by John Inman
Dilly rubbed a rising lump under the crotch of his jeans. “Hmm. That makes two of us.”
It was all Boz could do not to reach for the lump as well. Even after all the time they’d shared together, and the massive expenditure of body fluids they had coaxed from each other at one time or another, Boz still thought Dilly was the sexiest man alive.
With a grunt, he forced himself to his feet, gave Dilly a quick peck on the forehead, and scuttled through the door before Dilly could stop him. Once outside, he carefully turned and locked Dilly’s door behind him.
Dodging traffic, he jogged across the street to where his car was parked next to the cottage. He sat motionless behind the steering wheel for a minute, gathering his courage, watching the cars whoosh back and forth in front of him.
When he figured he was ready for the looming confrontation, he turned the ignition and headed out, him and his old Toyota burrowing through the California twilight. Melting into rush-hour traffic.
Dreading every mile of the road ahead. And dreading the destination most of all.
Chapter Thirty-Two
THE MANSION basement where Bobby Mayfield lived was located in the foothills of Mount Miguel, a tiny extinct volcano on the eastern edge of San Diego proper. But for the one property, the mountain was undeveloped territory. Only a few cell phone antennas and weather towers reached skyward from the craggy crown of the old volcano. Everything else was chaparral, boulders, steep sloping cliffs that were almost unhikable, and an astonishing array of wildlife—from pumas to possums to rattlesnakes. Over and around it all, an endless briny wind blew in from the Pacific to the south, icing the air in winter and stirring up the dusty reek of sagebrush in summer.
From the San Diego outskirts below, the mountain was accessed by a crumbling service road that the two older gay owners of the mansion never bothered to upgrade since they were rarely in attendance. They only rented to Bobby, for a miniscule rate, so he could oversee and protect the property while they were away on their never-ending treks across the globe. At the moment, they were touring Nepal, of all the miserable places in the world to visit. Bobby wasn’t sure what they expected to find there. Yetis?
At least they were out of the country, and for Bobby’s purposes, that was a good thing, since he didn’t mind the seclusion. Bobby knew he had the deal of a lifetime. Between his government job cleaning toilets and sweeping floors at the VA Hospital in La Jolla, and the fact that his rent was practically zilch, he had plenty of money left over to regularly savor some of life’s more exotic offerings.
An unlimited supply of crystal meth being the first exotic offering that came to mind.
With his weekend barely begun, Bobby sat by the covered swimming pool at the back of the mansion. He didn’t bother unreeling the canvas tarp that kept the pool clean in the owner’s absence but simply sprawled out naked on a wicker lounge chair, plushly cushioned, and watched the California twilight gather around him. In the distance, the keening wail of a coyote sliced eerily through the mountain air like a knife. No, sharper than a knife. Like a straight razor.
Bobby had lived here with Boz, the underground apartment itself now a constant reminder of Boz’s absence. Emptiness, and anger, settled over Bobby every time he thought of what he had lost, through no fault of his own. Boz left him on a whim—there could have been no other reason for it. It wasn’t because of what had happened that last time they were together. Bobby knew he hadn’t hurt Boz that badly. The punch had been practically a love tap. Bobby didn’t know where the fucking black eye came from. Boz must have inflicted it on himself. And as for the rape Boz accused him of… hell, if anybody ever liked a rough fuck, it was good old Bosley Maurice Jenkins, so what the hell was he complaining about? He got what Bobby knew he wanted. Period. End of story.
Thanks to thoughts of Boz, Bobby’s cock grew heavy and tight, a fat pole of flesh lying atop his bare stomach. The warm evening air rustled through the hair on his balls, making him ache to take himself in hand.
Instead, he groaned his way to a sitting position, leaned over the bamboo table at his side and, with a razor blade, chopped and chopped until he had arranged a powdery line of crank across the glass tabletop. The line was a good six inches long, which was probably too much, but Bobby didn’t care. He needed a hit. He wasn’t worried about the size of the hit, only the fact that he craved it.
