Road Trip, Volume 1

by BA Tortuga

  He nodded, spread himself until his thighs burned. “Nobody else.”

  “Good. Where the hell did we leave the….” Sonny reached beside the bunk, scrabbled through a little drawer that had a latch.

  “Don’t tell me you lost it.” He leaned up, started licking and nipping whatever skin he could find.

  “No, I know it’s… ha. There it is.” Sonny came back with a condom and lube just about the time his lips wrapped around one nipple. “Fuck!”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Good and hard, so he could feel it tomorrow.

  The condom landed on his chest, Sonny using both hands to get the lube open, moving back to push two fingers right into him, no waiting, no easing into it. He managed to get the condom open, hips moving, riding that touch.

  “Gonna make you feel it, MJ. Feel me.”

  He was already feeling it, his nerve endings firing as Sonny found the little gland inside him and touched it.

  He nodded, moaning. “Yeah. Yeah, Sunshine. Want you.”

  “Soon. Get you open. Ready.” Sonny’s cock bobbed for him, red, wet, so good. They smelled good.

  He got the rubber slid down over Sonny’s prick, fingers working the shaft.

  “God. Can’t wait. Can’t.” Pulling free, Sonny slicked his cock up, slapping MJ’s hand away, pushing right up against his hole.

  It ached, burned so fucking good all the way down to his balls. “Sonny. Fuck.”

  “That’s the plan, Precious.” That thick cock stretched him, Sonny’s chest heaving above him, those eyes never leaving his.

  He stared back, just watching, hips moving in desperate little circles. Going to fucking remember this.

  Lip sucked in between his teeth, Sonny rode MJ hard, pushing in and out, hips smacking against him. He could see every flex and draw of muscle, could see the pulse beating in Sonny’s throat.

  Beautiful. He rolled into each thrust, toes curling tight, one hand reaching for Sonny.

  Hot, hot skin, damp with sweat, met his touch, Sonny arching into it, panting and cussing. “Fuck. More, MJ. More. Goddamn.”

  “Yes. So fine.” He got hold of Sonny’s nipples, twisted, tugged.

  “Shit! MJ….” The moan came long, loud, more of a growl, and Sonny just went crazy. Those hips lost all rhythm, all finesse, Sonny driving into him, jerking, finally shaking. And yeah. Kinda screaming as he came.

  Sexy bastard.

  He leaned forward, head on Sonny’s shoulder.

  Sonny stroked him, ran his fingers through MJ’s hair. “You okay, man?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Fuck, yes. I think I might die happy.” That soft chuckle stirred his hair, but there was nothing in it but… damn.

  “I’ll be back in six weeks. Looking for you.”

  “I’ll be there, Precious,” Sonny said, rubbing his back, pulling him up for a kiss. “Waiting.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “You’d better be.”

  He sighed, tried to ignore the ticking of his watch. Yeah, the man’d better be.

  Chapter Eleven

  “HI, HONEY! I’m home!” Sonny called out, knowing Woody was at the little house in Wilmington, waiting for him. He’d seen the man’s car out there, a dark blue Chevy Impala jacked to Jesus with improvements.

  “Sonny! Jesus, man, I was thinking you were gone for good.”

  Woody came bounding up as Sonny dropped his duffel on the floor, grinning, his light blue eyes shining. Woody enveloped Sonny in a tight-tight hug before pulling back to look at him. And planting a wet kiss on his mouth.

  Pulling back, hands on Woody’s chest, Sonny stared at the man. “What the fuck was that for?”

  “What? I missed you, man.”

  “Well, we haven’t been that kind of friendly in years.” Vaguely uncomfortable, Sonny backed off even more. “You find a new spot for the operation?”

  “I have a few in mind. Want you to come look at them.”

  “I trust you, man.” He really didn’t want to break it to Woody his first day back, but the idea of selling out his interest in the business had more and more appeal. Hell, he might just become a man of leisure, let MJ support him. The thought made him grin, feeling all evil and shit.

  “What’s that about?” Woody asked.

  “What? Oh, I was just thinking about someone. So how are my birds?” He really did have birds.

  “Hell if I know. Mrs. Tho is still cashing her checks.”

