A Gorgeous Mess

by Layla Wolfe

  “Oh, no, Anson!” cried Ormond. He had a warning hand on my shoulder, pressing me away without much urgency. “It is okay! You do not need to prove anything to me! I know I should value myself more. You do not need to prove—ah!”

  I sank down on the limb, surprised to find I could inhale only about half the amount Ormond did. But the buttery feeling of the velvet head against my tonsils somehow tickled the hunger urge in me, and soon I was hoovering that dick like the best of them. I had a thousand examples stuck in the back of my brain, a thousand blowjobs I’d been on the receiving end of. I knew innately which moves I’d always enjoyed the most, what had blown my mind, what had never failed to shove me over the edge. I was an expert on the receiving end of cocksucking.

  So I made animal, snarling, gorging sounds as I sucked the cock. It was a fresh, exciting feeling, every sense wide open as I sucked, licked, inhaled, and nibbled. I had only sucked one cock in my life, way back when I was still a developing teen, experimenting around with preferences. It was on one of my hitch-hiking trips back from Pure and Easy, another vain attempt to see my dad that only wound up in a massive party with The Bare Bones, younger guys like Gollywow and Ziggy—now deceased. Some older guy had given me a ride. He kept fiddling with his dick while talking about how wonderful blowjobs were. I was no ninny, but I assumed he wanted to blow me. That’s what guys usually wanted, and that’s what I usually gave—or sold, depending how desperate they were to give a tongue job. Why not? How else did inexperienced teens get spending money?

  So I fondled my own youthful hard-on, and the guy pulled over, but boy, what a shocker. He whipped his dick out, a little stick in its nest of grey twigs, and he grasped me by the back of the neck. “Get down on it, boy. That’s it. Suck your daddy. Show your daddy how much you appreciate him. Show your daddy how glad you are for his guidance and power, his control over you. Come on, son. Say ‘please, father, I’d like to suck your big penis.’ Suck your father like you mean it.”

  I had, not wanting to rock the boat. You know how teens haven’t developed a self-respect that tells them when a boundary is being pushed. I spat out the gross wad, and he gave me a good tip, but maybe that’s why I’d developed a dislike for dick-licking. This old, smelly guy and his daddy dom issues had ensured that I knew my path from then on, as sure as the sun knows where to set. It took me awhile to develop my particular taste for dark-skinned, dusky gym bunnies or even pups. That only came after years of distilling my particular bents, narrowing down the playing field, ruling out what absolutely didn’t blow my mind.

  And what a world of difference between that distasteful experience and now, as I pistoned my head up and down while thrusting Ormond’s delicious boner down my throat. His hand on my shoulder grew weaker in its resolve to push me away, and soon he set to sighing like the harmattan winds through a ship’s sails.

  “Ah…Anson…ah…Anson…”

  I wanted to pop a ball into my mouth and swirl it around, but I didn’t want to lose any momentum, and I was still aware of the danger that hovered over us. If anything, the danger made it sexier, more immediate and erotic, doing what I was doing in a public place. Not only was Iceman sitting around not far above our heads inhaling volatile organic compounds, but that sicario wasn’t far behind us, either. It wouldn’t take an experienced tracker to find us.

  So I put my inept all into the cocksucking, and soon was rewarded by a bellyful of come. Ormond spewed his load down my throat, and I surprised myself by gulping it eagerly. After that nasty roadside experience as a teen, I hadn’t bothered tasting another man’s semen, but suddenly it was ambrosia of the gods, squirting straight from Ormond’s bouncy testicles. I worried his sweet slit with the tip of my tongue, causing him to gasp and jump, coaxing the warm tangy stuff to jet into my mouth.

  I sort of fell back onto my boots, just collapsed there, panting. I wiped my mouth with my forearm more out of surprise than disgust. It was something to look up and see that commanding, pulsating cock jutting from his black leather chaps. Ormond clutched the soil of the wall behind him as though he was bound to a St. Andrew’s cross undergoing the torment of the damned. I could see the tremor in his thighs vibrating the leather hide, his feet spread wide, always accommodating, always docile. Even in my subservient cocksucking position, I remained the Dom in control, because Ormond was completely at my mercy. I realized all this with a pleased shock.

