Hard to take fingerprints from ashes.
Jesse stuck his right hand deeper into his pocket and touched the only thing that might've connected Sean to that farmhouse—Paco's shiny gold lighter. No fingerprints there, either. He'd made damn sure of that. He probably should've tossed the thing in the ocean, but ... well. Call it a souvenir. Or something.
He glanced up and saw a shaggy dark head topped by an ugly straw hat moving above the crowd. Jesse smiled when he saw the kid wore shades, too. As if they'd make him less conspicuous.
Sean stopped directly in front of him and set his carry-on bag on the floor. “Well?"
Jesse could see the mark—a pale pink spider web of scar tissue—that spread over the left side of the kid's jaw. He resisted the urge to reach up and touch it. “What's with the disguise, cowboy?"
Sean shrugged. “Trying to look like a tourist."
Jesse glanced around the baggage claim, at all the happy people of non-freak-of-nature height. “Try harder."
"Sure, Mr. Leather-Jacket-in-the-Tropics. Because you blend."
Jesse reached up and hooked a hand behind Sean's neck. He pulled him down into a kiss that turned into something like mutual assault and battery about two seconds in. Felt a strong jolt of emotion jump off the kid's lips, but didn't stick around long enough to analyze it. Let him go, and Sean was breathing funny, and the people milling in their general area were giving them a wide berth.
"You got a suitcase?"
"Nah. Left it all behind."
Jesse squinted at him. “It's not forever. You can go back."
"Maybe,” Sean said. “Manny told you about the ... thing?"
The thing. What Sean meant was the incident with the pair of uniformed cops who delivered a carefully worded death threat while holding a gun to Sean's head in the parking lot behind Heliotrope. That was three days ago.
Jesse nodded. “Still doesn't have to be forever."
"I guess that depends on you."
Jesse looked away, toward the morning sunshine flooding through the sliding glass doors on the other side of the baggage claim. “We're burning daylight. Let's go."
* * * *
Lo de Marcos, Mexico. Small, simple ... Sean guessed you'd call it “quaint,” in the way of tiny Mexican beachside towns that hadn't yet been overrun by the tourist industry. But at just an hour's drive north of Puerto Vallarta, that quaint thing wouldn't last much longer. Sean had learned all this from one hour's worth of online research at a pay-by-the-minute airport computer while waiting on his flight from San Francisco to points south.
He glanced at Jesse, who was watching the road like it might jump up and try to bite the truck. “You say you're working security down here?"
Jesse nodded. “There's a hotel going up a ways down the beach from me. They've had some trouble on the construction site. Hired me to keep the peace."
"Locals resisting development?"
"Nah. Locals love development.” Jesse glanced at Sean. “Or they love the new school and hospital that'll come with it, one of these days."
"So what's the trouble?"
Jesse shrugged. “Same old shit. Drugs, which leads to theft, which leads to knife fights and the occasional bashed head."
"And you put a stop to that."
"I do what I can.” Jesse pulled the truck up alongside a massive palm tree at the mouth of a sandy trail. “We hike it from here."
Sean slid out, grabbed his bag and followed the other man down the trail. He watched Jesse trudge on ahead of him, still wearing the boots and jeans Sean remembered from the rainy streets of Santa Rosa. He'd taken off the jacket, dragging it behind him in the sand. His hair was lighter than Sean recalled. Bleached from the sun. His arms and the back of his neck were brown against the black of his t-shirt.
Jesse looked back over his shoulder at him. “You okay?"
"Yeah,” Sean said and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. The inside of his jeans felt like his own private sauna, and his head was baking under the straw hat. Christ, he was from Texas. He should be used to this climate.
The reached the bottom of the trail and stepped out onto the beach. Sean saw the shack to his left, but his attention was caught by the water—a clear turquoise that dazzled his eyes.
"Nice, huh?” Jesse said, and he was smiling. Open and bright. Like Sean had never seen him look before. The sparkly lure of the Pacific never stood a chance against that smile.
He followed Jesse into the shack. Hardly more than a lean-to, wide open on the side that faced the water, it still felt like home the moment he dropped his bag in the corner and stretched, his fingertips brushing the ceiling.
