"Hank's right, Fargo. You're sitting this one out, at least for now," I said, shaking my head.
"I volunteer to be the one to talk to Bellows," Jethro said, raising his hand.
"No!" Fargo barked. "I'm doing it, I said. I'm the one who owes him."
"Ain't you got ears, boy? You're not going anywhere near Bellows or his goddamn church," Hank said, jabbing a finger in Fargo's direction. "You still ain't fully recovered from the last beating. I'm not about to let you go in there and maybe get more of the same or worse."
I decided to put that particular argument to rest. "That's right. If anyone's going, it's gonna be me."
"The hell you say!" Hank sputtered, his head swiveling to give me the same look he'd just shot Fargo. "Are you crazy? Just because we can't let Fargo go doesn't mean you need to throw your hat in the arena, Beaver."
"Somebody's got to do it, and I'm not letting any of these boys take the chance," I said, returning Hank's glare with one of my own. I could be a stubborn cuss when I aimed to, but so could Hank. I knew it, Hank knew it, and as I dug my heels in for a fight, I could see him fixing to do the same. "Lord knows what Bellows will take it into his head to do. Besides, we all know every lick of the trouble we've had is because of Outland. It's my responsibility."
"Ain't nobody gonna get hurt, Beaver. Bellows isn't stupid enough to try anything in broad daylight, and especially if there are witnesses around," Jethro said.
"You may be right, but I'm still the one who's going," I said through gritted teeth.
"You mean we're the ones who're going," Hank growled, just as fiercely. "Last I checked, I owned half of Outland, same as you."
"There ain't no 'we' in this, Hank. You got that bum ticker to worry on," I said, jabbing a finger toward Hank's chest.
"I done told you I'm not a piece of delicate china, Beaver--"
"I know, and you ain't gonna break if I shake you too hard. I heard you before. You're still not going." I got up and stalked out of the kitchen, content to have the last word -- at least, for the time being. I knew Hank wasn't going to let it go so easily. He'd follow me to our bedroom, and we'd hash it out in private. I'd get an earful, no doubt. He'd cuss and rage, but in the end, I knew he'd let me have my own way on this. He'd have to accept it -- I wasn't going to give him any choice in the matter. I wasn't going to let him win this one.
I could hear him stomping after me, so I didn't bother to close the bedroom door. Sure enough, he followed me right in, slammed the door shut, and picked up the argument just where we'd left it.
"Beaver, you need to stop being so pigheaded and listen!"
"Hank, calm down, shut your pie hole, and listen to me for a change," I said, suddenly feeling exhausted. I sank onto the bed, patting the mattress next to me. His forehead creased with a frown, but for once, he did as I asked, sitting next to me. "I can't let anybody go do this for us. Poor Fargo took a beating as a warning to us, Hank. The peacock was a warning to us. I can't sit by and let Jethro or Skeeter or anybody else put their asses in danger. The truth is, no matter what Jethro said, we can't be sure what Bellows will do. It has to be one of us. Tag-teaming him won't work -- it'd either scare him off, or clue him in that we've got more up our sleeves than we're saying."
"Then it should be me."
"No, Hank. Not this time." I held up a hand before he could speak. "It was always you before. All through our lives together, you've been the one to fight for us. You got us the mortgage on the house, you fought with the insurance company when I got hurt at work, fought me to make me do the stupid exercises so I wouldn't end up in a wheelchair. Hon, this time it has to be me."
"Because of my heart? You're making me feel like a useless old man, Beaver. Besides, I'm the one who knows him. I went to school with him, remember?" Hank said. I could see him bristling, and cut in again before he could get his dander up.
"I don't care. It's not that I don't think you can do it -- I know you can. It's more because I need to do this. For once, I want to be the one to do the fighting, Hank. I want to take care of business. I want to take care of you for a change."
"You do take care of me, Beaver." The bristling was gone, just that quick, replaced by a tender look in his eyes. "You did after my heart attack, and--"
"Big deal. I gave you your meds, took you to the doctor, made sure you stuck to your diet. This is different. Please let me do this."
Hank sighed and rested his head on my shoulder. "All right, Beaver. I get it. If it's that important to you, I won't say another word." He picked his head up and met my eyes. "But you listen up close... don't turn your back him. He was a sneaky little turd in high school, and it don't look as if much has changed since then. If Bellows so much as touches a hair on your head, all bets are off. Understand?"
I smiled. "Yeah, hon. I understand. I wouldn't feel any differently if'n it was you."
He reached for a kiss and I met him halfway, the same thing on my mind. I needed to feel him, to hold him, to remind myself of what we were fighting for -- the right to love. It wasn't just about revenge, I realized, although that was a good hunk of it. We were taking on Bellows because we were tired of his harassment, and of living in fear. We were sick to death of being told who we had to be, how we had to act, where we could go, and who we were free to love.
I could hear the voices of the others in the kitchen, muted through the closed bedroom door. Someone must've said something funny, because they were laughing. Good, I thought. Laughter is good, but what I have in my arms is even better.
Hank smiled against my lips, as if reading my thoughts. "Think they'll keep themselves busy in there for a while?"
