A Book Of Tongues (24 page)

“But you’re a man, Chess. You’re tough.”

Chess snorted. “Ever seen the inside of a birthin’ room? Stick a
pin in the map almost anywhere, you’ll find ten women tougher’n
me — and you, for that matter.” A pause. “Not many meaner, though.
I believe I’m right in
that
estimation, anyroads.”

“Yeah, you do got that goin’ for you,” Morrow agreed, taking
another swig.

For Morrow, it all came back to that one word, sprinkled
throughout every Agency report he’d read before first embarking
on this misguided venture:
unrepentant
sodomite and murderer.
The primary description anyone who’d ever heard of Chess Pargeter
always slapped on him, and strictly on the sodomy part of it, Morrow
felt he could safely give a resounding
yes
. But as to the other . . .

“Still and all,” Chess continued, “you might have a point there,
this one time. ’Cause thinking back, I find how I do feel kinda . . .
bad
about riddin’ the world of Sadie’s little friend.”

“Well . . . you kinda should. That boy didn’t have a chance — and
seems to me you liked it that way. Like back in ’Frisco, with that
miner; you lead them on, then lay them down, then you giggle about
it after. Way you conduct yourself, it’s — ”

“Uncharitable?” Chess suggested.

“ —
easy
. All a damn sight too easy entirely, considerin’ how
afterwards they’re dead, and you’re alive.”

Morrow waited, but Chess didn’t reply — simply sat back, and
though his hand still hovered near his gun, it seemed less a threat
than a habit.

“That whole thing . . .” he said, at length. “It was nothin’ more
than a damn
tiff
, ’tween Ash Rook ’n’ me. Just this dance we were
havin’ with each other, spilled over into fisticuffs — and that boy, his
bitch, they just got in the way, is all. And I . . .”

He trailed off, shook his head. And here Morrow saw something
cross Chess Pargeter’s face, shame-full and sidelong — a thing so
alien, so out of context, he barely recognized it himself.

Regret.

“I don’t want to think about this anymore,” Chess said, finally.
“So . . . you’re gonna help me out with that, ain’t ya, Ed? Yeah, that’s
right. ’Cause
you’re
gonna get me so I
can’t
.”

Morrow couldn’t begin to guess how — and even if he had, this
wouldn’t’ve been the first idea he came up with: Chess leaning
forward all of a sudden, using both Morrow’s biceps to haul him
down hard. Chess friggin’ Pargeter, at maybe half Morrow’s height,
dragging him eye-level, the better to stick his tongue deep between
the bigger man’s teeth.

Morrow reared back almost immediately — pants tight, stomach
cold. “What — what the hell was
that
?” he demanded.

Chess smirked. “What’d it
seem
like?”

Somethin’ might get me killed, Rook ever found out,
was Morrow’s
first idea. But instead, he said, carefully, “Look, Chess — just how
drunk
are
you?”

“Depends. How drunk are
you
?”

“Not drunk enough.” But that didn’t sound right either. “Look, I,
uh . . . I like girls.”

Chess shrugged. “Sure. Half the men I’ve messed with’d say the
same. But you know better ’bout
me
: ladies ain’t my meat, and I ain’t
theirs. I do like
you
, though, Ed — always have.”

“. . . oh?”

“Yup. You do what you say, and mean what you do. Don’t run
your mouth. And you’re clean in your habits, too — I admire that in
a man.”

So I hear,
Morrow remembered.

But now Chess was all up in his face again, nuzzling hotly ’round
the pulse-point of Morrow’s jaw and rubbing their bearded cheeks
together like he was either grooming Morrow, or grooming himself
on
Morrow. Probably looked ridiculous, but the effect was soon
enough to render simply breathing a difficult task indeed.

Morrow groaned, forcing out: “But, the Rev — ”

“He cared enough to help me out, he’d be here already; he ain’t.
’Sides which . . . this is his fault, too. So screw ’im.”

“Now, that don’t make a — ”

“Just shut the hell up, Ed.” Chess kissed him again, delving
deeper. “Now . . . man up and skin off, ’cause I don’t got all night.”

Morrow bristled. “Oh, now I
really
want to,” he threw back, oddly
insulted by the implication that them getting to it had become an
utterly foregone conclusion.

