Tough Love

by Heidi Cullinan

  Not Chenco. He hesitated, yearning but holding back, wanting but not daring to take. There was fear there, but it wasn’t of Steve. It wasn’t even trepidation over kneeling, no hesitation of being caught giving a blowjob beneath the stars. Chenco feared being seen, period. Of being tough without his drag. Exposing his vulnerability to anyone, no matter how safe they were. Letting Steve take his control away, being the one who played that game.

  He feared it, but he faced it. Oh, baby.

  For the first time in fifteen years, it was Steve who choked. It was Steve who didn’t have the guts to reach for his fly, who couldn’t bring himself to force Chenco’s face into his groin, though it was what they both wanted. Fucking hell, he wanted Chenco stripped down while he knelt, wanted to fuck his face so hard everyone came out to see what the ruckus was about. He wanted them all to see, wanted them to know this boy was his. He wanted—He wanted—

  Steve gripped Chenco’s hair, yanked it until his boy’s hot breath burned against his leg, half of Chenco’s face pressed into Steve’s thigh. He kept him pinned there by his hair, clamoring for control.

  He couldn’t do this.

  Chenco turned his face into Steve’s leg and bit him lightly through his jeans.

  Steve’s hand tightened on the curly dark hair, and he felt Chenco’s scalp fighting the pressure. This wasn’t playing, this wasn’t a scene—and if it was, Steve wasn’t the fucking Dom. Was Chenco, though, or were they flying blind together?

  With a whimper, Chenco bit harder. The more Steve tugged, the more Chenco cried out and the deeper his teeth went, until Steve could feel the burn of Chenco’s jaw pressing through the denim into his thigh. God, but it was glorious.

  With a choked roar, Steve crammed that wicked mouth to the hot length of his cock. What he should and shouldn’t do was forgotten as he ground Chenco’s face into his rod, fingers digging in as Chenco bit here too. Jesus fuck, but he wanted to pound into that mouth. He wanted to back Chenco against a wall and slam into his sweet face until Chenco came undone around him.

  He could do it. He could take him right now. Right here. He’d asked for it, begged for it. Fuck, it’d be so good, so sweet, and Steve could show him, really show him—

  “No.”

  Steve wasn’t aware he’d pushed Chenco away, not until he was standing over him, looking down at a red-faced, confused boy.

  “Did…did I do something wrong?”

  “No.” Steve fought for breath, for control. Give him an answer. Not the truth of why you stopped, but give him something. Anything. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m not going to face-fuck you on the patio.”

  Chenco sat back on his heels, placing his hands delicately on his thighs. “Because I’m too young?”

  “Because I said we’re not. You want to play, you play by my rules, and I said we’re done.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I told you I play with pain. I don’t know if I can ease you in.”

  “You mean you think you’ll hurt me not in a good way?”

  Steve ran a hand over his smooth scalp. “I mean I can’t make it nice. You rile me up like nobody has in a long time, and I don’t know that you’re ready for zero to sixty. Don’t tell me you are. You don’t know what it is yet I’m talking about doing with you.”

  “I would if you told me. I could show you how much I’ll surprise you.”

  Steve could not, could not answer, so he clammed up.

  Chenco eased a little, reluctant but accepting. “Are we done, sir?”

  God yes, get me out of here. “Yes. Get up and go inside.”

  It had been the worst scene ever, Steve thought as Chenco rose. He had to give him another round, soon, if only to clear up this mess, but nothing more. Chenco was not Gordy. Chenco was fire and danger, and he deserved so much better. This was a bad idea, and Steve had to stop.

  Chenco brushed Steve’s shoulder with his hand as he passed by. “I would have, you know. I would have let you face-fuck me on the patio.”

  A howl of pure need clawed Steve’s gut, driving an urge to pull Chenco back. Steve marshaled himself, but only just, and as he heard Chenco slide open the glass door to the dining room, he gave in.

  “You can stay.”

  Chenco paused with the door half-open.

  “You can stay.” This time Steve was able to make his voice a little less rough. “In my house. However long you want. However long you need to, you can stay with me. Your brother is looking for trucking jobs, so he’ll be around for a while yet. You should be here too. I have the room. I enjoy your company. Stay at my house, save your money, figure out what you want, what you need. Even if Mitch leaves.”

