The Shearing Gun (21 page)

I scrubbed up, grabbed a plate, and piled it high with food before plonking down on the milk crate next to Elliot.

“Hey, Quackle. I see you made it. Did you help Middy with the sheep?”

He was grinning from ear to ear with joy as he shoved a curried egg sandwich in his mouth. “Yep. Buck helped me. Middy said that there were about four hundred sheep in the mob we brought in. He also said I can help him after lunch.”

I shook my head. The others in the shed were getting paid to assist Middy, and Quackle was acting like it was a treat! Middy pulled up a crate the other side of me.

“I see y-y-you’re goin’ for the score this year, Hank.”

Once again I was surprised. “Yeah? I’m not even countin’, mate. What am I up to?”

“Two-oh-three.”

I was floored. Two hundred and three sheep?

Elliot leaned forward and asked Middy, “Two-oh-three? What’s that?”

Middy pointed to the piece of corrugated tin tacked up on the wall. The tin was rusted and pitted with age and was probably a part of the original shed, going by the dates written on it. Whoever had built this shed had retained that piece of old wall and nailed it to the new shed to keep the history. The top line read
CB Lancaster 204 1958.

Elliot frowned. “I don’t get it.”

I was busy demolishing my lunch and left Middy to explain. “Thems the t-t-top shearing scores. See? In 1958 someone c-c-called Lancaster did two hundred and four sheep in a d-day. Your score only g-goes up if you beat that.”

Elliot was nodding and reading down the list. “So Hank wants to beat the 1999 score of four hundred and four?”

“Yeah. And he’s done two hundred and three already. He’s gonna hafta do that again to beat it.”

“So you’re telling me that Hank has virtually sheared the same amount of sheep in a half-day period as the top guy could manage in a whole day in 1958?”

“Yep. H-h-he’s been tryin’ to beat that score for three years now.”

“So how many did he manage last year?”

He
was getting a bit sick of being talked about like
he
wasn’t even in the same room, but
he
decided to not be so bitchy and let Elliot talk to others instead of demanding all his attention.

“Three eighty-eight. He d-did three ninety the year before.”

“That sounds good. Is that good?”

“Hank’s one of the best.”

Elliot’s knee nudged mine, ever so slightly. “Yeah. I reckon he must be. So what are the others on?”

They chatted while I sat back and rested. A lot of guys who didn’t know how to conserve their energy dropped their numbers after lunch. For me, third quarter was always good. By that time the animals were starting to get tired and would usually be easier to handle. I leaned against the shed wall as Middy and Elliot talked over me. Every now and then Elliot’s leg would press into mine as he leaned forward to make his point, and the touch quieted me somehow. It was like I was almost… content.

Mrs. MacDonald came past with cold drinks and I gratefully grabbed a cup. “Jeez, thanks Mrs. D. Awesome spread you put on for lunch.”

Somehow, even though her surname was MacDonald, the Big D, Mid D, and Little D nickname had made it through to her. She was the Ds’ mother, so she was Mrs. D.

Big D was shearing as well and called out to me. “How much are you willing to bet you’re not gonna break the record this year, Hank?”

I knew Big D was full of wind. With a gambling addict for a father, none of the MacDonalds would place a bet. “I don’t care about the record, Big D. I just want to beat your arse. Oh, hang on. I could probably call it quits for the day already and still beat you.”

There was a general round of laughter at that.

“Oh, fuck off,” he retorted. “I’m on one sixty-two. Now if pea brain would just give me some decent fuckers to shear, I’d be more.”

It was a respectable total. Big D was one who could be relied on to pump out a decent sum each day.

Little D dwarfed the crate he was sitting on. I had no idea what his momma had fed him as a child, but he towered over me and easily had fifty kilos of extra weight. He could intimidate the best opponent on the footy field, but his heart was gold. He spoke softly when in company and clammed up completely if a pretty girl was listening. “How’s the shoulder now, Hank? You know I’m sorry, right?”

