Goldilocks: A Man, a Jersey, and a Tight End (6 page)

“Paul leaves. Doesn’t matter. Why shouldn’t you?”

“I’m not Paul.”

Scott stuck out his lip, but he couldn’t hold the pout when Jim touched his mouth and kissed him. Once on the head, once on the nose, and then once, thoroughly, on the mouth.

“How’s your behind?”

“You’re a bastard,” said Scott. “But you know that. I’ll be okay.”

“Think you’ll be able to watch your football game?”

“Maybe,” sniffed Scott. “I might need a little more attention. You might’ve been getting some all these weeks, but I’ve been lonely out there on the road.”

Jim stroked Scott’s shoulders thoughtfully, his hands gentle and slow. “You’re talking about Brian, right? I’ve been ‘getting some’ with Brian.”

“Well, sure,” said Scott. And he stroked his wrists to remind himself again. “Haven’t you?”

Jim stroked the area just above Scott’s ear, obviously thinking how to answer this, and Scott said, “Not that I have a problem with that. I know how it is with you two. Hell, kid’s a good bounce and so smart.”

“I missed you, Scott,” said Jim. “I missed more than the sex.”

Scott was silent and very still.

“I love you, baby,” said Jim, and his voice was soft and had a weak, frightened sound in it that Scott didn’t like one bit.

“Okay, okay. I know.” He wrapped his arms around Jim, nuzzling the big furry chest, inhaling his man.

“You got yourself beat up,” said Jim, sounding both angry and hurt.

“Actually, you should see the other guy.”

A gruff laugh vibrated under Scott’s cheek. He felt a big hand on the back of his neck.

“You want me exclusive, I’ll do it, Scott. Just say the word. I’m sure Brian and Paul would understand.”

“Aw, man.” Scott buried his face against Jim. “But then I couldn’t fuck the little squirrel either.”

And he felt Jim’s laugh again. The big man’s muscles easing.

They held each other, that feeling of being home finally settling into Scott’s bones. Then Jim pushed Scott away, taking his chin in two big fingers and raising Scott’s gaze to his own. “Can’t believe you didn’t say anything before.”

Scott looked into Jim’s eyes and gave him a sheepish grin. “Me neither.”

Jim smiled and stroked Scott’s shoulders, hands running down Scott’s chest and playing for a moment there. Scott rumbled and twisted, trying to get the attention he wanted without letting his sore butt touch the mattress.

Jim’s hand wrapped around Scott’s cock and pulled. Scott twisted and moaned.

“Hold on,” Jim rolled off the bed and then was back in a minute with lube.

Scott grinned and grabbed handfuls of hairy man.

Jim squirted liberal amounts in both their hands, and they smooched and moaned into each other’s mouths, twisting and groaning as they jerked each other off.

Jim came first, a shuddering moan, and his cock swelled in Scott’s hand.

“Oh, babe, that’s beautiful,” whispered Scott, panting, watching Jim’s thick cock spurting all over his fingers. “Can’t wait to get that fat cock inside me.”

Jim groaned and tightened his fingers, unable to do much more while Scott fucked his fist. “Missed you, baby. Missed you…” Scott said against Jim’s mouth as he came.

Chapter Six

“Halftime!” yelled Brian and Scott simultaneously, and they both leaped off the leather sofa, Brian catapulting over the armrest to catch up to Scott at the back door. They fell in a tumble out the door, yelling about coin tosses.

“But you’ll miss all the good commercials,” Jim protested. He had a bowl of popcorn in his lap, a beer in his hand, and his feet up on the coffee table where a half dozen varieties of his special hors d’oeuvres were laid out on party platters.

“Leave ’em,” said Paul. He was slouched down in his big chair, arms and legs spread out and head resting against the back rest. Half awake, really. The optimum football viewing position, in his opinion. “They have their own game during halftime.”

Jim put the popcorn bowl down on the coffee table. “Scott’s cut could open up again,” he fretted.

Paul’s half-lidded eyes slid over to regard his friend. “Didn’t you two get that taken care of?”

Jim knew that Paul meant the
issue
not the
cut
. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Sighing, Paul sat up and picked up a mushroom puff, popped it in his mouth. “Maybe we need to call a meeting.”

“Maybe.”

