Cowboy by J. M. Snyder Read online

  Who am I kidding? I do.

  Kent isn't one to apologize but with Luke gone, I don't feel him watching me so closely, I don't feel his anger simmering when he's nearby. By three in the afternoon, the crowd thins out, more and more time passes between the cars that stop at our stand, and I stretch out in my chair, the fan aimed my way as I stir the air in front of my face with a receipt book. Luke probably got the showerhead up and went back to the vegetables, he'll have the whole field picked over before dinner and Kent will just grumble, he won't even thank the boy, that's just how he is. I'll thank him myself -- in my mind I imagine him coming in, sweaty, the beginnings of a burn on his sun-kissed skin, and I'd sit him down in the recliner, climb behind him into the seat, lather his neck and shoulders with Noxzema. I can almost feel the heat of his skin in my hands ...

  Someone swats at my foot, knocking it off the table, and I sit up as Kent hands me another wad of money. "Look alive, Marcus," he tells me, squinting at the empty road. The last car pulled out of our lot almost a half hour ago. "Slow today."

  "Just a little." I ring up a no-sale and stuff the money into the register, aware of Kent standing so close to me. It's his way of saying things are cool between us again, because if he was still mad, he'd just storm off. I think whatever's in that flask of his is gone now, and it's mellowed him out a bit, alcohol does that to him. A little and he's almost willing to smile, almost -- I think if I try hard enough, I might be able to make him grin.

  Because we're dead, I start counting the money out, why not? I'm sure we won't get much more business today. Fingering the dingy bills, I hope I sound nonchalant when I ask, "How much of the deposit yesterday actually made it into the bank?"

  "Most of it," he says, evasive. He had that extra twenty in his pocket, so I know he didn't use a lot of it for drink, but the bail had to be a pretty penny. "A hundred fifty," he tells me before I ask.

  "You put that in?" I want to know. There was a hell of a lot more money than that in yesterday's bag. If he just put in a hundred and fifty dollars --

  But Kent shakes his head. "That's what they charged me." He doesn't say it was the police and I don't mention the incident, but it hangs between us like a loaded gun, waiting to go off and shatter this uneasy peace. "Plus seventy-five to get the bumper hammered out, and fifty at the store." Seeing my frown, he says, "I put most of it in the bank, don't worry."

  I don't answer. Most of it isn't all. I don't ask how much he spent at the bar and he doesn't offer the information up. What do I care? It's his money, his business, his damn plants, let him waste what he wants, it's none of my concern. I'm just trying to help him out here. I'm just trying to keep his finances straight because I'm good with numbers. As long as I have a roof over my head, food on my table, what is it to me?

  A rough arm snakes around my waist, and I take an involuntary gulp of fresh air before Kent pulls me to him. He reeks of sweat and tequila, so that's what he's been at all day. Shoving the money into a deposit bag, I try to be diplomatic as I tell him, "Luke fixed the shower, baby. Maybe you might want to clean up before dinner?" He sighs against my neck like the thought of washing himself is a huge inconvenience, and I elbow him playfully. I think of Luke and his kisses, his hands, and it's guilt that makes me add, "Maybe I'll join you. What do you say?"

  He laughs into my skin. "So that's why you wanted it fixed, hmm?" His hand slips down to paw at me through my jeans, a clumsy squeeze that still manages to turn me on. "You could've said so."

  Yeah, like my telling him I want sex has ever gotten me far before. Still, he rubs against me and I push Luke out of my mind, this is my lover, this man, this cowboy here, and I've made him smile, I've turned him on, we have to grab this moment quick. So I follow him to the house, and thank God Luke's still out back, I don't want to see him right this minute, I'm sure he'd look at me and know what we're going to do, and I'd feel the need to apologize ... for what? For wanting to have sex with Kent? Or because it's not with him?

  I'm not sure.

  In the bathroom, the new showerhead's in place and the tiny room is cramped with the both of us, so I stand out in the hall and undress. Part of me hopes Luke comes in and sees this, sees me, naked and half-hard and maybe he'd tell us to stop, maybe he'd say he loves me and doesn't want me with Kent, like at a wedding when they ask if anyone has objections, and then what? Maybe they'd both go at me, God what a thought, it makes me want to come just thinking that, two guys at once, I've seen it in pornos but never had it myself. Kent behind me because he doesn't like it up the ass and Luke in front, I'd hold him up against the wall, I'd kiss him while Kent shoved into me and he'd be so tight around my cock, so hot, so sweet. Seeing my erection stiffen, Kent laughs as he turns on the shower. Water splashes the tiles and the curtain squeals as he pulls it across the bar. "Did you miss me?" he asks with a slap on my ass.