He sucked the white powder through a four-inch section of plastic drinking straw, which he kept poolside for such occasions. He sniffed hard, and his eyes instantly watered. The powder burned going in and burned even more after he sucked it deeper into his sinus cavities. But what the hell. The burn was good. The burn was what he lived for. It was a mixture of pleasure and pain that Bobby found himself needing more and more. He knew he was navigating a slippery slope. Months and months of meth use would take a toll sooner or later.
But hell, he was young and strong. It wouldn’t take its toll this weekend. Besides, this weekend he had other plans. Important plans.
He sprawled across the chaise lounge again, this time taking his iron cock in his fist without even thinking about. On his back, he let the delicious powder, floating on rivulets of snot, dribble down the back of his throat, burning every inch of membrane along the way, seeping deeper and deeper into his system where it could really go to work.
Just as he was enjoying the sensations of both meth and cock, he heard the clink of the front gate from all the way around on the other side of the mansion. He kept meaning to oil the damn thing, but maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t.
Jerking to his feet, he slipped into the pair of cargo shorts he had stepped out of not a half hour earlier. Dick neatly tucked away, as well as he could tuck it at least, Bobby maneuvered around the edge of the pool and headed around the lawns toward the front entrance.
He froze when he spotted Boz, standing inside the gate staring back.
Chapter Thirty-Three
BOZ HAD no sooner parked the car than he knew the owners were not in residence, since there were no lights glowing through the mansion windows. He had hoped their presence would offer a modicum of safety for him in his confrontation with Bobby. But apparently it was not to be.
His hands were already trembling as he unbuckled his seat belt and climbed from the car.
Being back at the place where he’d spent ten months of his life fending off the ravages of Bobby Mayfield was far from a mellowing experience. He did enjoy seeing the mansion again, however. And the smells of the desert surrounding it. As if welcoming him home, a coyote off in the distance yipped a happy hello, at least in Boz’s imagination. Bobby’s car was parked at the side of the driveway, tucked inside a bank of shade from a sprawling pepper tree. It was the same place Bobby always parked his car. Only before, Boz’s Toyota would be sitting there alongside it.
Boz approached the front gate on wobbly legs. Old memories flooded over him as he flipped the latch and stepped onto the property, wincing when the gate squeaked its old familiar squeak. To the left a large fountain stood motionless and silent, unplugged and untended while the masters were away. Narrow spears of leaves from the pepper tree scattered across the surface of the still water inside the bowl. A tangerine-breasted house finch sipped daintily from the stagnant water, all the while keeping a wary eye on Boz. The mansion grounds were covered in desert flora and artistically arranged boulders, a couple the size of Volkswagens, which must have taken the landscapers a month to arrange even with the help of a fleet of bulldozers.
But Boz wasn’t here to reminisce about the grounds.
At the sound of bare footsteps padding along the walkway from around the corner of the house, Boz looked up and stopped in his tracks. Bobby, as handsome and as intimidating as ever, stood there in the twilight, all but naked but for a baggy pair of cargo shorts that barely clung to his lean hips. He was brown from the sun, and anybody who didn’t know him would think he was the hottest man on the planet. But Boz knew him too well to be deceived, and if Bobby thought his
hotness was impressing his visitor, poor old Bobby had another think coming.
Even though he had sought him out, Boz was still a little stunned to so suddenly come face-to-face with the man he used to love. His heart skidded to a stop and climbed straight up into his throat. A fear he had not expected to feel gripped him. The catalyst for the fear came from a smear of white powder glistening on the end of Bobby’s nose. It looked almost translucent in the waning twilight. No one knew better than Boz how uncontrollable—and how violent—Bobby could be when he was in the throes of crystal meth.
But still, Boz was here for a purpose, and he’d best get on with it.
Before he could begin, Bobby called out, almost sweetly, “You’ve come home.”
Boz was astonished by the gentle eagerness in Bobby’s voice. He suspected it wouldn’t last long, though. Not when he began to explain why he was really here.
