by Liv Rancourt
The light ahead of them turned green, but the car didn’t move. Skip was laughing too hard to drive. “That is the most,” he managed to choke out.
“Just drive,” Russell grumbled. The car behind them honked their horn.
“All right. Keep your pants on.” Still chuckling, Skip drove along. They’d gone several blocks when he shot Russell a brash grin. “Ain’t that a gas? And here I thought you stuck around for my good looks.”
Any way I slice it, I’ll end up in trouble. “Maybe.” He let the word slide, flirting right back, then kicking himself for giving Skip encouragement. This was about Susie, not the sweaty heated hijinks two men could get up to. If he were a judge, he’d throw down the gavel. “Will you help me find her?”
They pulled up to another stoplight, and Skip leaned over to his side of the seat. “I will, but it might cost you.”
Russell couldn’t sidestep a challenge like that, though in a car with the windows open in the daylight, the best he could do was to keep from backing away. “Depending on what you come up with, we’ll see.”
Skip flipped the turn signal, heading into the parking lot of a glossy orange, white, and neon drive-in. “I guess we will see.”
The place smelled like grease and salt, and the fries were the best Russell had ever tasted. He insisted on buying Skip’s dinner, though it cut into his forty dollars, and he leaned back against the door, savoring the last few bites.
“So what are you going to do?” Skip asked. “Bribe Susie into coming home with that ring you’ve been carrying around in your pocket?”
Russell shot up in the seat. How did he know? “No, I—”
“Or are you just going to find some other girl to give it to, even though we...” Skip flicked a finger between the two of them.
Russell bit down hard on a stream of obscenities. Provoking the driver wouldn’t get him very far. His nostrils flared as he inhaled. “It’s not like”—he flicked his finger back and forth—“we could get married.”
“Is that the goal, then? Getting married?”
“Don’t you want to?” The car’s cracked upholstery dug into his thighs.
Skip teased his lower lip with his teeth. “Not if it means I can’t...” Again he flicked his finger.
Russell got the message. “But this”—he waved his hand back and forth—“is against the law.”
Skip gave him a puzzled frown. “So don’t tell anyone.”
Someone in another car turned on their radio, and Jerry Lee Lewis pounded through their open windows. “Demetrio and his friend Gabe have lived together for ten years,” Skip continued. “I’m sure they keep two bedrooms and mess up both beds, but—”
“That’s the thing, though,” Russell said. “Someone could break into their house and steal their good silver, and if they called the cops, they’d be the ones arrested.”
“Maybe.” Skip balled up his burger wrapper and tossed it into the bag. “But I think I’d rather take that chance than marry some girl.”
“Susie wasn’t just some girl.” Something crumbled in Russell’s hands. The burger. He stuffed the last bite in his mouth to keep from saying anything he’d regret.
“That’s right. I forgot. You were in love with her.”
Love sounded like a dirty word. Russell chewed and swallowed, too angry to respond.
Skip ran his fingers along the steering wheel like he was playing scales. “I mean, you were in love with her, right?”
“I care about her a great deal.” Arms crossed, Russell dared Skip to challenge him.
With a cocky smirk, Skip mouthed his words back to him...a great deal.
“I did.” Frustrated, Russell threw up his hands. “I do.”
Skip shook his head. “I thought getting married meant falling in love, like you’d be ready to pick up and die for a person.” Another thoughtful pause. “Or die without them.”
The radio in the car next to them switched from Jerry Lee to Chuck Berry. Russell didn’t want to carry on a conversation about love with a man. “Will you help me find her?”
Skip took a long swallow from his soda pop. “I’ll make a couple phone calls.”
Better than nothing. “Thank you.”
***
“So what now?” Skip headed the car south on Highway 99. This night wasn’t going the way he thought it would. Bringing up Demetrio and Gabe had started him thinking about the couples he knew, the ones who were happy. That had started him digging at Russell. Fair? Didn’t matter. They’d be out of each other’s hair soon enough.
“My hotel’s over by Harborview County.”
Moody bastard. “I’ll drop you off and get your room number so I can leave you a message if I hear from Ryker.”
