Trin

by J. M. Snyder

  With a bitter laugh, Gerrick tells him, “He didn’t want me to leave but I’m a gunner, it’s in my blood. Later someone said I should’ve discussed it with him, let him down easy, but you know what? He knew what he was buying into. He knew damn well who I was. I didn’t have to tell him shit.” He throws Trin a hard look while his hands continue cleaning the gun, motions he’s performed so often that he doesn’t need to look them over. “I’ll tell you what happened, Trin. Straight up, no lies. I was out of the room most of my final day in Danac, checking on the truck and buying supplies, shit like that. I wasn’t even there with him, so how could it have been my fault? Tell me that, how could it have been me?”

  “What happened?” Trin isn’t sure he wants to know.

  “Fucker took my gun’s what happened.” Gerrick nods at the gun he holds, the other in his lap. “Right out of my bag. These things ain’t toys, kid. I don’t ride with unloaded pistols.” One hand smoothes over the gun barrel, wiping away the oil. The metal shines dully in the morning light. When Gerrick moves, the sheen winks at Trin, inviting. “Put it in his mouth, I guess. I don’t know, I didn’t find him. I was at the trump store down the street when I heard the shot. I knew it came from my gun, same way a mother knows the cry of her child in a roomful of kids. He pulled the trigger, though. Not me.”

  For a moment he sits there, silent, staring at the gun. Was it the one the boy used? Trin wonders. Or was that the one in Gerrick’s lap? Before he can think through what it is he means to do, he slips from the windowsill and crosses the room, his bare feet imperceptible on the hardwood floor. At Gerrick’s side he falls to his knees, the gunner’s clothing beneath him. “Gerrick,” he sighs.

  The gunner looks at him. The gun drops from his hands and then Trin’s in his arms, strong arms like a tourniquet wrapped tightly around him. “I’m not like him,” Trin whispers into the gunner’s shoulder. His own arms snake around Gerrick’s waist as large hands cup his face, forcing him to look into Gerrick’s eyes. Light eyes, like the sand. “I’m not,” Trin swears, “I promise. I know you have to leave, you’ll move on, I know that. But I just want you now, alright?” His chin crumbles, his eyes sting. His hands come up the gunner’s arms, feeling muscle beneath skin covered with downy hair, until they tighten around Gerrick’s wrists. “Maybe you’ll think of me out there, and who knows, one day? Maybe you’ll come back. Back here, to me.”

  Gerrick’s moustache tugs one corner of his mouth up in that smirk he has, the one that makes Trin’s heart flutter like a caged bird. Rough fingers rub the soft skin just below his jaw. “Maybe,” the gunner murmurs. Then he leans down to claim a kiss. Trin fists his hands in the gunner’s shirt as their lips meet. The hands hold him in place as an eager tongue licks into him, sealing the promise. Maybe.

  * * * *

  If Trin hoped their morning talk would charm Gerrick into stopping by the garage to see him at work, he was wrong. By mid-morning the only visitors Trin has are fat flies that buzz lazily around the trashcan beside his desk. The noise is enough to drive a person mad, a constant drone that penetrates everything. Despite the heat outside, Trin rolls the bay doors up, letting the sun slant into the garage to paint squares of bright yellow light on the concrete floor. He moves the trashcan just outside one of the doors and goes back to work on the trucks, but even beneath the hood he swears he can still hear the damn sound. He’d kill the flies if he thought it’d do any good but they’re like the undead. One falls and two more spring up in its place.

  Just in case the gunner’s watching, Trin works with his shirt off and his pants hanging down low on his hips. He imagines he feels fevered eyes on his back and ass when he leans into the engine cavity of Gerrick’s truck. As the day wears on, minutes counted with the tick of the flies, he slips into daydreams where warm arms encircle his waist and he steps back against a hard cock straining the front of the gunner’s pants. In his mind he sees Gerrick touch him, the sweat trickling down his back following the path of the man’s fingers along his spine. The higher the sun rises, the hotter he gets, until his pants chafe his erection with every move he makes. Vaguely he thinks of the cab of the truck, which must smell of the gunner’s musky scent, the windows rolled shut in this heat. What would it hurt to climb up behind the driver’s seat, unzip his jeans, let his hand take care of the ache that’s settled behind his balls and beats in time with his pulse?

