He exploded, cum shooting out of his dick in long streams. Every move of Randy’s hips, every stroke of his cock, had another stream flying. He fisted the sheets and moaned loud and long, until finally, Randy came to a stop behind him with one final jerk and a grunt, and they both collapsed onto the bed.
Vern could not move. “Think you killed me, Hero.”
“Mmm.”
As much as Vern enjoyed the sex and the cuddling after it, he was more than ready to hit the road by the time he climbed into the passenger seat. Randy had walked up the road to grab a quick breakfast, so Vern helped him out by taking Randy’s bag along with his to the truck. He stuffed them into the back and took another moment to look around.
Randy hadn’t decorated and didn’t have much stuff in his bunk area, but he had storage areas and a few drawers. Vern snooped. It didn’t take him long to find a chess set tucked behind a big coat and an extra pair of boots. He flipped the box open and skimmed his fingers over the pieces. They came to a stop over the black knight.
Perfect.
He pocketed the piece, and then quickly shoved the set back where he’d found it.
By the time Randy showed up with sausage biscuits and coffee, Vern sat quietly, jotting some notes in his journal. He wrote about sex and how he had played a role with Randy until they got to the actual fucking. Then he got lost in it. All the amazing sensations. He finally understood why everyone else in the world wanted so much of it. He squeezed his ass together, enjoying the soreness and still wanting more. Randy had been too nice in the morning when they’d got up. He didn’t want to overdo it and risk hurting him, but Vern had been eager for another round. He needed to figure out how he’d managed to get a guy like Randy interested in him, so he could do it again.
They enjoyed hot, sweet coffee and flaky biscuits. A content feeling settled in Vern’s chest.
The distribution center where Randy had to drop his load was actually outside of Cocoa Beach in a place called Rockledge. When they got there, Randy turned to him. “Stay in here. ‘Kay?”
Vern nodded. “It’s okay. Do your thing.”
Vern watched in the rearview mirror as they unhooked the trailer. Randy had to move the rig around a few times. He didn’t say anything to Vern, but he smiled sweetly every time he climbed back in the cab. Finally, he had another trailer hooked up to his rig, and they left the big warehouse. Randy smiled like he had a secret and wasn’t telling anybody.
“Geez. What is it already?”
“I liked seeing you here. Having a smiling face every time I got in the cab today. It’s—I don’t know. Nice. Okay?”
Vern rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
“Whatever,” Randy mocked.
Once they made it back to the highway, Randy said, “Listen, Vick.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know what your story is or why you’re going to Miami, but we’ll be there in a few hours. So, I was thinking...hoping, really...”
“What?”
“Why do you have to be in Miami? I mean...after I drop off this load, I’m running straight back up to the Carolinas. I run this route, like, every week. I like you being with me. Why don’t you come with me?”
“You’re sweet.”
“I mean it.”
Vern planned on leaving Randy as soon as they hit Miami. “You could drop me off near the Film Academy. You know where it is?”
Randy’s whole face frowned. “No.”
“Oh. That’s okay then.”
Randy blew out a long breath.
Vern ignored him. “It’s near South Beach. I’m sure I’ll find it. I mean, if you’re not going near there.”
“I’m not.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” Randy fidgeted with his hat. His nose looked kind of big under his dark sunglasses. Vern wanted to see his eyes but didn’t want to ask, knowing where it would lead. “Vick. Uh...sorry. I don’t want to make this awkward. I like you, ‘s all.”
“I know.” He got quiet. Had he led Randy on? He’d never had a boyfriend or anything close to compare it to, but he hadn’t meant to. Had he?
Something had indeed changed. Maybe everything with Randy was strange because he’d been so used to being everyone’s punching bag. Or maybe something else entirely had happened with them. Maybe Vern had something to do with it. Ever since his encounter with his demon-angel on the highway, the things inside him—emotions, feelings, whatever—had become more tangible, pliable. Vern could make people want him, if he wanted to. Could make them have sex with him...
