“Haines is real upset by it, and some of the other guys defended you too. We need you back, Jacks.”
It’s so good to know the rapport I developed with those guys is still in place. Deep down, I pray Irus wants me back for more than football. I’ve grown attached to him over our long conversations. Shit, I’m easy. It only took a week. I can’t sleep now until I’ve spoken to him. Sometimes it’s late, but I wait up. He never fails to call.
Yeah, I’ve got it bad, but listening to his voice has taken my mind off the cramp. As it fades, a more urgent need takes over my body. The other drawback to listening to Irus’s evocative tones: my cock is like granite. So fucking hard it pisses me off. I can’t even talk to Irus anymore without the fucker standing at attention. His voice in my ear is enough to make me nut.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Jacks?”
“Huh?”
“The cramp gone, bro?” Irus’s words sound gentle in my ear.
“Yeah, had to rub it awhile. Just a little awkward.”
Fuck me.
“I’d rub it out for you if I were there, bro.”
Goddamn.
“Yeah, I know. So tell me about the game. I didn’t get to watch it all of it. In training all evening.”
It’s a lie. I watched every tense second of the game.
“We won it in OT by the skin of our teeth. It was a tough game. You’ll be back the next time we play ’em. They won’t stand a chance.”
“Tell me about your pick six. Describe it to me. All of it, man.”
“Okay, Jacks. Story time, yeah?”
I nod. He can’t see me, but he starts talking, his timbre low, full-bodied, and so soothing.
“Branson looks to his left, three guys downfield, but I know he’s going to the post. He’s gonna test me, Jacks. He thinks he can beat me. I’m pacing their receiver, Walters, stretching long but slowing a little so I can get in front of him. I never take my eyes off the ball, Jacks. He sails it downfield. I got that pigskin in my sights. I’m Branson’s best receiver, bro. You know that. Since they lost you, I’m it.”
He laughs. A rich, smooth sound. My dick warms. I wrap my hand around it, only slightly worried he might catch on I’m masturbating to his voice.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Yeah, his best two receivers on one team.”
Something in his voice changes. I’m afraid I’ve been caught but not enough to stop playing with myself. “So you went up,” I prompt, tugging at my cock and spreading the fluid leaking from my slit.
“Yeah, boy,” he says, his voice so fucking low. “I went up and snatched Branson’s ball. I hit the ground running. The crowd noise was deafening, but you know, I only hear the sound of my pads. The whoosh-whoosh of my jersey. No one is close to touching me, Jacks. No one can touch me.”
I want to touch him. I want him to touch me. Fuck. My cock is bright red. I’m stroking it so hard. My thumb brushes the crown every other stroke. In my imagination, it’s not my hand but Irus’s big, black one. His other is on my balls, squeezing, rolling them around in his palm.
“Irus?”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got a big fucking ego.”
“I’ve got the balls to back it up too, bro.”
Yes, he does. The thought of those balls filling my mouth, his musky scent in my nose, and the sweaty taste of him on my tongue has me nutting hard. I bite my cheek, trying to keep quiet.
“Cramp all gone now, Jacks?” His voice is a dulcet whisper.
“Yeah, all gone.”
“Take a shower and go to bed. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, boy.”
* * * *
The alarm clock’s a buzz saw in my mind. It’s intrusive. I crack open an eyelid. I’m still dressed. My sweats are around my thighs. The elastic band sits just below my nut sac. My cock’s in my hand, still crusty from jacking off last night, and my morning wood commands attention. The phone’s in my other hand. The alarm still demands to know if it should dismiss or snooze. I shut the thing up.
Over the edge of the bed, I dangle my tired legs, going easy on my tender hamstring. I strip and shower, using cold water. I’d rather save my load for when Irus calls tonight. I wish I could say the words I suspect he’s waiting to hear, but I can’t trust him enough yet. A few short weeks ago, he tried to make me one with the earth. Now he’s ready to have me tell him I’m gay?
I’m afraid he’s straight.
I’m afraid he won’t call anymore when he finds out the truth. When he discovers I masturbate to his voice every night on the phone.
