by Tom Graham
Tom was still and silent, letting him do what he wanted, and Zeke was desperate enough to let that be enough. Then, without warning, the body against his came alive, Tom rubbing back against him, his hand sliding to undo the buttons on Zeke’s trousers, finding his cock, and wrapping around it.
Zeke cried out, and suddenly it was Tom’s tongue fucking his mouth, that hand working him just like he needed, holding his flesh tight and stroking good and hard. He wormed his own hand into Tom’s pants, just sort of holding the hard prick he found there, too far gone to give back properly at the moment.
It didn’t take long, the danger, the heat, even the dust making it all too much, and Zeke groaned as he spent, heat spilling up over Tom’s hand, making the space between them smell like sex.
For a moment, Zeke’s body went lax, but Tom still kissed him hard, and he got the message. He tugged on Tom’s cock, the hot silky skin sliding along his palm, the rough cotton of Tom’s uniform against the back of his hand. He’d held his own cock plenty, but he’d never felt anything as fine as Tom’s cock and it made him go hard again.
He grabbed hold of Tom’s tongue with his lips, sucking hard as his hand worked that pretty cock, wanting Tom to feel as good as he did. Tom moved like a racehorse against him, his body pushing that hot prick through Zeke’s hand. Tom was almost as quick off the mark as he’d been, cock throbbing, the head expanding and getting so hard, and then the smell of sex grew stronger as heat flowed over Zeke’s hand.
They lay collapsed together, breathing each other in, Zeke turning it into a soft kiss every time another bullet shot near them. The bullets were coming less frequently now, though, and Tom nudged him. “Best get cleaned up, Zeke. ’Fore anyone notices.”
Zeke kissed Tom one last time, then nodded, putting a little space between them so he could wipe his messy hands in the dirt and do up his pants.
Tom did the same, making a face. “We look like we been to the cathouse.”
Zeke took a good look at Tom, liking the way Tom’s lips were kind of swollen from their kissing. He reached out and smudged some dirt at the corner of the soldier’s lips, then shook his head. “Nope. We look like we’ve been hiding in the dirt, hoping we don’t get killed.”
The bullets had stopped, and the other soldier called to them. “You boys still in one piece back there?”
“Yes, sir,” Tom yelled back.
“All right, Tom. Grab your horse and get down to Jefferson. I’ll follow soon as I know the shooting’s done.”
They crawled out from under the bench, and Zeke thought they were a right mess, both of them covered in dirt. He tugged Lightning up, the horse still wet. “You give him a good wipe-down for me?”
“Yeah, I can do that. I got Silver Penny for you to ride on to Fort Washington with. He’s good and rested.” Tom stopped him a moment. “We shouldn’t do this again,” he said, just like he always did.
Zeke nodded, just like he always did.
They made it to the other end of the pass without any trouble, and Zeke climbed onto Silver Penny, checking to make sure he still had the letter safe in his mailbag, thinking maybe he should have checked that sooner. It was there, though, so he closed his bag back up, took a long drink from his canteen, and settled in, taking hold of the reigns.
“Good luck,” murmured Tom, and Zeke nodded at him. “Ride like the wind.”
“I will. See you around, Tommy.”
Zeke adjusted his hat and pulled his bandana back up over his mouth and nose. He kicked his feet, and off he went, low over Silver Penny’s back, the thump of the horse’s hooves the only sound.
DAYLIGHT’S BURNING
Dallas Coleman
Certain folks deserved to die slow painful deaths: anyone who fed the horses spoiled feed to give ’em colic, any asshole who worked up at the bank, any jackass that would give a sixteen-year-old a new Mustang. Top of Terrell’s list right now was a rude bastard who’d called his cell from an unknown number at…Christ…3:15 A.M. After he’d been drinking.
“You’d better be dyin’, whoever you are.”
“Shit, you ain’t no nicer than you ever been, Terr. See if I call you again to let you know I’m driving through.”
Well, he’d be damned. “Darrell McBride. Lord, son. Don’t you know what time it is?”
Terrell rubbed his eyes a little as he sat up, back and neck creaking like old tack. Lord, he was fuzzy as shit.
“Yeah. I know,” Darrell said. “I got to be in Mesquite at two. Reckoned I’d drive straight through, but I needed gas, and hell, Terr, I just got a wild hair to call. You wanna come out and have a cup of coffee or something?”
