by E M Lindsey
After the fire, people had to be out of their minds wasted not to feel sick just looking at him. And hell, maybe Kyle was high, but his eyes looked clear. He looked like he wanted it. Why deny himself?
They were on the dance floor before he realized it, his hand on Kyle’s hip, feeling him dip and sway. His own body felt stiff and out of rhythm, his hip refusing to cooperate, but Kyle didn’t seem to mind it. He moved to the music, grinding himself on Miguel’s thigh, dragging his hands over the top of Miguel’s Henley. When Kyle reached his neck, the place where his scars were thickest, he started to flinch back, but the younger man met his gaze.
“You’re hot.” Miguel had to practically read his lips over the music, but there was no mistaking what he said, or the lust in his eyes. Kyle ground his hips forward, his crotch brushing over Miguel’s bulge. “I like you. And you don’t dance like an old man.”
“That’s a lie, but I’ll take it. I want you so fucking much.” Miguel knew Kyle wouldn’t be able to hear him with how loud the bass was, but he was pretty sure he didn’t misunderstand. Especially with the way Kyle dug his fingers into the back of Miguel’s hair and tugged.
Their lips met with a frenzied sort of passion Miguel hadn’t felt in years, not since his first anonymous hook up which ended his virginity. His skin sang where Kyle touched him, he felt heady and wanted. He groaned into the younger man’s mouth, holding him tighter. His right arm lifted automatically and wrapped around Kyle’s waist before he was aware of it. He waited for the flinch, for the disgust, but it didn’t come. Kyle just pressed himself closer, kissed him harder.
When Kyle pulled away, he shivered and took Miguel by the face. “Is your tongue…”
Miguel stuck it out. He hadn’t gone as extreme as some guys, but he had enough muscle control to spread each half away from the other. Kyle’s eyes widened. “Had it done a few years back.”
“Fuck. That felt…” Kyle licked his lips. “Kiss me again.”
Miguel didn’t need to be asked twice. He shoved his tongue into Kyle’s mouth and stroked it over the other man’s, feeling the way his body responded.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Kyle murmured against Miguel’s lips.
Miguel shrugged. “I’m camping out. So, unless you want to fuck outside…”
“I’d fuck you literally anywhere. I’m on a friend’s couch, otherwise I’d say there.” Kyle nipped his left earlobe, taking the smooth, soft skin between his teeth and letting it go with a slow drag. “I want you.”
Miguel let out a shuddering breath, pulling back, though both arms held Kyle tightly. He stared into his soft eyes, watched his full mouth pout a little, felt something open in him he had kept so fucking tightly shut he didn’t think anyone could crack it. Maybe he was being an idiot, but he wanted this.
More than the sex, more than even dating. If this was real, it was a way out. If someone like Kyle could want him…
They made their way to the door, and Kyle took his hand, not letting go until they reached the bike. At that, Kyle looked a little nervous, so Miguel shoved him against the seat and kissed him until he relaxed. “I won’t let you fall off, mi príncipe.”
Kyle’s cheeks pinked. “You speak another language?”
Miguel shrugged, then kissed him again. He didn’t want to talk about the bits of Spanish he’d kept for himself after his mom died. He didn’t want to do anything except get Kyle back to his campsite and fuck him until neither of them could speak any other language but each other’s names. He released the younger man, then carefully kicked up the stand and balanced the bike between his legs. “Behind me, hold on, and I’ll take it slow.”
Kyle’s lips curled into a smirk. “Is that a euphemism?”
“It’s a promise,” Miguel said. When Kyle didn’t move, Miguel held out his hand. “Trust me.”
Kyle still looked unsure, but he did what Miguel asked and wrapped his arms tightly around his waist. The bike roared to life under them, and he felt Kyle squeeze him, and the press of a half-chub against his back. Whatever he was afraid off floated off on the breeze as he took to the streets.
