by Rayne, Sara
"Not you! I just meant … you're not like them. So I guess I don't get it." Noah lit his smoke and took a weighty inhale, holding the toxins in and luxuriating in the feel of the heavy smoke passing his lips on the way out. "Is it 'bout your dad?"
"I …" Shep took a long swallow of his moonshine. "Maybe."
"Hey, man—don't be ashamed of daddy issues," Noah said softly. A warm hand landed on his arm and he looked up into perfect, blue eyes.
"Is there somethin' you wanna tell me?" Shep asked, voice gentle but steady.
He shrugged. He was pretty sure Shep already had the lay of the land, so to speak. He pulled his shirt over his head with one hand and tossed it deeper into the truck bed. He stretched, rolling his muscles and letting the full moon expose the secrets written on his body.
Circular scars dotted his arms and shoulders, where his father had put cigarettes out on his son's skin. Lines where bones had been broken badly enough to poke through shone white. Marks like hashtags noted where stitches had been placed and ripped out early. Faded yellowish green bruising patched across his back from the most recent beatings. "If anyone's gonna understand problems with your pops, it's me."
Shep sucked in a harsh breath. "Noah…"
He shrugged. "No need to make a big deal out of it. Besides, I figured Etta told you 'bout all this when she hooked us up."
"Hearing and seeing is two different things." Shep grabbed the blunt out of his hand and inhaled.
Noah faked a gasp. "My, my, Shep. What will your future congregation say?"
"That I don't hold myself above them." Shep grinned as he exhaled. "For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."
"Amen, brother." Noah grinned and took his blunt back. "Your dad's the judgey kind, I take it?"
"You've got no idea."
"Oh, I might."
"I think the worst part of him divorcing my mom—for him that is—was worrying about what his church would think about him. I don't think he really gave a shit about her anymore."
"Does he give a shit about you?"
"Yeah … I mean, he cares when I disappoint him." Shep took another swallow.
"And that's why you want to be a preacher? To prove you're not a disappointment?" Noah probed. "Or to do it better than he does—show him up?"
"Yes." He laughed then, shaking his head. "I think I might be a little drunk."
"You're about two sips away from trashed, preacher-man." Noah smirked. "But I kinda like you this way."
"Yeah?" Shep sat up and pushed closer, their knees touching. "That the only way you like me?"
Noah swallowed hard and licked his upper lip. "No."
Shep leaned closer still, resting his forehead against Noah's. He was breathing too fast, his pulse racing. The knot in his gut twisted tighter. They were fucking breathing into each other. His lips were so close … he just wanted one taste.
What could one little taste hurt?
But the answer stopped him cold.
Shep.
It could hurt Shep. Come tomorrow, he'd be ashamed of this moment. And he wouldn't want to see Noah anymore.
Not worth it.
Noah leaned back and took a long swig of his shine, forcing himself not to look and see if Shep was disappointed. Ignoring the heavy feeling in his heart. "So, how are we going to get home? Ain't neither of us in any condition to jump behind that wheel."
Shep was silent.
When Noah finally risked a glance at him, the smile painted across Shep's face was so fake it hurt. "I guess we walk."
"Good company on a long walk never hurts," Noah said gently, knowing his eyes were begging forgiveness he'd never be able to voice.
"Sure doesn't." Shep slid off the tailgate, keeping his back to him and staring out at the night.
"Shep …" Noah tried to swallow the lump in his throat.
He turned around and this time his smile was a little more believable. He held a hand out to help him down, and Noah took it, squeezing his fingers. "We good?"
"Of course." Shep tugged and Noah stumbled to his feet, falling hard into Shep's shoulder. Shep held him until he felt steady. "I got you, man."
"I know you do," Noah whispered, uncertain if Shep even heard him. He draped an arm around Shep's shoulders in the guise of needing the ambulatory assistance and they stumbled back toward the trailer park together.
Noah breathed deeply in relief. No permanent damage done.
