by Nya Rawlyns
“Every day.” Sonny rolled the bags out of the way as Michael clucked to get the wagon train rolling. When it came time to hoist the linked sacks, he told himself they were light as a feather. He hated lying, especially to himself.
****
Once they cleared the last of the rock and tree fall, Michael suggested mounting up and trying to make time on the downhill. It was a good plan in spite of the rain that started as a warm drizzle but rapidly degraded into a cold, steady downpour interspersed with hail and sleet. Michael gave Red his head so he could dig in, lowering his hindquarters as he slipped and slid down the greasy slope.
When the opening in the forest canopy finally materialized, he gave a prayer of thanks. With some luck they had just enough light to see to setting up the tent and securing the horses for the night.
Wearily they dismounted. Sonny offered to place the tent in the shelter of a copse of spruce slightly uphill of the meadow. It was a good division of labor although he could have used Sonny’s height advantage to secure the rope to the trees for the highline. He had worried about going overboard, lugging fifty feet of cotton rope, but in hindsight he was happy with his choices.
Finished with the tent, Sonny asked, “What else do you need?”
“Grab those two gunny sacks, left side, my rig.” At the last second he remembered to say, “Please,” but Sonny had already trotted back toward the tent and the pile of bags he’d protected with a small tarp.
When the man returned he held the sacks out, his face dripping wet but curious. Michael instructed, “Wrap one of them around that trunk with the rope and do two half hitches. I’ll thread the line over that branch and run it across.” He nodded to the tree in question, standing dark and heavy with water. “Once I have it secured, you take the end and repeat with the other sack.”
They worked silently, moving around each other like a well-oiled machine. When Sonny finished tying off the tree-saver device that protected the bark from abrasion, they attached the swivels to which the lead ropes were secured and spaced them evenly to give each animal enough room to move around but not get tangled up with his neighbor.
Michael smiled to himself. Dr. Seamus Rydell surprised him, and he was a hard man to impress. At least, that’s what Paul always said.
With the horses safely attached to the highline and munching on the sparse grass, Michael allowed himself a sigh of relief. He’d been genuinely worried about having to stay on the side of the mountain in what was promising to turn into a snowstorm if he was any judge of the weather. The temperature had dropped like a rock as darkness finally descended, though his night vision kicked in readily enough.
Sonny touched his elbow to get his attention. “There’s a stream in the hollow. I’ve got the collapsible buckets. Want me to bring some back to offer the guys?”
“Okay, but be careful. It’s dark as pitch out there and we don’t know who our neighbors might be.”
Sonny strapped a headlamp onto his hat and switched it to the green filter. “Don’t worry. This isn’t my first rodeo, boss.”
Teasing, Michael said, “That’s all well and good, but I ain’t coming to rescue you if you can’t last for an eight second ride.”
Laughing out loud, Sonny shouted back, “Just eight seconds, Warden? You really need to get your expectations and priorities sorted.”
Michael stood, slack jawed, for a few very long seconds. Despite being chilled to the bone and soaked to the skin from sweating like a galley slave inside his Gore-Tex raingear, his cock did a happy dance at the thinly veiled promise.
Tripping and stumbling over the uneven ground, Michael rued not having the foresight to carry one of their LED lamps with a red or green filter to cut out glare and insure his night vision remained intact.
When he finally found the tent, he quickly checked that it was tied down and taut enough to withstand snow falling off the upper limbs onto the curved roof. His walking, talking wet dream wasn’t so clueless after all. Sonny had positioned the tent on a flat section, with the entry flap facing where the stock was tied, allowing them to keep an eye on them. He’d tucked the spare tarp and their sleeping bags, along with their go-kits, into a vestibule to the right of the mesh door. A second mesh entryway allowed for fast egress if something went wrong.
The wind howled in the treetops but in their protected copse of trees it was relatively quiet. Ticking off the minutes, Michael started his cycle of worry and annoyance. The irritation came because he had to rely on someone else to perform a task he usually reserved for himself.
