One For the Money

Taboo: One for the Money by Willa Okati

Torquere Press www.torquerepress.com

Copyright ©2007 by Willa Okati First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Taboo: One for the Money by Willa Okati

Chapter One Whoo! Look at him go! Heath whoops quietly and whips the hat off his head, waving enthusiastically, before he settles back down. He frowns at the old brown felt, shaking his head. It's gone and popped a new hole, be damned. His hat is a sorry sight indeed, bent six ways to Sunday and all worn out of shape. The old felt creation probably dates back twenty years and wouldn't have been too high quality in the first place; donated to the Salvation Army by who-knewwho and bundled together with a buckle that likely originated at a Wal-Mart. He didn't really think, not at the time, just bought the whole package for ten dollars plus tax. The buckle found a new home in a trash can. He kept the hat. Vanner had laughed his ass off at Heath—after ripping him a new hole for spending money on trash when they could have bought food—but Heath still can't regret his impulse buy. A man needs a good hat. Better it belong to him, even in poor shape, than ending up as part of a weekend cowboy costume. Heath knows that type of man all too well. They gussy themselves up in leather and suede on a Friday night and head for some fancy bar, the kind of place no selfrespecting bull rider would come close to thinking about wanting to visit. That kind of place would be crammed to the gills with bottles of cheap wine with delusions of grandeur and cocktail ingredients and syrupy liquids fit to candy your molars. 3

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And while he was in there, perched on a stool to display his ass in his painted-on jeans, the weekend cowboy would let himself be mauled by his female equivalents in things their mamas would be ashamed to see them wearing. Hell, that would have been his whole point. What the fuck is this way of life coming to? Heath shakes his head in dismay, but he doesn't linger long on the uncomfortable flashes of thought. He's got better things to do, and very much finer folk to look at. There's still a generous handful of the genuine article to be seen, many of whom are leaning on the fence rails surrounding the arena. They're laughing at dirty jokes, smacking each other around with puffs of dust going up where they hit, loosing streams of black chewing-tobacco spit, and dear God, looking fine as moonshine and good enough to eat. Heath doesn't generally tell people that looking at the bull and bucking bronc riders is mostly why he comes to sit in the stands and watch. It's just practice right now, yeah, but that doesn't mean it's not still serious business. Bulls are mean and horses can be flighty when they aren't treated right, and a good rider knows to scope out the territory before he heads in there to try and last eight seconds. When asked why he does come around, since he couldn't ride if you tied him to the saddle, Heath generally points to a tall, lanky, dirty-blond man who needs a haircut in the worst way, and explains, "Just here to make sure dumbass there doesn't fall and break his neck." Whoever's asking generally rolls their eyes and nods understandingly at this point. They'll glance over their 4

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shoulder at Vanner, who happens to be Heath's brother, his twin, no less, although they're easy to tell apart because Heath knows what a razor is and how to use one. Plus, Vanner is the crankiest son-of-a-bitch ever to walk the green and verdant earth—or in this case, the hard-packed earth of a small-town rodeo. Heath's more or less content with his lot in life, but not Vanner. He's got an eye to future stardom on the circuit. This rodeo here, it's not a good-paying enterprise and from what Heath's seen so far they're not any too picky about following set guidelines. Well, they'll either learn or none but the desperate riders will come out to play, frantic for money and aching for the spotlight. Heath knows the type, and can't blame them for needing or wanting. It is a shame, but then this ain't no easy world to live in. Heath figures he's as well-versed in hardship as any, and he doesn't complain. Vanner would likely get a cattle prod and zap the shit out of Heath if he tried bitching. He works hard toward his dreams and won't tolerate whining, usually displaying his anger via the back of his hand or the knuckles of his fist. Vanner's not someone you want to tangle with. He's poisonmean and he's been angry at the world since he was seven years old. It didn't turn him into a crybaby, no; made him hard as granite and cold as a Montana winter. For all that, Heath does love his older brother. He swore a long time ago to watch Vanner's back and so far his adult life has mostly been tagging along wherever Vanner chooses to go. 5

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That's all right. He generally likes the places where Vanner ends up. That would be because he's with Vanner, and would hitchhike to the ends of the earth to stay with his brother, the man he l—well. Heath knows that if anyone ever suspects, it's a hell of a lot better to smile and lie. He tries not to dwell on that particular obsession. Over-much. He keeps it casual. For example, just now Heath is watching his twin from a far distance as he stands apart from the other cowboys. Vanner is leaning against a fence, ignoring the other men as they joke and jabber. He's got a set to his jaw and a rattlesnake glint in his eyes that lets Heath know Vanner's almost to the point of losing his patience. He doesn't have that quality in abundance to start with. He doesn't care for the horsing around; he'd rather get down to doing the job. Other riders have tried to make friends. When their attempts are rebuffed with a harsh, monosyllabic refusal or more often than not a glacier glare, they come to Heath to either tell him his brother's trouble or to try and fish out of him some kind of reason for Vanner's behavior. Not too much Heath can say that either he or Vanner wants the world to know, and Heath knows he'd never betray his twin's trust. So mostly he smiles and nods and soothes their offended tempers. Heath's the "good one" and probably the reason why Vanner's still permitted in these circles. Well, that and the fact that Vanner is a damn good rider. Heath isn't troubled by needing to smooth down a trampled path. He doesn't mind bull riders being friendly. Sweet Lord, does he not mind, especially when he sees a 6

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glimmer of secret invitation in a man's eyes, or even better, catches an almost not-there tilt of the head suggesting a secret rendezvous later on in the day. Oh, yeah, Heath thinks, scoping himself out a nice eyeful of tight cowboy butt in properly faded 501's that are this close to popping their seams in front and back. The rider he's checking out has as sweet a front view as he does from behind. Probably not a man who'd share Heath's inclinations, but these men never do mind being admired when it's honest appreciation. Heath keeps his mouth shut about the lust and the nights he jacks off to the memories of a soaring dismount or a showy trick or the lazy way they sprawl in the stands with their legs open and a bottle of beer dangling between their knees. Yeah. He's a twisted pervert, but hell, he's never hurt anyone. Thoughts don't cause any harm. He enjoys his dreams and bids them farewell before they even consider moving from his mind to reality. However, if any of the riders he fancies does show an interest or approaches him of their own accord, Heath sure as hell won't say no. He's had some wild nights underneath scuffed-up, squeaking, shaky bleachers, getting his hair full of dust and sometimes grass, and breathing in the smell of horse, leather, and the good, honest musk of a man who's been riding hard and sweating something fierce. They smell raw and ripe, these men, their shampoo and deodorant a long-forgotten memory. Maybe it makes him weird, but this odor gets Heath hot and ready to fire every time. Which ain't a bad thing, no, not at all. 7

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He raises up in his seat, peering at a swarthy, thick-set man who's come up behind Vanner. Be damned. What's Luis doing here? Heath met the half-Mexican all-balls rider at a much grander affair; he's a star on the rise. Not the kind of guy who'd waste his time on penny-ante shows. Man's got an eye to his career at all times. Never puts so much as a toe out of line. Okay, except for the times—what is it, three so far?—when he's had Heath on his knees before him, worshiping his caramel-dark cock, putting every oral skill Heath's ever learned to the test. Luis is hard to please. Heath wouldn't bother if the man didn't have such a gorgeous dick. Heath knows he gets off on being treated with a strong hand, too. Gentleness and tender ways are fine in their place. Heath likes slow loving when he's in the mood, same as any other man, but he appreciates how time is fleeting, and mostly the riders are in search of nothing more than a fast, hard fuck with a handshake at the end and no strings attached. It would, Heath knows, get to being a lonely life after a while if he didn't have someone—Vanner—waiting for him at home, whether home is their old trailer or, when they're flush, a clean motel room with cable TV to enjoy while they eat greasy pizza or spicy Chinese. Home is where your heart is, and Heath's heart has always belonged to Vanner. He's never told Vanner, of course. Vanner's a private man and he keeps so much close to the chest that if Heath hadn't seen Vanner enjoy girl-on-girl porn in those motel rooms or tip his hat at the ladies when even he can't avoid courtesy, 8

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he'd not know whether his brother was straight or bent. Heath plays his own cards with great care. Vanner probably suspects, but Heath's never confirmed, and so far Vanner hasn't put him to questioning. Not that he would, even if he knew for sure. It's not Vanner's way. If he disapproves, you'll know because he's using his fists and then he's gone. People don't get that about Vanner. If he's there, he's not too pissed off, and you have a chance with him. Which Vanner rarely gives, and never to just anyone. You have to earn Vanner's trust. Nothing comes for free, not when it's worth anything. Vanner's not bad at commanding respect, himself; he could just about give Luis a run for his money when it comes to setting demanding standards on a man. But like Heath has often said to himself, he likes being kept on a leash. So to speak. Damn. The thought of Luis tying a collar around his neck and dragging him around by a strip of rawhide goes straight to Heath's dick. He shifts uncomfortably on the rickety metal bleacher, willing what wants to become a hard-on back down in hiding. Not the time nor the place, he scolds his errant cock, which he really does think has a mind of its own. A mind with no common sense, and it's way too excitable for its own good. Heath sighs and gives up, standing briefly to untuck his button-down shirt, his favorite, the one with the narrow, faint blue stripes. The blue is the same blue as Vanner's eyes, the 9

