|Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living, dead, space aliens, goats, forum posters, editors, beta readers, musicians, or writers are purely coincidental. There may be sexual content so if this, in any form, offends you, please cease reading this lest it send you screaming from the room. If you are not of legal age to read this, please don't.|
|Chapter 10: Dance with the Devil|
Chain whirring, the larger of the two bikers, a man by the name of Bruno, glanced at his partner. A subtle nod was exchanged, and the two bikers glanced in Brandon’s direction, hate in their eyes. Once again, Brandon cast around, searching in vain for a weapon. No words were spoken; none needed to be. The biker’s intent was clear enough, and with his exit blocked, Brandon hoped that they’d settle for beating him up.
Bruno began to advance on Brandon, who moved forward to meet him, intending to make a fight of it even though he knew he’d lose. It wasn’t mere bravado; Brandon knew that bikers despised cowardice. Had he shown fear, he had no doubt that his beating would be far worse.
Not pausing for an instant, Bruno aimed the chain at Brandon’s head. Dodging to the side, avoiding the whirring metal by inches, Brandon gave the biker a hard jab to the stomach. Taking a step back to take advantage of the one edge he felt that he had – agility – Brandon saw that the biker was unaffected by the blow and moving in for another attack as, a few paces further back, the smaller of the two bikers aimed a kick at Jim’s side.
Dodging another swing from the chain, Brandon lunged sideways, one foot loosing traction on the dirt floor. Brandon stumbled once as he turned back towards his opponent, banging the back of his head against a low-hanging beam. Momentarily unaffected, Brandon launched into a spin-kick aimed at Bruno’s knee. The biker brushed it aside and lurched forward, slamming his left fist into the side of Brandon’s chest, sending him reeling backwards. Brandon regained his footing, trying to ignore his aching ribs. He was almost out of room, having been backed towards the rear wall of the barn.
Focused on his own attacker, and with his view partially blocked by the man’s bulk, Brandon hadn’t noticed what had happened to the smaller of the two hostile bikers. His second kick, aimed at Jim’s head, had not gone quite as planned, and Jim had blocked it with his arm, and then grabbed the man’s ankle in an iron grip.
Staggering to his feet, Jim raised the other biker’s ankle, seizing it with both hands before twisting it. The first notice Brandon had of the change in their fortunes was the sickeningly loud pop of a knee dislocating, followed by a howl of pain. Jim released the leg, and with an animal growl slammed a roundhouse left into the man’s jaw, which sent the smaller biker down in a moaning, bleeding heap.
Brandon’s attacker heard his companion’s fall and knew that he was Jim’s next target. Glancing back over his shoulder, the biker hesitated, trying to decide whether to finish off Brandon or to take on Jim. Seeing that Jim was ten feet away and staggering, the biker decided to finish Brandon off first. Snapping his head back around, he saw he was already too late to parry the attack which Brandon had launched during his distraction.
Brandon, seeing that he had one chance, had decided to make sure that his blow had a memorable effect. Darting forward, he spun sideways, putting the full force of his motion behind his attack, and allowed himself to fall forward, aiming low, for a straight kick to his attacker’s nuts. Brandon felt his foot hit and sink into the soft target. Brandon, his balance impaired by the earlier injury to his head, stumbled backwards after delivering the kick, turning as he regained his footing.
Bruno took a single step, bringing the chain down in a hard, vicious arc. Bruno’s aim was just a little off, and all he achieved was a barely glancing blow across the singer’s back, before the full sensation of Brandon’s attack made itself known. Brandon, spared the impact of the chain – which had done little more than tear a hole in the back of his shirt – twisted and ducked into a roll past his attacker, to spring upright several feet from Bruno and within arm’s length of Jim. Feeling the sudden rush of blinding, nauseating pain, Bruno clenched his burning groin with one hand, his face blanching from the agony as he stumbled and sank to one knee and the chain fell with a soft clatter to the bare dirt floor.