  For a long time Chenco didn’t say anything. Steve waited for Chenco to ask if they’d have sex if he stayed, and honest to God, Steve wasn’t sure what he’d say. Probably yes, probably he’d sell off any part of his soul if only Chenco would tell him he wasn’t leaving. If they could have more nights together on the patio in the quiet, so he’d see that bright smile and those beautiful eyes every time he sat down to dinner. He’d give anything right then to make him stay, and he was terrified he had no mask and this naked need was written all over his face.

  Chenco kept his expression carefully schooled. “I’ll think about it,” he said, and disappeared into the house.

  Chapter Eight

  THE MORNING AFTER Steve told him he could move in, Mitch and Chenco went to breakfast. It had been Steve’s idea.

  “Get to know him,” Steve suggested. “You haven’t spent much time just the two of you. Don’t take him to the trailer, though. It’s not a great idea for him to go back to ground zero.”

  Chenco agreed, and fifteen minutes later he and Mitch went out in Steve’s big black Ford F-150, Harley edition. Chenco whistled low as he slid into the passenger seat. “Damn. I should have gone into computer programming. My mother would still love me, and I could have bought this truck.”

  This made Mitch chuckle as he strapped himself in and fumbled with the keys. “Shit pile of money his family sits on helps a bit too. But yeah, computers are good.” He fired up the engine, let it rev a minute then put it in reverse.

  As his brother led the truck down the drive, Chenco thought of the big blue semi. “So you drive a rig, huh?”

  “I do indeed.” His drawl wasn’t as thick as most south Texans, like he’d been away awhile, but sometimes it crept in with a vengeance, which it did right then. “Independent operator.”

  “So you travel all over the country?” Chenco couldn’t keep the wistfulness out of his voice.

  “Used to. Stick around hubs now more often than not, especially in the western states. So Sam can get a job.” Mitch nodded and reached for his cigarettes. “I’ve seen the country. Right now I like seeing Sam.”

  Okay, that was about the most romantic thing Chenco had ever heard, and he didn’t believe in romance. He settled into his seat as his older brother smoked. “How’d you two meet?”

  This question made a slow grin spread across Mitch’s face. “It’s a long, wild story.”

  Mitch shared some of it as they made their way into town, about Sam dancing in an alley behind his aunt and uncle’s pharmacy, about a long-distance drive which ended with Sam bringing Mitch and Randy together. Occasionally it seemed Mitch edited things out, and Chenco got the idea those missing bits were on the steamy side. He made a mental note to ask Randy about them later. Something told Chenco Randy wouldn’t leave any meat to spoil.

  Mitch told several stories as they wove their way through McAllen, some about him and Sam, some with him and Sam and Randy, one particularly crazy one about how Randy met his husband, who apparently was some big casino owner in Vegas—but in the middle of his tale, Mitch broke off.

  “Forgot to ask if you cared where we ate. Normally I’d say we should hit Taco Palenque, but I figure you don’t want to go there since it’s where you work.” Mitch rubbed his chin and grinned. “I worked in a taqueria for six months when I first cut out of Donn
a. Lived in a piece of shit on Pecan Boulevard and worked next door.” He took a drag and shook his head, smiling around the butt. “Had some of the best fucking times of my life in those six months.”

  “How’d you end up driving a truck?”

  “Fucked a guy who taught me how.” Now his smile wasn’t just nostalgic, it was tender and sad. “Taught me my Spanish, my business, and how to not fuck myself up. He was a good friend of Steve’s, which is how I met him too.” He cut a glance at Chenco. “Steve’s taken a real shine to you, and I can’t help but notice it’s mutual. You choose to go anywhere with it, I’ll tell you this—you won’t ever find a stronger, more loyal, more devoted man.”

  Remembering the fierce, conflicted look on Steve’s face and the force he’d used to grind Chenco’s face against his cock, Chenco swallowed hard. Don’t think about that.

  Mitch ashed out the window. “Can’t fucking believe we both came out queer. I hope Dad got the fucking runs thinking about it.”

  “I’m fairly sure he did.”

  “Why’d you volunteer to live with him?”

