Dreamspinner Press Year Nine Greatest Hits

by Michael Murphy

  Trudy came back with drink orders for Jenn and her friend, but Terry took care of those. “What did they play?” Shane asked.

  “Well, grunge. Not original stuff. It was like a run-through of Nirvana’s and Soundgarden’s greatest hits, and it was bad. Singer couldn’t sing, guitarists couldn’t play, and the drummer had no sense of rhythm and couldn’t count to four. People started booing, and when the band kept on playing, the audience started throwing stuff. But either the bar had some overprotective bouncers or the band had some big, burly friends, because these huge guys started throwing punches. The crowd punched back, then stormed the stage. When the instruments got trashed, the band members joined in the melee. It was wild.”

  “What did you do?” Shane asked, finishing his drink.

  “I did my best to get the fuck out of there. Wasn’t easy getting to an exit, and I took a few stray hits, but I made it. But just then the cops were arriving, so I had to duck into a side street really fast and run like hell. That was the last time for a long time I listened to live music.”

  Shane smiled at him, but there was something troubled in his eyes. Maybe he was just tired.

  By one thirty, almost everyone was gone. The band had stopped playing some time ago, and they sat around one of the larger tables, drinking and munching on pizza they’d procured from Christ knew where. Everyone else was moving in slow motion. When Shane decided the band needed another round of soft drinks and water—they’d given up on alcohol some hours back—Jimmy emerged from behind the bar to help him carry the trays.

  “Thanks, honey,” Betty said when Jimmy handed her a glass.

  “You guys were really good. I enjoyed it a lot.”

  “Well, thank you. But you and your fella didn’t get a chance to dance.”

  Jimmy had never been a dancer, so he hadn’t minded, but Shane looked sad. “It’s okay. My dancing days are over.”

  Betty clucked her tongue. “No way. You just need something nice and slow and somebody real strong to hold you in his arms. And I think we can get you that much tonight, sweetheart.” She stood and motioned to one of her guitarists, a lady with long blonde hair. They spoke quietly as they walked to the little stage; Jimmy couldn’t hear what they said. The mics and amps were already turned off, but that didn’t matter. The blonde picked up her guitar and played a few notes, and then Betty began to sing.

  “Will you?” Shane asked, looking shy and a little nervous. Jimmy couldn’t say no, not even when he recognized the song. It was Patsy Cline’s “Crazy,” and Jimmy didn’t really want to dance to a song about a lover who leaves, but Shane took his hand and tugged him forward, and Jimmy went. Trudy and Terry followed.

  Jimmy felt awkward and unnatural. But then Shane embraced him, smelling of beer and wine and sweat, and it was all so goddamn familiar because Jimmy had been breathing in that scent for almost two weeks. Jimmy wrapped his arms around Shane’s lean, hard body and they began to move together. Maybe not gracefully, because Shane was stiff, Jimmy didn’t know how to dance, and they were both tired. But it was still good. It was, in fact, very fine indeed.

  “Haven’t done this in so long,” Shane whispered in his ear. “Me and Jesse used to—” His voice caught.

  Jimmy held him tighter and leaned his forehead on Shane’s shoulder. “This is nice.”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  When the song was over, Betty started another. Jimmy didn’t know this one, but it was sweet. It was about love too, but this time the lover was sticking around. And the tune allowed Betty to showcase the range of her voice, from throaty rasp all the way to soaring finale. Jimmy knew that nothing in the whole damn world had ever felt as good as Shane’s arms around him. For the span of a couple of songs, Jimmy was home.

  “Just one more,” Betty said when the second song was over. She whispered to her guitarist.

  But Shane went rigid as soon as the first few chords played.

  “What’s wrong?” Jimmy whispered, concerned.

  “I’m just… just worn out.”

  Jimmy recognized the song now—a ballad version of “I Walk the Line.” Johnny Cash. “Do you want to sit down?” he asked.

  Shane looked into his eyes for a long moment before shaking his head. “No. This is the pain where you gotta soldier on. Let’s do this last dance.”

