Rainmakers by Lar
Author's
Notes: Thanks to Te for the song: "If Love Is A Red Dress (Hang Me In
Rags)" Go get it now: www.limewire.com. Thanks to the rest of the group for
their suggestions, all of which rocked. Zahra needs to burn me a CD.
Dedication: To Pet for the secret language of horses. To Sam for the
love of beauty in all forms. To ethrosdemon for unswerving support, as always.
And to all of you who will take the time to read.
=====
Never-ending dust, dry scorching heat, and enough hard labor to make him tumble
into exhaustion when he gets to his bed. This is his therapy of choice, something
to get the bad taste of LA out of his mouth and get the demons of morality
to shut the hell up.
Not quite Oklahoma, there's no way he's heading back there. He leaves California,
crosses Nevada, and when he hits the state line he stops at the first crossroads
and flips a coin. Heads for north; tails for south. It lands tails up on the
gritty blacktop, and he leaves it there, rear tires flipping it into a spin
that carries it to the sandy piles of dirt at the side of the road.
Drives until he's out of pocket money, no more cash for gas, coffee or diner
food. Finds a little town on the outskirts of a pocket of horse country and
asks who's hiring. No one looks twice at him, his worn out denim and his rusty
old Ford. A couple of old men point him towards the Lordi ranch, and he goes
straight out the dirt road, asks the rancher for a job. Bends the truth about
where he's been, says college hasn't really worked out for him, and he's heading
home, eventually. The rancher has some reservations. But they're short handed,
and the boy can ride. Hires him with the provision if he fucks up once, he's
out on his ass.
Lindsey's got no problem with that.
- - - - -
Between the city and the farm, Riley decides that he can't bear the thought
of green fields and Iowa skies. Not yet. Maybe not ever. No way to explain
the changes in him, the scars he bears at throat and elbow, and he's had enough
green to last him the rest of his life. The smell of the jungle, the wet-rot
of it, feels like it's so deep in his pores that it's scarring him, too. He's
going to hit a Wal-Mart, buy some jeans and tees and then burn everything
in the duffle. Everything.
Little shopping center on his right, and he slams on the brakes, rear end
of the truck fishtailing on the road. Pulls into the nearly-empty lot, and
refuses to let himself think as he hops out and heads into the seedy chain
retailer, swallowing the burst of cold that hits him in the face. Grateful
for the odors that hang in the processed air, almost strong enough to wipe
out the lingering stench of humid greenery and demon ichor that will never
dry there in the fetid darkness of Belize.
Riley grabs a cart and gets to shopping.
- - - - -
Despite himself, Lindsey falls easily into the daily rhythm of hard work.
Used to taxing his brain and not his body, he's sore and aching the first
week, scraping down the food served to all the workers, barely managing to
reply to the few remarks that're directed at him. Buses his dirty dishes,
says a mumbled goodnight to anyone who happens to be paying attention and
doesn't give a damn if no one is.
His bed's a single mattress he's taken off the rickety, metal frame and laid
out on the floor. White, cotton sheets that smell like the air they were dried
in, outside in the sun. No laundry detergent or fabric softener, no artificial
scent, just clean and so old that they're worn to a satin-smoothness that
feels amazing on his skin. He has next to nothing in the room other than the
mattress. Just a small bureau with his clothes, a few paperbacks he's had
since college, the tiny night table with the lamp, shade gone yellow with
age. All of this sits on hardwood floors that gleam softly with handrubbed
oil, applications that go back generations, buffed by years of sock clad feet
walking the treads.
Boots tossed into the corner, Lindsey pads barefoot to the shared bathroom,
washes his face, brushes his teeth, really looks at himself in the mirror
for the first time in about three weeks. Hair getting shaggy, outer layer
blonde on the ends from the sun. Face darker already, he always tans so fast,
remembers his mama teasing him about it. Faintest ghost of a smile twitches
his lips and he thinks that this might be OK for a while.
He doesn't even remember leaving the bathroom, taking off his jeans or lying
down in the embrace of sun-sweetened linens. The next thing he knows is blackness
without dreams.
- - - - -
With his open, honest farmboy face and his air of comfort in the store, it's
simple to get the job when he asks for it. Used to the ways of the small town,
he answers as honestly as he can when the old proprietor wants to know why
he wants this job. Riley tells him he's going to settle there for a while.
His physique is noted, cloudy eyes looking him up and down to judge his ability
to haul and carry. The old guy grunts at him, waves him behind the counter.
"Guess you'd be wantin' cash." It's not a question.
"No, not really. However you want to work it. I just need the job." Riley's
hiding, but not from the people who'll trace his social security number to
this place that's small enough to remind him of home and different enough
to make him feel...invisible.
"Got a room, if you're lookin." Also not a question and Riley bends to the
paperwork he's handed. He fills in what he can, which isn't much since he's
been sleeping in the truck. Name, the usual numbers. Hands it back to the
septagenarian and waits for the remarks about no address, no phone. They don't
come.
Riley starts that afternoon, moves his few belongings into the room over the
store that night. Sleeps with the window open so he can smell the dust and
see the stars.
- - - - -
Lindsey pulls the truck around behind the feed store. Easy enough to find
the place and he's glad for a chance to just drive, radio up loud and sun
glinting off the bumpers.
He walks in, hangs his sunglasses in the collar of his shirt, looks around
briefly. He catches sight of the community bulletin board and wanders over.
There're faded flyers, ragged home printed business cards, and in one section,
a neat line of index cards listing horses for sale. He reads these, the thoughts
of owning one too tempting to ignore after these weeks on the ranch.
"Sorrel QH stud colt, coming 2. 14 hh, will mature to 16 easy. Doc Bar lines,
backed 2 months. Loads, leads, clips easy. Pretty head, halter butt, straight
solid legs. Great barrel/reining prospect, moves like a cat. Must see to appreciate!
$3000 OBO."
