by Sarah Black
The man stepped back from both of them, and David thought he looked annoyed now. “I’ll be in town a couple of weeks filming. Give me a call if you’re free.” He glanced down at David, a dismissive look on his face.
Quanah Parker nodded. “Nice to see you, Colton.”
“Yeah. You too.”
David stared at Quanah Parker until he stopped unwrapping his gyro. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ve been staring at me with those brown eyes since you were five. And what are you doing, giving away your supper?” And he reached over, put his big hand against David’s cheek, and held it there a moment.
David turned his face into Quanah Parker’s hand, pressed a sweet kiss into the palm.
“So how were the poetry classes?”
“Grim,” David admitted, unwrapping the paper from his gyro.
“Have you ever taught poetry to young kids?”
David shook his head, surprised. “How young?”
Quanah Parker shrugged. “Seems like kids are just bursting with art. I go into the school sometimes in winter, teach printmaking. The kids are so open to new ideas. You know there’s a one-room schoolhouse still in Stanley. Only goes to eighth grade, though. After that they have to go to Challis and stay in the boarding school. Sometimes the teachers get squirrelly and split, and they hunt around for subs.”
“Old boyfriend?” David was not distracted by talk of one-room schoolhouses.
“Yep.” He reached out, pulled David into his chest. “Want to fool around?”
“You need your toes sucked?”
Quanah Parker pinched his butt, hard. “You need your ass kicked?” And David was flooded with love suddenly; he wrapped his arms so tightly around Quanah Parker that he squeezed a little grunt out of him. The shop door opened with the tinkle of a silver bell, but he didn’t let go until Quanah Parker said, “He’s a poet,” and David turned to see a group of three elderly ladies studying them with interested faces.
They changed in the back room of Quanah Parker’s shop, and David was surprised and pleased at how he looked in the new blue shirt with the brown leather jacket slung over it. Quanah Parker, who already looked like a movie-star Indian, let David brush out his hair. Then Quanah Parker brushed his teeth, passed out pieces of cinnamon gum, and they were ready to party.
Quanah Parker left his truck with the alpaca trailer attached to the back in an empty lot in Ketchum, and they walked back downtown a block and pushed through the doors of a little pub with very bright windows called Henry’s. The place was golden and warm inside and smelled like apple cider and cinnamon. There was a tiny dance floor in the back, but most of the space was taken up by a big horseshoe-shaped bar. Men were crowded against each other, and the mood was happy. Damien saw them from across the bar and shouted a greeting. He was wearing a rose pink sweater and jeans and had his arm flung around the waist of an older man with a blond flattop and a tattoo of a little red devil on his neck. Quanah Parker pulled David along and introduced him to all the men who came up to hug and exclaim over how long it had been.
“It’s apple jack,” Quanah Parker said, passing him a cup of spiced cider with a slug of apple brandy. David noticed glances, little sidelong looks out of shining eyes, and he wondered how much of it was for him, in his new haircut and shirt, and how much was envy that Quanah Parker kept him pinned close against his big body. He saw the old boyfriend, looking grim with his arms crossed over his chest, standing among a crowd of good-looking, heavy-drinking men. Colton stared back at David for a long moment, and David was shocked when he realized he had made an enemy.
When Neil Young came over the sound system, Quanah Parker pulled him out to the dance floor. His head fit perfectly in the hollow where Quanah Parker’s collarbone swooped into his shoulder like a wing. One hand held him around the waist, and the other moved slowly up his back until Quanah Parker’s fingers were tangled in his brown curls. The other men on the dance floor seemed to give them a little extra space, as if their happiness created a cloud around them. David turned his head, looked up into Quanah Parker’s face, and yawned.
Quanah Parker laughed, pulled him even closer. “I better get you home if I’m going to see any loving tonight.”
David’s face flushed with heat at the idea of loving Quanah Parker, and his cock rose in his jeans and pressed up against Quanah Parker’s hip. A hand slid down his back, clutched his ass. He almost moaned out loud, had to bite down on his lip and squeeze his eyes tightly shut. He wasn’t going to hump anyone’s leg in a gay bar, no matter how much Quanah Parker was trying to tempt him.