Terrell’s belly went tight as a fence wire, and he nodded, near doubling over with it. Yeah. Or something. With them, it was always something. Shit. “Sure, cowboy. You over at the truck stop?”
“Yeah. I got me a room and everything. I’ll order us both a cup.”
“Gimme ten and I’ll be there.” Terrell slapped his cell phone shut and fumbled through the piles of Wranglers on the floor to find the one that wasn’t walking on its own. Christ, he needed to go make eyes at Aunt Lonnie, see if she wouldn’t take pity on a man and run him a couple loads of jeans. He tugged them on and grabbed his boots with his toes as he ran the shaver over his jaw. Not that he was gonna shave real good, or open the Old Spice, for Darrell, but he’d take the bristles off and brush his teeth, just in case someone saw him.
His mama hadn’t raised no scum.
He still had two shirts in dry-cleaning bags and a brand-new undershirt, so he was gold, buttoning with one hand as he shoved his wallet in his back pocket with the other. “Molly, Winchester, y’all watch the trailer. I’ll be back in time for kibbles.”
Two tails thumped, Molly’s saggy ol’ bloodhound eyes opening long enough for Winchester to fart and roll over, the damn mutt trying to kill them all. Right. That was Terrell’s cue to get the hell out.
There wasn’t a hint of traffic on I-30, barring the semis barreling along, and even the truck stop was real quiet. ’Course, it was a Tuesday, wasn’t it, and most decent folk were either sleeping the sleep of the righteous or filling their Mr. Coffees and thinking about getting to work. Darrell’s Chevy was new; Terrell wouldn’t have known it was his, except for that ol’ trailer hooked up to it. Cowboy must be doing okay for himself, to afford that big thing.
Terrell settled his cap down solid and headed in. He wasn’t gonna spend good time thinking on what was and what wasn’t. Not all of them were made for busting ass on the back of a half-mad critter. Some folks had a home, damn it, family. Kids. A boss and shit. A life…
Darrell stood up from the smoking section, Stetson hanging from the hook beside the booth, black eyes shining like buttons, face tanned as good as leather, shit-eating grin twisted where the Marlboro dangled from it. Goddamn. Hell, yeah. So fine.
“I’ll be damned.” Darrell grinned. “Look what the cat dragged in.” A big ol’ hand took Terrell’s and shook it good and firm.
“I swear, Anderson, you got yourself a deal with the devil, to stay looking twenty.”
“You know it, son. Clean living and shit’ll age you every time.”
They sat, boots shuffling a little before they each found their spots, the dark brown cups already filled and steaming, a plate of eggs and toast three-quarters ate up on the table. “Well, then, you’re fucking safe, Terr. You’ll be kill ’em dead pretty in the grave.”
Oh, yeah. Pretty. Him. “You know it, you homely bastard,” Terrell grinned. So how’s the circuit treating you, cowboy?”
“Good. Real good. I’m looking toward Vegas, right enough. You still roofing?”
“Doin’ drywall and shit for Adam and Pete,” Terrell said. “They’re twins from down the road. Bought out Buck after that heart attack.” He grabbed his coffee and drank deep, knowing Darrell didn’t give a flying fuck about Buck or Adam or what he was doing with his days. Hell, he knew Darrell like he knew his own hands. Everything was the next
ride with that boy. “Coffee’s good.”
“Well, it ain’t Coors, but I can’t get that this time of night.”
Darrell was just watching him, staring into him like he had IDJIT tattooed on his forehead, or AGGIE, which’d be worse. It made him itch, made his balls crawl up and twist some. Made him hard as Chinese algebra. Bastard.
“I’m thinking beer ain’t what you were hunting in this neck of the woods,” Terrell said. No sense playing cat and mouse. If Darrell intended to make Mesquite in the afternoon, the man would need to be on the road by eight, and if Terrell didn’t feed the mutts by nine, Molly’d eat his sofa. That didn’t leave long for small talk.
“Terr, thinking ain’t never been your strong suit.”
He grinned as Darrell lit up, took a long slow drag, and blew the smoke from that big-assed gee-my-granddaddy-was-an-Indian nose. Fuck, he was still sexy as all get-out.
