What the hell?
Crawling out of a heavy nap, it takes Brady a while to remember where he is. Oh yeah. He’s at the river, wasting a few days with his Aunt Bet, Uncle Rod, and their three daughters. And there’s that creepy guy, Kent, Rod’s nephew, who’s spending the summer with them after a few months in jail.
Brady can’t stand Kent, who at nineteen is three years younger than himself. Kent’s a runt—big trouble in a little package—with a spooky glint in his eye that tells you he’s up to something and it’s probably best not to know what it is. It’s even weirder how he looks at Rod. His face goes slack, like he’s lost in his head. Then he snaps back, blinks a few times, and smiles to himself.
Either nobody else notices it or it doesn’t bother them. But it bothers Brady. And Kent’s onto him. Last night, after dinner, everyone was relaxing on the front porch and Brady caught him doing it. When Kent came around, saw he was being watched, and who was watching, he flashed a nasty grin.
Brady feels like he’s been sandbagged. Why is he sleeping in the middle of the day? As he fights his way back, more pieces come together. Aunt Bet and the girls went to spend the afternoon with her sorority sister, Theresa. After that, they were going to stop in town for groceries and some barbecue.
But what is that noise? Is somebody fighting on the carport? That can’t be what it is, but Brady’s too tired to find out otherwise.
The girls begged him to come. He begged off. He couldn’t be bothered with Theresa. She and her husband have this silly house downstream a couple miles. By far, it’s the biggest on the river and furnished to the teeth. It’s perfect for them. They’re snooty and stink with new money.
Brady likes Bet and Rod’s place better. It’s impressive enough: two stories wedged into a steep bank of tall pines. The downstairs is an enormous great room with a screened side porch Rod tacked on a few years ago. Above, six bedrooms face each other, three on each side of a long hall with bathrooms at either end. The rooms overlooking the river open onto a sleeping porch, where Brady and his cousins sleep when the house gets crowded. But the thing he likes most about the place is how they didn’t go crazy fixing it up. It’s not like Theresa’s showplace. It’s just a summerhouse filled with odds and ends they replaced at their real home in Louisville. It’s very relaxing.
Brady hears the door of the old pick-up Rod keeps here year-round open. A few seconds later, it shuts. After that, he hears a thud, like someone kicked the fender.
Who knows what Rod’s up to? But since Kent’s probably part of it, Brady’s not interested.
“You boys be good,” Aunt Bet said as she left. The three of them stood on the porch for a good while, not saying much. Brady had felt increasingly tired since breakfast. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. He still had a good four days of waterskiing in him. By the time Bet and his cousins took off, he scarcely could hold his eyes open.
He broke the silence. “I’m wore out. I guess I didn’t sleep as good as I thought.”
“Go take a nap,” Rod said. “You’re on vacation.”
“I wanted to get in a couple runs while the river’s not busy.”
Rod reminded him, “It’s Tuesday. It’s gonna be slow all day. Go back to bed. There’s plenty time to ski.”
“I already made the bed and it’s too hot to sleep,” Brady said. “Maybe I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
Kent sniggered. “It’s too hot but you want coffee.”
He’s a 19-year-old moron, Brady thought. Still, he didn’t mind Kent taking potshots at him, because it embarrassed Rod. Now it was his turn to smile, and he would have if he didn’t feel like crashing on the nearest soft surface.
“Screw the coffee,” Rod said. “Go to sleep. Take our room. This time of day it’s the coolest in the house.”
Brady’s eyelids kept trying to shut and his head rocked forward. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he’d been drugged.
“I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“You look like you’re about to fall over. You need me to help you get upstairs?” Rod asked.
Brady peered through narrowing slits. Kent looked tense and not very happy with what was going on. Everything went hazy and twisted. The last thing Brady remembers is Kent’s murderous glare when Rod picked him up and, in his best daddy voice, gently said, “Come on, tiger. Let’s put you to bed.”
He’s got it straight now. Where he is, why he’s asleep in the middle of the day, why he’s in Bet and Rod’s room. In Rod’s bed—that’s nice. He gets preoccupied with trying to recall which is Rod’s side. He loves Bet like a second mother, but it’s extremely important to lie where Rod lies.