"They won't even miss us," I said. "They're too busy trying to figure out how to change my mind."
"Guess they don't know how stubborn my Beaver can be, huh?"
"Nope. They're going to learn, though," I said, grinning.
I pushed Hank backward until he lay flat on the bed, and took my time undressing him, slowly stripping off his shirt, and sliding his pants down to his ankles. His cock was waking up, bobbing against his thigh, and I licked him from balls to tip, helping it along.
Hank sighed, fingers toying with my hair. "Sure do know how to get my mind off things," he said. "Suck me inside out, boy." His soft chuckle stretched out into a groan as I took him all the way in, way down until he hit the back of my throat, and hummed. He picked his head up, fingers tightening in my hair. "Damn, Beaver! Where'd you learn to do that?"
I let him go long enough to answer. "Think I don't pay attention when we watch them porn movies of Fargo's? Now, lay back and let me work."
"Gonna have to make that boy a special dinner, just as soon as he can chew again."
"Will you hush?" I growled, giving his balls a little yank, just to let him know I was serious. Dirty words aside, too much conversation tended to ruin the moment, and I had no intention of letting that happen. When I was satisfied his tongue was going to stop flapping, I turned my attention back to his cock.
I found my mark -- a tiny freckle on the underside of Hank's pecker that I knew was one of his hot spots -- and settled there for a while, letting my tongue and lips worry at it, licking and sucking until Hank gave me a good, long moan. His thighs clenched, hips lifting, fingers pulling at my hair.
"If'n you want in on this, you'd best get up here, Beaver. I'm about ready to shoot."
My face split into an eager grin as I let him loose and yanked my pants down. I agreed wholeheartedly that it was none too soon -- my cock was well past soft and nearly into iron-hard, dribbling into my shorts.
"Mmm, boy, look at that," Hank said, propping himself up on one elbow, reaching for me.
I climbed up onto the bed, kneeling next to him. His mouth, hot, wet, and eager, sucked me right in, up to the root. My eyes rolled back in my head and I saw heaven behind their lids. His hands were work-roughened, squeezing the root of my dick as his tongue worked the tip, lapping circles around the head.
"Lord, Hank," I moane
d. I leaned over, reaching for his prick. It took a little finagling, but I managed to lower myself without pulling clear of his mouth. I felt him groan around my prick as I began to suck him again, the hum of his voice reverberating in my balls.
It wasn't but a couple of minutes later until I tasted his come, salty and bitter and wonderful. Fed him my own special brand of juice at almost the same time, my hips bucking and muscles trembling as I came.
"Think they heard us?" Hank asked, propping himself up on one elbow, grinning at me.
"You really give a flying fuck if they did?"
"Nope."
I laughed, and kissed him again for good measure, our tastes mingling on my tongue. Together, I reckoned we made a pretty potent brew. "Hey, Hank?"
"Yeah?"
"Why didn't you ever tell me you and Bellows went to school together?"
"Lord, do we have to talk about this now?" Hank grumbled, pulling away from me. His face crumpled into a frown. "I just didn't, that's all."
"Hank, I'm not going to let this go," I said, grabbing his arm and keeping him from getting off the bed. "Bellows has been spouting garbage for years, and causing us headaches -- seems to me you would've mentioned going to school with him."
"I don't want any connection with him. I want to forget I ever knew him!" Hank growled. He yanked his arm away, pushing off the mattress.
"Hank..."
"Let it go, Beaver." He glared at me, his voice tight with that tone, the one I knew from experience was telling me to leave off, or face spending the night on the couch.
I dropped the subject, although later on, I'd be sorry I had.
Chapter Eleven
I parked the truck across the street from the First Corners Church, keeping the windows rolled up even though it was a beautiful day, cool and sunny. It was as if I hoped the thin plates of glass would shield me from the sight of anyone who happened to look in my direction, which of course, they wouldn't. The windows weren't tinted, and sitting right across from Bellows' front door, I was about as hard to miss as a camel on a thoroughbred horse farm.
We need to do this, I told myself for the thousandth time that morning. I'd reported the peacock incident to the police, and they'd come out to Outland and took pictures of the door, and had taken the dead bird away, but they weren't optimistic. No witnesses, they'd said. One had even gone as far as to dismiss it as simple vandalism, blaming kids with nothing better to do with their time than stir up trouble.
My fingers toyed over the breast pocket of my jacket. It was the only jacket I owned, a dark blue, wool blend, and it was a little snug in the arms, and across the belly when buttoned. Hank bought it for me ten years ago, and I kept it in the back of my closet, covered with dry cleaner's plastic, digging it out only for weddings and funerals. When I'd slipped my arms into it that morning, I'd realized there seemed to be a lot more of the latter and less of the former as time went on. Not only were Hank and I growing older, everyone else we knew was, too.
I wasn't dressed up to look good, although Hank assured me I did. I wore it now for one reason -- I was wired, just like in the movies. The thought would've made me laugh if I wasn't so fucking nervous. My jacket was just bulky enough to hide the jumble of wires Skeeter had secreted underneath it. There was a battery pack taped to the small of my back, and a tiny microphone shaped like a tie tack clipped to my blue-and-gray striped necktie. An equally small camera masqueraded as a flag pin on my lapel.
