Cowboy by J. M. Snyder Read online

  I hear footsteps crunch over gravel and look up as Luke approaches. Sweat glistens on his skin like jewels, flashing in the sunlight for a brief second, but then he's in the shade of the tent and his skin is draped in shadow. He rubs at the back of his neck with a damp towel, sighs as he hops up on the table beside the register. Beside me. This close, the smell of him is almost overwhelming. Not alcohol like Kent's stench, not dirty or rancid or old, but something deeper, something natural and rugged and intoxicating, it stirs my groin and makes my fingers tremble with want. This is what that lady felt, I think, as I try to concentrate on the money, but I've already lost count. She caught a whiff of this musky scent and couldn't stop herself from touching him.

  I don't know how I manage to keep from doing that myself.

  "You want me to water again?" he asks, watching me thumb through the bills. I'm sure he knows I want him -- it's in the way I can't meet his amethyst gaze, the way I shift from foot to foot to keep from moving closer. I shake my head in reply. I don't even trust myself to speak. Reaching out, he touches my wrist, and his fingers sear my flesh like the summer sun. "You okay?" he wants to know.

  "Fine," I tell him, but my throat is dry and my voice parched, and the only thing that could soothe my thirst is him. Kent, I remind myself, but right at this moment, with this hand on mine? I can't recall the contours of my lover's face, the feel of his body, and I don't quite remember what the fuss over him is all about.

  Watching me, Luke starts to rub his thumb across my wrist, just above the light hair on my arm. It's a soft touch, gentle, but it fills me with a sudden lust that trembles my hands and weakens my knees. I want to lie him down on this table and tear into him, his tender touch does that to me. I should tell him to stop but I can't find the words, and just as I'm about to pull away, he lets go. "I'm a mess," he says, slapping at his jeans. A fine dust rises from the denim. "God, what I wouldn't give for a shower."

  "I hate to have to tell you this," I laugh, at ease now that he's not touching me and I can pretend that I don't want him to, "but our showerhead's been broke for awhile now. That's one of the things on Kent's list to pick up in town today."

  With a slight frown, Luke asks, "So I have to wait for him to get back before I can get cleaned up? I could take the hose --"

  "There's a washtub," I say. And I should stop now, I see the way his eyes light up, but before I know it, the words are tumbling out on their own. "I can fix you a bath, if you want."

  Tell me you can do it yourself, I pray. All those daydreams of me washing my lover in that tub flood through me, only it's not Kent I see now but Luke, and I give up all pretense of counting the cash, I just cram it into the bank bag, the images of Luke and me rolling on wet grass with suds drying on our naked skin too much to take. Say thanks but you can get it, say you don't need my help, say --

  "Would you?"

  Eagerness tints his voice and when I look into his deep eyes, I see a hope blossom that I know I put there. I'm leading him on, aren't I? What happens when Kent comes back and I have to tell this boy that I'm just flirting here, I don't mean anything by it?

  I don't, do I?

  It sounds like somebody else who replies, "Sure. I don't mind."

  He gets the tub for me from the barn -- it's not so heavy when it's empty but it's awkward and makes a hollow thud every time it hits his legs as he walks. "Over here," I say, pointing out a spot by the side of the barn, where the sun hits the grass as it slants down in the sky. He does as I say, then stands back as I angle the hose into the tub. Water splashes against the aluminum, loud like rain on a tin roof, and Luke retreats to the picnic table to watch. From the corner of my eye I see him unlace his sneakers, pull them and his socks off, and because I figure the jeans are next, I turn my back to him. I don't need to see him naked, no matter how much the thought thrills me. Over the sound of the water I call out, "Thanks for helping me today."