“I’ve come to talk to you,” he said, summoning his courage. “That’s all, Bobby. I’m not here to move back in. I’m not staying.”
Bobby’s welcoming face immediately shut down. The sweetness dissolved like sugar in a cup of bitter tea. His eyes grew hooded; his lips thinned. He reached up and wiped the powder from the end of his nose, as if perhaps he had glimpsed it there. His voice went from welcoming to spiteful in the space of a heartbeat.
“So you’re still with your little faggot friend.” It wasn’t a question. It was simply a mocking statement of fact.
“Yes,” Boz said. “We love each other. As soon as we find a place, we’re moving in together.”
Bobby’s voice grew even icier as he laid a broad hand across his bare stomach. He tilted his head and twisted his mouth into a cruel smile. “You could’ve done better, I think. There’s not much meat on the little fucker.”
Boz bit back sharp words, determined to remain civil. “Can we sit somewhere, or do we talk here?”
Bobby stared at him for a long moment, then begrudgingly motioned him toward the back. “Let’s sit by the pool. If I don’t like what you came to say, I can drown your ass and be done with it.”
Boz stood rooted where he was as Bobby turned and started walking away. When he realized he wasn’t being followed, Bobby turned back, one eyebrow cocked high in surprise. “You used to have a sense of humor. What happened to it?”
Boz took a deep breath and without answering proceeded down the winding flagstone path, trailing Bobby to the back of the house. Passing the cabana, Bobby reached out and pressed a button on the wall. Seconds later, Boz heard the familiar sound of the pool cover scrolling back, exposing the water to the sky. Bobby hooked a lawn chair with his foot, dragged it close to the pool, and motioned Boz to sit. Bobby lowered himself to the stone apron, and as soon as the cover was out of the way, dangled his legs in the water.
Boz accepted the chair, dropping into it gratefully, glad to be off his trembly legs. He stared around at the familiar grounds. The pool, the back of the mansion, the cabana under a trio of broad palms.
“The place is still beautiful,” he said.
Bobby was not appeased. “Yeah. So are you. So what the fuck do you want? You here to deliver a wedding invitation since you and the little fruit cup are tying the knot?”
Boz tensed in the chair. “Don’t talk about him like that.”
Still, Bobby was unmoved. If anything, his eyes grew colder before he turned away to stare into the water circling his feet. “What do you want, Boz? Spit it out and let’s get this over with.”
Boz clenched his hands in his lap, avoiding the sight of Bobby’s strong back looming in front of him. Even he had to admit the sight of Bobby half-naked was a turn-on. He really was a most astonishing hunk of manhood. If he hadn’t been a fist-happy psychopath and a drug addict, his beauty might even be alluring. As it had been once upon a time.
Boz got right to the point. “Stop harassing Dilly. Stop harassing Dilly’s boss. What the hell was that all about? Punching out an eighty-year-old man. You could have killed him, Bobby.”
Bobby gave a noncommittal grunt by way of response.
Hoping to dredge up a little courage, Boz paused, knowing the next thing he was about to say would not go over well. “And you might want to cut Angel a little slack as well. He’s crazy about you, you know. He’d be a loyal lover if you’d give him a chance.”
Bobby yanked his legs from the water and bounced to his feet, spinning to face Boz, splattering pool water everywhere. “What the hell do you know about Angel?”
It took Boz no more than five seconds to realize he had made a grave mistake. He should never have mentioned Angel at all. Now Bobby would know Angel came to see him. He would consider that a betrayal of the highest order. Instead of making Angel safer, Boz suspected he had unintentionally made Angel’s position even more precarious.
He tried to correct some of the damage. “Angel wasn’t talking behind your back. I guess he thought I wanted you and I to pick up where we’d left off. He asked me to leave you alone. He loves you, Bobby. He wants you for himself. That’s all there is to it. You must feel something for him too. I gather you’ve been seeing each other for a while. Give the guy a chance, Bobby. Let him show you what you mean to him.”
