Coast to Coast

by R. J. Scott

  He rolled to his feet, and I saw his fists were clenched at his sides. Was he expecting me to deny any of it? Actually, I recalled the day with clarity. I’d refused to see him, too wrapped up in my new life, a safe life where people accepted me for who I was. I didn’t want the messages or the pleas or the calls or even the damn handwritten notes, when they were just lies.

  “You stood next to Dad, and you didn’t stop me from leaving.” I attempted to talk evenly, but my voice had a crack to it that exposed more than I wanted to show.

  “Because I didn’t know what was happening. All I knew was that Dad hated you and you’d be better off away from him. From us. And you proved you could be on your own.”

  “Did you know I slept on the streets for a week? When I got into the city and didn’t have any money? Did you care?” I stayed very calm, didn’t spit the words at them. In fact, I didn’t reveal a single moment of the hurt inside me.

  Silence. No one said a word.

  “You didn’t care, did you, Mom,” I said, my heart breaking. It’s only what I already knew, but she’d never actually said it to my face before.

  “No, I didn’t care. Not about you or any of my children,” Mom said, tears running down her face, and coughed again, her hand pressed to her chest. “All I cared about was that the shouting would stop. Look.” She held out her hands and turned them palm upward, the movement lifting her sleeves. I wasn’t close enough to see what she was trying to show me, and then I realized what she must be trying to do. I leaned closer, seeing the scars there, parallel lines running from mid-lower arm to wrist.

  “Mom?”

  “See, I didn’t care about you or anything. I didn’t care about Jason, Cameron, or Leigh, so why would you be any different?” She sat straight and had the look of someone waiting for a punishment to be pronounced. A hundred awful thoughts crossed my mind, but I left my seat and crouched in front of her, ignoring my siblings and focusing only on her.

  “You wanted to get away that badly?” I asked her gently.

  “Your dad… he scared me. He never injured me physically, but he made me doubt myself to the point that I couldn’t live for anyone. He threatened all kinds of things after he made you leave, things that let me think it was better for you to leave. Did you know that he wanted to force you into conversion therapy? Mark, he was out of control.”

  “Shit,” Cam muttered.

  Mom continued, “I can’t make up for all those years when you were on your own, but maybe we could try and talk some more?”

  She was begging me. I could see that. I don’t remember much about her and Dad’s marriage, only that it was very proper and strict in the house. The times I was truly happy was when I was in the gardens with Cam, and I didn’t recall Mom as anything but a ghost in her own house.

  “We should meet at the house for Sunday dinner?” Jason asked. “All of us should be there, and we can maybe start…” He shrugged as if he’d run out of words. I know the feeling.

  I met Cam’s steely-eyed gaze. Dinner at the house of horrors? With all those memories? I wasn’t sure I could handle it.

  I gripped Mom’s hand, knowing there was a lot to talk through, healing that had to start by opening the wound and letting out the poison.

  “Okay,” I agreed reluctantly. “Dinner. Sunday. But don’t expect me to stay long. I hate that fucking house.”

  My family left as quietly as they’d arrived, and I sat for the longest time, staring at the walls. Was I wrong to lock them out of my life now? They’d come here and shown nothing but honesty, laid themselves bare to me. Could I move past what had happened all those years ago? The enormity of what they’d just told me, of what Mom had explained, was a heavy weight, and I closed my eyes and remembered the day that Dad had thrown me out.

  I remembered crying, from me and my mom, and the harsh words, but they had been from Dad, no one else. I recalled that I was in shock, terrified at what was happening, not knowing where I was going to go, with very little money or hope that any of my friends would take me in.

  Their parents were all friends with mine, and none of them would’ve gone against Dad, because he had so much influence, and at home, he had the last word in everything.

  I’d spent so long hating him but just as much time hating my brothers and Mom. I had to learn to trust, but I couldn’t get my thoughts in order sitting here with my eyes closed against the world.

  I need to get out of here.

  The clock showed three p.m. when I left, heading out but not knowing to where until the arena came into view, and that was where I’d been heading all this time. I passed through external security and into parking.

