by Clare London
“It’s good food,” Jerry said.
He turned away for a moment, and Scot wondered if he were trying to hide his expression. Scot had glimpsed a look in Jerry’s eyes over the last few days, a distracted, longing look. Sometimes it didn’t seem to be just for sex.
“You know I like my food, Scot. Vincent’s some kind of genius in creating meals out of simple ingredients. Don’t you love the tastes yourself?”
Scot shrugged. It was food, that’s all. He idly stretched out his limbs and thought he’d go help Oliver today, in the yard. He glanced at Jerry, but decided not to mention it just yet. He’d never told Jerry, but since their argument the first day here, he’d been avoiding Oliver. He spent as little time as necessary in the dining room, and after their meals he often took himself out to the deserted courtyard. There was a smaller bench tucked against the wall just inside the entrance that attracted some shade in the latter half of the afternoon. He sat quietly by himself, reading one of the discarded paperbacks he’d found on a shelf under a dining room. They were exactly the kind of fantasy novels he’d always wanted to read. Or sometimes he’d sketch idly on the back of discarded paper he also found there, doodling fantasy figures as he had done in school years ago.
No one else ever seemed to come to the courtyard, and now he appreciated the peace. As he’d thought, the pool lay dry and neglected, but every now and then he’d glance up and check it out. Not that anything ever went near it, except for the occasional small lizard. And the only sound was the rare breeze brushing the pale dust on the flagstone floor. But something caught his attention, every now and then. He just never caught proper sight of it.
It wasn’t that he wanted to avoid Jerry’s company as well, but he never invited him along. Scot found it difficult to describe exactly why, or what it was that drew him there. And Scot’s singularity didn’t seem to bother Jerry, giving him an equal opportunity to work more in the kitchen. With Vincent.
But Scot was getting bored of the solitude at the motel. There was only so much time you could spend reading, wasn’t there? Oh, and fucking on an extremely frequent basis, of course. He wondered about looking for some other way off the site, maybe walking back to the last junction they’d passed in the car: following the track beyond the motel, seeing if it took him on toward Vegas.
Maybe he’d look into that. He yawned again.
Later.
“The bathroom’s got some new stuff again,” he said. He rolled onto his back and hitched himself up on to his elbows, the muscles of his chest tightening across his torso. “There’s new massage oil. It smells like redcurrants.”
Jerry shifted on the bed beside him and Scot smiled mischievously to himself. He knew redcurrants were Jerry’s favorite fruit. They’d passed a fruit stall in town once and wished they had the money to buy some. Jerry had tried to explain why he liked them—the sharp, tangy sweetness, and the vicious little stems, just looking to spike his tongue as he ate. The burst of luscious taste in his mouth as he bit into one.
He didn’t really have the words that day, not used to describing love of any kind. But yeah, Jerry loved his food.
“Want to try it?” Jerry whispered. His hand ran up the outside of Scot’s leg, then rolled into the valley of his inner thighs.
Scot’s knees slid apart almost instinctively, and the nerves jerked in his cock so it bobbed lazily against his upper thigh. “Sure,” he murmured back. Maybe he could have sounded more enthusiastic, but Jerry didn’t seem to notice. Scot rolled back on to his side, and reached over to kiss Jerry. Their mouths met like well practiced partners now.
“All over you.” Jerry groaned, swiping his tongue across Scot’s lower lip. His mouth was hot against Scot’s, the saliva carrying the early morning sweat of his own flesh. “I’m going to smooth it all over you.”
“And inside me.” Scot’s arousal spiked in his gut again, astonishing him with its intensity. “Up inside me, Jerry. The lube’s all gone but we can use whatever else we find. Put your fingers up there, and massage me. Like, from the inside out.”
He fell back on to the bed in a position of total surrender, as Jerry stumbled off the bed to fetch the oil. Scot gazed lazily up at the fan, spinning dark stripes of shadow against the pale light of the rapidly rising sun. The fan’s tentacles flipped around in a slow, hypnotic sprawl. Scot peered at the mirror tiles around it, too cracked and marked for him to see much without distortion. To watch, perhaps, him and Jerry fucking. He thought—with an extra frisson of excitement—he might like that. As it was, all he could see were his dark blue eyes glinting back at him, and the distorted smudge of his nude skin.
