by Clare London
“It’s too early to say.” There was a rich timbre to the new voice that was pleasant to the ear. It had a seductive, distracting quality. The hand on Oliver’s shoulder slid around behind his neck, playing with his fine hair.
In his dream, Scot peered into the scene, trying to see form in the shadow.
Who are you?
Oliver’s smile became both sweeter and more grimacing, an uneasy contradiction. “You watch them,” he murmured. “You’re fascinated by them.” Scot was confused by the tone of Oliver’s voice, neither statement nor accusation.
“Of course I do. The angry one.” The other voice sighed. “He has darkness in him. Need.”
Oliver nodded. His eyes still faced forward but they didn’t seem to focus on anything in particular. “We can respond to that, I know. But the other one….”
“He’s the sweet one.”
Scot felt the emotion in those words—a hope, a delight. He didn’t know what or who the voice was talking about, but he unconsciously leaned toward its effect.
Oliver hissed, distracting Scot’s attention. His hand slid into his shorts and fastened around his cock. He moved his fist slowly yet firmly, up and down, pumping underneath the straining material. He opened his mouth wider, licking his lips thoroughly.
The hand behind Oliver’s neck fastened in the blond curls and tugged. “Help me,” the new voice whispered. “Help me see him.”
Oliver pushed the loose fabric away from his fly and started stroking with a fiercer rhythm.
In his sleep, Scot felt a spike of arousal: a sudden connection with Oliver’s lust. His hand slipped between his thighs, cupping his warm balls.
He heard a sharp intake of breath.
=Feel it. See me=
Eyes glinted in the darkness like some feral animal, but Scot knew they were human. Knew they were watching him.
Oliver wriggled his shorts down his thighs and raised himself to kneeling, spreading his legs wide apart on the bare ground. He stretched his hand down under his groin, moving with easy familiarity between his thighs. With a soft exhalation of breath, he twisted his arm and thrust fingers up into his ass. Scot couldn’t see how many, or the pucker of Oliver’s flesh, but he knew what was happening. Oliver thrust his fingers in time with his stroking. His cock, clutched tightly in his fist, beat against his lower stomach. He moaned softly.
Scot’s fingers curled around his own cock. He felt a gentle pressure, as if someone else’s hand guided him too. Am I still asleep? From within a growing, erotic haze, he felt the whisper of the other man’s breath, hidden in the shadows. They moved together… enjoyed it together.
=so gorgeous=
Oliver cried out, a high, keening sound. His climax was fast and sudden, his body shuddering, spilling his seed all over his thighs and the ground underneath his spread legs.
Scot was startled. His gaze was on Oliver but his desire was concentrated on his own passion, pulsing through him more quickly than he’d expected. He squeezed himself hard.
=for me!=
He heard the hidden man’s secret sigh of pleasure in the corners of his mind. He heard it as if it had been shouted aloud. It filled him with excitement and a joy that was far more poignant than the mere physical pleasure.
What’s happening to me?
He didn’t want to question it, not such pure, comforting pleasure. Instead, he relaxed and allowed his mind to fill with the waves of greedy desire and satisfaction. Waves that came not from him, nor from Oliver’s display, but from the secret watcher. He arched up on the sweaty sheets, gasping, coming fiercely and uncontrollably, his muscles tense and his mind lost somewhere between the dream and wakefulness.
=wake up=
The voice chuckled.
=you came to me=
Scot groaned aloud, reality seeping through his confusion. His fingers were sticky with come: his head was thick from rudely interrupted sleep. The loop-loop of the fan became more than a background noise.
Just a dream, after all.
But before he came fully awake, and as the dream voices receded, he was conscious of two things.
One was the sense of loss as the gentle, laughing voice left him.
The other was the look of pure anger in Oliver’s eyes, staring at Scot as his face faded from sight.
Chapter 4
The morning arrived with a sharp, bright sunlight that promised as hot a day as before. In room 6 of the motel, Scot lay lazily beside Jerry in the bed, both of them naked, only a thin sheet covering the lower half of their bodies. Jerry was still half-asleep, curled up like a fetus, a thick pillow clutched to his chest as comfort.