  Then we had to go, so I snapped out of my reverie, leaping to my feet. Despite my hard-on that could break a plate, business took priority. “You okay?”

  His sooty lined eyes were dreamier than I’d ever seen. “S¡, señor. Estoy a su servicio.”

  I didn’t use much Spanish in my line of work, but I was pretty sure he was saying something like “I am at your service.”

  “Come on.” I jiggled his shoulder to remind him where he was, and began trudging off myself. It wasn’t exactly something any man looked forward to, ending this worthless blond-haired biker. I knew he was just some vermin that had to be eliminated. Once gone, life would be infinitely easier. I knew all that. I really had no option in the case. Still, it was never something a man eagerly looked forward to.

  I kept Ormond a half a step behind me by holding my arm out stiffly. In this way, I was the first to round the corner of the hill and spy the trailer. From the chemical stench of acetone hanging in the dry air, I reckoned it was the cinderblock toilet building they were using for a cook house, not the RV twenty yards away.

  We just stood there, barely daring to breathe, for what seemed like infinity.

  A giant stack of empty cans of toluene, paint thinner, and ether were piled alongside the cinderblock house. It was as though they’d finish with a can, then just tilt it out the high screenless window. At least they have a window for ventilation, I thought. At least Brick might be able to somewhat breathe.

  Almost as I thought this, the metal industrial door of the cinderblock house opened and little Brick trudged out. He was clad in a rubber apron with rubber globes up to the elbows, and someone had even thoughtfully provided him a gas mask. But he didn’t even have a Tyvek suit on over his T-shirt, now with a Metallica logo.

  When Ormond gasped, that’s when I saw the fucking shackles around Brick’s ankles. He was fucking trudging and clanking, literally a fucking prisoner of the mad crew boss Iceman! He clanked as he carried his beaker to the RV, his “home” where they probably stored yet more chemicals.

  I shared a look with Ormond. He’s a fucking prisoner. Then I got Brick’s attention.

  Brick saw me. I made an exaggerated show of putting my index finger to my lips in a ssssh motion. Brick looked from me to the toilet house, from me to the toilet house. He pointed slightly with the beaker at the cinderblock building. With a giant sweep of my other arm, I indicated he should go into the RV. He did, clanking away in his bare feet.

  I moved in.

  Motioning Ormond to stay put, I dashed forward. Brick had left the door open to the cinderblock house, probably for ventilation. I had just a split second view of Iceman as he stood at a counter, also in a rubber apron and gas mask, mixing shit up. He turned his head so he faced me, like an automated Disneyland figure. His ice blue eyes were round, innocent, and shocked behind the safety glasses as I squeezed off a round directed at his jugular. That would be safer than his chest, where he might be wearing a bulletproof vest.

  All the rest took place in just a fraction of a second. Iceman’s arms flailed up, his beaker and a hose went flying, and then the giant white ball of the flash point blinded me. I recoiled automatically, arm over my head, so I didn’t see the exact sequences of events. It was just your average explosion, albeit hugely spectacular due to the heavy cement cinder blocks. The corrugated roof blew like a manhole cover and wound up somewhere far off. But the cement block walls, they all sort of jumped a couple feet in the air, expanded outward a bit. Shit flew from the tiny windows. Beakers, a pressure cooker, mason jars, pill bottles that became rockets when propelled, all
sorts of shit exploded out of the fissures in the building.

  I was even knocked back by the force of the blast, and it seemed to me that the RV was lifted up on its tires. Wow. I had not expected that sort of explosion. What turned out to be a handful of batteries had zipped past my head, embedding themselves in the siding of the motor home.

  Now shit was falling to earth. My forearm fended off a shredded box of rock salt, and a cast iron frying pan thunked down in the soil next to me like a meteorite. Spinning around, I saw Brick standing at the top of the RV stairs. Slowly removing his gas mask, he was open-mouthed with awe.

  “Is there anyone else up here?” I asked. I know, a bit belatedly. There could’ve been another kid inside the cinderblock house.

  “No one,” said Brick, dazed. A slow smile crept over his mouth. “Man! That was the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen!”

  I approached the kid. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Wasn’t expecting it to be that…awesome.”