  He’d have to go see Mrs. Tho in Raleigh, visit his place. Maybe close it up. He’d hate to have to get rid of his birds, but Lord knew, he never saw them anymore. Mrs. Tho would probably take them without pay, or at least take them if he gave her a nice lump sum. She liked them a lot.

  “Earth to Sonny.”

  “Huh?” He looked up to find Woody watching him with the weirdest expression. Sonny stretched. “Sorry, man, still in vacation mode.”

  “No kidding. Look at you, all brown and shit. Where were you again?” Woody grabbed his duffel up off the floor and took it to the little bedroom for him, kinda… pacing. Flitting from place to place. It was weird as hell.

  “Jamaica. Woody, are you okay?”

  “No. You’ve been gone too long, and I sold the shipment, and, you know, I just….” Woody grinned a little, looking more like him. “Sorry, man, I’m not used to going it alone. Need you here to order me around.”

  Okay, that made him all restless. Maybe now wasn’t the time to tell Woody his plans. “Yeah, well, you’re better than you think. So tell me how much we got.”

  They got down to business, Sonny pushing the desire to just go out and stare at the beach aside. No wondering where MJ was right now. Six weeks. He just had to wait six weeks.

  He could do that.

  He surely could.

  THE STORE door still sounded the same, a jingle and a tinkle that his mom called fairy bells before the wave of patchouli and sandalwood smacked him, made his eyes water. Christ, Mom must be toking. Good thing any asshole who wanted herbs, crystals, and candles to stick in your ears was probably Mary Jane friendly, or she’d be fucked.

  “You here?”

  “Baby boy? Is it you? It is! Lord and lady above, I thought you couldn’t stop.”

  MJ grinned at his mom—stick-thin and gray, stoned eyes just staring out at him like he was a vision.

  “I wasn’t sure I could, but I had an hour or two. How’s Dad?”

  She shrugged, smile a little sad. “The same. You still working hard?”

  They had the nicest agreement going. She pretended that his money was conjured up in Druidic rituals; he pretended that Dad’s mind hadn’t disappeared from the Alzheimer’s eight years ago and that the man was sitting at home instead of in a home.

  “I’m considering retirement, Ma. That’s one reason I stopped. There’s a chance I’ll be out of pocket for a while.” A long while, possibly. The more he thought about it, the better the visual of Sonny and a boat and the open sea sounded. Just sex and sea and open sky.

  “Yeah? You don’t think you’d come back here?”

  “No, Ma. I’m thinking overseas for a while. Don’t worry. You know me. I’ll always be in touch, and your account…. Well, I’ll take care of it.” He reached out, cupped her cheek in his hand. “You look tired, Ma. You need to lay off the weed for a while. Let your body recover.”

  She gave him a smile, quick and lively and familiar to his bones. “And you need to find a good man to give you a reason to make a home.”

  Right. Well. Somehow he didn’t think his mom would quite understand his meth-dealing, whiskey-soaked, hunting-and-fishing redneck hang-up. “Yeah, Ma. I do.”

  As soon as he filled up the ’stang, bought some C-4 and some hollow-tips, and went to make sure that oil rig never left dock.

  He was all about reasons.

  IN TEN years of doing what he did, whenever that tingle happened in the back of his neck, he knew he was fucked.

  Not in trouble. Not in a bind. Not about to fight with a crazy, gun-toting
asshole in North Carolina.

  Fucked.

  Like “bent over a rusty pickup tailgate with a bunch of drooling frat boys punching your ass without lube” fucked.

  He’d felt it about ten minutes after the charges blew, his ’stang buzzing down the highway like a junior varsity cheerleader on her first red. He’d seen that truck before.

  Seen it three times, in fact.

  Seen the gap-toothed Neanderthal driving too, in the parking lot of a Subway two days ago, eating a spicy Italian and pretending to read a three-day-old USA Today.

  Goddamn it.

  He pulled off the highway, headed away from the blast, knowing the cops would already be buzzing and whirring, trying to look important for the cameras, so he could push the speed some. The damned blue truck exited too, coming closer, close enough he could hear the rumble of the diesel over the sound of the radio.

  Shit. Okay, come on. What do you know about Seattle? What do you know about it? Come on, MJ. Think.