The blades of the fan looping past looked like bars on a cell.
Was that what they were? Trapped?
Scot bit back a sigh. Just when was the delivery guy going to turn up? Perhaps all visitors came at night, when the guests were asleep. Perhaps he was suffering from some kind of heat stroke where his vision was impaired, and he never noticed anyone. He frowned. How fucking stupid was that?
=Scot, don’t worry so much=
The damned motel never seemed to run out of anything it needed. There was always food at meal times; clean sheets and towels. Another book, when he’d just got bored with the previous one, and always the kind he wanted to read. Plenty of toiletries—he knew the lube would be replenished, next time he came back to the room. His thoughts returned to the redcurrant oil. He imagined its aromatic stickiness on Jerry’s fingers, trickling down his wrist as he reached between Scot’s legs. It was a seductive image.
=much better! Hold that thought close=
Today, the voice sounded amused; excited. Scot was getting used to it now, striking its own agenda, running to its own script. He would listen to it or ignore it, as he wished. It was especially persistent when he was in the courtyard, but he also found he was most in control of it there. He didn’t know if hearing it so strongly now meant he was going insane after all—although it was often there when he was sexually aroused, wasn’t it?—or if it was just a symptom of the heat. Or whatever. This damned place!
Jerry returned from the bathroom, hands glistening. He climbed back on the bed and started spreading the oil all over Scot’s body. Scot lay back and relaxed. The tang of fruit was sweet in his nostrils. He’d learned just how greedy Jerry could be: how determined he was, pursuing what he wanted. And right now, that was Scot.
=no one owns you, Scot=
Yeah. Biting back a yawn, Scot welcomed his boyfriend into his arms, and into his body with familiar, fierce thrusts.
He’d think more carefully about it all later on.
***
He didn’t know exactly how much later he woke. The color of the sky outside was his only clue, as always, and it looked like it was still morning. He yawned and stretched—for God’s sake, was that all he ever did, fuck, nap, then wake again?—and flung out his arm on the bed. Jerry wasn’t beside him. Scot listened for a moment but all he could hear was the whoop-whoop of the fan. Jerry wasn’t in the room.
He sat up and swung his legs slowly over the side of the bed. His stomach grumbled. Okay, so now it was his turn to chase up some food. He was pretty sure he’d find Jerry in the kitchen anyway. He dressed quickly in his one pair of shorts and a thin t-shirt, pulled on his boots and padded out along the corridor toward the motel.
The smell of food reached him before he got near the kitchen. Surely it was late for breakfast—or so he assumed, he hadn’t found a clock anywhere since they arrived—but he recognized the salty promise of bacon and eggs. The kitchen door was ajar, but he paused just outside, savoring the aroma.
And maybe he didn’t want to go in just yet.
=afraid of what you may find?=
“Shut up,” he said, quietly and a little half-heartedly. “You can’t scare me.”
=that’s not what I want to do=
Scot put his hand on the door, the wood cool and solid against his palm. He pushed it gently, another inch open. He could smell hot
oil. There’d be bubbling tomatoes and mushrooms in a pan, and fried slices of bread to add to the mix. It was all extraordinarily vivid, as if he were standing right next to the stove. The meals had been really good here, he’d enjoyed them. Had even offered to help clear up the plates, though Vincent and Oliver always refused. But they didn’t refuse Jerry’s offers. Scot had often seen Jerry push his chair back quickly, then follow one or other of the men into the kitchen. Smiling.
Jerry wouldn’t talk to Scot about it, or maybe Scot didn’t know what to ask. Jerry was used to keeping secrets, and his time in the kitchen seemed to be a strange, guilty thing that he nursed to himself. Something that had become precious to him.
Scot could hear the murmur of Vincent’s voice. He was always around, even though they arrived for meals at all times of the day, depending on their sleeping pattern. Regular routine seemed to have become another victim of the sapping heat. Scot had also stopped asking when suppliers or other guests would arrive, as he never got a satisfactory answer. Or any answer at all, really. He peered around the edge of the door into the room.
