by Неизвестный
It's over in a few minutes -- wiping my hand on the sheets, I yank my pants back up before anyone can come in and find me here, getting off where the boy slept. With angry hands I strip the sheets from the couch, tear off the pillowcase, ball everything up into embarrassed fists and storm down the hall to the washer. His clothes are still in there, waiting to be dried -- I shove the sheets on top of them and run another load. Then, while I'm thinking of it, I slip into Kent's darkened bedroom, strip his bed down too, holding my breath so I won't catch a whiff of the stale sweat and beer that rises from his sheets like a swampy miasma. Jesus Christ but he needs to bathe. Once I have his sheets in the washer, I open the windows in his room just to air the place out. I'm glad I don't sleep with him -- I'd suffocate in the night.
I put new sheets on his bed, and then on the couch, because seeing the empty cushions reminds me of what I just did. Guilty pleasures, I think as I make Luke's "bed." What would've happened if he came in while I was in his sheets jerking off -- would he have laughed? Dropped his pants and tore the sheet away to stick it to me? Would it turn him on to know I got off on the faded scent of his hair on my pillow?
He doesn't have to know, I think. Knowing would give him the impression that I want him, and no matter how badly I do, there's Kent to think about, I can't just throw what I have with him away. Two years, an eternity in this Texas heat, and sure he drinks but he's not mean to me, he doesn't hit or yell. Doesn't touch me as much as I'd like and never kisses me really, but I can live with that, can't I?
Can I?
Shaking the doubt away, I head into the kitchen to finish the dishes and see Kent's coffee on the table, the java cool and gummy now like oil in the mug. I dump it in the sink and pour him another cup. He's good to me, Kent is, giving me somewhere to stay, a room of my own and a job in his produce lot, trusting me to run the place when he's in town, loving me ... he does love me, I know it, regardless of whatever Luke thinks. He hasn't seen how good we are together when Kent's sober. He's never seen the rare smile or felt those rough hands, so beguiling, so tender when they touch me. When being the operative word -- for all the bitching I do, he is kind, even if he doesn't touch me enough, doesn't love me enough. He works hard all day, I tell myself, his cup in hand as I step out on the porch. He's worn out by the evening, you know that, Marcus. You can't expect him to want to get it up after working out in the hot sun for ten, twelve hours at a time.
Maybe not, but would it be so bad if he could at least just cuddle? Hold me for a little while, instead of heading into his room alone to pass out on his bed? Hell, even just let me hold him, that's all I'm asking for here. Some sort of affection, you know?
Like Luke.
Luke looks at me and I feel his gaze like a hand on my body. Why can't Kent look at me like that? Why can't he be as open as Luke was when he said liked my kisses, he wanted to taste me again? Or this morning, if you were mine ...
I shake my head to clear the words away, I don't need to remember them.
Down by the road, Kent's standing like a lawn ornament, hose in hand as he waters his plants, and the first customers have already pulled over to check out the goods. To check out him, that's the reason they're here, blue-haired old ladies who giggle over his tanned skin and whisper to each other that he's like a shot of whiskey, hits you hard at first and burns all the way down. I don't want to think of where that fire he sets in them burns, God. Same flames that lick my groin when I look at Luke, I'm sure.
Coming up behind Kent, I hold out the mug and say softly, "Your coffee, babe." When he takes it without looking at me, I sigh and trail a hand down his back. "Thanks for ..." For letting him stay, I almost said, but then he'll want to know why. So I shrug and settle for just, "Thanks."
Kent sips at his coffee and doesn't reply. I don't expect him to, he's the type of guy who won't answer if he decides he doesn't want to talk about ... whatever it is you want to talk about. He'll just ignore you until you feel foolish enough to wander away, that's how he is. I'm used to it by now, don't bother to get all worked up about it anymore. If I'm talking and he doesn't look interested or doesn't respond, I just stop, midsentence if I have to, what's the use? A waste of breath, that's all it is. He's not a man of many words.