They talked about everything and nothing on the way home. How Shep's mom had always wished she picked her husband's brother and the biker gang he was a part of over the self-absorbed prick that was Shep's dad. How Noah's mom was too drugged out to notice who she married most of the time—a trait their mothers shared, apparently. How Shep's dad never touched his son, how Noah's dad only touched him to hurt him.
"Quite a fucked up pair, aren't we?" Shep laughed, draining the last of his Mason jar. He tossed it on the side of the street. He threw his head back, grinning as the shattering sound echoed around them.
"Birds of a feather," Noah quipped.
"Why don't you hit him back?"
"Have you seen the guy? He's built like a Mack truck." Noah shrugged. "Besides, I deserve it most of the time. I bait him into it."
"Why?"
"I'd rather he beat on me than mom," Noah confessed. "She's too small. She can't take it. I can."
Shep nodded slowly. They'd reached the trailer park, wandering down the gravel path towards Noah's home. His father was the live-on manager, so they had a private trailer in the back, with a faux wood fence around it, painted white. "You know, I can show you how to throw a punch that'll knock him on his ass. Size ain't everythin'."
"That a fact?" Noah raised an eyebrow, noting the way Shep's throat worked.
He cleared his throat. "For real, though—you're quick. That does a lot."
"What do you know about fighting, preacher-man?"
"More than you think." Shep grinned. "Here, let me show you. Hold your hand out."
Noah hesitantly raised his hand, combatting the instinct to flinch.
Shep grabbed his hips and Noah's stomach flipped. "What are you doing?"
"Easy," Shep breathed. "Square your shoulders and hold your hips tight. Widen your stance."
Noah obeyed, willing to do anything if it kept Shep's hands on him. "Like this?"
"Little wider. Good, that's it." Shep mirrored the stance. He curled a fist. "You're going to want to hold your fingers like this, thumb out. Pull back, pivot with your hips and aim about a foot behind your target. Then follow through."
Noah nodded.
Shep threw the punch into Noah's outstretched hand, knocking him back. He must have followed through plenty, because Noah spun and Shep came with him. They toppled into a heap below the streetlight. Shep landed on his back, with Noah sprawled across his chest.
Noah laughed as Shep dragged air back into his lungs. "You okay, man?"
Shep shifted below him and his knee slipped between Shep's thighs. Shep gasped and froze. Noah set a hand in the dirt and lifted himself so he could stare down in Shep's face.
They were right outside Noah's trailer. His asshole father could come out at any moment if he wasn't already passed out. Or off selling meth to one of his druggie ho’s.
Noah told himself to get up. To offer Shep a hand to his feet and brush off this tension building between them.
If it wasn't all in his desperate head.
His body refused to cooperate.
Noah lowered his head, enjoying the feel of Shep's breath fanning across his face.
Shep cleared his throat. "I'm good now."
Noah's fingers actually dug into the dirt as he tried to resist what he so fervently wanted. Not worth it. Not worth it. Not worth it, he chanted at himself.
He studied Shep's face, watching the way the man's gaze kept flicking to his mouth. In the guise of maneuvering to stand, he brushed his leg against Shep's crotch. He was hard and Noah felt his own body reacting just
as strongly, blood surging to all the right places at exactly the wrong time. He couldn't bite back a groan.
"Noah …" Shep growled his name. His eyes closed and his jaw worked. He pulled his lower lip through his teeth and sucked in a breath.
He froze, stuck between what he wanted and what he knew he didn't deserve to have.
Shep cleared his throat. "You're heavier than you look, friend."
Friend.
Noah swallowed and nodded, hoping Shep hadn't seen how badly the word had hurt just now. He rolled off Shep and offered him a hand up.
"Hey, you gotta smoke?" He asked, his voice sounding a little hollow.
"Unless we crushed it, yeah." Shep reached in his back pocket and pulled out a pack. "It's my last one—but I'll share it with you."
"Thanks, man." He watched the play of light flickering across Shep's face as he lit the smoke and wished he didn't feel so stupid. Wished he could just enjoy having someone who gave a damn about him to spend his birthday with.
