xxx Coy’s POV xxx

Phil looks petrified. His face goes bright red and his left leg kicks a little in the long grass, just a short spasm before it rests back on the ground. Cam’s fingers clench in the grass, his hair falling around him in a curtain shielding them both from our view. It takes a few moments for Phil’s trembling hands to move, but they do, unsteady and unsure, to the back of Cam’s head. They bury under the mess of thick locks, tangling in, bringing him closer, pushing gently. His right leg twists a little, the heel of his foot arching off the ground, simultaneous with his hands tightening in Cam’s hair.

Neither Keith nor I talk. We hold our breath and watch - though we shouldn’t – as Cam swings a leg over Phil in a single, smooth motion. He’s straddling him now, collapsed with his weight resting on his forearms. Phil’s overzealous hands pull his hair tight enough to draw some of it away from their faces. We see a glimpse of dark skin and light met, long eyelashes and thin eyelashes. Cam’s freckles stand out because his cheeks aren’t flushed, though Phil’s are red enough for the both of them. We watch Cam’s teeth tug at Phil’s bottom lip, making stunning blue-yellow speckled eyes flutter open. His hands still, and Keith and I stiffen.

Cam moves his hips, very slowly. His left hand, the side facing us, rubs down Phil’s chest sort of roughly, soon reaching the bottom of his shirt. He pushes his hand up underneath it, bearing a strip of tanned stomach. Cam’s skinny thighs grip Phil’s and he breathes heavily. He presses down, breathing a few words into Phil’s mouth. He’s grinding into him.

Phil scrambles backwards as quick as a cat, drawing his knees up. He looks upset, devastated even. Verge-of-tears devastated. “Please,” he begs, fingers unconsciously fiddling with a long, wavy strand of hair between them. “Please ... don’t do that.”

Cam’s face scrunches up.

“Please,” Phil repeats like a broken record, desperately, knowing as well as Keith and I do what’s to come. “Please, let’s just stay like this, don’t ... don’t ...” He knows it’s a lost cause. He trails off, starting to cry.

“You little prude ...” Cam shakes his head, not sadly, but angrily. “I go out of my way, I try to patch up this sick thing we have going on, a relationship, if you can even call it that, and you can’t even meet me half fucking way and let me ...” He pauses, sitting back on his haunches, running a hand through his wild hair. “You know what? Fuck this. You aren’t worth my fucking time, you can’t fucking grow up, just this once?! Over-step the goddamn third grade ideals you’ve cocked up?!”

For the first time in a long time, he pauses in his rant of insults to wait for an actual answer from Phil. Phil’s crying but not sobbing, just staring at his pink knees. I don’t think he’s going to answer, but the moment Cam opens his mouth to talk, Phil speaks.

“I miss how you used to be.” His voice breaks. “I want you to .. I ... If we did it, if we did ... stuff like that ...” That sounds painfully foreign on his tongue, like a little kid trying to sound casual using a swear word. “... You wouldn’t go back to how I like you, you’d want it again and again, you’d pretend to be sweet like a few minutes ago ...” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “... to get my guard down ... and I hate you like that, you have no idea ...”

Cam’s bottom lip stiffens into a sneer instantly, and we know it’s over. Phil’s poured his heart out and said most of, though not all of, what he was thinking. And Cam’s going to kill him for it.

“Why won’t you change?” Cam spits angrily, not at all the over-the-top tantrum we expected. “Why has this always been my fault? We’re waiting for each other to change. Why does it seem like I have to? Why isn’t YOU changing even on the table?!”

Phil looks up at him – Cam’s standing now – and then back down. “You just ... you ... want to have sex, right? Is that the problem? Why you don’t change?”

Cam turns a delicate shade of pink and that in itself is an answer.

“And if you didn’t get that ... You’d be unhappy, and a little frustrated, I guess.”

Cam says nothing again. I assume it’s because he isn’t used to Phil being an active participant in any conversation or argument, because I know I’m not. He isn’t used to this calmness. Though, the answer to Phil’s question is an obvious one.

“But ... I think that if I was the one changing ... that would mean you and I would be ... doing that kind of thing ...” Again, his innocence and naivety become blindingly obvious. “... and I think that would make me a lot more unhappy than you would be if you weren’t getting any.”

Cam’s still silent. His eyebrows are raised, mouth drawn down, visibly a little surprised. You can see suppressed rage in how his hands are shaking. At least, I think that’s rage. He’s rendered speechless for reasons I’m not sure of. “Why?” he says, sounding far from gentle. “Why d’you have this ... this fucking ...” He waves his hands, searching for a word. “... this aversion to sex?! I’m not good enough? You aren’t gay enough?! You ... said you liked me.” Cam, that fucking bitch, plays the guilt card with his last line. That’s a low blow.

Phil’s eyes are staring back down at his crossed legs, chubby little feet curled under his calves. “Maybe I was wrong,” he chokes out, and I think he’s crying again.

Cam’s just shocked now, it’s written all over his face. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. The surprise only stays for a few moments before anger – and possibly frustration – takes over. “Fuck you,” he growls, but this time he doesn’t spit, he doesn’t punch. He simply storms off towards the van. The tantrum is belated, but we knew it’d come.

Phil continues to sit where he was left in the grass, face now buried in his hands. Maternal instinct shining like a beacon, Keith pulls himself up and crawls over to Phil, gingerly putting an arm around his shoulders. Phil doesn’t acknowledge him and Keith shoots me an unhappy little face, unsure of what to do.

Phil makes it easier by talking. Perhaps he was waiting for Cam to go away – he isn’t looking and doesn’t know that Cam’s already in the van. “I can’t believe it ...” His hands lower, but his hair continues to hide him. “I was wrong.”

“What?”

“M-maybe ...” He waits a moment. “... Maybe I don’t like him anymore.”

“... Wow.” I mumble, startled. He seemed so sure about Cam even though he was a total asshole. When I called him scrawny and horrible, Phil insisted he was beautiful. When Cam screamed at Keith, someone who Phil clearly cares about, Phil still tried to make him feel better later that day when he was down. Now, all of a sudden, he’s doubting? “What makes you say that?”

He sighs and, I notice, doesn’t tell Keith to move his arm, so Keith gently rubs his back. “... I’m pining for a boy that’s gone.” He’s speaking like the shy, confused boy he is, not even trying to feign confidence or independence. “The Cam that’s here now is the only Cam left. And I don’t think I love that one ... I love the missing one, the one that was my friend.” His hands slide up into his hair and he grips it hard, groaning. “If I could just erase all this, any time Cam and I were together romantically, I’d do it. Even the good parts. I just want him back, as my friend.” He sniffs loudly. “I never should have kissed him.”

Keith kisses his hair, which finally gets a rise out of him. He turns to look at him, face an interesting mix of childish wonder and wariness. He doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says lowly, but something in his tone lets me know that he isn’t apologizing for kissing him. “I’m sorry all this had to happen to you. You ... don’t deserve it.”

Phil nods and tries to smile.

“But ... I do think it would be best if you forgot about Cam. Forget about trying to change him, forget about trying to change you.” He runs his palm through Phil’s hair like a mother would do to reassure her son, sweeping it away from his face. “I don’t think you should have to sacrifice your happiness to make him happy. Don’t give in, okay? Whatever you do. Don’t let him win.”

Another nod from the trembling bundle of boy.

“You’re absolutely right with what you said about what he’d do. He’d fake being nice to get you in bed. You deserve better, a real boyfriend.” Keith continues. He leans down and kisses the tip of Phil’s nose. “Do you think you can sleep in the save van as him?”

Another shy nod, complete with blushing. “Yeah ...” He sounds amazed at this. “Yeah, I can! I don’t have to talk to him. And if we can’t be in the same van, he should sleep somewhere else, not me!” Phil stands and helps Keith up, leaving me feeling like a third wheel. I say nothing about this to them, because this moment isn’t about me. I can live with that, considering how pleased I am about Phil’s newfound liberation. He seems so happy and sure. “I’ll be fine.”

