by Sarah Black
"What'd you do, get you sent up here from Miss'ippi?"
Rafe's face filled with pain, and he closed his eyes and pulled away. Deke reached for his face. “Hey, Rafe. I'm sorry, man. Never mind, don't think about it now. I'm sorry, Rafe..."
And Rafe looked up at him, all the sorrow in the world sitting on his young shoulders, tugged him down and kissed him.
* * * *
His mouth was hungry, and he pulled Deke into his arms, held him closer and tighter, clutching him until their cocks were jammed up against each other and they were grinding away like a couple of starving boys. “Oh, God, Deke, you taste sweet. Let me have some more.” And Deke knew he was about to explode in his pants, which he hadn't done since he was seventeen. He caught Rafe's scent, clean young sweat and Old Spice and Teacher's whiskey, and it caught something in his belly, passion rising like the tide.
Rafe must have been hornier than he was, because he had his legs wrapped around Deke's hips, his strong thighs ready to crush bone, and he started coming in his jeans, little thumping groans like cotton balls blowing into Deke's open mouth, his body shuddering and his face wet.
Deke closed his eyes, his cock throbbing with his heartbeat, and refused to look down into Rafael's face and see tears. It was ridiculous, a couple of grown men groaning and grinding on the floor, and Rafe's hands were tracing his face, all tender, holding Deke close.
"Why you got your eyes closed, Deke? You don't want to look at me and see that I'm white?"
"No, I don't want to look at you because you're crying, man, and you give me that look like a puppy-dog."
"I'm not crying. That's sweat."
Deke opened his eyes and looked. They were tears, and Rafe was staring up at him, looking hopeful, pupils enormous and wet and black.
"Blue Otis said you're just desperate for a friend who's under seventy."
"Blue Otis knows me pretty well. Come upstairs with me? You can go down the back staircase before everybody's up in the morning."
Deke hesitated. He didn't have any intention of spending much more time rolling around on the floor, getting spunk and dust on his clothes. But Rafe still had his legs wrapped around Deke's waist, and his hands were doing a slow, sexy slide down his back, until he grabbed Deke's ass and held on.
"Don't make me chase after you,” Rafe said, and there was laughter in his voice. “I'd be like one of those overgrown puppies, isn't that what you said? I looked at you like a puppy? I'll be like a blue tick running down the street, saying, ‘Deke, Deke, wait for me! Wait for me and I'll suck your cock..."
The cock in question gave a lurch and a thud and Deke groaned against Rafe's mouth. Oh, hell, no. He was not walking around with semen stains on his trousers. He wasn't some blues guitar player, for God's sake.
He dragged himself out of Rafe's arms, stood up and reached a hand down. “You're gonna have to be quiet. No moaning and groaning. I don't want your Mama Rose to come in and see what's wrong with her little blues angel."
"Right. You either, man."
Rafe's room was dark, the only light from the streetlamp outside coming in through the small window. But his skin was so luminous and pale Deke thought Rafe was casting his own light. He peeled out of his T-shirt and shucked down his jeans, left them in a tangle on the bedroom floor. “Oh, man, look at those jeans. I'm gonna have to shove those in the washer before Mama Rose sees what I did."
He kicked the dirty clothes into a pile, then he reached out for Deke, hands moving down his shirt. “Let's get you out of those important reporter's clothes. I got an empty coat hanger in the closet, you want to hang them up."
Deke was struck dumb by Rafe's body, by the scattering of gold hair across his chest and down his belly, into the tangled sticky nest around his cock. It was thick and pink, and Deke couldn't believe it. His cock was as pink as his mouth.
"You okay?"
He looked down into Rafe's face, his still blue eyes, and Rafe was looking at him and smiling, that beautiful mouth curving into a smile. Rafe slid his hands inside the open shirt, across Deke's chest. “Hey."
"Hey yourself."
"You okay with this, Deke?"
Deke reached for him, wrapped his slender body in his arms. He was almost too beautiful, this boy with eyes the color of the ocean and bloody fingertips. Deke lowered his head and tasted Rafe's mouth. And closed his eyes again.