  He’s reattaching the brake cables, already swinging up onto the running boards in his mind, when someone grabs the waistband of his pants and yanks it up. Pain shoots through his groin, his knees buckle from it, the bite of fabric in his crotch excruciating in the heat. As he twists free from those evil hands, he already knows who it is. “Aissa!” he cries. Giggles erupt around him like hot steam released from a geyser. “What the fuck—”

  She leans against the open hood of the truck. “You like it,” she says. She starts to hop up on the bumper but Trin punches her arm, knocking her off. “Don’t hit me. It didn’t hurt and you know it.”

  “I’ve got bruises now,” Trin replies. “Didn’t hurt you maybe, but I’ve got cargo down there.” To emphasize his point, he cups his sore dick, already limp. Any amorous thoughts he was mulling over before have evaporated like rain in the desert. Kicking at her, he pouts. “I’ll be sore all night.”

  “Oooh, sorry,” she laughs, sounding anything but. “There goes your fuck fest. Last time you’d get him, too, from what I’m hearing. They’re moving out tomorrow, did you know?”

  Actually no, he didn’t, but he won’t give her the satisfaction of being the one to break the news to him. “I know,” he mutters, pushing her away again. “Get the hell off the truck, Iss. How am I supposed to put it back together if you’re climbing all over it?”

  “Did he tell you he’s leaving?” she wants to know. Trin ignores her and turns towards the engine. “He didn’t, did he? Jeez, what is it you see in him anyway? So he’s hot as shit, big whoop. Blain says he’s a rover, Trin. He says the guy jumps from boy to boy like genital warts. He says—”

  “I know damn well what Blain says,” Trin interrupts, “thank you very much. Now if you’re through with your little tirade, maybe you can—”

  “Trin.”

  His brother’s voice catches the words in his throat. He looks past Aissa and she turns as Blain ducks through the back door into the garage. In one hand he carries a small paper bag, the top rolled down tight under his fist. For a moment he fills the doorway, blocking out the world behind him, then he starts down the short run of stairs, each step making him smaller and more mortal. As he crosses the garage, his gaze flickers from Trin to Aissa. When he reaches them, a frown already on his face, he asks her, “What are you doing out here?”

  “Bothering Trini,” she teases. One foot kicks out at him, connecting with his shin. Without thinking Trin punches her arm, a solid thock that makes his hand hurt. Aissa doesn’t even flinch. “I’ve done all my work.”

  “Then leave him to do his.” Blain jerks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that she should leave. “Go on.”

  She begins, “I’m not—”

  “You heard him,” Trin says. He picks up a nearby cloth and concentrates on wiping the grease off his hands so neither of them will see his grin. “Get out of here.”

  Aissa growls, “He’s talking to me.”

  “And I said, go on.” There’s only the slightest waver in Blain’s calm voice to hint at his growing irritation, but Aissa hears it and her mouth snaps shut like the clasp of a coin purse. From the corner of his eye, Trin sees her lower lip pooch out. Blain touches her elbow and she blinks quickly, pushes away from the truck, wipes at her eyes. His voice is softer when he says, “Let us alone a minute, won’t you?”

  She takes a deep breath and releases it in a sigh. “Sure.” Trin stares at the floor when she glances at him because he knows she’s looking for an excuse to hit him again. “I’ll be in the kitchens, I guess.”

  Trin waits until her footsteps ring on th
e stairs before he looks up. His brother is watching him, his face carefully neutral. Some tiny voice inside screams that Blain’s going to say something about that whole Danac business, he knows Trin was listening in this morning and he’ll want to know exactly what Gerrick told him about it. The truth, Trin thinks. He glances at his brother’s eyes, the bag in his hand, his face again. The kid killed himself because he didn’t want to lose his man and I understand that but he’s here now and I’m not that weak. I’m not going to let him just disappear into the wastelands without more than maybe from him.

  Aissa slams the door shut behind her as she leaves and Blain still doesn’t speak. Finally Trin tries on Gerrick’s smirk, leaning his hip against the front of the truck and turning the dirty cloth over between his hands. “Is she that obedient in the sack?” he jokes. Not that he cares—he just wants to lighten the mood. Suddenly more than anything he wants to see his brother smile.

