Six Ways from Sunday (6 page)

“Know the feeling well. That was me a decade or so ago. Listen, kid, I’m going to ask you one question: are you career?” The coach lost the drill instructor and the coach voice and became just another Marine.

“I have one year, six months and twenty days left and I’m out.” He watched Bo on the sideline and nodded. One year, six months and twenty days, that’s all he had left to give his country before he could come home to his reward.

“You made plans yet?” This seemed more than just casual curiosity but Dylan wouldn’t allow himself to entertain any ideas that the coach might be making any offers. Not one at all.

“Get drunk, get laid, not ever wear anything in the brown or tan family ever again. Not much after that. Maybe go to school. Maybe become a beach bum. My opportunities are wide open at this moment.” It didn’t do him any good to dream about those days until he made it home again in one piece and mostly sane. If he could manage those last two things, he’d be golden. After that he’d figure it out.

“Just don’t get killed and call me when you’re ready. It’ll be late in the summer, the season will most likely be started, but I’ll see what I can do for you. You’ve got talent. Raw, to be sure, but that arm needs to be in the NFL.” He extended a business card at the same time that an arm snaked around Dylan’s neck.

Dylan didn’t stop to think where he was or that there would most likely be no threat. He flipped his aggressor over his shoulder and buried his knee in the guy’s neck. Hand going to the knife he kept strapped to his leg just above his boot. Bo’s ghostly pale face and terrified eyes penetrated the haze, and he didn’t pull his jeans leg up. Standing quickly, he pulled Bo to his feet.

“Don’t do that, man, okay? Just don’t. I can kill you. And I don’t think your owners would appreciate that too much.”

He didn’t reach for the card. He just stood there trying to act like this was normal. That he didn’t just freak out in front of civilians.

“Fuck, Dyl, you just outran me in fucking combat boots. You have got to be shitting me.” The sound of laughter was all that Dylan could remember after that. The coach who turned out to be Dale Shannon, the offensive coordinator, put the card in his jacket pocket and slapped him on the back.

“Something to think on, kid, maybe I’ll see you back here in two years’ time. Until then give ‘em hell.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“Show’s over. You’d think you lot would have something better to do the day after you won the fucking Super Bowl. Don’t you have people to be celebrating with? Or we can start working on next year’s—“ Shannon shouted out and people started to scramble before this became real work.

“Come on, Rambo, you have a tattoo to buy me. And I need some pointers on that over the shoulder takedown thing you got going on. Wonder if it’s legal in the NFL… Who the hell cares? It was wicked. Just thanks for not pulling the knife.” Bo punched him on the shoulder and laughed as they walked from the training area to his truck.

“Sorry about that, I’m usually more in control.” Dylan turned the radio from the rock station to a country station, because he knew that Bo didn’t mind, just to get his mind off the fool he’d made of himself.

“Nothing to be sorry for. Just, you know, when we get home, I’m going to want to be thrown over your shoulder caveman style and maybe you can hold me down and stick other things in me. I promise not to fight too hard.” Bo put the truck in reverse, and before he backed out, he reached over and grabbed Dylan’s gearstick too. “Just so we’re clear on what I want stuck in me. Okay? This bad boy right here. Not the pig sticker.”

“Yes, sir,” Dylan said, feeling the flush come on again. This time though, he knew exactly why he was turning red. And it had a lot to do with Bo’s hand on his dick. In public.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about. And you can call me sir while you’re fucking me. I just got all kinds of horny.” He laughed and hit the gas, burning rubber to get out of the parking lot just as fast as he could. Because the day was wasting and there was fucking to be done.

Dylan put the card in his wallet without letting Bo see it. He’d think about that later. When he could see a future that didn’t involve desert sand and bloodshed.

Chapter Four

“I am so going to fuck you up, six ways from Sunday, Sunday,” Bo moaned as he leaned over the dashboard. His back burned like a million tiny bees decided to use him for a pin cushion.

“How is this my fault, Murphy? You’re the one who decided to get a tattoo. I didn’t tell you to. In fact, I do recall telling you that the spine is probably not the best place to get your first one but you had to be bad ass and do it anyway.” Dylan glanced over at him as they drove through town. Bo was thrilled that he didn’t smirk—too much.