Glancing at Jim, expecting him to pound the hell out of the disabled Bruno, Brandon saw Jim massaging the side of his face, which was already beginning to swell. Seeing Brandon’s look, Jim grunted and then said, “I’ll be fine, but you need to finish this yourself. Beat the crap out of him and I’ll take care of his friend. Make sure you mark up his face.” Jim reached down and hauled the smaller of the two bikers to his feet before slamming the man face-first into the wall of the barn.
As much as Jim craved to mop the floor with both bikers, he settled for delivering a bone-breaking kick to his opponent’s ribs, and then turned to keep an eye on Brandon, ready to step in if needed. He hoped he didn’t have to; if Brandon could do this on his own, so much the better.
Bruno was trying to regain his footing, but failing miserably. Too focused on his pain, he didn’t hear Jim’s words, nor could he have done much to prevent what was coming. Moving forward to attack, Brandon kicked the fallen chain away from his opponent’s reach and then slammed a succession of right crosses into the biker’s face as Bruno staggered back, reeling from the blows. Brandon tried to ignore the pain in his ribs and the growing pain from his battered knuckles, focusing instead on taking his opponent out as quickly as possible.
Landing a kick to his opponent’s ample gut, Brandon sent him slamming backwards into the wall. The biker bounced off, staggering, but remained standing, barely. Brandon paused, wondering if it was over, but Jim spurred him on. “Keep going. Don’t stop until he yields. Don’t knock him out; make him give up.” Breaking into a cruel smile, Jim added, “Maybe a few kicks in the nuts, just to soften him up, then start breaking bones.”
Not particularly caring either way if he’d have to take it that far, Brandon slugged the man again, and then slammed a knee up into his nuts.
The biker collapsed, clutching his groin with both hands as he writhed on the floor. Brandon made ready to strike again but paused for a moment, as Jim looked at the man and said, “Give up, or he keeps going. I won’t let him stop until you’re a cripple, got it?”
Fighting to draw enough breath to speak, the biker hissed through bleeding, swelling lips, “Fine, you guys win.”
Jim’s laughter filed the barn. “You can shove that, fuckwit. I never touched you; all I did was make it one on one between you and Brandon, and I’ll make damn sure everyone in the house knows it. So none of this ‘you guys’ crap. You give up to him, or this just goes on and on. It’d suit me just fine to watch while he turns you into hamburger.”
“You don’t know what you’re fucking asking,” the man gasped, as he lay on his side, drawing his legs up into a ball.
Jim laughed again, genuinely enjoying himself. “I know exactly what I’m asking. You’ll do it, too. It’s just a matter of when.” Jim looked at Brandon and said coolly, “Start on his ribs. Make sure to bust a few, then stomp on his fingers, one by one, but make sure you grind the broken bones. He wouldn’t have stopped until you were a wreck and pleading for your life, if he’d have stopped even then, so take the piece of shit out, one little bit at a time.”
Slamming a punch into the downed man’s upturned side, Brandon then eased back and kicked the man’s arm away from his battered groin, sending a clear signal as to what his next target would be. The man squirmed, trying to roll away, opening up his other side to another of Brandon’s attacks.
Coughing, gasping for air as Brandon landed a succession of fierce blows to Bruno’s ribs, the biker struggled to gasp, “I give, damn you.” And with that, it was over. Relieved, Brandon stepped back, and Jim hauled the smaller biker, who was regaining consciousness, to his feet. Glancing at Brandon, Jim said, “Get him to his feet and twist his arm behind his back. If he makes any move to resist, break his fucking arm and then turn his nuts into dog food.”
It took a minute of trying, but Brandon got Bruno, who out-massed him by nearly two to one, to his feet. With a single jut of his chin, Jim told Brandon to take the lead, and Brandon, twisting the biker’s arm, shoved him along, forcing him out of the barn and towards the back door of the house.
