by Gemma Files
“Depends. How drunk are you?”
“Not drunk enough.” But that didn’t sound right either. “Look, I, uh . . . I like girls.”
Chess shrugged. “Sure. Half the men I’ve messed with’d say the same. But you know better ’bout me: ladies ain’t my meat, and I ain’t theirs. I do like you, though, Ed — always have.”
“. . . oh?”
“Yup. You do what you say, and mean what you do. Don’t run your mouth. And you’re clean in your habits, too — I admire that in a man.”
So I hear, Morrow remembered.
But now Chess was all up in his face again, nuzzling hotly ’round the pulse-point of Morrow’s jaw and rubbing their bearded cheeks together like he was either grooming Morrow, or grooming himself on Morrow. Probably looked ridiculous, but the effect was soon enough to render simply breathing a difficult task indeed.
Morrow groaned, forcing out: “But, the Rev — ”
“He cared enough to help me out, he’d be here already; he ain’t. ’Sides which . . . this is his fault, too. So screw ’im.”
“Now, that don’t make a — ”
“Just shut the hell up, Ed.” Chess kissed him again, delving deeper. “Now . . . man up and skin off, ’cause I don’t got all night.”
Morrow bristled. “Oh, now I really want to,” he threw back, oddly insulted by the implication that them getting to it had become an utterly foregone conclusion.
’Course, if a hex made you, it wasn’t nothin’ to feel shame over, was it? And Chess’d probably kill him one way or the other, if he refused.
While he waffled, however, Chess was already slipping one of his hands right down the front of Morrow’s trousers, deftly plucking his buttons apart. And here came the thing itself, free at last: poker-stiff, drooling. It filled Chess’s palm, fingers playing just as smooth and nimble on it as Morrow’d always thought they might, ’til he hefted it, and laughed out loud at the strength of Morrow’s reaction.
“Ah, Christ shit Jesus — ”
“Yeah, that’s right. Quite uncommon instrument you’re packin’, Ed. Very — manly.” Chess hauled a bit harder, then stopped to admire the result. “Oh, and I do like this, too — a big man, all raw and needy and beggin’, and all because of me. Not to mention a nice, thick piece like you got right here, stuck in just as far as it’ll go, justabout any damn place that’s handy.”
Morrow gasped, glancing down — saw himself magnified a size more than expected, purple-weeping, and looked away again, before he ended up with scarred eyeballs. Shaking his head, and demanding, “But what the hell do you get out of it, exactly?”
“My way, Ed. It’s like killin’, almost — almost as good. ’Cept nobody has to die. Anyhow — you could do something for me, in return, you were willin’.”
“Like what?”
“Like you might could fuck me, fool. What’d you think I meant?”
“But — don’t that hurt?”
“Oh, you poor innocent. ’Course it does.” Chess was all but straddling Morrow now, yet swung in just a tad further, voice dropping, to explain: “That’s what makes it good.”
“Chess, I ain’t that way.”
“You ain’t complainin’, though, are ya?” As Morrow hesitated: “C’mon, for Christ’s sake! It’s the exact same act, no matter what the accoutrements — ”
“Bullshit! How would you even know?”
Chess paused, actually seeming to consider this. And answered, at last — “Well . . . you got me there, Ed. Many the times as I seen it done, I guess . . . I still probably wouldn’t.”
They contemplated each other for a tick, chests heaving. Chess’s eyes fell, unexpectedly, releasing Morrow — and even more unexpectedly, Morrow registered it as a loss, rather than a victory.
“Listen,” Chess said. “I ain’t no outrager. So hell, Ed — if you genuinely don’t want to, I sure ain’t gonna stick a knife to your throat. I mean, I could make you, and you might like it better than you think; blow-job’s the best method of persuasion I know, savin’ a gun. But . . . it wouldn’t be worth the damn effort, that way. Would it?”
Chess’s thumb stroked idly at Morrow’s cock-head, drawing a hot bead, swirling it ’round. And, at once — it didn’t seem so bad. After all.
That’s the magic talkin’, Ed.
Probably. But then again — who cared?
“Wouldn’t, I guess,” Morrow replied, fast enough not to think it over. And crushed Chess back to him.
