Let It Go (7 page)

“Creed. Man, it’s me. Just Eli.”

As he watched, Creed’s hands relaxed and awareness slowly entered his eyes. He looked around as if confused, disoriented. Muscles rippled in his lean body as he moved. He was so slim Eli could see his ribs. And for the first time he really noticed Creed. Beyond the obvious. His gaunt cheeks, the dark smudges that frequently appeared under his eyes. His threadbare clothes. His dick standing at attention. From adrenaline. Had to be. Eli willed his body not to react. But God, it was long and lean like the man. Dark hair … shit. He felt the telltale prickling at the base of his—

“Well, damn, Creed, are you happy to see me or what?” Shit. He resisted the urge to smooth the overly long hair from the man’s face. To pull him into an embrace and protect him from whatever was chasing him in his dreams that caused him to react like that. “Mind pointing that thing somewhere else?”

“Fuck you, Eli,” Creed croaked in a strained voice, his face gone a light shade of pink.

“Ooh, baby, with that monster, not hardly.” But damn he wouldn’t mind tasting it—shit. “Get the fuck off me, Creed, before I forget that you were just about dead and beat your ass.”

Creed pulled the quilt around him and crawled off Eli to lie huddled on the bed beside him. “I was dreaming—something, don’t remember what,” he said without meeting Eli’s eyes. “I’m tired. How long was I out?”

“Around an hour. I was checking to make sure you were still breathing when you went Rambo on me. Dude, you might think about employing that technique in a real fight one of these days.” He rolled onto his side, which was a mistake. Creed lay facing him, green eyes peering at him from beneath long, fringed lashes. Eli had to force himself to breathe normally. In and out, and don’t fucking stare into his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I was dreaming. I guess you startled me.” Did he wince? Eli caught the slight movement but couldn’t think what he was seeing if not a wince. “Something smells good.”

For a whole minute the world seemed to stop spinning. Want and need and Jesus Christ, Creed smiled at him and looked away quickly. Couldn’t be. Eli was imagining things. He’d showered, he wanted to tell Creed, maybe roll closer so he could—

“Like chicken soup or something. God, I feel like I have the flu. My stomach hurts, my throat hurts, my skin feels funny, and my head is a little fuzzy. I’m freezing.” Creed closed his eyes and tried to burrow under the quilt. “Soup would be nice. I haven’t had soup in a long time.”

“From the looks of things, I’d say you haven’t had a lot of any kind of food in a long time.” Eli hadn’t meant to say what he was thinking. Creed was a grown damn man; he could feed himself. Guys like him worked for other riders if they needed money. Horsemen like Creed would be in demand anywhere in the rodeo world. He didn’t have to ride broncs for a living.

“I get by. And really, Eli, what my life has been isn’t really any of your business. I didn’t exactly ask to be your ranch hand, you know. I’ve been taking care of myself most of my life.” There was anger in his words. His eyes took on that shuttered blinds look again. Damn it, Creed was so damned hard to read. Going blank like that made it worse. Blank and cold.

“Yeah, well, looks like you’ve been doing a suck-ass job of it … or, you’ve got this idea that if you stay skinny you might land some high-fashion modeling job. I hear they like their guys to have that starved look to them. But, seriously man, I gotta tell you, it’s not going to happen. Ugly as you are, you will never be on the cover of
GQ
so stop starving yourself.” He put as much humor in his tone as he could, hoping Creed would take it as that and nothing more. “Or you have a tapeworm.”

“Yeah, well, maybe … fuck you, Eli,” the other man said, a gleam of laughter in his eyes. Much better than blank and cold. His voice cracked, though, with the effort not to let that laugh bubble out his mouth.

“You keep saying that. Somehow I don’t think you mean it.” Eli had to leave. Now. Because he wanted him to mean it. “Besides I’m more of a top, which means I get to do the fucking. Roll over, baby.”

“Not unless you feed me first. And I’m no cheap date.” Aw shit, Creed had no idea what that did to him. Flirting. He was fucking flirting and didn’t even know it. “Crap, Eli, what the hell is the AC set on, arctic blast? It’s fucking freezing in here.”

“It’s on what I normally keep it on; seems fine to me. Hold still and let me check you for fever, okay? That’s all I’m doing so keep the mad ninja skills to yourself.” He held out a hand and laid it on Creed’s forehead. His hair was damp, his skin sweaty. “You feel a little warm. Probably from the quilt. You’re sweating, which is a good thing. You’re probably really weak from all the vomiting. Damn, Creed, gotta tell ya man, I have never seen one person puke that much. I thought you were going to turn your stomach inside out there for a little bit.” Which was the truth.

