Outland

by Kiernan Kelly

  "I know it, but there ain't much we can do about it. Not yet, anyway," I said. I revved the motor and threw the truck into reverse, backing out of the parking space. When I pulled out onto the road, I spun my tires just to irritate the sergeant, in case he happened to be watching us through the mini-blinds in his office.

  I drove east, heading toward the Piggly Wiggly down on Main Street. If we were going to open Outland again, then I reckoned we needed to stock up on beer and roasted peanuts. Needed more napkins, too, and it wouldn't hurt to have some pop on hand, in case folks didn't want to drink beer, or tried passing off a fake ID on us.

  Hank was a real stickler for identification. I knew his oldest brother Earl had a real problem with alcohol, started drinking before he was sixteen, and died from cirrhosis of the liver before Hank was barely out of grade school. Hank said he learned that lesson well and good, and would rather cut off his right arm than serve to minors. Said he didn't care if they showed up at Outland's door wrinkled, gray-haired, and toothless -- if they didn't have a valid ID, they could damn well drink pop and like it, or go the hell home.

  I was still seething when I ran into the Piggly Wiggly and grabbed a dozen cases of soda pop, not even caring which brands made it into my basket. I think I wound up with a half-dozen cases of ginger ale, one of Coke, one of Pepsi, and three more of orange Fanta. Didn't really matter, either. They were fizzy, they were wet, and folks would just have to make do.

  When I got back to the truck, piling the soda and peanuts into the back, I noticed a patrol car idling across the lot. I couldn't see who was behind the wheel, but I wondered if Sergeant Smith was following us, or if it was just a coincidence.

  "You see him?" Hank asked, barely giving me time to plant my ass behind the wheel.

  "Yeah, I seen him."

  "Think it's Smith?"

  "Could be. Maybe not. Don't know," I answered, shrugging a shoulder. "Don't matter, either. Let 'em watch us if they've a mind. We ain't done nothing wrong, Hank. Don't start acting all nervous and twitchy, now. It'll make them think they're right, and that we got something to hide."

  "I'm not, but I don't like the thought of being watched all the time, Beaver."

  "It's intimidation, that's what it is," Jethro said, leaning up over the front seat between Hank and me. "Bastard's trying to scare us, get us to sweat."

  "It's one police car, and we don't even know if'n he's here to watch us, or just patrol the parking lot," I said. "Sit back, and don't start inventing troubles for us, Jethro. We got enough to last us two lifetimes as it is," I scolded.

  "Yeah, guess you're right, Beaver," Jethro said, settling back with one last look out of the back window at the cruiser. "Sure is peculiar though. Never seen a cop car cruising this lot during broad daylight."

  "First time for everything," I said as I pulled out of the space and headed for the road. We began to talk about other things, like what the queens would be singing when we opened Outland again, and whether the local football team had a shot at winning over the Twilla team come the weekend.

  I kept my mouth shut about the police but, though I tried not to be obvious about it, I couldn't stop myself from checking the rear view mirror, watching for a red-and-blue bubble light. Thankfully, it never showed up, and we made it the rest of the way home without any trouble.

  I still couldn't help but feel that our troubles weren't over, and that we just might've made them a whole lot worse.

  Chapter Eight

  We decided in the end to give Fargo an extra week to heal a bit more, at least until he could walk without pain. Outland reopened on a warm, late summer day, two weeks after we brought him home, just over a month after the night of the attack. We sat him at a table next to the bar with orders not to lift a finger, or go anywhere without me, Hank, Skeeter, or Jethro with him, not even to the can. He didn't look too pleased, complained about us being a pair of mother hens, and that he was old enough to take a piss by himself, but after a few minutes of huffin' and puffin', he promised.

  Seemed like everyone we knew showed up, and all of them brought a few friends along. I don't remember Outland ever being so crowded. There wasn't even room to dance -- the whole place was packed tight with people standing shoulder to shoulder. We ran out of beer by eleven o'clock, but nobody seemed to mind.