We slowly walk back to the van, scared of falling into the lake because it’s so dark. With no wet feet, we make it back. Hesitating outside, we hear no sounds from Cam. He had better not have run off into the woods, that overdramatic prick. I hope he’s okay. Keith slides the door open very slowly before peering in. I peek over the top of his head. Again, it’s nearly pitch black out, though the moon is bright. We can just barely make out the thin, sinewy form of Cameron in the very back. He’s on his side, shirt still not quite hiding his bright red panties. He kind of has a cute butt, though I’d never tell him or anyone else that. His rib cage's rhythmic rise and fall tell us he’s asleep, or at least quiet. He hasn’t said anything to us yet.

“Phil,” Keith whispers. “Where do you wanna sleep?”

Phil slides the door open a little wider to get in before crawling up to the front, curling up between the seats, using his clothes-filled duffle bag s a pillow. Keith wads up a few of my sweater vests to use as a pillow and lies down on his side, bent at the knees. I shuffle in behind him, shutting the door, and I lie down with my back to Cam and my chest pressed to Keith’s back. I wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his not-quite-dry hair. He mumbles a goodnight and the crickets lull us to sleep.


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Our city looks bright as I stare out the window between the slats of the blinds. Short shops with bright neon signs, tall office buildings downtown, town homes packed like sardines onto the hillsides, and pine trees everywhere in between. White concrete roads mapping out like veins.

Dark silk floats across my eyes and a warm, beating chest is pressed to my back. Little fingers tie the silk strip across my eyes. “Let’s play a game, ‘kay?” An all-too-familiar voice giggles in my ear. I smile and play along, staying quiet. Keith turns me around and his hand squeezes my bare shoulder. He’s hot, temperature wise; his skin feels burning. “On your knees,” he says, putting pressure on my shoulder. I smile again and comply wordlessly, getting down on my knees, settling back on my heels. I like this sort of thing from time to time, even if the carpet in the living room hurts my knees.

His thumb smooths across my cheek and draws my bottom lip down, opening my mouth. I can feel his fingerprint with the tip of my tongue, tiny ridges such a solid source of identity. I feel the tip of something touch my lips, cold and hard, honestly not what I was expecting. It pushes past my teeth and on a very slutty reflex, I curl my tongue around it. Part of me assumes it’s one of Keith’s toys, though I’m not sure why. It’s metal, but something in my brain stops me from questioning it. I feel his quick fingers at the back of my head, making short work of the knot in the silk tied only moments before. It flutters down, landing in my lap. Keith walks into my line of view on the left, but it isn’t him that’s directly in front of me. It’s Brandon, finger on the trigger of a small gun, the barrel of which is pushed into my mouth. He and Keith are naked and Keith puts his arms around his brother, scathing fingernails through sparse, sandy chest hair. They’re smiling at me happily. I can’t move.

“Do it,” Keith hisses, smile morphing into a twisted, excited grin.

Brandon pulls the trigger.


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

I wake up on my back, white spots dancing in front of my eyes and a headache to end all headaches exploding in the back of my skull. My face is wet with tears that I don’t remember crying. The headache is growing worse by the second, searing, blurring my vision so bad I don’t know what to do. I shove the heels of my palms into my temples, rolling over. Keith stirs next to me. It’s still dark; I don’t know what time it is and I don’t care, I just need this headache to go away. I’ve never had one this bad. I clutch harder at my head, groaning into the wiry floor of the van.

“Coy?” Keith leans over me, panic heavy in his sleepy voice. “Coy, what’s going on? Are you okay?! Coy!”

I groan again, grinding my teeth. I try to say something but it comes out as a high, painful whimper. I realize I’m still crying when the floor under me becomes wet. Why is this happening? Did my brains actually get blown out? That’s impossible. Keith puts his hand on my arm and tries to turn me back to face him, but I wrench my shoulders back to get his hand off.

“Cam!” Keith calls, and it’s followed by a nasal groan somewhere to my left. “Wake up, wake up, Coy’s sick!”

I hear some shuffling over the pounding of my own pulse in my head and I’m biting the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. “What d’you want me to do about it?” Cam snarls. A small, clammy hand yanks at my bare arm, turning me over onto my back again because I don’t see it coming and can’t fight. The hand slides up my face to my forehead and pushes hair away from my eyes, scrunched shut. Fingers rub my hairline, thumb touching my own hand, still jammed into my temples. “He isn’t sick, he’s sore.”

“Get him some painkillers then!” Keith cries, rubbing my arm on the other side. Is that Cam, then? The hand on my head? Keith’s on my right side. “You of all people have to have some!”

The hand on my forehead moves back. It just hurt anyways. I need a distraction, don’t think about the pain, don’t think about the dream. I still don’t think I’m crying, but the wet van and sob ripping from my throat bring a very good argument to the table. Distraction, distraction. Think about puppies. Think about sunshine. Think about sex.

“I got some Tylenol 3 for my wrists ...” I hear the metal-plastic clink of Archie and the Gang. “He isn’t allergic to codeine, is he? People are. It can kill you.”

“I don’t know! What the fuck’s codeine?!”

“You should know! Has he ever taken Tylenol 3 before? ‘Cause if he freaks out, we are nowhere near a hospital.”

I try to talk, but things come out soggy, like I’m miles away from my own voice box. My tongue feels too big for my mouth. “‘M not ... allergic,” I mumble. I try to tell them that I took it in fifth grade when I broke my arm, but I can’t, talking hurts so bad. Why does everything have to be connected? Fuckin’ humans.

“Okay, thank god, hurry hurry!” Keith begs Cam, both hands now grabbing my arm, rubbing back and forth. I’m definitely sobbing now, there’s no way around it. Denial is stupid, but I just hate crying.

“What’s wrong?” Phil, now awake, joins in. Maybe we’re being louder than I thought. I wish they’d stop talking.

“Coy’s sick!” Keith informs him as he squeezes my arm. I feel too weak to do anything and I think I’m going to throw up or pass out from the pain. His fingers are at my mouth and I flinch back, unable to stop thinking about the dream. I wait for the cold tip of a gun on my tongue, but instead am met with two small pills and the tip of Keith’s fingers. I swallow as best as I can without water, having to do it twice, once for each pill. I feel them stick down my throat and I really feel like coughing them up, but I need them to work more than anything, this is fucking ridiculous.

“Sick?” I hear Phil. “Is it serious?” He sounds worried too.

“It’s a headache or something, he just started crying,” Keith tells him. He leans in closer. I grit my teeth and groan, squirming, trying to get comfortable. My everything hurts. “Coy ...” Keith murmurs, rubbing my throat, which helps the pills go down. “Coy, tell me what happened. Nightmare?”

I cough, covering his hand with mine where it lays on my chest. “When I feel better,” I say groggily. “We need to talk.’’

His eyebrows draw down in concern. “Okay.”

And we say nothing else as I try to fall asleep.


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

I wake up what I assume is a few hours later. It’s light outside and as my eyes flutter open, the sky seems lower. The finicky weather of our area strikes again and a low layer of clouds is hanging over us, pouring rain. A dull throb of pain still sits behind my eyes, though it’s far better than it was earlier. I look down, seeing Keith is curled up at my side, arm over my chest, clinging tightly. He isn’t asleep anymore, bright eyes looking aimlessly out the window above Cam’s head. The fact that his glasses are on says that he’s been awake for a while. I stroke his bare back with my fingertips and he looks up at me, seeing if I’m awake.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says quietly. Though I don’t look, I assume that both boys are asleep. “How are you feeling?”

“A lot better, thank you,” I tell him just as quietly, closing my eyes. I want to wait for him to say something about my dream – I never did tell him what it was about. I wonder how curious he is. We lie in silence for several minutes in which Keith does nothing other than rub my chest. His skin looks so dark against mine. Maybe dad had albinism. “Do you want to tell me about your dream?” he says hesitantly before scootching up and burying his face in the crook of my neck.

“Only if you want to hear it.” I pause. “I don’t think you want to.”

“I do,” he says, sounding so sure even if he’s muffled.

So I tell him. It doesn’t take long, it was a short dream. I keep in simple and when I’m done, I hold my breath, worried of what he’ll say.