Russell grimaced. “Sure. Thanks.”
A devil took hold of Skip’s soul. “Unless you want me to come up for a while.”
“Um...” Russell faced away, as if the Twin Teepees Diner held some incredible fascination. “Yeah.”
“Yeah what?” He could hear Lou shrieking in his head. Leave it alone, Skippy.
Russell’s smile tried to cover...what? Shame? Pain? “Yes, Skip. I want you to come up to my room.”
Skip didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed.
They drove in silence until Skip turned the car radio on to fill in the gaps. Dean Martin sang something mellow, turning up the heat. Skip was caught on a high wire, and he was going to hate the fall. His body wanted, though, and if his feelings went deeper than that, he could ignore them.
Russell directed him to a small, run-down building a block from the hospital. Skip parked across the street and did his best not to make a face on the way into the lobby. “I hope this place is cheap.”
“Cheap enough.”
He followed Russell up a narrow staircase to the second floor. Two doors down the hall, Russell stopped. “It’s not much,” he said.
Skip scuffed the ratty carpet with his toe. “You had to pick the only lousy place in this neighborhood.”
“The receptionist said it was cheap.” A pair of Chinamen came out of a room down the hall. “Evening,” Skip said, giving them a nod. Russell didn’t manage that much. “So it’s Thursday now.”
Russell got the door unlocked and stepped aside to let Skip in.
“And your train tickets are for Wednesday, right?” Skip continued, taking in the shabby room, with the locked suitcase sitting on a twin bed.
“Yes.” Russell closed the door.
For a heartbeat, Skip teetered on the edge of indecision. Only a fool would willingly get involved with something so likely to end in pain. But Wednesday will be here soon. “Get your bag. You can come stay with me.”
“Why? This place is...” Their gazes caught and held. Russell broke away first, his cheeks scarlet. “I know, but I couldn’t afford more.”
Skip understood. He spent most of his life balanced on the edge. There were nicer hotels just one or two blocks away, but they were a lot more expensive. “Save your money. You don’t know how long it’ll take to find Susie.”
“I can always have my parents wire me more.”
Russell sounded like he’d rather go sit in a dentist’s chair than talk to Mom and Dad, and the rattle in his right leg told Skip even more about his nerves. “You can stay here tonight, since you’ve already paid for it, or you can check out and come home with me.” Skip came close enough to rest a hand on Russell’s shoulder. The big guy could handle himself in a fight, but he wasn’t used to Seattle’s gritty edges. “I’ve got a friendly bottle and a record player. We can have a little party.”
Russell’s grin warmed even though he wouldn’t meet Skip’s gaze. “That would be real nice of you.”
“What can I say?” Skip gave an exaggerated shrug. “I’m a nice guy.” A nice guy who liked to live dangerously. They gave the front desk clerk Russell’s key, and half an hour later, they walked up the dim hall to his apartment.
Took him three tries to open the door. Damned thing a
lways stuck. Russell stood to one side, all but vibrating with nerves.
Between the second and third try, Skip grabbed him by the collar and gave him a kiss, stifling Russell’s surprised “What?” under his lips.
“For luck.” Skip raised a “don’t move” finger and went back to the door.
“What if someone had seen?”
The door popped open, and Skip gave the hall an exaggerated appraisal. “No one here.” He swept through the door, covering a burst of nerves with bluster. “Come on in. I won’t bite.” He rarely brought men home, except for Lou. His place might not be respectable enough for a college boy from the Midwest.
Russell dropped his suitcase on the floor. “Sure.”
“Lemme pour drinks.” Skip would only have one to be companionable. He’d made himself enough trouble stone-cold sober. He went into the kitchenette for the bottle and glasses, leaving Russell to inspect the place.
It was only about nine in the evening, still bright enough that they didn’t need the overhead lights. His studio apartment held little more than a Murphy bed, an old chair from his mother’s place, some bookshelves, and a music stand. He hadn’t folded the bed up before work, and it dominated the room in a sprawl of wrinkled sheets.