They couldn't have slept two hours before Deke smelled coffee. Rafe was sleeping in his arms, one leg thrown over Deke's hip like he wanted to keep him from crawling away. Deke had been watching his eyes move under his thin eyelids while he slept, and he brushed the hair off Rafe's forehead. Under those shaggy, silver-gold bangs was a new-looking red scar, like a starburst. It looked to him like someone had laid a blackjack against Rafe's forehead. And who carried blackjacks in Hattiesburg, Mississippi except the law?
Rafe stirred a little, and Deke wondered if he could get dressed and go down the back staircase before Rafe woke up. He needed a shower and some clean clothes, but Deke was having trouble pulling away. Rafe was beautiful, but that wasn't all of it. It was the pair of them together; the exotic wild beauty of their legs tangled together, coffee brown and pearl white. It took his breath away, and he watched the morning light slice through the window and paint them in gold. He and Rafe, their bodies tangled naked on a bed with the morning sun shining on them, this might never happen again, and something told Deke to study the picture, fix it in his mind, like it was precious.
Deke heard people moving around outside in the hall and Rafe stirred awake. Rafe smiled and tugged him down for a whiskery kiss. The bedroom door banged open, and Sally-Rose stood there in her bathrobe and slippers, her hand over her mouth. “Jesus God, Rafael! What have you done, baby?” She waved her hand. “Never mind, never mind. Rafe, get dressed, I need you! Blind Pete unconscious, and I got an ambulance on the way."
"Is he breathing? Does his breath smell sweet? Mama Rose, did he get his insulin this morning? Cause we need to give it to him if he didn't."
Rafe rolled out of bed, pulled open the dresser drawer and was stepping into a clean pair of jeans when James pushed past Sally-Rose, already talking. “Rafe, I want you to go to the hospital with...” He stopped as if turned to stone, and Rafe didn't move, his hands on the waistband of his jeans.
"Uncle Jimmy...” James turned slowly, studied Deke naked under the sheet, and Rafe pulling on his clothes.
"Rafael, son, what in God's name...” His voice was choked, stunned, and when Rafe reached out for him, James flinched away. “No. Get your clothes on and go to the hospital with your Uncle Pete, make sure he gets taken care of."
"Uncle Jimmy, please...” but James was gone, and Rafe turned around and looked at Deke, his face dumbstruck.
Deke climbed out of bed and pulled on his underwear. “You got a shirt?” Deke opened the closet, pulled out a neat white button-down. He held it open and Rafe stuck his arms through. “Rafe, listen..."
Rafe looked up at him. “Not now, Deke."
Deke nodded. He pulled open the drawer, tossed Rafe a pair of clean socks.
When Rafe was dressed he shoved his wallet down in his pocket, took a long look at Deke, standing half-naked in his bedroom, then he took off for Blind Pete's room. The ambulance crew came up just minutes later, bumping the gurney on the stairs, and Rafe followed them out.
Deke got dressed, went downstairs to the kitchen. When he walked in James stared at him with stony eyes, and Blue Otis hid a smile behind his hand. Sally-Rose handed him a cup of coffee, her eyes like saucers. She stared at him like a couple of horns had sprouted from his head.
"Thank you, Mrs. Johnson."
"Oh, hell, boy! Call me Sally-Rose!” She flung her arms out. “You practically one of the family now! Though I don't get if you the wife, or..."
James scooted his chair back. His mouth looked like it had been carved of stone. “I've a mind to go upstairs and get my gun and run your sorry butt out of here! What did you do to my boy? You ta
ke advantage of him, cause he's lonely..."
Blue Otis handed Sally-Rose his coffee cup. “James, what's wrong with you? You don't ever open your eyes. Rafe been like that since he was sixteen! You just didn't want to see it."
"What are you talking about?"
"And I wouldn't go looking too hard for your gun, James. Because nobody else had a gun I know about, and Leona ... Well, Leona has been shot dead."
James stared across the kitchen like he was blind, then he turned and looked at Blue Otis. “Otis, oh, shit..."
Blue Otis took his coffee cup from Sally-Rose and toasted Deke. “Let's remember we got us a reporter in the kitchen."