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shade of the sky on a hot summer afternoon when the sun roasts the earth and there's not a cloud to be seen. So he's spent a while studying his brother's eyes. They're the same as his but so, so different. Heath supposes that's down to the spirit behind them and how far different they are to one another. As he moves, Heath knocks over the brown paper bag set carefully on the bleachers next to him. "Damn it!" He's not fast enough. The bag bursts open when it hits the ground— three-times-used, soft as flannel and just about as sturdy as wet tissue paper. Heath had known he was pushing his luck, but they have to milk every drop of usefulness out of what they do have before laying out the cash for more. Heath gathers up their spilled lunch, two sandwiches wrapped in the kind of thin plastic that sticks to every damn thing except the food you want to keep protected, and two cans of store-brand cola. Dented and shook up all to hell. They're gonna burst like a geyser when they're opened, and won't that be fun? At least the sandwiches didn't get dirty. Vanner would likely eat even if he had himself a pound of earth along with the white bread and mustard, so it doesn't matter; Heath prefers to offer up as decent a meal as he can regardless. Takes a lot to feed a rider. More than they can afford. They're skinny as rail fences, the both of them. Doesn't matter. They're still together, still making ends meet, and Vanner's still doing what he loves, living for the rush of trying to make those eight seconds. Heath lives for 10

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the moment when Vanner makes it all the way through because, in those split seconds, Vanner smiles. The way Heath figures, seeing Vanner smile is worth whatever it takes to get there. And he finds plenty to enjoy for himself along the way. It's a sweet life. Heath lazes back in the bleachers, glad his shirt is long enough to hide what's what when Luis takes his horse, a sweet sorrel gelding who's light and fast but sturdy, on a circuit of the ring. When he passes Heath, Luis doesn't do anything so obvious as leer or even wink, but he does give Heath a brief nod to let Heath know he's been recognized and that Luis is up for some fun later if Heath is so inclined. Heath returns the tiny inclination of Luis' head with one of his own. Hell yes, he would most definitely be interested. He'll be thinking of another man, unless he can subtly suggest a collar—he's not made of stone—but Luis never need know as much. Even if he did know Heath's lost his senses over someone else, it's not likely that Luis would care. And oh, but Heath is a goner. Which is more than a small problem. His heart, the drive behind his rising dick, and the latest, greatest, most frequent star in his fantasies, they're all credit to someone he can never and is never going to have. Maybe Luis isn't such a great idea after all. Luis passes before Heath can let him know with a slight shake of the head that he's changed his mind and he's not too interested this time around. Should make for an interesting confrontation later, but he'll burn that bridge when the time comes to cross over. 11

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Heath exhales slowly, clicking his tongue over what a fool he is. He knows what he has in mind is dangerous, foolhardy and likely to get him dragged behind a spooked horse until he looks more like mud pies than a man. For all that, he couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to. Which he doesn't. Fare-thee-well to Luis, then, and all his kinky games. The man had finished up being sucked the last time by shooting over Heath's face, decorating his cheeks with Harlequin tears of spunk and coating his lips. Said he'd seen this in Japanese porn, something "bukkake", but Heath wouldn't have cared if it had been a Martian technique, it'd been so damn sexy to get that sticky mess all over his face. Luis does know how to treat a man. If it weren't for this new guy... Well. Days gone by. Luis will find someone else—of that, Heath has no doubt. He's a fine-looking sort and has an eye for the pretty girls in the stands fit to equal or exceed his taste for wiry young men. He'll be all right. Having said fare-thee-well to Luis in spirit if not in flesh, Heath is left with nothing else to do but contemplate the true object of his affections. Long, tall, lean, harsh, cold yet so fucking hot. Damn, but he wishes he had someone to confide in. There's one who might understand, if Heath was ever sure they understood him at all, but he won't burden that person with more burdens to bear. They've got enough mounded on their slender shoulders as it is. Heath won't add to their load. 12

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Besides, the way this person is, they might let the secret slip all unawares, and the shit would well and truly hit the fan then. He can't see Vanner taking well to the news that his twin brother is perving over the way his ass looks in his jeans. Dreaming every damn night about either fucking or being fucked by the man he's shared his life with from the moment they were conceived. Vanner won't give a damn as to whether Heath's feelings are "right" or "wrong". That's not the problem. Heath just has a feeling that Vanner will cut and run for the hills if he ever finds out. So he won't. Not if Heath can help it. He'll content himself with sitting and watching and playing out idle daydreams of "could-be" and "if-only". Things could be worse, as he knows from experience. Heath supposes some might find his desire for his twin odd. He doesn't. Doesn't surprise him a bit. His whole life has been built around Vanner in some form or fashion. In the end, all they have is one another. He can deal. Heath re-packs their sack lunch—well, he says "their", when it's really not. Vanner needs the last of the sandwich fixings more than Heath does, so Heath plans to tell a white lie and tell Vanner he's already eaten. Which he has. A couple of leftover peanut-butter-cheese crackers, the kind that are a scary shade of orange but not bad-tasting if you can get past the color. They'll be enough to hold him. The drink can fill in any extra spaces for now, and there's a box of spaghetti noodles 13

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plus a can of Southwestern-style sauce for dinner. Heath's stomach growls at the notion of spicy tomatoes with bits of green pepper and onion mixed in. Damn, that sounds good; he can't fucking wait. Oh, hey, look there. Heath perks up. Looks like it's finally Vanner's turn to take his horse on a circuit. The good old gluebait doesn't show much fire outside of competitions, which is to their advantage over those who have never seen Vanner ride. They underestimate him as well as the horse. He's smart, Vanner's horse, an old but still sound gray gelding named "Stormy Skies" by the little girl who got tired of riding lessons. Her daddy sold them the mount for a whistled song, glad to be shed of the creature. The beast has another, fancier, name to go along with his decent bloodline, but mostly they call him "Sky" and figure that's good enough. Vanner looks lost in thought as he rides. Either that or tight-lipped with anger. Kind of hard to tell sometimes, even for Heath. Whichever way, he doesn't take notice of much of anything as he rides, not beyond his horse and the little nuances he's picking up about the ring. Heath is free to ogle as much as he likes, and no one thinks he's doing more than keeping an eye out for his twin. He's particularly enjoying the sight of Vanner's ass flexing in the saddle when the stink of cheap cologne assaults his nose. He twitches, irritated, as a man who's damn-near coated with the tacky stuff plops down next to him, easy and free, like he has every right in the world to be there.

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Heath's not outwardly rude, it's not his way, so instead of snapping at the man, he nods and holds his peace. Most folks would understand he didn't want to talk. This guy is not most folks, or so it turns out. "Now this, this was worth a plane ride in third-class down here." The man tips back his spanking-new hat, black as coal, expensive as fuck and absolutely no good for anything but looking sexy. Which, okay, it does. He's not bad-looking when examined in a sideways glance from the corner of Heath's eyes. Maybe around six feet tall, give or take an inch. He looks to be in his early thirties, with a nice head of curling dark hair and a wide smile. All the same, something about him puts Heath on edge. Maybe it's the snide mockery he can hear in the man's voice, or it could be the God-awful cologne smothering the rodeo smells that Heath loves. The man doesn't strike Heath as the type who can be trusted. It's not like him to make a snap judgment, so the assessment troubles him. "Would you look at his ass?" the man demands, jabbing Heath in the ribs. "Fuck, if I'd known cowboys were so hot, I'd have come down to check out the investment before." "Investment?" Heath asks, his mouth jumping ahead of his mind. Those warning prickles are getting stronger. He'd swear the man's gaze, turning to Heath, is coating his skin with oil. Used cooking oil, at that. It makes him feel greasy and dirty and more than a little uncomfortable. He can't exactly tell the man to stop looking, though, can he? 15

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The man laughs, a nasty, snickering sound. "Oh, yeah. I'm taking over now that Dad's retired. Everything he kept under wraps is in my hands now, and I'm having the time of my life. Money, power, sex on tap whenever I want some. They're throwing themselves at my feet." Heath's hand tightens into a fist, itching to pop the man one. He's met the type more often than he cares to remember. Rich boys can be fine and decent, but there are those who think that because they have money, everyone wants a taste of their dicks. They don't care if that's true or not. They might not care even if they knew for sure. The world is their playground. "Oh, now, what's that frown for?" the man gibes. "A face like yours is too pretty to waste. Blue eyes, soft hair, and a sweet, sweet mouth. I think you and I are going to be good friends, aren't we?" Heath draws his lips together in a flat line and keeps his gaze fixed on the ring. The man wants him to rise to the bait. Be damned if he'll play that kind of game. If Heath ignores him, maybe he'll go away. Yeah. Right. As Heath knows he might have figured, being shot down just whets the man's interest to razor sharpness. He leans forward, close enough for Heath to get dizzy from his smell, and by God if he doesn't brush his fingers over Heath's thigh! "I bet a man like you has so many stories to tell," he whispers in Heath's ear, way too close for comfort. "You're going to be nice to me, aren't you? I would, if I was you." 16

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This guy needs to work on his act, Heath thinks, grateful that the touch lasts no more than a fleeting moment. He nods to the man again, shorter and jerkier this time, before standing to walk away. Vanner hasn't seen them yet. Heath really doesn't want his brother to see this oily, no-sense type hanging around in his company. Lord knows what Vanner might do. He can be territorial as a mother bear and if anyone he doesn't trust comes sniffing around, he'll bite. "Now, where are you going?" the man asks, sounding like he thinks he's clever or something. "I think you ought to stick around, Heath Gitane. You and I are going to have a talk, aren't we?" Heath frowns. How does he know my name? I'm not a rider, that he can follow me. He might have cause to know Vanner. Not me. What the hell is he trying to— Oh. Oh, shit. The man had said "investments." Said his daddy had retired. This man doesn't look anything like the graying red-head Heath's dealt with since he and Vanner were both teenagers, but now that he's listening for it Heath can hear those Bostonian vowels. He sits down slowly. "You're Morocco's son." It's not a question. "Didn't know Mr. Morocco was ready to throw up his hands just yet." Morocco Junior shrugs, completely uncaring about the state of his father's health. "He's not, or he wouldn't be if not for the heart attack. His doctor says it's from years of eating shit, and let me tell you I know where he got his hands on beef barbeque, hush puppies, fried catfish and pecan pie. Not 17