  “Iceman’s been experimenting with cooking shatter, that’s why. I’m doing the Blue Angel, but he’s been fucking around with butane making shatter.”

  “Shatter?”

  “Yeah, you know. Hash oil. It’s a thin sheet like glass, an extract of marijuana. Easy to transport and sell, much more valuable. But you must’ve hit one of his cans of butane. Man! Do I feel high just from breathing that shit, like all my brain cells are popping.”

  “About that. You’re coming with us. You don’t have any fucking say in the matter, Brick. We’re the new boss in town now. This is our turf, and you obey us.”

  “Sure. But who are you?” He eyed my cut, my patches.

  I nodded my head with authority. “The Bent Zealots out of Rough and Ready.” I held out my hand. “So come. Now. We don’t have much time.”

  “No tan rápido.” Not so fast.

  Spinning back around, I was confronted with a sight that made my bowels turn to water.

  Boris the sicario stood behind a kneeling Ormond. Ormond’s jaw was in the hit man’s claw, and the barrel of his automatic was shoved against Ormond’s temple.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ORMOND

  Ormond hadn’t expected the cinder block house to blow all to shit like that.

  He’d heard stories of meth labs exploding, of course. It was entirely a possibility the second a spark of any kind was introduced to that flammable environment. Ormond had been responsible for a few exploding cowls and head pieces in his special effects studio, for sure.

  But he was pretty sure he yelled “Joder!” Fuck! when the roof came off the damned shack.

  The next thing he knew, he was blown backward. He was smashed flat on his back with his arms splayed out. He was completely unprepared when a giant pancake of corrugated iron smashed him like an insect specimen.

  He was flattened, pure and simple, pinned to the earth with the heavy piece that was maybe fifteen or twenty feet square.

  “Hijo de puta!” Son of a bitch! Then a searing pain that was so horribly strong it almost blinded him shot through his right thigh. Broken bone. One of the two by fours that held up the shed’s roof must have bashed his femur bone.

  As the blinding pain shot through Ormond’s head, he squeezed his fists tight. He thought he was squeezing soil, but a sinking feeling added to his emotional mix when he realized he gripped hair. Was he fucking hanging onto Iceman’s scalp?

  I’ve got to get out of here. Shit raining from the sky still bashed the corrugated iron, so he had to wait for that to finish. When it did, he heard Anson talking in his low, mumbly voice to someone, obviously Brick from the lack of urgency in his voice. Ormond didn’t want to interrupt Anson’s confab with the kid. He could move the iron sheet off his body, broken leg or not.

  So he did, raising his torso, releasing the scalp from his fist. His entire world turned upside-down when the iron was lifted for him. He’d been putting his all into lifting it, when it came away with no effort on his part, he nearly tumbled over again.

  Looking up into the sun, Ormond blinked. Anson’s silhouette loomed large and manly. “Thanks, buddy. I hate to fucking say but I think I broke my leg. Give me a hand up and I’ll limp down the hill.”

  “Oh, boo fucking hoo,” said the silhouette, who Ormond was starting to suspect was not Anson. Had Iceman somehow made it through the blast, minus his scalp? Ormond knew people in the old west, after being scalped, didn’t necessarily die. Now the black figure came toward him and kicked him in the thigh. “So sorry for that.”

  The pain was so blinding Ormond doubled over. There was no room for a single thought in his brain. He knew someone’s arm was around his throat, attempting to lift him, but he would not be lifted. His torso had coiled into a sort of statue of pain, a dense marble knot of agony. Lifting him by the jaw only lifted his entire tense body.

  “No tan rápido.” Not so fast.

  This must be that hit man. Like Anson predicted, he followed us.

  “I’ve got your little boyfriend,” called out Boris in a singsong voice. “You just killed my crew boss, esé. Maybe I kill your little boyfriend.”

  Ormond knew that the hard thing pressed to his temple must be a gun barrel. Suddenly, he didn’t care. His whole life he’d wondered what he’d do under such circumstances. Now, the pain in his leg made him care about nothing else.

  Everything was so unreal. He’d known when he’d pledged to The Bent Zealots that he’d wind up in some tough, rough situations. He’d always carried a piece because being a gay biker in the southwest states didn’t exactly endear him to anyone. But he’d never had to pull it on anyone.