Unlike Luke, who likes to talk. All yesterday, I love the sound of his voice. And you need to stop comparing them, I think. It's not going to work that way. Kent is your lover. Luke is just passing through, keep that in mind.
I was just passing through myself, two years back.
When Kent doesn't speak, I retreat to the tent and the table by the register and click on my fan. It's hot out here already. Propping my feet up on the table, I lean back in my chair and watch Kent through hooded eyes. He looks amazing from here, black hat, broad back, tanned skin. He glances at me as he waters and I feel a thrill course through me at that look, smoldering, possessive. At least, from here that's what it looks like, but his eyes are shielded, shadowed from the brim of his hat, and I don't know what he's thinking, I can't read his gaze. I tell myself it's about me, that's a comforting thought, but it's probably not. More than likely his mind's on the whiskey flask I see in his back pocket, or his plants, or the customers milling about. He glances at me again later, when he starts to pour the contents of that flask into his coffee, and I look away. He tells himself I don't see and me? I let him believe that.
By noon things are almost back to normal -- he's dumped at least half of that flask into his mug and the tension is gone from his shoulders, the anger I sensed roiling in him when he came home this morning has evaporated like water in the heat of the day. Already yesterday seems like a half-remembered dream, me sitting in this same spot with an uncanny feeling of déjà vu as I watched Luke where Kent is now, and when he looked at me, it was with a hungry look, and a slight smile to add to my fantasies. But he's not here today, just me and Kent and I can almost believe he never existed, just a dream torn from between the covers of my sister's magazines.
His kisses, though, those were real, I still taste them. At the register I rub my lips with an ice cube from my glass of water and imagine my fingers are his, rimming my mouth with the ice before he leans down to kiss me, his tongue plunging into me, demanding, his hands on my chest like they were last night, smoothing down my stomach to the ache in my jeans --
Someone leans down behind me, startling me from the daydream. As I struggle to sit up, my jeans bite into my erection, I pick at them absently and turn to find Luke right behind me, so close that I feel his breath on my face. Arms crossed over the back of my chair, hat pushed back to reveal dark eyes, lips curved into the hint of a smile, damn. I drop the ice cube to the ground and start to straighten the receipt books, afraid that if I stare too long, he'll see the nasty thoughts in my head, what I want him to do to me, what I want to do to him. "Hey," he purrs, ducking his head into his bare arms. His shirt is tied around his waist and his hat brushes against my back. "How's it going up here?"
I shrug. "Okay," I tell him. I glance at Kent, miles away it seems and so damn close, helping an elderly couple carry flats of marigolds to their car. Did they pay for those? Probably gave the money to him, and it's resting in his pocket now with his flask, and that's more profit I'll never add to the deposit, more money for his beer fund. The thought makes me mad all of a sudden and almost bitterly, I sit back in my seat, back against Luke. Crossing my arms, I mutter, "I wish those people would learn to pay me. Anything he gets, he just drinks away."
Soft breath tickles my neck, and I look up to see Luke leaning dangerously close to me, mere inches away and I could kiss him now, it'd be that easy, he wants me to, I can see it in his purple gaze. I feel as if I should say something, anything else, but I can't remember how to speak. All I can do is look from his eyes to his mouth, and I don't even mean to lick my lips but I do, just to wet them, he grins at that. "Did you get the crops in?" I ask. I talk to his mouth, I can't look away.
"Most of them," he tells me with an infectious smile that I ca
n't help but return. "I'm taking a break."
A break -- sounds good to me. I'd like a break, since I'm obviously not needed here if Kent's going to take payments himself. As I stare at Luke, I think of him naked in the washtub and imagine a few stolen moments ... where? Inside the house maybe, tell him I masturbated in his sheets, would that make his grin widen? In my room, in my bed, on the couch, hell in the kitchen, anywhere, just so I can taste him again, just so I can feel another's touch, another's lust.