The worry was a mixed bag of confusing impressions. He liked the man, a lot. Rydell put up with his skewed sense of humor, mostly. He didn’t complain, much. He was smart and resourceful, not unexpected, but people had a habit of disappointing. He was cheerful and caring. The kind of guy who’d have your back.
All of that added up to friend material. Michael had very few he called friend. Paul Trader, George. And if push came to shove he’d have to add Sally and Dolly, much as it pained him to do so.
When he laid it out and took a hard look, friends for him were thin on the ground. Most times he couldn’t care less. He led a solitary existence, either patrolling the back country or holed up in his trailer, drinking or reading—usually both. Once in a blue moon he went cruising the gay bars in Cheyenne, but those times had gotten few and far between. Sometimes he scored, most times he didn’t.
Besides, a quick fuck was just that: a once and done. It had gotten to the point it no longer satisfied the itch. If anything, it made it worse. The music was too loud. The posturing asinine and sophomoric. One waxed torso looked like every other. He was coming thirty-four and already ten or twelve years past his prime, if you believed the twinks and gym rats who sneered at his ragged fingernails, farmer’s tan, and keep-away persona.
When all was said and done, home was still an empty metal box. The whisky or tequila or scotch left him hung over and feeling like shit. He was a loner by fate and by design. He liked it that way... mostly.
“You decent?” Sonny. Cheerful, hug me and I’ll be your friend forever Sonny.
Letting his foul mood get the best of him wasn’t going to help their situation, so he avoided his fallback surly position and barked, “Depends on what you mean by that,” keeping his voice light and teasing. He surprised himself by how little effort it took.
Crawling on his hands and knees, Sonny entered from the opposite side of the tent and stripped off his snow-covered jacket and soggy boots. The jacket he shook out on the other side of the flap, then zipped them in.
Michael stated the obvious. “I see the snow started.”
Pulling a face, Sonny grumped, “You could have told me which two days were summer. I would have changed my plans accordingly.” He traded his miner’s lamp for the small lantern, flooding the interior of the tent with cold, harsh light. Blinking the water out of his eyes, he assessed Michael, then chuckled and said, “No jacket, bare feet.” He tossed his hat to the floor and swept his wet mop of curly blond hair off his forehead. “Now I don’t feel so overdressed.”
Michael pointed to the bedrolls. “Open yours up. We’d best zip them together to conserve body heat. It’s below freezing already. I don’t fancy waking up an icicle in the morning.”
“What about our wet clothes? Those kits with the change of underwear and stuff was all I grabbed.” He frowned and muttered, “Sorry.”
“You did fine. What we’re wearing will dry from our body heat. When it’s this cold, they’ll just retain moisture and freeze if we leave them out. Trust me, it’s not a good way to start your day wearing an ice cube.”
As Michael finished zipping the sleeping bags together, he observed, “You were gone a long time. Everything okay out there?” He tried not to sound mother-henish, but Sonny gave him a look that said he was busted.
“Guys were thirsty so I made a couple extra runs, let them drink their fill. I don’t think we need to worry about it until morning.” After adding his chap
s to the pile of wet boots and outerwear, Sonny slipped inside the sleeping bag, propped himself on an elbow, and said, “Last camping trip I was on, we packed to the eleven thousand foot level up above Dubois. Found a huge hanging valley with a stream, lots of grass. I’d guess there were a couple hundred acres of good forage. The drovers let the horses loose overnight, sent dogs out to round them up in the morning. Too bad we couldn’t do that here.”
Michael agreed it would have been nice, but then explained, “Mine don’t do well with hobbles so I never felt comfortable setting ’em loose. I like knowing they’re nearby if I need them in a hurry.”
Joining Sonny in the bedroll, Michael lay flat on his back and braced his hands behind his head, staring at the low ceiling. The shadows on the wall of the tent and the roof revealed several inches of snow had already fallen. His best hope was for less than a foot. Any more than that and they’d be weaving snow shoes from the spruce branches in order to find the elusive Timber Lake.