Or maybe he’d become delusional due to lack of food and sleep.
Randy huffed and squirmed in his seat. “Is that why you’re going to Miami? You’re going to that school?”
“Yeah. I want to be an actor.”
“You’ll be good at it.”
“How do you know?”
Randy grunted. “You had me fooled.”
“I didn’t. I—”
“Shit. Sorry. I get it. You didn’t ask me for anything.” He mumbled something else under his breath. Something Vern didn’t want to know.
After a few minutes of silence, Randy cleared his throat again. “I have another idea.”
Vern groaned and turned to look out the window. This wasn’t anything like he’d expected the day would go.
“So listen...”
“What?” He turned back to face Randy.
“I don’t have to leave to head back until tomorrow. Let’s get another hotel tonight. We can say goodbye tomorrow.”
The idea tempted Vern. He wanted another go at the sex thing, but he also figured Randy would have an even harder time leaving in the morning. Vern sighed. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll take you to your school after.”
“Maybe.”
In the end, Vern gave in and let Randy get a hotel room outside of Miami. He didn’t care whether or not he’d done anything to cause this. He wanted to fuck. What was one more night?
They showered together and went out to dinner afterward. He let Randy buy him a steak and fries. Randy had a potato with his. When they got back to the hotel, they stripped out of their clothes.
This time, Vern rode Randy’s cock on top so Randy could see him. He watched his cock bob back and forth as Vern pushed up and down with his thighs. Every now and then, he’d touch it with the tip of his finger. Finally, Vern stopped moving. Sweat dripped over the side of his face.
“Done?” Randy asked.
“Yeah.”
Randy flipped them over and pushed Vern’s legs up as he fucked him into the mattress. He liked it even better than the night before. He jacked his dick off while Randy pushed into him until they both came. Then they took another shower and cuddled.
Vern woke early and packed his shit up in his backpacks, making sure to stuff his chess piece in next to his key chain and the locket. He pulled on his last clean t-shirt, his three-day-old jeans, and slid his glasses over his ears. He headed for the door and then paused, looking back.
Randy lay in the king-sized bed they’d shared, snoring and snuggled under the covers. Vern grabbed his cowboy hat off the dresser and put it on before opening the door.
He heard Randy call out, “Bye, Vick.” But he shut the door behind him without looking back.
Vern asked for directions and kept walking, and by the end of the day, he had pulled off his t-shirt and tucked it into the front of his jeans. Sweat poured off of him, and he swore he was dying. He stopped in a convenience store and bought a cold water. A splurge of money he couldn’t afford, but if he died of dehydration, it wouldn’t matter.
He pulled off his glasses and wiped his face with his t-shirt before putting them back on. Thankfully, he’d taken Randy’s hat. It kept the worst of the sun off his head. He walked until the buildings around him changed. The tall city skyscrapers gave way to shorter buildings with a decidedly more stylish twist. They were geometrical and colorful, full of character Vern found im
mediately charming. He’d heard of the famous art-deco buildings, but seeing them with his own eyes was entirely different.
The blue and yellow of the Breakwater. The pastel greens, yellows, and oranges along Ocean Drive. The rounded corners of Jerry’s Famous Deli. And the porthole windows—everywhere. It felt like he’d jumped back in time to the Fifties. Even the little Society Cleaners building with its Pepto-Bismol pink paint job, rounded corners, and matching awning existed from another time, fighting off the modern world and refusing to conform. He spent most of the afternoon exploring, walking up and down the street.
When he finally stopped gawking over the buildings, he headed to the beach. The Twenty-First Street Beach Walk promised cool water and a break from the heat. Along the white sand, there were benches for tourists, which were mostly taken. He trudged through the sand, making his way to the water. When he got close enough, he dropped his bags on the sand and stripped out of his jeans to his boxers. He doubted anyone cared since plenty of men and women had a lot more skin exposed than Vern.