Too young to do much with, and not what he's looking for. He moves on to the
next card. "Grade paint gelding, 10 y/o, cow horse 15'2". Bold markings, sound,
easy keeper, kept on grass, herd trained, neckreins easy, no vices, sells
w/working gear & blanket. Great head for cow. $800 firm."
That one sounds good. He reads it over again, notes the owner's name. He'll
ask some of the guys at the ranch what they know about the guy, if they think
he's worth driving over to look at.
One more there. "Own daughter of Zipper Doc Bee, coming 5, dun w/dorsal, unregistered.
15 hh barefoot. Big hip, easy breeder, babydoll head. Dead broke, good using
horse, 2 years under saddle herding. Sells w/option to breed back to our Poco
Bar stud. $1900." Shakes his head almost unconsciously. Breeding her too early,
and he's not looking for a mare.
He's thinking hard about the gelding so when the clerk comes up to him, he
barely notices. "Help you with anything?"
Lindsey turns, takes in the guiless face of the young guy who's apparently
new enough or bored enough to actually seek out a chance to do some work.
"Me personally? Nah. But my boss wants his weekly order of feed. Name's Lordi."
"Sure. You want me to carry that out to the truck for you?" Guy's already
walking away towards the back of the store, asks the question over his shoulder.
"I think you could *help* me if you want, but I don't see any reason for you
to struggle with it all alone." Lindsey's amused. Gotta be new, far too eager
to have been here more than a few weeks. There's a laugh and then, "It's a
habit, just kinda shoots out of my mouth."
They stop at the storeroom. "Gotta watch that kind of habit." Lindsey offers
his hand. "I'm Lindsey. You?"
Big, warm hand, calluses that rival Lindsey's in that grip. "Riley. Pull your
truck around back and we can load it up."
"One step ahead of you."
Riley props open the wide wooden door with a chunk of brick, and they heft
the sacks of feed. Not an easy job, but Riley makes it look that way, swinging
it up to his shoulder and tossing it into the bed of the truck. Lindsey's
right behind him, can't help but notice the play of muscle across the wide
back where the t-shirt clings to him, soaked through with sweat as they go
along. Riley's new to the job, Lin thinks, but not to hard labor, not to using
his body as more than just a brainrack.
Back and forth to the truck, silent work until they get to the end of the
pallet. Lindsey swipes the back of his arm across his forehead as they take
a breather. Squints up at Riley, who's doing the same. Asks, "You from around
here, Riley?"
Riley stares at him for just a fraction of a second before answering. "No.
You got an ear for accents?"
Lindsey grins at him. "You spend a few years trying to repress one, you'll
get an ear for it, too."
Small nod of his head, and Riley says, "Not local either?"
"Not by a long shot." Lindsey looks around, thinks about that gelding. The
ranch. Hard work that he doesn't have to feel ashamed of at the end of the
day. "Might be one day, though."
Riley grins at him. "Well that's the last of it. Lordi's got an account, so
I don't even have to shake you down for money."
"That's a relief, 'cause I've got none." Offers his hand again and they shake.
"See ya."
"Next time." Riley walks back in, kicks the brick away, lets the door swing
shut behind him as Lindsey backs the heavy truck out and heads for the ranch.
Turns the radio up again and takes the ride back slow. It gives him time to
think about the horse, and he does. But it gives him time to think about Riley,
too. The waves of friendliness that rolled off of him, natural smile, easy
manner.
He's open in a way that Lindsey isn't used to, in a way he's never been. Growing
up trying not to be noticed, working his way through school trying to be seen
as something he wasn't, trying to fit in with kids who had never in their
lives been dirt poor. Time at Wolfram and Hart, always on guard, always watching
every word so there was no chance for anyone to find a weakness and drive
the knife into his back.
Thinks again of the tall, hard body and the warm smile, wonders if he's found
a kindred spirit. It's a nice thought to carry back to the ranch.
- - - - -
Saturday night and the honky-tonk is wall to wall. Bodies pressed together
on the small dance floor, brushing by as they move from table to bar. Smoke
and the smell of fermenting beer soaked into the sawdust on the floor compete
for the dominant scent. There's no one there Riley knows and he's content
to sit at the bar and drink his beer. Nothing else to do, and he's too restless
to sit in his room tonight. Even the sound of the juke box, cranked up so
loud that it would make the glasses rattle if there weren't so many people
here to absorb the vibrations, even *that* sounds better than the tick of
his clock in the emptiness of his room.
Took him a while to feel lonely. He was so full of the other garbage that
he was trying to forget about - rejection, need, addiction. Now he's at the
point where he wants something again. Not sure what it is, but it's starting
to sit in his belly and curl up tight. He lifts his hand to get the bartender's
attention, see if another beer won't make the tightness settle down a little
and leave him be.
Tap on his shoulder and Riley turns, sees the guy from the feed store the
other day. The one who called him on being an outsider. Lindsey, that was
it. Nice guy. Remembers the way he'd tossed around the heavy sacks, not a
big guy but power in him. Riley leans forward to hear him over the noise of
the music and the crowd, notices again those blue eyes, sky-bright and clear.
"You waiting on someone?" Lindsey nods to the empty stool on the other side
of Riley, up against the corner of the bar and the wall.
Riley shakes his head. "No, have a seat."
The bartender arrives with Riley's beer and Lindsey catches him before he
can get away. "Bring me one of them. Hold on, make it two, and another one
for this guy." He indicates Riley with his thumb and the bartender hustles
off.
"You don't need to do that." Riley feels odd, Lindsey buying him a beer, and
he doesn't even know him except for the five sentences or so they had in the
store. The thought strikes him suddenly //lonely//, and he lets it go. No
harm in the company, and it's been a long time since he had someone to talk
to, drink with.
Lindsey smiles easily enough. "One beer won't kill me. You either." He drops
a ten spot on the bar when the beer arrives and leaves the change there. Settling
in for some serious drinking time, Riley surmises, since the bottles here
go for a buck fifty.