“Come on. Let’s go. I want you. I want you bent over underneath me, David.”
David stared up into his hungry dark face, shocked at how ferocious he looked, and Quanah Parker kissed him, crushed his mouth under his.
The cold air outside was a welcome shock in his face, and they held hands going down the dark street. Quanah Parker reached into his pocket for his keys, but when they got to the empty lot where they had left the truck, there were men there, five or six of them, trying to unhook the trailer.
“David,” he said, and just that fast they were surrounded. David stood back-to-back with him, men in a ring around them, and a big man wearing a camo ball cap and jacket stepped inside the circle.
“Well, ain’t that sweet. You boys were holding hands! You must have been dirty dancing down at Henry’s, left this big old truck on my lot.”
“It’s not your lot,” Quanah Parker said. “It’s the city’s lot, and I have a tag to park here with a stock trailer. Why don’t you get the fuck out of my face.”
The man grinned at him but didn’t speak. He walked around until he was face-to-face with David. “You got your big queer Indian sidekick, huh? You let Tonto do the talking for both of you?”
David felt Quanah Parker’s back stiffen at the insult. Rage and fury spread over David’s chest, fueled a bit by apple jack, that this cracker with bad teeth would have the nerve—the fucking gall!—to insult Quanah Parker. To hurt his feelings? How dare he? And David lashed out at him, a perfect kick in the balls, gave a wild, ferocious shout as the man went down, and Quanah Parker pressed the alarm button on the keys in his hand, set the truck howling, lights flashing, and most of the men scattered into the night. David aimed another kick at the man rolling on the ground, but his toe landed with a crunch on a hipbone.
Quanah Parker pulled him back. “Whoa, cowboy.”
When he looked up, Damien was there, a tiny silver derringer pressed against the temple of the last man standing. Damien looked gorgeous and dangerous, Sam Spade in rose pink cashmere. He nodded and stepped away, and the man scrambled out of his way and bolted across the parking lot. “Well, that was interesting.”
David stared at him, unable to say a word.
Damien winked at him. “Hey, this is Idaho. We’re all packing, baby.”
They walked back up the street for some reviving apple jack, but David’s foot was starting to throb, and after a bit he whispered into Quanah Parker’s ear that he thought they better head for home. David was very afraid he had broken his toe.
In the truck, Quanah Parker said thanks for defending him but warned that the fishing mocs were not designed for kicking. “You think you need an X-ray?”
“Yes. I think I do. But why don’t we just wait till morning?”
“We can go now.”
“I just hate to waste it if you’re in the mood for some loving,” David said, putting a shy hand on Quanah Parker’s thigh.
Quanah Parker raised his hand to his mouth. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
Chapter Ten
David managed to talk Quanah Parker out of an X-ray. They pulled up outside a little complex of condos, and Quanah Parker opened the door to a tiny studio with a Murphy bed. “I stay here a couple of nights a week,” he said. “Just when the store is particularly busy. During the summer it’s hard to pry me away from Stanley.”
“Most of your business is from the ski people
?”
“Yeah, but business is really good year-round. The city does a lot of professional conferences during the summer, and something about this place—the best of the Wild West and the Rockies put together—people drop a bundle on my moccasins and alpaca socks, and they treasure them forever. They really are that well made, but it’s the romance of the deal too.”
David pulled his fishing mocs off and peeled back the sock. His toe was slightly swollen and turning purple. “Quanah Parker, will you hand me my bedroom moccasins? I put them in your bag. I think elk will feel really good against my toe.”
Quanah Parker sat down on the end of the bed and pulled David’s feet into his lap. He studied them and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of the injured big toe. “I think it’s jammed but not broken,” he said with the air of an expert in inappropriate longings. He slid a glance at David from the corner of his eye. “You’ve got fuzz from Crazy Horse between your toes. I think I’ll get a warm washcloth and clean you up.” David felt something hot moving in the pit of his stomach. “Get undressed, David.”