“I wasn’t nearly drunk enough for that. You should have talked louder. Something. This shit hurts.”

“You only bled a little bit and there’s hardly no swelling. You’re just being a baby.”

“Oh yeah? Well, how drunk were you when you got yours?” He wanted desperately to rub something in after the hosing back at the practice field.

Dylan didn’t say anything; he just stared ahead and tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel as he navigated based on the GPS’s directions.

“I don’t fucking believe you. You had to be drunk or something to deal with that kind of…shit. You’re a masochist, aren’t you? You like pain. You get off on pain. That’s it. I knew it.”

“I wanted it to mean something. Both of them. I went in sober so I wouldn’t walk away with a dead chicken or dancing mermaid or something stupid. Both of mine mean something to me. Especially the one down my spine.”

Bo sat quietly for a long time, watching the winter scenery pass him by. They were out of the city and into the quiet of bayou country now. “You mean something to me. And not just as a guy I’d like to fuck on a regular basis either. I mean, you came back and we picked up right where we left off. You’re fun. And you get me. You let me get away with shit no one else will tolerate. I’ve always liked that about you.”

“You like that because I was letting you get away with the same shit I was trying to get away with. There’s a fine line between love and enabling in our relationship if you think about it long enough. And that’s the liquor talking. Next you’ll be on the floor sobbing and saying I love you, man.”

“But I do love you. You’re my man. My—I have no idea what we are. What are we?”

“I see us sort of as a modern day Fred and Barney.” Dylan answered in all seriousness. Bo must have made a face because Dylan reached over and squeezed his knee. “Okay no, Scooby and Shaggy? But I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with being either one. How about Ken and GI Joe. You’re my Ken doll. When Ken let his hair grow out long and played football and realized that cheerleader Barbie was all boobs and no dick.”

“You are seriously messed up in the head. You know that, right?” Bo leaned back, wincing as the seat put too much pressure on the tender line down his back. “I was thinking more the macho, sports-type figures. Of—“

“Name me two macho sports-type figures that were doing each other and I’ll decide if I want to compared to either one.” Dylan turned onto the long drive that led up to Bo’s house while Bo thought about the pop culture role models in his life. He couldn’t think of one gay sports figure, much less two. Or even two figures that had a natural symbiotic relationship to compare them to.

“We’re unique. That’s a first. I’ve never been unique in anything I’ve ever done.”

“Bullshit.” Dylan stopped the truck in front of Bo’s house and turned to face him. “You’re a six foot three, two hundred fifty pound exasperating person who is nothing but unique. Valedictorian, Bowen. You were the fucking valedictorian and you play football. You went to college on an academic scholarship instead of a sports scholarship. And you graduated. With honors. While playing football. While winning football games. While staying clean and sober and not knocking up a cheerleader or a beauty queen.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say sober. Especially right now. And that last part is only because I’m gay and wouldn’t be swayed by any evil breasted cheerleader. Okay, there was that one guy, I’m pretty sure he wanted to fuck me, but I’m not going to let some pushy guy who might go squealing that Bo likes dick while he’s got his hand up some girl’s skirt, get in my pants.”

“And you sort of flame when you’re mostly drunk. I should have figured out a hell of a lot sooner those times when we managed to get beer and not get caught. You giggled.” Dylan smiled, his eyes sparkling with amusement at Bo’s expense, which made Bo angry.

“I did not giggle.” Bo giggled. “Oh fuck, I giggle. And it’s funny as shit.”

“You giggle and it’s sexy as shit. You were big and tough and kept the bullies off me when I was short and fat. And I’ve always found you to be the most unique person I’ve ever met. You’re not a hard ass and you’re not a doormat. You’re a decent human being, and that, my friend, is unique in the world of football.” The amused gleam left his eyes, replaced by something a little more violent that sent a thrill down Bo’s newly tattooed spine.

“I am so going to go all Fred Flintstone on your ass when we get inside.” Bo lost his train of thought just listening to Dylan talk. “You have the sexiest damn voice. Makes me want to do bad things to you.”

“Oh, no, baby, not this time. This time I’m Fred and you’re Barney and you are going to bend over for me. I’m going to fuck me a Super Bowl champion.” His voice went deeper than Bo had ever heard him speak before. Deep, seductive, and oh so fucking, yeah, Bo had a hard-on for Dylan’s voice. Yes, please, everything he just said. Now.