Kind of hard for conversation with all the noise, but they make the attempt.
Riley's guarded about all his answers. Can't quite decide if Lindsey is just
looking for some conversation with anyone who happens to be there, or if he's
really interested in Riley for himself. And even though it's more than a few
beers later when Lindsey asks him what brought him to town, he hesitates and
downs the rest before he answers. Turns to find Lindsey watching him with
steady blue eyes and the barest hint of a smile on his lips. Lips, Riley notes,
that are far too full to belong to a man. Pictures Graham, Forrest, kisses
that were more about mechanics of the act that followed than about the kiss
itself, and wonders if it would be possible for Lindsey to do it to anyone
//anywhere// not have it be all about the mouth.
"Just needed to get away from some issues." That's the best Riley can come
up with, loose enough to want to talk but not quite drunk enough to forget
to watch his words. He's spared an immediate follow up when a pretty little
thing with lots of blonde hair and a big smile sidles up and puts her hand
on his forearm. She tilts her head and asks him if he'd like to come over
and dance with her. Riley summons up his most sincere smile and declines as
politely as he can. She leaves looking a little confused but glances back
over her shoulder once, just to see if he's changed his mind. Riley misses
it; he's back to talking with Lindsey.
- - - - -
Lindsey watches the little blonde swing her hips away from the bar and downs
his own beer. He noticed that spaced out stare that Riley was giving him earlier,
sees the way Riley is still looking him over whenever he thinks Lindsey isn't
paying attention. He suppresses a grin and signals to the bartender. Says
to Riley, "Go dance with her, man. I'm fine. Sure as hell no reason to keep
me company."
Riley grins. "No, not my type." And when the bartender asks if they want two
more, Lindsey's surprised to hear him switch the order to whiskey.
Surprised but not the least bit bothered. Wonders what it is that's gotten
him to switch over. Thinks that Riley seems comfortable enough with him being
there, the alcohol loosening them both up. Lin hadn't expected to do anything
more than drop in for a few beers. A little shocked to discover that he enjoys
sitting here, talking to Riley while they both get this side of shit-faced.
"Not your type?" He leans onto the bar with both arms. Tilts his head and
looks over to where blondie stands with her back to them, hips twitching to
the rhythm of the song. "What's the problem with her? Too short? Too thin?
Too pushy?"
The whiskey arrives, and Riley downs his shot. "Too blonde."
Lindsey can't help but laugh at that. Takes his own shot, tips it to Riley
in agreement. "I'll drink to that." Throws it back, feels the heat burn down
his throat and into his stomach. Flash of Darla's face on the inside of his
eyelids, memory of her mouth on his the one time he'd touched her like that.
He shudders and opens his eyes.
They look at each other for a minute. Lindsey knows everyone has skeletons
rattling in their closet. But this boy's got too many lines around his eyes
for someone who can't be much older twenty four or so. First impression of
Riley as nothing more than a happy-go-lucky kid is rapidly wearing away into
something far more complex, and Lindsey does love a puzzle. There's an unnamable
component in Riley's demeanor that makes Lindsey think of control. Like the
guy is wound tighter than a spring and is looking for someone to unwind a
few coils. It's not just his size, plenty of men Riley's size and bigger are
gentle and placid as lambs. Maybe it's the way he's only just now relaxing,
shoulders not hunched up around his ears, legs opening as he hooks his feet
on the rungs of the stool.
The bartender returns, and Lindsey tells him to bring the bottle. When Riley
drops a few bills on the bar to cover his portion, Lindsey lets him. Grins
as he pours the shots and offers up a toast. "Here's to no more blonde women
who don't need my goddamn help."
Riley nearly chokes on his shot, but he gets it down. When he's got his breath
back he looks appraisingly at Lindsey. "You read minds or something?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Lindsey's pouring, there's no anger
in the words, and he takes a sip this time before he continues. "You walking
away from one of them, too?"
"Among other things." Riley sips, and Lindsey watches his throat move when
he swallows. They're facing each other now, Riley's back to the dance floor
and Lindsey's against the wall. Riley's face less guarded, the lines smoothing
out around his green eyes, mouth curved into a natural smile. He has a face
that wears a smile well, Lindsey thinks idly. Wonders what the hell someone
who looks like a choirboy could list among the other things he's walking away
from. Wonders, too, how far the guy would run if he knew about half the things
in Lindsey's past, any one of which could show up anytime at all and leave
him dead, nothing left to identify him unless they find enough teeth to run
dental records on.
He pours himself another shot.
- - - - -
The music on the juke changes, gone and wound down to blues ballads. Riley
notes that the patrons seem to be pairing off, moves on the floor changing
from line dancing to something more intimate. Every place he looks, there're
couples touching, faces pressed together in the boozy closeness that makes
everyone blurred and beautiful. He's painfully aware that the crowd is thinning
out, and there's room at the bar for them to spread, but he's unwilling to
move. Likes the way it makes his skin shiver when Lindsey turns on his stool
to talk to him and their thighs brush, feels it through two layers of denim.
He doesn't want to get over confident, doesn't want to press an issue that
might exist only in his addled brain. But part of him is so sure that Lindsey
is enjoying it as much as he is.
Looking over on the dance floor does nothing to help his train of thought.
Riley pours another shot, shakes the bottle and finds a tiny bit left. Offers
it to Lindsey who upends it and lets the amber trickle into his glass. When
he gives a silent toast and tips the glass up, offering a view of his throat
as he swallows, the movement of the skin transfixes Riley, the white crease
where he hasn't tanned contrasts against the honey blond of loose locks of
hair. Gets caught blatantly staring and finds himself grateful for the bad
bar lighting that hides his blush when Lindsey just grins at him.
Desperate for conversation, he blurts out the first thing that comes into
his head that doesn't include the words 'naked' or 'sex.' "Interesting style
of dance they have around here."
Lindsey snorts, looks at his watch and gestures to the couples groping each
other more or less in time to the music. "At this point there's no dancing.