  I grin. Let him think that but to be honest? It's the thought of kissing Luke that turns me on right now, not Kent in me but me in someone else, that boy outside, me loving him, that's going to get me off. Still, I can't say Kent does nothing for me, that's a lie, and when he strips out of his clothes and I get a glimpse of his own pale erection, I'm eager for him. He climbs into the shower and I step into the bathroom, close the door, already massaging my balls as I slip into the shower.

  Kent takes me from behind, that's the way he likes to do it. I grip the towel rack in front of me and moan as loud as I dare -- I like the echo off the walls of the shower, I like the water beating on my back, his hands on my hips and his hard dick pressing into me, in my mind it's Luke shoving in harder, faster, harder and deeper. It's Luke's hands that rub at my pelvis, his fingers that encircle my shaft, his nails that scrape across my balls and when I come, it's his name I have to bite back. And still he drives into me, he works me hard again, he tugs at my dick and moans my name in Kent's voice. Kent ...

  That jars the fantasy. With a guilty start I realize I'm with him, not the boy in my dreams, Kent, and almost as if I'm trying to make up for thinking of Luke, I push against him, my muscles tightening to keep him in, to get him off, I don't want him to even think it wasn't him in my mind, it wasn't him who made me come. "Kent," I moan, just to chase away the visions that cling to me, Luke's hands and his lips and his tight ass, his thick cock. "Jesus, Kent, please."

  Tighter, harder, faster, and finally he pulls out of me, almost exhausted, and I feel him spurt against my buttocks, rancid, alcoholic cum but it's more than he's managed in a long time, it's hot and fast and enough to get me off again. "Kent," I sigh, as his hands wipe his juices from me. Turning, I pick at one of his nipples and ask coyly, "Did you miss me?"

  He swats my hand away. "You know you have a great ass," he tells me. That's what he always says after we fuck, and I like it because it's the closest he's ever come to telling me that I'm great. I should mention it to Luke, just to hear the boy say that if I were his, he'd tell me stuff like that out of the blue. I'd say I love you all the time, I can almost hear the words in his voice, they tug at the sudden weight between my legs and I pull Kent to me, water cascading down around us like rain. "Kiss me," I say, because I want him to, I want him to hold me like Luke did last night, his arms rubbing my back, his lips insistent on mine. My mouth finds his chin, his cheek, his upper lip. I sigh into him and taste the bittersweet tequila that stains his breath and takes mine away.

  But he pulls back. "Marcus," he complains, reaching for the shampoo. I get the feeling he doesn't like to kiss because he doesn't really know how -- I'd offer to teach him but he'd just say he doesn't like it, we already did the deed, why bother fooling around anymore? He doesn't get the whole afterplay thing that I like, the cuddling and touching and sucking and kissing, he thinks it's a waste of time. "We just did it," he tells me, soaping up his hair. "You came twice. Don't tell me you want it again."

  Is that so bad? To hear him tell it, yeah, and so he won't see me pout, I step out of the shower, I guess I'm finished here then. "Nevermind," I tell him, wrapping
a towel around my waist.

  "Marcus," he sighs, like I'm being petulant and unreasonable. I pull the curtain closed so I won't have to see him roll his eyes. "Maybe later, what do you say?"

  I say you'll be too drunk by then, I think, but I don't say it out loud. Instead I shrug as I towel off and tell him, "Sure." As if he won't be asleep later. Whatever.

  I leave him to finish showering and step out into the hall, the shadows cool on my drying skin after the heat of the water. I'm all too aware of my naked chest above the towel at my waist, my naked legs below. I wonder if Luke's in yet, if he's sitting in the living room and waiting for us to finish up, if he's thinking about me.

  But the living room is empty, I see that from the hall before I duck into my room, and maybe it's better this way, that he doesn't know. Then I won't feel like I have to apologize when I see him, I won't have to look into his violet eyes and see ... what? Indignation, desire, anger? I'm not sure, though I know what I'd like to see there, staring back at me. I'd like to see that lust shining in his eyes again, I'd like to taste his kisses -- in the tub yesterday, he didn't pull away after he got off, he wanted to keep kissing me, he wanted more. What would that be like, to hold someone close instead of being pushed away? To lie down after sex with another instead of always being alone?