They retired to the bed, shedding clothes and weapons as they did — a bit cramped for Morrow’s liking, ’specially when two were involved, but it wasn’t as though Chess wasn’t providing a hell of a distraction . . . biting at Morrow’s nipples on the down-slide, licking his navel, rolling his whole face (the beard scratching awfully, yet intriguingly) in the cradle of Morrow’s pelvis like he was savouring the taste. Even pushing his thighs apart peremptorily — so strong, for one who still got mistook for a boy on occasion, if only from a distance — so he could lap at Morrow’s too-full balls before opening wide and taking him to the root, grunting with effort, the thrum of it almost enough to fetch Morrow right there.
Seconds later, Morrow opened his eyes to find Chess arrayed on top of him, huffing in fresh pleasure while he fingered himself open, well-primed with what Morrow took — by its smell — to be some of his own brilliantine. Fair made Morrow blush, to see how Chess’s own cock perked up at the sensation: red and shiny, crying out for further exploration. How would it be to grab hold in turn, do to Chess as he’d been done by? Jack him slow, then faster — keep on ’til Chess was the one rendered inarticulate, ’til he made him squirm, and arch, and pop —
Here Chess shifted downwards into Morrow’s lap, however, breaking that train of thought all to hell — coming down in the saddle with a long groan, letting gravity do much of the work. Morrow let out a holler as he drove up into the very heat of him, lodged narrowly, stuck fast. Chess sat there froze a moment, all mussed up and panting, and said:
“Just, uuuuh, gimme one sec. Gotta find the angle, or it won’t work like it oughta — ”
“You want to, though, right? Say you want to, Chess — ”
“Morrow, God damn! Do I any way seem to you right now like I don’t?”
As though to prove the point, Chess forced himself down still further, ’til something inside him apparently gave way with a force that made Morrow shudder. And let loose with a whoop as he did it, triumphant and unashamed, the way an Injun trick-rider jumps a fence.
So tight and nasty, almost dry enough to scratch, for all the hair-oil Chess might’ve used — impossible to forget this was the literal back passage he was trying to breach, a secret place where nothing flesh was ever meant to fit, no matter its constitution. Yet more impossible still to fault the act further for that simple truth, given the sheer intensity of pleasure it obviously held, for both of them.
Because: Morrow could see Chess’s eyes rolling back already, both their hips going twenty to the bar. Felt himself collide intermittently with a smallish, hardish lump inside, and saw how it made Chess gasp, whenever he did — that famous “thing,” he could only conclude. As in God, oh God, HIT that!
I could rid the West of Chess Pargeter right now, Morrow thought, with one quick snap. Tear his ear-bob out right now, when he ain’t thinking — make him ugly — take away that lure of his, so he has to comport himself the same sad way all the rest of us do. Crush his hands, break the trigger-fingers at their roots, like chicken-bones. . . .
But this was just sophistry, empty rhetoric, as the mere fact of what Morrow was doing even while he thought it proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. What with him still hammering hard into Chess like it was his first fuck, or his last — or both.
He almost laughed at the craziness of it all, right out loud. But let a cry of his own bust out instead, similarly squeal-pitched, as ruin broke through him all at once — clutched Chess to him, nipping automatically into the younger man’s nearest sweaty
shoulder, and felt his body go off in a chain of tiny explosions, a firecracker-string stuffed with spunk.
The cross-shaped earring flashed and jounced, sparking painfully at the very corner of Morrow’s sights, as Chess juddered hard through his own climax, spitting hot trails up Morrow’s stomach — throe-drunk, riding the wave. Energy crackling everywhere, out of his very pores.
If I was Rook, I’d want some of that, Morrow thought. If I was Rook . . .
But he wasn’t.
No time to feel bad, though, just hold on and enjoy the ride, pumping every last drop of his own heart’s-blood out through the head of his cock.
“ — aaaaAAAAAh, fuck me!” Morrow heard himself yell to the empty air, so loud his voice gave out mid-way. Chess answered it in kind, then collapsed, pulling them both over in a graceless heap. They lay there a while, twinned and panting, as though neck-to-neck in yet another race to see who’d be able to catch their breath first.
“Guess you’re . . . mine, now,” Morrow managed, finally. His own voice so hoarse he barely recognized it.
