The Sweet Side Of The Ropes: Enthralling Tales Of Male-Male Romance (7 page)

After a while, he watched Booger out of the corner of his eye. Travis’ lips quirked in an amused smile—nothing had changed about Booger in the ten years Travis had been gone, including his haircut. He was still as skinny as a matchstick and twice as hot. Long, lean, and strong, his biceps bulged against the fabric of his flannel shirt as he steered the truck over the pitted, rough dirt road that wound up deeper into the mountains.

Travis would never describe Booger as handsome. His jaw was too sharp, his lips were too thin, and his ears stuck out like jug handles on the sides of his head. But when he smiled, when his cheeks hitched up in that shit-eating grin of his, and those blue eyes sparkled, well then, Jethro “Booger” Howery was downright adorable.

Not that Travis would ever tell him that. Lord, no. Not unless he wanted to fork over a few thousand dollars for a set of brand new teeth after Booger finished knocking out the ones God had planted in Travis’ mouth.

Booger had been Travis’ best friend throughout school and the last face he'd seen when Travis left Shelby. Booger was the one who'd driven Travis to the bus depot, and had loaded Travis and his guitar on the Greyhound to Nashville. Booger had never left Shelby as far as Travis knew. He took a job logging, like his daddy. That hadn't surprised Travis, but the fact that Booger had never married did. Most men in their neck of the woods were married right out of high school, if not sooner, usually to their childhood sweethearts.

Maybelle Atkins. That was the name of the girl Booger had been taken with when Travis left Shelby. “Hey, Booger? Whatever happened to Maybelle? I thought you'd be married to her with forty kids by now."

Booger snorted. “Nah. It didn't work out. She up and married Clinton Sawyer, from over on Potbelly Ridge. Got herself three little gap-toothed kids and another on the way. Me? I'm a tried and true bachelor."

"Well, ain't that something. You, who couldn't go more than two hours without getting laid—"

"Whoa. Didn't say I wasn't getting any. Said I didn't marry Maybelle."

"So, who is she?"

"Well, let me introduce you. Her name's Mary.” Booger cracked a smile and held up his right hand. “She's got herself five sisters, and they all know how to take care of a man."

Travis hooted, batting Booger's hand away. Same old Booger.

An hour later, just as the sun was setting behind the mountain peaks, casting the surrounding forest in deepening shades of purple, they pulled up in front of a tiny cabin tucked up tight in a grove of blue-green pines. A faded red, beat-to-shit pickup sat next to it. The pickup was sprinkled with bird shit and had one primer-gray bumper.

The men in Travis’ family had kept the small cabin for nearly as many years as they'd had the house. It was a get-away, somewhere they could go to fart and scratch their balls without the womenfolk a-huffing and puffing at them, as Travis’ daddy would say. Where they'd run and hide when they did wrong was his Ma's explanation. It was very small, just one room. No electricity, no telephone, no running water, and the only amenity was the outhouse. But the one thing it had in spades was privacy.

"Come on, I'll help you get settled in.” Booger turned off the motor. He was out of the truck and inside the door before Travis could say anything to the contrary.

The cabin smelled like old smoke and piss. The first thing Travis did was throw open the windows to air it out. Booger was already piling wood in the hearth, kindling the fire.

Travis noticed that someone had stocked the pantry shelves above the black, cast iron potbelly stove with canned stuff—beans, vegetables, tuna, and stew. There was a fresh loaf of home-baked bread, coffee, sugar, and a full case of beer.

Good ol’ Booger,
Travis thought, smiling. The man knew Travis like a book, even after all these years. He'd known that Travis wouldn't have thought to bring food up to the cabin. Adding that to the sack of leftovers Ma had sent up with him would keep Travis from having to leave the cabin for a week.

Speaking of Booger, he'd stretched out on his back in front of the fireplace, forearms tucked under his head, ankles crossed, one foot tapping to a melody only he could hear. He was looking at Travis from under his eyelashes, studying him.

"Don't know if I like the black hair. And you're too damn skinny. I've seen more meat on a year-dead skeeter."

Travis blinked, automatically reaching for his head. “It's not forever. I had to dye it so that no one would recognize me. And I may not be fat, but I'm not anorexic, either."