Brady doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rod in bed. He’s always the first one up. For everyone else, the day starts with coming downstairs and looking at him hunched over a coffee cup, silent, a cigarette going as he stares across the table.
In the chilly months, he wears a ratty chenille bathrobe, open, with boxers and t-shirt underneath. As the weather warms up, the robe goes, and then the shirt. It’s just Rod in his shorts, sleep still in his eyes, his curly, salt-and-pepper hair standing every which way. Beneath his chair, his hairy legs cross at the ankles, heels up, resting on the balls of his feet. His arms are also hairy to the elbows. They’re thick, a little like Popeye arms. A lurid tattoo of a heart wrapped in a banner that reads “MOTHER” sleeps under a filigreed quilt of right forearm hair. Rod calls it his war wound, the souvenir of a drunken night during his Air Force days. His upper arms are naked and smooth, pinned to his torso by deep, bushy pits. With his elbows hunkered on the tabletop, his biceps fill out nicely.
All the women on Bet’s side of the family—the side Brady belongs to—go on and on about how handsome Rod was in younger days. From time to time, they pass around the pictures: the Air Force portrait, the wedding photos, faded Polaroids of the honeymoon. Though he tries not to let on, one of the honeymoon shots interests Brady most. Rod stands at three-quarter profile on a Florida beach. Aqua trunks hug his ass and bulge noticeably at the groin. Most of what Aunt Marie calls his “movie-star chest hair” is visible. At his midriff, it collects over his flat stomach and then it explodes, running wild over his tightly muscled chest.
As far as Brady’s concerned, Rod is more handsome now. The torso hair has thickened. Years of owning a construction company have creased the corners of his eyes and forehead and seasoned his complexion. Rod probably hasn’t lifted a barbell since his daughters came along. But the job keeps him toned and sturdy. The slight paunch spilling over his waistband makes Brady crazy because it makes Rod perfectly imperfect. The few extra pounds turn him into a god of flesh—a god Brady has secretly worshiped since he was 12 or 13, transported by visions of Rod while pouring out an offering to him with his left hand.
Now, still a tad blurry, he sprawls across Rod’s bed, hoping he’ll be left alone a while longer to fall back on Rod’s pillow, maybe thrash around in the sheets. An idea lights up his brain. He should burrow his face in the mattress, breathe in faint traces of Rod’s sweat and scent while he lifts his ass and finger-fucks his own hole. That’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Brady knows that. But it’s a hell of a lot more than he ever imagined—as real as his dreams will be.
Wait a minute. How did Brady get naked? Did Rod undress him? Brady wonders what would have happened if he’d awakened in the process. How could that have gone—to find Rod’s hands on him, stripping him down, brushing against him—those strong, experienced hands? Brady can’t conceive how he slept through it. He hates himself for it, yet knowing it happened is enough to get him hard.
Was Kent there? On one hand, the thought makes Brady’s flesh crawl. But on the other, he hopes Kent was there to watch. It’s so obvious he’s got a thing for Rod. It’s unthinkable he’d let Rod disappear upstairs with Brady and not trail behind. The idea merits a derisive laugh and gets one.
It must have irked the pint-sized thug to watch his uncle unwrap Brady’s lean, athletic, six-foot frame. Kent must have seethed as the polo shirt skimmed over Brady’s boyish features. He must have flinched as Brady’s blond mop fell into his face and Rod brushed it from his eyes and lips. He must have clenched his fist as the shorts and briefs fell and the golden bush sprang up over Brady’s limp—yet impressive—dick.
Brady wants to beat off so bad he aches. But he dare not. He’s a big shooter and he’ll never explain the splotches on the linens. Besides, he really likes the idea of getting fucked in this bed, even if he has to do it. Lying on his back, he pulls one pillow over his face, then the other. It matters not whose scent he picks up. Bet’s or Rod’s—the result will be the same. Ah, yes, Bet’s perfume. Brady respectfully replaces the pillow and eases over to Rod’s side. He lingers for a minute to conjure what it would feel like if he were atop Rod, face-to-face, chest-to-chest, cock-to-cock, and toe-to-toe.