  And they did, not pulling apart even after the last notes had echoed away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  IT WAS past three in the morning by the time Betty Diamond and her band left, the till was closed out, and the worst of the mess was cleaned up. “That’s good enough,” Jimmy announced, looking around.

  Trudy yawned and nodded. “Terry and I will come in and finish in the morning.”

  They all meandered through the saloon doors. Frank sat at the front desk, looking annoyingly chipper. “Great band tonight. The guests loved them.” He didn’t seem offended when all he got in return was exhausted nods. Then he focused on Jimmy. “Belinda says you should take most of the day off. She’s got someone else to help the guests check out.”

  “Me, probably,” Terry mumbled, but not as if he was upset by it. Then he and Trudy wished everyone good night and left through the front door.

  Jimmy started for his room, but Shane caught his arm. “Come to my place tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  They turned down the hallway to Shane’s apartment. As always, Shane’s place was messy. For a man who wore essentially the same thing every day, he had a surprising number of clothes scattered everywhere. In addition to the dirty dishes on the counter and the litter of empty takeout boxes, a large photo album sat on the couch. Shane saw that Jimmy noticed it. “My family made it for me after the accident. It was supposed to help me remember stuff.”

  “Did it?” asked Jimmy, who owned only one personal photograph—the one on his driver’s license.

  “Yeah, mostly. I never got back the last several weeks before the accident.” He shrugged and didn’t explain why he’d been looking at the album lately. It wasn’t any of Jimmy’s business, so he didn’t ask.

  “Let’s go to bed,” Shane said.

  With a minimum of nightly ablutions—Jimmy didn’t even have a toothbrush handy—they got ready. Shane put his hat on a shelf in the closet, and Jimmy carefully set his own clothing aside. He really liked the shirt Belinda had bought him. It must have been expensive. He wondered if he’d have occasion to wear such a nice shirt again.

  Shane clicked off the lights and they climbed into bed together. They each had a regular side, Jimmy realized with a start. Shane was always to Jimmy’s left, maybe so his weight would be on his better hip if he rolled to face Jimmy. Tonight, though, when Jimmy lay on his back, Shane scooted up close in the big bed, one arm and one leg flung over Jimmy, their heads tucked together.

  “Tonight was nice,” Shane said sleepily.

  “Yeah.”

  “Will you stay another day?” Shane’s sigh tickled Jimmy’s cheek. “Don’t mean to be pushy. I just… I do better when I can plan stuff. Surprises throw me off.”

  Jimmy thought about what that might be like, constantly struggling to impose order on a mind permanently disordered by the accident. It would be like standing aboard a storm-tossed ship, trying to keep a tall stack of cards neat and straight. “I get paid on Tuesday,” he said, a nonanswer that was as much of a promise as he was willing to give.

  Shane sighed again and kissed Jimmy’s shoulder. “Night.”

  A STRIDENT ringing startled them both out of sleep. “Wha?” Jimmy said groggily, his eyes bleary against the morning light.

  Shane almost fell out of bed. “Phone.” He stumbled around until he found last night’s jeans and then the phone in the pocket. He answered the call with an angry “What?”

  “You want a ride to the ranch today?” said a loud male voice on the other end. “I gotta come into town anyway.”

  “What time is— Jesus, Ty. It’s hardly past seven.”

  “I’ve been up since before d
awn.”

  “And I was up almost until dawn. Band last night.”

  There was a brief pause. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry, Shane. I forgot.”

  “’S okay. But I’ll skip the ranch this week.”

  “That’s cool. Go back to sleep, baby brother.”

  Shane grunted at him and ended the call. He dropped the phone onto his jeans and climbed back into bed. Because Shane’s bare skin felt chilly, Jimmy wrapped around him, spooning him from behind.

  “Sorry,” Shane said. “Shoulda turned off the ringer. But when they call and I don’t answer, they freak out.”