"No plumbing,” Jesse said, “but there's an outhouse thirty yards into the brush. I drive over to San Pancho once a week for supplies—fresh water to drink and wash, and whatever else I need. And I've got a generator to keep the meat and beer cold.” Something in his tone said “please don't hate it,” and Sean was so surprised he turned and nearly fell over himself in the small space. This would take some getting used to.
"You hungry?” Jesse's eyes were on his mouth, but now his voice was steady. Friendly, even. As if Sean were a casual guest.
"Starved. Only got peanuts on the plane."
"We'll have to do something about that, won't we?” The words themselves sounded vaguely suggestive, but again ... Jesse's voice. Even and quiet, with no real heat behind it. Like the kiss back at the airport hadn't ever happened. “Make yourself at home. I'm gonna...” He made a vague gesture in the direction of his jeans and boots.
Sean tried not to stare as Jesse stripped down to nothing, then pulled on a pair of frayed denim cut-offs over his naked ass.
"What're you looking at?” Not so friendly anymore. Defensive. A little hostile, even.
"Nothing, I just ... you're different."
"And that's a bad thing?"
"I didn't say that.” Sean wiped at the sweat running down his face.
Jesse frowned, lowering his brow over eyes that were looking more green than hazel in the clean, late-morning light. “You'd better change before you keel over."
Sean nodded and turned away, not entirely sure why he kept his back to Jesse as he slid out of his jeans and into a pair of baggy board shorts. The scars on his legs were almost gone, and they'd never been that bad anyway. If he was going to be self-conscious about something, it should be the mark on his face, which would never leave him. Not without plastic surgery, at least.
He found Jesse outside, firing up the grill. Sean stood back and watched as the other man brushed two large steaks with oil, sprinkled them with something green and laid them over the flames.
Jesse, cooking. Yes, okay, grilling, but Sean never pictured him this way. All the images of Jesse he'd stored had to do with denim and leather, guns and knives, handcuffs and the best, dirtiest sex ever in the history of the planet. Those were the pictures he'd carried in his brain for weeks and months—for what he'd thought would be forever.
"You want corn?"
"Huh?” Sean snapped to as if coming out of a deep sleep. “Corn? Yeah, sure."
"Go grab some from the basket by the water jugs."
"Sure.” All right then. Some things hadn't changed. Jesse still played it large and in charge, and while Sean could see how a steady diet of barked orders might get annoying eventually, he couldn't help but grin at the way he followed along without question.
"Bring the salt while you're at it.” Jesse's voice carried over the sound of crashing waves and the wind in the palms, and Sean grinned bigger.
* * * *
Twilight over the Pacific—Jesse's favorite time of day. Time to shut down, turn off, let his brain drift into “idle.” Except not tonight. Tonight, there was Sean. And every night for the next little while, Jesse guessed.
Not that it was a bad thing. It was just ... different. Not part of the program. Not a piece of the puzzle he'd carved so carefully from what little he'd had left when he got down here.
His days were simple: get up, go to work, come back, eat something, lie around listening to his transistor radio—when he could get a signal—and sleep. On Friday nights, he drove into San Pancho and got drunk. Slept in the truck, woke up and shopped for perishables, drove back. Walked along the beach. Looked at the sky. Thought about ... nothing. Not about Sean, that was for Goddamn sure.
Except now he was here, standing down by the water, watching the stars flick on. Jesse lay in his hammock, drinking a beer and watching Sean watch the stars. Enjoying the view of his endless legs splashing against the incoming tide. Liking the memory of Sean smiling at him through a mouthful of steak and corn. And what the fuck was Jesse supposed to do with all that shit?
He'd meant it when he told Sean he'd be back in Santa Rosa eventually. Meant it when he left, and meant it all through the first month he lived in Lo de Marcos. But after that, when he got the job working security—a fancy name for a hired thug, and he knew it—and then had trouble getting through to Manny for a few weeks, it just seemed best to let it go. Let Sean go.
Best for Sean, anyway.
But now—
"Hey, man, what's wrong?"
Jesse glanced up to find Sean towering over him. Jesus Christ, the kid was stealthy for a guy his size. “Nothin'. You have a good time down there?"
Sean shrugged. “You don't like the water?"
