A Cuddly Toy (The Bent Zealots MC Book 5)

by Layla Wolfe

  “Ah! “Ah!” “Ah!”

  Who the hell was making those sounds? Was that me? I gasped for air, I guess, as I relied more and more on the granite wall to hold me up. Yes, I was slithering down the wall as my hips pumped surge after surge of jizz into the mouth I now realized was partially toothless.

  “Ah! Ah!” My eyes popped open. Mr. Sinquah’s cowboy hat had tumbled off, his greasy hair hadn’t been washed in days, and he smelled like sheep.

  Someone’s profile popped around the side of the tailings pile. The man gasped, turned, and vanished back the way he’d come.

  In a flurry of long black skirts.

  “Get off me!” I snarled, shoving Leroy by the shoulder.

  He tumbled back on his ass, satisfied, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. My dick bobbed at half-mast, still stimulated by the top-flight cocksucking. I had a hell of a time stuffing it back in my pants.

  “You’ll help us,” he panted.

  “We’ll see,” I snapped. Then, “Yes! Of course I’ll help you! And not because of what just happened. Because I want to!”

  Leroy nodded. “You want to.”

  I wanted to help. And it wasn’t because of what had just happened.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NOEL

  I think we can bring him around,” said Harte, squinting at an excavator that recently had been used to move uranium-riddled tailings in its bucket. “He’s a liberal, an old hippie.”

  I said, “I’m not so sure the notion of ‘saving the people’ is really top priority for him. He seems a company man through and through. If we let him put a trailer here, he might just use it to launch investigations into how much uranium is still left to be mined and ignore the hazards already created by leetso.”

  “I get an ambivalent vibe from him,” said Twinkletoes. “If he’d just gather data about the contamination, he could present it anonymously to the EPA.”

  I said, “But then who’d believe him? It needs the backup of his official seal, his credentials.” Of course I’d googled Fremont Zuckerman. After graduating MIT, he’d made many vast discoveries of silicon, copper, and yes, uranium. He’d also been the driving force behind miners’ rights, especially in South Africa. Shorter hours, better conditions, better equipment, and the like. So he did care, as much as he protested he didn’t. “And his boss would have to approve that. He’s not a contractor, he’s an employee.”

  “But he’s our only fucking hope,” said Haven. “He knows his shit. He knows what he’s talking about. If we want an investigation opened, and we do, we need some kind of initial assessment.”

  “I doubt he’s your man,” said Turk. “If he were gay, someone could probably persuade him to see the error of his ways. But he’s straight as a gun barrel.”

  “And just as empty,” said Twinkletoes.

  Everyone had a good laugh, but we quickly became serious. Some of the Diné who had followed us were climbing up the tailings pile, apparently unaware of the reason we were there. Cupping my hand to my mouth, I shouted at them to get off, in their own language. I had a basic understanding of the Diné language, enough to get by, anyway. I made sure to always attempt to learn the language wherever I went. It showed respect.

  Harte renewed his attack on Fremont’s lack of immorality. “I’m telling you, he’s a decent guy. I have a feeling this guy might be our ticket.”

  I found myself blurting, “He actually worked for the EPA for seven years. So he must still know people there.” Was I on board with this whole idea?

  “Okay, that’s it,” said Twinkletoes. Setting his little hands into fists, he made like a cartoon character setting off on a mission.

  Only he didn’t know where he was going. “I’m going to find that Zuckerman guy. I’m going to ask him straight out if he’s willing to help these people. If not, we’re kicking him the fuck off our land.” Twinkletoes always got carried away. He knew it wasn’t “our land.”

  “I’m with you,” said Harte. “I think I saw him go behind that pile.”

  As Harte breezed past me, I clapped my hand onto his burly bicep. “Let me talk to him. Call it a priestly egomania, but I think I can have some effect.”

  Harte shrugged. “Have at it, Father.”

  “Yeah,” said Twinkletoes sullenly. “I was going to threaten and terrorize him, but your way might work.”