  Jimmy was slightly envious of the solicitude Shane got from his family, but he was also pleased and relieved that Shane had so many people looking out for him. So many people at his back. Jimmy wondered what would happen if he encountered his brothers now, after more than a quarter century had passed. Derek would be fifty, Devin and Donny in their late forties. They might have grandkids by now. When their mother died, Derek already had a felony record and a drug habit, but he could have straightened himself out. It was possible they’d spent years wondering what had happened to their youngest brother, and they might even be glad to see him.

  More likely, though, even if they were still alive, none of them had thought about their half brother in years.

  With a happy little murmur, Shane pushed back into Jimmy’s embrace. “Warm.”

  “Hmm,” Jimmy replied. He let his hand wander down Shane’s ribs, tracing over his hip and then down his long flank. Shane must have liked that, because he gave an appreciative little wiggle. Jimmy kissed the spot between his shoulder blades; the pale skin bore a constellation of freckles and tasted salty and good.

  As Jimmy’s cock began to harden against the cleft of Shane’s ass, Jimmy moved his hand forward, first stroking the soft skin near Shane’s hip, then wrapping around Shane’s lengthening shaft.

  “Good morning,” Shane moaned gently, rocking his hips.

  It was. Jimmy was still tired and even a little sore from the previous day’s activities, but he could still hear Betty Diamond echoing in his head as he and Shane danced. He’d spent all night with Shane in his arms and awoken to dance more intimately. As he released Shane’s cock—making Shane groan in protest—and moved his hand over belly and chest, he realized with a shock that he knew this body. Knew the play of muscle, skin, and bone; knew the ridges and divots of every scar; knew what touches would make his lover gasp and squirm. He knew Shane the way Shane knew Rattlesnake: the territory, the character, the bits of history. He knew Shane like home ground.

  He sucked on the cords of Shane’s neck while Shane reached blindly behind to press Jimmy’s pelvis closer.

  I could have this, Jimmy thought. Not forever—everything passed through his fingers eventually. But for a while. Through the spring and into the summer, when he and Shane might catch a cowboy movie at the park off Main Street, might make love again in that hidden spot at Lost River Ranch. Maybe until the fall, when the hills would turn crimson and gold and the nights would turn cool. And for all those months, Jimmy could have a job he enjoyed and good food and a clean warm bed and a good man to share that bed with.

  Well, but this was hope, wasn’t it? And Jimmy knew perfectly well what hope became: bitter ashes. Eventually Shane would see Jimmy’s true self and then he’d turn away in anger and disgust. And Jimmy… he couldn’t survive another turning away.

  So he’d have this morning only, and that was fine enough for a man like him. Later, when he was alone in another shit motel or shelter or on a park bench, he could remember this morning and the sensation of Shane Little moving against him.

  Under the heat of Shane’s comforter, a thin film of sweat sheened their bodies as they continued to rock and stroke and kiss. Jimmy slid his cock smoothly in the groove of Shane’s ass; he traversed the landscape of Shane’s body with his hand, always returning to the hard column of flesh at Shane’s groin.

  “God,” Shane said, shuddering under Jimmy’s caresses. “So good. But hold on.” With visible force of will, he rolled out of Jimmy’s arms and toward the edge of the mattress. He fumbled a moment in his nightstand drawer, eventually drawing out a foil-wrapped condom and a small bottle of lube. He rolled back and handed the items to Jimmy. “I want you so deep inside me I can taste you.”

  Shit. Jimmy’s hand shook a little as he poured some lube onto his fingers. The sheets would definitely need changing later. Now, though, he gently worked his fingers into Shane’s tight body. They hadn’t done this before—generally Jimmy preferred to bottom—but right now he was so eager to get inside Shane that his heart thudded wildly, and as he stretched Shane in preparation, Jimmy had to mentally calculate tile square footage for the bathroom in 105.

  He had such trouble rolling on the fucking rubber that Shane laughed and gave him a hand—which very nearly ended things right there.

  But eventually Shane was ready and Jimmy was ready—so goddamn ready—and Jimmy eased his way into Shane’s welcoming body.

  “Oh Christ,” Shane said.

  Jimmy froze. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Not hardly. Wasn’t that kinda oh Christ.” Shane took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s been a good long time for me, and you feel so good inside me.”