"I like it fine. Was watching you.” Goddamn, he needed a better filter between his mouth and his brain. The kid always did that to him. Another reason having him here was a bad idea. Probably.
Sean looked away. Looked back again. “I don't have a sleeping bag."
"What?” Jesse squinted up at him. “Oh. No, you take the hammock. Here...” He moved to swing his legs over side, and stopped when Sean put a hand on his knee.
"It's a big hammock, Jesse. Nice and wide and long."
Jesse swallowed. “Yeah?"
"Yeah. Looks like it's well made, too. Sturdy. Could hold two full-grown men—"
"Not if one of ‘em's the Jolly Green—"
Sean pressed three fingers against Jesse's lips. “Don't,” he said.
Jesse closed his eyes and let his mouth fall open, like it wanted to. Like it practically was made to do. Sean slipped his fingertips inside, sliding them against Jesse's tongue. He tasted salt.
Then Sean was shucking off his shorts, climbing aboard the hammock and straddling Jesse's hips. Jesse looked up at him. Hard to make out his face in the shadows. Hard to see what he might be thinking. But through the skin of his hands where they coasted over his chest Jesse felt nothing but good. Nothing but yes. Clear as the stars, impossible to miss.
Sean leaned in and kissed him, and Jesse remembered everything he'd forced himself to forget. He ran his hands up Sean's arms, over his shoulders, and back down again. When the younger man pulled away, Jesse saw the flush on his cheeks, even in the dark. Saw how his cock was rising toward his flat belly, blushing as red as his face. Felt an answering pulse from his own dick.
Sean tore at the buttons on Jesse's cut-offs and yanked the denim off his hips, rising up to pull the shorts all the way off. He leaned in close and wrapped his big hand around both their cocks, and he stroked. Once, slow, root to tip, and Jesse heard himself groan. He bucked up into the touch, familiar but new.
Sean pushed against him, smearing his damp chest against Jesse's, sliding his mouth along Jesse's cheek, and Jesse had to push back. Like call and response, like the back and forth swing of the hammock. And every time Sean grazed the sweet spot under the head of his cock, Jesse shook, helpless and maybe about to have an aneurysm from the pressure building up inside. Like a bass note, thrumming deep against his nerves, and he could hear not a thing but Sean's want and need and please and God, now, yes.
He pressed his face into Sean's hair and whispered, “Easy, go easy."
"Can't. Don't want to. Been too damn long.” Sean's drawl was back. He sounded seventeen and fresh outta Smithville, and that shouldn't have made Jesse's cock jerk like it did. “Jesse, please. Fuck me."
Damned hard to hold back. Damned hard to do anything but give in to a request like that. “Yeah, I'll do that,” Jesse said, “but slow. Real slow. Want you to feel it."
He felt Sean shudder against him. He tugged at his hair, making him lean up and look into his face. The kid was glassy-eyed, his mouth all slack and soft, and it was a near thing, but Jesse kept hold of his control.
"Can you reach the oil? The bottle, right there on the ground.” He pointed, and Sean looked, and for a minute Jesse thought he'd dump them both out on the sand. But then Sean had the bottle in his hand and was smiling like he'd won the grand prize.
Jesse slicked up his fingers and reached around Sean's hip to work him open, reminding himself the whole time: slow ... no, slower than that, you idiot...
Sean rocked down onto his hand, mumbling some nonsense about nobody else and just Jesse. Just him. “Nobody since you, Jess, I swear it."
Jesse froze for a second. Nobody since him? Okay, he could say the same thing, but he was living in a shack in fucking Lo de Marcos, not tending bar in the North Bay.
Screw it. He'd deal with what it meant later. He curled his fingers, and Sean's body bent like a bow. “Ah, fuck, Jesse."
Sean rose up over him, dislodging his fingers, and reached for the bottle of corn oil lying on the hammock next to Jesse's head. “Slow,” he said.
Jesse nodded. “Slow."