“What does that mean?” he whispers, fingers clutching my side. “I’m sorry ...” he mumbles. “... for not understanding.”

I rub his arm. “It’s okay ... it's just ...” I look at Cam, then at Phil. I’m sure they’re asleep. “... If you had to rate your love for me out of a hundred, what would it be?”

He smiles up at me. “99.9999999, if not more. Like you even have to ask.”

“Okay ... Well ... how much do you love Brandon? Out of a hundred.” I ask hesitantly. I’m not going to like this answer, I know it, but sick self-destructive tendencies make me ask anyways. I’m setting myself up for disaster.

“Why?”

“Answer me, Keith,” I say firmly.

“... 95.”

I tell myself not to look upset, but I guess I do anyways, because Keith catches on about the dream.

“Wait ... are you jealous? Is that what it means?” His eyes go wide and he presses his hand to my heart. Ka-thump, ka-thump, it says. “Coy ... I can’t ...”

“Do I mean more to you than he does?” I feel so temperamental by bringing this up and acting like such a girl about it. I’m not acting like a girl, I suppose, because this really does mean a lot to me. His answer, I mean. This topic. “I mean, what’s there to stop me from thinking you could leave me for him? 99 to 95 isn’t too big of a difference.”

“Coy ...” He sounds so ... awed. That’s a good word for it. I know he’s shocked when he keeps using my name. “... Of course I love you more, how can you even ask that?”

“But why?” I answer instantly, voice a desperate hiss. “Why do you love me more? You’ve known him longer – your whole life – he’s good looking, he’s pretty smart, he’s ... good for you. Why stick with me? I’m unsexy in bed, awkward, mean, and my head is all fucked up.” I knock on my skull with my knuckles, referring to my dreams.

“... He’s married,” Keith says quietly, shyly.

“And that’s what’s stopping you? That’s it?” I knew I shouldn’t have gotten into this, ignorance is bliss.

“No, of course not!” He’s running his index finger up and down the length of my thigh, a nervous twitch. He’s clearly uncomfortable with talking about this, but I can’t let it go this time. I need to know who he loves more. “You’re the love of my life, you know that,” he whispers. “Brandon is ... not for me.”

“You obviously have no problem sleeping with him.” I snap.

“We didn’t!” he says hoarsely.

“You finger fucked.”

“Why are you so uncool with this NOW?! You were just peachy-keen using it as jerk off material last month when I wanted to back out, and YOU were the one who told me to stick with him. What’s changed?!”

I’m looking down. We can’t even look at each other. His finger keeps running up my thigh, down to my knee, and back up. “I was ... foggy. Because of how you two looked.” I offhandedly admit that he’s right in what he said about so eloquently worded ‘jerk off material’. “And now ... I just ... love you. So much. And thinking that maybe you love someone else as much as I love you makes me so sick I don’t know what to do. Brother or not.” I cross my legs and put my elbows in the crook of my knees and my face in my hands. “I don’t know what I can possibly do to make you stay.”

The finger on my thigh turns into a palm.. “I’m not leaving,” he whispers, leaning in close. “Brandon is nice. And I do love him. But I love you so much more. You have nothing to worry about.” He attempts to pull my hands from my face. I just let them flop into my lap and he holds them in his, but I leave them limp. He puts his forehead to mine. “He’s a good brother. And a good lover. But you and I connect like nothing I’ve ever seen ... We have everything in common, I understand you and you understand me and we’re so perfect for each other that I feel like I’m not me when you aren’t around. We haven’t slept in different rooms for five years.” I don’t point out that when we got in a fight over sex a few days ago, I spent the night on the roof. He laces his fingers in mine before he squeezes them. I squeeze back this time. “You’re part of me and my everything and I’ll always love you enough to make me all sappy and lame like I am now.” He closes his eyes, smiling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I look him in the eye and he’s so close to tears, smiling softly. The rain on the roof of the van is loud and it runs down the windows, casting a blue-grey glow over us, distorting our view of the outside world. We hover close, awkward, shy, until I tilt my head to the right and I kiss him very gently, not wanting to ruin a moment as true and nice as this one is. He tightens his grip on my hands to a nearly-painful level and kisses me back with his lollipop-red stained lips and I know for sure he’ll never leave.

Moooooooooooooo.

I blink and open my eyes to see that Keith’s done the same. We sit back. “What was that?” he whispers needlessly. This loud noise over the rain has woken both Phil and Cam to a start, both sitting upright, looking around.

“What the fuck was that?” Cam moans, rubbing his head. Keith leaps up and presses his nose to the glass of the big back window. I spin around to look just as he yells with glee.

“STAMPEDE!”

Sure enough, he’s right. The ground begins to thunder with hooves and over the hill behind us comes a barrage of brown and white cattle, packed side to side. They moo and clatter around the van, some bumping right into it. It shakes, making Phil whimper. “Keith!” He’s kneeling on the driver’s seat, rolling the window down. “What are you DOING?!”

He giggles and stretches his arm as far as he can out the window. Cows plod along and he runs his palm down their backs, tittering even more, getting soaked by the rain. He wipes his glasses off and turns to me behind the back window, staring in awe. He grins so wide that I think his face is going to split.

“They’re so square!”


xxx Keith’s POV xxx

I just love how very boxy cattle are. Unless you’ve had a vigorous staring contest with one of these boxy cattle, you won’t understand their mastery. Once they’ve gone off down the dirt road past the parking lot, we feel ready to move again. The rain slows down – the worst of it happened overnight – and I can’t wait to stretch my legs. The lake is pristine and quiet though it’s already ten am ... I guess it isn’t a very good lake for fishing. Coy and Cam are getting changed in the van and Phil and I stand side by side at the end of the dock. I clasp my hands behind my head and look down at him. “Do you really not like Cam anymore? It’s hard to believe,” I ask. It’s tough to make feelings go away cold turkey like that.

“I don’t know,” he answers quietly, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his ripped, worn grey jeans. I think they were blue at one point. “Maybe.” He looks up at me, breathing softly from his mouth, top row of teeth visible between pink lips. The bands between his braces are a blue-ish grey. “What do you feel when you look at Coy?”

“What do I feel?”

“Yeah, like,” He looks down into the water again. “What goes through your head when you look at him?”

I smile softly, overwhelmed by his sweetness. “Well, it really depends on my mood.” I rock back on my heels, really close to losing balance. “If I’m feeling romantic, I think of how proud I am to be with him. If I’m in a bad mood, I think of how much better he is than me. If I’m particularly horny, I think about him sucking my cock.”

Phil goes red.

“You really don’t like thinking about that, huh?” I muse, looking down at him in an upper-classman way. I meant to ask why he asked me this in the first place, but I forget to. “Sex?”

“I dunno.”

“Because ... even if you’re scared of ... being taken, I’ll say ... if you get a boyfriend, you should get him to give you head.”

He looks down, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We are so not talking about this.”

“Oh, but we are. You’re like a little kid! You need to learn to talk about this.” I smile, giddy. I love talking about sex, don’t ask me why. “I’ll take it you’ve never been blown before?”

He rubs the back of his neck, fidgeting, still as red as a beet. “Definitely not.”

“You really should.”

“I doubt Cam would do that.”

“I’m not talking about Cam.”

“What’s so good about it?” he asks exasperatedly, hand still at his neck. He ignored the mention of Cam. Interesting. He half-turns towards the van. I bet he’s waiting for a distraction to come out and save him. Fat chance.

“Well ... do you masturbate?”

He turns to the left, then the right, looking out over the lake, then back at the van. Cam’s clambering out, wearing his black tank top. Phil quickly looks away. “Sometimes.”

I grin at him like a kid on Christmas. “Only sometimes? Why’s that?”

“No reason,” he says quickly. “Are you going somewhere with this?” He’s stumbling quickly over his words now. Cam’s nearing the dock.

“Getting a blow job is a little like that,” I say cheekily, patting Phil on the shoulder. “Only a lot wetter and hotter and more ...” I wave my hand. “... suctiony. Fuckin’ incredible, believe me.” Now I’m just pushing this topic to mortify him.

“What are you talking about?” Cam comes up behind us. He heard the last bit.