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in our house. Deborah's a health freak. She's my mother, his second wife." "He's not really your daddy, then." "As if. Nope, the only thing he ever gave me was his name. And now, control over his affairs." The man grins bright and broad and mean in a way Vanner never has been. This is the kind of nasty-bastard attitude of a man who likes seeing people writhing under his boot. Knowing this man has the upper hand over him makes Heath uncomfortable as hell. You knew where you were with Mr. Morocco Senior, or "Mike" as he liked to be called. Mike hung out with the riders, shot the shit, became one of their friends, knew better than to try riding, and when asked out with the guys tucked into Texas' finest steak dinners with so much pleasure he turned an ordinary meal into a party. Heath gets the feeling that Mike's son is the exact opposite of his daddy. That ain't good. When Heath is fully in his seat, the man touches him again, his soft, manicured hand resting on Heath's knee. Heath jerks his leg, hoping to knock that hand away, but the man laughs softly and won't be dislodged. "Now, Heath Gitane, you need to be nice to me," he chides. "After all, you want to stay on my good side, don't you? Without me and a line into the family's wallet, you won't be able to afford food or stabling for that old horse Vanner loves so much." The man tilts his head, pursing his lips. "That's almost sick, the way he's petting and loving on, what is it? Stormy Skies? Swear to God, it's X-rated. Like it's a love with no name, you know what I mean?" He pokes Heath in 18

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the ribs, using his fingertips this time, and moves in tight to whisper, "Gets me hot." To make sure Heath doesn't miss the point, he takes his hand off Heath's knee to grope his own crotch. He's hard, which startles Heath although he doesn't know why. It seems somehow lewd and out of place. Maybe because this man doesn't fit in and doesn't appear to care about trying. Heath decides on a plain-speaking approach. "Let me see if I understand you," he says, keeping it to a no hurries, no worries drawl. "You're thinking about blackmailing me, threatening to take back the horse and leave us penniless unless I fuck you. That about the size of things?" The man shrugs. "Except for a few details. For one, I plan to fuck you, not the other way around. You must look so good on your knees and I want to see your pretty lips wrapped around my dick." Heath really wants to say not gonna happen. He's wary enough not to let the words out, though, which turns out to be a good thing, for the man whispers hot and nasty in his ear again, making his blood run cold, "I know who you're protecting, and it's not Vanner or his horse. Do you want the rest of the world to know about the secret you two keep?" He's not talking about Heath's unrequited lust. He can't know about that. What he knows is a secret only Morocco Senior was told. Heath has no idea what caused Mike to spill. He's not happy about that. 19

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They are in for a world of hurt if he doesn't do what Junior wants, which Junior knows. His nasty smile deepens. "I think you're starting to understand how you need to respect me, Heath Gitane. What you need to know for sure is that I'm not just threatening. I'm promising. Either you give me what I want, or not only will your brother be without a horse or a means to earn money, the whole word is going to know your dirty little secret." Heath inhales sharply. "Damn you." Junior snickers. "Your choice," he says, squeezing Heath's knee, then gliding his fingers up soft denim to damn near Ground Zero, which has gone limp as a day-old hot dog, thank you very much. "Take some time to think, if you want. I'm not going anywhere for a week. But if I haven't been serviced at least once by then, I think you know I'll do what I've said I would." Junior fingers Heath's dick through his jeans, a nasty, wormy feeling that makes his balls want to crawl up inside and hide. And isn't Junior pleased with himself? Man just about gleams when he stands, dusting off the seat of his black designer slacks. He's wearing pointy-toed boots of alligator skin, polished to a glossy shine. He is so ungodly wrong in every aspect. Heath's fists itch with the need to wipe that smirk off Junior's face. Trouble is, he knows he can't say no to what Junior is ordering him to do. Junior'll take away the one thing besides Heath that Heath knows Vanner loves, as well as take the skeletons in their closet out for a dance. When the horse 20

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and the protection of their family goes, so will the rodeo and any chance to ever see Vanner smile again. The bastard has Heath exactly where he wants him, laughing at it being so easy, because he knows Heath knows if he decides to withdraw his funds they don't have anything else to keep them afloat. Vanner's a small-time rider and he's not old but he's not young, either. Doesn't matter if he's using old tricks. They still work. Damn the man to hell. Heath has no choice but to sit there and fume as the man gloats over him. "I think I'd like to hear from you tonight," he says. He draws a small leather case from his hip pocket and opens it to pull out a crisp white business card. "By midnight. You call, I tell you which hotel, and we get the first payment out of the way." Heath doesn't miss the implication. First payment. No doubt first of many. It chafes. He's twisted, not a whore. And if Vanner ever finds out Heath hasn't told him the truth about who really owns Sky, then it'll be over between them, twins or no. He can't let that happen. He loves his brother. Maybe too much, okay, and in a way that would have preachers red-faced and shaking fingers at him, but there it is. He'll do what he has to. Turning the business card over in his fingers, Heath reads the small black print. Sidney Morocco. He snorts with laughter; he can't help himself. "Sidney?" 21

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That earns him a filthy look. Sidney appears to be sensitive. He starts to say something, but thank God, he's interrupted just in time. "What the hell are you doing with my brother?" Vanner growls, throwing his full weight against the railing. "Who are you?" Heath flinches, but for all his faults and flaws Sidney is cool under pressure. "A fan," he says, voice smooth as butter. He tips his hat. "Just a fan." Vanner eyes Sidney with what looks like cold dispassion. Heath sees the small cues—the faint tic in his jaw and the flash of distaste in his twin's eyes—which tell him otherwise. "That a fact?" "Absolutely." Sidney is either clueless, which Heath doubts, or enjoying the hell out of himself. "You'll be seeing a lot of me at this rodeo." He deliberately turns from Vanner to wink at Heath. "Look for me in the stands." Sidney walks away with a spring in his step. Heath glances back to see how Vanner's reacting, and as he figured, Vanner has a dangerous look to his face. He's jealous as fuck, mad as hell, and instantly suspicious. You do not fuck around with something or someone Vanner has laid claim to. His jaw works a few times before he orders, "You stay away from him." The words, "you're mine" go unsaid, but they're understood, no problem. That's how it's always been. That's not what surprises Heath. No, what really pulls the stadium out from beneath his feet is the flash of a different kind of jealousy he's pretty sure Vanner doesn't realize he's 22

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displaying. Not the usual kind, where he doesn't want to share his family. Nope. This is the kind of look Heath has seen on riders who don't like other horny men sniffing around Heath, looking to get laid. Be damned. Vanner's pretty much ignorant of the signals he's giving off; if he's glowering like a grizzly bear with a headache on purpose he doesn't say. "Understand me, Heath? Watch yourself. Don't want to see him near you again. He's trouble." You don't know the half of it, Heath thinks, looking down at the sack lunch he's almost forgotten, needing something to focus on besides Vanner's tight, lean body and his sinfully blue eyes, which make him think things he really doesn't need to fixate on at the moment. Brother mine, you don't know the half.

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Chapter Two "Get out," Vanner says abruptly, tossing one of their heavy plastic plates in the small trailer sink. "Go on." Heath waits. Vanner's never rude to him, not deliberately rude, anyway. He knows his twin well enough to read between the lines. Vanner's got a reason why Heath should step outside their home. He's waiting around to see why he's supposed to leave, if he's meant to take care of a task or something. Vanner's squinting at the sky through the tiny window above their sink. "Nice night," he says at last. "Good weather. Won't last." Their trailer is parked facing west, and the light is just strong enough to make Vanner screw up his eyes and draw his lips tight. It's a face that would look ugly on anyone else. Heath knows he's biased. "Go on." Heath nods. Vanner's word is law, although he thinks he might have gone anyway on his own accord. It does look to be a fine, mild evening, the humidity low and just enough of the day's warmth left over to bask in. "You coming?" Vanner weighs the question carefully before answering. "Nah." He picks up the plate, frowns at the smears of tomato sauce hanging on for dear life, and scrapes his thumbnail against a daub that's already dried on all crusty-like. Heath is usually the one who does the dishes, and for good reason. Heath always thinks it's so strange that a man so graceful on the back of a horse is a plain-out disaster waiting to happen everywhere else. 24

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Heath waits again until sufficient time has passed to decide that's all Vanner is going to say. "Soak them first, and then use the green scrub pad by the spigots." "This damn thing's falling apart." Heath shrugs. Nothing he can do about it. "It'll last for a few more suppers if you go easy." He thumps Vanner on the back just below his shoulders—space is so cramped in the trailer he barely has to take three steps forward with his long legs—and laughs when Vanner glares at him. "Jackass." "You, too." Heath squeezes Vanner's shoulder, a friendly gesture of affection that they've always shared. His fingers linger longer than he'd have liked. Vanner doesn't seem to notice either the duration or the awkwardness as Heath freezes up. All Vanner's attention is focused on domestic shit. It adds a whole new layer of weirdness. Heath isn't sure why Vanner's gone all Suzy Homemaker tonight. Probably the perceived threat to his family. Heath is the only other person in the world still alive that Vanner can call blood kin, save for one they don't usually talk about, and he's long ago grown used to his brother's stranglehold. They both hold on equally tight. Some things, though, Heath felt pretty damn sure Vanner wouldn't want to share. Although there had been that one moment earlier, when he could have sworn... Nah. His imagination was running away with him again. Happens a lot.