Noah shoved his hands into his pocket and realized he still had the rest of his moonshine, and miraculously it wasn't smashed. He pulled it out and held it up in triumph. "Yes!"
Shep laughed softly as he uncapped it.
"You want some?" Noah offered.
"Naw, all yours."
Noah downed it in one go and the re-inflation of his buzz did a lot to steady his nerves. He and Shep passed the smoke back and forth a few times as Noah tried to convince himself he wasn't disappointed with how the evening had turned out.
He looked up and Shep was staring at him, his eyes bright and full of something Noah didn’t dare name.
"What'cha thinking 'bout?" Noah half-slurred.
"The fact that you're about to take the last hit of my last smoke," Shep said as Noah inhaled down to the filter.
An idea flashed through his mind. He wanted a taste?
More than one way to skin a cat.
Quick as greased lightning, he wrapped his fingers around the back of Shep's neck and pressed an open mouth against his lips. When Shep gasped, Noah blew hot smoke down his throat, sliding their lips together as he did so, but resisting the urge to thrust his tongue deep in Shep's mouth.
Hunger rose up in Noah, clawing at his gut, lusty and demanding more, but Noah forced some restraint. This was just a trial, a first step. He couldn't chance anything more right now. But as Shep turned his head to exhale, he couldn't force himself to let go, instead curling his blunt nails through Shep's hair where it brushed his neck and staying all up in his face.
Shep turned back, his nose brushing against Noah's cheek.
Noah's restraint cracked. Maybe downing the rest of that moonshine had been a poor life decision. He could taste Shep's breath on his lips, the slant and angle perfect—if only they were just a touch closer.
Fuck it.
He grabbed Shep's hip and pressed closer. Shep pushed back into him and his eyes fluttered shut. He wanted … needed… just once ...
One real taste of Shep.
"What the fuck are you doing with my son?" The angry shout ricocheted through the night as the door of Noah's trailer banged open.
Chapter Six
Run everything by the VP. Everything.
~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook
* * *
Pretty Boy shook off the memory, trying to pretend he wasn't seven kinds of turned on just sitting here thinking about the time he and Shep almost kissed. He was lighting another blunt when a muddy jeep rolled down the gravel lane out front.
The curvy ginger that bounced out gave him a wide smile. She held a Styrofoam holder with two iced coffees. As he watched, she dragged the wrapper off a straw with her teeth, spit it in an empty hole in the carrier and stabbed it into the coffee closest to her.
He grinned through his exhale. "Etta May, as I live and breathe. You get better looking every day, darlin'."
"Flirt," she teased as she dropped into the chair opposite him. "Can I hit that?"
"Ain't you working for the government?" He laughed as he passed it to her.
"Exactly why I need it, kiddo." She took a long hit. "Whew-ee! What's this one?"
"New little something I'm working on. I call it 'Holyfire.' You like?"
"More than I should." She took a long pull on her coffee even as she stuck a straw in his and set it on the banged up aluminum tv tray between them. "Hellhound Ristretto, with cream—still your fave, right?"
"You know me too well." He snagged his blunt back from her. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this well-caffeinated visit? You got another case for me?"
"Something like that." A line appeared between her carefully plucked eyebrows, the worry in her clear blue eyes making her freckled face somehow more endearing. She looked young for thirty three.
"What's the what, babe?" He put out his smoke and leaned forward. Born of a fiercely optimistic personality, anything that caused worry lines in Etta's face made his gut twist.
"It's actually a couple things." She dug through her purse and pulled out a pack of Newport's. "You got a light?"
He tossed her his lighter, giving her a minute to get situated. Looked like she was settling in for the long-haul. It was never easy to hear her stories, always brought up bad memories he’d rather stay buried.
"So, the first one—is a proposal for your gang."
"Club. It's not a gang—we're just motorcycle enthusiasts that get together and drink beer, belch, shine our bikes a lot. You know—bein' terribly manly and whatnot."
"Uh-huh. Honey, I might have fallen off a turnip truck but it wasn't last night. I ain't stupid."
"Never thought you were." He winked at her.