The plan was to soothe my soul here while getting my body healthy. I was supposed to get my shit together and focus. Sex shouldn’t be so all consuming. Yet, in my life, it’s been all I can think about besides football. Football and sex.
I get out of the shower, drying quickly, and I dress in sweats. It’s still dark out. I want to go for a run before breakfast.
Instead of heading for the track, I go outside on the street for my run. A familiar car sits out front, parked across from the building. As I jog over, a twinge of pain jars my leg, and I walk carefully to the car. My mind was so wrapped up in Irus when I got dressed that I forgot my leg brace.
Branson’s in the driver’s seat. His nose carries the telltale sign of a helmet being pulled down over the bridge. He rolls down his window.
“What’re you doing here, Terry?”
“We lost.”
“I know. Have you even been home yet?”
“No. Got into my car at the facility and drove here. Drove all night.”
Jesus. Five hours on a flight and five hours in a car from Columbia, probably doing one hundred on the interstate. Is Branson nuts? Did he lose his mind?
“You look tired,” I say.
“I am tired. Get in, I’ll buy you breakfast.”
Something in me hesitates, but I’ve got some time before I need to be back for training. Can’t run without my leg brace anyway. At least not according to my physical therapist. With a little doubt niggling in the back of my brain, I climb into the passenger seat.
Terry reaches for me, his hand behind my neck, and pulls me into a heated kiss that goes right to my groin. The roughness reminding me of how I like my men.
Damn it.
I’m so desperate. I want to be fucked so badly, but Terry Branson isn’t who I want. He hasn’t been for a long time. Even before we stopped fucking. A part of me understands it’s not the sex I need or crave now. It’s Irus. No matter what, Branson just won’t do, despite the fact I’m unbelievably hard right now. A fact that sickens me.
I push him away. “I meant what I said. We’re done.”
“Yeah, right. Last time you said we were done, and then you fucked me.”
“Not this time.”
He grabs my cock, squeezing it hard. “Your dick says something different.”
Terry starts jacking me painfully through my sweats. He reaches across me, pulls the lever to lower my seat back, and it falls away with a loud cranking sound. I have to grab Terry to keep from free-falling. He pushes me down, climbing over the console of his Mercedes.
“You can’t deny how much you want me stretching your ass.”
“Jesus, do you hear yourself? I don’t want you. Get the fuck off me.” I shove at his solid body. The next thing I know, we’re in a cramped battle. I’m fighting hard to get him off me. He’s fumbling with his fly. I try to get my feet up to heave him away, but the space is too confined, the compartment too tight to even throw a punch. I try, hitting him in the jaw. The sound of his teeth clacking together gives me some satisfaction, but the hit wasn’t nearly hard enough.
Branson’s big hands encapsulate the knee of my recovering leg, bent almost to my chest, and he spits out between clenched teeth, “I’ll twist this fucker. Make it so you never play again.”
I stop struggling, stunned that he’d threaten to end my career. Terry rips my sweats down, yanks them off one ankle, and flings
them aside. The material wraps around my leg from the effort. I stare at the rumpled fabric until Terry spits on his hand and shoves a gnarled finger inside my body. I grit my teeth. I’ve been through this before—not with Terry, but he’s also been rough too many times to count. As long as I go somewhere else in my head, I can cope. It’ll all be over soon. I close my eyes as he works his cock into my ass, struggling to get it inside my unaccepting body.
Just pretend he’s Irus.
The harsh, angry grunts in my ear dispel the fantasy. My ass burns as he rocks the car with his thrusts. I open my eyes. He’s above me like so many times before, but his face is angry. His hateful gaze burrows through me. He tears my soul apart piece by piece. I turn away and stare at the building, hoping no one comes out to see us fucking. I hold my leg, protecting it against accidental injury.
I’m going home in three weeks. The plan is to be more pure. To be healed physically and mentally. Pure enough that Irus might recognize me for who I am. Perhaps want to make love to me or at least fuck me. Now how am I going to talk to him tonight? How can I talk to him with Terry Branson’s spunk leaking out of my hole?