“Open it,” Brandon said as they reached the door, in a voice dripping with menace. Bruno hesitated, and Brandon twisted his arm a few inches further up, until the biker reached out with his other hand and turned the knob.
The door swung open, the creak of its hinges causing a few of the biker’s inside to look up from their drinks. Brandon forced Bruno inside, and saw the look of shock spread across the faces of a few of the bikers. Jim marched his own half-conscious attacker in, and then said in a booming voice that carried through the house, “These shitheads decided to disrespect one of my guests, in my place, at my fucking bachelor party. They went after Brandon in an ambush, two against one. I evened the odds, and Brandon took Bruno down alone and made him yield. Brody, they broke your orders too, so I’m calling for colors.”
The few members of Mad Mike’s club who were in the room got up to leave for the kitchen. This was Brody’s affair, and their code dictated that they give the other club a semblance of privacy. It was simply a matter of respect.
Brody had heard Jim’s voice – It would have been difficult not to – and entered the room to find two members of his club looking like they’d been through a meat grinder. He’d explicitly warned his club members not to start any shit, and he was far from happy that they had. Breaking his orders was an explicit challenge to his authority, and Jim’s colors call left him no choice. “You got ‘em,” he said in a terse voice, and then said to his two former members, “Hand ‘em over and get out. You’re done with us.”
The two beaten bikers tried their best to look defiant as several of the other club members snatched their jackets away, causing a few grunts of pain due to their cracked ribs. Brody took the two jackets, and then with a nod of his head ordered his lieutenant to remove the former members from the premises.
Jon and Chase edged their way in, clearly confused as to what was going on. Brandon looked at Jim to see his friend smiling. Jim did indeed feel good. He enjoyed a good fight, and as far as he was concerned, this had been a memorable one.
Jim, ever mindful of tradition, caught Brandon’s eye and nodded towards the front door. “Let’s go outside, just you and me, and see ‘em off.”
Stepping out into the evening’s balmy air, they joined Brody’s lieutenant and watched as, with considerable difficulty, the two disgraced bikers mounted their Harleys, fired up, and rode unsteadily down the driveway before turning towards Telluride. As soon as they were out of sight, Brandon waited for Brody’s lieutenant to re-enter the house. Thinking that he and Jim were alone, Brandon asked, “Why didn’t you tell me there were two of them? We came damn close to getting the crap beat out of us, or worse.”
Mad Mike, with a length of heavy chain in his hand, accompanied by two of his crew, strolled out of the shadows from beside the house. “Not as close as you think. Jimbo gave me a heads up about those two earlier, and motioned for me to follow when he headed out. We were watchin’ through the window. When Jim went down we started to move, but then he creamed the little guy’s leg. We had to let you guys handle it if we could. If me and my guys had stepped in, the other club would have been obligated to stand by their members. Could have turned into one hell of a war. This way, Jim made his point and got rid of those guys.”
Jim rubbed his side. “I blew it. I was drunker than I thought or those guys would have never taken me down. As it was, they just got me mad. You wondering why I had you finish off the big guy and make him yield?” Jim asked Brandon.
Brandon had been around bikers long enough to have a pretty good idea. “It’s all about respect. They were guests and disrespected both you and Brody by going after me. You wanted to humiliate him, and having to yield to me did it, because I was the target and he’s a lot bigger than me, plus I’m not a biker. I doubt anyone will buy that for long; we both know he’d have kicked my ass in seconds if he hadn’t been distracted.”
Mad Mike handled the answer. “That don’t fucking matter. In a fight, winning ain’t the main thing, it’s the only thing. He started it and then fucked up and gave you your shot, don’t matter a damn why. All that matters is you took him down yourself and made him yield, in front of witnesses. He started it, you finished it, and that’s all she wrote. You just made it a hell of a lot less likely that anyone in either Brody’s club or mine will give you any shit. You just earned respect, and respect is what it’s all about with us. You gotta know that not all the guys on my crew are okay with what you and Chase have goin’ on between you, and I bet there’s still some of a like mind in Brody’s chapter. They keep their traps shut because of orders and the fact you’re paying us, but they still have their beefs. This whole deal just set an example on a bunch of levels. I’ll also bet Brody is glad to see the back of those guys.”