’Course, if a hex
made
you, it wasn’t nothin’ to feel shame over,
was it? And Chess’d probably kill him one way or the other, if he
refused.

While he waffled, however, Chess was already slipping one of his
hands right down the front of Morrow’s trousers, deftly plucking
his buttons apart. And here came the thing itself, free at last: poker-stiff, drooling. It filled Chess’s palm, fingers playing just as smooth
and nimble on it as Morrow’d always thought they might, ’til he
hefted it, and laughed out loud at the strength of Morrow’s reaction.

“
Ah
, Christ shit Jesus — ”

“Yeah, that’s right. Quite uncommon instrument you’re packin’,
Ed. Very — manly.” Chess hauled a bit harder, then stopped to admire
the result. “Oh, and I do like
this
, too — a big man, all raw and needy
and beggin’, and all because of me. Not to mention a nice, thick piece
like you got right here, stuck in just as far as it’ll go, justabout any
damn place that’s handy.”

Morrow gasped, glancing down — saw himself magnified a
size more than expected, purple-weeping, and looked away again,
before he ended up with scarred eyeballs. Shaking his head, and
demanding, “But what the hell do
you
get out of it, exactly?”

“
My way
, Ed. It’s like killin’, almost —
almost
as good. ’Cept nobody
has to die. Anyhow — you
could
do something for
me
, in return, you
were willin’.”

“Like
what
?”

“Like you might could
fuck
me, fool. What’d you think I meant?”

“But — don’t that hurt?”

“Oh, you poor innocent. ’Course it does.” Chess was all but
straddling Morrow now, yet swung in just a tad further, voice
dropping, to explain: “That’s what makes it
good
.”

“Chess, I ain’t that
way
.”

“You ain’t complainin’, though, are ya?” As Morrow hesitated:
“
C’mon
, for Christ’s sake! It’s the exact same act, no matter
what
the
accoutrements — ”

“Bullshit! How would you even know?”

Chess paused, actually seeming to consider this. And answered,
at last — “Well . . . you got me there, Ed. Many the times as I seen it
done, I guess . . . I still probably wouldn’t.”

They contemplated each other for a tick, chests heaving.
Chess’s eyes fell, unexpectedly, releasing Morrow — and even more
unexpectedly, Morrow registered it as a loss, rather than a victory.

“Listen,” Chess said. “I ain’t no outrager. So hell, Ed — if you
genuinely don’t want to, I sure ain’t gonna stick a knife to your
throat. I mean, I
could
make you, and you might like it better than
you think; blow-job’s the best method of persuasion I know, savin’ a
gun. But . . . it wouldn’t be worth the damn
effort
, that way. Would
it?”

Chess’s thumb stroked idly at Morrow’s cock-head, drawing a hot
bead, swirling it ’round. And, at once — it didn’t seem so bad. After
all.

That’s the magic talkin’, Ed.

Probably. But then again — who cared?

“Wouldn’t, I guess,” Morrow replied, fast enough not to think it
over. And crushed Chess back to him.

They retired to the bed, shedding clothes and weapons as they
did — a bit cramped for Morrow’s liking, ’specially when two were
involved, but it wasn’t as though Chess wasn’t providing a hell of a
distraction . . . biting at Morrow’s nipples on the down-slide, licking
his navel, rolling his whole face (the beard scratching awfully, yet
intriguingly) in the cradle of Morrow’s pelvis like he was savouring
the taste. Even pushing his thighs apart peremptorily — so
strong
,
for one who still got mistook for a boy on occasion, if only from a
distance — so he could lap at Morrow’s too-full balls before opening
wide and taking him to the root, grunting with effort, the thrum of
it almost enough to fetch Morrow right there.

Seconds later, Morrow opened his eyes to find Chess arrayed on
top of him, huffing in fresh pleasure while he fingered himself open,
well-primed with what Morrow took — by its smell — to be some of
his own brilliantine. Fair made Morrow blush, to see how Chess’s
own cock perked up at the sensation: red and shiny, crying out for
further exploration. How would it be to grab hold in turn, do to
Chess as he’d been done by? Jack him slow, then faster — keep on ’til
Chess was the one rendered inarticulate, ’til he made him squirm,
and arch, and pop —

Here Chess shifted downwards into Morrow’s lap, however,
breaking that train of thought all to hell — coming down in the
saddle with a long groan, letting gravity do much of the work.
Morrow let out a holler as he drove up into the very heat of him,
lodged narrowly, stuck fast. Chess sat there froze a moment, all
mussed up and panting, and said:

“Just, uuuuh, gimme one sec. Gotta find the angle, or it won’t
work like it oughta — ”

“You
want
to, though, right? Say you want to, Chess — ”

“Morrow, God damn! Do I any way seem to you right now like I
don’t
?”