Once again emasculated by Terry-fucking-Branson.
“You’re never gonna be more than a filthy whore,” Branson whispers on cue. “I’m going to blow my load into your ass. Then you’ll remember you’re mine.” He ruts violently into me, his big mitts bruising my body. “Filthy whore.” He pants in my ear. “Passed around every locker room you’ve been in. Yeah, you’re mine—mine to pass around.”
My stomach’s in knots. I want to throw up. The dirty truth won’t let me go somewhere else in my mind. I’m forced to feel his cock, listen to his poison, and believe in how sick I am. His babble reminds me of the man who touched me first. The one I hate the most. The one who made me a fuck toy. Branson’s jumping on where others have been, where my first nightmare was formed, and I can’t get my mind to leave my body this time.
“Wish I could get Anderson to understand. Get him to fuck you. Then he’d know how much like crack you are,” Branson says, his gasping growing with each hateful thrust until he growls into my neck.
I can feel him slithering inside me, his cock erupting in a hard burst that hurts like a small explosion in my ass. My relief is that he’s done. Thank God he’s done. Maybe now he’ll leave me alone. He’s just upset over losing the game. Hopefully now, I’ll be out of his system.
He rolls off me. I’m crushed between him and the door. I pop it open, sitting on the edge of the seat, working to get my sweats untangled from around my leg. The trickle from my ass makes me hope I’m ruining his nice cloth interior.
“Come see me before you go back to Washington,” he says behind me.
“No.”
“Come on. Don’t be pissy.”
I pull up my sweats, slam the door, and start jogging away. After a couple of feet, I break out into a full run, trying to escape like I did as a kid. Pain shoots through my leg. I try to ignore it. I need to run. Always running away after the fact, unable to stop it from happening, but always able to run. On the track, on the field, and in my mind. Eventually I’ll outrun the memories. By the time I get back to the institute, I’ll forget Branson. Lock him away in the dusty shelves of my brain with all the others.
“McCoy?”
Branson’s car paces me, his window down, and I lose it. “Fuck you, Terry-fucking-Branson. Go to hell. You don’t own me. I’m not on your team anymore. I don’t need your protection. I don’t want you to touch me.”
“McCoy,” he starts. He throws the car in park and gets out, towering over me, trying to use his height to intimidate.
“No. Fuck off.”
“I’m sorry.” He reaches for me, but I slip from his grasp.
“You’re not sorry. Jesus, you really want to tear me down. Don’t you? What are you afraid of, Terry? Do you want to see me broken? On my knees? Do you expect me to fall on my sword for you?”
“I made you into who you are today. You’re too damn short for the league. I made you look good. You owe me.”
“I don’t owe you shit. I’m not falling down for you. I’m not going to give up. I’ll never trust you again.”
“Who are you fucking?”
“What?”
“On your new team. Who are you fucking? Mal? The rookie, what’s his name? Haines?”
“Is this why you came all this way?”
“You’re mine.”
I punch him. Land my fucking fist right in the middle of his lying sack of shit face. “I’m not fucking anyone. Leave me alone. The next time you see me, my team and I will be the ones raping your ass on the field.”
Blood wells up from where my championship ring cut his upper lip. Funny thing is, I’m only wearing it because I don’t want to leave it in my room. The ring is my inspiration. The motivation to keep me working. Seems to also be Branson’s humiliation.
Rage makes his features ugly, and I wonder at how I almost fell for him. He jabs me in the chest. “You go tell those misfits I’m coming for them. They’re nothing but a bunch of punks.”
“You’re done. I’d say your arm doesn’t have what it takes, but it’s your mind that’s dead. Don’t come to my house. Don’t call me. Don’t ever think you can touch me again. I’ll kill your career and your marriage.”
He picks me up by my arms. This kind of rage is something I’ve never seen in him before now. Sweat beads on his upper lip. His face contorts into a snarl. I stare, unprepared for his attack, as his forehead thumps into mine. A sharp pain radiates through my skull. I stagger, my hand to my head, and Branson says with a low growl, “You threatening to tell my wife? You like my wife. You’d never break her heart that way.”