  With Shane on his side and Jimmy behind him, it wasn’t the best position for deep thrusts, not even when Shane bent his right knee to better accommodate him. But Jimmy moved slow and sweet, stroking Shane’s cock in tandem with his own movements, nipping and kissing the nape of Shane’s neck. He closed his eyes and bathed himself in other sensations—the feeling of Shane against and around him, the sexy little grunts and whimpers Shane made, the heady scent of Shane’s skin.

  “N-never… stop,” Shane rasped.

  Jimmy couldn’t promise that, not by a long shot. But he drew things out as long as he could, until his nerves burned like fire and Shane was so taut with need that every muscle stood in sharp relief. And then Jimmy finally let go, letting his climax rush through him so hard that he had to muffle a cry against Shane’s shoulder. The wave carried right over to Shane, sending him writhing under Jimmy’s touch.

  Neither of them truly wanted to separate after that, so they didn’t, at least not until they were breathing normally again.

  “Back to sleep?” Jimmy asked, although he was now wide-awake.

  “Nah. We both have the morning off—let’s not waste it. Will you walk with me while I take some photos?”

  “Sure.”

  They squeezed into Shane’s shower together. A tight fit, but neither minded. They didn’t have sex again, but they made out a little under the flow of water, and Shane moaned very satisfyingly when Jimmy shampooed his hair. Jimmy was going to dress in the previous night’s clothes, but Shane stopped him. “You can borrow mine.” He carefully chose a red T-shirt and pair of boxers from a pile on the living room floor. “Don’t worry, they’re clean.”

  They smelled like laundry detergent, so Jimmy believed him. “Why aren’t they put away?”

  “Are you calling me a slob, Jimmy Dorsett?”

  “Um….” Deciding words weren’t needed, Jimmy gestured at the surrounding mess.

  Shane just shrugged good-naturedly. “I can’t even blame the accident for this. I’ve always been messy. Used to drive Mom to distraction. And Jesse—” He stopped suddenly. “Your room is always spick-and-span.”

  “I don’t own enough stuff to make much of a mess.”

  “Yeah, but I bet even if you had a lot of shit, you’d keep it neat. Everything all tucked away exactly where it belongs.” He smiled.

  “Yeah, I guess so. Shane, who’s Jesse?” He’d been wondering that for a long time now but hadn’t intended to blurt out the question.

  Shane’s smile faded, and he looked at Jimmy gravely. After a moment he limped to the couch, picked up the photo album, and brought it back. He opened it to a page near the end. “That’s Jesse.”

  Jimmy’s eyes first went to Shane
in the photo. He was much younger, probably only a few years out of his teens, and much more muscular than now. He was smiling widely, but his face looked odd without the scars and with his nose perfectly straight and true. He leaned back against weathered red boards—the side of the Lost River Ranch barn, Jimmy believed—with one leg bent, the boot heel up against the wall. He was shirtless, his broad, unmarked torso deeply tanned. His head was turned slightly; instead of looking at the camera, he gazed at the man beside him.

  Jesse was in midlaugh, looking at Shane. He was several inches shorter and more lightly built, although his bare chest and arms showed he was no stranger to physical labor. His skin was several shades darker than Shane’s, his straight hair a glossy black, and his eyes deep brown. He had five o’clock shadow and a hairy chest. He was very handsome, although not as good-looking as Shane, Jimmy thought.

  “I don’t remember that picture being taken,” Shane said quietly. “It was a couple of weeks before the accident.”

  “You two look happy.” That was not what he was thinking. What he was thinking was that Jesse was a miserable bastard for bailing on Shane when Shane was in bad shape. Well, it was Jesse’s loss, because Shane had come out of that harrowing experience as one fine man.

  “Let’s go for that walk,” said Shane.

  “Okay. Want breakfast first?”

  “Not unless you do. I figured we could go to Mae’s on the way back.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  This early, the air would still be chilly. Jimmy was going to fetch his jacket, but Shane chuckled and opened the closet door. Four identical blue plaid Pendleton shirts hung on hangers.

  “I guess you like that shirt,” said Jimmy.