“Nothing!” Phil spins around stiffly, yelping that word out in shock. He ambles by Cam and goes towards the van, but as he hauls the back door open, so does Coy, and he crashes into him. “Sorry!” he says in the same skittish tone that he said ‘nothing’ in seconds earlier. Coy, dressed in (yet another) black sweatervest with a red and white striped t-shirt, smiles down at Phil with a ‘good morning’ and moves out of the way to let him in.

Cam saunters up next to me. “So,” his voice sounds smarmy to the max. “What were you talking to him about?”

I look out at the lake. “That’s not your business anymore,” I huff. “He’s off you.”

“It’s ‘over’ me, not ‘off’ me. I’m not drugs.”

“Right,” I say, a little sarcastically. Maybe he is a drug, maybe that’s why Phil stuck with him so long. Addiction. “Either way, that’s not for you to know.”

He’s quiet, but not for long. We both know he always has something to say about everything; he’s got such a smart mouth. “If it’s something about me, I think I have the right to know.”

I snort. “You’re so arrogant, assuming we’re talking about you, like we’ve got nothing else on our minds.” We’re fighting ... well, arguing, but staying calm at the same time. Like businessmen in a disagreement. “It wasn’t about you.”

“I know,” he says simply, but I know he won’t leave it at that. “I caught the words ‘wetter,’ ‘hotter,’ and ‘suctiony,’ you PHD, you. So I figure this one isn’t about me. I just wanted to see if you’d lie.” He smiles and looks ahead with a greedy grin. “Were you offering to suck him off?”

“No!” I cry instantly, glaring at him. “Of course not. What we were saying is none of your business.”

“God,” He tips his head back, adam’s apple very pronounced under thin skin and no fat. “I would fucking kill for a blow job right now, you have no idea how horny I am.”

As much as I hate to admit this, I look down to check the validity of his statement. The first thing I notice, though, is the lack of bandages on his forearms. “Why did you take the bandages off?”

He opens his eyes, still tilted to the sky. He looks at me, maybe even a bit inquisitively. He holds his arms out straight, flipping them over, and I get all uncomfortable. Each arm is covered in a dozen – if not more – deep cuts. Red slices, pink around the edges, hopefully not infected. They’re beginning to scab over. The deepest ones are at the inside of his elbows.

“Jesus,” I mutter, though he can’t help us now. I turn my whole body to face Cam’s. I want to touch the cuts, maybe see if they hurt. The ones at his elbows are more like gashes. “That must have hurt.”

He lowers his arms to his sides. “Not at the time.”

I still look down at them. He hides them, pressing his arms to his side. “Why’d you do it?”

I’ve stunned him into silence; his snarky mouth is on vacation. I watch him work his jaw back and forth, staring into the lake. “Why do you DO this?!” he says suddenly, loudly. I jump. He snaps his head up to face mine, chin jutted out, eyes narrowed in anger. “You can’t hate me, then not hate me, then hate me again. Make up your fucking mind, don’t be so ...” He sputters wordlessly for a few seconds. “... nice!” He turns on his heel and stomps down the dock, calling to me over his shoulder. “Stop pretending you care!”

Coy is leaning against the van, watching us, sucking on a cherry lollipop. He doesn’t make eye contact with Cam as the boy charges past him, around to the opposite side of the van. His eyes are on me, and he’s giving me an apologetic little ‘you-gave-it-your-best-shot smile.’ I hunch my shoulders and walk up sullenly: I really did want to know why Cam did it. I see one of two options right now, and both have an equal chance of being true. One: He has AIDS. That is a clear reason because no one throws parties when they have a disease. Or, two: He actually feels guilty about sleeping will all those guys that night, because he was cheating on Phil. That’s less plausible than the first one, but if it were true, it would mean that Cam may still have feelings for Phil ... though I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. I should get Coy to ask Cam about it, they’re on good terms.

When I’m in front of Coy he takes the lollipop from his mouth, twirling it between his fingers. “What was all that about?”

I snatch the sucker from him, popping it in my own mouth. “Cam and I do not get along.”


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The weather is worse and the highway and roads are wet. We keep the windows rolled up and the heat on low, just enough to keep us comfy. It really sucks how finicky the weather is, I swear. One day, all sun and skies, and the next, clouds and rain. It’s always like this. Fortunately, as we set off to Madison, Coy lets me curl up in his lap like I did the day before. He feels so solid and ... big when I get to snuggle him like this. And his sweatervests are always so soft. And he smells like boy deodorant, but not sickeningly so; you have to get close to him to smell it. And I love hearing his heart beat. Sometimes I put my head on his chest and tap out the beat with my fingertips on his thigh. Ka-thump, ka-thump, it says.

Madison isn’t too far from here, probably about an hour and a half’s drive. Wet rainy days make me sleepy and even though it’s early still, I feel like napping. We stop at a gas station to get snacks for breakfast, but other than that, we don’t leave the highway. The steady squeak of the windshield wipers is the only sound in the van for a half hour or so; we don’t speak only because there’s nothing to say. Coy drives with one hand, using the other to stroke my chest and arms, rising a dull arousal in the pit of my stomach, not the usual antsy-hard-need-to-get-off kind of horny, just a warm-ish feeling. I don’t say anything about that to Coy so he keeps doing it, which I’m rather pleased with. I murmur into his chest once in while, never anything significant. I just like telling him I love him, especially after this morning’s Brandon-scare.

When I want to see what’s going on in the back seat, I don’t want to turn around, so I came up with a plan. I have my camera on the dashboard and from time to time I just grab it, stretch my arm back, aim it backwards, and take a little video about a second long, then I look at it. To my knowledge, Cam is in his back corner again, drawing. What he’s drawing, I can’t see – His sketchbook is up on his knees, just the back of it exposed to me. It’s a shame. He’s a lovely artist.

Phil is sitting in the passenger seat since I’m curled up with Coy. His feet are up on the dashboard and perched on his thighs is a small book with a stark white cover. ‘The Coma,’ the title reads, though I can’t see the author, so I ask him.

“Good book?”

“Mmmhhhmmm,” he murmurs, not looking up from the page, index finger still diligently following the text.

“Who’s the author?”

“Alex Garland.” He says that in the same tired tone. Maybe reading makes him sleepy like it makes me sleepy.

“The 28 Days Later guy?”

“Yeah, actually.” He looks up at me now. “D’you like his books?”

“I read that other one of his a while ago, I don’t remember the name.” I look out at the road in front of us. 12 kilometers to Madison. “Do you like zombie movies?”

“Yeah. they’re the best.” He finally looks over at us, finger stilled on the page. “Do you?”

I smile at him, twisting a little to get a better view of him. “I love ‘em, but Coy’s a bit of a pussy when it comes to any horror movies.”

“They’re stupid!” Coy defends himself, but the truth is that he’s a little girl when anything scary is on the screen. “They use shock tactics like crescendo music and sharp noises to scare you out of your seat.”

“Works on you.”

“It’d work on any spaz! I prefer more dramatic films,” he huffs.

“Riiiiiight, dramatic.” I laugh, then lean over and pretend to whisper to Phil. “His favorite movie is Weekend at Bernie’s.”

“Is not!”

“Hey.” A voice from the back seat, Cam’s, cuts in irritably after Coy’s shriek I sit up – Coy making an annoyed grunt when I unintentionally knee him in the balls – and turn around to look at Cam.

“What?”

“Does this place -”

“Madison.”

“- have a laundromat?”

I blink at him a few times until he gives me a pointed look with raised eyebrows, urging me to answer. I spin back to look at Coy. “I dunno. Does it?”

“Probably.” Coy puts his hand on my thigh and pushes me down, making me sit normally. “We can find one. Why?”

“I’ve run out of clean clothes,” Cam grumbles.

I can’t help but giggle because he sounds so upset about it. I’ve noticed that he’s been wearing the same clothes almost constantly since we left down, but I figured maybe he had more than one set of black tank tops and black-ish jeans. That backpack he’s using is pretty small.