It was sometime near dawn when Miguel woke, deliciously sore and sated. It took him a minute to realize that Kyle was moving around, wriggling into his jeans, and he gave Miguel a guilty look when he saw he was caught.
“Sorry, I have an early shift,” he said, flopping back to the ground to tie his shoes. “My buddy’s on his way right now to get me.”
Miguel dragged his hand down his face, letting the edge of the sleeping bag fall away from his chest. He was rarely so carefree with his skin—half of it was inked over, but it was still obvious that he didn’t have the same sort of body as most people. But with the way Kyle had paid worship to him the night before, that insecurity melted away.
The night had been more than Miguel thought possible. Kyle was hesitant at first, his fingers a little shaky as he peeled Miguel’s clothes away. He explored his skin with a careful touch, lighting him up in the over-sensitive places, feeling pressure where he was mostly numb.
“I want you to fuck me,” Miguel murmured in a fit of bravery he didn’t expect to have right then. He loved it like that, to be taken and possessed from the inside out, but he’d never really had much of a chance to let himself go.
Kyle had seemed startled by the request and his hands stilled. “Why? Are you uh…is your dick like…?” He gave a vague gesture toward the right side of Miguel’s face.
Miguel knew what he was asking, but instead of giving him an answer, he simply unzipped his jeans and pulled them to his knees, his erection on full display.
Kyle had taken Miguel’s cock against his palm and stroked with a firm grip. “This survived, I see,” he’d muttered, and Miguel flushed, but was grateful at that moment he’d survived the fire. “It’s fucking huge, just like the rest of you. I want to feel it inside me. Will you?”
It wasn’t what Miguel wanted, but then again, he rarely got what he wanted. Men took one look at his body and if they did want to fuck, they wanted Miguel to pin them down and give it hard and a little mean. Kyle, it seemed, was no exception. In that moment, though, his wants paled in comparison to what Kyle was asking for, the trust and desire he was offering Miguel which was so much more than any of his bathroom stall hook-ups in the past.
Again, he didn’t answer with words, but with firm hands pulling Kyle in close. His searching fingers were slicked up with lube, opening Kyle up, and getting him ready. He took just short of forever, until Kyle was panting and begging for it, and then he knew he was ready. The compromise he was making was worth it.
They fucked fast, and then slow. Then, just before passing out, Miguel had sucked him off. Now, he felt settled in a way he didn’t think he ever could be, and he propped up on his elbow, reaching his hand for Kyle’s. “Thanks for last night.” He didn’t know how the fuck to do this. He didn’t know how to tell this man what he wanted.
Kyle offered him a smile. It was a little tight, a little tense, but Miguel chalked it up to the fact that he had to work all morning after spending the night on the ground. “You’re heading back to San Antonio, aren’t you?”
Miguel shrugged. “Obligations and all that shit,” he said. He’d never hated his life so much before, and shit, it would be so damn easy to just take off. To tell his father he was done, and never speak to the old bastard again. If someone like Kyle was waiting for him, he’d give up everything he knew. Maybe he was being a fool about it, but he was just so tired.
“Well, next time you’re in town, right?” Kyle said.
Before Miguel could tell him to wait, to get his number, to get any sort of promise that would keep Kyle in his life, a set of headlights interrupted them. Miguel tried to pull him in for another kiss, but Kyle carefully disengaged, gave Miguel a smile, then opened the tent flap and was gone.
Miguel was left there unsure, his heart aching, desperate to get the hell away from his father. From their fucked-up club. From everything tha
t kept him from being himself. Falling back against the ground, Miguel put his hand over his face and let out a ragged sigh. Had anything been real? Had Kyle just been another curious fuck?
He supposed he could hang around another day, troll the club Kyle ended up in, and ask for himself. It was time to stop being afraid. Time to start reaching for the things the universe was handing him.
Chapter Three
It was easy to hang around Austin all day. Spring there was always pleasant, and there was plenty of shit to do. It was a chill enough place people didn’t stare too much, and no one gave him shit for his ink or his face. He spent the afternoon walking around, then dropped cash he really couldn’t afford on a shitty room so he could take a shower.