It's just rubbing until they both realize they wanna fuck."
//So much for subtle// And yet he manages to swallow the mouthful of whiskey
and not choke. "You say this with all the confidence of a man who has spent
a lot of time... dancing."
Riley finds the amusement in those blue eyes disconcertingly direct when Lindsey
answers him. "Like you never did it either." Drops his gaze to Lindsey's hands
as they roll the empty shot glass across the bar. "High school dance? Betty
Sue Whoever in her blue prom dress? You never did the bump and grind and shocked
the chaperones?"
"No, never did that. Must have led a sheltered life." But even while he's
saying it, he's getting a visual, full-on technicolor: Lindsey pressed against
the wall of his high school gym, his hands tucking around to cup the sweet
curve of a blue-satin covered ass. Sees the vivid contrast of the girl's red
hair against the baby blue of the dress when she turns her head, and damn
if he hasn't put Willow there. Fantasy Willow has apparently forgotten all
about the lesbian life partner thing because she's moaning as Lindsey rocks
his hips, rolls them back and forth until it's as close to fucking as it can
get.
He shakes his head, grinning at the way his mind sometimes takes off without
his brain in actual working order. It's at this point of the evening that
Riley allows himself to admit that he knows what the thing eating at his belly
is. Not just loneliness, that's too easy. It's pure and simple need to make
the connection, physical contact. All alone for weeks now, he's just human,
and he wants to be in the moment. Buzzed enough to find that place inside
of him that admits even nice guys need that outlet. Needs the sweat of sex
to just wash over him and take him away. The only problem he can see with
that plan is the fact that there is no way in hell he can walk out of the
bar right now, or even look over while he talks. Because he's as hard as he's
ever been in his life.
- - - - -
//Sawdust under my boots, cigarette smoke and blues in the air, and someone
next to me who drinks whiskey instead of O pos. And not wanting to cut off
my appendages, always a plus in my book// Lindsey enjoys himself, for once.
He tries to think of the last moment he can identify as a good time and gets
back to law school before he finds it.
The whiskey disappeared, and he's only slightly buzzed. Probably watered down,
and he couldn't care less. Watching Riley take in the rest of the bar, finds
himself humming under his breath to the song that's playing. Good song, sums
up getting royally fucked over in a pretty little package.
//I played on the table
You held something back
If love is aces
Gimme the jack//
The blonde from earlier in the night picks up her second choice stud and comes
tripping by on his arm. Neither one of them very steady, and when they pass
by she nearly falls over in her attempt to get up on her toes and whisper
in the cowboy's ear. Lindsey turns away, she's too drunk to have her volume
control working, and the last thing he wants to hear is her version of foreplay.
"That's them, Hank," she slurs, her voice loud enough for Lindsey to think
that she wasn't trying to whisper after all.
"Oh, those are the fags?" Hank's apparently not the least bit worried about
who hears him; he wants the whole bar to know what he has to say.
Lindsey's back stiffens at once. He tells himself he's gonna turn around and
see the dumb ass cowboy looking somewhere else. He says it like a mantra as
he glances over his shoulder.
//Knew this was too good to last// "Are you talking about me?" He sees Riley
ease off his stool beside him, thinks for a minute that he's going to bolt,
get himself out of a bad situation. Realizes in the next second that Riley
is merely getting in a better position, his back against the bar.
Hank is a one-note-tune kind of asshole. "Yeah, you fag, we are."
Lindsey hears Riley, but the way his blood sings, that voice of reason is
far away and small when it says, "Forget it, Lindsey, just let them go."
"Lindsey? Your mama musta known you'd be a faggot with a name like that."
Hank pleased with his cleverness, has himself a good chuckle about it. Blondie
joins in, laughing as she sways on her heels.
"You should just shut your ignorant mouth, you stupid son of a bitch." And
*bam,* it feels sweet when his fist connects with the cowboy's jaw, when that
shit-eating grin is replaced with a look of surprise, and his head snaps to
the right. Lindsey's knuckles tingle and he knows, he just knows, that the
ever popular Hank has two or three buddies there in the bar who are going
to have something to say about the fag decking good ol' Hank like that.
He hears Riley utter a single, quiet, and very sincere word. "Shit."
- - - - -
There it was again, that easy show of power from Lindsey that Riley noticed
back in the feed store. One punch to the jaw and Hank is on his ass. Riley
approves of the style if not the action because these guys always run in packs,
and he's not going to walk away and let Lindsey take the heat for his own
rejection of the girl.
Sure enough, no sooner has he uttered the word "shit" and here's Manny, Moe
and Jack, hitching up the waistbands of their jeans and looking pissed off
and drunk. They even skip the preliminary insults and go right into swinging
their fists. He hears that unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh and launches
himself onto two of them. They stagger under his weight, land on a thankfully
unoccupied table, glasses shattering on the floor. Riley manages to keep his
balance //demon fighting 101, never get knocked down until you're ready to
die// and lands a decent blow of his own before the bouncers arrive and start
prying the wrestling bodies apart. He steps away, hands raised so they won't
think he's going to cause any more problems, scans the crowd for Lindsey.
He's standing pretty much where he was when the whole thing started, hands
on his hips, face flushed with anger and alcohol, and there's the hint of
a smile on his lips. He looks, Riley decides, like he's enjoying himself.
Before he can say or do anything, there's a heavy hand on the collar of his
shirt, and he's being dragged out of the bar and shoved without malice into
the parking lot. Lindsey is out there already, and Hank's ejected with much
less grace a few minutes later, his posse bringing up the rear. The bouncers
stand in the doorway, huge arms crossed and wait for them to all disperse,
take their fight somewhere else if they still feel the need to pound on each
other some more.
Blondie pulls Hank's arm, telling him she's gonna take good care of him, and
he allows himself to be distracted. Puts an arm over her shoulder and glares
back at Lindsey, mouths the word "faggot" one more time for good measure.