  Thing was, about two minutes after I saw Fremont vanish behind the pile, Sheriff Leroy Sinquah followed him. This above all made me curious. I knew Sheriff Sinquah to have the glad eye for a nice thick penis, and Fremont Zuckerman definitely qualified. That Fremont was straight wouldn’t stand in the good sheriff’s way. He particularly seemed to enjoy bilagáana penis. During a sacrament of reconciliation with a Bent Zealot named Ormond Tangier, I’d been tortured by descriptions of what excellent hummers the sheriff gave. It was nauseating picturing that, and I really tried to block it from my frontal cortex. Sheriff Leroy was damaged. He was wrapped more times than a bad Christmas present.

  But now it whacked me upside the head. I could just see the bedraggled, straight, divorced Fremont come screaming out from behind the stockpile, vowing never to do business on the rez again. I should’ve intervened sooner. Leroy Sinquah could blow it for all of us, so to speak, and ruin our only chance at getting the rez cleaned up by the feds, who should’ve done it in the first place. Decades ago.

  My heart sped up a little as I rounded the corner, delving into a narrow slot canyon where some overzealous equipment operators had practiced shoring up the material into a sheer cliff wall. Around another slight bend in the wall, I came upon two huddled figures. My eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light.

  The good sheriff kneeled, absolutely inhaling Fremont Zuckerman’s long, thick penis. And Fremont wasn’t protesting. No, he crouched like a huddled football player, the better to slide his member down the slimy, hot throat. I knew it was slimy and hot because Ormond had told me. He’d whetted my disgust by informing me how artistic, rhythmic, and deep Leroy sucked. Ormond was a badge slut, and he got off on watching the official massage his pubic bone and weave his dark fingers through his bush as he gobbled his meat. The sheriff had a head like a bag of spuds, as we said in Dublin. The contrast between his mottled, pitted face against the sheer ripped beauty of Fremont’s abdomen was the picture of despair.

  I knew all this about Leroy, somewhere in the misty recesses of my memory, and it stabbed me to the bone. Jealousy, abhorrence, curiosity, all these emotions tangled together in the pit of my stomach as I watched, jaw askew, Fremont Zuckerman impaling that sleazy old fart’s mouth with his big penis.

  He must just be horny . . .

  I knew from my back-alley jaunts there were straight men, I guess some would call them “bicurious,” who would allow themselves to be sucked by another man. The lust of men was legendary, and men more often than women would open themselves to a same-sex experience, especially if kept under wraps. That must be what Fremont’s doing . . .

  I could tell he was on the roller coaster ride toward climax as he held Leroy’s skull and arched into him. That was when, for lord knows what reason, his eyes popped open and he saw me. He saw me standing there like an utter dotard, my hands at my sides, staring. There was no way I could deny what I’d seen. Leroy was engulfed in his task, and Fremont’s penis continued pulsing in his partner’s mouth, but I could almost see his pupils contract in shock as he took note of me.

  I turned tail and ran.

  By the time I rounded the curve of the stockpile, I composed myself enough to shift into a rapid walk. It would look seriously dodgy if I came hauling ass through the canyon, followed by the waddling, satisfied Leroy and the paranoid Fremont.

  What in the name of arse did I just witness?

  I’d just told Fremont I was a rawny ponce! So he knew I was gay, yet he chose to consort with that hypocrite with a face like a blind cobbler’s thumb? My natural instinct was to be offended. I had to remind myself that most people’s first choice of sexual
partner would not be a priest. Although sex, in particular gay sex, was allowed by the church, I’d never felt comfortable being out with a partner. Especially since the Standing Rock incident, I’d decided to go underground when it came to my penis. Venturing in plainclothes through the seedy underbellies of small, anonymous towns was the way for me now.

  Harte almost grabbed me as I sailed on by. “What did he—”

  “Hey hey hey!” I shouted at Klah Biakeddy, who was shoving Toby Bloodgood. Klah was an enormous bully. One could have sympathy for him, being a youth stuck in the bowels of the foster care system his entire life, just as Galileo and Ogden had been. Maybe that’s why he didn’t harass Galileo. But Toby had always been his prime target due to his deformed hands. At times like this the parent or the teacher came out in me, and I literally stepped between them. I had to put my fingertips on Klah’s chest to keep him at arm’s length.

  “What’s the problem?”

  Toby was the first to burst out with, “The usual, Father! If he’s going to give me chaa about my hands, then he shouldn’t even be here because we’re investigating uranium contamination! Why the fuck is he here, anyway?”