He felt better after cleaning up, a crappy meal from the nearby Denny’s, and a little bit of hope, like maybe this was the right decision. He’d never done anything like this before. Quick, nameless hookups had been enough. They had to be, because who wanted the mess he was? Not just his body, but living under his dad’s thumb, knowing he was never any use to anyone ever. He had no education, had failed out of his last year of high school, and his one talent had been ripped away by six angry bikers who couldn’t bother to peek in a few bedroom windows before torching the place.
He wanted something else. Something new. Something better. He was tired of feeling like he deserved to be shit on.
Miguel made his way back to the club, surprised to see it busy so early, but he didn’t mind. It would give him time to get a few drinks in him and scan the crowd. He didn’t think Kyle would show his face this shortly after the sun set, so he could work out what the hell he was going to say to the guy when he finally approached him.
It was bad enough he looked like a fucking clinger, the way he’d hung around. He didn’t want to come across as broken or needy, but he was both of those things—at least on some level. He was a twenty-seven-year-old man with no real skill except to be large and intimidating. He was a fucking closet case. He was lost.
Walking up to the bar, he ordered a jack and coke, then chose the corner stool near the kitchen entrance. It was loud and didn’t smell great, but it gave him a full view of the club, so he’d be able to spot Kyle if the dude came in. It also afforded him the opportunity to lurk in the shadows, because it was easier that way. He kept his Henley sleeve pulled down over his stump, but there was no hiding his face. He just wanted to find the courage without people staring, and it was a little wrenching because he realized that even if Kyle liked him, he was asking the kid to publicly acknowledge him and what they’d done. In front of everyone.
That…was a lot.
He sighed into his drink before tipping half down, enjoying both the burn of the whiskey and of the fizzy drink. He let his eyes close, and part of him hoped Kyle didn’t show, that he fucked off and gave Miguel no other choice but to slink home, lesson learned.
“Nice ink, man.” The voice cut through Miguel’s inner monologue, and he opened his eyes to see a guy taking the stool a foot away. He was shorter, on the thin side. An old green dude if his sagging muscles, thick grey hair, and ancient ink was anything to go by. His arms were sleeved, his tattoos a faded sort of greenish black, covering him from the first knuckle all the way to his shoulders in designs so mashed up and blown out, he could barely make them out.
For a second, Miguel wondered if the guy was mocking him. His ink was a little messy because their club artist was some scratcher asshole with home-soldered needles, who had no skill when it came to covering up scar tissue. But he’d done it anyway, because once he was healed, he was sick of looking at the evidence of his past right there on display for everyone.
He’d only gone as far as his neck, though. Part of him was tempted—at least on bad days—to say fuck it and do his face. He’d rather be stared at for something he chose than the thing that had been forced on him. But then he remembered how little it had mattered when he’d covered up the rest, how even if it did make a difference, he had no skills to be anything other than the loser he was.
“It’s kind of old, isn’t it?” the guy asked, gesturing at his neck. “Your ink? When did you get it done?”
Miguel realized he wasn’t going to get out of this conversation, and he didn’t have a bad vibe from the dude, so he shrugged and leaned his arm on the counter, the sleeve hanging low. “Years ago. It’s not great or anything. I just wanted to get something over the scars.”
The guy hummed, shifting a little closer, his fingers drumming on the top of the bar. “I could help you out, if you wanted to get some of it fixed.”
Miguel’s brows rose. “Yeah? You in the business?”
The guy laughed and stuck out his hand. His right hand. “I own a shop in Florida called Little Black Book. I’m in town for a convention though, and I’d love to hook you up.”
Miguel wasn’t sure if this was some sort of pity shit—which he hated—but he had ways of dealing with guys like him. He tugged his sleeve back and shoved his stump at the guy. Without missing a beat, the stranger took it and shook it like it was any other night.
“I’m Martin,” he said.