Scot rolled onto his back, and heard the thump of a half-empty tub of gel as it rolled off the edge of the mattress onto the floor. He didn’t move to retrieve it, just lay there and stared up at the ceiling. He’d never have believed such a simple, useless pastime could be so engrossing. A desert bird screeched in the sky as it passed over the motel, and outside in the corridor the air conditioning system increased with a soft hitch and rumble. The sound was tired, as if unequal to the task in this weather.
Scot’s mind was drawn inward, his senses distracted. Damned heat. But maybe not just that. Dreams lingered in his memory: of the boldly sexy Oliver; of an anonymous voice and a caress that had reached deep inside him.
He’d never let anyone truly close before, not even Jerry, not even through sex. He’d learned early on to keep himself hidden, both physically and emotionally.
This heat, dammit. What’s it doing to me?
He slipped his feet over the side of the bed and stretched muscles that ached with unfamiliar strain. That’d be due to several days scrunched up in a battered old car, he guessed. Then he felt the warm, regular breath brushing his hip, and he looked down at the man sleeping beside him. Hah. Maybe the extra sexual exercise might be to blame too.
Jerry stirred and yawned.
Scot watched him silently for a moment. It was fascinating to see how Jerry slept, hugging that pillow. Scot had never slept with him all night, not comfortably at least. Even when they first ran away, the nights in the car had been for exhausted rest, rising early to get on the road again before anyone could check them out or, God forbid, catch up with them. His cock stirred with a sluggish but eager morning’s lust. During the night, his passion had obviously startled Jerry: it had startled him, for that matter. He’d never been so shockingly eager. There’d been the first, fierce time. Then more caresses; more stimulation. More penetration of his ass, now stretched and eased with the silky, sticky remnants of Jerry’s come. More gasping, astonishing climaxes. And then some more… His face grew hot at the memories and he had to nudge his half-swollen cock on his thigh, trying to ease it.
The thin drapes hung motionless at the window. Scot wondered what kind of day this would be. Definitely another hot one, or maybe the heat never really dissipated, just continued on from day to day. The warmth crawled through his skin, and not just from the sun. Blood throbbed through his veins as if he could feel its passage: lust lingered in his tired limbs. His cock was almost fully hard now. Teasing at it, he was torn between calming it down and giving in to its demands. There was a forgotten, dried white spittle of come at its base, and he eased a trapped hair out from the crease at the top of his thigh.
Then his stomach rumbled.
“Scot?” Jerry yawned and pushed away his pillow comforter. He kicked the sheet off his legs and reached out his hand, trailing fingers down Scot’s side.
Scot smiled but held back from the promised caress. He couldn’t have said exactly why, when he’d given everything to Jerry in the dark, hot night. “I’m going to look for breakfast,” he said.
Jerry grunted. “Ought to check the car out as well. See if it’ll start again.” His tone implied he had little enthusiasm for it. He stretched out beside Scot, yawning again. Scot watched Jerry’s dick shift against his thigh, the skin smooth and dry.
Jerry caught Scot’s eye: cleared his throat. �
�Breakfast sounds good.”
Scot grinned. Jerry did love his food. “Coming with me?”
“Yeah. Need a wash first.” Jerry pulled himself up to sitting. “The food at supper was great, wasn’t it? Wonder what they’ve got in the kitchen today.”
“Maybe we should look at the car first,” Scot reminded him. “We should get going soon, right?”
Jerry clambered out of bed, his back to Scot as he stumbled over to the bathroom. His ass was pink from the warmth and pressure of the mattress, his hair sticking up with bed-head mess. “Yeah,” he muttered, just before the door closed behind him. “Soon.”
Scot reached for his clothes. He’d follow Jerry in the bathroom, then get dressed.
***
Outside in the front yard, Jerry hitched himself out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him. The hinges creaked in protest, and Jerry snatched his hand away.
“Did you burn yourself?” Even from a few yards away, Scot could see the metal glinting under the climbing sun. “Will it start?”
Jerry didn’t answer either question. He looked both furious and frustrated. Marching to the front of the car, he fumbled under the hood and wrenched it up.