The city looms in the distance with a big green and white ‘Madison’ sign at the city limits. It’s a hill-ish city, as is the terrain around it. Things have been getting increasingly rocky and sloping, and the city itself is on a plateau of sorts. The van crawls up the steep slope past the Madison sign, then down the slope on the other side. Madison is a pretty big city, I guess, but not the richest. There’s a lot of townhomes and apartment buildings and an astonishingly high poverty level. Not a bad town, per say, but it doesn’t have the splendor of our home town. It has the biggest mall in this area, so it gets a lot of tourism and has a lot of hotels. We’re driving through the downtown section of the city now, past tall street lamps and tall stores stacked on stores. I was right about the poverty – I see several homeless people crouched under trees and collapsed on benches.

We're only looking for a laundromat – we planned to just breeze through Madison, so the laundromat is all we need – as we zoom down thin streets. Well, crawl down streets ... Traffic isn’t great. “There!” Phil calls out, pressing his finger to the glass of the window: Squeaky Clean Laundromat. Coy deems it decent and finds a parking spot on the next plot under a skinny little aspen tree growing from the sidewalk. The parting is pay parking and even though I spent a lot of Coy’s money on the lollipops that are currently behind his seat (and quickly diminishing), he still fishes a few quarters out of his wallet to pay.

Coy and I pack our clothes into his suitcase and Cam and Phil each carry their own bags. We walk quietly down the street, shivering in the cold air with its cloudy skies. I feel especially cold, somehow. Maybe I miss Coy’s heat, I’ve been spoiled by cuddling him during the car ride, and I’d hold his hand right now if he wasn’t carrying the suitcase. The Squeaky Clean Laundromat smells of detergent and the elderly. Cam comments on this loudly, earning a sour look from the woman at the till. The machines are coin operated and Coy nods a hello to the woman that works here before clinking some more change into the slot. Other than the four of us, there are a few more people doing business here: an old woman, and old man (the sources of the elderly smell) and a few guys in the back corner. Coy unzips the suitcase and starts sorting whites from colors, heaving them into separate front loading machines. It still embarrasses me to see him anywhere near undies of mine that aren’t clean. Being the diligent mother he is, he checks the pockets of my jeans and shorts for junk, finding bits of plastic and sticks from lollipops, which he throws at me. He gives Cam and Phil change for their own machines and leaves them to it.

Phil stuffs his clothes in quickly, maybe trying to hide them. He’s such a shy boy. Cam predictably does the opposite: Right there in the glass-fronted laundromat, he strips his clothes off and throws them into the machine along with a few items; mostly socks and underwear and two more black tank tops that are subtly different, now that I look.

Coy stands from where he was crouched and looks Cam over. He’s still wearing his red panties and green chucks, but that’s it. Coy says nothing, but he tosses one of those vending machine pack of suds at him, then he hands one nicely to Phil. Soon, all of the machines are going and we’re sitting on a Row of unoccupied dryers opposite them, watching them go. Cam sits next to Coy, Coy sits next to me, and I sit next to Phil. Coy’s hand covers mine on the shiny white surface, warm and soft-ish and so very nice. His fingertips rub over the back of my hand and that warm rush of almost-arousal flares up once more. Again, I say nothing, but wonder idly if he’s feeling the same.

Cam keeps looking at the guys in the corner that are lounging around several whirring washing machines. They aren’t bad looking, I guess. There’s four of them there and each has a different shade of blonde hair. They’re also all pretty big, probably about six feet tall, except for one of them that isn’t as beefy as the others, a little on the gangly side. And Cam is definitely looking at them, but the weird thing is that they’re looking back. DO they think he’s pretty? I don’t. He’s all freckly and bony. But then again, I like my men big. Maybe they’re into what Cam has to offer.

After about a half hour, the guys come over as a pack. Coy must have seen the looks between Cam and them, because when they walk over, he gets all tense. Cam looks at them cooly, not smiling, but not glaring at them. He swings his legs childishly, muddy white shoelaces smacking against his shoes, clicking.

“Hey.” The skinny boy leads the pack, thick rimmed glasses not that different from my own. His eyes are a dark brown. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

What a line, I snort to myself. It wouldn’t do to be verbally pissy, these guys could hurt me, or something. Madison isn’t the kindest of towns.

“Nope, we’re just passing through,” Cam answers calmly. His fingers are clenching and unclenching. “D’you guys live here?”

“Yeah, just down the street.” He makes no move to hide the fact that he’s checking Cam out. He looks him over from his feet to his face, a weird little smile on his face. “How old are you?”

I wince. That question has made their intentions crystal clear, as if they weren’t already. They’ll back down when they realize he’s only fifteen ...

“Eighteen.” Cam tips his face up defiantly, knowing that confidence covers any lie. “Nineteen next month.”

Coy pinches the back of Cam’s hand, conveniently next to his own. Cam glares at him, but doesn’t correct himself.

“Hmmm ...” Another guy from the group – stocky, with bright blue eyes and a thin beard – steps up behind the skinny boy, pressing his chest to his back. “You’re got a baby face for eighteen, huh? You look pretty young.”

A creepy perverted smile blooms over Cam’s thin lips, the same smile most of the other boys are wearing. It’s like the horndog’s badge of honor. “I get that a lot,” is all Cam says at first. After a glance to the rest of the men, he asks a question. “And how old are you guys?”

“Twenty,” says the skinny boy.

“Twenty five,” says the bearded one.

“Twenty two,” says one of the other guys. He’s blonde as well, dirty blonde, with curly-ish long hair and thrashed jeans low around his ass, showing tight pinstriped boxer briefs. He’s built like a panther.

“Twenty two,” the last one says, biggest of them all, borderline fat. He has thick lips and faux-hawked, blatantly bleached hair. His hand is none-too-discreetly in the back pocket of the guy with the low pants. Their intentions are now screamingly obvious and I don’t want to let Cam go off with them just because I don’t. They’re a lot older, five, seven, even TEN years older than him. It’s just not a good idea. They get increasingly closer. Skinny-boy is close to being between Cam’s bare legs and the stocky ones has his eyes on those tiny red panties and what they aren’t hiding too well. The lady at the till has darted to the back-part of the store.

“Are you busy right now ...? I mean, when your clothes are done,” The skinny boy asks quietly. I’m beginning to think he’s a ringleader of some kind, he’s doing most of the talking in wrangling this sheep of a boy. What wolves.

“No ...” Cam looks up at him breathlessly, so bewildered with various possibilities. “N-no, I mean ... I could ... come over for a few hours if you want ... no problem.”

“That’s be great, if you want to ... No pressure.”

“No, I want to ...” Cam extends his hand, shocked, paralyzed even. His voice is low and soft, less nasally than usual. Maybe he’s trying to hide it on purpose. “Cameron.”

The skinny one shakes it. “Liam.”

“Chris.”

“Nigel.”

“Ross.” They say their names in the order they said their ages. Is this rehearsed?

“CAM,” but that one’s Coy. He hops off the washing machine, dropping my hand. He looks at the pack of blondes. “Sorry, but no.”

“Fuck off, Coy!” Cam hisses, probably a little angered at how their attention has been turned to this tall redhead. It’s more likely that he’s mad because Coy’s acting like his keeper.

“And you are ...?” The big ones looks mildly annoyed and turns to face Coy, but doesn’t take his hand out of the lanky one’s pocket. That’s good, no fights.

“Cam’s ... guardian.” Our washers buzz in quick succession in the distance and Phil, most likely clamoring for a distraction, darts up and moves all the soggy clothes into the dryers just down the row from where the drama’s taking place.

“Since when?!” Cam spits. “You’re not my fucking mom, dickweed. Back the hell off!”

Coy ignores him, which probably wasn’t the best move. “He’s only fifteen, guys.”

When the lie’s exposed and they realize the boy they’ve been hitting on isn’t legal, there’s raised eyebrows all around, but the bearded one grins, putting his hand on Cam’s freckles thigh, making said boy jump. “I don’t mind,” he confesses, then looks at the others. “Do you?”

They shake their heads, creep-smiles present once more. They’re frightening choreographed, maybe by accident. How many little boys do they pick up for orgies, anyways? Answer: too many.