A high squealing scream of delight was followed by a protest and then, remarkably, the rumble of the water running through walls as somebody outside turned on the garden hose.

Paul and Jim exchanged glances, and both rose to their feet.

“I’ll show you offensive strategy!” That was definitely Brian.

More screaming.

Paul and Jim bumped shoulders at the door until they finally jostled through and stood watching two wet, muddy men rolling in a grassy mud puddle in the middle of the yard.

A slick, mud-covered football popped straight out of the knot of man bodies, did a slow arcing twist in the air, and fell with a plop into a puddle.

“Mine!” yelled Scott, and his mud-covered torso leaped from the twist of bodies. Scott was small but compact, and his body hit the puddle like a large rock. Water and mud splattered everywhere.

Jim looked down at his shirt, and his eyes narrowed.

Scrabbling and slipping and spraying mud everywhere, Scott came up from the ground, mud ball tucked under his arm, and started zigging and zagging across the yard, a muddy Brian, long dripping jersey and all, running, yelling behind him.

“And score!” shouted Scott, doing a victory dance.

It was quite a dance. Scott was soaking wet, his clothes stuck to him like he’d been sprayed with brown paint. That compact, well-endowed body did a little shaky butt dance, and Brian stopped running and stood gaping instead.

He whistled.

Scott turned, mud on his face, those eyes glowing beneath it. He tossed the football to the ground and spread his arms, giving the whole wet, muddy package a little shake and roll.

“You want some, Goldilocks?”

Brian whooped and leaped on him.

Jim made some noise of protest.

Paul glanced at him. “Okay!” he yelled, clapping his hands. When Brian, who was now on top of Scott and groping sort of randomly, didn’t respond, Paul put his fingers into his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle.

Both men stopped moving.

Scott chuckled, grinning up at Brian. “Personal foul?”

“Not in my book,” said Brian. He’d found a perfect place for his pelvis, and he twisted a little there.

“All right, you two. There’s just enough time to clean you off before the second half begins,” said Paul, picking Brian up by one arm like he was just a stuffed doll. He placed Brian firmly on both feet and pointed at the house. “Shower,” he said.

“But…”

“Now,” said Paul.

“Why shower when we can just hose off out here?” said Scott from behind them, and Paul turned to see what Brian was grinning at. Scott had stripped his shorts and shirt off and stood in his muddy sneakers, arms and legs muddy but torso relatively clean.

“Where’s that hose?” Scott said.

“Between your legs!” screamed Brian. “Oh, man, look at you.”

Scott’s equipment was not in proportion to the rest of his compact body. He shook it and then turned his back and gave everyone another little show as he leaned over to pick up the hose. It was a pretty, if muddy, sight. Scott straightened, obviously fully intending to do a little backyard impromptu
Flashdance
with the hose and nothing else, but Jim was there and had hold of his arm. “I don’t think so.”

“Wha—”

Half lifting, half dragging, Jim pulled Scott across the yard and into the house.

Paul and Brian could still hear Scott’s protests after the screen door had slammed shut.

“What did he do?” said Brian. He turned on Paul and stamped his foot.

Paul gave him a discerning look. “I think you know, Brian. But go take a shower. We’ll talk after the game.”

Brian’s lower lip protruded a bit, and he may have stamped once in a puddle as he went across the yard, but he didn’t want to risk missing the second half of the game, so he went.

* * * *

Brats on crack.

Jim looked grimly down at the two wet-headed wrestling men at his feet and thought that was exactly what he and Paul were having to deal with.

For about the fiftieth time, Scott pinched Brian. Or Brian elbowed Scott, and shoving and wrestling and kicking occurred. When Paul snapped, “That’s enough,” both voices claimed, “He started it,” and then they had a few minutes of peace.

Then Brian elbowed Scott. Or Scott pinched Brian.

The game ended, Brian jumped up and down, hooting. Scott jumped up and down and stuck an elbow in Brian, and they were wrestling again, only this time somebody kicked the coffee table, and beer bottles toppled.

“That’s
it
!” snapped Jim. And he jumped to his feet.

A few minutes later, with Brian and Scott facing separate corners and the television off, Jim, mopping up the mess, said quietly to Paul, “Let’s talk.”