  “Hey, Mr. Westman-Reid,” Ryker shouted over at me, the man next to him, Alejandro, elbowing him.

  I went over to them. “Mark. Call me, Mark. Is Coach Carmichael still inside?”

  “Last I saw he was hiding in his office chugging a Dr Pepper,” Ryker said.

  “Seemed serious,” Alejandro added.

  “Thanks, guys.” I went into the arena, flashing my card and heading straight for the coaches’ rooms, not even knocking and walking straight into Rowen’s room, closing the door behind me. Rowen leaned back in his chair but didn’t say a word. I had to be the one to say something here, the itch of need under my skin, my chest tight, my emotions high.

  “I didn’t want to like you,” I said tiredly.

  He shook his head. “Who said I even want you to like me?”

  All the emotions of the last few days built, layer on layer, and I was lost for words and not even sure why I was in this damn office, to begin with.

  A knock on the door interrupted my spiraling thoughts, and I opened the door. Terri stood there with a folder in her hand. She looked from me to Rowen and narrowed her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Rowen said and held out his hand. “Is that the scouting report on the Railers?”

  She passed it over and then made sure to stare at me intimidatingly as she walked past me before shutting the door.

  I leaned on it to stop any more interruptions, and Rowen crossed his arms over his chest.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Everything.” I raked a hand through my curls. “Want to get out of here?”

  Twelve

  Rowen

  To quote an old saying, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I’d come to expect a lot of things from Mark Westman-Reid but not him asking me to go somewhere. Him telling me to go somewhere, sure, but an earnest invitation to blow this place at his side? Never in a hundred years. Yet here we were. The invite was on the table, and my curiosity was piqued, to say the least.

  “Sure.” He seemed oddly pleased about that, which only made this whole episode even more bizarre yet intriguing. “Let me make two calls, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

  He gave me the most peculiar look but inclined his head and sauntered off, his gait that of an utterly defeated man. Curiouser and curiouser…

  I rang my mother back, but she wasn’t home, off doing tai chi, I wagered. It was her new thing. I left a message, then rang Catalina Foothills Chrysler Plymouth to set up a date for a commercial shoot they’d dangled in front of me. Two commercials in trade for any car from their lot? Uhm, yes, please and thank you. My new agent, Danielle Turner, from Norwood & Turner Sports and Entertainment in LA, had been ecstatic. NHL coaches with agents was a new niche, but it made sense to have representation. We dealt with multimillion-dollar contracts, and there were endorsement deals to be had, this one with the Lake Brothers being a prime example. She’d helped me wrangle my contract with old man Westman-Reid for prime dollars and total say over coaching staff hirings and firings. With my agent’s approval, I was all in for being a Catalina Foothills spokesman. The gorgeous white Chrysler 300 S AWD with dark bronze aluminum wheels, titanium-finish exhaust tips, dark bronze badging, alloy floor mats, black grille with a bronze surround, sunroof, and sound system to make
the angels weep, was a sexy bit of cake icing.

  I found Mark resting against his Lamborghini with a look of utter rich boy boredom. He wore dark shades and cool desert tones. Gold jewelry to go with his chilly expression. The warm wind tugged on his soft curls.

  “We’re taking my new car,” I said as I walked past him and stopped at my car. His mouth dropped open an inch before he snapped it shut.

  “When did you get this?” He ran an appreciative hand over the snow-white fender. “The last I heard you were looking for a car.”

  “Looks like I found one.” I pushed the auto start button on the key fob, and she rolled over with a quick toot of the horn, the AC turned up to maximum blowing away inside. “The Lake brothers have been courting me to do a few TV spots for them.”

  I caught one sleek brown eyebrow lift over the top of his round sunglasses. “Is this part of the wooing?”

  “It is. Obviously I’m a cheap slut. Get in.” I opened the driver side door and “Heartache Tonight” blared out of the car. I grinned and winked at Mark, grimacing. “Rock and roll, dude!”

