed to tell the fisherman exactly where the fish are. Like X-ray vision for the water.”

  “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” I asked, squinting at the package. They were two hundred dollars’ worth of overpriced garbage.

  Robert, despite the hemming and hawing, would eventually purchase them. The man loved his toys. The motorcycles, the ATVs, and the bumblebee Camaro in his garage were only second to the gigantic flat screen that he crowed about every single game day. And while I thought most of his toys were pretty damn cool, I didn’t see the point of the fishing goggles. If I wanted to know where the fish were, I’d go to Publix.

  In the end, we all left the store clutching our bounty—Robert and his stupid goggles and me with my soda. Our dad followed behind with a bucket full of swirling yellow minnows, darting back and forth as if they knew what was waiting for them. I crammed my reflective aviators over my nose, watching the steam rise off the hood of the truck. The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, and heat was starting to make my back prickle in the long clothing as I clambered into the AC of the truck.

  We passed a Miccosukee reservation and two wildlife reserves before my dad found a spot he liked. He didn’t like the spots actually designated for fishing; he liked the small openings in the forestation that led down to the water. Less traveled and better fish, he always swore by them. Robby carried the cooler while I carried the minnows gingerly as we made our way behind our dad down the steep slope. My dad carried his machete, carving away misshapen bushes and grass like he was freaking Indiana Jones. The machete wasn’t for show, in case we met something that thought we would taste delicious on some bread. Case carried himself and a blue Nintendo DS.

  My bum leg started to burn as I strained to take the steep slope, but I wouldn’t say a word. I didn’t even have the pleasure of a grimace as my dad watched me with a gimlet eye, just waiting to take the bucket from me.