As though to prove the point, Chess forced himself down still
further, ’til something inside him apparently
gave way
with a force
that made Morrow shudder. And let loose with a whoop as he did it,
triumphant and unashamed, the way an Injun trick-rider jumps a
fence.

So tight and
nasty
, almost dry enough to scratch, for all the hair-oil Chess might’ve used — impossible to forget this was the
literal
back passage he was trying to breach, a secret place where nothing
flesh was ever meant to fit, no matter its constitution. Yet more
impossible still to fault the act further for that simple truth, given
the sheer intensity of pleasure it obviously held, for both of them.

Because: Morrow could see Chess’s eyes rolling back already,
both their hips going twenty to the bar. Felt himself collide
intermittently with a smallish, hardish lump inside, and saw how it
made Chess gasp, whenever he did — that famous “thing,” he could
only conclude. As in
God, oh
God
, HIT that!

I could rid the West of Chess Pargeter right now,
Morrow thought,
with one quick snap. Tear his ear-bob out right now, when he ain’t
thinking — make him ugly — take away that lure of his, so he has to
comport himself the same sad way all the rest of us do. Crush his hands,
break the trigger-fingers at their roots, like chicken-bones. . . .

But this was just sophistry, empty rhetoric, as the mere fact of
what Morrow was doing even
while
he thought it proved beyond a
shadow of a doubt. What with him still hammering hard into Chess
like it was his first fuck, or his last — or both.

He almost laughed at the craziness of it all, right out loud. But
let a cry of his own bust out instead, similarly squeal-pitched, as
ruin broke through him all at once — clutched Chess to him, nipping
automatically into the younger man’s nearest sweaty shoulder, and
felt his body go off in a chain of tiny explosions, a firecracker-string
stuffed with spunk.

The cross-shaped earring flashed and jounced, sparking painfully
at the very corner of Morrow’s sights, as Chess juddered hard
through his own climax, spitting hot trails up Morrow’s stomach —
throe-drunk, riding the wave. Energy crackling everywhere, out of
his very pores.

If I was Rook, I’d want some of that,
Morrow thought.
If I was
Rook . . .

But he wasn’t.

No time to feel bad, though, just hold on and enjoy the ride,
pumping every last drop of his own heart’s-blood out through the
head of his cock.

“ — aaaaAAAAAh, fuck
me
!” Morrow heard himself yell to the
empty air, so loud his voice gave out mid-way. Chess answered it in
kind, then collapsed, pulling them both over in a graceless heap.
They lay there a while, twinned and panting, as though neck-to-neck in yet another race to see who’d be able to catch their breath
first.

“Guess you’re . . . mine, now,” Morrow managed, finally. His own
voice so hoarse he barely recognized it.

Which was
also
a mistake, the single dumbest thing he could’ve
said, goin’ by prior report alone.

Chess simply snorted again, however, before rolling safely back
on top.

“Not too damn likely,” he replied. “I’m the Rev’s, if I’m anybody’s.
But considerin’ how
I’m
the one just busted
your
cherry, as regards
t’ queer frolics . . . way
I
see it, if anything — now
you
belong to
me
.”

And
that
wasn’t anything to worry about, now, was it? As a
prospect.

Crap,
Morrow thought, knowing damn well he was doing nothing
but repeating himself, as ever.
Of all the bone-head moves to go and
damn well pull, Goddamnit. . . .

But here the words faded to white, ’cause Chess was kissing him
again — grinding into him groin-first, his pretty little piece polishing
itself industriously on the sweat-slick fur of Morrow’s belly. And
Morrow felt himself spring immediately back to full attention; more
hexation-overspill, probably, not that he was complaining. Felt his
slick head butt up hard once more against Chess’s ass, like the dumb
beast just couldn’t
wait
to cram itself back up into a space so tight, it
was just as well that part of the body didn’t have no bones.