"Son, from where I'm sitting it looks like you've got a north and a south, but no east or west."

"Since when do you care about stuff like that anyway?” Travis felt a little offended, although he couldn't put his finger on why. It was only Booger, after all.

"Didn't say I cared. Just pointing out the obvious, is all.” Booger turned his head away as if to stare at the dancing flames in the hearth.

Travis noticed that his foot began to tap faster, as if the music in Booger's head had picked up tempo.

"Well, what about you? You're as skinny as a rail, and still sporting a
mullet
, for chrissakes! It was already out of style ten years ago when you first got it."

"Betsy Hammond cuts it for me down at the Clip and Curl in Shelby. She says it makes me look like Billy Ray Cyrus."

Travis chuckled, shaking his head. “No way! He's got you by at least fifty pounds, and his hair is brown."

Booger arched an eyebrow. “You don't see the resemblance?"

"Nope. Not a bit."

"I can sing as good as he can.
Don't tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
..."

"Booger, I hate to break it to you, but music ain't one of your God-given talents."

"Yeah? Well, I can do a mean
Achy Breaky
dance."

"I'll have to take your word on that,” Travis laughed.

"You should see my
Tush Push
."

Travis snorted. “Hell, Booger! That there's a picture I didn't need in my head,"

"Why? Something wrong with my tush?” Booger asked, looking affronted. He twisted, as if trying to get a look at his own behind.

Nope
, Travis thought.
There's not a damn thing wrong with that butt.
It filled out the back of Booger's jeans perfectly. His laughter trailed off, his body tightening.
Oh Lordy, what in hell is wrong with me? This is
Booger
, for God's sake—that settles it. I need to get laid as soon as I get back to California. It's been way too long, if thinking about
Booger
gives me a hard-on.
Travis tore his eyes away, feeling his cheeks heat up. Walking to the small table under the window, Travis sat down, lifting his face and letting the brisk air that blew in cool his blush.

"It's nearly full dark, Booger.” Travis barely managed to squeak it out as visions of Booger tush-pushing—naked—continued to float through his head. His cock filled, refusing to behave, even though Travis kept reminding it that this was
Booger
he was fantasizing about. “Don't you think you ought to be getting on home?"

"Nah. I'll camp out here for the night. Don't want to risk scratching my new truck up trying to work my way down the mountain in the dark."

Shit!
Travis swore silently. He couldn't insist that Booger leave—not after Booger had been kind enough to pick him up at the airport, drive him home and then up to the cabin, loan him his truck, stock the cabin with food...

It was going to be a long, long night.

He stood up, grabbed a couple of beers from the pantry shelf, tossed one to Booger and popped one open for himself. He drained it in several long swallows and reached for another.

Maybe, if he drank enough, he could drown his hard-on. If not, at least he'd be feeling no pain when Booger finally noticed it and beat the shit out of him.

It was still full dark when Travis blinked awake. The fire was crackling in the hearth, casting an orange glow across the pine board floor. The window was still open, and the chill air raised gooseflesh on Travis’ bare skin.

Whoa ... wait a minute. Bare skin?

The first thing that Travis noticed was that he was naked. The second was that his hands had been tied to the headboard of the bed, his ankles to the footboard. His heart began to thump wildly in his chest as fear made him begin to sweat despite the chill in the room. He instinctively began to fight the ropes, thrashing on the mattress as questions shot through his mind like quicksilver.
What the fuck happened? Who tied me up? Why? And where the hell is Booger?

Travis’ last question was answered first when a low chuckle came from a chair set near the fireplace. Booger sat in it, feet propped up on a stool, arms crossed over his chest, watching Travis. The table nearby was strewn with empty beer cans.

Oh, Lord. How much did we drink last night?

"Booger? What the hell did you do?” Travis stilled, too relieved to be angry. It was nothing but a stupid practical joke. Booger had no doubt thought it would be funny for Travis to wake up and find himself naked and trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Stupid bastard. “Booger, turn me loose so I can beat the snot out of you."

"Nope. Sorry. No can do, Travis."

"Booger, this isn't funny!” Travis yelled, pulling hard at the ropes that held his hands and feet to the bed. The ropes were heavy nylon, and struggling did nothing to loosen them. “What the hell's got into you? Turn. Me. Loose!"