I bore no ill will toward Little D. Sure he’d sat on me, but it was a footy game, and these things were allowed. “Don’t stress it, mate. She’s all better now. Doc Elliot here checked me out thoroughly and can tell you that I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

The two men on either side of me seemed to choke on their lunches. I knew what Elliot was choking about and I really didn’t mean it as a sexual double entendre, but it was with a sinking heart that I realized that maybe Middy was choking for the same reason.

Chapter 17

T
HE
LADIES
left to tramp up to the house and use the bathroom, which allowed us gentlemen to use the outdoor plumbing. We all lined up out of sight of the house and watered the ground. Middy was next to me.

“So how is the shoulder h-holding up, mate?”

“C’n hardly feel it, to tell you the truth. I’d give Big D hell about it if Little D wasn’t here, but I don’t want to hurt your li’l brother’s feelings.”

We walked together to the pen of freshly shorn sheep and looked over them. “He’s g-got himself a g-g-g-girlfriend, y’know?”

I was happy for him. “Yeah? Is she blind?”

Middy whacked me across the stomach as he turned to lean on the fence. “Oi! Be nice. Her name’s Tamara. She’s ’bout four feet tall and looks fifteen. Shit, Hank—I nearly asked t-to see her ID the f-f-first time I met her. Two m-m-minutes later I could see how much she loves m-my brother and so I am her devoted champion.”

“She loves him?”

“Yeah. And he’s b-besotted.”

“And you can tell by just looking at them?”
Shit—could someone really do that?

“Yep.” The look he gave me was a little too long to be comfortable. “I can tell when two people are that much in love.”

“Middy, I—”

My sentence was cut off as Denny stuck her head around the corner and bellowed for Middy, so we wandered back. Inside the shed, Di was explaining to Elliot how to skirt a fleece. Two fleeces were spread out on the table, and she demonstrated moving the table and pulling the dirty wool off to clean it. When she was finished, Elliot had a go at one.

Di smiled her encouragement. “That’s it. Yes, that should all go. Throw all that shit wool in this bag. Yes, good. Now, you need to pick up the entire fleece like this—fold here, tuck that bit in so the back of the fleece is showing, and pick it up. I’ll tell you what bale to put it in.”

I strode over, checked my handpiece, and decided that a change of comb would be best. The other boys were all still gas-bagging outside, a couple of them fitting in a quick nicotine stick. Elliot followed me to the relative privacy of the empty shearing floor.

“Having fun, Quackle?”

“Absolutely. This is so cool.” He lowered his voice and said throatily to me, “I never realized shearing was so sexy.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? What part? The sheep shit, the grease, or the noise?”

He smirked at me. “Fuck off. I meant the hot, sweaty guys leaning over with their delectable arses in the air, all working hard. No wonder you’re so strong. It makes me all tingly thinking about how you can throw me on the bed with the same skill and ease.”

Oh, yeah.
I did have a habit of doing that. My throat dried and I was unable to swallow.

“And watching your hands do the work so nimbly, it makes me remember how good those hands feel on my skin.”

Oh, double-yeah.
I remembered that too.

“But the most arousing part?”

Fuck this was going to be good.
I waited, almost holding my breath with anticipation. He stepped in even closer.

“The most arousing part is those funky slippers that you’re wearing. Why the hell don’t you wear them at home? They are sexy as all shit.”

I burst out laughing and shoved Elliot away from me. “Fuck off, Quackle.” I looked at my shearing shoes—they were made from sheepskin, and most shearers wore them. “They’re not slippers, you arsehole.”

He wandered over to the pens and looked in. “What are your chances of beating the high score today?”

I shrugged, not wanting to get my own hopes up. “I’ve gotta do at least a hundred in this next stretch to be even near. I don’t know if I can.”

“You’ll be exhausted tonight when you get home. Let me make you a deal. If you make the total, I’ll look after you.”

Did he mean…?