He’s drifting, not sure if he’s falling back to sleep or fading into the finest daydream he’ll ever have. The scuffling on the carport seems to be over. That could be problem. Jesus, think about Rod cracking the bedroom door to check on him and discovering him ass-high, face down, drilling himself. Brady’s never heard Rod say a word about gay people, good or bad, but he can’t imagine the sight would be easily dismissed.
He listens for any indication they’re back in the house. Nothing—until Rod’s voice confirms he’s still out back. At least, Brady thinks it’s Rod. He amps up his attention. That’s Rod. But he sounds strange, kind of surly and mean. Brady tunes in. He catches a word here and there without hearing enough to put them together. Rod gets louder.
“You really think you’re man enough to take me? All right, we can do this. But I’m warning you, once we start, there’s no backing down.”
What the hell? Is some guy threatening Rod?
Brady pulls the top sheet around him and dashes into the opposite bedroom. Whatever it is, it’s happening too close to the house, between the truck and the back wall, for him to see. Somebody—maybe Kent; it must be Kent—but that doesn’t make sense—is begging Rod to stop.
There’s no chair to stand on and look straight down. He skirmishes from room to room, not a chair or stool in sight. He remembers a collapsible canvas chair in the hall closet. Is it still there? Yes! He flies back to the window. While he unfolds the chair, Rod snarls, “Get up! You started it. Now finish it.”
The chair wobbles as Brady tries to distribute his weight. He presses his face against the window, expecting to find Rod kicking the shit out of someone. That’s not what he sees.
Actually, he doesn’t see very much. He can’t see Rod at all. But the glimpses he gets are enough to turn his world inside out.
Kent’s face is glued to the truck’s passenger window. He grabs at the roof, clawing for something to hold on to. His raised arms make it look like he’s trying to surrender and Rod won’t let him. Brady’s amused by that. Kent’s shoulders jog up and down, jack-knifing into his neck. With each shove, his eyes roll back and his face knots in anguish. Then one thrust hits him with such force it lifts him completely off the ground and for a second he’s hanging in mid-air, cursing and flailing, trying to get away. Rod’s right arm comes into view as he mashes Kent’s head against the window. The kid jerks around and, in turning, his eyes fix on the upstairs window.
“He’s looking,” Kent says.
“Shut up!” Rod orders, following it with a hard ram that causes Kent to shriek.
After Kent catches his breath, he screeches, “He’s up there, watching us!”
“Let him. We’re going to finish this. You don’t call the shots. You get that?”
“Yes!” Kent sinks in defeat.
Rod unleashes a barrage of rapid-fire slams up the kid’s ass. Kent goes limp, requiring Rod to clamp him against the truck with the broad side of his left arm. When he lets go, Kent slithers down the truck and vanishes. Brady catches a flash of Rod yanking Kent up by his collar. “Turn around and open your mouth.” Rod bears down, emitting a long, keening howl. Ribbons of thick cream fly into Kent’s mouth and streak his face. He doesn’t budge as Brady sees Rod bend over to pull up his pants.
His voice resumes its normal tone. “There are some old rags in the back of the truck. Use one of them to clean yourself. I’m going to check upstairs.”
Brady drops from the chair and scoots back to bed. His wicked hard-on slaps his stomach with each step. He closes the door behind him and dives into bed, facedown, one hand clutching a pillow and the other pulling the sheet around him. He tells himself to relax as he hears Rod pad down the hall to his room. With his eyes shut and his face turned from the door, he hears it open no more than a few inches. It stays open for some time before Rod softly calls. “Brady? You awake?”
He doesn’t let on. Rod stands at the door a while longer before quietly shutting it.
He doesn’t let on when he goes downstairs an hour later. He doesn’t let on once Aunt Bet and the girls return and everyone pitches in to put dinner on the table. He doesn’t let on when Rod breaks out the Monopoly set and runs the rest of them into bankruptcy.
It starts to rain. He volunteers to make sure all the windows in Bet’s car are shut. Kent goes with him and hisses into his ear, “You open your mouth and I’ll kill you.” Brady walks away without any reply.
As bedtime nears, he’s the first to say goodnight, announcing he wants to set up a cot on the sleeping porch to fall asleep to rain. All is well until he hears his cousin, Renee, holler, “Daddy, what’s this old chair doing in my room?”