Scot took a few steps nearer, instinctively knowing he should keep his distance. Jerry was staring at the engine like it was something from an alien planet. Scot glanced up at the sign to the motel. It looked different in the morning light and he could read ‘MAXWELL’S’ quite clearly now. Odd. It had been a nearly illegible mess last night, hadn’t it? But there was no evidence of anyone cleaning it up: no footprints in the dust at its base, no drops of cleaning fluid or fresh paint.
Jerry cursed loudly, dragging Scot’s attention back to the car. Jerry was prodding at some of the grime-encrusted workings under the hood. Or ‘not’ workings, as the case may be.
“You’ve fixed it before,” Scot said, trying to sound encouraging. “It can’t be that tough.”
“And you know all about cars, do you?”
“You ever bothered to ask?”
Jerry glared over at him. His palms were filthy from the engine and there was a smudge of grease on his cheek. He looked furious.
Dammit. Scot was angry, too. And it was true, wasn’t it? Jerry never took any notice of any skills Scot had: never shared the plans or the problems with him. Okay, so Scot didn’t know anything about cars—his parents had never kept a vehicle for any length of time without hocking it to pay for booze—but all the time, he was expected to defer to Jerry and his apparently superior fucking knowledge—
Someone coughed behind them, and Scot swung around, startled. Vincent stood at the main door to the motel, leaning against the frame, dressed in a sleeveless tunic and loose, cotton pants similar to the ones he’d worn the previous night. He held a couple of cardboard trays of eggs, presumably taking them to the kitchen. Scot hadn’t seen him appear, but then he’d not been concentrating on anything but his frustration with both the car and Jerry.
“Trouble?”
“Fucking car won’t start,” Jerry snapped. “It was on its last legs when we arrived, and it looks like they’ve given way as well. Not a murmur. It won’t even turn over.”
“I’ll take a look,” Vincent said, his voice calm and authoritative. He put the egg boxes down on the step and walked over to stand beside Jerry, passing Scot on the way. Vincent had a cool, morning smell about him, like he’d just washed. Like he wore light cologne, and it was still fresh from application. That citrus smell again. It teased at Scot’s senses.
Vincent bent over the engine, reached confidently for a fixture and twisted it. He tsked aloud when it wouldn’t move. Straightening up, he squinted at the sun climbing above them, then his gaze dropped back quickly to Jerry’s face.
Jerry blushed heavily.
Scot frowned. Jerry blushing again? Was he embarrassed at not being able to get the car going? Scot wavered, curious, restless, wondering whether to join the two men at the car. In the end, he stayed back. And just watched.
Vincent smiled, his gaze still on Jerry. Without a word, he reached for the back of his tunic top and peeled it easily over his head. Half-naked now, his biceps flexed as he stretched his arms, and his pecs tightened across his broad chest.
There was a sudden, pregnant silence. He’s really ripped. Scot felt an instinctive stir of appreciation in his groin. He glanced between Vincent and Jerry, but neither of them returned the look. Jerry didn’t seem to be able to stop staring at Vincent.
Above them all, the sky was an unbroken blue, pale with the shine of early morning light. Vincent’s skin was darker than Oliver’s, and nearer to Scot’s own tone. A row of sweat around his neck glimmered with reflected sunlight like a necklace, and the muscles of his torso tensed as he moved his arms back down. Scot noticed the unusually dark pigment and prominence of Vincent’s nipples. Looked like Jerry had noticed them too, his gaze sliding hungrily down Vincent’s body. What the hell’s going on? Maybe Scot misunderstood Jerry’s fascination. One sex-filled night, and he seemed to be obsessed by the whole thing.
“Um.” Jerry cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “It’s okay, I can call a mechanic.”
Vincent shook his head slowly. “Let me see.”
Scot was engrossed by the body language of the two men. Vincent’s hip was pressing against Jerry’s as they stood together at the car. Jerry grasped the edge of the open hood as if to steady himself. He looked feverish, but Scot didn’t know whether it was from excitement or discomfort. Vincent bent over again, tapping at parts of the engine. To Scot, it looked like the man knew his way around a car, and this was confirmed by the way Jerry let him work. As Scot continued to watch, fascinated, the back of Vincent’s pants slipped down a few inches, exposing the shallow dip at the base of his spine as it curved into his buttocks. It was one of the sexiest things Scot had ever seen.
