.5

As soon as he came all over the cowboy's warm washboard belly, Scott's good sense returned to rip him a new one. The last thing he needed was to get involved with some closeted, macho asshole. That was the old Scott, the one he was bound to leave behind in Stillwater, who let his dick do the thinking when confronted with a pretty face. He was losing the accent, losing the stupidity. He was losing the reputation and the memories.

Scott stood in the shower, face right under the spray, like the hot water could drive the lingering vision of those blue eyes out of his. Wash it away and drag it down the drain in a whirlpool of soapsuds, with a grating whine as air got dragged along into the vortex.

He'd thought for a second there'd been something in the way the other had looked at him that was unlike the ones Scott was trying to forget. Not contempt, like the ranch hands and field workers back home who let him suck their cocks, then told him to get lost, already hating him for personifying their own untenable desires.

It wasn't pity, either. That would have brought back stolen weekend overnights in the big city, and the looks on the faces of the one-night stands who picked him up at the bars down there when they realized how young he actually was.

The other boy had looked at him, though. Seen him, and that alone set him apart from the handful of kids at school who took Scott under the bleachers or into a bathroom stall and told him, without meeting his eyes, that they knew he wanted to. So just go ahead. Or acted surprised when he went down on his knees, but certainly didn't try to stop him.

When he got too close to saying the name to himself, Scott's mind threw up a steel wall so high you couldn't see the top. It hurt too bad to think about the only lover who'd been good to him. Who, for a little while, had been his friend.

Anyway, this one was nothing like that. Everything about Darryl Evans screamed "not a fag", from his worn-in boots to the silver cross around his neck, and Scott wouldn't have been at all surprised to find out he was the only one who'd ever made the man. He'd always had the knack of it, or maybe it was something about him that others responded to, like even the most heavily in denial couldn't help taking a second look.

He wasn't proud of it. Who wanted to be the one everybody knew was easy, even if they hadn't heard the rumors. It was no blessing, this thing about him that broadcast his ease, hanging around him like a perfume so subtle you weren't aware you smelled it. Lighting him up like he was standing under a neon sign so hard worn it was almost burned out.

He hadn't thought it was a curse, though, not when that damn good looking boy followed him out of class as soon as Scott raised his finger. He'd been pleased enough with his ability to command the other boy's desire as long as his own dick was hard. And his heart felt so empty.

It was always empty, though, and that was the way Scott preferred it. He'd learned the hard way that having something to lose left a person vulnerable to the loss of more than he even knew he had at stake. Caring about another boy that once had cost him more than the relationship when it ended; he'd lost any chance of things turning out all right at home. Not that there'd been much of one.

But something bigger was gone too. Something that felt like the ground under his feet had been snatched away, and now he was floating, too susceptible to the smallest breeze knocking him off course.

Scott was sure Dare would be long gone when he came back after the shower. He was the type to cut and run, for sure. Maybe throw a punch or a slur Scott's way the next time their paths crossed, especially if his friends were around to appreciate the proof that Dare was just like them. All man and straight, straight, straight. A test Scott had failed before he knew what any of it meant.

So when he slammed out into his room, damp and naked and furious with himself, and the boy was still sitting on his bed, also naked and still covered in Scott's spunk, looking like he didn't have a thought in his blond head, all the bitterness and anger crowded his chest and fought its way into his throat, making him speak before he thought.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" Scott bit off, and he could have sworn a deep hurt crossed Dare's sickeningly handsome face for just a heartbeat, before those blue eyes emptied and the boy's expression shut down again. Back to that achingly familiar default glare.

He started to say, "look, I," and Scott cut him off, too furious to listen to whatever it was.

"Here." He tossed the damp towel in his hand at Dare instead, enraged further by his clumsiness when it went wide, as well as the other's easy grace when he thoughtlessly reached out and caught it.

"Clean up and get out, for christ's sakes. You got what you came for." Scott wouldn't look at him, and the boy cut his eyes away. Scrubbed his hard body with the threadbare piece of terrycloth, and the shame in his posture caused a knot of toxic satisfaction in Scott's chest that both warmed and poisoned him.

Dare turned to dress, bent at the hips to pick up the stupid faded Levis he wore every other day, presumably while his only other pair were in the wash, like he had to do laundry every other goddamn day. Ironed them too, probably even ironed the white briefs under that his mother had no doubt bought. Scott shouted the disparagements at himself as loud as he could, but it hardly slowed his own body's reaction, dick trying to get stiff again already at the sight of the boy's cut ass. His tightly muscled legs with that corona of light gold hair.

When he was dressed again, he stepped up to Scott, who hated the way he tensed like a spooked rabbit, drawn straight up, perfectly still but poised for flight. Like he was scared Dare might hurt him now, which of course he was, but showing it was death. So he put on a sneer, made himself relax his body.

And the other boy just handed him back the towel, carefully folded so Scott wouldn't have to touch the dirty part. Said, "look, man, can't nobody know," all in a rush, like Scott might not already be aware that he was a dirty secret. Like it wasn't the story of his goddamn life, a cum-stain wrapped up out of sight.

"No shit, can't nobody know, you dumb fucking hick," Scott flung back, slashing at him with the words. "Learned that the goddamn hard way, thank you very much." And waited for the raised fist. The command to shut up.

The last thing he expected was for Dare to laugh, and he did a swear-to-god double take when it happened, he was so disarmed. He just laughed like Scott was teasing and he didn't mind because he was in on the joke, said, "alright then," like they weren't talking about something that could get you killed. Effortlessly robbing Scott of his power to strike first, to wound.

That pissed him off even more, and he spat, "just get the hell out." But it didn't do him a bit of good, because Dare just flipped his brown felt cowboy hat in the air so he was holding it by the crown, set it on his head like he thought he was Indiana fucking Jones, said "well, so long," and smiled at Scott as he gently shut the door. Leaving him with the beginnings of a hard-on worse than the one that had driven him to make the mistake he was so disgusted with himself for now. Leaving him wanting nothing more than to chase after the damn cowboy and do it all over again. Harder and longer and deeper this time.