by Jerry Cole
“This isn’t about you, Kenny,” Marney snapped. “You’re always trying to make it about you.”
“I think I want to go back to the house with Wyatt,” Kenny returned. He tore his arms over his chest, crossing them. “I just need a break. That seance took a lot out of me.”
Marney took a sharp breath. “You did seem to go someplace else. I watched you. It was as though your aura was in a separate dimension. I was so envious of it, at first, but then remembered that jealousy is the very thing that will void us of any happiness. The moment I realized that, I, too, was transported. I felt my spirit lingering alongside yours, alongside Everett’s. Even with yours, Wyatt.”
Wyatt grimaced. He’d felt his own spirit ducking around in his stomach, demanding something beyond beans and rice. But he forced a smile, tilting his head back toward the townhouse.
“Great. Well, I’ll see you sometime after,” he offered. “Maybe Kenny, you can help me with some work, so it doesn’t take too long?”
“That sounds wonderful!” Marney cried, smacking her palms together. “In this way, you are, in a sense, giving yourself over to the mission.” She wrapped a tender hand around Kenny’s upper arm, giving him a life-affirming smile. “Kenny, you know I love you. But that love, it’s too small for all of this, now. We have to fight for a future, so we can continue on in our stories. We have to do it, side by side with everyone else.”
Wyatt yanked around, darting through the crowd. He felt Kenny hot behind him, muttering.
“I won’t be side by side with that asshole, I can tell you that for sure,” he said.
Wyatt guffawed, slowing to let Kenny catch him. Kenny swirled with an inner darkness. Wyatt had half a mind to tell him that he wasn’t entirely sold on the whole Venus mission, either—and that Everett McLean seemed like a grade A sociopath. But he sensed his own commitment to his own mission and kept news of this tight within him.
Once inside the townhouse, Wyatt smacked his fingers across the keys, listening as Kenny trampled around the kitchen, seemingly cooking himself another platter of beans and rice.
“Far in Western Texas, the ghost town of Rhode’s Pike ordinarily plays host to only a handful of ragamuffin individuals, many of whom abandoned their own homes, their own families, to play out some sort of fantasy in the desert,” Wyatt wrote. “After years of living a sleepy existence, however, the members of Rhode’s Pike couldn’t have comprehended what would happen next. Gentrification, in the form of a quasi-cult this writer is calling the Venus 50, has stormed forth, bringing caravans, camping equipment, and a strange, honest belief that members from the planet Venus are coming swiftly for us. Their own mission? To save us from ourselves, from a planet that has turned to egoism and materialism, rather than upholding love and commitment and the environment.
“Of course, the Venus 50 holds commitment to most cultish things. The leader, a clear sociopath named Everett McLean, chants and struts about in the center of the cult, upholding himself above all things, and assuring everyone else that he has their best interests at heart. The cult itself eats beans and rice and spends the day making strange ‘crafts,’ which Everett maintains will show commitment to the beings on high. In a sense, it’s kind of a summer camp, with ominous elements. And it’s unclear when those ominous elements will rear their ugly head. It’s like the entire place is a ticking time bomb, waiting for the day when Everett McLean will make everyone drink the proverbial Kool-Aid.
“Namely, in the midst of this chaos, one ancient-looking cowboy seems to have taken the charge against Everett McLean. In this writer’s eyes, he’s the very portrait of anti-gentrification, fighting for the rights of the people who’ve been here and who plan to be here till the bitter end. He seems a bit of an egomaniac, as well—a worthy fighter for our Everett McLean. Of course, he’s ancient and haggard, thus needing to take a break in the midst of his first altercation.
“But he’s the mascot against the Venus 50, a man willing to uphold his values over all things.”
Wyatt continued to type up his emotions regarding the old man in the ranch house, comparing him to the wild cowboys of the Old West. He made a mental note to take a picture of him next time he appeared on the porch, as Wyatt sensed he would do over and over again, if the entire thing didn’t kill him.
Hours later, Wyatt finally snapped the SEND button on the first article, feeling genuinely satisfied, as though he’d just gone on a very long run. His brain felt stretched out, like a piece of gum he’d chewed for ages. He bounced up from bed, bounded for the door, and nearly ambled directly into Kenny, who was seated on the Mexican tile floor, swiping through the last of his battery life on his phone.