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"Daydreamer," Vanner says with a snort. He smacks the spigot with the flat of one hand when it groans and bitches, not wanting to let any water flow. "Come on!" "You've got to baby this thing a little." Heath forgets, for a moment, that he's following orders and heading out. He's learned how to work with the quirks and foibles of their home on wheels. What she can do, what she has to be coaxed into trying, and what she will never give up no matter how sweet he asks. "Give it some love. Turn slowly, and I mean slowly, to the right. Tap the base three times. Ought to run clear after that, and if you're lucky it'll even be warm." Vanner gives him a strange look. Anyone who didn't know him would call it condemning. Heath knows it's scornful, sure, but laced with curiosity and a touch of concern. "You always wash dishes in cold water?" "Yeah, well. It's not a big deal. Go easy on the dish soap." Vanner refuses to look away. "This is fucking cold." "Let me take care of the cleanup, then," Heath says, irritated. Damn. Vanner should be glad he's figured out a way to make their little cubbyhole of a shower run hot—most of the time. He makes to take his twin's place at the sink, but Vanner shoves him back. "What?" "Cold water," Vanner emphasizes. "You never said." "Should I have? Jesus. I'm going out." Heath's mad now, though he couldn't have said why, and his temper burns just as hot as Vanner's. His bark, Vanner's bite, they were both bad dogs. "Don't break the damn things."

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"Like I could. They're plastic." Heath turns his back on Vanner, but all the same he can't block out his twin's angry mumbling. "Plastic plates. Cold water. Fuck." Heath has no idea what's crawled up Vanner's ass, and he doesn't plan to stick around trying to find out. He barrels out the trailer door, down the rickety set of movable rung-steps he jerry-rigged together some time back—they're always threatening to break; he's sure, every time, that it's going to happen when he puts his foot down. They hold. The temptation is there to vent his spleen by going to see who he can pick up for some stress relief. Heath isn't vain but knows the riders who are inclined that way like the looks of his dark blond hair and the way he's learned of looking sideways at a man, extending the courtesy of a small grin as invitation. A fuck sounds like the best idea ever, until he remembers Sidney and if that doesn't stomp down a man's libido, Heath has no idea what would. Fuck. His temper deflates faster than a pricked balloon. Heath lets himself fall, legs folding up beneath him out of old habit until he's sitting in what Vanner has called some kind of fucked up yoga position. Vanner surprises him, sometimes, with the things he knows about. More often than not, he knows too much. Vanner cannot find out about Sidney or what the man wants or what he'll do if Heath doesn't play nice, much less why. Keeping this a secret is going to be hard. Heath has generally kept his trysts daytime-hours-only, preferring his 27

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brother's company after supper and before bed. Both of them like having the private time, even if they end up not talking, but watching the game on their portable TV, passing a beer back and forth. It's their time, damn it, and Sidney ought not to have the right to waltz in and thieve it out from underneath their noses. Well. He figures he's got until about eleven-thirty to make plans and decide on what he'll do. In the meantime, he's not going to think about Sidney. When he does, he's going to tell himself straight-out that sex is nothing more than sex, needn't mean anything more—except it does, when someone's twisting what he should at least be willing to do into a dreaded burden. Heath snarls at himself and gives up. He deliberately shuts his conscious mind off and sets to developing an appreciation of the Texas evening all around him. Vanner was right—it is a good night, even better when Heath is out in the heart of it. Not too hot, not too cold. There's no grass to cushion his butt, not in this worn-down trailer park where they're renting space for a month. But it's not anything to cry about. There aren't any rocks or leftover gravel stones, and that's not bad, just smooth, hard-packed earth warm from the summer sun. It makes him want to roll around and soak up the warmth like one of the little lizards he's seen doing their thing. The notion makes Heath chuckle, but his laughter dies off fast as he slips from one flight of fancy to another and imagines how it would look if he did lie down and wallow in 28

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the dust. He sees himself in his mind's eye—or maybe he's thinking of Vanner—and it takes his breath away. Definitely Vanner, then, 'cause Heath might not have a low opinion of himself, but he doesn't leave himself speechless. Yeah, this is Vanner he's seeing, a whole new side of his twin. His scowl has softened into an easy smile, better than the ones he displays after a successful ride, even. Heath decides to take Vanner's T-shirt off, imagining his brother naked from the waist up. He's got more muscles than Heath, from riding. It's one way for strangers to tell them apart. He respects his twin's privacy and keeps Vanner's 501's on, even in the heart of daydreaming. He would like to think about Vanner completely nude. Completely hard. He doesn't. Although he does let himself linger over the planes and angles of Vanner's hip bones, peeking out of his jeans, the way they always do when he lies down to sleep. He wants to touch, to lick, and to bite despite knowing he never will have the chance. Damned if he can't all but taste the salty sweat on his twin's skin anyway. He wonders, what would Vanner think if he knew the reasons why Heath had decided not to keep sharing the trailer's undersized bed and taken to getting his night's rest wrapped up in a sleeping bag on the floor? Vanner'd be surprised, and that's a fact. Heath grows serious, rearranging the way he sits until his knees are drawn up under his chin and he's holding them in position with both arms wrapped around his shins. He rests 29

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his head, letting the overlong sides of his hair fall down to hide his eyes, and half-closes the lids. How did that poem go? The one they made the play from? Something about dreams deferred and raisins left out to dry. Whatever it happened to be, it made its point. Vanner was a dream never to be realized, not unless something out of this world happened. Heath accepted as much, and, sitting in the evening sun, trying not to think about Sidney, he finally makes his peace. This was his life. He'd stand up and live it. "Heath, baby!" Heath flinched and cursed. He's been so lost in thought he hadn't seen or heard or smelled anyone coming near. The immediate instinct was to swing around and punch first, ask questions later, but he hesitates and when he sees who's come to greet him, he's glad he'd faltered. He has no quarrels with Lucy. "Hey yourself." Heath summons up a grin, genuine enough. "Where the hell did you come from?" "Well, a long time ago, there was this rancher who asked my momma for a dance..." "You think you're so fucking smart." "Nope. I know I am." Lucy sits next to Heath, easy as you please, and gives him the full benefit of her own smile, more dazzling by far and considerably prettier thank his. Her two front teeth being very slightly crooked just adds an extra dose of charm. She never has been a looker. She has something better, which Heath figures will do her far more good in the long run. She'll have that indefinable something 30

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when she's eighty and she'll probably still be wrapping riders around her pinky finger. She's as red-headed and friendly as Sidney's fa—no, Heath decides, he's not going to think of the kindly old man that way. It'll spoil the memory. He'll be "Mike" and nothing more. "I was running behind on schedule," Lucy goes on to explain, oblivious to Heath's distracted thoughts. "That's why I didn't get here until this afternoon. Miss Martha came down with a nasty case of laminitis. I had to scramble around to find another mount to ride while the vet's taking care of her and let me tell you, that wasn't easy. Horses. Christ, they're expensive." Lucy clicks her tongue and examines her short fingernails. Heath sits very still and holds his tongue. Lucy doesn't know any better. He's always made out like things are just fine, and to be frank he'd rather folks still believe that. Lies are better than the truth in their case. Anyway, he likes Lucy. If women had ever left him anything but cold when it came to thinking about sex, Heath is pretty sure he'd have wooed and won her long since or half killed himself with trying. Lucy cranes her neck, glancing around them. "Where's Vanner?" "Fighting a losing battle against dried-out tomato sauce." She dimples. "You made Vanner do the dishes? Go, Heath!" She slaps his leg. It stings. The woman's got an arm on her. "Are you punishing him for something?" "What? Fuck, no. Helping out was his idea; don't go laying the blame on me." 31

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"Uh-huh." Lucy winks at Heath as if they've got some big secret between them. Heath is torn between aggravation and amusement. The choice is his, so he goes with the friendlier option, giving her his best grin. "That's better," she says in approval. "So, what are you two doing here? Did they recruit Vanner? They did me. That's the only reason I came." Lucy can be a snob, although she's never mean-spirited about it. She's too used to success. "They paid out pretty good. Want to set an example for women riders, get on the organization's good side." Interesting. Heath makes a noncommittal noise and gestures for her to keep talking. She changes the subject in her way, never lighting on a topic for more than a few sentences before she's off again. She wriggles in conspiratorially and whispers, "So, have you found Mr. Right yet?" Lucy knows which way Heath leans. She figured that out almost as soon as they met, and back then Heath wasn't any too sure himself. He should have listened to her. Lord have mercy, the way she'd squealed when he finally let her know! Ever since then, she's been rooting for him to find the love of his life. More quietly rooting. She's no fool. Heath squirms, uneasy. "Not yet," he says, hedging. "What about you?" "Hmm." She looks thoughtful, with that far-away expression some women get when they're reminiscing about past triumphs. She licks her lips with the tip of her pointed, pink tongue. Heath fears for the life of any man who gets too 32

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close. "I've had some time with a Mr. Good Enough For Now. Does he count?" "Did you have fun with him?" "Mmmhmm." Sounding pleased as she does, Heath has no doubt that she enjoyed herself more than a little. "That's what matters, then." She opens her eyes, grins, then jabs him in the soft spot between ribs and hip. He doubles over, yelping, and glares at her when she giggles. What the fuck is it with people poking his side today? "Ow! You are a grade-A bitch, young lady." "Thank you." Lucy straightens herself out demure as a society princess. "Come on. I want to hear the good stuff." "A man never kisses and tells," Heath says with a straight face. "Yeah, but what if I tickle it out of you?" Lucy pounces. "Sweet Lord, no!" is all Heath has time to yelp before Lucy's knocked him down. She's got him pinned under her slight weight and he's holding her wrists to keep her from landing any of her teasing blows when the trailer door screeches open and they both see Vanner standing in the entryway. There's a faded yellow-check dishcloth in one hand, a mostly-empty bottle of detergent in the other, and the wrath of God in his manner. Lucy knows enough to scramble off Heath, fast, and he's quick to follow her example, sitting up straight. "Were we making too much noise?" he asks, pretending innocence. "Sorry." 33