  "No problem," Luke replies as he comes to stand beside me. I glance at him just as he's stretching, his chest smooth and his arms reaching for the sky, his jeans slipping a little low on his hips to show the hint of underwear, more skin, nothing pasty like Kent's untanned regions but all the same color, a luscious blend of light golden brown that reminds me of how I take my coffee. I could take him. It'd be so easy and I know he wants me to, it's in the way he stands so close to me, the way his elbow brushes my arm when he plants his hands on his hips and stares into the foaming water. "It's the least I can do," he says, talking about helping me run the lot today. He curls his toes in the grass, picks at the blades, tears them out of the ground and lets them fall as he pulls at more, and every time he wobbles unsteadily, he bumps against me. That can't be on purpose, can it? "I have nothing else to do," he's telling me, but I can't focus on the words, all I hear is the sound of his voice. "I guess I should get going after this? Maybe. If you're friend's coming back. I don't think he'll like me here."

  I don't ask why not? or point out that we're doing nothing wrong because the tension is there between us, the desire is real, and even if we're not doing anything at all, that doesn't change the fact that I want to, and that frightens me. Yes, better that he's not here when Kent comes home. "Where are you headed?" I ask.

  The tub's almost full now, mountains of suds foaming up to the lip, and the minute I turn off this water, he'll strip down beside me and I don't know if I can handle that. I don't know if I trust myself to look away. Better to think of him leaving, no matter how much I don't want to see him go. Better for us both if we don't make this into something more.

  He shrugs. "Don't know," he mutters.

  "No plans?" I want to know. When he shakes his head, I let up on the nozzle and look at him closely. He avoids my gaze, stares at the tub and sniffs in that way he has that makes him look like a little boy trying not to cry. I still can't quite believe he's almost twenty. Gently, I ask, "Where are you from, Luke?"

  He shrugs again. "Nowhere," he whispers, and this time I don't think that sniffle is forced. His eyes waver with sudden tears, the purple an almost midnight shade in the setting sun. "There's no one back there looking for me," he says, so softly that I cut off the hose just to hear him speak. "Don't worry, Marcus, I'm not on the run or nothing. My momma died when I was real little -- I never knew her, don't remember her much. My dad ..." With a bitter laugh, he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand as if trying to rid himself of a bad taste. "Caught me out back with a boy when I was twelve. What did we know? Just two kids jerking off, you know? He laid into my ass then, Jesus. I swear I didn't sit for days."

  I smile sadly and Luke shakes his head. "He's like your friend, only he's mean when he's drunk, real mean."

  "Kent's not mean," I tell him. "He's just ... he gets pissy but it's nothing like hitting and screaming and shit. Mostly he just sulks and sleeps it off." And he can't fuck, I add silently.

  Luke rubs at his nose again and sighs. "My dad's mean. When I was fifteen, I rode around with a bad crowd, older kids mostly, we'd go into San Angelo for the day to hang out at the mall. Nothing else to do, you how that is." I nod and he continues. "The guy with the car, he was older than me, a good four years at least, but he was cute and God, could he kiss. We weren't exclusive but it was damn near love in my eyes. He'd keep his arm around my waist, kiss on me when he felt like it, tell me sexy things just so I'd giggle and blush. Fifteen, mind you."

  I nod again -- I remember that time. I lived in Jersey still, by the shore, and I'd flirt with any guy in a Speedo who looked my way. First time I had sex was under the boardwalk at midway that year, an older guy from Canada who was ten years my senior, but he had a tight ass and he got into my swim trunks as easily as salt water. I'm about to laugh and tell Luke I remember fifteen all too well, and I'll wink at him because it's a good memory and now as I think back, it's him I see over my shoulder, thrusting into me with a guttural moan. But before I can say anything, I catch a glimpse of Luke's damp eyes and the words dissolve in my throat. "My dad was at the mall that
day," he whispers. "I didn't know. When I got home, he'd gone through a six-pack at least, and the minute I walked through the door, he said I didn't know I had a faggot for a son. Faggot. That was one of the nicer things he called me."

  "I'm sorry," I murmur. I don't know what else to say.

  "Faggot," Luke continues, his words harsh and foreign as they fall from his lips. "Queer, homo, slut. Called me a cunt once, too, can you even do that? I mean, that just doesn't make sense, you know? But it doesn't take the sting away."

  My heart breaks as the first tear slips down his cheek and he brushes at it roughly. "I know."

  "Told me I was lucky my ma was dead." I place a comforting hand on his shoulder and his voice breaks. "Told me she'd kill herself if she was alive and knew I was such a fuck-up. Knew I fucked guys. I hate him."