He ran an oily hand up and down Jesse's cock, and Jesse clenched his jaw and held on. Then Sean pushed himself down, letting Jesse breach him. Letting him inside, a millimeter at a time, and it was almost too much, like he'd scraped Jesse's every nerve-ending raw. Jesse bit his lip to keep from groaning again as Sean settled down on him. “Slow,” he said again, and Jesse was afraid to open his mouth to answer. Afraid what might come out. Something stupid, maybe. Something about how he can feel Sean needing him, and how he wanted Sean to need him, and maybe even—
Sean put a stop to all conscious thought—stupid or not—by flexing his hips and pushing up with his thighs, sliding and rocking and yes, slow, but Goddamn so fucking hot and good. Jesse reached for Sean's cock and Sean cried out, all sharp and painful, but Jesse wasn't fooled. He jacked him lazy and loose, his hand still slicked with oil. He worked his thumb against the head, played his fingers over the shaft. Watched as Sean broke above him, spurting and spilling up Jesse's chest to splash on his neck. Going tight like a seizure inside, closing down on Jesse, slurring over his cock so Jesse couldn't rock or thrust but just push and push, as far in as he could get and still farther, grinding and rubbing ‘til he was crazy with it. Crazy and coming and maybe letting his mouth run a little bit. Telling Sean stuff he shouldn't.
"Jesse.” Sean said it like he couldn't find him in the dark, even with his face buried in Jesse's neck and Jesse's dick still throbbing in his ass.
"Right here.” He turned his face into Sean's hair and whispered, “I'm right here."
After, they lay quiet together in the hammock for all of maybe ten minutes before Sean said, “These people you work for—they don't care that you're a fugitive?"
Jesse sighed. Where the fuck had that come from? “They didn't ask. More interested in whether I can do the job, I guess."
He felt Sean nod against his shoulder. “Manuel says you're the real deal. He says you're a straight-up force of nature, and not to be messed with."
Jesse laughed. “How much tequila did he drink before he spouted that bullshit?"
Sean twisted around to look at him, making the hammock swing. “Seriously, dude. You're hardcore. Just like ... I dunno. Like Jesse James.” And then he grinned, and Jesse knew he was being mocked.
He reached up and pushed Sean's head back down onto his shoulder. “Jesse James worked alone. I was thinking more like Butch and Sundance."
"But less with the dying in a hail of gunfire, and more with the fucking, right?"
Jesse smiled. “For a college boy, you cat
ch on quick.” He closed his eyes and let the splash of the waves and the rhythm of Sean's breathing pull him under.
Behind the Beard
by Yeva Wiest
Also by Yeva Wiest
Paybacks Are Hell
Chapter One
That day in court began much like any other. Byron had over-stepped his bounds with the landlady once again, but other than that no real harm had befallen, and none was expected. Yet, there was a faint chill in the air that gave rise to an ominous feeling of dread, sort of. Still, Byron hummed as he set about readying the courtroom for the day's block of cases.
First up was Mrs. Hargrave, a spitfire if there ever was one. She had a beef with her neighbor. Seemed the neighbor's cat, Tidbit, was always rooting through her garbage tin, and Mrs. Hargrave had seen fit to yank up the poor dear and strangle him half to death. The cat, though it had survived, was completely yonkers; he had taken to spitting at complete strangers and, worse yet, developed an intense liking to Mrs. Hargrave. The darling's desire for the missus knew no limits, and his constant, unwarranted, displays of affection against said missus’ left leg, had been given notice by all in the neighborhood. Some said that it served her right, the old biddy, but others took the side of Mrs. Hargrave. It was, after all, the safest side to take.
Quite a cacophony of catcalls and hisses introduced the missus, and the Lord Barrister himself had to shut it down. Mrs. Hargrave's suit against her neighbor, Mrs. Fubby, lasted only minutes. The barrister was right pissed, and damned he should be, that the entire matter had come before his court. A solicitor was summoned, and the whole affair was dispatched summarily.
His Lordship was full of fire and vigor that morning. Quite a figure he cut. Long and lean in his robes, which belied the splendid hulk of his body. Byron watched in rapt fascination, hoping for a glimpse of his Lord's firm thigh, thrust from the confines of his robes. On most men, the wig, so heavily powdered, looked an added oddity, but on Lord Richard Kincade it only added to his brutish charisma. Byron's longing for his Lord took on an added luster when he imagined the barrister unrobed but still adorned with the hairy accoutrement of his profession. Better still, Byron's erotic daydreams saw the barrister fettered hand and foot with chains, bound by the law, unleashed by desire.
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III Page 29