“Kiss my ass, man,” Terrell said. “Last time I checked, you weren’t in the running for the Nobel Prize.” He damn near choked on his Joe when one pointed boot toe slid up his leg, nudging. “Careful, now,” he warned.
“I ain’t got time for careful, Terr. I been thinking on you, on the last time I drove through. Took me right on through ’til Denver, that time.”
Oh, hell yes. Those words crashed into Terrell’s belly, and if he put his coffee cup down a little too hard, no one was saying. “You said you got a room?”
“I did.” A ten-spot landed on the table, and Darrell grabbed his hat. “Come on, then. Time’s wastin’.”
Terrell stood up, towering over Darrell some, liking how he looked wide and broad as the side of a barn next to that tight little butt. He was thinking Darrell might be liking it too, the way the man’s biceps went taut and the click-clack of them fancy silver-toed boots sped up toward the stairs.
The room wasn’t nothing—never was—but it was clean enough, and the bed was right there, along with a little table for a good hat. That hat went spinning about the second Terrell got the door shut and latched, bumping the little lamp they wouldn’t turn on. Darrell’s hands landed on Terrell’s chest with a thud that rocked him, had him bending down to slam their mouths together with a need that squealed and crashed like two semis tying up on the interstate.
Good thing Terrell knew how they were together, how they went off like Saturday night specials in a goat-roper’s pocket. He got his shirt unbuttoned fast enough that Terrell didn’t tear it, but it was a close thing, those rope-rough hands tugging like he was new corn on the stalk. He went for that pretty buckle, damn near sliced his finger on the thing.
“Motherfucker.” Damn, that stung.
“Less talking, asshole. I need.” Darrell caught his ankle with a boot heel, gave him a good hard shove that had him toppling onto the bed, right on his ass. That asshole was strong for a little banty-rooster fuck.
He’d have bitched too, if it hadn’t felt so good, if Darrell’s hand hadn’t landed with a dull thud on his Johnson and set to rubbing, working him right through the denim. Given the situation, he just nodded and spread like a practiced whore, hips pushing right up as he pulled those too-pretty-for-a-man lips down again. When they got finished tonight, those lips’d be swollen and raw or he’d eat his hat, yessir.
The man tasted like strawberry jelly and smoke and peppermint, which should’ve been nasty as hell but wasn’t, ’cause it tasted like Darrell, and Terrell had been wanting him some of this for going on two years now. He could’ve got himself all tied up in thinking about it—about coming and going and leaving and right and wrong and shit—but Darrell growled and grabbed one of his hands, pressing it down on the rough-assed sheets above his head. “Stop it,” he said. “You either want it or you don’t. No thinking. Give me your other hand.”
“Fuck you,” snarled Terrell.
“Not tonight. You got it last time. I rode sideways for a week.” His wrist was squeezed good and hard, making him ache. “Give me your motherfucking hand, Terr. You need this. Now.”
They locked horns, both of them tussling for it, teeth catching where they could. By the time Darrell had him locked up in a hold, they were both hard, sweating, breathing into each other’s mouths with a kiss that wouldn’t back off or back down. One of them hard hands got his fly open, the jeans like to tear the hair on his thighs plumb off as they got shoved down.
The damned things got caught on the tops of his boots, right about the same spot that Darrell’s stopped. He finally wrenched one hand free and got it wrapped good and firm around them both, pumping like he meant it. Those black eyes rolled like a mad bull’s, and Darrell growled, damn near biting his lips, bruising him in the kiss. Terrell gave his payback, though, thumb working the man’s slit, spreading that bit of slick around and making it burn.
Terrell felt it, curling and settling in his belly, a dull ache that made him twist and push, wanting it away and closer all at once. Those rough fingers started moving, reminding him where every bite was, every fucking bruise. Darrell humped, then fucked Terrell’s hand like they were quickstepping, and goddamn but he was right there.
Right fucking there.
His hips snapped, and his teeth clicked right together as Darrell rolled his dice, nuts like stones as he shot. Shit, that was… Yeah.
Damn.
He must’ve said it out loud because Darrell nodded, hot and damp and heavy on top of him, cock throbbing weakly in his fingers, thighs sliding. “You know it. Shit, my legs are all… Goddamn it.”
Watching Darrell cuss and kick at the denim got him tickled, got them both laughing hard. “Shit. That’s what I get for acting all macho and shit, Terr. I been practicing tonight for right near three days, and I forgot all about the fucking boots.”