He dashed into the waves and splashed around. The cool water gave him instant relief, but he couldn’t stay there. He didn’t trust someone wouldn’t walk off with his bags, and they contained all he had in the world. After a quick splash under the water, holding his glasses in one hand, he flipped his hair back and trudged through the sand back to where he’d left his bags. He sat on a t-shirt and put Randy’s cowboy hat back on his head while he dried in the sun.
The afternoon dwindled, and Vern had no clue what to do next, but he’d made it. He sat there on the beach in Miami. Despite what his father had said. Despite what the losers at school thought. They would all end up with three kids and a trailer in the woods while Vern made his way to famous-ville. His father would end up dead, probably from choking on his own vomit. So fuck them. Fuck them all.
Not only had he made it, but he’d also had sex. Vern had truly become a man. He didn’t have much, but he had his pride and his confidence, and that would have to be enough.
As the sun sank, Vern put some clothes on and made his way back to the strip. The Park Central hotel had octagon windows above their bright blue sign and, along with the rest of the strip, turned into something entirely new as the sun went down and the neon kicked in.
Vern didn’t have enough money for a hotel, especially not any of these hotels. He’d walk around. If he acted like he belonged there, people wouldn’t bug him until he could figure shit out.
Eventually, he found a twenty-four-hour diner and went in. He ordered coffee and a burger and sat there as long as he could possibly get away with. He drank enough free refills of coffee to keep him up for a week and finally paid his bill, took a pit stop to the bathroom, and left—back to walking the streets.
Late into the night, he wandered back to the beach. Groups of people mingled along the shoreline, even after dark. Vern stuck with his strategy of acting like he belonged. He said hello to people, and most responded in a positive and friendly way, but a lot of them gave him strange looks. He didn’t look like them. They wore bathing suits, wrapped in towels, or loose clothes, shorts and polos, and deck shoes or flip-flops. Vern had jeans and sneakers and thick glasses, and he carried two backpacks rather than a glass full of some tropical drink.
“Hey, dude. What’re you doing out here?” some guy asked. Vern glanced over at him. He reminded Vern of the football players back home. Big. Broad-chested. Blond. Aggressive.
“Nothing, man.” He held up a hand to show he was harmless and tried to walk away.
“You better not be stealing shit. I’ll kick your ass.” A strange aura of light shimmered around him, not unlike a mirage on a hot street. It stood next to the guy, wavering in and out, appearing unnatural.
One of the girls hanging out with the football-dude yelled out, “Call the cops, Brad.”
His name would be Brad. Her rich parents probably named her Buffy or Sophie.
Vern didn’t want to judge, but he didn’t need trouble, either. Plus, the weird shimmering spot scared him more than the preppies and their threats. He kept walking, ignoring their taunts, and frowning deeply, unhappy about sliding back to being the target. Maybe he deserved it from how he’d left Randy, but he hated it all the same.
He found an opening back to the street and took it. If the preppies followed up on their threats to call the cops, he wouldn’t be hard to find on the beach.
He walked along the sidewalks under palm trees and neon signs. Cars crowded the road, even in the middle of the night. He’d come a long way from that deserted stretch of highway.
Where he’d met his angel. Or demon. Or figment of his imagination.
Maybe Vern never made it to Miami after all. Maybe he was still out there on the empty highway. Maybe he’d gone crazy or been hit by a car.
The angel had seemed real enough, though. So real, Vern couldn’t help offering himself up. He had to touch him, taste him. He’d been overcome at the moment. It had all been exceedingly strange. Since he’d left home, normal lost all meaning, but he didn’t want to ever go back to that normal anyway.
Vern had no idea why such a creature would be interested in him, or what it all meant. He looked around, wondering if he was watching Vern. “Are you out here?” Vern asked no one.
ELEVEN
Teague
Teague could see Vern from where he sat on the terrace of the hotel across the street. He’d conserved plenty of energy, staying in true form all day as he watched Vern wander the city, but now he needed a damn cigarette. He shifted in the shade where it would be less obvious, but not a soul paid him any attention. Particularly, not the one across the street.