Which was also a mistake, the single dumbest thing he could’ve said, goin’ by prior report alone.
Chess simply snorted again, however, before rolling safely back on top.
“Not too damn likely,” he replied. “I’m the Rev’s, if I’m anybody’s. But considerin’ how I’m the one just busted your cherry, as regards t’ queer frolics . . . way I see it, if anything — now you belong to me.”
And that wasn’t anything to worry about, now, was it? As a prospect.
Crap, Morrow thought, knowing damn well he was doing nothing but repeating himself, as ever. Of all the bone-head moves to go and damn well pull, Goddamnit. . . .
But here the words faded to white, ’cause Chess was kissing him again — grinding into him groin-first, his pretty little piece polishing itself industriously on the sweat-slick fur of Morrow’s belly. And Morrow felt himself spring immediately back to full attention; more hexation-overspill, probably, not that he was complaining. Felt his slick head butt up hard once more against Chess’s ass, like the dumb beast just couldn’t wait to cram itself back up into a space so tight, it was just as well that part of the body didn’t have no bones.
Cry ’bout it in the morning, if I have to, Morrow decided, knowing he wouldn’t. And pulled Chess back down once more, to where he could get at him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Stay with me, Chess’d ordered Morrow, after their fun was through. So Morrow had, though he mostly ended up just watching him sleep, all sprawled out, absinthe-dazed and snoring aniseed.
Even his damn scars are pretty, Morrow caught himself thinking, wondering just how God expected to get away with letting anything be so fair and yet so unrelenting foul at once.
But here Chess yawned wide and stretched, breaking Morrow’s reverie. He opened one lazy eye, winced at how the morning light pained him, and demanded — “Where in the hell’s that damn bottle?”
“They only had the one of them left, Chess, remember? And you drunk it already.”
Chess pulled a face, which seemed to hurt him in an entirely different way.
“I feel justabout the same, if that helps,” Morrow offered.
“Oh, do ya? That’s a comfort. . . .”
He levered himself standing, and stood there rude and proud as ever, though moving just a tad slower than he usually did, ’specially in and around the nether regions. Continuing, as he did: “. . . but if you really don’t got any liquor handy, then what I want’s a bath . . . so call me one, and get the hell out. ’Less you’re thinkin’ of comin’ in with me.”
And with this last part, he shot Morrow yet one more of those lash-veiled glances, causing him the now-requisite hot stab of equal parts shock and shame. I ain’t like that, Morrow would’ve been able to tell himself, up to only last night — but here it was at least an hour past dawn, and that once-fine certainty had gone the literal way of all flesh.
Now Chess was legging it over to the wash-stand, wincing slightly with each step. Casting back, over his shoulder — “Just so we understand each other, by the by, I ain’t sayin’ this didn’t happen — just that the Rev don’t need to know unless it’s from me, and me alone. You take my meanin’, Mister Morrow?”
“Oh, no damn fear, Mister Pargeter — you think I’m gonna tell him? I got at least as much to lose here as — ”
“No. No, you don’t.”
They paused a moment, Morrow studying Chess closely — not the full spread of him, so much, as the far more telling details.
“Hell, you feel bad, ’bout what we did — you ’n’ me, last night. Don’t ya?”
“Don’t be an idjit. I done a lot worse, with a lot of others. You think you’re special?” Chess shook his head, reaching for his trousers. “Second after Rook gets back, I won’t even recall that horse’s-ass face you make when you’re in your sin — that’s the damn truth.”
Morrow kept on staring, then shook his head in turn, grinning slightly. “If that don’t beat all,” he declared.
“If what don’t, Goddamnit?”
Feel bad for killin’ a man . . . feel bad for doin’ — that — with another one. Hell, it’s kinda like you ain’t the Chess Pargeter I heard tell of at all. Like you’re a whole ’nother man, entirely.
But: “How you really must love him, after all, strange as that might seem,” was what Morrow said out loud, instead. “That you even can.”
Chess ground his teeth at that, audibly, so loud it almost made Morrow take an actual step backwards — but let out his held breath a moment on, his anger set aside for the nonce: cooled, if never truly banked. “Yeah, I guess I do, at that,” he allowed.
Didn’t sound much of a happy insight, though.