Vincent stood by the stove, facing Jerry. Jerry wore a thin vest and a new pair of shorts. Well, obviously they must be ones Jerry had brought with him, but Scot hadn’t seen them before. Maybe he’d borrowed a pair from Vincent. Jerry was a couple of sizes smaller, but today’s shorts had a drawstring waist and fit him well enough, pulled tight across his hips. Scot looked at Jerry’s body below the waist, his gaze tracing the flat planes of Jerry’s belly, the gentle swell of his thighs.
Glancing up, he found Vincent’s gaze following the same path.
Scot thought how uncomfortable his clothes had become in this heat. They chafed with an alien roughness. He couldn’t go around naked, though, could he?
=what a thought!=
He surreptitiously wiped his upper lip and flexed his shoulders inside his own vest. Without fully appreciating why, he drew back at an angle, so he still had a view of the room but wouldn’t be seen watching at the door.
At the far side of the kitchen, Jerry tugged at the waistband of the shorts as if they irritated him.
“Your breakfast is ready,” Vincent said to Jerry, in his low, smooth voice. He also had a sleeveless white vest on this morning and the usual light, loose pants. They clung around his hips, faintly damp from the growing steaminess in the kitchen. Scot could see the muscle-swelled definition of Vincent’s thighs. He couldn’t see the seams of any underwear beneath.
On the counter, there was only one clean plate.
“Scot’s still asleep—”
“He won’t be eating yet,” Vincent replied firmly but kindly, as if Jerry couldn’t grasp the right words and needed help. “Just you.”
Jerry stared, his eyes darting between Vincent’s calm face and the food on the stove. “Well, I don’t know about that, but you’re probably right. I’ll take that and eat it in the dining room—”
“You’ll eat here,” Vincent interrupted. “Sit. I’ll bring it to you.”
Jerry looked too astonished to argue, and Scot bit back a wry smile. Perhaps he should take that firm tone with Jerry more often. Jerry stepped away from Vincent and hitched himself up onto one of the high stools. When Vincent put the filled plate down in front of him, Scot could see the vapor of heat rising from the food, its delivery timed to perfection. He swallowed, knowing Jerry’s mouth would be watering.
Feeling it.
As Jerry picked up a fork to start eating, Scot glanced at Vincent. The tall man leaned back against the counter, watching Jerry. His eyes held Jerry’s gaze for a second, then dipped to Jerry’s mouth. Then back up. He smiled.
Sexual warmth rushed through Scot.
=open up to it=
He could feel the movement of Jerry’s jaw as he lifted the food to his mouth, as if he were in Jerry’s body, yet he felt just as close to Vincent, examining the drop of crimson moisture on Jerry’s lips from the tomatoes, a fleck of some seasoning on his teeth…
Vincent licked his lips, slowly and deliberately. He reached for a small boxed container beside him on the worktop. Scot assumed it held food of some kind because there were air holes in the cardboard, like he’d seen at his local grocery store. Vincent flipped the lid open and dipped his hand in, his eyes still on Jerry’s mouth. He lifted his fingers out, holding something close within his palm.
“Take this. They’re for you.”
“No thanks,” Jerry said. His voice was hoarse: defensive. Like he thought he’d be accepting something more than the contents of Vincent’s hand.
“Take it,” Vincent said firmly. “You want to.”
At the last minute, as Jerry reached out to take whatever it was, Vincent batted his hand away. Then he leant forward, and pressed his own fingers against Jerry’s lips, forcibly enough so that Jerry had to open his mouth and accept what he held. Jerry’s eyes opened wide.
Scot knew he had nothing in his own mouth except saliva but, to his amazement, he tasted the sharp, shocking tang of fruit and the edge of peel on his tongue. As he stared, a dribble of liquid ran down Jerry’s chin.
Redcurrant? Scot was astonished. The flavor was in his mouth, the aroma in his nostrils, filling his senses.
Vincent’s hand moved quickly, his fingertips brushing away the wetness on Jerry’s chin. More slowly, his palm caressed Jerry’s cheek.