“I don’t remember.” Creed’s voice quivered. Eli realized he was still touching the man and pulled his hand away. “I don’t remember much, riding to check the water troughs, letting Kip take a long drink. Next thing I remember was sitting in the horse shower with the hose turned on me.”

“You should have said something—if I hadn’t watched you turn red, man, your brain could have boiled in your head.”
Way to go asshole, kick the man when he’s down.
Creed flinched again. “Shit, you did say something. I was being an ass. Giving you shit about being a tenderfoot. Still can’t believe you never worked a real cattle drive before. With your herding abilities and the things I’ve seen you do with a rope.”

“Not much call for herding or roping calves when you’ve spent your entire life driving from town to town chasing the damned rodeo.”

“Can I ask you something? I mean no bullshit, honest to God question, not meant to do anything but appease my curiosity.” What the hell was he thinking, lying here with Creed, talking to him as if they were friends or something? Next thing he’d want to play dress up or do each other’s hair at this rate.

“No bullshit? When Eli Mason isn’t full of bullshit, Satan will likely be ice skating.”

“Seriously, why don’t you go to veterinary school? I see you with the horses. Not just the grooming and the talking to them like they’re people thing you do. It’s the way you are with them. Checking the foals. The mares. You have a gift. I’m not rich or anything, but I can help you pay for the classes you need—”

“Last time I checked you had to have a college degree of some kind to even be considered for the vet program.”

“Yeah, so you’d probably have to go back for—”

“Eli, just drop it, okay? I’m not going to vet school any time soon. Okay.” Creed climbed out of bed, dragging the quilt with him. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes shuttered again. “I am, however, going to take a shower. I feel like I was hosed down in a horse stall.”

“Why not? Just give me one good reason and I’ll leave it alone.”

Creed stopped in the door, letting the quilt drop off his shoulders. His eyes had gone cold and detached again. Dead. He was dead inside. No emotion. Nothing. Walking zombie.

“I dropped out of school when I was sixteen. Never looked back. Are you happy now?” He didn’t wait for Eli to respond; he left him sitting there, stunned. Stunned. He’d never even considered that Creed hadn’t … the kid was always reading, always so damned smart. He thought he’d taken the time. Those years he wasn’t running the circuit. Where the hell was he for the last three years if he wasn’t in school?

He heard the shower come on in the bathroom. “Well, fuck,” he said as he pounded the bed. This seeing Creed fucking Dickson—no, strike that: Creed fucking Running Wolf—as someone to pity was not going to happen. He fucking didn’t ask to be stuck here with the man. He didn’t want to know and didn’t care. Let the man drag himself out of the hole he was in all by his self.

Eli left the room, closing the door behind him, and went to check the soup simmering on the stove while he called Judge Dickhead one more time to plead his case. Or at least plead Creed’s. He needed him gone.

Now.

Before Eli did something stupid.

Like give a shit.

Chapter 6

The cold November air chilled him through his threadbare T-shirt. He stumbled on the path behind the motel leading back to the truck stop, his feet too big in his worn-out boots. He tripped over everything lately. His clothes fit like a second skin, jeans too short. He was too old to have another growth spurt, but there was no stopping the inevitable. He had fifty dollars in his pocket, and food in his stomach. That was all that mattered. Didn’t happen all that often, but tonight he’d been lucky. He’d worry about the rest of it later.

“I know what you are.”

He heard the voice coming from the dark cave that housed the ice machine at the back of this rattrap motel. His heart beat too fast. The voice was familiar. Gruff. He didn’t know whether to run or stand his ground.

“I see the way you look at him, like you’re some damned stray dog and he’s going to save you from the dog catcher. He’s not. He doesn’t know you’re alive.”

The man stepped out of the hall into the light. The boy’s heart nearly stopped. Fear slithered along his skin. He didn’t like the way the man looked at him. Plenty of men looked at him with lust in their eyes. He knew how to use that to get what he wanted. This wasn’t lust.

“Climbing in and out of truckers’ pants. Bet you love it when they tell you they love you. Bet you get off on having them stick it to you. Piece of shit. Not fit to wipe his boots. Yeah, I know all about you, Creed.”

He didn’t move when the man got too close. He didn’t move when he reached behind him, he didn’t dare utter a sound when he grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back. “You’re a whore. Your daddy is a junkie. Shoots all of your winnings in his veins and then sends you out to trick for your supper.”