Riley sees the way Lindsey shifts his weight, ready to go on over and finish
up what the cowboy's loud mouth already started, so he puts his hand on Lindsey's
shoulder as the rest of pack follow Hank down the line of trucks and cars,
around the back of the bar.
"Drop it, not worth the effort." The muscles under his hand tighten up, then
relax with a sudden drop in Lindsey's posture.
He turns around, looks at Riley. "Appreciate that." He nods to the bar.
Riley shrugs. "It was pretty much my fault so..." He trails off, not sure
what to say. "I was *not* drunk enough for that."
Lindsey smiles, puts a companionable arm over Riley's shoulder and herds him
towards his truck. "Let's attend to that, then."
Riley doesn't argue, follows him to the old Ford and climbs in. Notices the
way the truck has been kept up, obviously with a loving hand. Not perfect,
of course, too old for that, and it's a working truck, but there're no cracks
in the dash; the seats aren't sprung, and the floor is dusty but not covered
with debris. Lindsey starts it up, grins at him one more time and pulls out
into the deserted street.
- - - - -
It's not until the clerk at the store gives him a strange look that Lindsey
realizes his face hurts. His eye, actually. He shrugs it off, takes the cold
beer and goes out to the truck. Riley sits on the bumper, looking up at the
sky. Lindsey glances up while he walks, doesn't see anything special. White
stars, cold in the darkness. He's already passed that newlywed stage, the
part where the night sky makes him awestruck again, and wonders why Riley
apparently hasn't.
"Watching for aliens?" Lin asks as he sets the beer in the bed of the truck
and takes two out of the bag. Hands one to Riley and sits beside him. Twists
off the cap and takes a long, long drink, half the bottle gone down his throat
in a cold flow. He can feel it all the way down to his belly, a chilly trail.
Riley takes the beer, keeps on looking up. "I'm usually asleep by now. I think
this is the first time I've really looked since I got here."
"Where'd you get here from?" He waits for the answer. Wants to know, and he's
not sure why. Struck again by the comfort of Riley's companionship. There's
no tense edges here, nothing to cut him when he steps the wrong way. He hasn't
had that in forever.
"Oh you know, I've been around. Traveled a little." Riley's avoiding the straight
answer, and for a minute Lindsey thinks about calling him on it. Decides against
it because of his own traveling habits and tries to picture the reaction from
this guy if he mentioned vampires and evil lawyers and moral ambiguity. Drains
his beer and twists around to get another one.
Riley catches his arm, leans over closer. "You've got a nice shiner coming
up there, man. You should get some ice on it."
Lin puts his fingers up to his face, winces as he touches the slightly raised
skin under his eye. Thinks back about three months to sledgehammers and sarcastic
vampires beating the ever loving Christ out of him, litany of apologies punctuating
every blow. He drops his hand, picks up the beer and smiles. Knows it must
look odd, he can see that on Riley's face as his expression grows concerned.
"I'm fine, doesn't even hurt."
"Not now, but it will tomorrow. I've got ice back at my place." Lindsey watches
Riley stand and pluck the bag holding the rest of the beer out of the back
of the truck. He stands there just long enough for Lindsey to get the hint.
That wasn't a request; it was a statement. Looks like they'll be going to
Riley's place for ice, whether he really needs it or not.
- - - - -
It's warm in the truck, and the ride lasts just long enough for a languor
to set in. The adrenaline from the fight gone, the beer and whiskey have set
up shop in his brain, and Riley feels an almost boneless sensation of peacefulness.
Lindsey has something on the radio that's low and hypnotic, volume turned
down enough to make it background sound. He was never much of a music buff,
just listened to whatever was on unless it was really foul. He likes the blues
now that he's heard them played so much. Likes the way they really seem to
feel what they sing - hurt and need, rejection and pain, things he's had too
much of to ever forget.
Lindsey turns to him. "Where am I headed?" Riley looks up and sees they're
back at the bar, tells Lindsey to head back to the feedstore.
Truck parked all the way in the back, and Riley feels himself sway when he
jumps down from the seat. There's the tiniest twinge in his ribs from hitting
those guys, and then it's gone again. Lindsey strolls around the truck, walking
with the consciously careful gait of a man who knows he's going to stagger
if he lets himself go. Reaching back into the truck for the beer, Riley hides
his smile. Hardly fair to be laughing at Lindsey when he was almost on his
ass himself.
They're both quiet as they take the steps up to the second floor, Lindsey
looking around at the view from the landing while Riley has a small issue
with finding the right key, getting it into the lock and not dropping the
beer. Lindsey comes over to lean against the wall.
"Have we reached the inebriation level that causes you to lose small motor
skills?" He's whispering, and Riley looks up to see if he's joking, tone of
voice so serious and point of fact. He's grinning, though, wide smile that
shows white teeth even in the darkness.
"I'd have a better shot if you'd stop blocking the light." But he's got it
right this time, the key clicks over, and the door swings open. Riley follows
the arc into the room, trying to get the key out of the lock again, Lindsey
right behind him.
Careful to close the door before he hits the lights, old habit of his from
Belize, and Sunnydale, and other missions long forgotten where you'd be dead
if you were dumb enough to reveal your position. He sees Lindsey looking around
and tries to envision the room through a stranger's eyes. It looks spartan,
bare. The furniture was already there, of course, belongs to the old man who
owns the building. Good solid stuff, probably hand made a long time ago. One
big room plus a closet and a bathroom, but it's clean and neat, although Riley
admits the neatness is a by-product of having nothing around to get sloppy
about.
He carries the beer over to the tiny fridge, sets it inside and pries open
the freezer door. Takes out the tray of icecubes in there and runs it under
warm water for a minute to break the seal. Twist of the wrists and he's got
some cubes in the sink. Picks up the thin cotton dishrag that's hanging on
the drawer handle and makes a quick ice pack.