  He peeled around a corner, heading toward the darkness, toward fewer people and fewer….

  Goddamn.

  The asshole in the truck gunned the engine, clipping his rear left bumper and sending him fishtailing. He squeezed the steering wheel, trying to go with it, let himself work with the skid and keep the ’stang barreling forward.

  Another slam and he heard something in the back end crunch and grind. Fuck him. He slammed around a corner, worry turning to ice-cold fury tinged with fear. The road opened up, and he took a deep breath. He could do this. He could make it.

  MJ gunned it, hurtling along the street. He’d have been fine too, if not for the car that squealed into the intersection and stopped right there, the driver bailing and running as his tires left skid marks. Right there where all MJ could do was brace himself.

  Brace himself and pray.

  SO. SIX weeks had come and gone. Then eight. Too damned many. No word from MJ.

  Fucking bastard. Fucking goddamned son of a bitch asshole. Sonny had been good. He hadn’t tried to call. He’d handled his birds. He’d dealt with setting up a new shop for Woody, one the guy could carry on without him. He’d gotten cars fixed up and looked into boats, and now MJ was… what? Standing him up? Deciding he was better off without his own personal redneck?

  No way. No way. Sonny did the dumping if there was dumping to do, and he wasn’t ready to be shed of MJ yet. Far from it.

  “I’ll just have to track the bastard down and kidnap him again,” he muttered, stuffing a pair of jeans in his rucksack.

  “Huh?” Woody asked, wandering in, blue eyes cloudy with sleep. Sonny grinned fondly. Man still looked best when he woke up in the morning, sandy hair all floppy and eyes like a summer sky.

  “I need to go, man. I have some calls to make, but I’m out.”

  “What? Why?” Poor guy looked so confused. Maybe a little scared.

  Sonny tilted his head. “Woody, man. You’ve been doing this without me a long time.”

  “No, I haven’t.” Woody came over and put both hands on Sonny’s shoulders. “You mean you’re out of Asheville, right? To go find that… guy.” That upper lip curled. Sonny ignored it.

  “I mean that too.” Now was as good as ever. “But I’m turning the rest over to you, man. All of it. Well, not the car. And I still want the cabin up here. But you can have my place in Raleigh. And the one bolt-hole out in Tennessee.”

  Those hands tightened on his shoulders enough that he heard joints grind. Ow. Woody’s mouth fell open. Man, morning breath.

  “No way. No fucking way. We’ve been doing this too long.”

  Yeah. They’d been friends for twelve years, lovers for five, and in business for eight. It kinda surprised Sonny how easy it was to give it up. But it was.

  “I’m sorry, Woody I am. But, man, I gotta go.” He shrugged Woody’s hands off, going back to packing. “I mean it’s not like I won’t call. I’ll keep in touch and shit. And you can use me as a bouncing board or whatever you call it. A sounding thing. Whatever.”

  “Where are you going, at least?” Woody moved to sit on the bed that his duffel was on, leaning back on his elbows like a casual man. Sonny saw the tension, though, and sighed, sitting too.

  “I’m not sure. West Coast somewhere. His job was supposed to be near Seattle. Look, Woody, you know it’s not you….”

  “No. It’s him.” Woody shrugged. “But that’s neither here nor there, I guess.”

  “Don’t, man.” He punched Woody’s shoulder. “Just don’t, okay? Now, are you gonna help me find him or not?”

  He got this look, long and steady and kinda… closed up. Then Woody nodded. “Sure, Sonny. Sure. Don’t I always do what’s best for you?”

  Bouncing up, Sonny nodded, grinning to beat the band. He’d hunt MJ’s ass down, and he’d find him, and he’d fuck him into the middle of next week. Asshole. Trying to get away. Sonny packed a box of Twinkies for the flight, clapping Woody on the back as he went back and forth.

  “Yeah, Woody,” he said. “You always take care of me.”

  “NO, I’M almost to Portland,” Sonny said, peering around the corner of the truck stop, just to make sure no one was watching. “That guy you hooked me up with knew his shit, Woody. Would you believe someone besides me kidnapped the man?”