He was shaking when he stood up and hopped on one foot to skin out of his jeans. There was something in Quanah Parker’s voice that he couldn’t remember hearing before, something rich and melty like dark chocolate.
Quanah Parker came out of the bathroom with a washcloth in his hand. He seemed to have lost his clothes somewhere, and David watched his cock bobbing gently, reaching for the sky. He climbed onto the bed and got nose to nose with David. “Thank you for today.”
“For what? I should be thanking you.”
He shook his head. “I liked spending time with you up here. It felt good introducing you to my friends. You kicked some dirtbag in the balls because you thought he had hurt my feelings.” He hesitated. “You don’t seem as tentative about you and me. Has something changed in your mind?”
David had a picture of three rocks in the river and Quanah Parker standing in the water, waiting for him, his back unprotected. Somehow he had made it to rock number two. He wiggled his toes in his mind. He felt steady. He was good. “I don’t know how to say it.”
“Because you aren’t very good with words?” Quanah Parker’s voice was a bit sardonic.
“I think that the time will come when I’ll be worthy of you. When I’m a man you can be proud to be with. I feel… I don’t know. I just hope you’ll be patient with me.”
Quanah Parker stared down at him. “When you’re worthy of me? David, what…” Then he stopped talking. He pulled David’s feet onto his lap again, ran the soft, warm washcloth between his toes, sucked on them one by one.
David felt like his body was floating a couple of inches above the bed. He reached for Quanah Parker’s cock, settled it against the bottom of his foot, snug against the arch, the way Quanah Parker liked it. But Quanah Parker rolled him over onto his stomach, climbed on top of him, and David felt that shaky feeling in his stomach again because Quanah Parker was biting his neck, his hands moving roughly over David’s back, down to his ass.
“I’ve never done this before.”
Quanah Parker stopped for a moment, his big body covering David’s. He didn’t say anything.
“You can do it, Quanah Parker. I trust you.”
Quanah Parker made a noise deep in his throat, something between a moan and a growl, and he lifted David up around the waist. “Get on your knees, then,” he said, and he reached into the drawer of the bedside table and grabbed a tube of lubricant. “David, you need to relax, okay? Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.” Quanah Parker’s voice was deeper than David had ever heard it, his breath rasping roughly in his throat.
He stood up at the end of the bed, pulled David toward him, and David could see that when he was on his hands and knees, Quanah Parker could stand behind him and…could stand behind him and touch him. Move inside him. David felt his cock thrumming with heat against his belly, and he leaned back, let his ass rest against Quanah Parker’s pelvis for just a moment. It was enough, and Quanah Parker reached for his waist, strong fingers digging into his skin, leaned over him until a sheet of wild black hair fell over David’s back and shoulders. David could smell it, the smell of that hair he had loved all his life. There was an ache, something empty deep inside him, and David could feel it growing and growing until he thought he would die if Quanah Parker didn’t fill it. He rocked back against him. “I want it to be you.”
He felt big hands trembling against his skin, pulling him apart and seating that long, arrowlike cock against his ass. The lube was cold.
“David, press back against me.”
He did, felt the tip of Quanah Parker’s cock slide inside, and he rocked back harder. Quanah Parker started moving his hips, pushing gently into David’s body. “More and more and more,” David said. “Get as deep as you can.” And then Quanah Parker hit something, some wild, sweet spot of nerves deep inside. David arched back, his semen spurting wildly over his belly, and pumped his hips, ramming himself back against Quanah Parker.
Quanah Parker grabbed him closer, saying, “Wait, wait, slow down. I can’t…” But it was too late. Quanah Parker’s hips moved roughly, and he lifted up, threw his head back, his black hair flying wildly around. The sound he made deep in his throat wrapped around David’s heart like a fist.