"Here, put this on your eye." He can see that Lindsey is reluctant to take
it, wonders if he's going to insist and then they'll end up in some stupid
and uncomfortable quasi-argument about it.
But he doesn't resist, takes the towel and presses it gingerly to his eye
for a second, then settles it in a little more firmly. "I can hold a beer
at the same time. I'm multi-talented like that."
Riley gets two more beers and suggests they sit outside. Cooler out there,
and he likes the view from the roof of the back storage room. He slips out
the window and settles himself with his back against the wall of the building.
Lindsey follows him, first putting the rest of the 12 pack out there and then
climbing through, surprisingly fluid motions for someone who had problems
walking a straight line not too many minutes ago.
Neither of them talk much. There's a pasture out behind the building; the
moon is high enough for them to see the wind make patterns in the tall grass.
The night sounds are soothing; the breeze is light, and they could be the
only two people on earth. Riley drinks his beer and thinks about the people
that aren't there anymore, and the ones who never will be again. Looks over
at Lindsey, who's stretched himself out on the roof, hands behind his head,
ice pack resting on his face. He's so still that Riley thinks he might have
passed out, but then he sees that a blue eye is open and looking over towards
him.
Lindsey gestures for another beer, and Riley obliges. Opens it, leans over
to hand it to him, wonders if he's going to try and defy gravity by attempting
to drink it while he's still laying down. Turns back to his contemplation
of the tides in the field and is almost startled when Lindsey speaks.
"Think we've taken care of the 'not drunk enough' element. How 'bout you?"
"Oh yeah. That's definitely a mission accomplished."
- - - - -
Despite the black eye, and possibly because of all the alcohol he's consumed
tonight, Lindsey thinks he could fall asleep right here. The old wooden roof
is smooth, still holds the heat from the sun. The slant of it is just right,
none of that tipsy feeling that you might roll if you lean the wrong way.
He can see way off to the horizon with nothing to block his view. Perfect
sea of grass rippling out to the blurry point when it blends with the sky.
Riley isn't finding it necessary to run his mouth just to fill in the gaps,
something Lindsey learned to appreciate whole-heartedly once he found himself
working with lawyers in general. He likes having blocks of time filled with
nothing more than windsong and animal language. Riley has mastered the art
of companionship, and Lindsey admires him for it. Company without intrusion,
quiet without loneliness.
"Beer's gone." Riley's voice interrupts his introspection. Now that's a statement
that *had* to be made. Lindsey thinks a minute, decides he is just shit-faced
enough to not need anymore and far too much to drive. He sits up, sighs at
the thought of sleeping in the truck and stands.
"You're not driving home, so don't even think about it." Riley stands too,
follows him over to the window and inside. They both stagger a little as they
stand there.
"No problem. Sleeping in the truck. Won't be the first time." Lindsey puts
his hand out and Riley grasps it.
"No, that's stupid. You can stay here." His brow furrows in concentration
or in a sincere effort to sound forceful, Lindsey isn't sure which. It's a
tempting offer. The couch looks like a king sized bed in comparison to the
truck's seat. Less dust. More cushions. No stairs between him and the couch,
either, which is a big plus right now.
"You sure?" Watches Riley nod, says, "I'll take the couch."
"No need. Bed's huge. More comfortable." Riley still has his hand, leads him
over to the bed like a child being walked to school.
Lin looks at the bed in question, and it is huge, king-sized, bigger than
the one in his old apartment. He opens his mouth to offer the couch choice
again but yawns instead. A small shove on his back from Riley and he lets
himself fall into the soft brown comforter. Eyes closed, he hears the click
of the light as Riley turns it off and a moment later there's the dip and
sway of another body hitting the mattress.
Lindsey drifts off.
- - - - -
It's the warm skin that wakes him up. Warm, bare skin against his arm. A sensation
so long forgotten that for a moment he can't place it. Riley opens his eyes
and sees Lindsey, body curved on his side, shirt pulled out of the waistband
of his jeans exposing a strip of smooth skin, and that's what's touching him.
He watches the wrinkled hem of the shirt move with every breath, turns his
head for a better view.
Moonlight pouring in the window etches everything shades of gray and white,
shadows the angles of the man beside him. Lindsey's face soft with sleep,
his body turned towards Riley's own as if seeking contact without conscious
decision. He knows the feeling, the way a person will instinctively reach
for the familiar. He just hasn't had anything to reach for himself, wonders
sometimes if he'll ever find a touchstone again. Something to ground him.
Something to strive for. Right now, watching Lindsey sleep and feeling the
brush of his skin, no matter how unknowing the contact, Riley can't conjure
up anything more than the feelings from the bar. Need to connect, touch. Find
himself through the expression in someone's eyes when he's with them, give
and take of sex the most pure and primitive drive, one he doesn't want to
try and control.
He shifts his weight, rolls to his left just a little. Reaches out and lets
the back of his hand whisper-glide over the skin of Lindsey's torso. Riley
feels a tickle at the pit of his stomach, precursor to arousal for him, and
his cock stirs. Another brush of his knuckles on warm flesh, then fingertips.
He's mesmerized by the sensation, the long-forgotten desire to touch another
person's skin, not have his own skin broken when he does. Lays the whole hand
there, fingers sliding under the shirt, palm firm against muscled belly, and
he just feels the movement of Lindsey's breathing. In and out, smooth motion
under the steady press of his hand.
Contraction and tension telegraphed right to him as Lindsey wakes up. Riley
waits a second, raises his head to apologize and meets wide open eyes, the
blue shaded to obsidian in the moonlight. There's a distinct instant when
Riley's positively aware that Lindsey's going to do... something. Even as
he acknowledges it, it passes, and Lindsey moves. Rolling in instead of away,
slipping his leg between Riley's thighs. Hips and pelvis raise up and come
down again, and Riley is half covered by the body he was petting seconds ago.
No place for words here, just time for stretching himself out into a more
accommodating position so he can reach the mouth that's so close to his. Parts
his lips, lets himself fall into the kiss.