“I hate you more.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps. “Fine. We’re done, then?”
“Over fucking done. Get the fuck out of my face.” He’s too close. I shove him away from me. Nausea wells up and I swallow against the sensation.
The door to the Mercedes slams shut, and I watch him drive off. The sick feeling in my gut doesn’t fade, but at least I bloodied the bully’s lip for a change.
Chapter Nine
Three Weeks Later
Sea-Tac Airport
Seattle/Tacoma Metropolitan Area, WA
Irus Beaumont
Fans rush me with all sorts of questions. I like talking to them, normally, but my stomach is an atrium full of butterflies. I’m having a hard time paying attention. I don’t want the fans to think I don’t care, but right now the only one I care about is landing on the tarmac.
I sign a few more autographs, and then I beg off nicely. On the lookout for blond hair, I spot Jacks immediately and hurry to meet him. I can’t resist throwing my arms around him, giving him a sound smack on the backside. God, he looks good. His hair is sun-bleached, his skin a nice Florida-kissed tan. Like he’s been on vacation.
“Shit, boy, you all California beautiful.”
“Florida,” he says with a grin. “Did a lot of running on the beach. A lot of outdoor training. It was great.”
“How you feel? How’s the leg?”
“Fantastic. Can’t complain.”
“Still cramping up?”
“Yeah, my muscles are still too tight. Just need to keep working them loose, I guess.”
“Well, you still got two more weeks before we meet up with the Pirates for real. It’ll be a raping.”
Jacks blanches but recovers quickly. I wonder what I said?
“Damn straight,” Jacks says enthusiastically, but his reaction has me curious.
“That’s right. Branson’s two best receivers on one team,” I counter.
“I’d rather be Mal’s best receiver right now. I’ll leave you to intercept Branson’s passes.”
“Shit, you know it,” I say, and his grin comes back. “Boy, you brought the sunshine back with you. Been pissing here for two weeks. You show up, and the clouds go away.”
“I keep telling you, Iris. I’m eve
rything good and holy in football. What is it you call me, the golden child?”
“Golden Boy. Shit, you even more arrogant than when you left. What makes you so certain I won’t bust your ass right back down?”
“Once you hit bottom, Irus”—he shrugs—“there’s only up.”
I get the feeling he’s not talking football. “All right, Golden Boy, let’s get your bag.”
We hit the escalators racing. I don’t know how he beats me, but he gets to the carousel first. Must be because I spent a second or two watching his fine ass. Well, this time, I don’t mind him beating me.
“Is everything going to be a contest between us, Jacks?”
He looks at me funny. “Have you been calling me Jacks all this time?”
“Uh, yeah. Is it a problem? I mean, I know your mom—”
“No, it’s all good.”
He grabs his bag. I take it away, hefting it up on my shoulder. Jacks wrinkles his nose. “You going to open the car door for me too?” He bats his lashes.
I smack his ass. “Boy, you’ll be lucky I don’t slam your smart ass in it.”
“So much aggression. You a football player or something?”
“Or something,” I say, moving him along, my hand at his back. Lord, I don’t know how I’m gonna keep my hands off this pretty white boy. Now that he’s here, all I want to do is kiss him until we both stop breathing or start fucking.
We get in the car and work our way out of the parking garage. Jacks directs me onto the old Highway 99. I follow his orders, taking back roads and feeling more lost by the minute. Then I catch sight of the mountain.
Mt. Rainier is gorgeous, bright white in the sunlight, and only a few high, wispy clouds hanging around her top. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sight.
“She’s a beauty. Wait until we get to my house. A small walk through the woods and we’ll have a great spot to check her out up close,” Jacks says.
Is he reading my mind?
We travel down through the Puyallup Valley, heading toward the mountain, travelling over the Carbon and Puyallup rivers. We ascend a hill and navigate some winding roads for about another hour until we get to a long, rutted driveway nestled in the trees.
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