by Clare London
Occasionally they bumped shoulders with each other. Scot saw Jerry glance up at Vincent and smile.
A warm yet unnerving shiver ran down Scot’s back.
Looking back at the stove, he saw Vincent had started preparing the meal before he came out to help them with the car. Scot could see breaths of smoke still rising from the pan on the hob. On the counter was a selection of meat and vegetables, and more eggs like the ones Vincent had been carrying from outside. Scot’s mouth filled with saliva at the thought of food.
Vincent tossed Jerry a drying cloth and walked back to the hob. Jerry dried his arms, then wandered over to stand beside Vincent, apparently looking at the ingredients. He seemed to have forgotten to put his shirt back on.
Is that deliberate? Scot was startled at his sudden cynicism.
“Breakfast looks good.” Jerry’s voice was low. “How many other guests are staying here?”
Vincent smiled slowly at him. He also remained shirtless. His darker skin and more muscled physique looked striking against Jerry’s pale, slimmer body. “This is all for you. No one else is here today.”
“No one?”
Vincent shrugged. “Others have been through. Others will come. But not today.”
Scot was puzzled. Vincent’s speech was slightly stilted anyway, but his tone today was… odd. “What do you mean, all for Jerry?”
Vincent didn’t answer immediately. First, he re-lit the hob and started to warm the pan, reaching for fresh bacon. “I mean, it’s for both of you, of course. Pass me the eggs, please.”
Jerry passed a couple from the tray to Vincent’s outstretched hand. His gaze lingered on the muscles of the chef’s chest. Scott was going to make some kind of comment—trying for teasing, maybe?—but something made him shut his mouth again.
=cradling me=
Scot knew instinctively Vincent’s touch could be gentle if he chose, from the way he took the eggs so carefully. Yet forceful, too. Unbidden, erotic thoughts of being in Vincent’s forceful hands flooded his mind, thoughts that made him flush beyond the aromatic warmth of the kitchen.
Because he was pretty sure they weren’t his thoughts, but Jerry’s.
Scot shook his head, angry at himself again. Everything seemed to be sexually charged to him this morning! No way could he read Jerry’s mind, or anything spooky like that. He was projecting vague dreams onto them both. Imagining Vincent running those strong hands down Jerry’s arms, nudging his knee between Jerry’s thighs, knocking them apart, leaning his head in against Jerry’s neck, tongue seeking the pulse at his throat…
Jerry’s head jerked up and he glanced over at Scot. He looked guilty.
“I’m fine,” Scot said weakly, though no one had asked.
Jerry frowned slightly and turned back to Vincent. “Where can we get a replacement distributor?” he asked. “How far into the next town? Obviously you have your own vehicles, you need some kind of maintenance.” He paused as if confused. “Don’t you?”
“A guy will be out with supplies later in the week.” Vincent cracked an egg sharply on the edge of the pan and it hissed as it fell into the hot oil. “He’ll take your order.”
“Later in the week?” Scot felt a stab of panic. A trickle of fear was back, spitting heat around him, mimicking the fried eggs cooking in the pan.
“But don’t you have a car we could borrow?” Jerry looked worried too. “Or a number we can call for a local mechanic?”
“We can Google it,” Scot added.
“No car. No internet.”
Jerry stared at him, incredulous. “No internet? But how do you manage? How do you get in contact with the town?”
Vincent shrugged. “Maxwell deals with it all. We don’t need anything else. The guy will come, and we’ll tell him to find what you need, and that’ll be that.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Jerry spluttered.
Vincent turned and stared at him. He looked amused. “Don’t you have a cell you can use?”
Jerry looked embarrassed. “The battery’s dead. Has been for a day or so. I forgot my charger.” He glared at Vincent as if annoyed at having to justify himself to anyone like this.
Scot knew that look pretty well. Both of them struggled to keep up payments on their phones. His had run out of credit days ago, and they never seemed to pass anywhere to top up. His battery had then died, and he hadn’t brought a charger either. Now Jerry’s was out of action as well, they were effectively cut off without the motel’s help. Jerry would be furious, even if it was his own fault.