“It doesn’t matter, let’s go.” Cam climbs off the washer and the panther one eyes his ass. Cam makes a move for the door, pulling the skinny one’s arm with him, but Coy steps in the way. He was way too naked to leave anyways.

“I’m not kidding, Cam. You aren’t leaving,” he says sternly. Cam makes an attempt to step around him, but Coy mirrors him. Cam grabs the front of his sweatervest and yanks, making him stoop so Cam can hiss into his ear.

“Listen, you fucking prick. I am going to have sex today. So you can either let me go with them, and risk my safety ...” I’m close enough to hear him. “... or, you can suck me off and know for sure that I’m in safe hands.” Coy’s eyes go very wide. “Blow me, or I’m gone,” Cam finishes.

Coy is now a brilliant shade of red. My hands clench into fists and I really want to boot Cam right in ass. If I just stuck my foot out, I so could. Don’t take that offer, Coy, please don’t take that offer. Let the skinny runt go, he’ll get what he wants! Who cares if he’s safe?! But then it hits me. COY cares. He actually cares about Cam, which astonishes me. All that motherly stuff wasn’t completely instinct – he actually likes that egoistical maniacally depressed loony. So do the blonde boys over there, they like him enough to ignore the slashes down his arms that no one but me has commented on, even though they’re as clear as day. Why does everyone but me seem to love Cam? These guys, the last guys he fucked, everyone else he fucked, PHIL, though I expected better from him, and now even Coy. Coy’s mine, not Cam’s. Please, Coy, don’t do it.

“Fine.”

His voice is so quiet that at first I think he’s just sighing, but no. I heard it. I think I’m shaking. Cam’s beaming. He looks at me with a shit-eating grin. I clench my teeth. He lets Coy go without another word before turning to the boys once more, wearing an apologetic smile. “Sorry, can’t. Not today.”

They don’t get angry. The stocky one pulls a pen out of the pocket of his hoodie, then takes Cam’s hand in his. He clicks the pen and scribbles a phone number down on his palm along with a name. “Call me, okay?”

Before Cam can answer, the faux-hawked boy snatches the pen with a smile, stepping up to Cam. “Us , too!” and he writes a number under the words ‘nigel+ross’.

“Same here.” The skinny one takes his turn and scrawls his number down, digits crawling up Cam’s wrist. He brings it to his mouth and kisses it. Cam goes schoolboy-pink and I can’t breathe anymore. Coy won’t look at me. The boys go away. The dryers beep. I say nothing, climbing off the one I’m sitting on. Coy’s hand brushes mine as I shuffle by him to get our suitcase to load the clothes into.

“Keith ...” His voice is pleading.

“Don’t,” I say sharply, ignoring him. I drag our suitcase across the linoleum and kick it angrily against the dryer, yanking the door open. I refuse to be in the room or in the van while he does it, I won’t watch. Is this how Coy feels about me and Brandon? The red-face, sputtering, twisty-inside brand of angry? No, of course not ... It’s different. Coy LIKES Brandon at least, and Cam ... well, Cam almost ripped my nipple off. He can’t do this, can he? He wouldn’t care about Cam’s safety more than our relationship.

The clothes are warm and soft coming out of the dryer. I recognize all of them as Coy’s or mine and beside me, Phil is getting his own clothes – and Cam’s, I note – out of the dryers, placing them neatly in their respective bags. Cam sees this but makes no move to take over, and I think it’s because he doesn’t want to do work. I look over my shoulder. The blondes remain in their corner, though they keep making googly eyes at Cam, who now seems flustered. His face is pink.

“Are you really gonna do it?” I hear him ask Coy, rocking on his heels, practically thrumming with excitement like an old boat engine. I look back down to the laundry, fishing a pair of Coy’s boxers out of the bottom of the dryer. There’s a rip just below the elastic waist band that I remember making some time a few months ago. I get all nostalgic and a little teary.

“Sure.”

That breaks my heart. Coy can’t do this. I shut the dryer door and I’m suddenly formulating ways stop him form sucking Cam off, but they’re all fit for roadrunner cartoons. My best bet is just to kick Cam until he’s impotent. Maybe Coy doesn’t know how opposed I am to this? Yeah, that could be it. He thinks I’m okay with it. I put my fingers, not my palm, on his side, feeling the soft wooly material. “Coy ...” I mumble quietly, looking up at him with doe-eyes. He looks down at me and has the damn audacity to smile. “You can’t be going through with this, right?” I’m whispering; Cam can’t hear and that annoys him.

Coy keeps smiling, but he raises a finger to his lips, giving me a silent “Shhh.”

WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!

Phil stands up to my right with his duffle bag over his shoulder. He drops Cam’s backpack on top of a dryer with a thump, then turns to me with the most heartbreaking face. “Can we go now?” he says quietly. I nod, sad too. If Coy leaves me for Cam, maybe I’ll still have Phil. I don’t want to look at Coy because he’s mean and confusing, so I look at Phil, who is cute and non-threatening. I don’t know what Coy’s problem is. Maybe he expects this to turn me on, maybe that’s what that smile was. Cam’s trying to pull his jeans on without taking his shoes off, which makes him topple over. Coy catches his arm and rights him.

Phil and I walk side by side to the van with Cam and Coy lingering behind us. I took the keys from Coy’s pocket earlier and I unlock the van, climbing into the driver’s seat. I start it up and wait for Coy and Cam, who show up at my window moments later. “You’re driving?” Coy asks, and it sounds cruel and demeaning.

“Yes. Problem?”

He looks by me to where Phil is sitting in the passenger seat looking haughty. “No, not at all.” He gets into the back with Cam.

I’m a little nervous about driving only because I haven’t done it in a while. I have my license and everything – complete with a hideous photo due to Coy making me laugh while it was being taken – but it still scares me.

“Are we going to a motel?” I ask. We’d originally planned to just go through the city, maybe stopping for food before heading east, but now ... things appear to have changed.

“Nah, just ...” Coy pauses. “... Find an empty parking lot or something.”

My heart rises in my throat and I dig my nails into the steering wheel. He can’t do this, he can’t be doing this. I look around for anything, but we’re on a busy street. After several turns, we’re driving alongside a grassy park full of oak trees, and beyond that is a parking ground for it. It would be fine, but I don’t say a word when I see it, hoping if I don’t stop driving, they won’t -

“There,” Cam calls out. “Behind the park, go.”

I scowl and consider not listening, but in the end I’m too obedient and turn in. I pick a spot near the edge and we just sit there for a few moments as I turn the engine off. I don’t know what to say. “Do you want us to leave?” I decide to say, wringing my hands. I can see only the tops of their heads in the rear view mirror.

“Just wait,” Coy says, oddly. I sit up straighter so I can see more of them in the mirror. He turns to Cam. “First things first ... Rub those numbers off your hands.”

“Why?” Cam sounds horrified at the thought. He probably wanted to call them later, have his cake and eat it too.

“Because,” Coy sticks out his bottom lip – just enough for me to notice him doing it intentionally, but Cam won’t – as he runs his hand down Cam’s jaw. Cam goes pink again. “I don’t want you thinking about other boys when I’m ...” Coy leans in too close to him and I feel myself get all heavy and dizzy. Cam’s staring at his lips with his mouth open and then he moves in and I want to close my eyes but I don’t. Coy’s lips part and he leans back a little, thank god, but Cam follows him. He doesn’t finish his previous sentence, instead saying: “Rub them off.”

So close to Coy, Cam takes a deep breath in and he moves his lips a little. They still aren’t kissing. He starts rubbing the numbers off his left palm, leaving illegible smudges of blue ink that resemble bruises. Coy takes his hand in both his own, examining in, rubbing his thumb across his palm. Cam’s eyes start to shut a little and he leans his face in closer to Coy, trying to kiss him again.

Coy butt-scootches a foot or two away from him, towards me and the front seat.

“Can you and Phil leave for a little while? I have to talk to Keith.”

A frown ends up on Cam’s face, shooting that blissed look out of the sky. “What? I thought you were ... You said you’d blow me!” he huffs, talking quickly. “I’ll leave, I swear. I’ll go back and call those guys and fuck them and Lauren will kill you for not keeping me safe and -”

“You just rubbed the numbers off.” Coy smiles. “Remember?”