  "Folks ain't here to get drunk, Beaver," Shelby Joe told me when he caught me swearing up a blue streak at the empty Frigidaire. "We're here to support y'all. To show those bastards who beat on Fargo that they can't scare us off."

  Meant a lot to hear that, to know we weren't alone. Safety in numbers, and all that, I guess.

  The only face missing was Ashley's. I caught Fargo looking toward the door more than once with a hound-dog expression on his face, and knew he was hoping Ashley would walk in. No matter what we'd told him, no matter that he said he was ready to tear Ashley apart, there still was a part of Fargo that didn't want to believe Ashley betrayed him, I reckon. He wanted Ashley to come back, to explain that it was all some kind of horrible fuckup, that Hank, Jethro, and me had somehow misunderstood.

  Ashley never came in. Maybe he was a two-faced little asshole, but he wasn't stupid. I figured he must've known we'd skin him and mount his hide on the wall before we'd let him near Fargo again.

  Nobody knew where Ashley had got off to, or seen hide or hair of him since the night Jethro kicked him out. Jethro thought he might have gone back home to Alabama. I hoped he'd kept going south all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, then drove right on into the water and drowned.

  Miss Amanda and Charity sang, then cranked on the karaoke machine. Lord! We had us a sing-along that purt near raised the roof. "I Will Survive," and "Proud to be an American," and every other damn song Miss Amanda could find in her collection of karaoke music that had to do with surviving or fighting back, and we laughed until we near wet our britches since most of us couldn't carry a tune with both hands and a basket.

  Round about two in the morning, Miss Amanda, Charity, Shelby Joe, Big Pete, and a couple of others helped me and Hank tidy up the place, throw out the trash, and shut the lights. They waited out by their cars until the three of us waved goodnight from the front porch of the house and went inside. Guess they were afraid somebody might be watching, waiting to get us alone.

  It was a good night, all told. Everybody needs a night like that once in a while, I reckoned, and told Hank so as we got ready for bed. Fargo moved from the sofa up to one of the spare bedrooms and said goodnight a few minutes before.

  "It's real nice to be reminded of how many friends we got," I said, kicking off my shoes. I wriggled my toes in relief -- it felt real good to set my dogs free. I went about taking off the rest of my clothes, folding them and draping them over the chair next to the bureau.

  "Yup. Good of them to wait for us to get up to the house, too." Hank undressed faster than me and was sitting on the edge of the mattress in nothing but his boxers. He paused for a moment, cocking his head toward the window as if he was listening hard. Hank always did have real good hearing. He could hear the creak of a foot on a floorboard even when he was in a dead sleep.

  "You hear something?"

  He waited another minute, but then shook his head. "Naw, I thought... never mind. It ain't nothing. Just my imagination, I reckon." He lay back in bed, tucking his arms under his head. Under the dark brown and silver hair that dusted his chest, I could see the pale pink scar from his heart surgery. I always loved Hank's chest; it ranked right up there after his ass on my list of favorite body parts, and the scar hadn't changed that any.

  When I first met him, back twenty some-odd years ago, Hank's body was cut like a fine diamond, all smooth planes and sharp edges. I used to spend hours tracing all the ridges and creases with my fingers and tongue. Time had softened the edges a mite and plumped up some of the valleys, but he was still sexy as all get out, in my eyes, and I loved to touch him.

  My body wasn't soft and plump; I'd gone tough and leathery with time, like an over-cooke
d piece of steak. Hank sometimes joked that sleeping with me was like sleeping with a jackknife on a loose spring. One wrong move and he was apt to slice himself open from stem to stern on my hipbone. He always said it with a twinkle in his eye, though, and a smile on his lips.

  I lay down, rolled to my side and ran my fingers through Hank's chest hair, worrying at his nipples. "You forgot to take your drawers off," I said. I skimmed my hand over his belly and lifted the elastic waist, peeking underneath it. His cock was soft, but twitched against his thigh as if promising to wake up.