  “If you say so,” he huffed and slid into his seat, buckling up as the speakers thumped. “Are they the only band you listen to?” he shouted to be heard. I shook my head and tapped the seek button to find another of my favorite bands. “Long Train Running” by the Doobie Brothers assaulted our eardrums.

  “I love the bass line in this song. And that harmonica solo? One of the best in rock and roll history, eh?”

  “If you say so,” he said again.

  I laughed at his sour face as we roared out of the parking lot, the sunroof open to let the sweet desert wind circulate around us and play with those damn curls of his. He remained quiet as I took us out of the city. We drove for over an hour, passing several dubious-looking motels and diners until we were in the Sonoran Desert. I pulled off AZ-86 W and killed the engine, silencing the Doobie Brothers.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” I announced, flinging my door open, then grimacing at the heat slapping me in the face. Still, I’d brought us out here to talk, and walking was the best way to get people to talk. Mark eased himself out of the cool luxury of my car. I went to the trunk to fetch a blanket to lay down when he appeared in my peripheral vision.

  “You’re not serious about walking, are you? This isn’t the Mount Lemmon Scenic Byway. It’s the desert. There’s nothing but rattlesnakes, scorpions, cactus, melanoma, and road runners out here.”

  “Beep, beep,” I teased, slammed the trunk, and took off with the bright blanket under my arm. He followed, his sandals quickly filling with dirt. My sneakers were fine, but holy shit, was it hot. I was saturated in no time. Mark seemed a bit more at ease. “Okay, I’m going to confess that this might not have been such a good idea,” I admitted about a quarter of a mile out from the car. Again he gave me that arched eyebrow above the rim of his sunglasses.

  “I tried to tell you. If you’re going to play in the desert, you have to dress for it. This isn’t Ontario. It’s Arizona. October strolls in Canada are different than here. You need light-colored loose clothing, a hat, sunglasses, and some sunscreen. Oh, and an antivenom kit at hand.” He glanced around our feet. I held my ragged breath to listen for a warning rattle, but I heard none.

  “I thought it would be…” What, Rowen? What exactly did you think it would be? Romantic? God, no. Not romantic. This thing with Mark had nothing to do with romance. It was sex. Slaking needs. Dirty rutting and sneaky blow jobs. Feelings for Mark need not apply. “Conducive to talking about what’s eating you.”

  He sighed and glanced up at the blistering sun. How could it be in the low nineties in October? Uhm, because this is a desert, you asshole.

  “My family and I had this intervention thing,” he said on a soft whisper that a dry wind tried to carry away. “It was miserable and hopeful.”

  “Ah, well, that’s good, yeah?” I knew little about the Westman-Reid family dynamic other than what I’d witnessed. The other brothers struck me as big douches, but his sister was a delight. I’d not met the matriarch yet. Probably I would next week at the Desert Nights Cancer Charity event the team was sponsoring at some swanky hotel. All Raptor players and coaching staff were to attend in evening wear. The thought of rubbing elbows with aristocrats made me twitch.

  He bobbed his head, his brow dewy with sweat. Mine was coated. Sweat ran into my eyes, down my neck, and into the crack of my ass. Canadian boys in the desert sun grew miserable quickly. What had I been thinking?

  You were thinking of finding some oasis and spreading Mark out over that knock-off Navajo blanket and getting to know his body much, much better.

  Okay, yeah, that might have been a small nugget of a plan when we’d set out but—

  “… turned their backs on me. How am I supposed to just overlook years of loneliness?”

  I stared at the man staring at me. “I grew up next door to my cousin. Thick as thieves we were, played hockey together, got into trouble together. When he found out I was gay, he pulled away from me, and we never spoke again. One day he called, but I was too angry to pick up, my hurt was too engulfing to let me take the olive branch. I never called him back. During his senior year at college, he was in a car accident and died. It was… pretty horrible. I was devastated and eaten up with guilt. I should have swallowed my pride. I should have taken his call. There was no way to go back then. We don’t get rewinds. If your family is trying to bridge the past, then at least meet them halfway.”

  A long silence shrouded us. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you talk about something personal.”