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Vanner flips the dishtowel over his shoulder and says nothing. Lucy knows Vanner's ways pretty well, yet nothing rattles her more than silence. "How have you been?" she asks with forced brightness. "I heard Sky did great up in North Dakota." Vanner moves to put the soap bottle down on a shelf Heath knows is just inside the trailer door. He never once takes his measuring eyes off Lucy, who's about to start writhing in shame. Not too many can stand up against Vanner when he's a mood. Lucy gives Heath an apologetic smile, which he returns. He understands. "See you later, baby." She kisses the top of his head, does her best to snatch him bald with a knuckle-rub, and he deliberately aims his swat at her ass to miss. Vanner's none too pleased. He tolerates Lucy for Heath's sake as long as she doesn't come around too often, and never in the evenings. He might normally be aggravated, but it would be mild and he surely wouldn't growl fit to send her running for the hills. It's strange, to Heath, that Vanner's reacting like a mother bobcat for the second time in one day. Jesus, does he need to just go ahead and write "Property of Vanner Gitane" on his forehead in black Magic Marker or what? Driving Lucy away doesn't incline Heath to be generous or welcoming. "There a problem?" he asks, staring straight and steady at his twin. "Something wrong with the sink?" Vanner scowls. He takes the towel off his shoulder and starts pulling it from hand to hand. It's his "thinking" habit. Always did have to have something to play with while he tried 34

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to figure things out, even when he was a kid with no more than a stick to toss around. He probably doesn't have softening Heath's mood in mind, but for all that, he does. The appealing sight of his twin, coupled with the evocative movement of his hands, eases Heath down from his mad-on and prompts him to smile. This puzzles Vanner. "What's funny?" "Nothing." Heath starts to laugh. "Not a damn thing." Vanner's eyes roll toward the heavens. He snaps the towel tight between his fists once, twice, and again, and then he does the best thing Heath has ever realistically hoped for. He hasn't indulged in years, so Heath doesn't pick up on the signals. Vanner has launched himself bodily out of the trailer and landed on Heath, knocking his breath loose, before Heath knows what's hit him. Heath is too shocked to react at first. It's like something out of his fantasies to feel Vanner's weight atop him and hear the rough sounds of his twin's breathing, quick breaths that are hot against his throat. "Give up already?" Vanner gibes, pinning Heath's wrists to either side of him and planting his ass on Heath's stomach. "Come on." Heath shakes his head to clear his thoughts, looks up and sees that although Vanner isn't smiling, his eyes are alight with the playfulness of a wolf cub. It's like they're young again, back when Vanner still knew how to have fun. Back when Heath did, too. When did all that change? Heath wonders. 35

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He doesn't stop to ponder this too long. He pretty much knows the answer, and he does not care to think on that while Vanner's feeling feisty. "Like hell I'm giving up." Heath bucks up to throw Vanner off, flips on his stomach and scrambles off crab-style until he's free to stand up. He turns and dances in place, egging Vanner on with come-get-me crooks of his fingers. "Too slow, Van," he taunts. "You're getting old." "Fuck that." Vanner takes off, going from zero to sixty in point fucking nil seconds. Heath whoops as he puts on his own burst of speed, dodging Vanner in the nick of time. "You little shit!" his brother swears, and Heath knows he means business now. Better run. Heath looks around quickly, not missing a stride or losing his lead, and lights on the far edge of the trailer park. There are some trees over there, scraggly-ugly yet thick enough to be called "woods". Probably someone's effort to "beautify" way back when, forgotten until now. He makes for the not-so-tall timbers, whooping at the top of his lungs, and laughing to hear Vanner curse as he tries to keep up. Down the pounded earth roads, kicking up dust for Vanner to eat, and into the trees. They're a hell of a lot denser once inside than Heath would have thought. But he's having so much fun and he's so focused on keeping ahead in the race that he doesn't hear Vanner's warning shout or see him try to stop. Not before it's too late, and by then he has no time to think about anything but breaking his fall. He gets the wind knocked out of him and it's not fun this time around, it's a hard punch to the stomach 36

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from a fallen branch that leaves him too dizzy to do anything but free-fall. When, thank God, Heath reaches the bottom of the unsuspected gully, he skids to a stop on a mat of old, dead pine needles and leaves that smell like musty attics. He could not have liked anything better. The pain and the stink mean he's still alive. How far did I fall? he wonders, dazed. There's an almighty noise of cursing and skidding, which Heath realizes must be Vanner coming down after him. Dumbass, he thinks. Now who's gonna go for help? Vanner it is, and he's mad as a wet cat. He throws one leg over Heath to hold him still—not that Heath's in any shape to move—and leans across Heath's chest, listening as Heath remembers to breathe and takes a rattling gasp of sweet, sweet oxygen. He damn near coughs his lungs up, during which Vanner is right there, holding him up by the shoulders. Immovable as rock, and worried. No, not worried. That's not strong enough. Terrified. So it's really not a huge surprise when Vanner grabs Heath in the kind of bear hug he hasn't been free with in ages. The real shock comes when Vanner takes Heath with one rough hand under his jaw and one on the back of his head with the desperation of mingled fear and relief, and then kisses him. Hard.

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Chapter Three Lying there at the foot of an ungodly-steep drop-off, head pounding and body aching from the dozen ways he's been knocked around, Heath would swear he's gone and found his way into Heaven because Vanner is sprawled out on top of him, kissing him as if he's never, never going to let him go. Doesn't make sense, not one bit. Not that that's a problem. Heath figures, in the dim and faraway corner of his mind still able to think, that he can't be bothered to care. Nothing else matters but this moment and this kiss. He's wanted for so long and now he's gotten the object of his desires. Doesn't matter if people would say he's speeded up his pace on the fast track to damnation or that this is somehow wrong. For him, it feels so right, and that's all that counts. The rest can go on ahead to hell and save him a seat if they like. At the moment, he's busy. Vanner's been kissing him all the while, and Heath hates that he missed one single second to thought. Thoughts have no place here. He has no idea how long this is going to last, right? Any moment now Vanner's going to come back to his senses. Better enjoy the kiss while it lasts. Heath manages to wrap his arms around Vanner's heated back, fingers kneading the rough cotton of his sweat-sticky Tshirt. Vanner's muscles flex and tighten when Heath touches him, which he likes, so he does it again. It's the right thing to try, apparently the right button to push. It's something that turns Vanner on—more—because he makes a frantic little 38

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animal sound and oh, there, that sweet tongue comes out to play. Or to work. Vanner approaches kissing as if it's serious business, which it is, sometimes. Heath decides this is one of those occasions. Kissing Vanner is like standing outside in a thunderstorm. Primal, intense, and it's going to sweep you away or drown you if you're not careful. Heath swears he just about hears the crack of lightning when he pushes his tongue against Vanner's and Vanner groans from deep down inside his chest. He's never heard his twin sound so desperate. It's a sweet, sweet thing to know he's the one prompting Vanner to make these noises. He tries pushing up with his hips, knowing he's hard as rebar but not caring, to see what Vanner will do. For a second, it's good. Vanner twitches, a full-body spasm like he can't stop himself. He pushes right back, thrusting his dick against Heath's, and if Heath is hard and desperate then Vanner feels like he's about to blow. Heath thinks that would be fine. More than fine. It'd be fucking great if he's inflamed Vanner's passion past the breaking point. He pushes up a second time, hoping to tease Vanner into a rhythm that'll drive him insane, or would any other man in this situation. He wants to feel Vanner stiffen and hear him cry out as he comes, spreading a sticky puddle of warmth between their bodies. Wants it so bad he can almost taste, along with the leftover traces of spaghetti sauce in Vanner's mouth, which isn't unpleasant. More like spicy. He breathes in deeply and smells good honest sweat with a hint of horses and leather. Fucking hell, what an aphrodisiac. 39

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Vanner growls against Heath's lips. He wants more, it seems, and Heath's not about to say no. He does know more than Vanner, though, and he's been in this situation before, except those memories are a pale imitation compared to who he has in his arms right now, warm and alive and fuck, if he's dreaming he does not want to wake up. He thinks he knows Vanner will like this, so he thrusts, retreats, and thrusts again, leading Vanner toward that drumbeat rhythm that would bring any horny man off. Heath suspects he's not too far from falling, himself, and though it would signal the end of the fun, he thinks there might be more heading his way. He hopes. For a long, sweet moment, it seems like his plan is going to work. Vanner whines—an actual whine; what is the world coming to?—and follows Heath's lead. He's clumsy, but makes up for that with eagerness, as glad for the contact and friction as Heath, who in the force of his twin's intensity feels like he's small and weak and helpless. Damn, he's twisted, isn't he? Who cares? He's having the time of his life, and he can feel from the trembling in Vanner's legs, pinning him down, that his twin is about to— Vanner tears his mouth away, breaking the kiss. Heath's eyes have closed out of long habit but they fly open now. Their gazes meet for a second that goes on forever, and all Heath sees in the depths of the blue is pure, unadulterated horror. Then it's like a damn bungee jump the way Vanner flies off Heath, up on his feet. He doesn't say anything. Just stares at Heath, terror written across his face in clear lines. 40