Miguel swallowed thickly before giving his own name, drawing his arm away quickly and tugging the sleeve down. “You work on scars a lot or what?”
“I’ve been in this business too fucking long not to know what the hell I’m doing on any type of skin, kid,” Martin said with a shrug. Right then, the bartender plopped a beer in front of him, and he took a long drink before wiping his mouth. “When I was your age, guys like me weren’t allowed to be artists, you know? Called us fags—and it was worse when we took up the machine. It was a sailor’s trend, and that seemed to make us more queer. But…” He trailed off with a shrug. “Here I am, forty years later, and they’re all fuckin’ dead.”
Miguel couldn’t help his laugh. “Best outcome you can have, right?”
Martin tipped his glass at Miguel, then took another long drink. “What do you do, my friend?”
Feeling himself start to blush, he looked away and cleared his throat. “Not a lot. Shit for my old man. I uh…” He felt a strange bubbling sensation in his chest, like he wanted to be honest with this man. “I used to be an artist. But some fuckers burned my house down with me in it and they had to cut off most of my hand.”
“Were you any good?” Martin asked.
There was a burst of pain in his chest when he nodded. “Yeah. I was.”
“You try it with the other hand?”
With a bitter snort, he shook his head. “No. I uh…I felt like if I did and it was terrible, I wouldn’t be able to take the disappointment. And there was so much shit going on. I had to relocate, couldn’t afford half my surgeries so…” He trailed off with a shrug.
“You ever think about getting in the business?” Martin asked.
Miguel’s eyes went wide. “What? Tattooing?” When Martin shrugged, Miguel couldn’t help his scoff. “Who the fuck is going to want some dude with one, non-dominant hand fucking up their ink?”
Martin gave him a long, calculating look, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “Come see me tomorrow. Let me touch up some of that shit.”
“I don’t got the cash for that, man,” Miguel protested.
Martin held up his hand. “Let me take pictures for my website, call it an even trade. And we can talk about what you can do.”
“There ain’t shit to talk about,” Miguel started to argue.
Blowing out a puff of air, Martin leaned back in the stool and stared at him another minute. “I’ve seen men worse off than you come back from really fucked up trauma. And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe your talent was in your right hand and losing that cut you off. But maybe it didn’t. It might suck to find out it’s gone, but it’s not going to kill you. You already survived the fire. How much worse could it be if you gave it a try?”
Miguel closed his eyes against the twisting pain in his chest, mostly because Martin was right. Miguel had been avoiding so fucking muc
h out of fear he wouldn’t be able to take it, but that was bullshit. He had never been a coward, so why now? Why act like that now? “Can I think about it?”
Martin looked almost relieved. “I’ll be there until four. There’s a ten-dollar cover charge.”
“Yeah, alright,” Miguel said. He bit his lip, then remembered why he was there, and his eyes darted up in time to see a couple of guys, who were dressed a lot like Kyle had been, staring at him. His heart thudded in his chest when the brunette stood up and walked over.
Martin seemed to notice, because he took an almost protective stance, something Miguel didn’t quite know how to process or appreciate. He was not the kind of guy who needed protection, but he couldn’t deny the small, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach to acknowledge that someone—even a total stranger—cared enough.
“Hey man, I don’t want to be a dick,” the brunette started.
“So don’t be,” Martin cut in.
The guy’s eyes flickered to Miguel’s drinking companion, then he took a deep breath. “Just…that fucker Kyle lost me a lot of money this weekend, but that shithead is the worst liar.”
Miguel’s mouth went dry, and he cleared his throat. “What are you talking about?”
“You and him,” the guy said. “Hooking up.”
Miguel’s eyebrows shot up, and for just a single moment he felt elated. “He told you we hooked up?”
“Yeah, man. I mean, that was the bet,” the guy said, waving his hand. “We’re not assholes or anything. We were just curious because my buddy Dale has a friend whose dick got blown off in Afghanistan. Don’t know if Kyle told you that part.”