  Now, someone had gotten the jump on him. He’d been clutching his piece when the explosion occurred, but suddenly he wasn’t holding a gun grip but a fucking rival club member’s fucking scalp. He had no idea where his piece had gone. Besides, Boris had the jump on him. It was Ormond’s bad. He had blown it big-time.

  “No tan rápido.”

  It was Anson saying “not so fast” this time. Ormond’s eyes adjusted to the bright sun. Anson loomed larger than life now, standing on some sort of rock. Ormond could now see the vast differences between Anson’s built, carved figure, and the sicario’s weedy one. A guy didn’t need to be built to shoot people in the head, just ruthless, heartless, and sick. The kid Brick stood on the RV steps, one manacled foot on a lower rung than the other, as if he’d been in the process of heading toward Anson.

  “Not so fast, sicario. You don’t hold all the fucking cards. I’ve got something you want.”

  The sicario scoffed. “What, the cook house? You blew it to kingdom come, along with my crew boss.”

  Anson said, “You don’t want to work with those loser Hellfires anyway. They lie, they cheat, they stab you in the back. This isn’t even their backyard—it’s ours. The Bent Zealots.”

  A surge of pride rushed through Ormond’s chest to hear his club name spoken in that context. Regardless of who died here today, The Bent Zealots name would ring through the streets.

  Boris removed the barrel from Ormond’s temple in order to wave it around. “I don’t care whose turf it is, esé. Me cago en todo lo que se menea! You need to tell me what you can do for me. What you have that I want.”

  “Me,” said Anson, plain and simple. Ormond was so stunned he forgot the searing pain in his leg. Anson stepped forward. “You let this harmless little kid and my injured partner go, you can have me. Won’t it be a lot cooler to tell your boss you picked off a big, bad mercenario than a feeble makeup man? That’s what Ormond here does. He applies makeup to Hollywood stars.”

  “Really?” said Boris, seemingly intrigued. “Anyone famous?”

  Ormond could hear Anson rolling his eyes. Of course Ormond had transformed a few big Hollywood names in his time. Just not the type a cartel hit man had probably heard of.

  So he said, “Brad Pitt. Angelina Jolie.”

  “Really?” cried Boris. “Angelina Jolie? Puta madre! Esa chica es una preciosidad!”

 
“She’s beautiful, all right,” Ormond agreed, without enthusiasm.

  “Listen here, sicario.”

  “My name is El Viceroy.”

  “El Viceroy. My name is Anson Dineyazzie. I’m half-Navajo, a Pretendian. I’m the one who was sent out to get you, to put a stop to this operation. Ormond here just came along for the ride. Let him go, along with this kid, and you can do what you want with me. Shoot me, stick me in your trunk, take me to your leader, what have you. Anything. Just let these two go.”

  El Viceroy’s voice was full of caution. “Throw down your Ruger.”

  Anson did so, tossing it almost soundlessly to the sand.

  “Kick it farther away.”

  Anson did so.

  Only then did El Viceroy release his hold on Ormond’s jaw. Ormond was allowed to slump to the ground, just barely holding himself up on his forearms. He looked at Anson, forlorn. He couldn’t allow Anson to make this enormous sacrifice.

  “Let him take me, Anson. I’m not nearly as valuable as you are. I’m just a goddamn makeup artist.”

  “Too late, Ormond,” Anson barked, as though tired of hearing about it. “Just accept the fact that no one wants you. Or this stupid kid.” Grabbing Brick’s arm, Anson jerked him in Ormond’s direction. The kid stumbled along, evidently reminding Anson to say, “Release him from his shackles.”

  “I don’t have any key, esé. Must’ve been in that cook house you exploded.” El Viceroy edged sideways toward Anson as the kid joined Ormond. Great. Two cripples who can’t even make a getaway. Anson had sacrificed himself for fucking nothing. El Viceroy picked up the piece Anson had chucked, shoving it down the back of his pants.

  Ormond just had to pray Anson had an idea up his sleeve.

  El Viceroy shoved Anson up the three stairs that led to the RV. Anson was able to share a look with Ormond, but Ormond didn’t know how to interpret it. He thought Anson made a slight thumbs up signal.