Skeeter had really come through for us, although I admit I was more than a little curious about why he had spy gizmos and gadgets in his possession.
"They're cool," he explained when I asked him. He shrugged, as if everyone had expensive pinhole cameras and microphones in a junk drawer in their kitchens. "I bought them from my cousin last year when his detective agency went under. Told him he needed a license to operate, but the stupid bastard wouldn't listen to me."
I was grateful for the gear, but that didn't calm my twitchy nerves. They were jumping under my skin like downed live wires, making me shiver, and I worried for a minute if the sweat pooling under my arms might cause Skeeter's fancy equipment to short circuit and electrocute me.
Worse, I wondered whether frying inside the cab of my truck might not be a better option than walking into the church and confronting Bellows face-to-face, particularly since I was armed with nothing but false bravado and a jumble of wires.
Man up, Beaver, I told myself. I tried to take a deep, calming breath, but it felt more like a gasp. It has to get done, and better it be you than Hank or Fargo in there, especially if something goes wrong.
It was the "wrong" part of the scheme that had me worried most. I'd had nightmares the night before about the congregation of First Corners stringing me up from the tall oak in the side yard of the church like a human piñata, and taking turns whacking me with the picket signs they favored.
The short distance from my truck to the church seemed three times as long as it was. I felt like I was walking the fucking green mile, my feet dragging along the blacktop. The truth was that I didn't want to step foot into the church, didn't want to get within spitting distance of Bellows, and was afraid I'd blow the whole thing by decking him the moment he opened his mouth.
We had my speech all rehearsed. Hank wrote it all out, and I memorized it, then Jethro made me practice it over and over, until it sounded more natural and less like I was reciting the damned Pledge of Allegiance. The idea was to scare Bellows into doing one of two things -- giving up, or trying again despite our warning and getting caught in the act by the security cameras Skeeter was going to install at Outland.
"We want the violence to stop. We're setting up cameras on our property. If we catch anyone else vandalizing our property, or if anyone threatens us in any way, we will prosecute to the fullest extent of the law."
The words tasted like vinegar, and even though I knew they were true, I hated letting them slip past my lips. Only the worry in Hank's eyes, and memory of Fargo lying beaten to a pulp in his hospital bed -- and knowing if I didn't do it, one of them would -- kept me from trashing the whole idea, and backing out while I still had my self-respect.
"I hope y'all can hear me," I whispered, trying not to move my lips too much. If anyone were watching me from inside the church, it wouldn't do for them to think I was talking to myself. "I'm going in." Of course, if the camera was working -- which it had back at the house – they'd already know that, but I was nervous and said it anyway.
There was no one around outside the church, but there were several cars parked in the small lot next to it. My hand trembled on the doorknob, but I forced myself to open it and walk inside.
I found myself inside a tiny vestibule. There was a table to my left piled high with copies of the latest edition of the Righteous Messenger, and a bulletin board on the wall to my right, peppered with flyers and notes. I paid them little mind, instead steeling my spine and opening the door leading into the church proper.
There were sixteen pews inside the church, eight on a side, and a simple, wooden pulpit on the far end. The pews were half-full, and Bellows stood behind the podium. Matthews stood nearby, head bowed, eyes closed. Bellows raised his hands palms up as he recited scripture.
"And they called to Lot, and said, 'Where are the men which came in to you this night? Bring 'em out, that we may know them.'" His voice grew louder, echoing in the small church. "We all know these men didn't just want to say how-do! They wanted to fornicate with other men, and that's the reason God called upon his heavenly army to smote Sodom! Nothing has changed since then! He's charged each of us today with the same task -- to weed out the filth among us, before their disease spreads to our children!"
I recognized the passage instantly as Genesis 19. Funny, I thought, I wonder if Bellows has ever really read the damn thing? The men outside Lot's house were aiming to gang rape the angels -- that's what pissed God off, not the fact that they were all men. Not to mention Lot offered them his virgin daughters to rape instead –
what kind of good Christian father would do that? I mentally shook myself. Now certainly wasn't the time to debate religion with Bellows. Keep your mind in the game, Beaver, I thought, trying to still the muscle jumping in my jaw.
Bellows' voice cut off as if slashed by a sharp knife when he noticed me standing just inside the door. I could feel hate rolling off him even across the fifty paces separating us. He raised a finger, pointing it at me. "You," he hissed, practically baring his teeth at me. "You dare enter the house of the Lord?"
"I... uh..." My voice sounded weak and creaky, and I cleared my throat before trying again. "I didn't mean to interrupt your services," I lied. Of course, I had. The more people caught on camera, the better. We wanted everyone in his congregation to hear what we had to say. I twisted slightly to the left and right, so my tie-camera could pick up the faces of the people in the pews, all of whom were staring at me, and none of whom looked even vaguely sympathetic. Some of them looked downright hostile. "I was hoping to talk to you privately."
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