Cam freezes with a priceless look of realization on his face before looking at his hand, squinting. He obviously can’t make a single thing out. Did he forget what he’d done only a minute ago? Coy has wicked power over him. “You’re a fucking cocktease, it -”

“And you’re going to get out of the van. Fifteen minutes, tops.” He looks at Phil. “You’re okay, right? You’ll go?”

Phil shrugs. “If you want.”

Coy nods thankfully before looking back at Cam. “Please, don’t be too mad ... I had to get you away from them, I didn’t want -”

“Fuck you, don’t even start!” He hauls the back door open before hopping out. “We’re turning around and going home, today. I’m fucking sick of all of you.”

He slams the door shut with all his arm-quivering strength. Phil leaves silently, shutting his door just as silently. I’m alone with Coy. I unbuckle my seatbelt and stand. His eyes follow me as I walk over to him then sit down in front of him, quiet and inquisitive. I wait for him to speak first, needing an explanation like I need my next breath.

“Keith, listen ...”

“I am.”

He gives me a look that screams ‘shut up,’ so I do. “I was never going to do it, I swear. I knew he’d believe me if I said yes and I had to get him away from those guys -”

“How did you know he’d believe you?” I say quietly, tonelessly. “How did you know he’d want you enough to listen and smudge the numbers?”

He looks down at his lap now, which worries me. Up until now, he was looking into my eyes. He looks sad, from what I can see of his face. “He ... I didn’t tell you what happened our first night in Altamont, did I?”

My heart’s racing. “... No ... What happened?” It could be so so so many things and I know what it is, don’t I? I bet they fucked once I fell asleep. I have to try not to cry. “What did you do?”

His head shoots up and he looks right at me, still so pleading. “I didn’t do anything! We didn’t do anything ...” He looks away, then back to me. “He outright told me he wanted to fuck me.”

My ears get hot and I clench my teeth. “Huh.” I hate hate hate hate hate that fucking slut – Cam, not Coy. He has to try and take the one of the only things I love away from me. That fucking slut. Why did he even tell Coy that?! What did he think he’d do?

“I was pissed off, though! “ Coy says quickly. “I made him sleep on the floor!”

“... Why weren’t you happy about it?”

His mouth opens and closes like a fish, maybe trying to find something to say. He looks so clueless. “Why would you ask that?! He’s disgusting on so many levels, he’s a jerk, he was horrible to you, he’s diseased, he refuses to admit he’s gay -”

I kiss him, supporting myself with my hands on his knees. He kisses back with a hungry face-eating kind of passion, forgetting the rest of his speech as his hands wrap themselves around my forearms. That pent up warm feeling is starting to surface, stronger than it was earlier. “I was so scared,” I mumble, letting him pull me into his lap. “Don’t even kid about that, about fucking him, it’s so scary don’t do it ...”

“M’sorry. “ He kisses my cheek, moving down my neck. “I didn’t think you’d take it seriously, I didn’t mean to scare you, I thought you’d know I was kidding, it’s Cam ....”

I close my eyes and search blindly for his lips, needing to kiss him again. My hands grab his face and pull him away from my shoulder up to my mouth and I kiss him so hard that our teeth clack together. He falls back a bit, thumping against the left door as I start to move a little bit, rocking my dick into his stomach or somewhere, I don’t even know, I just know that I like friction and how nice it is. He grunts lowly into my open mouth and his hands slide down my back, catching in my shirt until he grabs my ass, pulling me closer, grinding me into him. He pushes me back and half-lays, half-sits between my legs, bent over me, kissing me. This doesn’t last long; he’s very impatient today. He sits back on his heels and his fingers are hastily fiddling with his belt, trying to get it off. I laugh shakily, looking up at the ceiling with heavy lidded eyes. He leans back over my again with his pants pushed down around his thighs. He kisses me to keep me occupied while he tries to get my jeans off despite the fact that they’re tight enough to be a second skin. He’s an expert in undressing boys, though, and he’s soon tossing my pants to the side, leaving me in little grey and black panties.

“Are we seriously doing this? Here? Now? In broad daylight, surrounded by windows?” I pant, trying not to be too obvious about looking at his boy-regions. He smacks my thigh to get me to lift my hips and when I do, he yanks my panties off, leaving them around my ankle.

“No one here knows us, and they'll never see us again.” He grins wolfishly. “Besides, two days is far too long for me to go without fucking.”

I snicker. “You could have just jerked off.”

He spits in his hand and rubs it on himself. “That’s undignified when you have a boyfriend.”

“Oh, and what you just did isn’t at all undignified?” I watch him wipe his hand on his leg.

“That was being innovative.”

“And lazy.” I want to say more and tease him a bit for being uncouth, but he’s grabbing my bare hips to keep me still as he fumbles a bit, pushing inside me. My eyes shut tight and my mouth opens just a little. He groans and bends forwards, already bucking his hips like a jittery virgin, slamming his forearms down on either side of my head and his mouth is hovering near mine, panting on me. The tip of his nose bumps my cheek with each thrust. I lift my legs up and put them in the crook of his knees; I kicked my flip-flops off long ago. He presses a wet, pre-occupied kiss to the corner of my mouth and whispers to me, making me smile. “How you stay interesting after all these years is a mystery to me.”

I laugh loudly.


xxx

In the minute and a half, maybe two minutes of sex, probably three minutes in, where things are perfect and rhythmic and everything is slowly becoming a race to the end, I start to cry. It’s right in the middle of jaw dropping, awe inspiring, pelvic cracking, simply divine, heavenly thrusts that I start to sob into his hair, trying with all my heart to pretend I’m not, not understanding why I’m doing it in the first place. Maybe it’s because he was so close to fucking Cam, maybe it’s because he still could if he wanted to. Coy takes this in stride, knowing I’ll slaughter him if he stops moving his hips even if I’m crying. He slides both his hands up my both my arms to my own set of hands and laces our fingers together ... They fit together perfectly, even if his hands are a little sweaty; I bet mine are too. He slams our joined hands down on either side of my head and holds them there, squeezing tightly against my protruding knuckles. I can tell by the wince and twitch of muscles in his cheek that he didn’t mean to hit them down so hardly like he did, but given the circumstances, I’ll forgive him. Sometimes I forget he can fuck like this and then he does and I remember and I hit myself for ever forgetting. If I thought about how he fucked most of my day, I think I would respect him a lot more. He fucks like a god, and I really really really need to remember this next time I’m whining for snacks.

For a second he pushes in deep then does this thing with his hips, something like he pushes even harder and then up and just holds it for a moment and he’s pressing against that spot inside me and exactly whatever he’s doing makes me smack my left not-really-a-heel-anymore into his lower back, making him jump. That was too intense and too not fast. It succeeds in making me stop crying. “What was that for?” He’s panting now, and god, that’s delicious beyond all reason.

All I can do is shriek “Don’t stop!” into his ear, loud enough to wake the dead.

I tighten my grip on his hands and grind the back of my head into the coarse carpet of the van. “Fuck,” I swear languidly, not really needing to, but just wanting to get it out there. I like swearing, it’s very descriptive, and Coy knows this and also knows that ‘fuck’ means he’s doing something very very good, so he keeps doing it. And that ‘it’ is, namely, everything right now. He doesn’t try to be fancy anymore, he just gets a good angle and keeps his head pressed to my shoulder, finishing me off with those hard, even, bass-line thrusts.

I whine his name and other rambled things out for a good five seconds as I come, digging my nails into the back of his hands, digging my feet into his calves, clinging to him like a sweaty, naked octopus. It’s good and it’s better than that, it’s incredible and has me twisting my spine and arching my back and trying to keep my eyes open and closed at the same time. He’s a very good boy and lets go of my right hand to drag his fist up my cock once, squeezing. I raise my head off the floor of the van and slam it back down, twice, moaning again, tendons in my foot screaming in pain from being tensed so hard.