  "Thought you'd be too tired to want to do anything." He smiled. One hand came out from behind his head and cupped my neck, fingers playing with the curling ends of my hair. "You need a haircut, Beaver."

  "I know I do, and when am I ever too tired to sex you up?"

  Hank laughed. "Sex me up, huh? You've been listening to Fargo too long."

  "What would you call it?"

  "I dunno... seems we never had to call it nothing before. All it ever took between us was a look. Even now, we never have time for words, except maybe the four-letter ones."

  "I admit, I do love it when you talk dirty to me." I grinned. "Go on, say something dirty."

  Hank huffed. "It don't work that way and you know it, you ol' pervert."

  "Come on, please? Pretty please with sugar on top and a cherry?" I batted my eyes at him, making kissy faces.

  "Aw, fuck you, Beaver."

  "Oo-hoo, Lordy! That's it! You done gave me a woody. Lookee here, as stiff as a board and a-leakin' like an old rowboat," I chuckled and palmed myself through my briefs. It wasn't quite a hard-on yet -- but it was getting there.

  Hank laughed and rolled over on top of me. He kissed me, our tongues wrasslin' and rollin', then left off my mouth in favor of my throat. Hank knew the fastest way to light my furnace was to nibble at my neck. Never failed to send a sizzle straight through my belly and into my balls, and this time wasn't no exception. My cock finished filling, pushing against his, hard and ready, and promising to stay around for a good, long while.

  He pumped his hips, rubbing our dicks together. I could feel his prick getting harder, felt mine start leaking a little. "Best shuck our drawers, Hank. Gonna mess 'em if we don't."

  "We got us a washer," he said, and went right on nibbling and rubbing.

  "Yeah, but I wanna feel skin."

  "Oh, well, since you put it that way..." He chuckled again and rolled off me, but only for as long as it took us to skinny out of our underwear. "Lord, Beaver, you do have a beautiful cock. Always thought so, always will." He curled his fingers around me, squeezing the way he knew I liked it. He scooted down a bit and took me into his mouth.

  If Hank had one God-given talent, it was giving one helluva blowjob. We're talking blue-ribbon stuff here. Forget pie-eating and jam-making -- if there was a suck-off category at the state fair, Hank's wall would be peppered with ribbons and trophies.

  "You keep a-doing that and this ain't gonna take no time at all," I groaned, letting my head fall back onto the pillow. My lips were protestin', but my body sure as hell wasn't listening. I loved when Hank blew me. He knew that I liked having just the head sucked, and liked having his tongue tickle the slit while his hand squeezed the root. Liked having my balls played with, pulled a little, sucked on, too. He did it all, everything I liked, and I came in his mouth right quick, just as I'd warned. I think I saw every star God stuck in the sky blazing behind my eyelids. I couldn't help crying out, it was that good.

  Hank kept licking my cock like an all-day sucker 'til it softened, then crawled up my body until his prick bobbed in front of my eyes. He took hold of the headboard and planted a knee on either side of my head.

  The young folk had a name for what Hank liked -- tea-bagging, they called it. Never knew a man who enjoyed having his balls sucked as much as Hank. They hung low, swollen, the hair dusting them tickled my lips. I could smell him, earthy and good, familiar. It was the smell of a lover and a friend, sexy and comforting all at the same time.

  I opened wide and sucked him in. Hank usually complained that I had a big mouth, but not then. I took him all in, his whole damn sac, and grabbed his ass with my hands. Oh, but I loved feeling Hank's ass! Loved the way the muscles moved under my fingers and the way his asshole twitched when I spread his cheeks and teased it.

  Hank was strokin' himself as I sucked his balls. I didn't want to spit 'em out, so I reached up and stuck my finger between Hank's lips to wet it. I reached around his hip again and found his hole, pushing in, and he groaned, low and long. Wasn't much for bottoming, my Hank, but he liked his ass played with, sure enough.