* * * *

The Giants had won the Super Bowl. It was a miracle, was what it was. And it was unfair on a superhumongous level that anybody in their right mind, even a top without a proper appreciation for football, would expect a guy to be all sedate and “good game, Sir,” and shaking hands or something after that.

Brian moved restlessly and his eyes slid sideways to look at Scott standing there. Jim had placed Scott’s hands on his head. He always did that to Scott. Brian didn’t know why, but he thought it might be because, if Scott’s hands didn’t rest on his head, then they moved everywhere, rubbing his wrists, his neck, his stomach.

Brian thought about rubbing and then about Scott out in the yard doing his naked dance, and he rocked from foot to foot.

“You got ants in yer pants, Goldilocks?” he heard Scott hiss from the other corner, giving him a wicked golden glance from those eyes.

“Quiet! Eyes forward!” yelled Jim.

God gave tops superhuman hearing. It was just another one of those unfair things.

“Are you sure?” said Paul. He and Jim were leaning against the counter, and Jim had that intractable look he could get: big arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed so they almost met in the center of his nose.

“Scott and I need a vacation. Just him and me together.”

“It seems like the whole
problem
is instability, so how would your taking off somewhere help that?”

“How would staying here help?” argued Jim. “Brian may be happy now, but you know he knows you’ll be leaving again, and it will be eating at him. And then there’s the other thing.”

“Ah, yes, the other thing.”

“Scott isn’t going to like it.”

“I’d suggest keeping it from him,” said Paul drily, “but I can’t imagine Brian being able to do that. Even if you and I could. But what do you think will happen if you two come back from your trip and Brian tells him then? He’ll think you tricked him.”

Jim blinked. For the first time since they’d entered the kitchen, he looked a little unsure. “He would. You’re right.”

“I don’t see any way to do this but head on, buddy. I really don’t.”

Jim shook his head. “Paul, you don’t know Scott like I do. He’s insecure. And when he’s insecure, he’s fractious. And when he’s fractious, there’s no end to the trouble he’ll cause.”

Right on cue, they heard a whisper from the living room. “Quiet!” yelled Jim. “Eyes forward!” There was a sudden and marked stillness.

Paul couldn’t help but chuckle.

Jim plaited his beard, fitfully. “He can go too far. He was in
jail
, Paul.”

“He has a good survival instinct.”

Jim continued plaiting his beard, his eyes worried. Jim had lost a partner to drugs many years ago and had blamed himself for quite some time. He knew Scott was a different sort of man, but he also thought that Paul had the optimism of someone who had never seen self-destruction up close and personal—how fast it could escalate, how it could utterly destroy a life.

“I hope so.”

“We’ll talk it over. Every step of the way.”

Jim heaved a sigh.

“Right now, I’m going to let Brian stand in that corner for a little while, and then I’m sending him to bed.”

Jim nodded. “Sounds about right. I might take Scott for a ride before bed.”

Paul clapped him on the shoulder. “Now that sounds romantic.”

Chapter Seven

“Been riding for weeks,” Scott had groused at first. “Don’t see what’s so great about driving somewhere else.”

Jim fitted an extra bottle of water into the picnic basket and said, “You’ll see.” He reached over and caressed Scott’s head briefly, letting his fingers slide over the short hairs at the back of Scott’s neck, feeling Scott pressing a little into the caress, though his face still wore a scowl.

Every inch of Scott’s body was broadcasting that Jim wasn’t going to get off easy.

So Jim packed supplies and a couple of blankets in the back and was now steering the big white van up and over one of the many mountain passes that led to the Pacific Ocean.

Scott sat on the passenger side, mulling whatever it was that had him still in a knot, only responding when the glowing doobie was passed to him. “Thanks.”

He passed it back, smoke escaping through his teeth as he said, “You gonna
tell
me where we’re goin’?”

“Nope.”

Jim could feel Scott studying him, but he kept his eyes on the twisting roads. Then he heard Scott make some dissatisfied noise and adjust his position on the seat with a little
hmph
of annoyance.

“Bossy Bessy,” Scott grumbled.

A few miles later Jim slowed and turned off the main road, creeping under the trailing branches of an old eucalyptus, then trundling with much bumping and swaying down a steep, rutted dirt road to a small clearing.

He stopped the engine and opened his door.

“This is it?” said Scott, not moving. “Looks like a place folks dump trash.”

Jim was
really
not going to get off easy.