Although they were keeping a respectable distance between them, the ground under the tent wasn’t quit as flat as it looked. The tent straddled a small gully, with just enough of a dip that it took a real effort not to roll into each other. Sonny inched closer.
“You hungry?”
“Not for food.”
“Oh.” Sonny paused for a couple heartbeats, then tried again. “You sleepy?”
“Why?” Michael kept his answers terse, enjoying pushing the man’s buttons.
“No reason.” He shifted, moving closer. “Do you want to tell scary stories or sing camp songs?”
“No.” What is he, eight years old?
“Well, then, what do you want to do?” He was cracking, the irritation in his voice bordering on whining.
“Not sure you’d like it.”
“Try me.” That’s my boy. Bring the demon out to play.
“Nah, never mind. Forget it.”
“Wait... what? Come on, don’t be like that. Give me a chance.”
“Maybe another time.”
Shrill enough to startle the horses, Sonny yelled, “Dammit, Brooks. Stop being such a cock tease. Tell me what you want to do.”
Bingo.
He turned his face, giving Sonny Rydell his shit-eating grin, the one that seemed to turn the guys’ bowels to water. He wasn’t disappointed. The man’s face drained of color as he licked parched lips, his eyes darkening with lust.
Michael whispered, “Come here.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Sonny inched close enough Michael scented his sweat and body heat, with a subtext of anxiety, anticipation and desire pouring off the man in waves. It was a heady feeling having that kind of effect. He’d yet to move other than to turn his head, compelling blondie to do his bidding with his voice alone.
But bottom line, what was at stake was his ego and the fact he wanted Seamus Rydell more than he’d ever wanted anyone else. He’d never been especially risk adverse, as past actions proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. That was his career M.O. What he did hold tight was his heart. He’d built a thick, impenetrable wall around his emotions, but Sonny was slowly chipping away at the foundation.
What all the introspection boiled down to was him waiting for the no and praying for yes.
“You ready, Tex?”
Wrinkling his nose, Sonny snarled, “I’m not from Texas, asshat. I’m from Jersey.”
After letting Sonny stew in his own juices for a few seconds, Michael said, “That might be, but it sure as hell doesn’t sound near so good if I called you Jersey Boy, now would it? Besides, I think that one’s been taken.”
“Oh right, like Tex hasn’t.”
Getting Sonny back on track, he reminded him, “You didn’t answer my question. Are you ready?”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What is it you want to do?”
“Fuck.” He spit the word out, letting it bounce around the small enclosure, building momentum for maximum effect.
Tilting his head, Sonny gave him a knowing smirk, then rolled over and pulled his kit toward him. He fished around inside for a few moments. Satisfied, he rolled back over and chuckled. “Is that all? Took you fucking long enough.” He tossed a handful of condoms and a tube of lube on Michael’s chest.
Flashing his pearly whites, Sonny said, “Now it’s my turn.”
Michael was still staring down his nose at his chest and the foil packets arrayed in a cascade of promise. Sonny poked him, reminding him he was supposed to be participating in a game of what the hell is going on here?
Muttering, “Yeah, right. Your turn,” he licked his lips, feeling like he’d just fallen down the rabbit hole. A minute ago he had sad-eyed puppy dog at his beck and call. Now he had master dom, don’t fuck with Mister Zero, looming over him. He swallowed and mumbled, “What’s your pleasure?”
“Ah, Warden Brooks, excellent question. You got it in one.”
Michael’s senses thrummed with pressure behind his eyes, in his belly and against his jeans. Long-fingered hands squeezed his wrists, pinning him in place with exquisite weight and bulk.
Sonny husked, “My pleasure, as you so aptly put it, is to bottom you so hard you scream my name when you cum.”
Michael whimpered, “I don’t want to scare the horses.” What he really didn’t want was to scare himself.
Sonny grinned and held up a bandanna. “In that case, I think I know just where to put this.”
Sweet Jesus...