  It was enough, too. He pulled away from my mouth and jerked off over my face, grunting in his familiar rhythm -- three short grunts and a long, raspy moan, then one or two medium-length ones. Hank's Morse Code, is what I called it, and it meant "I'm a-coming and it's a doozy!"

  After, he climbed off me, padded into the hall to the bathroom, and returned with a pair of hand towels. He tossed me one so I could clean his juice from my face while he set about wiping himself off with the other. We each took a turn in the bathroom, washing up, taking our nightly piss. I figured I'd be up at least once more during the night -- Hank kept telling me I had to see a doctor about it. Said I watered the can too often, but I figured as long as I could make it to the john and not mess the mattress, I was in good shape.

  He climbed into bed and laid his head on my chest. "Really sweet end to a nice night, huh?"

  "Real nice," I smiled, kissing his forehead. I truly loved my Hank, and I knew he loved me, even if we didn't say the words too often. Didn't need 'em, truth be told. Words are just sounds; what matters are feelings, and we had those for each other in spades. We showed how we felt about each other in all the little everyday things we did, though most of the time neither of us gave much thought to them. We just did for each other, and that was enough.

  We fell asleep that night thinking that life was sweet, and that things had finally worked themselves out. We'd suffered the storm, and were standing with the bright, warm light of day shining on our faces at last.

  Too bad we were wrong.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Hank got up before me. I woke to the smell of coffee and bacon frying. Now, there are few things in this world that smell better than that combination, and fewer things still that'll get my ass off the mattress faster than the promise of a hot breakfast. My feet were moving, following my nose toward the kitchen before the rest of me even knew I was awake.

  Fargo was already sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in, stirring a half-pound of sugar into his coffee. Hank was at the stove, flipping eggs. I poured myself a cup of joe and sat down, breathing in the smell of home-cooking and Maxwell House.

  I watched Fargo stick a straw into his cup, sip at his coffee, make a face and add another few teaspoons of sugar to it. Hank slid a half-dozen scrambled eggs onto his plate, golden and fluffy. Poor Fargo couldn't eat the crispy bacon because of his wired jaws, so I ate two extra pieces in his honor, snickering at the middle finger he flashed me.

  Aside from the fact that we'd accepted Fargo as a more or less permanent addition to our household (we doubted he'd be too anxious to move back to his mama's, even after his jaw healed up), things seemed to be back to normal. We ate, laughed, and talked about normal stuff families tended to discuss at the breakfast table.

  "We need to take a ride out to the Home Depot in Twilla, and pick us up another quart of eggplant paint, Beaver," Hank said. He picked up his coffee cup and took a deep whiff before sipping it.

  "What in the hell for?" I asked. "We just painted the place a couple of months ago."

  "Folks already done scarred up the bar by knocking their chairs and boots against it and it needs a touch-up."

  I grunted, dipping a piece of toast into my coffee. The last thing I wanted to do was drive all the way into Twilla, but for Hank, I'd do it without complaining -- too much, anyway. "Can't it wait a wh
ile? Such a nice day, thought maybe we'd fry up some chicken and have us a picnic," I said.

  "Used the last of the chicken to make soup yesterday, and anyway, if you eat anymore chicken you're likely to start clucking, Beaver," Hank said.

  Fargo snorted and blew bubbles in his coffee, effectively cooling it off. "If we go into Twilla, we could go the movies. There's that new Bruce Willis movie out that we ain't seen yet."

  I knew there was a steakhouse out that way that Hank favored, but remembered Fargo wouldn't be able to eat anything on the menu except maybe the mashed taters, and held my tongue. "Guess we could stop by the Golden Buffet for dinner." They had a big soup bar there, and a lot of softer entrees on the buffet to suit Fargo, like macaroni and cheese. "Since we're going to the Home Depot, maybe we could pick up a few mirror panels for behind the bar. What do you think, Hank?"

  "Good idea. They'll make it look bigger in there, open the space up some."