Lickety Split by Damon Suede

Author:Damon Suede [Suede, Damon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gay romance
ISBN: 978-1-63533-573-6
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2017-03-13T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

MORNING ON the farm came right up out of the soil, quiet and fragile as flowers, and pushed the moon aside.

Patch woke after Tucker, around five, at the ass crack of dawn. The sky shone pale at its indigo edge.

He’d fought sleep as long as he was able, trying to memorize Tucker’s breath at his nape, Tucker’s fingers tracing the rope marks, Tucker’s muscle wrapped around him, and Tucker’s heartbeat at his back or under his cheek as they shifted against each other easy as laced fingers. He’d savored every point of contact until dreams dragged him under.

Now Tucker sat silhouetted on the windowsill smiling at him, a thick hog sticking out the fly of his boxers. “Chores all done.”

“You shoulda got me up.”

“I like to get it all out the way ’fore it gets hot.” Tucker shrugged a shoulder and came to the side of the bed. “Shh. Go back t’sleep, pup.”

He sighed into the warm pillows and stretched. “Chilly.”

“No, it ain’t.” Tucker tugged the sheet back up over him and patted his upper thigh.

“Mmph.” He stretched under Tucker’s gaze. “Huh. Well, thank you.”

Then Tucker lay down on top of the covers to spoon up against his back, all rust and sawdust, and he did sleep.

When he woke again the trailer was eerily silent, but there was coffee in the pot and a note on the counter said, Fishing, T.

Patch stretched in patient pleasure. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so sated, so comfortable, so alive in his own skin without being in motion.

He didn’t need coffee, or food, even. He hadn’t slept that well in… ever, actually. He rolled his shoulder and went out to the porch, watching the hens doing their jerky patrol of the toilets and tubs and old tractor parts. Gradually, the morning haze stained the wide Texas horizon from black to dusty blue.

Once the sun had cleared the horizon for good, Patch made his way to the yard, not bothering with shoes. He followed the windbreak trail down the rise past the beeches marking the little homegrown cemetery.

The leaves whispered above him. For two seconds as he passed and paused, he wondered if he should have his parents buried here on the farm, until he remembered that any day now Texaco would be drilling for crude where he stood. In a few months, his little parentheses angel and all the worn gravestones would migrate with their dead owners, somewhere close to his parents, probably. In the end they’d all be buried together anyway.

He didn’t know how to feel about that inevitable future. His stomach rumbled as he stepped out of the live oak onto the pond’s shore.

Tucker had settled under the bald cypress with Botchy’s square pale head pillowed on one leg. He had a fishing rod, but he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it. A steady breeze rippled the surface and scattered the ducks.

Patch’s voice came out hoarse and soft. “G’mornin’.”

“Hey.” Tucker looked up. A pleased smile. “You’re still nekkid, boy.

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