Michael shut his eyes, his neck extended so far back the tendons popped and stretched with delicious tension. The first bite had him sucking air, the second put stars behind his eyelids. He realized, at the last minute, right before Seamus Rydell possessed his mouth, that if were asked again what he wanted, his answer would be...
...he really wanted to fuck with Mister Zero.
Chapter Nine
Put Away Wet
Sonny stood with his hands on his hips glaring into a stream that had morphed from picturesque to raging torrent overnight. Nice how Mother Nature had such a sense of humor, mirroring his state of mind. Raging, as in he was still horny as hell. Plus, he was pretty sure disgusted embarrassment with a side of fuck this shit filled in the chinks in his armor, should anyone care to inquire about his mood.
Best they didn’t.
Wisely, Michael was tending to the stock, moving them to another location so they could reach fresh grass. I’m fine, really. I can do this while you do that... That boiled down to him trying to figure out how to swipe two buckets of water without getting his hiking boots soaking wet again. It wasn’t looking good.
Muttering, “Crap, this sucks,” Sonny kicked his boots off and rolled up his jeans. They were stiff as boards, filthy dirty and getting tighter by the minute.
I’m not looking at him, no I’m not.
If he looked back at Michael Brooks, he doubted he’d be able to focus on keeping his shit together. How had he gotten to this juncture, melting into a puddle of goo at the thought of his warden riding him hard, putting him away satisfied? Instead, he’d been put away frustrated after a night holding up the tent from the inside while Michael had gone out to battle with the elements in a desperate attempt not to lose the only shelter they had.
His warden had managed to stabilize the damn dome by piling their panniers and saddles around the edges as hurricane force winds pummeled them mercilessly. He’d crawled inside, snow-covered and half frozen, the footprint of the space shrunk by half, leaving them no choice but to cocoon together and wait it out.
Michael’s inelegant solution meant their hanky-panky got tabled in favor of survival and keeping them from becoming somebody’s archeological find. He’d lain awake, listening to an incessant drumbeat of sleet, rain and snow on the collapsed roof, emptying his mind of fear and the small regrets of denial. At twenty-eight, he had little other than determination at his disposal. No wisdom, no body of experience to guide him to better choices.
To his shame, he’d wallowed in the sting of
disappointment of leaving this earth with dreams unrealized, of never having fulfilled his promise to Michael. Or to himself. He’d wanted to hear Michael howl his name, passing from pain to pleasure, measuring their heartbeats with feral thrusts and savage nips.
Until last night, Sonny rarely thought about dying. Sure, it was going to happen someday. The inevitability of it freed him to set it aside as consideration for another time, another place. But that night, a night that took on the ominous tones of eternity and a day, had him reconsidering his mortality.
But not just his.
As Michael had clutched him, quaking with the pain of cold so deep, so achingly sharp you had nowhere to go, nothing you could do to halt the transformation of blood turning into sludge, he’d been hyperaware that he was all that stood between losing Michael and maybe even losing himself.
I’m fine, I’ll take care of this, you do that. The flash of appreciation in Michael’s eyes had been instantly shuttered with machismo and false pride, and Sonny had allowed himself to be complicit, to let the man crawl out of the tent, business as usual.
Nature had ridden them both hard last night, reminding them to give her the respect that was due. She wasn’t going to give a shit that he felt more resentment than a healthy regard for her power and mercurial moods. His disappointment at losing an opportunity had been selfish, his epiphany was how much he cared.
Both sensations confused and bothered him. He needed order and precision in his life. Michael Brooks was none of that, leaving him pondering what had happened to topple simple attraction into something entirely different.
He’d been looking for benefits. He’d found a friend.
As he bent to pick up the buckets, Sonny muttered, “I hope your map shows us the way out of here, Brooks, ’cause I don’t mind admitting I’m fucking lost.”
Wading into the stream, he tensed against the current, not wanting to be swept away to who knew where in that godforsaken place. The collapsible buckets ballooned and filled with icy cold water that had Sonny’s teeth chattering. Backing up, he fought the suction pulling his feet deeper into the mire. They were already numb.