"I can't, Travis. I promised your Ma."

"You promised Ma to strip me naked and tie me up?"

"Well, no ... that part was my idea. She asked me to keep you up here for a while. Said she was worried about you, that you sounded so damned unhappy when you called home. She doesn't like what that Bernie guy is doing to you, Travis—making you do this, and do that, go here, and go there. You said it yourself. You said that you can't even take a piss without someone popping out of the bowl with a camera."

"That's my job, Booger. I—"

"Thought your job was to make music.” His normally husky voice dropped another octave, and sent a warm jolt through Travis’ belly and made him forget about struggling against the ropes for a minute.

"It is, but—"

"But nothing. That Bernie guy has you all mixed up, Travis. You let him make you a prisoner in your own home, afraid to go out by yourself, always having to clear every move you make with him first. Ain't no different from me tying you up here. It's no way for a man to live."

"That's different! This is crazy, Booger!"

"No, it ain't. The only difference is that you let this Bernie guy tie you up with contracts and legal mumbo jumbo, instead of rope. But in the end, you're still a prisoner."

"Bernie doesn't strip me bare-assed and tie me to the bed!"

"No, I suppose he don't. But hell, if I
have
to baby sit your ass up here, I might as well enjoy the view."

Travis’ jaw dropped. “What?"

"Oh, come on, Travis!” Booger snorted, looking at him as if Travis had a melon growing on his neck instead of a head. “Lord, that pretty face of yours is wrapped around a really thick skull, ain't it?"

"You don't ... you aren't..."

"Says who? It's why Maybelle and me broke up. I figured it out just in time, too—her daddy was shining up the shotgun and eyeing the preacher. She's cool with it now, but I wore a cast iron skillet in my pants for a month just in case I ran into her daddy. Boy, howdy! He would have ripped my balls off and stuffed them up my ass if he had the chance."

Travis was floored by Booger's confession, but his stupor only lasted for the space of a few heartbeats before he tugged at the ropes again. “That's still no excuse, Booger. You can't just take my clothes and tie me up!"

"Sure I can. I just did. ‘Course, you being passed out drunk helped a mite."

"This is illegal, Booger. You could go to jail! Is that what you want?"

Booger gave him one of those shit-eating grins. He stood up and walked over to the bed. “You gonna call the cops when I finally let you go? Turn your old pal in? Me? Booger? I always had your back when we were growing up. Remember that time when you broke the window of the First Baptist? That pretty stained glass one Reverend Aldritch was always a-braggin’ on?"

Damn it. Yes, Travis did remember it. Booger had stepped up and had taken the blame, sparing Travis both a lecture and a trip to the woodshed with Daddy.

"Or the time you said you was going necking with Emma Wilson, but I found you with her brother Bobby Lee instead?"

Yeah, he remembered that one, too. If Booger had gone to Ma and Daddy with
that
tale, Travis’ backside would
still
be smarting, fifteen years later.

"Not to mention that your friend Bernie would probably be spitting kittens if'n word got out about you and me up here, alone, and you being tied up, naked. Figure them supermarket rag sheets would have a field day with a story like that."

"That's blackmail, Booger!"

"No, that's just the God's honest truth, Travis. I didn't say that I
wanted
to see that happen. I don't. Lord knows you worked hard enough to hide who you are from everybody. I'm not going to be the one to open the closet door and shine the light in on you."

Travis grunted and let his head fall back on the pillow in defeat. “So, what do you want from me, Booger?"

To Travis’ surprise, Booger sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. He traced a finger along the white clothesline that bound Travis’ hands to the headboard. “At supper, you talked about them velvet ropes, the ones that keep most folk out of places like those ritzy nightclubs in LA and New York. People try their whole lives to get inside those ropes—hell, you've been trying, too, and you finally made it. I'm real glad for you, Travis. Proud, too."

"Thanks. Now let me go."

"No. I ain't done, yet. Hear me out. You got yourself all wrapped up in those fancy velvet ropes, but they're
fake
, Travis. They're pretty, but they're worthless when it comes down to it. Put any kind of pressure on them and they'll snap. But this rope, this here plain old nylon, is the kind that gets a job done. It's dependable. It's strong. It won't break. You can count on it."