When he came out with the bourbon, Russell was flipping through one of his magazines.
“Dime Western?” Russell gave an amused huff. “You really do read this stuff.”
Skip handed over the drink. “It’s not nice to laugh at a man’s library.”
Picking up the next book in the stack, Russell read the title with a smirk. “Locker Room Lovers? Wait a minute.” He grabbed the next one, squinting at the cover, where three men sat arm in arm on a bed. “We Three Queens? What is this stuff?”
Skip snatched the books. “I’ll let you borrow one if you’ll be nice about it.”
“They actually write books about...” Russell pointed at Skip, then at himself. Skip was tired of that gesture.
“Men copping it up the back door? Yes, they write books about it.” Skip tossed off a deep drink of his bourbon. He hated getting laughed at, and something better change his mood before he kicked Russell right out in the street. He wanted to help, he really did, but the guy already meant more to him than any tourist from Minnesota ought to.
He hated getting hurt even worse than getting laughed at.
“Come on,” he said abruptly. “Let’s dance.”
“Dance?”
Skip set his glass down and went to the closet for the record player. All his 45s were in a stack in the bookcase. “Open that orange box and see what you can find.”
In moments, he had a record on the turntable. He spun around to face Russell and raised his hands. “Now do you want to lead, or shall I?”
***
“You’re joking.” Russell froze, trapped by what he wanted and what he thought he should do.
Skip rocked forward and back, then took three quick steps. “I promised you the cha-cha.” He repeated the patter. “Come on. Step, two, cha-cha-cha.” He moved in time with his words.
“I don’t know.”
“You can do it.” Skip took two steps to the side, did a quick cha-cha-cha, then a showy turn, ending up in front of Russell. “I can see you want to.”
Russell had never been so confused in his life. Losing Susie had hurt, and he shouldn’t be consoling himself with someone else, especially not another man. Skip was gorgeous, though, his hair tumbling into his face, his slender body flowing through the dance moves.
He’d given up his chance to protest when he brought Skip into his hotel room.
“Final offer.” Skip shimmied close enough for his woodsy aftershave to tease Russell.
If he tilted his head an inch, even less, they’d kiss. And boy howdy, Russell wanted to. Skip ran his tongue over his lower lip, and heat surged through Russell’s core. He raised his hands slowly.
Each put one hand on the other’s shoulder, the fingers of their free hands laced together. Their bellies were close enough to touch.
“When I step forward, you step back.” Skip counted them off, and they were dancing.
“Step, two, cha-cha-cha,” Russell whispered the pattern, trying to keep from stepping on Skip’s toes. He felt blocky and awkward, and the growing heat in his groin made it hard to concentrate.
“Side, and,” Skip said, leading Russell through the dance. Somehow Russell managed not to stumble or trip or otherwise embarrass himself. They kept going till a rough hiss from the record player marked the end of the song.
Skip disentangled his hand from Russell’s. “Let me start the music again.”
“No.” Russell had never been a good follower, and he didn’t want to dance. Hell, he wanted to bend Skip over the chair and take him, though he’d never been inside another person, either man or woman. Covering Skip’s long, strong fingers with his own, Russell tugged to bring him closer.
“I could read to you from the Three Queens book.” Skip trailed his fingers along the white stripes in Russell’s shirt.
The last dregs of sunset turned the air to amber. The record player hissed and clicked as the 45 continued to spin. Nothing made sense except Skip’s presence and the overwhelming urge to touch him. “One thing at a time.” He brushed the barest kiss over Skip’s mouth.
It was a small movement, the lightest contact imaginable, but Skip exhaled as if he’d been punched in the gut. Russell shifted his grip to the back of Skip’s head, threading his fingers through his slick hair and applying more sincere attention to his lips. One of them groaned. Might have been Skip, though the sound vibrating against Russell’s sternum could have come from his own heart.
They kissed, openmouthed, raw and hot and messy. After two years with Susie, where every kiss was an event, the result of careful planning and a great deal of self-persuasion, kissing Skip felt as natural as breathing.
Susie. Russell slammed the door on that line of thinking. His problems with her had no place here.