"So, I was at this fancy-schmantzy conference for social workers last week, and a bunch of people were talking about these bikers that help protect the kids they get to testify. Big, scary looking dudes guard the kids house, sit with them in court—that sorta thing."
"Yeah, I think I saw something about that on Facebook the other day." He shrugged. "I don't see why we couldn't help, but it wouldn't be up to me. I'm still just a prospect."
"So, who would it be up to?"
"Um, Captain, the Prez. Or Shep, my VP."
"Shepherd? Like, former Pastor Shepherd who used to lead the youth group at the community center?" When he nodded, she whistled. "You know I hadn't put it together until just now. He's why you joined this gan—"
"Club."
"Whatever." She seemed to think it over. "Still can't believe he's a big, bad biker now. He's really strayed a long way from the path he was on."
"Not the way I see it." Pretty Boy could feel a muscle working in his jaw. "He still does his damnedest to take care of those in his charge, leads people towards making the right decisions. Helps them out when no one else will."
"Ok, ok—pull back on the hostile a little. Didn't mean to set off your defense mechanisms." She held up her hands, smoke curling around her heart shaped face. "I'm sure he's a really great gan—um, club leader."
"He is."
"Ok." She rolled her eyes. "Do you think you could talk to him about it?"
"Why don't you talk to him about it? I could get you a meeting."
Her face blanched. "Uh …"
"Etta, if you want to work with bikers, you're going to have to, you know, talk to them every now and then." He softened a little. "I can be there, too. If it'd help?"
"Yeah, I think that would be fine." She straightened a little. "I don't have to go that bar, do I?"
"You got a problem with Perdition?"
"No, no—I just need to focus for this, it's really important to me. And all those half-dressed girls with poor father figures sets off my momma-bear instincts."
Pretty Boy laughed. "The Hellions? Don't judge. They're great!"
"Yeah, just like sugar-coated breakfast cereals, I'm sure." She lit another smoke off her last one. "I'm not trying to be judgey—woman's prerogative, flaunt what you want and as long as you're choosing the males and being saf
e, it ain't none of my nevermind—I just …"
"It's fine, Etta. We can meet at Hades. Voo will cook you up something special." He grinned. "I'm just giving you a hard time."
"What is a 'Voo' and what does that entail?" She flushed. "'Something special' doesn't mean designer drugs, right?"
He laughed, slapping his knee. "Voodoo is one of the brothers and you're gonna love him. Everyone does."
"Oh yeah?"
He grinned. "When you meet him, you'll think about sleeping with him."
"Uh … I'm kinda seeing someone, so—"
"Won't matter. Voo is like walking sex in leather pants. Smells like some kind of earthy spice rack and the best food you ain't tasted yet. Everyone thinks about sleeping with him—even the straightest guys."
This had apparently done nothing to ease her fear. "Even so, no need to have him go to extra trouble. Whatever's on the menu will be just fine." She waved her red tipped nails at him.
"Voo will cook you up something special whether you want him to or not, trust me. He doesn't have a menu." He settled back in his lawn chair, tension radiating through him. "So, that's settled. Now tell me what's got your face looking like that. Do I need to break someone's knees?"
He was only half kidding.
"It's one of my kids," she admitted. "His father's a real mean-ass drunk. We haven't been able to prove enough to get him out of the house, but we'd finally convinced his momma to let him come to bible study at the community center."
He nodded. That was one of her favorite tricks to be able to talk to a kid one on one. Most parents who knew they were doing something wrong didn't appreciate social workers snooping around. But in Texas—wasn't nobody stopping their kid from getting a little more church in. Hard to argue with the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.
"I'd just about talked him into making a statement, and he up and disappeared on me. I drove past his house a couple of times and he's in there, but he won't come back to the center. I don't know how to get him out and the last time I saw him, he had a black eye and he was limping."
Pretty Boy cracked his knuckles. "You want me to get him out? Or make sure his dad's arms are too broke to beat his boy?" He grinned. "Or both?"
"It's a little trickier than that. His father…"