Crawling out of a heavy nap, it takes Brady a while to remember where he is. Oh yeah. He’s at the river, wasting a few days with his Aunt Bet, Uncle Rod, and their three daughters. And there’s that creepy guy, Kent, Rod’s nephew, who’s spending the summer with them after a few months in jail.
Brady can’t stand Kent, who at nineteen is three years younger than himself. Kent’s a runt—big trouble in a little package—with a spooky glint in his eye that tells you he’s up to something and it’s probably best not to know what it is. It’s even weirder how he looks at Rod. His face goes slack, like he’s lost in his head. Then he snaps back, blinks a few times, and smiles to himself.
Either nobody else notices it or it doesn’t bother them. But it bothers Brady. And Kent’s onto him. Last night, after dinner, everyone was relaxing on the front porch and Brady caught him doing it. When Kent came around, saw he was being watched, and who was watching, he flashed a nasty grin.
Brady feels like he’s been sandbagged. Why is he sleeping in the middle of the day? As he fights his way back, more pieces come together. Aunt Bet and the girls went to spend the afternoon with her sorority sister, Theresa. After that, they were going to stop in town for groceries and some barbecue.
But what is that noise? Is somebody fighting on the carport? That can’t be what it is, but Brady’s too tired to find out otherwise.
The girls begged him to come. He begged off. He couldn’t be bothered with Theresa. She and her husband have this silly house downstream a couple miles. By far, it’s the biggest on the river and furnished to the teeth. It’s perfect for them. They’re snooty and stink with new money.
Brady likes Bet and Rod’s place better. It’s impressive enough: two stories wedged into a steep bank of tall pines. The downstairs is an enormous great room with a screened side porch Rod tacked on a few years ago. Above, six bedrooms face each other, three on each side of a long hall with bathrooms at either end. The rooms overlooking the river open onto a sleeping porch, where Brady and his cousins sleep when the house gets crowded. But the thing he likes most about the place is how they didn’t go crazy fixing it up. It’s not like Theresa’s showplace. It’s just a summerhouse filled with odds and ends they replaced at their real home in Louisville. It’s very relaxing.
Brady hears the door of the old pick-up Rod keeps here year-round open. A few seconds later, it shuts. After that, he hears a thud, like someone kicked the fender.
Who knows what Rod’s up to? But since Kent’s probably part of it, Brady’s not interested.
“You boys be good,” Aunt Bet said as she left. The three of them stood on the porch for a good while, not saying much. Brady had felt increasingly tired since breakfast. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. He still had a good four days of waterskiing in him. By the time Bet and his cousins took off, he scarcely could hold his eyes open.
He broke the silence. “I’m wore out. I guess I didn’t sleep as good as I thought.”
“Go take a nap,” Rod said. “You’re on vacation.”
“I wanted to get in a couple runs while the river’s not busy.”
Rod reminded him, “It’s Tuesday. It’s gonna be slow all day. Go back to bed. There’s plenty time to ski.”
“I already made the bed and it’s too hot to sleep,” Brady said. “Maybe I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
Kent sniggered. “It’s too hot but you want coffee.”
He’s a 19-year-old moron, Brady thought. Still, he didn’t mind Kent taking potshots at him, because it embarrassed Rod. Now it was his turn to smile, and he would have if he didn’t feel like crashing on the nearest soft surface.
“Screw the coffee,” Rod said. “Go to sleep. Take our room. This time of day it’s the coolest in the house.”
Brady’s eyelids kept trying to shut and his head rocked forward. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he’d been drugged.
“I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“You look like you’re about to fall over. You need me to help you get upstairs?” Rod asked.
Brady peered through narrowing slits. Kent looked tense and not very happy with what was going on. Everything went hazy and twisted. The last thing Brady remembers is Kent’s murderous glare when Rod picked him up and, in his best daddy voice, gently said, “Come on, tiger. Let’s put you to bed.”
He’s got it straight now. Where he is, why he’s asleep in the middle of the day, why he’s in Bet and Rod’s room. In Rod’s bed—that’s nice. He gets preoccupied with trying to recall which is Rod’s side. He loves Bet like a second mother, but it’s extremely important to lie where Rod lies.