“Oh! Kenny. I thought for sure you’d gone,” Wyatt said.
Kenny grumbled. He shot his phone back into his pocket. “Had to find where she’d hidden it,” he offered. “I just wanted to send my mom a message. Tell her I was all right.”
Wyatt sighed. He spread his hand across the counter, watching devastation fold itself over Kenny’s face. Without thinking, Wyatt said, “Maybe we should go get a drink.”
Kenny blinked up at him, seemingly aghast. “Don’t you want to go back to the group?”
Wyatt shrugged. His heart sizzled with adrenaline from hours of writing. “No. I want to get a drink. And I want to get it with you.”
Kenny shoved up from the ground. He tossed his plate into the sink, making it clatter. “I thought you were—um. I thought you were super into it.”
“I’m not really anything,” Wyatt offered. “I’m just kind of along for the ride.”
“Marney does that to people,” Kenny returned.
“I’m not really here for Marney, either,” Wyatt said, hoping to dissuade Kenny’s fears that he, too, was trying to sleep with Marney. “I’m just curious, I guess. But also thirsty. Let’s go.”
Kenny trampled down the stairs after Wyatt, seemingly unable to handle his massive weight. Wyatt felt without weight at all, nearly floating to the former main street below. Kenny hobbled forward, drawing into stride, casting his eyes back toward the field.
“Don’t worry. If you don’t look at them, they won’t notice you. They’re all lost in whatever it is they’re up to,” Wyatt said.
“They’re absolutely insane,” Kenny said, his words simmering. “I can’t believe I believed anything Marney said. But she was all about—like—us against the world. She lied to me.”
Wyatt longed to tell Kenny that this wouldn’t be the last time a partner would lie to him; he longed to explain that the anxiety of ever uniting yourself with anyone was tied up in this fact—that lies were told, that the entire thing was a sort of performance piece that only ended when someone left or someone died. That didn’t necessarily mean that the love was or wasn’t real. It just meant that everything was based on perspective.
Thinking these thoughts now, he was reminded of Isaac—a man never far from his mind.
When they reached the saloon, Kenny let out a little “whoop,” like an old cowboy hunting for a stream and finding a river. He shot through the double doors and burned toward that little old bartender lady, Marcia. She beamed at him. Fresh blood, perhaps.
“You one of them, ain’t ya?” she hollered at him, but she grinned broadly, seemingly basking in Kenny’s handsomeness.
Wyatt ambled up behind Kenny, meeting Marcia’s eyes. She recognized him from the evening before, when she’d warned him and Isaac about the town’s general opinion. That, perhaps, it wasn’t entirely safe. Her smile waned a bit. Her eyes were grey in the shadows.
“What can I do you fellas for?” she asked.
“I want a whiskey. A triple whiskey, if you can do it,” Kenny shot out.
Marcia cackled. “That cult is really doing one over on you, isn’t it?”
“It ain’t a cult. I mean.” Kenny pondered for a moment. He spun his head toward Wyatt, showing a furrowed brow. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I didn’t. I mean.”
Wyatt tapped a fi
rm palm across Kenny’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. You don’t even have to go back, if you don’t want to.”
“We can get you out of here, if you want it,” Marcia offered, pouring a thick, two-fingered pour of whiskey.
“I don’t really have anything to go back to,” Kenny sighed.
“You want a whiskey, again?” Marcia asked, arching her brow toward Wyatt.
“Again?” Kenny asked. “You were drinking here last night?”
“He was doing more than that,” Marcia returned.
Wyatt slid into the stool beside Kenny, knocking his knuckles across the gleaming wood of the counter. “You don’t let anything go, do you?” he asked, his voice teasing.
“I can’t. I own this place,” Marcia said, beaming at him. “If I let anything go, I wouldn’t be any sort of good to you or to anyone. Here. Drink up.”
Kenny and Wyatt clinked their glasses. Kenny’s eyes closed somberly while he drank, as though this was a sort of religious experience for him. He coughed, sucking it down a bit too quickly, and cast the glass back onto the counter. He swiped his fingers across his lips, looking momentarily somber.
“Man. I was about to get a promotion back home, you know?” is what he said.
Marcia grunted. “What brought you here? Not that lunatic, huh?” She rolled up a tight cigarette, letting bits of tobacco scatter across the counter.