He moved in close again. I could hear the men’s voices getting nearer but didn’t give a fuck. “Yes. I’ll look after you however you want. You can just lay there on the bed, and I’ll use my mouth on whatever you like. Or if you’re too tired, you can lay on your stomach, and I’ll do all the work.”

I froze as the implications hit me. If I were on my stomach, that meant he would be on top.
On top
on top. My butt clenched in excitement. Was I a bit apprehensive about it? Fuck yes. But did I want to try?

I turned my attention to the pen in front of me. I had to do two hundred and two sheep in two hundred and forty minutes. Bring it on!

The floor boss gave a nod, and I charged for my pen, my focus renewed and my vigor invigorated. I began to count the sheep in my head, but images of Elliot and me on my bed began to intrude. It wasn’t like I had never thought about asking Elliot to switch roles. I’d thought about it a lot. It was just when the excitement of the moment was upon me, I couldn’t think about anything but the exquisite pleasure of being encased in the heat of his body. The physical act was also something spiritual—if Elliot accepted me into his body, then he was accepting me into his life, and even better, accepting
me
.

I knew logically that the pain of my father’s rejection colored my view. It didn’t matter that Uncle Murray and Jimmie had welcomed me with open arms. It didn’t matter that Paul had come around to the news. What I always seemed to be searching for was acceptance of the part of my soul that dictated my homosexuality. Elliot allowing me to plunge into his body was the ultimate acceptance of that part of me. He knew about that part, he understood that part, he rejoiced in that part, and he loved that part.

And the little five-year-old boy inside of me who’d lost his mother desperately wanted to be loved.

“That’s two fifty, Hank!”

Elliot’s shout across the room penetrated my deep thoughts. I looked up at the clock and smiled. I was on track. Elliot was obviously keeping count for me, even as he worked diligently under Di’s instructions.

I grabbed my next animal and got back to it.

I wondered if it would hurt. Bottoming. It wasn’t like I was hugely experienced in sexual matters, but I’d seen that some guys had trouble accepting, and some guys it was like you hardly needed to use lube. Elliot wasn’t the smallest guy on the planet in the cock department, either. I was bigger than him, and he had no difficulties with my size, but then he’d done it before. What if it hurt so bad I had to tell him to stop?

I shoved a wether out the chute with a little more force than necessary and stomped to the pen. I berated myself internally.
Jesus Christ, you big wuss. Tens of thousands of men have anal sex every single day. Probably millions! How bad can it be? For fuck’s sake—Elliot practically begs you to fuck him. If Elliot loves it, then there must be something about the experience that’s pleasurable.

I was still silently yelling at myself when disaster struck. Big D had scored himself an oversized and feisty wether. I had noted in the back of my mind that he was struggling with a big one who was kicking the hell out of him. A simple lack of attention on his behalf and the sheep was loose, racing for freedom up the shed. One of the broom boys dropped his broom—bottle-of-beer!—and lunged for the animal, sending him skittering my way. I looked up to see the animal bearing down on me and braced for impact. Too late! A good seventy kilos of Merino crossbreed hit me fair between the shoulder blades as it jumped to avoid capture. I staggered and tried to keep my handpiece clear, but couldn’t. I felt my animal flinch as I accidently cut her.

“Fuck!”

Rooster grabbed at the wayward bastard and managed to knock him off his feet, giving Big D a chance to recapture him.

“Darren, you idiot!” one of the girls yelled.

With anxiety I watched a circle of blood bloom under my hand. Rooster was the first to notice and bellowed, “Cut sheep!”

All eyes swiveled from Big D, where he was still trying to push his wether out the chute, to me as I switched off my hand piece and urgently inspected the damage. The broom boy dropped his broom again—bottle-of-beer!—and tried to keep the half-shorn fleece from getting all bloody.

It was bad, but not bad enough to euthanize the animal, as I had first feared.

“Get my bag, boy. She’s gonna need stitches.”

The floor boss charged over, Middy and Elliot at his heels. “Fuck. How bad is she?”