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The fear is quickly masked in fury. Heath knows it's still there. Seeing his twin so afraid makes Heath's heart hurt, and he starts to reach toward Vanner without thinking. "No!" Vanner quick-steps back two paces. His hands tighten into fists, the knuckles going white. Heath would be afraid of Vanner puncturing his palms if his twin's nails weren't short and ragged, chewed off. He's never understood why Vanner developed the habit. Isn't that for people who get nervous? Huh. Now there's something to think about. Later. Right now Heath's mouth is dry, his tongue feeling like the rough side of a currycomb, and he's sucking for air he didn't realize he'd been deprived of. He forgot he needed air while Vanner kissed him so good and hard and fast, just the way he'd always thought Vanner might in his most private dreams. Being given a chance to taste this treat and have it yanked away is, possibly, far worse than never having gotten a chance to learn Vanner's flavor in the first place. Heath lies still and quiet, not moving despite the sharpedged rock digging into his spine and his body's demands to roll away and hide from his twin's reaction to what they shared. It was beautiful while it lasted. He doesn't want to spook Vanner any more than the man is already spooked, twitchy as a deer when the hunter's in sight. Heath figures that if he wants to come out of this without it all exploding, he's got to gentle his twin along here and get him past the rough spot. A little fast talking and Heath can probably patch the fences they've busted down. 41

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Sounds good in theory, but in fact Heath has no idea how this is going to play out. If Vanner wants to lay the blame on adrenaline and relief that Heath wasn't killed, Heath will accept the lie. Or is it a lie? He feels a twinge of doubt. He thought he'd felt genuine passion and need. He could have been wrong. He wants to ask, but doesn't. Vanner unclenches his fists and spears his fingers through his hair, dragging it back off his forehead in stick-up bunches that would be funny if the situation wasn't so dire. His eyes are still wide and blue and shocked, and he's looking anywhere but down at Heath. His dick is still rigid, just about to pop through the zipper of his jeans or peek out the waistband. It's the most beautiful thing Heath has ever seen, and damn, does he feel like a pervert for getting his thrills while Vanner is scared enough not to hide his emotions. Heath licks his dried-out lips and tries dragging himself into a sitting position. He gets as far as bracing himself on his elbows, which looks way too seductive, he knows, and opens his mouth to speak. "Don't," Vanner says abruptly, letting go of his hair and swinging about so his back is to Heath. "I'm—" He stops. Heath knows he was about to apologize, except Vanner doesn't do "sorry" and "excuse me" or "I was wrong". It's not in his nature to bow his head to anyone, and to be fair Vanner has never done anything like this before, not that Heath knows of. "Don't." Heath accepts Vanner's orders and lies quiet, waiting to see what's going to happen. Talking won't do either of them 42

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any good. His twin's too het-up to listen, much less engage with Heath in a discussion. "Where are we?" Vanner mutters, tilting his head back to scan the hill they've fallen down. Displacement behavior. Heath's seen that before in many a man who's dancing around an elephant in the room. It's okay. "Fuck. Steep drop." Vanner paces closer, shaking his head. "Real steep. How are we..." Heath takes a gander for himself and feels his cheeks go white. What he took a tumble over isn't so much a sharpgrade hill as it is a near-ninety-degree plunge to the bottom of this gully, ravine, valley, whatever. Maybe it's a canyon. Or do they only have those in the desert? Either way, it's fucking unreal how he managed to fall without killing himself dead, getting no more than a bump on the noggin. Not too serious of a whack, either; when he checks the goose egg rising on the back of his skull there isn't even any blood. Damn, he was lucky. Vanner's bunching up his hair again, damn near frantic. His right leg is jittering and his foot is tapping out a panicky drum solo on the gully's carpet of dead leaves and stuff. "Can't get out," he says under his breath. "Ain't no way out. Is there?" "Could be worse," Heath takes a chance on saying, keeping it quiet and level. "Could be a lot worse, Vanner." Vanner rounds on him, his good old glare surfacing. "How?" Heath is about to say we're alive when Mother Nature, that cast-iron bitch, decides she'll answer Vanner's question for 43

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him. The sky above them, barely visible through surprisingly dense branches, has turned gray while they were kissing and humping beneath—nasty gray, blocking out the sunset which had promised to be spectacular, thick, heavy clouds Heath now realizes are full of grumbling thunder. They flash with surly light, and mere seconds later the thunder barks out. Fat drops of rain begin to fall. Heath wants to laugh at the expression on Vanner's face, like he's fixing to kill the world for biting him so hard in the ass. He does have some common sense left, though, and swallows his mirth, saying nothing. Then some rain spatters his nose, and it's not so funny any more. That rain is cold and sharp, stinging where it lands. That's bad enough. When Vanner swears and grabs the top of his head, glaring at the sky, and Heath understands that it's fucking hailing now, instinct takes over. He's on his feet, a little dizzy but more or less okay, and has Vanner by the arm before he knows what he's doing. Vanner tries to yank himself free. Heath won't let him. "There," he yells over the noise of the oncoming storm. "That embankment. Looks like a place to hide." Vanner's still glaring at him, so Heath uses what he knows will get Vanner moving even though it's a dirty trick. One slap to the ass and Vanner's running like a frightened deer. Heath follows in his wake, shepherding his twin toward what looks like an overhang of dirt and moss, a hole carved in the earth. Ain't much, but maybe it'll help protect them. Turns out, once he's—they're—inside, it's more like a cave. Not a proper cavern, no, but deep enough for both to get well 44

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under cover and almost high enough to stand once they're past the shallow mouth. It smells of old earth and wet stone and long-dried-out animal bones, probably some small rodent or another. He's not sure what's native to the area. He wouldn't have thought you could find a cave out here, so that goes to show you how much he knows. Who'd have guessed? Another thing about this hidey-hole: it's dark, like walking into a fucking coal cellar at midnight, or what-have-you. When he dares to look away from the smudge of gray outside, he can't even see his hand, much less Vanner. He can hear his twin taking shallow, panicky breaths, but as for where he is, Heath has no idea. This is bad. Lord only knows how deep the passage through the earth goes, and if Vanner takes it into his head to startle and run, he might take a fall down another abyss where Heath can't reach him or follow and stay alive. The certainty comes to him, with an unpleasant shock, that they might well die anyhow. They're far away from anyone who might hear them hollering for help even if the folks in the trailer park weren't too tired and worn down by life to care. This could be the end. Heath doesn't like the idea of going out this way. If he does, be damned if he won't go with Vanner's hand in his own, leaving this world the same way they came in. Maybe it's that thought which makes his voice hard and determined, not at all like his usual self. "Vanner, get your ass over here to me. Now." The tone he's using startles him. 45

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He sounds just like Vanner, only with more words. "Vanner, I'm warning you. Don't be stupid." He senses, rather than sees, Vanner flinch. By God if the command doesn't work, though, because after a brief fumble wherein Vanner—probably by accident—flat-palms Heath's chest, scrabbling over one nipple raised by the cold, he feels his twin grab his hand and hang on for dear life. Vanner's shaking. Heath gets that Vanner's freaked out. Takes him longer to cotton on to two other things he'd never suspected about his twin. One, Vanner is afraid of the dark. Two, Vanner doesn't like being in tight-squeezed spaces. This is closer quarters than the trailer, which has windows and lets in plenty of light, so that must be what makes it different. "I've got you," Heath finds himself crooning. He squeezes Vanner's fingers. "It's okay, baby. I'm here." The "baby" slips out by accident. Either Vanner doesn't hear or doesn't care. He's lost all his tough-guy dignity anyway. He squeezes Heath's hand in turn, the strength of his grip amazing, like a band of steel. He's likely to break something if he doesn't loosen up. "Vanner, come on, now. We'll be okay." Vanner snorts a disbelieving laugh. Heath can't really blame him. This is about as bad as it gets and they both know that for sure. Comforting lies won't do. Heath fidgets as he thinks back on all the lies he has told Vanner, many of them recently, and doesn't like their sum total. When did he start hiding things from his twin? Thinking he knew better? That he wanted to protect Vanner? 46

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By God, he should have had more sense. If they get out of this safe and sound, he's going to beg Vanner's forgiveness and come clean. Vanner's going to be furious, yeah. Doesn't mean these things don't need to see the light of day. And after that, well, Heath will do what he has to, to make it right between them. If Vanner will let him. Which he isn't sure about. Damn, what a mess he's in. They're in. Heath swallows down his nerves. First things first and all that shit. He's got to be plain but they're not out of the game yet. "Vanner, listen to me," he says, low and urgent. "You listening? Good. Now, all we have to do right now is ride out this storm. That's all. It's got to end sooner or later." "Won't pass before nightfall," Vanner answers. He sounds taut as a rubber band drawn past its limits, ready to snap in half. "It'll be dark out there as it is in here before the rain stops." "Maybe that's true, and maybe it ain't," Heath argues. "If it does take that long, fine. We're dry in here. Won't be too bad to sleep if we have to. Then, come morning, we'll see about finding a way up." "Fucking steep hill to climb. And wet." Vanner has a point. It'll be damn near impossible to climb now that the hill's going to be soaked, not that it wasn't a fearsome challenge before. Still. Heath is not going to lie down and let them die. "We'll find a way," he says, warning Vanner that he won't listen to any defeatist talk. "Don't go losing hope on me. I'll get us out, and you can hold me to that promise. Understand?" 47