  He covers his mouth with his hand and squeezes his eyes shut, and suddenly I'm struck at how young he is all over again. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him and he's in my embrace, where I've wanted him all day, only his tears are hot against my shirt and his shoulders shake as I rub his back and tell him it's okay. "I had to leave," he mumbles into my neck and I nod, yes, I see that. He had to leave, and he's here now, his dad's not going to hurt him anymore. I tell him this even though it's no consolation, the damage is already done, but Luke nods and lets me hold him, his arms finding their way around my waist to hug me tight.

  When the tears are dry and he sniffles an apology, I wipe his cheeks with my shirt sleeve and tell him it's okay. "Come on," I say, motioning at the tub overflowing with suds. "The water's getting cold."

  That makes him laugh. "I seriously doubt that." But he's grinning, that's what I hoped for, and before I can turn away, he unzips his jeans and pushes them down. I look at his feet so I won't stare at his long legs, his lean thighs, the bulge in the front of his underwear, and when those briefs hit the ground, I close my eyes. I hear a faint splash, then Luke draws in a sharp breath as he sinks into the tub. This late in the day, the water from the hose must be pretty hot. When he's settled, Luke says, "You can look now."

  I laugh as I open my eyes, a quick comment on the tip of my tongue, but he's in that damn cowboy hat, pushed back so I can see his piercing eyes, his full lips, and above the suds his shoulders are bare and freckled and damp, and all I can do is clear my throat and look away. Kent will be home soon. Then this silliness will stop, Luke won't be such a temptation with my lover around, Kent will douse this stupid crush real quick. But is there harm in looking? In watching the way Luke runs a hand up one arm and down the other, trailing water along skin that glistens in the slanting sun? He had to keep that hat on, didn't he? Does he even realize what that does to me? I fell for Kent before I even saw his face -- just the hat and the jeans and the bare back, and I was gone. You better watch it, I tell myself as Luke frowns up at me. The shadow from his brim lies across the smooth skin above his upper lip. You'll end up falling for this one, too. "What 'cha thinking?" he wants to know.

  How much I want you right this minute, I reply silently. How I still feel your warmth in my arms, your breath on my neck. How I'm pretty sure I'm not going to close my eyes when you get out of that tub. But I don't say that. Instead I shrug and mumble, "Nothing really." Nothing he needs to know.

  "Hmm." He sinks down and lays his head back, the hat pushing forward over his brow. His knees peek through the suds in front of his chest and his arms stretch out around the aluminum sides of the tub, gripping the warm tin. "This is nice," he says, speaking low. With a shy grin, he winks at me. "Too bad it's only big enough for one."

  I can see that now, Kent pulling into the driveway to find me crammed into that tiny tub behind Luke. Somehow I don't think that'll go over too well. Shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans, I tell myself that's not the start of an erection pressing against my fingers. "Do you do this often?" he asks. He trails a hand through the suds, parting them, and I catch a glimpse of his chest beneath the water before the soap drifts back together again. "Just sit out here in the sun? Does your friend do it, too?"

  With a laugh, I admit, "Kent rarely showers." I suspect he thinks bathing is beneath him. "He -- no. He doesn't use that tub."

  Luke looks at me openly, like it doesn't bother him that once those suds dry up, nothing will hide his nakedness from me. "But you do," he says, trailing his hand through the water again.

  Don't ask if I jerk off in it, I pray. The last thing he needs to know is that since the showerhead broke I've been out in that tub every morning, rubbing myself beneath the tepid water, whimpering as my fingers dance over my thighs, my balls, and the main reason I use so much soap is to hide my cum when I pour the water out on the ground. I can't help it -- if Kent gave me what I needed at night, I wouldn't have to do things myself. As it is I get him once, maybe twice a month, and last night wasn't even worth it. I'm still disgusted about that.