“Don’t be angry, it’s understandable. You left your home in a rush.” Vincent nodded. “You were too eager to leave it all behind. You didn’t think where you might be headed to. Life needs commitment to both, Jerry.”
=an adventure. A new life=
Scot looked quickly around the kitchen, wondering if he’d heard the words or just imagined them. Sometimes they sounded so much louder.
Jerry was still challenging Vincent. “Look, it’s… this is awkward. You see, we don’t have any money left to pay for a charger—or a new phone. Can’t we borrow yours?”
Vincent concentrated on breakfast as if Jerry hadn’t spoken.
“In fact, we can’t afford to stay more than the night here,” Jerry continued quickly. “We never thought we’d have to, right? We’re heading for Vegas. We’re going to get jobs, and a place of our own. Pay our way then.”
Vincent smiled at him in that slow, self-confident way that, just this morning, was beginning to irritate the hell out of Scot. Vincent turned away from the cooker and with a studied, graceful ease, stretched his arms up above his head, lacing his hands together and popping the joints of his fingers. Scot looked at the softer, paler underside of his arms and the glistening trail of sweat in the hollows by his neck, but he knew instinctively that Vincent wasn’t looking for his reaction, but Jerry’s.
How? How do I know that so certainly?
“That’s fine,” Vincent said. “Stay as long as you want. We will wait. You’ll pay your way.”
“I mean, we will do that,” Jerry rushed on.
“Yes,” Vincent said firmly, still with that knowing half-smile. “I said you will. There’s plenty of room here. Relax.”
=stay with me=
Scot shook his head again. The heat was just too much for him. His body was weak, his head full of stupid voices and he was in a strange, constant state of horniness. Confusion, wariness, isolation.
=it’s always been like that for you=
“Yeah,” he murmured.
Vincent glanced over at him this time. His eyes narrowed.
=it doesn’t have to be=
Scot thought of lying down back in his room, dozing, naked. A body beside him, lips on his shoulder, a hand between his thighs. Goose bumps ran along his skin like a feather’s touch. There was something dreadfully indolent about everything here. It gathered around him, a slow, seductive lassitude. No net connection… no cell… no cars….
“As soon as we get a job, we’ll pay.” The sudden sound of Jerry’s voice jarred with Scot’s thoughts.
“A job,” Vincent repeated. His eyes held Jerry’s until Jerry flushed again under his gaze. “You could do some work here for us, if you like.”
Scot watched as Jerry swallowed heavily before his reply. “That sounds like a good idea, I guess. It’d help pay off our expenses here, and keep us busy until the repair guy turns up. But what would we do?”
Vincent shrugged. “Oliver needs help fixing the fencing, and other maintenance around the building. Scot could help him. And you could help me in the kitchen.”
“Me?” Jerry laughed, a little too loudly, too falsely. “I can’t cook, at least I’ve never really tried. I don’t know what else you’d need.”
Vincent stepped away from the counter, leaving the eggs popping quietly under a low heat. He stretched out his hand—the hand that had held the eggs safe, the hand that had cracked them firmly against the metal of the pan—and he took hold
of Jerry’s elbow. “What does it matter to you? You just want to be with me.”
What the hell? Scot sucked in a breath, his heart missing a beat.
“What?” Jerry looked shocked, though Scot didn’t see him pull away. Scot was filled with a wave of excited anger: of horror that was almost welcome. He knew it wasn’t his body reacting to the firm grip. What the hell was happening to him?
Jerry stuttered, “Look, I… I guess we could stay another day. I could help out here. But when exactly will the delivery guy be here next?”
Vincent took just a single step forward, but now he was up against Jerry’s chest, the strong torso against Jerry’s own slimmer one. He pushed Jerry back against the other counter, holding him there, leaning over him. His skin was a hair’s breadth away from Jerry’s. Scot could see a thin trail of sweat from Vincent’s dark nipple glimmering against his torso.
=my almost irresistible desire to lean forward and lick at it=
Scot felt the thought skitter through Jerry’s mind. But how?
“Stop it,” he gasped aloud. But no one acknowledged or answered him.