Bobby spat the words into the evening air. “He likes getting fucked. I fuck him. That’s what I mean to him, and that’s what he means to me. There’s nothing more to it. And it sure as hell has nothing to do with you!”
He lifted a fist, and strode two steps forward quickly, catching Boz off guard. Boz squeezed himself against the back of the chair, trying to put as much distance between him and Bobby as he could, which no matter how hard he tried wasn’t nearly far enough.
The fear on his face seemed to stop Bobby cold. He lowered his fists, and before Boz could react at all, he leaned down, gripped Boz’s arms, and pulled him to his feet.
Boz cringed at the tightness of Bobby’s fingers on his arms. Standing this close, he could still see a smear of white powder on Bobby’s nose. His eyes were dilated, and while he smelled of soap and shampoo from a recent shower, there was also an animal scent about him that set Boz’s sensors to high alert.
Bobby dragged him closer, the fury in his eyes settling into a softer emotion.
“We had it good here, didn’t we, Boz? Almost no rent. The pool at our disposal. The old queens who own the place gone nine-tenths of the time.”
Before Boz could respond, Bobby tightened his hold on Boz’s arms and lifted him totally off the ground. Suddenly he was close enough to smell Bobby’s toothpaste breath. Close enough to feel Bobby’s stiff cock pressed against his thigh. He was all too aware that Bobby was no more than a zipper away from being naked and hard in front of him, and that scared him greatly.
“Let me go,” he said softly, fighting to maintain his calm even while he dangled there like a sack of potatoes.
Bobby simply stared into his face, tightening his grip even more around Boz’s arms. He lifted Boz higher and pulled him close, staring deep into his eyes, his strong fingers digging trenches in Boz’s biceps. Boz was well aware that Bobby could snap his arms like chicken wings if he set his mind to it.
Just as Boz was about to cry out from the pain of those digging fingers, Bobby relaxed his grip and gently set him back on his feet. A light burned in Bobby’s eyes that frightened Boz even more than what had just happened. It was a light that seemed to say even Bobby knew how close he had come to losing control of his own anger. As if that near loss of restraint had truly frightened him. As if he knew—all too well—where it might have led.
Boz stepped back, watching Bobby closely while he rubbed the circulation back into his arms.
“Thanks for the bruises,” he hissed.
Bobby looked like he had been struck. Still, Boz knew perfectly well it was against everything Bobby believed in to ever back down.
Proving him right, Bobby said, “I reckon you had it coming. Egging me on. Throwing Angel in my face. If you hadn’t left me, there would have been no need for Angel at
all.”
Boz was unmoved. “If I hadn’t left you, I’d probably already be dead.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I’m warning you, Bobby. Stay away from Dilly and his boss. And stay away from me. If you want to find somebody to blame for your life falling apart, blame the person you buy your drugs from. Without them I doubt you’d be having any problems at all.” Bobby’s fists clenched again. But he didn’t raise them. He merely left them hanging at his sides like two unused weapons, uncalled for at the moment, but ready when needed.
Bobby’s eyes traveled over Boz’s body. The instant the expression in them morphed from anger to some sort of furious desire, Boz whirled and quickly walked away. He half expected Bobby to come after him. To throw him to the ground and do whatever the hell he had it in his mind to do.
But he didn’t.
Boz reached the car, climbed inside, and locked the doors. It took him three tries to punch the key in the ignition, his hands were shaking so badly.
As soon as the engine turned over and the wheels began to crunch along the gravel drive, tears started to fall. Seconds before the driveway turned and the mansion disappeared from view in his rearview mirror, he glanced back and saw Bobby standing at the gate, watching him go. Even from that distance, he could sense the hate and the hunger still burning in the man.
Boz shuddered, swallowing bile. As he maneuvered the car down the long winding lane to the city streets miles below, he furiously brushed the tears from his cheeks. Whatever his intentions had been in coming out here, the reality of what Boz had accomplished was quite different.
A deep, numbing fear began to sink in because he knew—he absolutely knew—he had made things a whole lot worse for everybody.
Chapter Thirty-Four