  Klah bellowed, “Your dad is a useless hataalii! All he does is chant and pray for something that never happens! I saw him chanting at the eclipse. Like it’s going to go away?”

  “That wasn’t the point!” shrieked Toby. “You completely misunderstand the whole point of everything!”

  Klah snarled and flung an accusing arm at Toby. He was wearing a tight but worn Megadeath T-shirt and black combat boots, the uniform of the rez gang banger. “No wonder you’re a virgin with a family like that, Bloodgood! And what chick would want to be felt up with those claws?”

  “Father!” Toby appealed to me. “You see what I mean? You recognize?”

  “I recognize,” I said, shoving Klah off my fingertips with barely concealed disgust. “Listen. You are both tough noodles. You’re made to last. I want the two of you to stay away from each other.”

  “But what about at school?” asked Toby. “We have two classes together.”

  “I want you not to talk to each other. Don’t snarl at each other, don’t even look at each other.” If I heard they’d been in a fight, I might have lost it. Hauled off and punched Klah, who was clearly the instigator. All my seminary training down the tubes when I reverted back to my former thug self. Little did the boys know how much I had in common with them—well, mostly with Klah.

  “Father!” Someone ran up behind me, panting, out of breath. I turned to see Fremont Zuckerman, almost as panicked as the two boys. I’d tried to ignore our run-in, but Fremont was forcing it. He almost seemed as lost and young as the two Diné combatants before me. With his soft hair ruffled, his jeans buttoned in haste, the unmistakable acrid yet sweet scent of semen clinging to him, he was no longer the geologist in charge, but yet another male of the species felled by lust. “I need to talk to you.”

  I pointed an authoritative finger at the boys. “You. Stay apart. Klah, get over there.”

  I had no choice but to allow Fremont to lead me past a parked bulldozer. He almost leaned an arm on the bucket before having second thoughts—about leetso, no doubt. Instead, he brushed imaginary dust from the tip of his nose with the back of his hand. “Ah,” he started, uncertainly.

  I helped him out. “I’ll agree that I saw nothing, Fremont. Listen. Sin is necessary. Christ’s atonement makes sin a time for learning.”

  His apologetic stance swiftly changed. Now his face showed a flicker of anger. “You think what I did was sin? Why are bodily needs always sins? Fuck!”

  “That is how the church views it,” I tried to quickly say, but his emotions were in overdrive.

  “You took vows not to sin, and I understand that, but we can’t all be as perfect as you are! You just told me you’re gay, no? A skanky ponce?”

  “A rawny ponce,” I corrected him, frowning. “It means thin and delicate.”

  Emboldened, Fremont looked me up and down. “Well, you’re hardly thin or delicate. You look like you work out. But the fucking point is, if you’re gay, aren’t you sinning too? Or do you refrain, like all other good priests? Hah! What a joke!”

  “This isn’t the Catholic church. And I do all right, not that it’s any of your business. I just prefer not to flaunt it because that would take away from my message, from my mission. I don’t want people saying, ‘there goes that gay priest.’ I want them saying ‘there goes that priest who does a lot of good in the community.’”

  Fremont snorted. “Well. Can’t say as I’m as perfect as you. I get blowjobs behind tailings piles from gross old Indian sheriffs. And I don’t do this all the time. Practically never, matter of fact. I want you to know that.”

  I smiled. “That’s okay. From what I’ve heard, Leroy Sinquah can’t be beat for giving head.”

  I could see Fremont blush behind his tan. “He was . . . all right. I see now there’s no fun in it if there’s no emotion, though. My whole life I assumed I was bisexual and just decided to go with the straight aspect of myself, thinking I could bury the gay. Well, it busted out in strange ways, damaging ways. Ways like you just witnessed. You tell me that’s not a sin!”

  “You taste the bitter, so you might know to cherish the good. God is the master gardener. He’ll prune away the sins and forgive you. Sin, and the pain it creates, is the great teacher.”

  “God damnit!” Fremont exploded. “Don’t you see? I want you to condemn me! I want you to tell me I’m a sick pervert! If God loves me so much, why does he want me to come to this rez and stab these people in the back? What does your good book have to say about that?”