  Chenco shrugged. “At first it was some sort of fuck you to the universe, but then it became practical. You know how much money I saved with no rent? I don’t work much at the restaurant, so I can practice and take jobs doing drag—I’d quit Palenque outright, but I like the extra cash to keep things flush. I kept trying to save up to move out when Cooper was alive, but he conned me into helping him out in the home, lying about leaving me the trailer, and I was dumb enough not to get proof. Booker’s always wanting to take the show on the road, take Caramela up to Austin and the gay circuit there—hell, he wants to go to Filthy Divas—but it takes cash. Lots of cash.”

  Mitch smoked for a minute. “What’s Filthy Divas?”

  “It’s an annual drag competition in L.A. Kind of like RuPaul’s drag race, but no reality show broadcast. It’s more about bringing your act and showing it off. The cash prize is only okay—covers your expenses and a good night out—but the real prize is being able to say you were there, you went down the runway, you stood on the stage. If you win, you pretty much won’t ever beg for a gig again. Book wanted us to win and tour the continental U.S. as RuPaul & Company Part Two. It isn’t going to happen.”

  “Never say never,” Mitch drawled.

  “Life says never to me every damn day. I like to flip it the bird, but I try to get myself into the best position possible first. I’ll get to Filthy Divas someday, if I want to go. Maybe I’ll do something else. It’s just gonna take some time. Also, Book’s either got to ditch his boyfriend or convince him he can actually leave town.”

  This made Mitch frown. “What?”

  “His guy, his Dom or whatever—Tristan is a bit of a shit as far as I’m concerned. Booker loves him, but he’s mean sometimes. I’ve wondered more than once if all Book’s bruises were from consensual play.”

  Mitch went quiet, and it gave Chenco the opportunity to realize they had wandered away from McAllen and were heading east. “You missed the turn for Palenque.”

  “Didn’t think you wanted to go there.” Mitch’s voice was suddenly a bit sharper, more focused. “This Tristan have a last name?”

  Uh-oh. “Shit, I stepped in something, didn’t I?”

  “I’m more a tourist in the lifestyle, but you tossed up a big red flag someone should check out. There’s shit here, maybe, but it ain’t yours.”

  “But—”

  “You try telling what you told me to Steve and see what happens.”

  Chenco’s sense of what Steve would say was very clear. “Fuck.”

  “He’s not going to be pissed at you. But you can bet Booker’s boyfriend will be getting a visit. Don’t give me that look,” Mitch said, his voice getting sharp when Chenco paled. “Unless you think it’s a good thing for your friend to have someone fucking him over?”

  “Shit. No.” The more he sat with the thought, the crappier he felt. “Fuck. Fuck. I should have said something sooner.”

  “Unless you knew someone in the scene, no you shouldn’t have. This is a self-policing community.”

  “What, they’re going to rub Tristan out?”

  Mitch gave him a come-on look. “They’re BDSM, not mafia. If he’s in the official scene and he’s gone bad, he won’t get laid again anytime soon, not local. If he’s not, he’ll get a swift education about what those letters really mean and the responsibility that goes with them.” He took another drag and swore under his breath. “Everybody reads a fucking book or hops a few websites and thinks they’re cool to play around.”

  Chenco, who had indeed read a book and visited a few websites, felt foolish. He wanted to crack the door a little more open, ask how he’d find out without books or websites, maybe before he got too comfy about the idea of letting Steve play with him, but then Mitch turned the truck off at the exit leading to the flats. “Oh shit. Steve said I wasn’t supposed to take you back to the trailer.”

  Mitch grunted. “Yeah, well, he ain’t my Dom, and neither are you. I want my fucking closure.”

  Chenco wanted to tell him that where Cooper was concerned, he wasn’t ever going to get it, but he figured it would be a waste of breath.

  As they turned into the trailer park, Mitch had much the same reaction as Steve about the condition of the neighborhood. He drove slowly, taking in the decrepit trailers, the aluminum foil on the windows to keep out the heat—it was too early for that yet, but some people didn’t want to bother putting it up and taking it down, and there wasn’t anything to look at outside anyway. Chenco liked the light, so he pulled it down in the winter and waited to put it up until the first May day that tried to bake him raw. Rusted trucks stood on blocks, yards were weed traps. No kids ran the streets, no old men sat on lawn chairs. It wasn’t that kind of neighborhood, not anymore. The flats were where lives came to die.