Brady doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rod in bed. He’s always the first one up. For everyone else, the day starts with coming downstairs and looking at him hunched over a coffee cup, silent, a cigarette going as he stares across the table.
In the chilly months, he wears a ratty chenille bathrobe, open, with boxers and t-shirt underneath. As the weather warms up, the robe goes, and then the shirt. It’s just Rod in his shorts, sleep still in his eyes, his curly, salt-and-pepper hair standing every which way. Beneath his chair, his hairy legs cross at the ankles, heels up, resting on the balls of his feet. His arms are also hairy to the elbows. They’re thick, a little like Popeye arms. A lurid tattoo of a heart wrapped in a banner that reads “MOTHER” sleeps under a filigreed quilt of right forearm hair. Rod calls it his war wound, the souvenir of a drunken night during his Air Force days. His upper arms are naked and smooth, pinned to his torso by deep, bushy pits. With his elbows hunkered on the tabletop, his biceps fill out nicely.
All the women on Bet’s side of the family—the side Brady belongs to—go on and on about how handsome Rod was in younger days. From time to time, they pass around the pictures: the Air Force portrait, the wedding photos, faded Polaroids of the honeymoon. Though he tries not to let on, one of the honeymoon shots interests Brady most. Rod stands at three-quarter profile on a Florida beach. Aqua trunks hug his ass and bulge noticeably at the groin. Most of what Aunt Marie calls his “movie-star chest hair” is visible. At his midriff, it collects over his flat stomach and then it explodes, running wild over his tightly muscled chest.
As far as Brady’s concerned, Rod is more handsome now. The torso hair has thickened. Years of owning a construction company have creased the corners of his eyes and forehead and seasoned his complexion. Rod probably hasn’t lifted a barbell since his daughters came along. But the job keeps him toned and sturdy. The slight paunch spilling over his waistband makes Brady crazy because it makes Rod perfectly imperfect. The few extra pounds turn him into a god of flesh—a god Brady has secretly worshiped since he was 12 or 13, transported by visions of Rod while pouring out an offering to him with his left hand.
Now, still a tad blurry, he sprawls across Rod’s bed, hoping he’ll be left alone a while longer to fall back on Rod’s pillow, maybe thrash around in the sheets. An idea lights up his brain. He should burrow his face in the mattress, breathe in faint traces of Rod’s sweat and scent while he lifts his ass and finger-fucks his own hole. That’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Brady knows that. But it’s a hell of a lot more than he ever imagined—as real as his dreams will be.
Wait a minute. How did Brady get naked? Did Rod undress him? Brady wonders what would have happened if he’d awakened in the process. How could that have gone—to find Rod’s hands on him, stripping him down, brushing against him—those strong, experienced hands? Brady can’t conceive how he slept through it. He hates himself for it, yet knowing it happened is enough to get him hard.
Was Kent there? On one hand, the thought makes Brady’s flesh crawl. But on the other, he hopes Kent was there to watch. It’s so obvious he’s got a thing for Rod. It’s unthinkable he’d let Rod disappear upstairs with Brady and not trail behind. The idea merits a derisive laugh and gets one.
It must have irked the pint-sized thug to watch his uncle unwrap Brady’s lean, athletic, six-foot frame. Kent must have seethed as the polo shirt skimmed over Brady’s boyish features. He must have flinched as Brady’s blond mop fell into his face and Rod brushed it from his eyes and lips. He must have clenched his fist as the shorts and briefs fell and the golden bush sprang up over Brady’s limp—yet impressive—dick.
Brady wants to beat off so bad he aches. But he dare not. He’s a big shooter and he’ll never explain the splotches on the linens. Besides, he really likes the idea of getting fucked in this bed, even if he has to do it. Lying on his back, he pulls one pillow over his face, then the other. It matters not whose scent he picks up. Bet’s or Rod’s—the result will be the same. Ah, yes, Bet’s perfume. Brady respectfully replaces the pillow and eases over to Rod’s side. He lingers for a minute to conjure what it would feel like if he were atop Rod, face-to-face, chest-to-chest, cock-to-cock, and toe-to-toe.