  In my room, I kick at the door to close it and drop the towel. The door doesn't shut completely and I don't care -- let Kent see me like this, he's still in the bathroom. Let Luke see me like this, walk past my room and get a glimpse of my body, and then we could close the door, he could lay me down on my bed and damn but I shouldn't think shit like this, I shouldn't even dream of fooling around on Kent --

  A single red gerbera daisy lies on my pillow.

  Tentatively I pick up the flower. I bury my nose in the soft petals and just smell pollen. A flower. For all his plants, Kent's never given me anything like this before. The agave in the corner, that's it, but it doesn't bloom, it's not the color of love, it's not this.

  So he was in here. While I was in the shower with Kent, Luke was in my room. Did he lie down on my bed? Press his head back against my pillow, twirl the flower between his fingers and wait for me? These walls are thin -- did he hear me moan? Did he hear Kent's quick grunts, my breathless gasps? Does he realize it was him in there with me in my mind, that it wasn't Kent who got me off but him? God, how could I ever tell him that?

  I dress quickly, ashamed. He makes me feel like this, like I've cheated on him, on him and he's not even my lover, how does he do this to me? There's a cup on my bedside table, still half-full with drinking water, and I stick the flower in there, turn it until the daisy is aimed at my pillow. When I lie down I'll be able to look into the red petals, I'll think of Luke when I see it. As I leave my room, I pull the door shut so Kent can't see the flower when he passes -- he's still in the shower, though, I hear him -- and I head down the hall.

  Luke's in the kitchen. As I enter, he looks up from where he sits at the table cutting vegetables. He grins at me and I don't see anything in his eyes or his smile that tells me he's mad. "Pepper steak," he says, pushing his chair back as he stands. "I just had a hankering for some, you know?"

  "Don't let Kent see you pick his flowers," I say. I could slap myself -- no thank you? I don't want to encourage him, I tell myself. Bullshit.

  But his grin widens. "You like it?" he asks. Before I can reply, he steps around the table and kisses the corner of my mouth. "Is he still in there?" he whispers.

  When I nod, he leans forward and this time his lips find mine, his tongue parting them easily, and he's as sweet as I remember, his breath more intoxicating than Kent's without the alcohol. "I'm sorry," I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut against sudden tears. "Luke, I'm so sorry, I thought of you the whole time --"

  "Shh," he murmurs, kissing me again. "It's okay, Marcus, I understand. Do you like the flower?"

  I rub at my eyes, I'm so damn tired. Of this charade, these two men, my own body that seeks to betray us all. "I love it," I tell him. "I can't be doing this, Luke. I love him --"

  Luke kisses me again. "Are you sure it's him?" he asks as his arms slip around my waist, "and not just someone you think he is? One of those guys in your magazines, maybe?"

  I like it here in his arms, with his lips and hands on me, the sound of the shower as distant as rain. "I don't know," I admit.

  Over dinner, Kent doesn't thank Luke, no surprise there. He sits at the head of the table, bent over his plate, eyes beginning to droop -- the alcohol is getting to him, the sex, he'll take a nap after this. "Good peppers," he says, glancing at me. I nod, yes, very good. "Onions are real sweet this year. I told you it was a good idea to keep them in the back field, didn't I?"

  I nod again and smile across the table at Luke, who frowns at his plate until he sees me look his way, then grins to beat the sun. Leave it to Kent to focus on his own efforts in the garden and not even thank the cook. "It's really good," I tell Luke. "How do you get the meat so tender?"

  Suddenly Luke's bare foot finds my crotch beneath the table, and with a wink, he digs his toes into the pillowy softness of my genitals, already hardening beneath his touch. "You just have to beat it right," he says, smiling.

  I had to ask, didn't I? In front of Kent, too, Jesus. But my lover doesn't look up from his plate, doesn't see the look Luke's giving me, doesn't know about the foot in my lap. "It's all in how you prepare it," Kent mutters -- does he even realize that we're not talking about the steak here? I have to duck my head to keep from smirking, and beneath the table, my hand covers Luke's toes, my fingers lacing between them and squeezing gently. Kent looks at me, at Luke who nods encouragingly, and back at me again. "You could do this, Marcus," he says, pointing a fork at his plate. "You just rush it too fast. Hit it a few times before you stick it in --" Luke's toes curl down in my hand and I can't stop the laugh that interrupts Kent. "Did I say something funny?" he wants to know, his voice hard with drink.