  I shrugged, the back of my neck incredibly hot and tingly. “I’m not here to talk about my life. I’m here to coach your hockey team.”

  “Are you seeing anyone?”

  I blinked at the salt in my eyes and the directness of his question. “If I were dating someone, I would not have allowed things to happen between us. What kind of man do you think I am?”

  “I have no idea what kind of man you are aside from what I read online. You’re incredibly closed off and private. There’s no mention of you being gay anywhere on the internet.”

  “Who I take to my bed is no one’s business,” I was quick to reply.

  “Okay, that’s fair. So what is this then?” He waved a hand to me, then patted his chest. “What are we doing here?”

  “We’re having sex. Why does it have to be more than that? We really don’t even like each other all that much, but there is an overwhelming animal attraction that keeps us circling each other like horny goats.” He wet his lips, and I knew I had him. Or I was pretty sure I had him. He might have just been thirsty because holy fucking hell, the desert was hot. I took a few steps closer so that I could inhale the aroma of his sweat mingling with his pricey cologne. My dick began to fatten up as soon as I smelled that sweet, sexy scent. “We can do this one of four ways. We can have sex in the back of the car, we can have sex out on the ground, we can have sex on the hood of the car, or we can go back to that seedy motel we passed, the Gila Monster Motor Court, and have sex in a dingy room. I‘ll let you decide, but please note that every scenario ends with me pounding you like a mallard duck.”

  “I just… a duck?”

  “South Park reference. Not important.”

  A twisted little smile played on his lips. “Seedy hotels seem to be our thing…”

  Oh yes, I fucking had him. We ran back to the car, dived in, and hightailed it to the Gila Monster Motor Court. Check-in was easy and frightfully cheap. Two hours for forty bucks. As we walked to our room, I checked out the cars in the parking lot. There were a lot of them. I suspected that we’d stumbled into a hooker haven. Room ten was stuffy, poorly lit, and had a bed. A big bed. No dresser. The air conditioning was mediocre. The room smelled of old cigars, bad whiskey, and cheap perfume. It was perfect.

  Mark was horrified, I could tell, so I anchored his back to the door, leaned my body into his, and kissed that grimace of disgust off his sensual lip
s. He responded like a man possessed. Fingers grasping handfuls of hair, hips rolling, tongue wrapping and gliding over mine. The man made me nuts and not all in a bad way. I needed to taste him. All of him, so I began yanking on his clothing. He moaned and whined into my mouth as buttons flew and belts were tossed to the wall. His need was as wild as mine, and soon we were naked, weeping cocks pressed together, my hands on his tight little ass. We danced to the bed, and I fell over him, locking my lips to his as I nudged his thighs apart. He hit the mattress, and his legs fell wide open.

  “Oh, fuck, this bed…” he huffed as I tongued a brown nipple. “I can’t… this bed is probably covered with…”

  “Don’t think about it,” I panted, then took his nipple between my teeth. He gasped, groaned, and gyrated.

  “I can’t not think about it.”

  I reached down between us, balancing on one arm, and found his hole. His spine arched like a handcrafted bow as I pressed a dry finger against his ass.

  “Think about me taking this ass of yours.”

  “Yes, mm, fuck, yes,” he whimpered, clawing at the questionable bedding, all worries about the cover being clean or dirty was now gone, it seemed. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

  “Roll over.” I didn’t need to be told—or begged—twice. He flipped over with haste. Resting on his elbows, he offered me his ass wantonly, moving back and forth as if teasing a hungry dog with a bone. I spat on my finger, then pressed it into his ass, bending over to bite his left buttock. The man began speaking in tongues. More spit, more fingers, more nips and suckle marks on his ass cheeks got him so wound up he could barely put two words together.

  “Fuck me!”

  Guess I was wrong. He could put two words together. I removed my fingers and tongued his hole, lying belly down on the ugly floral bedspread. Hands spreading him wide, I speared his hole over and over, then moved down to his balls and sucked them with vigor. His cock dangled down in front of me, slick with precum, so I grabbed it and pulled it back to my lips.