Toe Haiku #3
prodding, insistent
fat purple plum of a toe
I drop to my knees
* * *
The next morning, Quanah Parker had abandoned his cigar-store Indian getup and looked more like himself—jeans tucked into fleece-lined duck boots, a red and black plaid flannel shirt with a black fleece vest. “I need to spend a couple of hours in the store doing paperwork before we head out to the farm.”
“What farm?”
“This old man I know lives near here; he’s just one stop along the underground railroad for alpacas in need. What are you going to do?”
“I thought I would put on my new shirt and leather jacket and go hang around the bookstore, see if I can work up the nerve to talk to someone about carrying copies of Sand Creek.”
“Want me to go with you? I know the guy down at Sun Valley Books. He’s just a half block down the road from me.”
David gave him a quick hug around the waist. “Thanks, I’ll go alone. You do your paperwork. I’m actually…”
“What?”
“Looking forward to getting home.”
Quanah Parker pulled his hair behind his head and secured it with a thick elastic band. “Me too. It’s always fun when we bring a new baby home, see how the herd accepts him. Oh, that reminds me.” He reached into his gym bag and threw David a pair of socks. “To match the new shirt. And try not to get hurt today. You’ve already got a goose egg on your head and a jammed big toe. One more injury and I’m taking you to the ER.”
The socks were indigo blue and soft as melting butter. David looked at the little cardboard tag. One side had a picture of a goofy-faced alpaca, and the other side had the words: These socks brought to you by Jerry Garcia, an alpaca living in beautiful Stanley, Idaho. There were washing instructions, and David nearly choked when he read the tiny price tag—sixty dollars. Holy Toledo.
They ate a sausage biscuit in the truck on the way into Sun Valley. Quanah Parker kissed him on the sidewalk in front of the store, fingers running through his brown curls. David thought that the tender look on Quanah Parker’s face was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Sun Valley Books was a beautiful, old-fashioned bookstore, with bright, wide front windows full of books. About half fiction and half nonfiction, he noticed. No poetry. There were a couple of people browsing the shelves, and the man behind the desk put down the telephone and leaned over the counter, smiling at him. The haircut and the new clothes and Jerry Garcia’s socks were still working their magic, and with Quanah Parker’s tender look in the back of his mind, David stepped forward and held out his hand. “Hi, I’m David Miller. I’m a poet, and I wanted to talk to you about carrying
my book.”
The man looked like an old-fashioned bookkeeper, a brown rag-wool vest over a denim shirt and reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
“Hello, David Miller. I’m Brandon Avery. I’m very happy to meet you. Who published your book?”
“Limberlost. They did a letterpress edition with woodcuts.”
“Oh, I love Limberlost. Not many presses do that quality of work anymore. Let’s pull up their Web site and take a look.”
He tapped on his keyboard, then pulled the screen around so David could look at it. “Wow, you got some monster good reviews. Is this your first book?”
“Yeah, it is. I’m working on something new. I’m living in Stanley for a year. I’m working on a cycle—season and change, I think. That’s an old tried-and-true structure, the seasons, but it has a rhythm, a cadence…”
Brandon grinned at him. “You’re a poet, all right. I’ve got a good friend who’s a poet. Edmund Rich? He only wants to talk about the new thing he’s writing.”
“I know Edmund! I met him at a conference down in Boise last year.”
“Are you excited about the nomination?”
“What nomination?”
“David, have you checked your e-mail this morning?” David shook his head. “Looks like Sand Creek has been nominated for the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize. That is quite an honor for a first book. Hefty prize money too.”
“Are you kidding me? Holy shit!” David knew he was standing there like a fool, his mouth hanging open, but his head was suddenly full of buzzing, like a swarm of bees was circling his head. Brandon darted around the counter, laughing, and pulled him into a chair.
“We’ve got to arrange a reading! Maybe a poetry night, several poets together doing readings.”
“Wow, that would be amazing!” David reached out and gave him a hug. “Thank you. That’s so much more than I was hoping for! I was afraid I wouldn’t get up the nerve to even be able to talk to you!”