He stumbled over his feet, moving now. Not because he wanted to; the hand holding his braid like a leash forced him to move. Into the dark cave beside the broken ice machine. Two soda machines gave off dim light at the end of the little space. The sharp brick wall scraped his cheek when the man shoved him against it.

The boy didn’t whimper. He knew what was coming. He’d been there enough. “You like it, don’t you? Little cocksucker. Getting on your knees for truckers. How many do you do a night? How many did you do tonight, Creed?”

The brick was hard when he was shoved into it. Harder the second time. “Two,” he answered. He hadn’t wanted to. A big hand slipped under his shirt, grazing his belly. His jeans dropped low over his hips.

“Did you bend over for them?” His breath reeked of beer, his body of horse and cologne. He was hot. Rough. He didn’t touch him anywhere except for his hair, which he pulled until the braid disintegrated, leaving his hair hanging loose to his waist. “You look like a damned girl from the back.” Something in his voice scared the boy. “Did they fuck you?”

“One.” He whimpered when the wall dug deeper into his face. “Just one.”

“You blew the other one?” The man’s hands turned gentle in his hair. “Yeah, you would, with those pretty cocksucker lips. Little fucking whore. Your ass is slick. Did he use a rubber?” The wall slammed into him again.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The boy braced himself against the wall. Rough hands spread him. He closed his eyes at the grunt that came from behind him. The tight feeling inside him wasn’t unpleasant.

“Tight cunt. I like that. You look like a girl. Tell me how this feels, you little cunt. Moan for me.” The man pulled his hair so hard that tears prickled behind his eyes. He moaned. “Tell me this feels good.”

“Feels good,” he moaned again. He held his body off the wall with one hand and found his dick with the other. “Harder. I like it harder.” He grunted when the man slammed into him. His words were dark, guttural. He twisted the boy’s hair in his hand like it was a set of reins. Jerking his head back with each thrust.

“Nice, tight cunt. Yeah, feels good, pretty cunt. You like my big dick in your pussy, you little fucking cunt. You like the way it feels, don’t you.”

“Yes.” He didn’t lie. Exactly. “Fuck me harder.”

“What’s my name?”

“Mr. Mason. Feels good. Mr. Mason. Harder.” The man held his shoulders and pounded into him. He could hear the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the little cave, his whispered pleas coming back to him. He pulled at his dick, needing to feel something. There was nothing to feel.

“Eli doesn’t want your boy cunt. You stay away from Eli.” He could smell the hate and the lust on the man. His nephew’s name enough to make the boy feel something. He could see the startling strawberry blond hair shaved on both sides and short on top; that the Mohawk was self-inflicted was obvious, but on him it was adorable. “Stay the hell away from Eli. I’ll kill you if you get near Eli.” And still he pounded into him. “Moan for me, cunt. Tell me you like it.”

“Going to come.” Creed hadn’t come in so damned long. Felt good. Eli’s face smiled up at him. Eli with his chocolate brown eyes and the smattering of freckles on his nose.

“Eli.” The man thrust himself into him, his body going rigid as he flooded him with heat. Sick, sticky heat. The boy didn’t come. He held still against the wall while the man withdrew. He heard his belt buckle jangle. This would be over in a minute and he could take a shower. His old man would be asleep. Or passed out, probably with the needle still in his arm.

“How’s it feel to finally be a man?” Hot breath caressed his cheek; the words were soft, maybe a little slurred. He felt a hand slide into his pocket and realized he’d lost the fifty he’d earned at the truck stop.

And then he was alone in the dark. Cum leaking from his ass. Shit, he’d have to get tested again. He’d need more money to pay for the cheek swab. More time to slip off.

When he could move off the wall he pulled his jeans up. They would reek of cum until wash day, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He stuck his hand in his pocket; he knew the money was gone but he couldn’t stop himself. He pulled out two bills. He made his way out into the light and looked around for witnesses. No one. Not even Mason was there. He checked the bills in his hand. The fifty still folded the long way like you give to strippers. And a hundred, wadded in a ball. Damp with sweat or something. He didn’t care. He could get a new pair of boots now. Cheap ones from the secondhand store over in Dallas. He’d make sure they made it over to Dallas. He might even have enough for a couple of new pairs of jeans. Hell, it might turn out to be a decent birthday after all. Not that anyone noticed. Except Sly. And Mason. Yeah, Mason noticed, all right. Eighteen and willing. Mason definitely noticed.