Jerry made a small, growling noise in the back of his throat.
Yeah. Seemed Jerry agreed. Scot wiped a hand over his brow, wondering how it was possible to feel even hotter.
“Is it the distributor?” Jerry’s eyes narrowed.
“You think?” Vincent paused in his investigations, his voice a gentle murmur, like the stroke of the warm air outdoors.
“Yes.” Jerry’s voice got firmer. “That’s what I think.”
Vincent nodded. There was oil on his hands, dirt up his arms. He didn’t seem to notice, but ran his hand up the edge of the hood, to rest next to Jerry’s. It was too far away for Scot to see for definite, but Jerry tensed as if Vincent had taken hold of him, and tightly. Restraining him.
“You’re the one who knows,” Vincent said.
“Huh?”
Vincent smiled at him. “About the car. You can make it work again if you want.”
“I don’t think so.” Jerry’s voice was very quiet, but firm. “Like I said, it’s the distributor.”
Vincent shrugged gently. Neither man made any other move.
Scot felt a shiver down his back, as if the pair of them was carrying on another, secret conversation from which he was excluded. He took a step forward. “So what does that mean?”
Jerry turned to him, his eyes unfocused, as if he’d forgotten Scot was even there. “It’s seized.”
Vincent turned his gaze on Scot too. There was amusement in his expression, assessment too. “There’s no spark without it. It’ll not run without repair, without a new distributor.” He stretched up, twisting his shoulders as if to loosen his muscles again. He towered over Jerry, a good four inches taller. “Nothing will run without a spark,” he murmured, his tone rich and smooth. The sound slipped almost lasciviously from his lips, and a smile teased at the corners of his mouth. He glanced back at Jerry. “And only some people can make that happen.”
Jerry gasped and stepped back, clutching a hand to his chest.
“Jerry? You okay?” Scot was startled too, but Jerry didn’t answer him.
Vincent, laughing softly, stepped back from the car. “You�
�re covered in oil like me. We’ll clean ourselves off in the kitchen.”
“Ahh… no.” Jerry glanced over at Scot then his gaze dropped away. He clenched his filthy hands into fists. “I’ll go back to the room.”
“In the kitchen,” Vincent repeated. His dark eyes fixed on Jerry’s, like deep pools of command. “Come with me.”
=come to me=
Scot felt a sudden, sharp pain through his temples. Fear tightened coils in the pit of his stomach: desire licked its way around his balls. He was suddenly, irrationally scared. Scared at what was inside him, apparently beyond his control, and his knees started to buckle.
“Shit!”
“Scot?” Jerry called.
The pain passed as quickly as it came, but Scot was left gasping for air, his whole body shaking. His vision was still clouded: he couldn’t find his voice.
Vincent caught his elbow and helped him regain his footing. “Come in out of the heat. The kitchen is cooler. And you haven’t eaten yet.”
Jerry appeared behind Vincent, nodding. “Come with us, Scot. Vincent’s going to help us.” There was still a greasy smudge on his cheek, and a stripe of oil across his T-shirt, as if someone’s hand had run its way across his chest. The pungent smell of motor oil was suddenly very vivid.
Scot allowed them to lead him indoors again. He couldn’t fail to notice that Jerry stood beside Vincent, and that they moved easily together, opening the front door to the motel for Scot and guiding him along the corridor to the kitchen.
As if Scot was suddenly the only newcomer here.
***
The kitchen was quiet and definitely cooler than the yard outside, despite the warmth from a stove that had recently been in use. Scot could smell the tantalizing aroma of salty bacon over lingering herbs from previous meals. He sat on a stool by the open door and looked around. Wide counters ran along the two sides of the room with the stove and hob on the left, and a large sink set against the far wall. The floor was tiled. No one else seemed to be working there, despite it being breakfast time, when he’d expect plenty of activity for guests. He watched Vincent run hot water into the large enamel sink, then add detergent. Jerry peeled his shirt off, and stood beside the taller man as they both washed their arms and hands.