Jim noticed that Brandon was cradling his left side with his arm. “Hey dude, you okay? You don’t think they’re broken, do ya?”
Brandon shook his head and glanced in the direction of his ribs. “Just bruised, I think.” Moving slowly, taking care not to put pressure on his ribs, Brandon pulled off his shirt and turned towards the porch light. He touched his ribs lightly, and took a few deep breaths before adding, “They don’t feel broken. I broke a rib when I was twelve, and this doesn’t feel like that did. I’m gonna be pretty sore for a few days, but I’ll be okay.”
Jim took a few chugs from a bottle of Jack Daniels and handed it to Brandon. “Here, this should numb you a little,” Jim said, and Brandon took the bottle. While Brandon took a few heavy pulls on the whiskey, a new thought crossed Jim’s mind, and he looked at Brandon with pleading eyes, “Please don’t tell Helen about the fight. She would be pissed. She’d have my guts for garters!”
Trying and failing to hold in his mirth at the big biker’s concern… he’d never seen Jim be afraid of anything or anyone before that moment – Brandon took another pull on the bottle and laughed, and then grimaced as he clutched at his aching side. “That hurt… Okay, your secret is safe with me, big guy.”
One of Mad Mike’s bikers came out of the house, and hesitantly walked up to his club president and whispered in his ear. Mad Mike nodded, and turned to ask Brandon and Jim, “What’s the deal with Eric and tequila? He’s not allergic to it or anything, is he?”
Guessing the reason for Mad Mike’s question, Brandon felt his blood run cold. “Worse, he goes totally fucking nuts,” Brandon answered.
“Shit,” Mad Mike said, and then added, “He got some off of one of my guys. Just a few swallows. That enough to do it?”
Turning to run towards the house, the liquor burning in his gut forgotten, Brandon replied, “Yeah, it is. Help me find him!”
Brandon raced into the kitchen. Seeing no sign of Eric, he dashed into the living room.
Brandon turned towards a perplexed Chase and Jon, “Where’s Eric? He’s had tequila,” Brandon blurted out.
Jon’s eyes opened wide. “Last I saw he was heading out front with some bikers, talking motorcycles.”
Leading the mad dash out the front door of the Jacobs Ranch, Brandon looked around in the dark, seeing nothing. He stopped to listen, trying to filter out the noise from the people racing out behind him, and above the din of crickets, he heard muffled voices off to his left. Racing into the dark, Brandon ran for a dozen yards, before he spotted three silhouettes under a tree.
Jim and Mad Mike arrived a second later, with Jon and Chase in tow. Brandon asked the three bikers, “Where’s Eric?”
“He took off when you guys came out, he went that-a-way,” one of the bikers answered, pointing past the side of the house, back towards the barn.
Eric raced through the darkness, feeling the familiar burn of the tequila, looking for some fun. Leading his band mates on a wild goose chase fit the bill, so he ran behind the barn, and kept going, out into the starlit woods just to its rear. He knew there were Harleys parked close by, and he also knew that bikers never locked their rides when around other bikers. To do so would be considered an insult to the entire club. Therefore, many had left their keys in the ignition, and Eric knew it. He’d long wondered what it was like to ride a Harley, and now, with the tequila burning in his veins, he planned to find out.
Chucking, he ducked behind a tree, and then looked back, waiting for some sign of pursuit. He didn’t have to wait long. In the light spilling from the ranch house windows, he caught a glimpse of Jon and Chase heading for the barn at a jog.
Eric crouched low and waited, while Jon and Chase dashed into the barn, looked inside, and then came out again. Picking up a rock, Eric turned to his left and hurled it to the south of the ranch house, where it crashed into some bushes. “Over there, back by the house,” Chase said as he dashed off in that direction, followed by Jon.