  They pulled up to the trailer but didn’t get out of the truck, not right away.

  “Looks smaller.” Mitch’s voice was a little gruff. “Rustier.”

  “I thought about painting it, but I figured I might as well take out an ad saying good shit to steal inside. Except it’d say it in Spanish.”

  “Buena mierda adentro para robar.”

  That wasn’t just Spanish—it was Spanish with all the right moves and notes and a bit of valley for the cherry on top. Chenco gaped at Mitch, and his brother stared back at him, brow lifted in silent question, looking like a kinder, gentler version of Cooper. Speaking fucking valley Spanish.

  “Fuck you.” Chenco shoved him. “I’m half goddamn Mexican, and you speak better Spanish than me.”

  Mitch grinned. “Yeah, well, fuck wisely and you might learn to hablar Español too, gringo.” When Chenco swore at him again, he laughed and cracked open his door. “Come on. Show me what you’ve done with the place.”

  IT MADE CHENCO feel good, knowing Mitch liked what his little brother had done with his childhood home.

  Chenco gave him the fifty-cent tour, stem to stern, and Mitch paused a lot to smile and remember. Occasionally he didn’t smile, pointing out a dent in the wall from one of Cooper’s drunken swings or when he’d locked himself in the closet because his father’s poker buddy had wanted to show him something in the bathroom. Mostly he liked how Chenco had reclaimed the space. “You healed it,” he said more than once.

  Partly due to this warm reception, Chenco allowed the tour to extend to his dressing room.

  It was Cooper’s old bedroom—Chenco still lived in Mitch’s, and he’d been able to show him some of the childhood posters he’d found in the back of the closet. Chenco got a sick thrill out of putting on pantyhose in the room once belonging to his fuckhead of a father. With Mitch, he was revealing a part of himself he didn’t hide but didn’t share easily.

  “How’d you get into drag, anyway?” Mitch asked as they settled down in the kitchen, Chenco making them breakfast.

  “Sideways, pretty much. I kind of always had it in me, but I didn’t know what I
was doing with it. I wanted to be a girl, but I didn’t want to be a girl. I’d watch Beyoncé videos and Nelly and JLo—God, Jenny, I worshipped her so hard—and dance like them and beg my mom for a sparkly leotard. Then one day I snuck into a gay club, saw a drag show, and it was over.” He flipped eggs over with his spatula and smiled. “Heide and Lincoln helped me get my shit together, come out to my queen and she to me. Guided me through the ropes. Only trouble is, Caramela is all glam. God, but I wish she’d be happy with fifty-dollar wigs from the costume shop, but no. She wants to make JLo herself look like a bad copy.”

  “Well, you’re good. She’s good. Fucking amazing. I’ve seen drag all over the country. You could take any of them. Are you gonna perform again pretty soon?”

  “I’m supposed to next week.” Chenco tried not to melt under his brother’s praise, but it was impossible. “Are you saying nice things about my act because we share a gene pool?”

  “Shit, no. If you were crap, I’d tell you to knock it off and try to teach you trucking. You’re good. You need to get your ass to the Filthy Divas thing.”

  “Well, unless you come with a trust fund you feel like sharing, honey, that’s not happening anytime soon.”

  Mitch huffed a laugh. “I don’t, but—well, let’s say I bet Randy’s already made some calls.” He stood and stretched. “I’m gonna nip out and have a smoke, if I’ve got time.”

  “Sure. This’ll be a few minutes yet.” He smiled a little shyly. “Thanks for this, Mitch. For coming here, for saying nice things. It means a lot.”

  Mitch gave a gruff nod as he headed out the door. “Keep ’er warm for me.”

  Chenco smiled to himself as he put Mitch’s omelet onto a plate and served himself up a bowl of muesli and almond milk. It was cool having an older brother who thought he’d done okay with himself. It had been a long time since he’d allowed family to matter to him, and while it still felt a little dangerous, it was also beginning to feel more than a little bit okay to let down his guard.