“No. No way,” Kenny sighed. “I was in love. Now, I don’t know what to believe.”
Marcia’s eyes glittered. Wyatt leaned back a bit, swirling his whiskey.
“You can work here for a bit if you want,” Marcia offered then. The words were so jarring, so strange, that Wyatt felt he might topple from his stool.
“Kenny? Work here?” Wyatt guffawed.
But Marcia’s face remained unchanged. “Of course,” she shrugged. “I always need me another set of hands. And if the boy doesn’t have anywhere else to go...” She popped her cigarette between her lips. “It’s not great pay, but you could save up enough to head out to wherever you need to go. Hell, you can even sleep upstairs, if you don’t want to go back to the crazies.”
Kenny’s face looked stoic. It reminded Wyatt of an old portrait of a Swedish sailor, one that had hung above his mother’s desk when he’d been a kid. He seemed to toss this question around his head, like a ping pong, adding up the pros and cons.
“I think I’d like that,” Kenny said, shrugging.
It was almost like a play. The creak of the saloon doors behind Wyatt forced his head round. His whiskey sloshed a bit as he gaped, watching the gorgeous image of Isaac Baxter as he marched into the saloon, his nostrils flared. He looked half-wild, his black hair in curls, his beard spitting from his cheeks and above his lip. He looked every bit a volatile cowboy, apt to declare his space in the world. Wyatt felt almost like his marked territory. Immediately, his cock surged, heavy against his leg.
“My, my, my. Look what the cat dragged in,” Marcia sighed.
“Hey! You’re that—that guy. The one Everett hates,” Kenny said.
Isaac hadn’t words for that. He paused, his feet shoulder-width apart. In his gaze, Wyatt felt nearly everything like a wave. He shot up from his stool, still gripping his whiskey.
“You’re here,” Isaac said.
“So are you,” Wyatt returned. His cock pumped wildly.
“I um. I.” Isaac paused. His eyes searched toward Marcia. Wyatt struggled reading him.
“Where have you been?” Wyatt asked.
“That’s a pretty long story,” Isaac returned.
Marcia clucked her tongue at this. She spun back toward the saloon sink, beginning to rinse out glasses. Wyatt felt something simmering beneath the surface of everything. He drew his fingers across his throat, feeling a strange ache. He took a step toward Isaac, then another. His hand reached for his belt buckle, and he allowed his thumb to trace down the flatness of his abs. Isaac’s eyes closed. An intimacy, unchartered, had begun.
“Perhaps we can talk somewhere,” Wyatt murmured.
“Yes,” Isaac returned. “It’s only that—”
He returned his eyes toward Marcia, as though he was looking for a sort of permission. But Kenny had begun to pester her about the specifics of the job, seemingly unaware of the chaos that churned between Isaac and Wyatt. Wyatt took several quick steps toward the saloon doors, thinking only of ripping Isaac’s clothes from his perfect frame, of tearing his fingers through his hair. He was still wild, ravenous from his hours of writing, and he longed to cap it with this. This near-perfect, overzealous lust.
Wyatt yanked Isaac from the saloon. With a firm hand, he shoved him against the brick wall of the building and tore his lips toward him. He kissed him, hungry, passionate, pressing his taller frame over Isaac’s muscular one. Isaac allowed a moan to escape his lips.
“God, I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Isaac murmured, between kisses. “I’ve wanted your cock inside me. I want to swallow your cum…”
Wyatt’s thoughts whizzed. He kissed harder, shoved himself tighter against Isaac. He could feel his heart bumping wildly, so hard that he thought it might burst into his own ribcage, join his. He inhaled the gruff scent of Isaac—cologne, mixed with Texas sweat.
“Where should we go?” Wyatt murmured.
“My car is right there,” Isaac returned.
“Ha. Like high school days?”
“Something like that,” Isaac said.
They couldn’t unlink themselves. Isaac’s hand traced across Wyatt’s back, his fingers slipping beneath his pants. Isaac clicked the unlock on his keys, flung open the door, and shoved Wyatt inside. He huffed over him, dominant, charged. His cock surged out against his pants, rock-hard and thick. Wyatt reached for his belt buckle and unlinked it. He shoved Isaac’s pants down, toward his knees, and his cock sprung up, pointing directly toward Wyatt’s mouth. Hungry, charged, he dove for it, slipping his lips all the way to the hilt. Isaac’s cock filled his mouth, coating his tongue with the first dribbles of cum. Isaac moaned heavily, drawing his head back. His fingers traced through Wyatt’s blond locks.