Vern sat on the edge of a cement half-wall, holding in palms and other tropical plants along the walkway. One of his backpacks stretched across his back, and the other rested on the ground between his feet. He fingered the straps, mumbling fretfully. After the long day of walking the streets, he was probably exhausted. He looked up over the top of his glasses, directly at Teague. For a moment, Teague’s breath caught in his throat, but no, Vern couldn’t actually see Teague from where he sat—no way. Especially not with Teague lurking in the shadows.
He wanted to get Vern, yank him off the street, and tuck him into his hotel room. Safe and sound. He couldn’t. He clenched his fists.
He couldn’t.
He didn’t even bother using his tools to enhance his hearing or sight. He could only wait. And watch.
It killed him to hold back. He was geared up to break the stupid fucking rules and go anyway, but then a pain flashed through his head. A booming voice, that wasn’t a voice at all, echoed, calling him. His father.
His cursed father wanted him home. He couldn’t negotiate. Compelled to answer, he flicked his cigarette over the edge of the balcony with a sigh. Regardless of the energy he would use getting there, he had to go. He shifted back to true form and let the energy surge through his body, taking him to the other realm, taking him home. He used the word lightly, though. Home? His father’s house had not been where he lived since childhood, and that had been too long ago to remember.
He appeared inside the great hall. His headache receded, but his annoyance went on high alert. He didn’t want to meet with his father, and if he had to do it, this was the last place he wanted the meeting held.
The gigantic hall stretched out before him with his father on his so-called throne at the other end. Teague would have to pass the pillars to get there. They soared into the sky, holding the magnificent roof layered with mother of pearl above them. It had been built to mimic the sky, though Teague had never seen the sky of Exilum. They traveled from the palace to Manna directly. Because they could. Because his father was wealthy. So much wealth the floors were finished with onyx, black as night, and the side walls of the hall were covered in crystals to reflect the lights hanging above in weird baskets around the hall.
Everything was all pretty normal for the standards of Exilum’s rich and powerful and nothing Teague
couldn’t deal with. The hall didn’t unnerve him, the hounds did. Sixteen of them. One chained to each pillar, eight on each side. He had to walk between them as if running the gauntlet. The hellhounds had never liked him, or maybe they reacted to his fear of them. As kids, Zepher played with them. He loved them—if a demon could love anything. But not Teague. They scared him like nothing else in the three realms. He’d rather fight a warrior of Osestra bare-handed than face one of his father’s hounds.
Teague stepped forward. If he’d had a choice—but he didn’t.
The closest beast on his right lunged and snarled as he passed. Slobber dripped between its bottom tusks. Its smashed-up face looked more like a bear than a dog, but Teague compared it to Manna animals and not Exilum fauna. He’d never learned much about the latter.
Ignoring the hounds as best he could, he traversed the hall of horrors until he stood before his father.
His father preferred his Exilum shape which appeared much like Teague’s with leathery wings, a sinewy body, and tripod of thick horns growing from the top of his head. His slanted eyes were larger than Manna eyes and able to see in the dark or through the red-tinged clouds of Exilum—one more thing he didn’t want to know about. Teague didn’t prefer the Exilum shape. He’d never used it to full capacity outside in the open air of this realm.
“Teague...what is going on with this human? Your target?” his father cut to the chase. He added in their native tongue, “Shimjie asyrensa yäi du.” You’re screwing this up. His father wouldn’t put up with failure.
“Zepher—”
“Presiph”
“Father—”
“I said, stop. I don’t want to hear excuses or blame. I know Zepher has been interfering, and I know why.”
Teague shifted to his Manna form and crossed his arms over his broad chest. His father scowled at him with heavy, leathery eyebrows dipping over his glowing, red eyes. He had never cared for Teague’s Manna form.
Demon or Angel (Age of Exilum Book 1) Page 10