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There's silence for a long moment, five or six heartbeats, and then Vanner laughs. A low and darksome sound, it contains humor nonetheless. "Grew some balls, huh?" The words must click in Vanner's mind after he hears them. He flinches, fingers flying free of Heath's. Heath won't let him get away with that shit, no sir. He gets a better grip, using his own inner steel. "We stay together," he orders, brooking no refusal. "You and me. Don't matter what came beforehand. We need each other if we want to make it through the night. Hear me?" He pauses. "Vanner, you have to speak to me. Tell me you understand, and if you so much as think about saying no I'm gonna punch some sense back in your head." Vanner exhales shakily. "All right," he says. "With you. Okay." He inhales, just as ragged. "Thanks." Heath blinks, surprised past speech. When's the last time Vanner said that particular word? He has to fumble for the response, settling on, "No problem," although he knows he sounds stiff and cold. He tries again without words, using Vanner's hand to pull his twin close. Then, because he's determined not to hold anything back any longer, he takes Vanner in a bear hug and refuses to let go when Vanner instinctively tries to fight. He hangs on, inflexible and immovable, until Vanner snarls in frustration and thumps his head into Heath's shoulder. That's more like it. No one's done this since they were knee-high, but the sounds of the long ago and far away woman Heath can just barely remember come right back to him. She smelled of lavender and of lemon-scented soap. Her 48

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face isn't clear, lost in a nimbus of fine white light. Heath can hear her singing, off-key but oh, so gentle, and he follows the memory as best as he can. Seems stupid for him to be hugging a bull rider around the neck and humming lullabies, but it calms Vanner down and that's what matters. What happens next is pretty much instinct, not that Heath's complaining. He would if he'd had more than two brain cells to rub together. Knowing better flies out the window, trumped by the urge to put his fingers under Vanner's chin and whisper the song against his cheek. Vanner flinches when Heath's lips touch the side of his own by mistake, groans like a man who's got to let go of his safety harness, and then, thank God, he loses control yet sets himself in charge the way it's always been, pulling Heath hard to him. His mouth feels like two slices of flint when he smashes his lips against Heath's. Heath opens up, a natural reaction, wanting to yelp. Vanner's tongue, pushing in hard and desperate, stops any words from forming or getting loose. Heath thinks about fighting Vanner off, then realizes he'd be a damn fool to do so. Vanner might sorely regret what he's doing as soon as they've finished, sure. Heath figures he'll probably hate himself in the morning, so to speak. Thing is, he's back at the mental place where he just doesn't care, and all he can think of is kissing Vanner in turn, soaking up the heat of his twin's body and tasting the faint tang of tomatoes on his tongue. 49

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Vanner makes a small sound, what Heath might call a whimper from someone else, but he won't assign that meaning to anything Vanner utters. Vanner does not whimper, whine, or mewl. It's more of a growl, the kind you hear from a dog who's wary of danger but oh, so fucking hungry. Hunger, yeah, that's it. Vanner kisses like he's been starving for the contact. His hands get busy like no one's never-mind, fumbling their way down Heath's back, dragging up the hem of Heath's shirt to thrust his hands beneath and spread them flat on Heath's skin. Heath shudders. It feels way too damn good. He wants to let Vanner have the reins and ride this horse the way he intends. All the same, Heath can't help but think how much better it would be if Vanner had shared a little of Heath's own practical experience. If they're to have only this one time in a place so far removed from daily life that it might as well be out of the world, Heath needs it to be special. Something he can look back on if and when Vanner runs far, far away. Heath wouldn't blame his twin if, after this, he got out of Dodge. He hopes Vanner will stay, but knows he's just wishing on the stars he can't see. So he'll make this secret encounter the best it can be. Heath starts with taking charge of their kiss. He takes Vanner by the back of the head, tugging on his hair to make his twin let go. Vanner pops loose, snarling a complaint. Heath can't hate the enthusiasm. "Let me show you how it's done." It's an order, not a request. 50

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Vanner leans back, Heath's hand on the base of his spine keeping him on his feet. He can feel his twin trembling harder than a willow in a gale. It gives him an odd sense of power. "Shh," he soothes. "Let me." And Vanner does let Heath lead the way. Heath presses his mouth to Vanner's, soft and careful. He teases with the tip of his tongue, tracing upper and lower lips in their turn, making Vanner get as close to begging for more as he's capable of. It's a needy sound, one that goes straight to Heath's head. It's tempting to let go and ravish Vanner the way he's idly dreamed of. Tempting, but not irresistible. So he goes slow when he slides his tongue in Vanner's mouth, caressing instead of fighting. He changes his grip on Vanner's back to a lazy sweep up the middle, kneading with first palm and then fingers, regular as the waves of the ocean coming in to shore. Vanner tries to buck, to grind his hips and Heath's together. It's not time for that, not yet, though the feel of Vanner's dick, swollen hard, is almost enough to make Heath pop. He holds Vanner still against both their desires until Vanner gives up fighting. "Lie down," Heath orders. He doesn't think Vanner will do as he's told, but by God if he doesn't obey like a meek little lamb. Vanner even chances a kiss, which lands on Heath's chin—damn this pitch-darkness. He'd have liked to feel that shy, hesitant kiss on his lips.

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Still. There's time. That storm is raging something fierce outside. They aren't going anywhere soon. Heath can draw this out as long as he cares to, and he does. Heath sinks into a crouch, rocking back and forth, guiding Vanner to follow his example. He squeezes Vanner's hands, then lets go. Vanner's panicked yelp brings Heath back in contact with his twin. "Hey. Hey. I'm still here. Not letting go of you." Heath touches Vanner and feels the tough, ridged muscles of the man's stomach. "I've got you. Lie down. I'll be here all the way." It's such a mighty sensation of power, feeling Vanner obey. Heath didn't know he had this in him. He's always been the one following orders, never dealing them out. His idle fantasies had naturally placed Vanner in control, Heath getting hard every damn time over the thought of Vanner pinning him down to take what he'd want in the dreams. Having Vanner in his control is far better. Who'd have thought? Vanner fidgets this way and that way but finally lies still save for a few shudders Heath suspects he can't control. "That's good," Heath murmurs, petting Vanner the way he would a frightened horse. "You lie still for me. Can you do that?" "Ain't a damn child," Vanner complains. It makes Heath grin, because it's proof that his twin hasn't become someone else entirely, which he's been starting to wonder about. Vanner's still in there. Good, 'cause it's Vanner who he wants. "I know. Gonna teach you, that's all. I've—" Heath stops, not sure if he should finish his sentence. Seems strange to 52

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worry about such a thing given what they're about to do, but Heath hesitates to tell Vanner that he's been with other men before. "Yeah," Vanner replies. "I ain't stupid. I've seen." "You what now?" Heath can't believe his ears. Vanner grunts, good and impatient, the way he used to get when Heath mixed up parts of his tack because he didn't know any better. "I saw you, once. Outside. At night. Somewhere in New Mexico. Maybe? Don't remember." This is a hell of a speech for Vanner, but maybe being horny has loosened his tongue. Sex does that to a man. Heath wonders if that might not be why Vanner doesn't often indulge. That he knows of. He's suddenly unsure of himself. "Anyway. You and this cowboy. Greenhorn. Pure greenhorn. Wet behind the ears. Couldn't have been twenty." Heath juggles his memories around and they click. "He was twenty-five," he tells Vanner. "I don't rob cradles. He was legal, and he knew what he was doing." Vanner hoots. "Yeah. Saw as much for myself. First, I thought to kick your ass. On account of he was young. Older than he looked, huh?" "Older and pretty damn experienced." "As if I'd know the difference." You will, soon, Heath thinks, but doesn't say that out loud. Instead, he puts action to intention and eases himself down by Vanner's side. When he throws one leg over Vanner's, his twin doesn't seem to take conscious notice, but he lifts his hips to press his dick against solid skin. He hisses as if in shock, then groans from the bottom of his gut. Heath tries 53

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again to make Vanner follow-the-leader, and this time, Vanner lets himself be directed. "Feels weird," Vanner says, breathless, Still grouchy, but obviously fascinated. "This what it's always like?" Has Vanner been thinking about this? Heath rolls his hips the way he likes best and is rewarded by Vanner copying him. "Every man's different," he explains. "Some enjoy this. Some don't." "And you?" "I'm easy. Not that way, jackass. Well, sort of." He grinds down to shut Vanner up and make him stop laughing. "Okay, I'm easy like that, too. I have to be. That's the way it is when all you have time for is a quickie. A nod, a smile, and we're off to the races as soon as we can find a place where no one will see." "Huh. Sounds lonely." Damn it, is Vanner going to keep knocking the wind out of him? Swear to God. The things he says... "Lonely?" Heath echoes in disbelief. "Lonely don't enter into it. It's not about love, man. All it is, is a quick fuck to take the pressure off." "You never wanted ... dunno. A boyfriend?" Heath doesn't snicker at Vanner's hesitant use of the word. "Nah. Never wanted a boyfriend, nor a lover, nor to settle down with anyone. Why would I think about going home to anyone else when I know you're already there, waiting for me?" There's a moment of silence, Heath not knowing what to say. Vanner's probably going through the same thing. 54

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Except he throws Heath for yet another loop by whispering, "Yeah. Me, too." And if that doesn't fire Heath's lust, he doesn't know what would. To hell with self-control and drawing out the moment. Mostly. "Gonna make you fly," he manages to say. "Gonna make you scream." That'll be a first. Then again, all this is new territory because he's with Vanner and he has no idea what his twin will like. There's an awful lot he doesn't know about his beloved brother. That's unexpected. Good thing is, he can try and figure out a few things right now. It's not too late. Heath starts by sliding his way down Vanner's torso, never once removing his hands from Vanner's skin so that his twin will know for sure he's still there. He reverently grazes his chin over the redwood tenting Vanner's jeans, stropping his cheeks on the bulge. An idea comes to him, and Heath doesn't waste time on deliberation. His fingers shake a little but capture the small tab of his twin's zipper and pull it down carefully, somehow avoiding injury. A quick bit of navigation and then he's got his nose buried in the wiry curls surrounding Vanner's dick, breathing in with lusty gulps, all the better to savor Vanner's special-to-him scent. Vanner cries out and grips Heath's shoulders hard, hands landing unerringly where they need to be. "Don't be scared," Heath says, knowing how the feel of lips grazing a man's dick drives him out of his mind and makes him hornier than ever. "Trust me. You'll like this." 55