Vincent bent his head down to Jerry’s ear. “He’ll come when he wants, Jerry. He’ll take the time he takes.”
As Scot watched, Jerry reached out his hand and laid his palm flat on Vincent’s bare chest. He ran his fingers down the central line of Vincent’s well defined six-pack.
Under someone else’s fingertips, Scot felt Vincent’s lungs move in and out.
“Please,” he groaned. He didn’t want this, whatever it was!
“Will you, won’t you, Jerry? Take the time you take. Take whatever you will.” Vincent’s voice was low and lilting, like a mantra. How can such a simple conversation be so charged? Scot felt Jerry’s fascination seep through his veins, his skin crawl with need. It was as if they were fused together, yet Scot sat motionless on the stool at one end of the kitchen while Jerry stood at the other—with his hand on another man. Scot knew Jerry wanted to slide his hand down Vincent’s body, tracing out each well-defined muscle. To reach for the stomach, touch the groin. Follow the delicate trail of hair down to the base of Vincent’s cock; twist the smattering of pubic hairs around his fingers; take the cock into his fist and feel it swell.
Scot stood, suddenly. His legs felt horribly shaky.
Vincent reached to the counter behind Jerry, his hands either side of Jerry’s waist, effectively trapping him. “Let me,” whispered Vincent’s voice, though Scot couldn’t see his mouth moving. And now he listened more closely, he wasn’t sure it was Vincent’s voice at all. He just felt the beat of Vincent’s heart, the quickening of his breath on Jerry’s neck, and the strange, silent words.
=Let me. Let me=
Scot cried out, something wordless, not directed at either of the other two men. But they both twisted around to stare at him.
…=don’t fight it! Let me join you. All of you=
“Scot?” Jerry wrenched himself away from Vincent with a low groan of his own. He stared at his hand as if it had been in a lion’s mouth and the teeth had been just about to close. “Shit.” He turned again, and stumbled toward the exit.
Scot lifted a hand as Jerry approached, but Jerry passed straight by him. Eyes wide, Scot watched him go, Jerry’s steps uneven, his expression panicky. Something moved in Jerry’s way as he made for the door—not a person, but not a mere shadow either. Scot saw it, though if Jerry did, he ignored it.
=just you, Scot=
The shadow was as tall as Jerry, with the smell of man, the body shape becoming clear. Scot felt it, the warmth against his own skin, smelled the citrus aroma in his nostrils. But Jerry ran blindly through it, oblivious to its form.
Or maybe just too scared to care.
***
Scot didn’t move away from the stool. He was silent: shocked. The tiled floor of the kitchen felt cool under his feet, even through his boots. In the background, the eggs spat quietly in the pan. Vincent gave a sigh and walked over to the hob, turning down the heat.
“He’ll…” Scot cleared his throat. “Maybe we’ll have breakfast a bit later. Is that okay?”
Vincent smiled, though not looking directly at him. “Of course. Whenever you like.”
“You’re the guests, after all,” came a softer, higher voice from the doorway. Scot whirled around to find Oliver standing there.
Oliver’s gaze passed swiftly over Scot. “Vincent doesn’t mind waiting,” he said. His eyes were on Vincent now. “Not for something he really likes.”
Scot frowned. He supposed it was Oliver’s way of speaking, but it sounded barely civil. Fuck, but the people here were odd.
Oliver walked past Scot and went to stand beside Vincent. He glanced back over his shoulder at Scot, a sly grin on his face. Then he dropped his hand down to Vincent’s ass and squeezed it. It didn’t seem to faze Vincent. He stood at the stove, stirring a pot of beans, adding some salt. He may have nudged back against Oliver’s touch, but nothing more.
“I don’t know what game you two are playing, but I’m not interested in watching you making out all the time.” Scot was amazed at his nerve, but relief washed over him at saying the words aloud.
“Game?” Vincent looked over at Scot too. He slipped a hand around Oliver’s waist.
“For God’s sake!”
“You can join in if you want.” Oliver’s voice was a murmur. With a breathy chuckle, he hitched himself up on to the counter beside the stove. His legs swung gently over the edge, just like he had on the counter at reception. Tap, tap, tap. His bare heels drummed a slow tattoo against the cabinet doors.