- - - - -
Waking up to the warm hand on his body, Lindsey's first reaction is instinctive.
He rolls into the gentle touch, finds the place on Riley's body that fits
the shape of his hip, gets his knee between those muscular thighs. Leans in
to kiss the mouth that's already open and waiting for him. Already wanting
him, and God, that feels so good. To be wanted, desired. To have warm skin
against your own, hands spanning your back. Lindsey feels the tug on his shirt,
lets Riley pull it up to his neck before he breaks the kiss. Shifts to the
side, slithers out of it and rolls back on again before Riley can do more
than catch his breath.
Feels the hardness pushing against him as he rolls his hips, denim rubbing
with a sweet, rough friction that makes Riley groan under him. He could get
lost in this, the slow ride towards the top, dreamlike and unhurried. All
the time in the world to get those buttons on Riley's shirt undone, bare the
expanse of chest that's broader than he imagined it would be. To match the
undulating pace set by neither of them, changing on a whim. Doing whatever
feels good at the moment.
Riley unresisting when Lindsey's mouth moves to his ear, his fingers sliding
between them to undo buttons and zippers. His shuddering indrawn breath is
all the incentive Lindsey needs when his hand finds bare skin, slick wetness,
hard length for his hand to wrap around. Can't help but mark the event - this
is the first time he's touched another person like this with the new hand.
Not a lot of room to move, but he can make a fist, and Riley writhes into
it. Arches his back off the bed, lifts Lindsey with him at the first stroke,
and this time it's Lindsey who's moaning into the open mouth when Riley grabs
at him and pushes him down. Exquisite pressure against his cock, Riley's hands
in his hair holding him still while he bucks his hips, fucks himself into
Lindsey's warm grip.
Lindsey breaks the kiss, tilts his head to the side, licks at the line of
Riley's jaw, gathering the salty sheen with his tongue. Nuzzles his face into
the hollow of his shoulder where it meets his neck and feels Riley shudder
again. The hand in his hair presses his face in closer, and Lindsey marks
a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses from collarbone to Riley's earlobe. Hears
the groans gaining volume as his mouth passes over a series of scars, a cluster
of them all across his neck, knows that Riley's about to hit the wall.
"You like that, right there?" he whispers and drags his tongue over them again.
The cry of release and the warmth in his hand is all the answer he needs.
- - - - -
Riley rolls them both over before Lindsey has a chance to do anything, his
cock still hard, pressing into Riley's hip as they move. He's still panting
from his own climax as he presses Lindsey into the covers, drags himself down
the length of his body. He pulls at the buttons on the jeans, pops them open
roughly, slips them down Lindsey's hips until his cock is exposed. Opens his
mouth wide and just takes him in, head sliding over his lips and across his
tongue, slick and salty. Riley hears him draw a deep breath in, feels one
hand come down and slip into his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead.
He raises his eyes to find Lindsey watching him, propped up on one elbow.
Biting his bottom lip, already bruised from Riley's mouth earlier, and he's
barely moving at all.
Just watching.
Riley drops his eyes from that intense scrutiny, lets his hands and tongue
work the flesh he was so anxious to have to himself. One hand skims across
Lindsey's tight abdomen, fingers combing the tangled curls before wrapping
around the base of his cock. The other hand slips between Lindsey's legs,
cupping warmth with a gentle pressure. Draws his head back, flicks his tongue
over the slit at the top, tasting more bitter saltiness. The hand in his hair
tightens, and Riley risks a glance up again. Lindsey's head is back, mouth
open and eyes shut. He looks completely lost in the moment, and Riley continues
to watch him as he moves his loosely fisted hand up the length of Lindsey's
cock.
"God, Riley..." Breathless moan, and Riley can't stand to do without that
mouth. Keeps his hand right where it is but pushes himself up the bed, bends
his head so he can get a taste of those lips. Runs his tongue along Lindsey's
bottom lip over and over until Lindsey gives in, opens his mouth. Riley rubs
his thumb over the head of Lindsey's cock, sucks that full bottom lip into
his mouth. Lindsey comes, wet and slick where their bodies touch, stickiness
from them both as they lay there panting.
Riley thinks about moving, thinks maybe they should talk. Falls asleep again
with Lindsey half under him, his hand still in Riley's hair.
- - - - -
Lindsey wakes up slowly, legs still tangled with Riley's, pinned down by the
weight of him. He blinks a few times, focuses on the man spread out beside
him. It's early morning, maybe six, and the light has a thin orange tint to
it. He can see very clearly the scars on Riley's exposed neck, the ones that
had sent him right over the edge last night.
He knows a vampire bite when he sees one. Saw far too many of them up close
and personal to not have the image seared into his data banks, although he
grants that he never got to see one that was healed. Lindsey's memory of the
night locked in the wine cellar tries to pry itself out of the box he locked
it in, and he stomps down hard before it can break free. As he rolls his head
on the coverlet, he spies more marks on Riley's arms, centered around the
pale crease of his inner elbow.
//Right where they draw your blood at the hospital// he thinks. //Why is this
boy walking around with bite marks all over him?// Won't even go into the
whole arousal portion of the scars. That's far too personal, brings back memories
of the times he spent in the shower, jacking off to the image of Darla, her
pretty red mouth around his cock morphing into the face of the demon.
And that was always when he got off.
One hand is bearing the warm heaviness of Riley's shoulder, so Lindsey uses
the free one to scrub at his face. It jiggles the bed, and that's all it takes
for Riley to be instantly, completely alert. Something else for Lindsey to
ask him about. And they are definitely going to be having one hell of a Q
and A session this morning.
"So you wanna reveal your secret identity first, or what?" Lindsey keeps his
voice neutral, his body relaxed. Waits for an answer.