Working together, they unbuttoned Russell’s shirt and shoved his slacks to the floor. He flexed his hips, delirious from the rough rub of Skip’s dungarees against his bare cock.
Desire became a separate thing, riding Russell as surely as the other man’s hands on his body. Skip worked the soft skin on his neck with his lips and his teeth and his tongue, and Russell clenched his fists, his arms tensed, his pulse racing. “You’re killing me.”
“I’m trying.” Skip growled in his ear. “Only fair, after what you’ve done to me.”
Russell would have asked what he meant, but Skip pulled him down for another kiss. Their lips met hard. Skip’s mouth was sweet and hot and spicy, the perfect combination of supple and strong. Russell didn’t ever want to come up for air, but when he did, he gasped out a compliment. “Good kisser.”
“Horn player.”
Skip’s chuckle melted what was left of his reserve. He got an arm around Skip’s waist and pulled him across the room, making them both stumble into the bed. The sheets smelled of starch and the musky pomade Skip used on his hair.
“You’re wasted on the girls, lover.” Skip paused in unbuttoning his shirt, giving Russell a once-over where he sprawled naked on the bed.
“Don’t.” Russell grabbed at the waistband of Skip’s dungarees. “Just get these off and get over here.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Skip stripped off his blue jeans and crawled on top. They rocked against each other till Russell was blind to everything but the pleasure of cock thrusting against cock. He reached down and took them both in hand, bringing a grunt from Skip, his wide mouth caught in a grimace. Russell grinned and thrust harder. Skip’s belly flexed, his muscles tensed.
“Enjoying yourself?” Russell asked, a mostly rhetorical question.
Skip wrapped a hand around Russell’s and squeezed, tightening the pressure. “Yeah.”
He licked his lips, and Russell gave in to the desire to taste him. Licking, nibbling, he worked Skip’
s lips and throat. His balls tightened, and he thrust feverishly into their joined hands.
“Jesus, Russell.” Skip bucked against Russell’s hips, once, twice, three times, and come squirted across Russell’s belly. A moment later, his own climax rocked him with enough force to drag the air out of his lungs. Skip’s elbow buckled, and he collapsed to one side. The only sound in the room was their heavy breathing.
Men shouted at each other out on the street, making Russell twitch. “Sorry.” He eased up on one elbow and smiled down at Skip. His hair fell around his face, softening his features, and his full lips gave evidence to having been thoroughly kissed.
With a teasing smile, Skip dipped a finger in one of the smears of come and made a show of licking it clean. Mine, he mouthed.
“Yes,” Russell whispered, pretty sure he didn’t just mean the mess on his chest. After a few minutes, Skip got up for a damp towel, and they both washed off. Then they scooted around so they lay spoon style, Skip’s back to Russell’s front. Sated and half-asleep, Russell was aware of little more than the moonlight and Skip’s soft breath.
He should probably offer to make up a bunk on the floor, since Skip’s offer of a place to stay didn’t necessarily include a bed. He’d do that as soon as the strength came back to his legs. Meantime, he’d make plans for finding Susie.
Any time now.
The present moment was sweet, and languor weighed down his limbs. For once, his confusion faded. The rest of the world could go to hell.
Chapter 13
Heading north on Highway 99, Skip had a solid chance of getting to work late, but he was too damned distracted to care. He cruised along through the no-man’s land between Lynnwood and Everett, where scattered farms battled with the forest for control of the land, and hit most of the yellow lights when they were closer to tangerine. If he put the pedal down, he’d make it in time.
The sun sat right on top of the Cascade Mountains, splashes of lemonade and peach turning the mountains purple against a sky the clean blue of his old Schwinn bike. The night before, he’d barely been able to sleep, Russell’s presence in his bed a constant tremolo at the edge of his consciousness. Reaching a light too red to run, he slowed the car and rubbed his jaw with the palm of his hand, enjoying the chapped skin from Russell’s rough beard. The lack of sleep hadn't made him late. Waking up in the morning with a thick cock riding the small of his back had caused the real delay.