  But Blain doesn’t. “I’m not going to discuss that with you,” he says in that no-nonsense manner of his. “You’re the last person who should be critical about who someone beds down with at night.”

  Trin lowers his head, chagrinned. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He makes sure it’s loud enough for Blain to hear so he won’t have to say it again. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Then let’s drop it.” Trin nods at his feet. With his chin, Blain points at the truck and wants to know, “How’s it coming along?”

  Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Trin shrugs. “Alright. What’s in the bag?”

  His brother sets the paper bag beside him. “Shocks,” he says. Trin looks up, surprised, and the way his brother looks back almost makes him want to admit he threw the others away. “She said you might need some to get this thing rolling. You’ll have it done tonight?”

  Trin admits, “Tomorrow maybe.”

  Blain’s lips tighten into a flat line. Trin readies himself for some kind of remark, why’s it taking so damn long this time or how about he starts to focus on his work, but Blain doesn’t get into that. Instead he frowns at the day beyond the bay doors and when he speaks, his voice is softer than Trin’s ever heard it before, even when addressing Aissa. “This can’t last,” Blain tells him. His eyes hint at pain twisting him up inside and his frown deepens. “You know that, kid. You’re old enough. So don’t let so much ride on him, he’s not worth it.”

  “I love him,” Trin says simply.

  But Blain shakes his head. “You don’t know him,” he replies. “You’re infatuated with the myth and that’s not who he is, trust me. I know, I’ve ridden with him.”

  Trin clenches his hands into fists, tightens his arms around his chest. His fingernails bite into his palms. “I know him, too, Blain. You’re the one who has it wrong. You can’t see what I can when we’re alone. You can’t see—”

  “I see well enough.” Blain whirls on him and Trin has to take a step back to be able to look up into his brother’s face, blotchy with anger. “In case you haven’t noticed, he’s not here. He pulls this shit all the time, can’t you get that into your brain?”

  Trin shrinks from the hand he raises but Blain reaches out and rests his heavy palm on top of Trin’s head. The fingers close on a hank of sweaty hair before sliding off to settle on the back of his neck. A shuffled step closes the distance between them. The hand on his neck is uncompromising and he can’t move away. “I’m not going to hit you, Trini,” Blain whispers, his voice like the roar of the wind through the wastelands. His brother leans towards him, pressing his forehead to Trin’s, his skin cool against Trin’s fevered brow. This close his eyes are the world, and Trin has to squeeze his shut. Blain’s breath tickles his chin when he speaks. “Much as I want to, just knock some goddamn sense into you, that’s not me and you know it.”

  “I know,” Trin sighs. He keeps his eyes shut because he doesn’t want Blain to see the contradiction inside him. You’re wrong, he thinks. He’s not how you say he is when we’re together and that’s what matters here, isn’t it? I’m all that counts.

  Blain’s voice is like velvet. “Trin.” Gentle but cloying in the heat of the day. “Look at me, kid.”

  Slowly, Trin obeys. How can he not? Tiny droplets of sweat bead on Blain’s upper lip—he stares at these instead of into his brother’s eyes. It’s too hot this close together but he can’t seem to find the words to ask if Blain will move away. Trin thinks he’ll push it, say in my eyes or you’re not listening but he is, listening with his whole body. Blain rarely touches him and this hand on his neck, this cool forehead against his own, this is more than he’s ever had. Did his father ever do this? Did his mother? He doesn’t think so. He’s never felt this, this safety, this love. What’s Blain going on about? Whatever it is, I’ll do it, Trin promises silently. Whatever you want, tell me and it’s yours. Please…his gaze flickers and he sees Blain’s eyes like a sphinx’s. He can’t stare into them for long.

  “You want a man in your pallet?” Blain asks. Trin doesn’t hear the words so much as feels them vibrate through him. “You pick anyone else, anyone at all, but Gerrick is only going to tear you apart. The longer he stays here, the worse it’ll get. He’s like a bee, kid, and he stings you ‘til you can’t see straight. Look at me.” Trin does, briefly, then focuses on the large coarse hairs in Blain’s eyebrows. “If you don’t get him out when you can, he’ll dig in deep, where it hurts, and he’ll leave you all torn up inside when he finally moves on. I know, I’ve seen it before. Don’t try to tell me he’s different now because men like him never change.”