- - - - -
Riley really doesn't want to move. He's comfortable; the bed smells like Lindsey
and sex; there's nothing he's supposed to track or kill for at least a 50
miles radius. He's relaxed, damn it. And as much as he doesn't want to ruin
the absolute perfection of this moment, that's not even near the margins of
how much he doesn't want to answer Lindsey's question.
"What the hell are you talking about?" He tries for ignorant hick, figures
it buys him a two minute reprieve in which he can formulate an acceptable
reply that will satisfy both of them. Reveal enough to stop any more questions
and keep hidden the things he doesn't even let himself think about anymore.
Lindsey shifts in the bed, rolls to his side. "Swing and a miss. Try again?"
Riley watches with detached fascination as Lindsey's finger extends, hovers
over the raised white ridges on his arm. Even where they overlap in a tangle,
he still traces a definitive arc for each bite. When he reaches further, towards
the ones on his neck, Riley puts his own hand up to block. Gentle defensive
measure.
"Animal bite. Coyote." Doesn't even look over to see if Lindsey buys that
one, it's too weak to work with someone who has more than likely seen an actual
bite from the animal.
"Oh, see, that'd be ball one. I think you winged it."
Does look this time, and Lindsey's expression is complex, as if he's not sure
if he wants to be amused or angry. Riley opens his mouth and closes it, brings
both hands up and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. He's surprised
to hear Lindsey speak again, startled at the words.
"I know they're bite marks. And I know what kind of 'animal' makes them. We
can leave it there, or not. Up to you." Lindsey sits up, stretches and stands.
Looks down at Riley, bites his lip for a minute. "You got coffee around here?"
- - - - -
Over coffee, wearing his wrinkled shirt that he found at the bottom of the
bed, Lindsey talks to Riley about everything he can think of except the two
taboo subjects - the bite marks and what happened last night. He gambled big
by letting Riley know he was hip to the origin of the markings, half expects
Riley to call him on it. Can't see a way to explain his old life, Wolfram
and Hart, Angel, Darla, all of it, but figures if Riley comes clean, he at
least owes him that much.
As if thinking about the question makes it appear, Riley puts down his mug
and asks him directly. "How do you know about the bites?"
"Seen them before. Seen what makes them. Gotta tell you I haven't seen many
people walk away with a souvenir, though." He takes a sip of coffee and tries
to make himself say the word out loud. "Vampire. That's it, right? That's
your animal."
The spoon in Riley's mug clangs when he sets it down again, hard. His eyes
have gone bright, clear green, Lindsey notes, and there's color all across
his cheeks. Jaw working hard enough for the muscles of his neck to cord up.
He looks like he wants to stand up, heave Lindsey through the window that
faces on the street and hope he hits concrete when he lands. Lindsey edges
his seat back a little, room to move, but he's pretty sure that the moment
has passed.
"So, you know anything about horses?" None too subtle change of topic, but
he figures Riley's had enough for one Sunday morning. He's hiding more than
vampire bites; Lindsey will bet anything on that. It makes him feel on even
footing again, both of them hiding a past. Of course, he's let something of
his own slip in gaining that. And once the shock wears off, Riley will no
doubt begin to wonder how the hell he knows enough about vampires to recognize
the markings. He's a bright boy, of that Lindsey is certain.
Picking up his cup again, Lindsey drinks and watches Riley over the rim. Gets
himself a small smile in return, worth the effort of dropping things despite
wanting to know more. Riley says, "A little, not a whole lot. I ride, but
I'm no expert."
"Thinking of taking a look at that gelding. I'll probably ride out there next
week. You interested?" Lindsey carries his empty cup over to the sink, waits
for his answer. He's wondering about more than Riley's past; he's wondering
what it's going to be like with them now. Not just the sex, he can control
that part of himself. If he isn't interested in a repeat performance, Riley
is still someone Lindsey enjoys spending time with. His curiosity is also
piqued, he'll admit that readily.
"Yeah, I might be." That voice comes from right behind him, much further into
his personal space than it would be if Riley was shying away from the more
physical aspects of the last few hours. Lindsey stays still, lets the other
man set the boundaries. Sees Riley's hand slide into his peripheral vision,
deposit his own cup in the sink beside Lindsey's and slip back out again before
it comes to rest on his shoulder. He turns then, and Riley's right there,
not quite the full length of his arm away.
"Something else you might be interested in?" That sounds cheesy, and he can't
help the grin that follows as soon as the words are out. Even Riley has to
return the smile, accents it with a squeeze on Lindsey's shoulder before he
drops his arm to his side.
"That's a distinct possibility." There's relief in his tone, and Lindsey can
be glad about that. The tension gone, things are fine right where they stand
for the moment. The good feeling from last night, the companionship as much
as the rest of it, is something he wants to keep, to cling to. Keep the bad
thoughts at bay with pleasant fillers that fit in the places where he's reluctant
to look. Decides he should leave now, while things are still on an even keel.
Lindsey leaves Riley standing on the landing outside his door, waves once
out the window to him as he pulls into the street and heads back to the ranch.
Scans the radio stations for something other than the morning bible broadcasts
and finds one playing a strange mix of oldies and blues. Good enough for the
ride home with his mind drifting and the truck running on autopilot. Remembers
how he thought of Riley as a kindred spirit when he first met him, knows now
that they are possibly a little too much alike. Dark pasts and plenty of buried
secrets usually makes for a bad combination; adding his own fuel to the bonfire
won't make things any easier.
And yet... the easy quiet out on the roof is too alluring, too unique and
precious to not try and see if this will work on any level at all. The rest
of it, the warm body, the soft touch, the skilled mouth that let him know
this wasn't Riley's first time in the blankets with a drinking buddy... that's
intriguing in its own right. Lindsey's been without peace of any kind for
too long to let it slip away without some effort on his part.
Half smile on his face as he realizes he's talking himself into something
he already wants, convincing himself that it's OK to hold on to something
good. He turns up the radio and hopes he knows the words to the next song
that comes on. He feels like singing.
.End
Read the sequel Rainmakers
II - Southwest of Nowhere