  “Taking my vows wasn’t about what was in books. It was about what was in my heart. I had to forgive myself for a thousand transgressions before I was ordained. What sort of leader would I be if I forgave myself but none of my parishioners?”

  Fremont paced, wiping a lock of hair back from his forehead. “God damnit! I live a split screen existence, Father, stuck between straight and gay. My wife cut me loose when she found me in bed with another man. Yes, another fucking man, can you believe it?”

  I couldn’t, actually. My gaydar had not pinged once when near Fremont Zuckerman. Maybe because he was Jewish. “You don’t seem to fit the norm of what we’d consider gay.”

  He lightened up for a second. He grinned a little. “Nor do you.”

  I was curious. “Oh yeah? Why not? I mean, aside from the vestments.”

  “And the swinging of the incense censer, and the giving of Holy Communion. I mean, you don’t have that vibe either. You don’t have that ‘happy’ look in the face most gay people have. I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. You’re craggy, and Irish, and far too manly.”

  “Manly men can’t be gay?” I teased. “For the record, you’re incredibly manly too. That was my first impression of you. Especially now I’ve seen your long, thick penis.”

  Fremont exploded. “Father! I am shocked!”

  I shrugged. “Well. I did see it. And I can easily picture Sheriff Sinquah’s joy at having found you behind the stockpile.”

  Again, Fremont blushed, but he had bigger things on his mind. “Father. Why doesn’t God know I love him? Why is he testing me by sending me here?”

  I took my chance. I didn’t usually give direct advice, usually speaking in parables. This time was different. “Maybe he wants you to do right by the people, Fremont. Will it get you fired to recommend a cleanup of the site before you tear it apart again by mining?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “It will.”

  I was taken aback. “Well, then. Maybe that would be for the best? You’re such a top-flight scientist, I can’t imagine other companies not wanting to hire you. Can you find it within your heart to take such a risk?”

  Fremont was looking directly in my eyes when he nodded, his lips firmly set. “I can.” He nodded. “I can.”

  As I would with any other parishioner who had a spiritual breakthr
ough, I took him in my arms. He was maybe two inches shorter than me, so I brushed my face against that soft hair, inhaled his masculine scent, heartily squeezed his bicep in my palm. And imagine that giant trunk of a penis thrusting down the sheriff’s throat. “Bless you, son,” I murmured, to take the attention off my own burgeoning penis. “Bless you.”

  Fremont went and called his assistant soon after that to order the office trailer delivered onsite. He placed it within a quarter mile of my church, so we could be in close contact all the time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FREMONT

  What is it you have?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Twinkletoes was understandably confused by my question. We were sampling metal fumes out at a miner’s ghost town. Father Moloney—Noel, I secretly called him now—had offered the biker’s services as my assistant, and I had readily accepted. I needed someone to carry equipment into places I couldn’t drive, and to be honest I wanted someone to talk to.

  The upheaval of my decision to turn against U-238 loomed over me. Of course, I hadn’t told anyone about my choice. I had just requisitioned an office trailer after telling Ozzie the uranium deposits were much more extensive than I’d imagined, and I needed more time. Then there was my apparent choice to turn to the homosexual side of my bisexuality. That was throwing me for a complete and utter loop.

  I couldn’t fathom why all ideas of women had vanished from my head lately. Since before my divorce, actually. Honestly, I had lost most desire for Kelly toward the end. I had to do her dog style when we did it on top of the washer/dryer combo. Imagine her as a guy I was fucking. All the while, I was becoming aware I didn’t even want to be the top, the guy doing the fucking. I wanted to get fucked, and by a towering, macho authority figure. Jesus Roosevelt Christ, I was a pansy bottom. “Know thyself,” says an inscription outside the Temple of Apollo at Adelphi. Not only did I not know myself, I barely knew my own name.

  But the more I dwelled on it, the more I realized. A man could be a bottom and still keep his dignity, his pride. There was a gorgeous sort of authority itself in kneeling and paying obeisance to another man. To have that control over a man, the way that pockmarked sheriff had just controlled me with his lips and tongue, was a new sort of power. Was the top really the one with the power? I wondered. I sure had felt like a spineless puppet when Sheriff Sinquah had gulped my cock. He could have been anyone with a badge and I would have turned to putty in his mouth. Man, I had flooded his gullet with my jizz.