“God, you’re so good at that,” Isaac murmured, rolling his fingers up and down Wyatt’s head.
It was soothing, feeling this motion—the fingers through his hair. It made Wyatt fall into a sort of rhythm, rolling his tongue over the thick veins of Isaac’s cock. He cupped his balls with his hand, drawing them tight against the darkness between his legs. With one of his fingers, he felt at Isaac’s asshole, slotting it, widening it. Again, Isaac moaned.
“I want to get in you later,” Wyatt murmured, drawing his lips back.
Isaac nodded slowly. Wyatt’s finger drew deeper into Isaac’s asshole, and he dove again onto his cock, loving the feeling of having complete and total control over Isaac.
It was a funny thing, just then, realizing that Isaac had his pants half-way down in the middle of the ghost town’s old main street. Nobody walked past, and night had begun to fall over them. Stars twinkled just above them, skylights in the deep blackness of the desert.
“Come in here,” Wyatt murmured, suddenly afraid that someone would march past the car. “I want to be closer to you.”
Isaac stepped into the car, removing his shoes and kicking his pants from his ankles. He slammed the door shut behind him and resumed kissing Wyatt, busying himself with undoing the buttons on his shirt. Isaac’s hand spread across Wyatt’s chest. His finger traced a circle around his nipple, the soft skin. It was Wyatt’s turn to moan. His cock felt trapped in his pants, tight in his boxers, aching for removal.
“You want me to suck your cock, Wyatt?” Isaac murmured, his eyes glittering. “Tell me you want it.”
“Put my cock in your mouth,” Wyatt moaned. “God, I can’t take it.”
With slow, methodical, motions, Isaac brought Wyatt’s shirt the rest of his way down his shoulders and thick, muscular arms. He then reached for the buttons of his pants. He undid them, turning his eyes toward Wyatt’s. Th
ey held one another’s gaze for a long time.
Finally, Isaac ripped Wyatt’s boxers to his knees. He moved forward, flicking the edge of his tongue across the dark hole of his cock. Cum dribbled on either side, and Isaac licked at it eagerly, his eyelashes falling to his cheeks. Wyatt had never been so hard in his life, watching this man go down on him. He struggled to breathe. His chest burst up and down.
Wyatt lost his mind for a moment. Isaac’s tongue laced up and down the veins of his rock-hard cock. His fingers found Wyatt’s asshole and moved inside—one and then another. Wyatt’s hips thrust forward, and he let out a low, slow moan. Through the window at the top of the car, he could see the stars twinkling brighter, almost beaming down upon them. Again, he thought of Venus.
Isaac reared back, gasping. He gave Wyatt a flirtatious smile, but his eyes were strangely guarded. Wyatt wondered if there was something between them, something Isaac couldn’t possibly say. But his cock hung heavy, aching to cum. He pressed forward, flipping Isaac onto his hands and knees. His ass shone brightly beneath the moon. Wyatt’s palms spread out across both ass cheeks, sweeping up and down.
How remarkable it was to see anyone like this. How remarkable to be privy to such a private moment, which revealed the most beautiful element of a person—how he was when no one else was watching. Wyatt had never felt closer to anyone when sleeping with them.
Wyatt spread Isaac’s ass cheeks apart, peering into the darkness between. He reached forward, drawing his tongue across Isaac’s asshole, then circling it. Isaac moaned, arching his back like a cat.
“You like that?” Wyatt murmured. He felt as though Isaac was putty in the palm of his hands.
Wyatt reached into his back pocket and drew out a tube of lube, dribbling a tiny bit onto his finger. He eased it over Isaac’s asshole.
“I want to feel you deep inside me,” Isaac moaned. “I want your huge cock.”
Wyatt complied. He moved up, wrapping his body around Isaac’s, and pressed the tip of his enormous cock at the dark opening of Isaac’s asshole. He pressed hard, easing himself into Isaac. His eyes closed with the intense pressure. Pleasure electrified him. His hand spread out wide over Isaac’s back, ensuring he didn’t fall forward or back.