Grinning to himself as his pursuers fell for the ruse, Eric picked up two more rocks and circled to the north of the barn, planning to have some fun at his brothers’ expense. As he cleared the corner of the barn, Eric spied a familiar silhouette in the shadows. Brandon…
Tossing a rock underhand, Eric sent it rolling past Brandon’s feet from thirty feet away. Brandon, who had been facing the wrong way, heard the rock and guessed its source and heading. Spinning on his feet, he took off at a full run in Eric’s general direction.
Seeing Brandon’s move, Eric bolted for the tree line. Brandon saw his running form and kicked into a sprint, trying to close the gap, conserving his breath and ignoring the pain in his side and head, driven by the fear of what he knew Eric was capable of.
Racing for the tree line, Eric reached it and kept going, kicking up a din as he crashed through the leaves on the forest floor and the boughs of pine scraping the bare skin of his torso. Stumbling over a root, Eric rolled to a stop, eased up into a crouch, and listened as Brandon raced towards him. Brandon was silhouetted for a moment against the glow from the ranch house filtering through the trees, and with a laugh, Eric pounced, tackling Brandon from the side.
Wincing from the pain as Eric slammed into his injured side, Brandon gasped as they fell into a heap. Brandon clutched his side, as Eric heard him groan in pain. Still entangled with Brandon, Eric stopped moving and, all thought of fun put aside for the moment, asked, “Hey bro, are you okay?”
Brandon felt Eric easing him into a sitting position, and replied, “Yeah, I’m just kinda banged up. I was in a fight.”
Eric took a seat by Brandon’s side and asked in surprise, “A fight? What happened?”
Relieved that Eric seemed, for the moment, sane, Brandon gave him a rundown on the brawl and its cause.
In spite of the tequila, Eric felt his buzz fade. Placing a brotherly arm across Brandon’s bare shoulders, Eric said, “Whoa, that sucks. Are you doing okay? How did Chase take it?”
Brandon shrugged, wincing from the pain of his ribs and reminding himself not to do that again. “Chase doesn’t know yet. Speaking of, we'd better head back for the house. Everybody’s looking for you.”
With a sigh and a shrug, Eric replied, “I don’t want to go back. They’ll treat me like some freak because I had a little tequila. I’m okay; I just wanted to have some fun.”
Sensing that Eric would stay put if treated right, Brandon said, “How about this: I phone ‘em to let ‘em know you’re okay, but I won’t tell ‘em where we are. Then we can sit here and talk, just you and me.”
Eric could tell that Brandon’s suggestion of talking was not solely focused on him. That made it an easy decision. “You’re on. I’ll stay put, I promise.”
Flipping open his cell phone, Brandon called Chase. As soon as Chase answered, he said, “Don’t ask where I am, but I’m with Eric and he’s okay. Let everyone know and call off the hunt. I’m going to talk to him for a while, see you in a few.”
“Just keep him talking and he’ll come down pretty quick. He’s usually okay one on one when he’s on tequila,” Chase replied, hoping that he was right. Not knowing how to answer, Brandon ended the call, just before Chase could add a warning regarding one other aspect of Eric’s behavior when on tequila. Chase did as he was asked, and let Brody and Mad Mike know that Eric had been found. However, one group of bikers didn’t get the word, and kept up their search, methodically working their way back towards the tree line.
Eric had heard Chase’s voice, and smiled as he said, “He’s right. I’ve drunk tequila when it’s just me and Chase or me and Jon. That was before we met you, but ask ‘em, they’ll tell ya. I just like having fun, Brandon, that’s all.”
Eyeing Eric suspiciously in the darkness, Brandon asked, “So what kind of fun were you up to?”
With an unseen shrug, Eric replied, “I just wanted to see what it was like to ride a Harley.”