“Okay, then. But love ain’t so bad, Chess. Is it?”
“My Ma always said love was a trick and a trap; took her oath on it, more times than I can count. Not that she ever kept her oath.”
“Well . . .” Morrow began, uncomfortably. “Might be . . . she wasn’t really the best authority on the subject.”
Wasn’t sure what to expect, by way of response — anything from a sob to a punch seemed just as likely. But Chess simply looked at him once more, eyes suddenly considerably less forlorn — sniffed like he’d heard better jests from gut-shot men slow-dyin’ but didn’t necessarily want to say so. And answered, “Oh yeah, that’s right, I forgot. You met her.”
Scrubbed and dressed once more, Morrow walked out, and ran straight into Hosteen, who gave him a look the likes of which he’d never previously seen. Because he knew, of course — hell, the whole of Splitfoot’s probably knew, come to that, since Chess wasn’t exactly quiet.
“Hey, Kees,” Morrow said, flushing hard.
Hosteen sighed. “So . . . you and Chess, huh? Boy, I thought you was smart.”
“Says the same man who give him his knife!”
“That was before the Rev. ’Sides which — Hell, I s’pose it don’t really matter much, in the end; just keep it to your damn self, is all. Considerin’.”
“Considerin’ what?”
“Scouts say they saw Rook comin’ — that cloud he walks around in sometimes, anyhow, tall enough to block out the sun. Should be here by nightfall, if he ain’t here sooner.”
From behind them both, a fresh squeak of the door announced Chess’s presence. The smell of hair-oil made Morrow blush afresh, but Chess didn’t even acknowledge it — just gave the both of them both a cool nod, and said: “’Bout time that son-of-a-bitch showed up.”
Hosteen nodded back. “They said he mighta had somebody else with him,” he said. “A woman.”
There was a general pause, during which Chess stared fixedly at Hosteen, while Morrow tried his level best to look pretty much anywhere else.
“She just better be a fuckin’ hex, is all I’m sayin’,” Chess announced, eventually, to no one. And stalked off past them, hips swinging, to take the staircase down.
Outside,
a storm came in hard and fast — more dust than rain, bright orange-red, lighting up the whole sky from horizon to horizon. What denizens of Splitfoot Joe’s hadn’t already made themselves scarce, got busy either securing shutters or mudding up the various lintel-chinks, and since the chimney had to be blocked off first of all — no point in leaving it open, when all it drew was sand — the fire went out, leaving them to sit idle in semi-darkness, listening to the wind.
“Screw this,” Hosteen said, and started fiddling with a lamp.
Morrow felt his way closer.
“Need some help with that?”
“Had you a lucifer handy, I wouldn’t turn it down.”
Morrow took hold of the lamp’s glass bell and kept it upright, while Hosteen struck a match. The lucifer went blue, then yellow, as he guided it in — but it wouldn’t catch, nohow.
“Might be the wick’s too short,” Morrow suggested. “Or too soaked to light — ”
“Might be you should keep your opinions to yourself, ’less I go ask you for ’em.”
All of a sudden, the wick flared, light swelled to fill the room, and Morrow turned with a sigh of relief — that choked to a glottal sound of shock and fright as Rook’s grin gleamed down on him, from above the sofa on the far wall. The Rev seemed to materialize around that grin, coalescing out of the gloom: slumped at his leisure, one long arm slug over the sofa’s back.
And next to him sat someone entirely different, though — as advertised — visibly female. She was a dim blur, hair hung in a cowl, her haughty face the colour of good blonde tobacco. Had the same stone-black eyes as Songbird, too, albeit cut larger and far more lustrous: flat and glassine, much like the famous Smoking Mirror itself with that gal adorning it — broke apart in sections, forever caught falling downwards, froze in the instant before impact. Her hung-dagger earrings. Her flat nose, sloping forehead, swooped-up frieze of braids.
Her, by God.
Oh yeah, Morrow thought. She’s a hex, all right.
The company cried out, almost as one. Rook’s hand tightened on hers to hear it, in proprietary fashion; he was still smiling, though she looked like she might well not know how. And outside, the wind — that endless scraping trumpet, ubiquitous, deranged — went suddenly silent as an open grave.