I'd suggest it but from the corner of my eye I see Kent, bending into the trunk of a customer's car, his arms flexing as he lifts the marigold flats. With a quick start, I pull away from Luke, busy myself with straightening the books around the register again, try to ignore the heady scent of his sweat as it envelops me. What the hell am I thinking? "Don't let Kent see you," I say. Luke comes around my chair and squats beside me, his arms crossed on the table, his elbow poking at mine, he's that close. "He gets a little pissed if he thinks he's the only one working."
"I'm getting all hot and sweaty," Luke tells me, like he's just making conversation and his words do nothing to me. But he knows what he's doing, it's in his smirk, he knows I'm thinking of him naked now, sheathed in sweat and hot to the touch. He can see it in my eyes, images of me licking the sweat from his body, holding him, thrusting into him until I'm as hot and sticky as he is, and before I can say a word, one hand slips from the table to squeeze my knee. "I guess there's no real hope for another bath tonight, is there?" he asks.
Jesus, no. With Kent home? Never. I fumble for something to say as Luke's hand trails up my thigh, his fingers toying with the inner seam of my jeans. "He bought a showerhead," I say, as if that's the only reason he won't be using the washtub tonight. "Once it's in --"
Luke interrupts me. "That's no fun," he says, and his fingers are pressing against my crotch now, poking at the softness there that quickly hardens to his touch. "I was hoping maybe I could turn the tables tonight, you know?" He speaks low, his words not carrying beyond the two of us, and the customers, the market, Kent, all that's disappeared for me, only Luke remains, his wistful eyes watching his fingers work at the erection rousing in my jeans. "I think you need a little loving, Marcus," he tells me, his fingers rubbing, rubbing at me. "I was just thinking, out there in the field? Lots of time to myself, and I was thinking about what would happen if you crawled in between my sheets tonight, hmm?" Already did that, I think, my eyes slipping closed as he thumbs along my zipper, presses at me, working me hard through my jeans. "Like, after Kent's asleep, and I'm lying there, and you just happen to come out of your room for say, a drink, or something. And I see you and you see me, and I say come on over here a minute, and I hold my blankets open so you can lie down beside me." I look at him through half-closed eyes, look over at Kent, talking with someone now and ignoring us, and when I look back at Luke, he's smiling at me, his fingers kneading and I tell myself we shouldn't do this but when I grasp his wrist, it's only to hold him closer, not push him away. "Would you do that?" he wants to know. "Would you lie down with me if I asked?"
Speechless, I nod, yes, I would. Who am I kidding? I don't even have to be asked, just look at me the right way and I'll trip over my own feet to get to him. "Then I'd touch you here," he murmurs, his fingers easing between my legs, beneath my balls, reaching for the spot where the seams of my jeans meet, the spot that makes my knees weak. "And I'd kiss you -- I like your kisses. He still hasn't ...?"
"No." The word is a sigh, and I sink down a little in my chair, spread my legs slightly, press my knee against his arm as his fingers continue their gentle massage. I keep looking over at Kent, sure that the moment he glances my way, I'll knock Luke's hand away and sit up, I'll put a stop to this ... but he's not looking at us and it's so hard to even think with Luke doing what he's doing to me, I can't imagine telling him to stop. I don't even want to think of Kent right now, or the fact that he still hasn't kissed me yet, or smiled at me, or spoken to me much. Clearing my throat, I run a hand through my ragged hair and moan softly. "Not yet."
"I'll kiss you then," Luke tells me, says I'll and not I'd, like this is something he's planning to do and not just a daydream anymore. "And I'm real good in the sack, I promise. Last guy I was with couldn't get enough of me." No, I imagine he couldn't, not with these hands, those lips, that ass and what I've seen of his cock. If he can work it like he says he can, I'm sure I'll scream out his name when I come. Hell, even if he just lies there, if he gets off on it, on me, that'll be more than whatever Kent wants to pretend it is he does when we have sex. "I think you need someone like me, Marcus," Luke is saying, and I agree with him, I think so, too. His fingers in my lap, they convince me I do. "What do you think about that, hmm? Tonight, after he's asleep, you and me --"
"You done out back?"