  "No," I mumble. I push Luke's foot away and say it again, "No," shaking my head so Kent will believe me. "Sorry, babe. I didn't mean ..." No excuse comes to mind, so I attack my food with renewed vigor and refuse to look at either of them. "Sorry."

  For a long, breathless moment, I don't think he's going to let it drop. He's been hitting the worm, it makes him mean-spirited, I hate the tequila more than the beer or the whiskey or anything else he drinks. He's still a little touchy about last night, and he thinks I'm smarting him right now, I don't want a fight --

  Apparently, neither does he. Another look at Luke, who shrugs as if he doesn't know what's gotten into me, that minx, and Kent turns back to his dinner. The rest of the meal is eaten in strained silence. I think I should apologize again but it'll just set Kent off on how it's disrespectful to laugh at the table, when he's talking no less, and I don't want a lecture right now. What I want is Luke's foot back in between my thighs, his toes in my hand, his heel grinding into the erection budding in my jeans, but I can't catch his eye, he doesn't look at me again. Finally, Kent pushes back from the table and belches as he stands. "Good peppers," he says again. That's as close to a complement on his cooking that Luke's going to get.

  Kent doesn't bother to take his plate to the sink. Instead, he opens the fridge for a beer -- just what he needs, I'm sure -- and tells us, "Be outside." He opens the screen door, clomps out on the porch, and is gone.

  Now Luke looks at me, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, and his foot is back in my lap again, poking and prodding and piquing my interest. "Don't even," I warn before he can make some off-color comment, but even that's enough to make us both giggle into our plates. See what you do to me? I think, shaking my head. "You're going to get me in trouble," I tell him.

  His toes curl into my crotch. "Me?" he asks innocently. "You're doing a good job of that yourself. Who was it that started this whole thing, hmm?" When I frown at him, he raises an eyebrow and asks, "Yesterday? In the washtub? Or didn't you mean that?"

  I can't reply. I meant it, I want it
again -- he's right, I am getting into trouble here, I'm rushing headlong into danger, flirting with him and wanting him and thinking of him when I fuck Kent, he should just leave. Let me get back to who I thought I was, let me love the man I thought I loved ... but you know you won't let him go, a voice inside whispers, and that's the truth. If Luke said he had to leave now? I'd do anything to stop him, to keep him here with me. I'm falling in love with him, too. "You kiss me like you mean it," he says softly.

  I meet his amethyst eyes, then drop my gaze to his mouth, his chest, his hands. "I do," I admit. There, you happy? I said it, I mean it, I do.

  "You thought of me?" he asks. "When you guys were --"

  I don't want to hear the words in his voice. "I told you I did." Pushing back from the table, I pick up Kent's plate and my own. I turn towards the sink, away from Luke, away from those eyes and those hands and that mouth. "I don't really want to talk about it?" I ask as I run the water. I don't talk louder than the rush from the spigot. "If you don't mind. When it's just you and me, I don't want to think about ... about him. Please."

  "Okay." I hear the clatter of silverware then the scrape of his chair, he comes around the table to the sink, and his arm eases around my waist as he slips his plate into the water with the others. His hand strums my stomach, his lips kiss the tender skin behind my ear. "I like to be licked," he breathes, out of nowhere, and beneath his fingers, my stomach flips nervously; lower, my groin starts to ache like a rotten tooth, a steady throb I want him to alleviate. "That little place below your nuts, the taint? Cause it ain't ass and it ain't dick, you know where I mean?"

  I look out the kitchen window -- Kent's in his market, throwing tarp over the stands, tying down the tent, stopping now and then to swig at his beer -- and my throat clicks audibly when I swallow, I know exactly where Luke means. I imagine my tongue there, the sweaty musk of his scent sharp in my senses, his thighs cradling my head and his hands in my hair. I could make him cry by just licking him, I'm sure of it, my lips kissing quivering skin, my teeth nipping playfully, my tongue rimming him until he sobs my name ... "I want you there, Marcus," he purrs as he rubs my stomach, and his other hand cups the hardness trapped in my jeans. With a nod at the window, he wants to know, "What's hetaste like? Is he sweet like me? Is he firm?"