That just made it worse, and then they were hooting, Darrell flopping back on the bed, cock slapping that tight-as-a-boar’sbackside belly. He half rolled, humming as his prick snugged up against one hip, right as rain.
“You’re still a dork, cowboy. Riding ain’t fixed that,” Terrell said.
“Riding don’t fix shit. Riding’s just… You know, Terr. You used to know.”
Thank God the lights were out. “That was a while ago, man. Before shit happened.”
“Yeah. Well. There ain’t no accounting for taste, Terr.” He could see those eyes, like holes burned into a hide of leather. “You look like a fucking leper.”
“Yeah, well, whose fault is that?” Man, the sun was coming up. He had dogs to feed.
“Mine, I reckon.” Darrell looked toward the window, turning enough that Terrell could push against the strong back. “I got two hours before I got to go. You sleepy?”
“I can sleep in the grave, cowboy.” Terrell leaned forward, lips on the patch of skin right below Darrell’s hairline.
“Yeah, that’s what I hear. Come on, then. That clock don’t wait.” Those hips pushed back in a clear offer, and Terrell grinned. That probably depended on what side of the clock you was sitting on, didn’t it?
Right now, he’d take it, though, wouldn’t he? And he’d blow any eight-second fucking bronc away, least ’til Darrell got to the arena.
“You know it, cowboy. Daylight’s burning, and I got shit to do. Let’s ride.”
That got Darrell to chuckling, the sound ready and rough as a cob, and he let himself start to rocking, let the smooth rub of that tight little ass work its magic against his still-pretty-much-interested cock. His hands did a little exploring, touching belly and cock, pointy hip bones and tight little-bitty nipples. There was a big ol’ scar from belly button to bottom rib that caught his index finger’s attention, the zigzagging thing traveling right on up. “Bull?”
“Yup,” Terrell said. “Went ass over teakettle in Denver.” Darrell pushed his hand down to wrap around the long, thin cock waiting on him. Yeah, right. No thinking. “Weren’t nothing. Just a spill.” Yeah. They all were nothing, ’til they were something. Lord, Darrell was like a little furnace, burning and moving against his hand, that slick wet ea
sing the way some.
His own cock filled up right nice, like it knew that certain stallions only rode through on a blue moon and a prayer and it’d best be ready. “You got stuff?”
“Yeah,” Darrell said. “In my wallet. Bought it in Shreveport, in case your number hadn’t changed.”
“It hasn’t.” He let Darrell lean away to scrabble for the tossed-off jeans, curling forward to taste the spot right above Darrell’s crack. He got a little cry for his troubles, so he got another lick in, let his teeth scrape some like he was trying to scratch an itch. Oh, now. Didn’t that just make Darrell buck like somebody’d snuck a burr under the saddle. “Easy now, I ain’t ridden hard in a month of Sundays.”
Then Terrell licked again, fingers cupping those cheeks, thumbs sliding to tease Darrell’s hole. Just ’cause he hadn’t done it in a while didn’t mean he’d forgotten how. He kept up, licking and touching and feeling, damn near drowning in it, happy as a dog in water. Every little moan, little strangled cry made it closer to right, made him feel ten feet tall. Darrell rolled a little for him, banty-rooster legs curling up and under so he had a better angle, a better view of what he needed. “Lord, cowboy,” Terrell told him. “You’re fine as frog hair, I swear it.”
Darrell moaned and heated under his hands, the smell of the man enough to make his mouth water. “Don’t wanna wait on it no more, Terr. Gimme.”
“No more waiting.” Terrell took the rubber and slid it on, spitting in his hand and slicking himself right on up. Terrell took a bit of a breath as he lined up, looking at the sight of that line of back, tense and waiting on him, the sunlight just starting to paint that skin with Easter-egg colors. Then Darrell grunted and pushed back, his hole pulling Terrell’s prick right in. His head slammed back, eyes rolling, and suddenly Terrell didn’t give a good goddamn about the light or the dawn or anything but the way they felt, slamming together like barn doors in a tornado.
Darrell crawled right up the wall, hands splayed as they bounced, the cheap old bed singing their praises as they went at it. Terrell got his hands wrapped around Darrell’s waist, tugged good and hard until he couldn’t tell where his hips stopped and the other man’s ass started.