Brandon felt himself shiver, and stifled a groan as it made his ribs ache. In a soft but serious voice, he said, “Eric, that would have been a very bad idea. Trying to ride an unfamiliar bike on a rough road in the dark is bad enough, but doing it drunk is crazy. Worse, these guys don’t lock their steeds for a reason; it’s a matter of trust. Take one of their bikes and you’ve made some serious enemies. You’d be lucky if you just got beat up.”
Eric was silent for a few moments as he thought it over. “Yeah, not one of my better ideas, I guess,” he said with a tone of resignation, knowing that it was true. After a few more moments of silence, Eric got to the point and asked, “I can tell that you want to talk about more than me. What’s up?”
A heavy silence hung in the air for a few moments. The light of the waning moon filtered through the pines, casting an eerie, calm glow in the darkness. Brandon sighed. He was used to Eric’s knack for reading people, but sometimes, such as now, Eric seemed to pick up on things before the person themselves was consciously aware of the issue. Brandon had seen Eric do this to Jon and Chase, but this was a first for him. Giving a soft chuckle as he realized, not for the first time, that trying to keep secrets from Eric was futile, Brandon said, “I guess you’re right. Things have been… different between me and Chase since we came out. It’s like he’s regretting it. That mess with the liquor store clerk today seemed to make things worse, and now I’m scared how he’ll react to the fight.”
Letting out a sigh of his own, Eric wondered how Brandon could be missing the obvious. Deciding to clue him in, he said, “Brandon, it’s not just Chase. I see exactly the same thing in you. And if I’m seeing it, I bet Chase is too. I won’t ask if you’ve talked this over with Chase, because if you had, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it now. Just talk to him, dude. Sure, there’s some bad stuff going on, but unless you guys learn to deal with the bad as well as the good, you can’t last.”
Brandon’s head snapped around to look at Eric in the partial darkness as he realized that Eric was right. Wondering how Eric could be so wise at times, yet so crazy at others, Brandon gave an unseen nod before replying, “You’ve got a point. Yeah, dealing with all this crap has been rough. I guess I didn’t expect it, not all of it, and not all at once. I’ll try talking with Chase tonight. I better, because this fight will only make things worse.” A sudden thought occurred to Brandon, and he realized that with Eric still somewhat lit by tequila, now would be an ideal time to bring up a certain subject. Choosing his words with care so as not to let on that he and Chase suspected the San Francisco trip was a ruse, though suspecting that some parts of Eric’s story were at least partially true, Brandon asked, “Hey man, speaking of guys, what’s the deal with you and that guy in San Francisco? You really thinking of changing teams?”
Eric was about to answer when he remembered the real reason he’d said that: to cover his trip to the Canary Islands. Thinking fast – as fast as he could, given that the tequila was beginning to re-assert its influence now that the stress was lessened – to try and find a way out without blatantly lying to Brandon, Eric finally said, “Yeah, sorta. I guess you could say that I’m pretty open-minded in some ways. I was thinking that I’d kind of like to give it a try, just to see what it’s like. What I saw today, though… I don’t think I want to deal with it. Homophobia sucks. If I can be happy with girls, I’ll stay with the ladies.”
Shaking his head, Brandon gave Eric some advice, “If you were really happy with girls, you wouldn’t be thinking what you’re thinking, dude. You said that they aren’t turning you on like they used to. I think you’re more turned on by them wanting you, plus the idea of having more than one at a time, but that’s wearing off. Am I right?”
Eric moved his arm to pat Brandon on the back, before returning it to its comfortable place across Brandon’s bare shoulders. “I guess that’s as good a theory as any. I don’t really know what’s up and that’s why I want to try the other side.”
As the whiskey he’d chugged began to work its way into his bloodstream, Brandon, without realizing it, let himself lean into Eric’s comfortable embrace. Slurring his words just a little as the alcohol combined with the ebbing adrenalin rush and the after-effects of a bump on the head, Brandon gave voice to a concern he’d had ever since hearing of Eric’s plan, “You don’t know that guy in San Francisco. If you want to try being with a guy, you’d be better off with someone you know.”