Scot wanted to turn on his heel and leave the room. But he didn’t move, watching the two other men together. What the fuck? He’d never been any kind of voyeur.
=that’s not what this is, Scot. You’re invited to join, not to spy=
He jerked his head around but there was still no one else there. The shadow at the door had gone, along with Jerry’s footsteps, vanishing across the yard outside. Or had it?
“I don’t do that,” he muttered. “I don’t want that!”
For a second, the atmosphere in the room stilled.
=You hear me that well?=
“Yes, I do!” Who the hell was he talking to? Oliver and Vincent were both staring at him. A look passed between them, wary yet excited. Scot felt his throat grow tight, and his heart beat faster. “Why don’t you show yourself so I can see you too, you fucking coward?”
Oliver gasped. He wore his ubiquitous shorts, but no shirt this morning. His hair was attractively mussed as if he’d combed it carefully, but then ran his hands wildly through. “Scot? Listen to me.” His words were slow. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? Let me.” Leaning over, he took the spoon from Vincent and ran his finger slowly through the pool of thick, rich sauce in its bowl. He lifted his hand above his head and watched the liquid drip down from his fingertip. A single, pale red bean hung from his skin. Smiling, he glanced again at Vincent, then just as the bean fell, he caught it on his outstretched tongue. A tiny bead of tomato sauce dribbled from the side of his mouth.
Vincent’s gaze fastened on Oliver’s flicking tongue. Oliver grinned slyly. He poked his wet finger into his mouth, and slurped the rest of the sauce off noisily. “Tastes good… and full of what you do best, Vincent. Sauce and seasoning.”
Abruptly, Vincent turned to Oliver and landed heavy hands on his shoulders, pushing Oliver none too gently down on the counter. He stood over it as Oliver wriggled to get more comfortable, his head up against the wall, his legs still hanging over the edge. His chest was heaving more noticeably than before.
“Don’t try to distract me,” Scot cried. That’s all this was, wasn’t it? Outrageous, provocative behavior. He could feel the air shivering around him; something moving; something brushing along his arm.
“It’s not all about you, Scot,” Oliver murmured, his bright eyes challenging Vincent’s gaze.
Vincent’s hands tightened on the waist of Olive
r’s shorts. “Don’t upset the guests, Oliver. If he wishes to leave…”
“…he can go. Of course.” Oliver nodded, still grinning. “Why don’t you leave the room, Scot, and follow Jerry?”
Vincent laughed softly.
Scot stood as if rooted to the spot. Were they laughing at him? At Jerry? Why didn’t he leave? He should be with Jerry, after all.
=No=
Vincent tugged at Oliver’s shorts, and Oliver sighed as they slid down his hips. His swelling cock eased from the waistband, a single drop of pre-come oozing softly onto his stomach. The muscles of his belly tightened and his thighs pressed against the counter.
Scot stared. He couldn’t deny the arousal curling inside his belly. They made a gorgeous, sexy pair of lovers. Half-naked. Totally uninhibited.
“Maxwell’s here,” Oliver whispered to Vincent. With another wriggle, he kicked his shorts farther down his legs.
Vincent smiled, his greedy gaze on Oliver’s exposed erection. “I knew he would be tempted to join us. Maxwell?” he called out softly to the room in general.
Oliver laughed, his legs spread wide on the counter. “Your recipes are as persuasive as always, Vincent.”
“What are you all talking about?” Scot found himself taking steps toward the two men. “Who else is here?”
For a brief second, Oliver frowned. “He’s come for us, Scot, not guests who are just passing through. For his lovers, for those who love him, who understand.”
“Understand what?”
Vincent touched Oliver’s forehead with his fingers. “Hush,” he said to him. “Don’t be like that. Connor Maxwell likes this one. He’s searching. He needs understanding too.”
“I’ll give him that!” Oliver’s petulance sounded heartfelt, his eyes widening with distress. “If I’d known, if I’d seen this when they drove into the yard in that pile of shit, if I’d realized—!”
“Stop this!” Scot almost shouted. He was panting and his skin was clammy.