* * * *
Deke wasn't invited for breakfast, so he left the Blues Angel and ran by his apartment for a quick shower and shave. He dressed carefully, like always, a perfectly ironed white shirt and gray wool slacks, with a tie in Christmas cranberry and gold, but Deke knew that presenting a professional appearance wasn't his only motivation today. Not that Rafe seemed all that interested in his clothes, except to take them off.
He pulled into the hospital parking lot, wondered if anyone else knew that Blind Pete Watson had been taken here. He was probably the most famous of the three old men, because he had written a bunch of blues when he was younger that the jazz musicians had picked up, and his slide guitar was such a real Mississippi sound. He was the only one of the three that Deke had heard of before last night.
At the reception desk an elderly lady with tidy, iron gray hair and a little bunch of wilting violets on her lapel gave him Blind Pete's room number. He knocked softly on the door, then pushed it open. Blind Pete was sitting up a little in the bed, and a glass bottle of IV fluids was hooked to the needle in his arm. Rafe was helping him put his other arm and head through a white T-shirt.
"Deke, you know what to do about the bottle? There's some way you're supposed to put it through the sleeve, but I'm just getting it tangled up."
Deke studied the rubber tube and bottle and T-shirt and shook his head. “We need your mama here to figure this out."
"Don't worry about it, Rafe,” Blind Pete said. “I'll just pull the sheet up if anybody comes in. You got that paper? Read me out that thing they wrote up."
Rafe cut his eyes Deke's way. “Well, Uncle Pete, there're two stories. The one Deke wrote is about Leona being killed, but he does call you the Three Wise Men of the Blues."
"He what?” Blind Pete didn't seem to appreciate this title.
"The other article was by that music writer, Elroy Macallister. I guess he left before any of the other stuff happened, or else he didn't care about it. Cause he didn't say anything..."
"Just read it out, Rafe."
Rafe opened the paper to Elroy's article. It was sad to hear such a small echo of real blues from the blues legends Blind Pete Watson, James Hurt, and Blue Otis Johnson when they played at the Blues Angel last night. Everyone gets old, but when your fingers have so much arthritis you can't hardly pick a guitar anymore, most musicians would know to go on out to the porch and sit in the swing while the sun goes down. But while you can't blame the old men for wanting one last taste of their former musical fame, all three of them seem to have lost their hearing along with their other facilities. The young white guitar player they brought up here from Mississippi has adequate knowledge of the basics of blues guitar, but his music lacks something critical, soul, maybe, or real feeling. The music was certainly very blue at the Blues Angel last night.
Rafe folded the paper back up and threw it down next to his chair.
"He didn't even say your name!” Blind Pete looked exhausted and sick, so weak that Deke could hardly believe this was the same old man who put that bottleneck slide on his finger last night.
"That may not be a bad thing since he said I couldn't play for shit."
"You want me to talk to him, Rafe?"
"Don't worry about it, Uncle Pete. I could never play good enough for him, no matter what I did."
"You make that man mad?"
"Yeah, I did."
"Rafe, listen, I need to talk to you. I'm real sick now, but I don't want you to worry. It's been coming on a long time. I know you're a grown man now, son, but if you can, try and keep James from finding out about how you are. About how you don't like girls. You just how the angels made you to be, I know that, but I think he'll take it hard. He's real upright, is James, and he seems to be getting more so, the older he gets. You talk to Blue Otis about this. He's been worried about you.” Blind Pete was sounding weaker, and his hands had closed into fists on the sheets like he was trying to hold on to something.
Rafe picked up the paper and handed it to Deke. “Uncle Pete, you remember that reporter came to the club yesterday? Deke Davis? He's here to see you.” Deke thought there was a little note of warning in Rafe's voice.
"He's here to see me?"
"Sure he is. Aren't you the greatest living blues guitar?” Rafe eyes were full of tears, and he turned abruptly and went to the window.
"How are you, Mr. Watson? They giving you your insulin and..."
"I'm dying, that how I'm doing. I'm laying up here killed.” His voice was getting fainter, slurring, so Deke had to lean over the bed to hear him. “That stupid bitch has killed me. I'm glad she's dead. She's killed me, and I killed her. That's only fair."
Deke jerked upright. He felt like he had a bare electrical wire jammed against his stomach. He looked over to see if Rafe had heard what Blind Pete said, but he was standing at the window, looking out over a rainy gray city, his hands on his hips.