  Trin’s chin trembles but he doesn’t dare speak. Blain waits, though, willing to hear him out, and when he doesn’t say anything, his brother steps away. The spell is broken, the hand drops from his neck, he’s free. Turning, Blain unrolls the top of the paper bag and dumps the shocks out into his hand. The usual gruffness is back in his voice. “So let’s get these trucks together, what do you say? Once he’s hit the run, he won’t be back, I reckon.”

  Because you keep him away. Now that his brother doesn’t have him in his sights, Trin can glare at him, his own anger simmering. “I don’t want just any man,” he mumbles. Blain stops and looks at him, amused. That only fuels him on. “I won’t settle for anyone else, I want him. So he’s fooled around in the past, what’s the big deal? I’m sure you fucked your fair share before Aissa.” Blain’s face darkens at that, but Trin hurries on. “I don’t care about all those other guys. I don’t care what happened before, because he’s spent the past two nights with me. Don’t you get it, Blain? With me.”

  His breath is harsh and ragged, and for a moment the expression on his brother’s face makes him wonder if he’s gone too far and now he’ll get one of those big hands smacked across his face. But he’s had it with everyone else knowing what’s good for him—what about what he wants? Blain keeps saying he’s old enough so why won’t his brother stay the hell out of this? Because I know the man, he’d say. That’s not good enough for Trin.

  When Blain does speak, though, there’s no malice in his words. “Two nights,” he says. Trin nods, petulant. Two nights is long enough. In this world it’s an eternity.

  Holding out his hand, Blain offers Trin the shocks. He takes them gingerly. When he starts to pull away, Blain’s fingers close around his wrist like a flytrap. He holds Trin firm in his grip, until he looks up. Blain’s eyes are terrible, like blue-black storm clouds gathering on the horizon. “But who has his days?” he wants to know.

  Trin has no answer to that.

  * * * *

  The day wears on. Trin refuses to think about where it is Gerrick might be at this particular moment, because then Blain wins. His brother wants to fill him with doubt and it’s just not going to work. The gunner may very well have a boy in every damn outpost between here and the coast but in Arens? Trin is sure that boy is him. All he has to do is be more than all the others, no problem. Fuck better, let Gerrick have his space, keep the door unlocked no matter how late he comes to him, and he’ll win
out in the end. What will Blain and Aissa say then? When the gunner is eating out of his hand and practically flying over the runs to get back to him?

  He won’t admit that the gunner’s disappearance bothers him. The man is busy, is all, has a hundred things to take care of before he rolls out. Tomorrow, though? So soon? Trin hoped to deter him at least a week or more—maybe the longer he stayed, the less he’d want to move on—but Blain changed all that. Damn him and his shocks. And while you’re at it, Trin thinks, securing the last bolt that holds the engine in place beneath the hood, damn Aissa for telling on me in the first place.

  But at least the trucks are done. Both of them, much as he wishes Gerrick’s was still in pieces strewn about the floor. If Aissa’s right and Blain gets his way, the gunner will be heading out sometime tomorrow. Trin doesn’t want to dwell on that. He won’t let his thoughts drift past tonight and the two of them in his pallet again. Since he closed the door to his room behind him this morning he’s wanted nothing more than to get back into Gerrick’s arms.

  As the light outside fades, Trin closes the bay doors and locks them shut. The trashcan he leaves to the flies, still tracing lazy circles in the late afternoon sun. His shirt hangs from one of the side mirrors of Gerrick’s truck, where he tied it to keep it from getting dirty, but now he uses the clean material to wipe the sweat and grease from his chest. On his way towards the back door he glances at the pump and almost stops. Blain put the pump there specifically so he wouldn’t clog the drains in the waystation with filth from the garage. But Trin’s blood hums with the thought of hot water beating down on him, and what if Gerrick’s back? It’s later than when he finished up yesterday…he can imagine the gunner sidling up behind him in the shower, hair and moustache slicked down, hands lathering soap onto Trin’s body. “I’ll wash up in the shower,” he says to no one in particular. In the empty garage, his voice has a hollow ring to it that makes him wish he hadn’t spoken out loud.