I figure he’s close and I lie down, keeping my hips poised just the tiniest bit off the ground so when he moves, his abdomen rubs my dick: pleasure without work, something I wish I could center my life around. I wait for him to keep going, maybe just a half-minute, I figure, until he comes too. But he’s stopped, frozen over me. “You alright?” I ask groggily, opening an eye to look at, rubbing my index finger over my glasses, trying to fix a smudge when really, I just make a new one.

He takes his dick out a little too abruptly and my foot kicks again. That’s the weirdest feeling, when he does that quickly and I’m left feeling empty. It’s taking huge amounts of effort just to keep my eyes open and not rolled back in my head, so I almost think I’m mistaken when I see his cock in his own hand. He’s masturbating. I sit up on my elbows, intrigued, and the skinny little muscles in my skinny little biceps shake, spent like the rest of me.

Coy sees me looking and stops, but is surprisingly un-embarrassed for once. He doesn’t offer a word of explanation and instead rises to his knees and comes closer, straddling my chest. Oh, I get it. No problem; I owe him after something like that.

He drops his dick and I shift my weight to my left elbow, raising my right hand, grabbing him. I wonder if my obvious laziness bothers him, but the thought is quickly banished when I realize the clear answer, which is no. He’s a twenty one year old boy: I could be playing Tic Tac Toe during sex and he wouldn’t care. I decide not to close my eyes and I open my mouth wide, tongue sticking out flat over my teeth. I start jerking him off and one of his hands ends up at the back of my head, pulling my hair just hard enough to hurt. I don’t tell him to stop.

“Jesus Chr-nnnghhhh ...” He comes quickly with his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth grit, giving one of his deep-throat manly groans that I love. He’s a nice boy, but he’s never very manly. Only when this happens. He’s coming on my tongue and in my mouth and now I close my eyes, wrist beginning to cramp. He keeps swearing and moaning, fingers rubbing the back of my head, eyes now open a bit and watching. He likes to watch, and thinking about that makes me smile and feel very confident and warm. He’s done and the hand in my hair yanks hard and I slip out from under him so he’s in my lap and I’m sitting up properly.

He kisses me roughly, lapping his own come off my tongue with his. He doesn’t let me breathe and his hands are fists, clenched in my hair and around my neck. His chest is all sweaty when it’s pressed to mine like this, but I am so far past caring that it’s almost gross. He could be covered in salad dressing and pond scum and I wouldn’t tell him to go away. He finally moves back, keeping his tongue to himself. Wiping the damp, sweaty hair from his forehead, he grins at me, a streak of white under his bottom lip. “You’re so sweet,” he tells me cheekily, rubbing my jaw with his thumb because he likes it when I let him come in my mouth. I usually say no when he asks me.

“Yeah, well, you’re not.” I grimace, swiping at my tongue with the back of my hand.


xxx

Coy hikes his pants back up, smiling in a very creepy way to himself. I wriggled back into my jeans before fishing my sandals out from the front seat and then I just sit in front of Coy, smiling too.

“What’re you smiling about?” I chuckle, rubbing his cheek with my palm, back and forth over smooth, sweaty skin.

“I’ve been way too horny for way too many days.” He moves closer. “Thanks~” and we start to kiss when five knocks and an angry face are at the window. We unlock the doors and Cam slides it back. He doesn’t hesitate as he climbs in.

“Hey,” Coy says to him warily, fiddling with his hands.

Cam basically ignores him. “Now that you two are done fucking like rabbits, can we leave? I wanna go home.”

“We weren’t fucking.” Coy rolls his eyes as he says this, lying completely, but very well. If I hadn’t been an active participant in this fucking, I’d believe him.

“Were too,” Phil says, going by us to sit behind the passenger seat where his headphones are waiting. “You could see the van rocking from miles away.”

“And you have jizz stains on your shirt,” Cam says dryly, driving his index finger into my chest, pointing. I look down and he’s right. I grumble and his finger retreats as I pull the shirt over my head, left in the black and grey long sleeve underneath.

“Whatever,” I grumble bitterly, moving to the front seat after tossing the shirt on top of my suitcase. “So what, are we going home now?”

“Evidently.” Coy sighs, plopping himself down in the driver’s seat, shoulders slumped. “Are you sure, Cam?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking sick of this. I wanna spend the last twenty years of my life in peace, thank you.”

“Fine.” Coy sighs again, turning the key in the ignition, making the van roar to life. “Whatever you say.” We’re in a bad mood now.

He maneuvers the van out of the parking lot and we drive back the way we came, out past the Squeaky Clean Laundromat and soon, back on the highway. I wanted to go for longer and driver farther, but I guess we can’t now. The whole point was for Cam to get his mind of his troubles, but we seem to be ruining that. It’s probably best that we go.

“Wow,” Coy says tiredly. “It’s sad how many homeless people there are in Madison. Look.” He raises a finger, pointing to the partition between traffic where a long-haired man sits holding a cardboard sign with the word “LOMONI” on it – a town far north of here. “That kid can’t be more than sixteen.”

Cam’s head pops up from between our seats. “Stop,” he says suddenly. “Pick him up.”

“What?!”

“I SAID, pick him up, pull over! We can take him to Lomoni or something!” He’s saying this very loudly, very urgently. “PULL OVER.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“PULL OVER!”

Coy swerves the car over two lanes and slams on the breaks, causing clouds of gravel to fly and Phil to yelp and bang against the door. “You’re fucking kidding me,” Coy pants. “He could be a killer!”

“And you could be over-reacting. Go back and get him.” Cam snarls. “You want to keep this lame little trip alive, don’t you? I’ll stay if you pick this guy up. I need something to preoccupy me.”

Ohjesus, this is such a bad idea. We don’t even KNOW this kid, Cam is fucking nuts, he’s crazy. I’ve seen too many horror movies centered around a serial killer hitchhiker to be calm about this. It’s wearing my happy post-fuck euphoria thin with worry that spikes when Coy starts reversing the van.

“You’re actually doing it?!” I gape at Coy incredulously. “You can’t be serious, haven’t you seen the movies?!” I turn to Cam, still gaping. “Why are you doing this?!”

“Several reasons,” Cam smiles. “Mostly to torment you and your hubby because he’s a dirty tease, and because I’m bored as FUCK with the people who are here now, and because he needs our help, and also, I like being impulsive.” He grins maliciously.

I yipe in surprise when a face appears at Coy’s window. It’s the homeless boy, almost no more than a MASS of dark blonde hair, matted and filthy and crudely cut. I can barely see his face. He’s grinning at us as Cam is, showing off a row of straight but very yellow teeth. I gulp as he speaks.

“Hey, man,” he says in a very hippy-like way. His voice is odd in a way I can’t place. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”

Coy turns to look at him and I can’t see the expression on his face. “A chance to give you some decent hospitality. Get in,” he grumbles and with a click, he unlocks the back door. This rat’s nest of a kid climbs in without a moment’s hesitation, smelling of fermented juice boxes and warm dirt. His cut-off shorts catch on the door’s track and rip a little more, but he doesn’t seem to care, or even notice. He shuts the door behind him and pulls his legs up cross legged, setting his cardboard Lomoni sign in his lap. He’s smiling like a happy child, looking from Coy to me to Cam and to a very very scared Phil, tucked into himself behind my seat.

“We’ll take you to Lomoni if you’re up for it,” Coy says coldly. “Get you washed up and fed.”

“Wow, thanks!” he says, yanking handfuls of hair away from his suntanned face, exposing a strong jaw line and a trace of a cleft chin. He has big lips and thick eyebrows and looks like he may have a hint of Spanish in his heritage, but who’s to say. The tip of his nose - that has telltale signs of being broken in the past – is sun-burned and peeling. Cam’s sitting in front of him, looking curious, legs straight out in front of him. At this point, Coy pulls a U-turn and starts driving back into city limits.

“So,” Cam says, clearing his throat, looking at this new boy with a smirk. “How old are you?”

“Cam,” I say threateningly, before the juice-box-boy can answer. I now know what this question leads to when it comes out of Cam and though I don’t say it, I’m thinking don't you dare have sex with him.







next ~ <3

previous ~ <3

back to archive ~ <3