Deke looked back down at Blind Pete. He was sleeping, or unconscious, the breath whistling out between his lips. Had he really just said ... Deke walked over and joined Rafe at the window, put his hand on the back of Rafe's neck.
"I forgot for a little while that you were a reporter, Deke. It felt like a kick in the stomach to see your story in the paper this morning, with those pictures of Leona. I sure would appreciate it if you would not do anything to hurt those old men."
Deke looked down at him, but he was only getting the profile. Rafe wouldn't look at him.
"You knew I was a reporter when I walked in the door. But I wasn't looking for a story written all over your skin last night. I didn't kiss your mouth, trying to get you to spill your secrets. That what you think? That's bullshit, and you know it."
Rafe turned those eyes on him. His face was tired, smudged gray making the color bluer. Deke reached out and kissed him again, tasting something sweet, heard his guitar for a brief second, and when Rafe would have pulled away, Deke held them close for one more taste. “I'll come find you later, Rafael."
Rafe nodded. “I'll be here, or back at the club."
Deke handed him a card with his number at the paper, his home phone scribbled on the back. “Call me if anything happens."
Rafe took the card, wouldn't look up at him, and Deke sighed. “I mean if you need me, Rafe. If you need to talk to me.” He ran his fingers down Rafe's cheek, hoping for one more glimpse of blue eyes.
Rafe smiled up at him, and Deke felt something liquid hot slide down into his belly. “If I need you?” Rafe reached up and ran his callused thumb over Deke's bottom lip, and Deke had Rafe backed against the wall almost before he could think, tongue in his mouth and thigh shoved hard against his cock, and it was all he could do not to take a big hard bite out of that soft mouth.
"Come stay with me tonight.” Rafe hesitated, and Deke kissed him again. “Don't make me come running after you like some love-sick puppy, Rafe, Rafe, wait up, wait for me and I'll suck your cock..."
And Rafe was all over him, grinding against him like a horny fool, banging up against the wall of Blind Pete's hospital room.
Rafe pushed him away. “Okay, later. Come get me later.” And Deke stumbled out of the room, ducked into the men's bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror, at the golden brown skin and dark eyes, couldn't imagine what would make Rafael Hurt look at him like he
was a starving man, couldn't imagine what would make him reach out with both hands and hold on.
* * * *
Deke went down into the paper's basement vaults by the back staircase. From the dirty look Mr. Hurt the senior gave him as he left the Blues Angel this morning, Deke had a feeling Mr. Bruce Charters would be looking for him. But before he figured out what to do about what Blind Pete had said at the hospital, he needed to know two things: Why had Blue Otis been sent to prison, and why had someone put a blackjack against Rafael's head?
He spent hours combing through dusty old papers, getting nowhere. He didn't have any idea what year Blue Otis went up, or when he got out. He wasn't gonna call the prison. Even with his West Texas accent, no one would tell him anything over the phone. He leaned back in the chair, his neck stiff, watched the maintenance man change a light bulb that was burned out over his desk. This old man had come up from Mississippi years ago, and he spent all day ... Deke sat bolt upright.
"Jonas!"
It wasn't a good idea to startle a man working at the top of a ladder and Deke got a reproachful look before Jonas climbed down. The first time they'd ever met, Deke's first week at the paper, the old man had told him he was proud of him, being a reporter. Deke hadn't understood what he'd meant, but enough old black men had said that to him now that he understood. “Jonas, you listen to the blues?"
"Yes, sir, I do. I heard about that poor girl getting herself shot.” He hesitated. “What Elroy say true? About Blue Otis and Blind Pete and Mr. James Hurt getting to be too old to play?"
Deke shook his head. “Elroy is full of shit, and he just wanted to disrespect that new bluesman they brought up here."
"What, the white boy? He can't really play, can he? I can't believe that, a white boy."
"Oh, yes, he can play. With your eyes closed, you can't tell which of them has the guitar. Listen, Jonas. You don't know why Blue Otis got sent to jail, do you?"
The old man's face closed a bit. “Why you want to know? You ain't gonna write something like saying he did that girl, are you?"