Brandon had forgotten that as far as he knew, Eric knew exactly two gay guys, and one was his brother. Eric’s tequila-blurred mind listened to Brandon’s words, and heard them in a way far different from how they had been meant. With the tequila removing any notion of anything beyond the here and now, and removing all inhibition and thoughts of consequences, Eric said, “I think you’re right. It shouldn’t be someone I don’t know. It should be someone I know and trust. Thanks, Brandon.” Eric turned slightly to watch the moonlight and shadows, moving in the gentle pine-scented night breeze, playing across Brandon’s bare skin. Looking down, Eric saw the bruises on Brandon’s ribs. Using the arm that was still draped across Brandon’s shoulders, Eric pulled Brandon a few inches backwards and lowered his voice to say, “Lay back and let me check out those ribs. You’re banged up pretty good, man.”
Feeling the full effects of the whiskey, and not yet aware how his words had been misinterpreted, Brandon let Eric ease him back, propping himself up on his elbows in the soft bed of pine needles. Eric rolled sideways and gingerly touched Brandon’s growing bruise, feeling the heat of Brandon’s skin. Brandon felt Eric’s gentle touch, and thanks to the combination of whiskey and ebbing stress, found himself enjoying it. Brandon barely noticed as Eric eased up off the ground and eased a leg over Brandon, straddling him and continuing to check out Brandon’s chest. Sliding his hand higher, Eric traced his fingertips up Brandon’s side. “Thanks for doing this,” Eric whispered, as he leaned forward, bringing his face within inches of Brandon’s.
In spite of his alcohol-induced haze, Brandon began to suspect, just a little too slowly, just what it was that Eric had in mind. Propped up on his elbows and limited by his bruised ribs, Brandon couldn’t easily move, and tried instead to come up with words to say, but Eric, driven by his tequila buzz, was faster than that. Sliding his hand behind Brandon’s neck, Eric pulled Brandon into a gentle embrace, and as Brandon opened his mouth to speak, Eric headed off the words with a kiss.
Feeling the unexpected presence of Eric’s tongue in his mouth, and his attention further distracted by Eric’s questing hands, Brandon tried to pull back away from Eric, but only succeeded in laying flat on his back and bumping the bruise on his head lightly against an inconvenient rock. Eric moved with him, deepening the kiss, and sliding one hand down into the front of Brandon’s jeans.
The dulling effect of the alcohol, combined with Eric’s ever-more-heated foreplay and the sudden sensation in his head, confused Brandon in that critical moment, and instinct subsumed conscious thought. Feeling himself growing hard thanks to Eric’s kneading fingers and passionate kiss, flooded by the rush of sensations, Brandon hesitated for a moment, and then tried to push Eric away. Brandon’s hands slipped a little, coming to rest on Eric’s waist, which became yet another thing that Eric misinterpreted.
Thinking that Brandon was responding, and driven by the tequila, Eric took the initiative and rolled them onto their sides for better access to Brandon’s jeans, which he scrambled to pull down as his own passions rose.
In their bed of moonlight and
pine, conscious thought, already dulled by alcohol and in
Brandon’s case, injury, ceased utterly, as far more ancient
drives took hold, rendering both guys momentarily oblivious to
everything but each other and their passions, senseless even of
the snap and crackle of twigs that heralded the approach of the
© 2008 C James
Please give me feedback, and please don’t be shy if you want to criticize! The feedback thread for this story is in my Forum. Please stop by and say "Hi!"
Many thanks to my editor EMoe for editing and for his support, encouragement, beta reading, and suggestions.
Thanks also to Shadowgod, for beta reading, support and advice, and for putting up with me.
Special thanks to Graeme, for beta-reading and advice.
A big "thank you" to to Bondwriter for final Zeta-reading and advice , and to Captain Rick for his advice.
Any remaining errors are mine alone.