Kent ducks into the tent and I sit up quickly, cross my legs, inadvertently capturing Luke's hand between my knees. He tugs it free and flashes Kent a disarming grin as he stands. Jesus, I didn't even see him come up on us, what's gotten into me? Did he see anything? Did he -- "Almost done," Luke says, propping one hand on his hip as he leans over the table and winks at me, winks, mother of God but he needs to stop that shit. Kent's already nipping at his flask but he has to see what that wink does to me, the flush in my cheeks, the quiver in my hands as I straighten the receipt books again. "Just taking a little break, is all. I'm up to the peppers."
"Jalapeño or banana?" Kent wants to know. He frowns at me but I can't meet his gaze. If I do, he'll see it in my eyes, Luke copping a feel through my jeans, he'll see the desire still smoldering in me if I look at him now.
"I'm not sure?" Luke answers with a shrug. Beneath the table, his foot nudges mine and I stare at the 0.00 display on the register, I'm not looking at either of them, I can't. "Long yellow peppers."
"Those would be banana," Kent tells him, his voice curt, his no shit, Sherlock tone. If he were a different man, now would be when he thanks Luke for helping us, but he doesn't. If he were different, I think, frowning at the register tape like it might need to be changed, then I wouldn't let Luke touch me the way he does, would I? "Marcus?" Kent asks. I feel my mouth pull into a harsh pout as I glance up at him, only to find him holding out a few folded bills. Nodding at the car in our driveway, he tells me, "The marigolds."
I wonder again if he saw anything before coming into the tent, Luke's hand in my lap, my slack cheeks, my parted lips and half-closed eyes. Taking the offered money, I ring up the purchase and try to think of something to say, it's too quiet between us. "I put the showerhead on the kitchen table," I tell him, it's all that comes to mind. "When you get a chance --"
Kent sighs dramatically. "I've been busy here," he mutters. "Can't just drop everything just to get that done, you know."
"I'll do it," Luke offers. Now I look at him, and he's not watching Kent, he's staring at me. "You say it's in the kitchen?"
I nod and Kent glares at him. "I said I'll take care of it." When he turns his drink-rimmed gaze on me, I shrug halfheartedly. "You want me to do it right this second? You two watch the lot while I rush in there to fix the goddamn shower?"
That goddamn makes me shake my head no. Kent's not one to cuss unless he's hitting the hard stuff or pissed to all hell, and I think he's still upset about last night. Hell, I'm upset, and it didn't even happen to me. "No," I whisper, I don't want to speak louder, I don't want him to shout. Glancing at Luke, I ask, "Do you know how to put one of those in?"
"Jesus Christ." Kent gives me a look so hard, I'm glad I'm sitting down because it would've dropped me to my seat. "Marcus --"
"I just want it done, okay?" I ask him, getting angry myself. "How hard is it to put a new showerhead in? Five minutes and it's over with, is that asking so much? If Luke can do it --"
Kent turns away. "Fine. You want to do it, kid? Knock yourself out." As he ducks out from under the tent, he adds, "Just don't expect me to come help you, I'm busy here."
Busy, my ass. "I can do it myself," Luke mumb
les, and I run a shaky hand across my brow, what the hell's in that flask this early? Don't take it out on me, I think, watching Kent's darkened back as he stomps through his plants.
A hand smoothes across my shoulders, soothing, warm. "It's okay," Luke tells me, and I nod, yes, it will be. Once he sleeps this mood of his off, things will be fine. Or rather, as fine as they usually are between us. Quickly, while Kent's back is to us, Luke leans down and kisses the top of my head -- I feel his lips through my thick mop of hair, and I almost choke at the stolen gesture.
When he heads for the house, I watch him over my shoulder, memorizing the way his hips sway with each step beneath the shirt that covers his ass and thighs, and I wonder if I could really take him up on his offer tonight, after Kent's asleep. I wonder if I want to --