  But Luke doesn't ask, thank God, just slips down lower into the suds and moans as the water soothes away the day. I can imagine his muscles relaxing, his skin softening, and shouldn't I be doing something else right about now? Making dinner, maybe? Closing up the lot, something? Anything other than standing here and staring at him like a sex-crazed pervert. And I am staring, it's evident when Luke asks me for a washcloth and I jump at the sound of his voice. A washcloth, right -- there's one hanging on a peg inside the barn with the towel I use to dry myself off after a bath. As I approach the tub with it in hand, Luke sits up and leans forward and asks, "Can you maybe wash my back? I don't think I can reach."

  His back. Bare and wet. I can see his shoulder blades curved like wings where he's hunched over, and the nubs of his spine stand out like knuckles. I want to run my tongue around them, each and every one, count my way down from his neck to his hips and why stop there? Lick down over his tailbone, between his cheeks, where he's tender. I want to hold his thighs in my hands as I rim him, my tongue doing things that will bring tears to his eyes, he'll beg for release, things I've only dreamed of doing because Kent's not into kinky shit like that. Luke though, I see in his eyes that he'll let me have him any way I want, he'll grip the sheets of my bed as I finger him, he'll cry out my name if I want him to. It's all there in his purple gaze, all the things he'd let me do to him, all the things I hunger to do.

  His back. "Marcus?" he asks, concerned. "If you don't want to, it's okay. I understand ..."

  I shake my sordid thoughts away. "No, I can." Kneeling behind him, I dip the washcloth into the mild water, then run a trepidatious hand up the curve of his back. Through the thin terrycloth, his skin is hot from the sun and water, and this close I can smell the laundry fresh scent of the soap, the lingering sweat that beads along his flesh. But I don't think of that, or the firm muscles beneath my hand as I rub along his back, or the contented way he sighs when my fingers work at the knots in his neck. Over his shoulders, down his arms, down his back and into the water and I'm not thinking about what I'm touching now, what I'm just inches away from, I'm not. Up his spine again, around his neck, over his throat, and when he leans back against me, I hardly notice the water that splashes onto my jeans or the warm press of his skin through my shirt. My hand is on his chest now, the other one pushing at my erection, I have to close my eyes as one hand drifts lower down his body and the other works my own hard cock through my jeans. God, if Kent sees this ...

  He's not here.

  My hand trails down over Luke's flat stomach until a thick shaft pokes at me. "Marcus," he murmurs, gripping the edges of the tub, and when I encircle his erection, he hisses my name again.

  The washcloth floats away. I take him in hand, he's bigger than I had imagined, huge beneath the water, and as hard as I am. Easing down my zipper, I stroke myself through my boxers as I cup his balls, my fingers entwining in hair like seaweed at his crotch. Slowly, I fondle his dick, rubbing up his length to the spongy tip and then back to the thick base, my hand squeezing and kneading until he gasps my name. He's lying back on my shoulder now, his lips against
my ear, and his small moans and thin sighs spur me on, I work at us both, finding a steady rhythm that brings my cock from my boxers and makes him thrust into my hand.

  I'm not doing this, I think even as I pick up the pace to bring him release. This isn't me, as I press my lips to his cheek, but he's salty and soft and when I kiss him again, his mouth finds mine.

  And I was right. He's just as sweet, as hot, as ripe as I thought he would be.

  When his cock spasms in my hand and he moans my name, his hand grasping at my knee, I come in a spurt that drips down the side of the tub and into the grass. I can't even remember the last time I got off with someone, anyone, sure as hell not Kent. Kent --

  The name is like cold water on my erection, and suddenly Luke's body against mine is too hot, scalding almost. I feel dirty and soiled and what the fuck am I doing here? Massaging this boy in one hand, playing with myself in the other, right out in the backyard where anyone can see, anyone at all, and my lover's on his way home, this is so damn wrong no matter how right it feels. Embarrassed, I pull my hand from the tub, my sleeve wet to my elbow where I reached into the water, and when Luke kisses my jaw, I turn away. "Jesus," I mutter -- what am I doing here? This isn't me, I'm not this bad, I'm not one to cheat on someone I love and I love Kent, don't I? Not this boy I just met, I can't throw away two years of my life on a moment of weakness, I won't. I love Kent, I do. I do.