  He listened to Woody rant and rave about how dangerous and stupid it was to be planning to charge into the woods where armed men were holding MJ, and thought about the last couple of days. Long flight to Seattle. Even longer day in a hotel making calls to people. There was this one guy, Donnie? Dorkus? Somebody. Anyway, the guy had told him about this ecoterrorist he’d heard about who’d gotten caught by the investors of some fucking whaling ship MJ had sunk or something.

  Jesus, the man had more enemies than Batman. And more lives than Catwoman, because damned if Doofus hadn’t said MJ was still alive.

  “Woody, hush. I’m gonna do it. Yeah. Can’t wait for you to meet him. I think you’ll like him. Right. See you in Asheville in about a week. Later.”

  It’d be a lot less if MJ would just fly.

  Maybe he should get some more morphine.

  Chapter Twelve

  FUCK.

  Okay.

  MJ rolled his eyes, trying to focus, trying to get his shit together.

  It would be a hell of a lot easier if there wasn’t a fucking wall right there. In front of his fucking nose. Like a coffin.

  Okay.

  No thinking about coffins.

  None.

  At all.

  If he was fucking dead, he wouldn’t be hurting so goddamn much, and he’d be happier and fucking haunting whoever ratted him out and got him double-crossed.

  Double-crossed and pistol-whipped.

  Double-crossed, pistol-whipped, and tasered.

  That sounded a lot like a song title.

  Well, it would work better if tasered had three syllables. Taser-touched. Taser-nudged. Taser-zapped.

  Oh, taser-zapped.

  That would work.

  Double-crossed, pistol-whipped, and taser-zapped.

  Christ, he had to get out of here. Now.

  Just about the time he started to wiggle like a fish on a hook, he heard the pop-pop-pop of gunfire, one of the slugs punching a hole in the door a foot above his head. He knew, because he saw light.

  Oh, fuck him raw.

  He started slamming his shoulder against the door, the cuffs pulling like all hell with every jerk. Better to die out there than in here.

  The sounds out there were just fucking fascinating. Maybe those bastards were killing each other. Of course, then he would starve to death, and that would suck hard.

  The door flew open on one of his rushes at it, spilling him out on the floor, the bright light stinging his eyes.

  Oh fuck yes.

  Better.

  Much better.

  He started moving without even looking up, just wiggling and heading toward an exit.

  Rough hands caught at him, yanked him up
, his numb feet refusing to hold him. His back hit the wall, and something hard and heavy pushed into his belly, his weight rising up off the floor, his legs and arms dangling. None of the guys who’d kidnapped him were that strong….

  “Time to go, Precious.”

  “Sonny.”

  He just relaxed, something a lot like disbelief—or maybe it was relief—crashing over him.

  He was either the luckiest asshole on earth or hallucinating.

  Either one worked.

  “We’ll talk later, yeah?”

  He bounced as Sonny beat feet. They made it almost all the way to the big car Sonny dumped him into before someone started shooting. He landed half against the passenger door, one leg over the console. Sonny shoved at him, getting him across before taking off like a fucking bat out of hell.

  He wriggled until he was sort of upright, blinking as the road just zipped by. “Where are we? I had a place about a hundred miles east of Seattle, but they kept moving me.”

  “We’re near Olympia. We’ll head to Portland. I figure Idaho, Utah, catch 70 and head across. We can angle south later. If I give you a pocket knife, can you cut yourself loose?”

  Sonny sounded so… normal. Kinda jazzed.

  “They’re police cuffs, man. You found me.” He blinked over, staring.

  Sonny.

  His Sonny.

  Fuck.

  “Like metal or plastic riot?” They hit the interstate; he could tell by the way they sped, by the smooth whump of road under the wheels.

  “Metal.” Uncomfortable as fuck too. He sank down a little in the seat, bending his elbows. “What day is it?”

  “September second.” Sonny kept checking the rearview, watching their tail. “I got your kit. Is there anything in there that works on cuffs?”

  “Uh-huh. There’s a ring of keys. One’ll fit.” Oh, fucking cool. “September second? Damn.”

  “Yeah, Precious. You don’t write, you don’t call.” They slowed, Sonny pulling off at the next exit, taking the ramp too fast but making it. They sailed into a huge truck stop, the smell of diesel strong enough to make him gag.