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And before Vanner can react, Heath has his mouth sealed tight around the head of his twin's hard-on and he's sucking like he's never sucked before. Vanner damn near jackknifes in half. Heath rides the wave, letting Vanner get that out of his system before putting a hand on either side of Vanner's hips and holding him in place. He doesn't take his mouth off Vanner's cock, and won't, not even long enough to speak. They don't need words right now anyway. Everything he wants to say can be understood just fine in the way he uses his tongue to lave Vanner's erection as he slides down, taking in as much as he can. Heath decides he's only ever done this to men who are hung like squirrels, which is a shameful waste of time. Either that or Vanner is gifted as hell. Heath considers the size of his own prick and decides it's all a matter of perspective. They are identical. This has to be the same. Sure does feel bigger in his mouth than it looks between his own legs, though. The process of discovery mixes just fine with prior experience. Heath does know what he's doing. He's not used to the hardness and raw flavor making him crazy enough to flip out. It's like he's gone more or less insane, wanting and needing more and more, taking all Vanner has to give. So easy and natural, no need to choke or spit. The man tastes like a banquet would to someone who's been starving. He's so busy sucking that he barely notices when Vanner starts fucking his mouth. The hands on his shoulders lose their nervousness and hold him in place for Vanner to thrust up the way a man naturally does when he's got his dick in 56

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somewhere hot and moist. Heath makes note of this in a casual sort of way and lets Vanner enjoy himself, doing what he can with his tongue and the suction that hollows out his cheeks. God, but Heath wishes he could see the two of them. Check out how they look, locked together like this. It'd be the hottest thing ever. The thought sends a dizzying pulse of need down to zap through his stomach and balls. He needs Vanner up his ass. Oh, fuck, he needs to have the man inside him so damn bad. But he'll do this much for Vanner, introduce him slowly to these pleasures, and to tell the truth, despite needing to get reamed out, he doesn't want to pass up the chance to taste his twin's seed. So he doesn't let go, not even when Vanner growls and warns him without words, just keeps on working his twin's dick with lips and tongue, more messy than talented by now. He's gratified beyond words when Vanner does scream, albeit in a rough and snarling way, as he thrusts deep and his back leaves the cave floor. Spunk, thick and salty, fills Heath's mouth. There's a hell of a lot of it, definitely more than he himself generally shoots. He fumbles, the first rush dribbling down, wasted, but then gets back on track and swallows for all he's worth. Tastes like fucking heaven. He keeps working at it until Vanner's half-soft and, Heath knows, getting too sensitive to enjoy this for much longer. Lack of practice. All the same, it's with regret that he lets go, swiping his tongue over his lips to catch every drop he can. 57

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The sound of Vanner struggling to catch his breath fills the air, drowning out anything else. "Fuck," he croaks. "Fuck, Heath." Wish you would, Heath thinks, amused by the notion. "Yeah," he says instead. "We did, didn't we?" "Huh." Lord, but Heath can almost see Vanner frown. "Not really. Fuck's about being in someone." "Vanner, honey, you were in me," Heath points out. Vanner fidgets. "Yeah, but..." "Uh-uh. No ifs, ands or buts." Heath has no idea why he's trying to prove his point. "That was an honest-to-God round of sex, oral." For some reason that word makes Vanner snicker. "Smartass." Heath smacks his twin on the leg. Doing so moves him far enough to press his dick against Vanner. He's still hard, balls aching, and he knows Vanner can't help but notice. Shit. He didn't mean for that to happen. "You didn't," Vanner says, sounding confused. "Why not?" "Wanted to." "Why not, then?" Vanner doesn't give Heath a chance to answer. "My turn. Lie down flat. On your back." When Heath hesitates, Vanner gives him an aggravated push. "Go on. Do as I say." Flip, flip, flip. The way the balance turns between them is enough to make a man dizzy. Heath isn't any too confident in Vanner's blow-job skills, and he's been bitten before by tooenthusiastic novices, doesn't like it.

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Be that as it may, he won't refuse if this is what Vanner really wants to do. It sets him on fire, burning with the need to fuck or be fucked, so good he can't say no. Heath lies still, letting Vanner get familiar with his body. His twin traces Heath's lines with rough fingers, his calluses making Heath tingle in unexpected but damn good ways. It feels like Vanner's assessing him the way he'd examine a horse before seeing how she was to ride. Oh, damn. The mental picture Heath gets of Vanner climbing on board and lowering himself to take Heath's dick inside—damn. Vanner would look un-fucking-believably good balanced over him, head thrown back, neck arched, glistening with heavy drops of sweat rolling down his chest. Heath can all but feel the way Vanner would be so tight, so fucking tight, constricting his dick—and then he realizes, with a shock, that it's not all in his imagination. Vanner has his fist around Heath's dick, holding on for dear life although he's not moving. Smart move. Heath approves. Best not to try the fancy stuff first time around. Blow-jobs aren't that exotic, but they do take a certain amount of trial-and-error before you figure out how to do them right. He'd have died for a fuck, would have liked a suck, but Vanner's rough fingertips circling his dick are plain and simple perfect. Vanner's hesitating. Heath understands why. "You can't do this wrong," he says, encouraging, though he's about choked up with the need to blow his top. "Go on. It's just like you do to yourself, and don't tell me you ain't got 59

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a lot of practice there, because lightning will break through this hole in the ground and strike you dead." There, that gets him a laugh. "Okay," Vanner says. It's awkward, but he manages to kiss Heath between his tits. Apparently, he decides he likes being there and fastens on hard enough to raise a hickey while he tentatively tries moving his hand. Heath holds out long enough to learn the feel of Vanner jacking him off. A short taste, not enough for his liking, but more than his libido can handle. His body takes over, muscles rippling, causing him to thrust against Vanner's tough palm. He lasts for four, maybe five strokes before he comes, shouting to the heavens for relief and excitement and, yeah, joy. Vanner yelps as spunk that isn't his own erupts over his hand, but to give him credit he doesn't pull away or express any disgust. Nope. He hangs on until Heath's given all he's got and has to slump boneless on the floor. Damn. That was good. No, better. Good isn't strong enough. His vocabulary, never his strongest point, has gone and dribbled out the head of his dick with the rest of his brains. He doesn't know he's been saying all this out loud until Vanner doubles into his side, cackling. "You talk too much," he gasps. Heath has no other choice, then, but to knuckle-burn the top of Vanner's head. "You don't talk enough." "Never have." "Never will, more than likely," Heath agrees. He puts his arm around Vanner, and Vanner does the same. They wrestle 60

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for a moment, so far as they're able to, then settle down all tangled together. It makes Heath feel both young and safe, like he's come home, that home is more than their trailer. Home is his twin. Heath thinks it has been right from the start. So it matters a hell of a lot how Vanner reacts once he gets to thinking straight. Heath's relieved when Vanner tightens his grip on one of his hands. His breath is warm as it tickles Heath's chest. He plays with Heath's fingers, and Heath waits for him to speak his piece. It's simple, in the end. "What now?" That's a good question, and Heath tells him so. He can't think of what to say, but Vanner seems to be okay with that until words pop into Vanner's mouth. "Always knew," Heath's twin says bluntly. "Knew right away. You. What you think of me. Always was sure of you, from way back when." That's both surprising and alarming. "How long?" Vanner shrugs. "Years. Before I dropped out of high school and you came along. For which I ought to kick your ass. Again. You could have been someone, Heath." "All I wanted was to be with you," Heath says simply. "Didn't think you understood why." "Didn't want to." Vanner twitches his shoulder. "Tried not to see. Didn't want to see everything. Couldn't help myself. Not when you started looking at me. And you didn't say." "I should have, but I thought you'd run away." Vanner snorts. "I did. You couldn't tell?" He has a point. "There's a lot you didn't know. I haven't." He takes in a lusty 61

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breath. "How much are we missing out on, since we stopped letting each other in?" Sex surely does wonders for Vanner's ability to string words together. And it's another good question, echoing Heath's own earlier thoughts. "I don't know," he admits. "Think we should make up for lost time?" "I'm here now," Vanner replies, simple and to the point. He kisses Heath's throat, shy but determined, Heath realizes, not to run away. Not any more. "So talk. Tell me stuff. I need to know." "Yeah. You do." Heath drums his fingers between Vanner's shoulder blades. "There's a world of things we need to discuss, brother mine. There's a whole wide world to talk about." "We're not going anywhere," Vanner replies. He's gone all reasonable and quiet in a different way and that scares Heath more than anything else. But he's got to do this. "Come on, Heath. Let's talk." And so Heath parts his lips and begins to tell Vanner the truth. He knows their world will never be the same again, but maybe that's not a bad thing. He'll tell Vanner everything. Or that was his plan. It kind of gets interrupted when they hear laughter over the sounds of falling rain. Laughter, light and sweet, inspired by something purely inside the person's head. Heath's head snaps around to stare at the entrance to their hidey-hole in time to see delicate bare feet touch down on the leaves outside. Easy-stepping as a fairy princess. 62

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Oh, shit. Shit, no. Maribeth peeks in at her younger brothers, happy as she can be and innocent as an angel. She's muddy and soaked through, holding her long honey-golden hair away from her face and wearing that sweet, innocent smile of hers that belongs to a girl at least fifteen years younger than she really is. She won't have a single clue about what she's stumbled on, which is both a blessing and something that makes Heath terribly, terribly afraid. The woman-child they've sworn to keep safe is going to endanger their very lives, now. "Found you!" she laughs, clapping her hands. Fuck. To Be Continued in Taboo 2: Two for the Show, coming soon from Torquere Press

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