“You are? Who? You think he’ll let me in on that because that would be really awesome.” In his haste to get out of the truck and into position for exactly what Dylan promised, Bo reached for the door handle and missed. “Dyl? It occurs to me that I might be drunk.”

“It occurs to me that you drank a fifth of Jack while you were under the needle. And if you weren’t drunk then this wouldn’t be funny as hell.”

“Dammit, Fred, you are just an awful friend. I’m going to go tell Wilma that you won’t let me fuck the Super Bowl champion. Okay, wait…Shaggy and Scooby? Seriously? You think Shaggy and Scooby were doing it?” Bo had to wonder if this was the alcohol talking or if his friend was seriously messed up in the head.

“Shaggy was a stoner who thought the dog talked. He didn’t seem interested in either of the girls and he didn’t seem interested in Freddie… So yes, I would have to say that Shaggy and Scooby had a sexual relationship,” Dylan said in all seriousness. He didn’t even crack a smile.

“I just can’t picture Shaggy—you know…” There was no way he was going to say it, or even make the hand symbols or acknowledge this ridiculous conversation.

“I always thought of Shaggy as more of a bottom.” Dylan grinned and let himself out his side of the truck. Bo just sat there, wondering how he’d missed that Dylan was crazy. He watched as his friend walked around the front of the truck, twirling the keys on his trigger finger and whistling.

“You are not exactly sane, are you?” He fell out of the truck into Dylan’s arms. The whistling continued, the theme to Scooby-doo. Sadistic masochistic asshole. “Are you going to kill me in my sleep?”

“Maybe just a little.” Dylan helped him stand and kept an arm around him as Bo stumbled up the stairs. “Because you’re too drunk to fuck right now. So I have to find something to keep me entertained while you sober up.”

That made sense. Dyl always needed something to keep his hands busy. When he was bored, that’s when they got into trouble. “Remember the year we dug a crater in my backyard. We said we were looking for dinosaur fossils but all we did was break a water pipe. Oh, man, I thought your dad and my dad were going to take turns skinning us alive.”

“You got a pool out of it, so it wasn’t all bad. We never did find any fossils. And that’s why they put us in football in the first place.” Dylan fumbled with the keys looking for the right one for the door.

“To keep us from digging up the front yard.” Bo remembered that summer and after three days of his parents raising hell about how much damage two unsupervised nine years could wreak, his mom had laughed and said,
“Why the hell not just go ahead and put in the pool we keep talking about. Maybe they’ll leave the front yard alone.”

“To keep us busy. To wear us out. So that we would come home at the end of the day and fall asleep over our hamburgers instead of run around in the street all night. It was the best thing they could have done. Well, maybe I could have lived without the whipping. But that’s it.” Dylan dumped him unceremoniously on the sofa in the sparse living room. And followed him down. “You weigh a fucking ton.”

“You’re just a light weight.” Bo swiveled in the seat and put his head on Dylan’s leg, he propped his feet up on the other arm and kicked off his shoes. “Sorry I’m drunk.”

“I’m not. Okay, yeah, that you’re drunk and I’m not going to get laid any time soon, but you’re a happy drunk. I enjoy you this way. Walking down memory lane with you. Playing with you. I’m so happy just being here and having you look at me like you are right now.” Dylan touched Bo’s nose with the tip of a finger then traced it along Bo’s lips. “I’m glad that the grown up you is still a lot like the boy I left behind.”

And that’s when Bo’s heart threatened to quit. Those words that had stayed with him all these years. He’d been the one left behind. “I thought I was doing the leaving and it tore me apart. I begged my parents to do something to help you pay for school. I tried to talk the coaches, everyone into helping you get something.”

Dylan sighed wearily. “We had different paths to walk, Bo. I’m just happy that we can cross paths again and be who we were. Gives me something to look forward to when I’m ready to stop walking the one I’m on now,” he said, running his fingers through Bo’s hair, pulling a long strand up to rub between his fingers.

“I’ll be here when you’re ready. We’ll see if we can walk the same path then. I think we can.” Bo reached up to trace the frown lines around Dylan’s mouth. “I want to be with you.”