He’s drifting, not sure if he’s falling back to sleep or fading into the finest daydream he’ll ever have. The scuffling on the carport seems to be over. That could be problem. Jesus, think about Rod cracking the bedroom door to check on him and discovering him ass-high, face down, drilling himself. Brady’s never heard Rod say a word about gay people, good or bad, but he can’t imagine the sight would be easily dismissed.
He listens for any indication they’re back in the house. Nothing—until Rod’s voice confirms he’s still out back. At least, Brady thinks it’s Rod. He amps up his attention. That’s Rod. But he sounds strange, kind of surly and mean. Brady tunes in. He catches a word here and there without hearing enough to put them together. Rod gets louder.
“You really think you’re man enough to take me? All right, we can do this. But I’m warning you, once we start, there’s no backing down.”
What the hell? Is some guy threatening Rod?
Brady pulls the top sheet around him and dashes into the opposite bedroom. Whatever it is, it’s happening too close to the house, between the truck and the back wall, for him to see. Somebody—maybe Kent; it must be Kent—but that doesn’t make sense—is begging Rod to stop.
There’s no chair to stand on and look straight down. He skirmishes from room to room, not a chair or stool in sight. He remembers a collapsible canvas chair in the hall closet. Is it still there? Yes! He flies back to the window. While he unfolds the chair, Rod snarls, “Get up! You started it. Now finish it.”
The chair wobbles as Brady tries to distribute his weight. He presses his face against the window, expecting to find Rod kicking the shit out of someone. That’s not what he sees.
Actually, he doesn’t see very much. He can’t see Rod at all. But the glimpses he gets are enough to turn his world inside out.
Kent’s face is glued to the truck’s passenger window. He grabs at the roof, clawing for something to hold on to. His raised arms make it look like he’s trying to surrender and Rod won’t let him. Brady’s amused by that. Kent’s shoulders jog up and down, jack-knifing into his neck. With each shove, his eyes roll back and his face knots in anguish. Then one thrust hits him with such force it lifts him completely off the ground and for a second he’s hanging in mid-air, cursing and flailing, trying to get away. Rod’s right arm comes into view as he mashes Kent’s head against the window. The kid jerks around and, in turning, his eyes fix on the upstairs window.
“He’s looking,” Kent says.
“Shut up!” Rod orders, following it with a hard ram that causes Kent to shriek.
After Kent catches his breath, he screeches, “He’s up there, watching us!”
“Let him. We’re going to finish this. You don’t call the shots. You get that?”
“Yes!” Kent sinks in defeat.
Rod unleashes a barrage of rapid-fire slams up the kid’s ass. Kent goes limp, requiring Rod to clamp him against the truck with the broad side of his left arm. When he lets go, Kent slithers down the truck and vanishes. Brady catches a flash of Rod yanking Kent up by his collar. “Turn around and open your mouth.” Rod bears down, emitting a long, keening howl. Ribbons of thick cream fly into Kent’s mouth and streak his face. He doesn’t budge as Brady sees Rod bend over to pull up his pants.
His voice resumes its normal tone. “There are some old rags in the back of the truck. Use one of them to clean yourself. I’m going to check upstairs.”
Brady drops from the chair and scoots back to bed. His wicked hard-on slaps his stomach with each step. He closes the door behind him and dives into bed, facedown, one hand clutching a pillow and the other pulling the sheet around him. He tells himself to relax as he hears Rod pad down the hall to his room. With his eyes shut and his face turned from the door, he hears it open no more than a few inches. It stays open for some time before Rod softly calls. “Brady? You awake?”
He doesn’t let on. Rod stands at the door a while longer before quietly shutting it.
He doesn’t let on when he goes downstairs an hour later. He doesn’t let on once Aunt Bet and the girls return and everyone pitches in to put dinner on the table. He doesn’t let on when Rod breaks out the Monopoly set and runs the rest of them into bankruptcy.
It starts to rain. He volunteers to make sure all the windows in Bet’s car are shut. Kent goes with him and hisses into his ear, “You open your mouth and I’ll kill you.” Brady walks away without any reply.
As bedtime nears, he’s the first to say goodnight, announcing he wants to set up a cot on the sleeping porch to fall asleep to rain. All is well until he hears his cousin, Renee, holler, “Daddy, what’s this old chair doing in my room?”
TO BE CONTINUED
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