=Take it=
Jerry swallowed heavily. Vincent leaned forward, hands bracing himself on the counter either side of Jerry, effectively trapping him there.
Jerry looked up into Vincent’s face and, despite the distance and the awkward angle, Scot could see his expression change. Jerry’s skin was flushed, his mouth still dark pink from the fruit. His chest rose and fell swiftly, and his eyes were bright like sunlight on a blade. He sighed and leaned almost imperceptibly forward into the harbor of Vincent’s arms.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I want to.” It was like some kind of a surrender.
Scot pulled his hand back from the door as if it had burned him. His heart pounding, he turned on his heel and ran.
***
Outside in the back yard, Scot brushed back the damp hair from his forehead and stretched out the muscles of his shoulders. A groan escaped him. He’d been working for a long time now. He had no idea how long, though he’d seen the sun climb significantly in the sky. But it had been a good distraction, using his muscles to their fullest strength and, for all that time, he’d rarely heard the voice.
Or thought about Jerry.
He coughed out some dust. He and Oliver had fixed up several meters of broken fencing around the back of the building, and mended the door of the small storage unit abutting the kitchen. Now he was stacking up some spare planks against the store room wall, ready for any future need. The job would be finished soon, and he yawned loudly. It hadn’t been exhausting work by any means, but the heat was mounting steadily, he still hadn’t eaten anything, and he hadn’t realized how tired he was.
He looked over at Oliver rolling up a length of twine they’d used, a few yards away from the store room. He realized with a twinge of guilt that he’d never have imagined Oliver as a physical laborer. But he’d worked as hard as Scot, and shown a steady hand and commonsense in the work.
Scot continued to gaze at the other man. He had to admit there’d been some truth in Jerry’s accusations: he found Oliver hot. After all, he’d be half dead if he didn’t! Oliver’s boldness was fascinating, and his easy sensuality very appealing. Scot had fought his own desires for so long, it was astonishing to find someone who was so comfortable with his. Even here, in the middle of the yard, Oliver wore nothing but brief shorts. His chest was pinking slightly in the sun’s rays, his skin shiny with perspiration. His slim legs bent easily to his task and there were creditable muscles showing under the pale flesh. The top button of his shorts was flipped open and there was a shallow pool of sweat in his exposed navel. Scot felt a different kind of warmth in his groin whenever he caught sight of it. Oliver was
attractive in the way that sin was. He asked to be caressed: he begged without words to be fucked and Scot marveled how someone could be built that way.
And in return, he was sure Oliver was aware of his effect. Dammit, he was playing to it!
When Scot had rushed away from the kitchen earlier that morning, he’d stumbled into the yard, not knowing whether he’d find anyone there, or even what he was looking for. But Oliver had been there, measuring up the fence. He’d raised a single eyebrow at Scot’s confusion and stuttered offer of help, then smiled and shown him what was needed. He’d been calm and efficient, but Scot was quickly aware of another agenda. Everything Oliver did was done with exceptional care, and all of it involving touching Scot. He pointed out the wood with a steadying hand on Scot’s elbow. He fetched tools down from the wall inside the storage unit by stretching across Scot’s chest, nudging his body. Then he turned so suddenly that they were pressed up together for a few seconds, enough time for Scot to feel the swelling in the blond young man’s shorts.
Yeah, Scot knew that Oliver wanted him. A few months ago, he’d either have denied such an awareness, or been deeply scared by it. And now look at him! He watched it happen, and it thrilled him. Something had been unleashed when he met Jerry—something that burned. Something that nagged at his sleep, and encouraged him to roll into bed with Jerry at every waking opportunity.
Or was that only since they arrived here?
“Pass me the pliers,” Oliver called. “I’ll fasten this off now we’ve finished with it.”
Scot reached into the open toolbox and found the pliers for him. Oliver’s gaze caught his for a brief moment.
And what about him and Jerry? If he were truly honest, he was struggling with it all. During the flight from home and their frantic journey across state, that was all he needed to concentrate on. To get away from the persecution: to be alone with the man he wanted, the man he thought he might love. But then they’d stalled here and the situation had changed.