Quillon's Covert (5 page)

“Chocolate?” Martin murmured.

Distracted, Marty responded, “Uh huh.”

When neither moved, Marty finally reminded him that he’d gotten the last pair of individually wrapped candies and it was Martin’s turn.

After a few moments, Martin set down the paperback and grabbed the bag of chocolates. “Fine. But I’m unwrapping more than one apiece.”

As his large fingers attempted to extract the candy from the foil, his son asked, “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“How did the naked thing start?”

Marty laid the tablet on his chest and turned his head. Martin felt his son’s head tilt back and wedge itself firmly between his thighs. He knew Marty got some sort of twisted pleasure out of watching him fight with the candy.

Martin’s eyebrows were pulled together in concentration. “Um, I don’t know.” The foil had put up a plucky fight, but he’d finally won. “Yes! I got one.”

Marty immediately opened his mouth and made an
ahhh
noise. Martin looked down and reluctantly released the chocolate into his son’s waiting mouth.

“Spoiled Spawn,” he huffed before snatching up another of the foil puzzles. More often than not, what did and didn’t trigger Marty’s choking phobia still perplexed Martin. Apparently, his son was fine with Martin dropping chocolates into his open mouth.

“My dad started bringing me up here when I was eight or nine…maybe even before that.” He shrugged. “Nudity’s just always been a part of Quillon’s Covert.”

He paused and looked down at Marty. “Does it bother you?”

His son stopped chewing and rolled his eyes. “You’re doing it again, Dad.”

“Doing what?”

“Talking to me like I’m a little kid.”

Martin scanned the length of Marty’s body. There was no doubt his son wasn’t a little kid anymore. The baseball team track runs, the weight training, the nearly constant physical activity Marty enjoyed, all had an obvious effect on his maturing physique. The knowledge of how much that pleased the boy—
the young man
, he corrected himself—made him smile.

He glanced at Marty’s crotch and wasn’t the least bit surprised the boy was sporting an erection. It had been nearly a week since the
sunblock hardon
, and Martin had good-naturedly needled him about it—asking if it was sunscreen in general, or the smell of coconuts in particular that Marty found irresistible—because he didn’t want the boy to feel self-conscious about something completely natural. That would have flown entirely in the face of what Quillon’s Covert stood for; this was a place of relaxation and camaraderie and bonding. Since then, Marty had been freely pitching a tent more frequently than not.

“Okay, so let’s talk about something a bit more grown-up. You wanna talk about sex?”

He watched Marty’s Adam’s apple bob up and down a few times before the boy responded.

“Wuh-wuh-what duh-duh-do you muh-muh-mean?”

He placed a finger to Marty’s lips. “Hey. It’s all cool. I just…well.” Martin gave a nod toward Marty’s rigid flagpole. “I just wondered if you had any questions? You know, about girls, or protection, or birth control.”

Martin could feel the sudden, uncharacteristic tremble of Marty’s lips beneath his finger, and his son’s eyes began to glass over. Martin scratched his chin uncertainly. “Son, we don’t...” He broke off as a tear slid down Marty’s pocked cheek.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he soothed. “What’s all this about?”

Before he even knew what was happening, Marty had abruptly pulled away, sat up—his tablet clanking to the carpeted floor—and crawled up to straddle his lap.

Martin, suddenly feeling very protective, pulled his son forward and pressed their chests together in a tight hug. “What is it?”

Marty said nothing, but he could feel his son’s warm tears spilling against his neck. Martin’s mind stammered at both the oddity of having his fifteen-year-old son sitting in his lap, and at the possibilities that had caused it; had Marty gotten a girl pregnant? Or made a move on someone he was interested in and been rebuffed, or had he been involved with someone and it ended badly? He shook his head. No. He would’ve known if any of those things had happened. Wouldn’t he? But something was terribly wrong. Or perhaps this was just another instance of overactive hormones. Lord knew he hadn’t been able to count the number of times a day Marty’s mood swung from one direction to the next. But even then, they never had him climbing into Martin’s lap, nor did they include tears.

He loosened his hold, rubbed his hands up and down Marty’s back, and decided to wait it out.

After a few moments, Marty began to speak into the side of Martin’s neck. “Wuh-wuh-what—” He paused, cleared his throat, and started again. “Wuh-wuh-what...” He growled in frustration. “Fuh-fuh-fuck-ing st-st-stutter! I huh-huh-hate it!”

Something about the situation—the strange paradox of his teenager sitting on his lap crying, the incredibly foreign sensation of an erection digging into his stomach, and Marty’s stuttering profanity—had him unexpectedly smiling. Yeah, no doubt about it, he had a unique sense of humor.

He schooled his features, gently pulled Marty back, and sitting him squarely on his lap, brought a finger to his lips.

“Just get it out, Dutch.”

Marty closed his wet eyes and breathed deeply. “What could I tell you that would make you love me less?” he whispered.

Even though he’d finished the question, his eyes remained closed and fresh tears escaped the unopened lids. Martin’s throat tightened too.

“Nothing,” he said earnestly. “There’s nothing you could ever say, nothing in the world, that would make me love you any less.”

When his son made no move to either open his eyes or speak, Martin continued. “Is this about a girl? Has something happened?”

The minute shake of his head was the only response Martin thought he’d get, but eventually Marty continued in the same whispered voice, “There’s no one. There’s never been anyone. And I don’t think there ever will be a girl.”

“Marty,” he tried, “you’re still young, there’s plenty of time to find…” He paused as his son’s uncertain eyes slid open.

“No, Dad. It’s not about
time
…I don’t think…”

Although Martin’s arm began to tremble slightly with the strain of keeping his finger lightly pressed to Marty’s lips, he ignored it.

“You don’t think what, Son?

“I think I’m gay,” he finally blurted and clamped his eyes shut again.

Relief swept over Martin, and he pulled Marty back to his chest. He wrapped one arm around Marty’s back and the other closed around the nape of his neck. Fuck! Gay he had no problems dealing with; teenage pregnancy on the other hand was an entirely different thing.

“Jesus, you scared me, Nimrod! I thought… Damn, all sorts of things ran through my mind. Don’t ever do that again.”

Marty pulled away, sat back, and gave his dad a leery look. “Huh? You’re not…um, mad?”

Martin reached up and wiped his son’s tears away. “Of course I’m not mad. Christ, you’re gay, not…” He sighed in renewed relief. “But if I bring up talking about safer sex with guys, are we gonna have a repeat of this?”

Marty grinned, a few errant tears still sliding down his cheeks, but didn’t say anything.

“Because, with your freakish staying power”—Martin reached down, wedged a hand between his abdomen and Marty still hard dick, and pushed it up against his son’s stomach—“the dudes are gonna be lining up. Now could you please take hold of this and stop jabbing me in the gut with it?”

Chapter 3 – Broken Arms and Persistent Niggling

Martin / 36

Martin pulled his son’s T-shirt over his sandy-blond curls and couldn’t help but notice the look of embarrassment in Marty’s eyes. It had been over two weeks since the accident that had left both of the teen’s arms broken and in casts, but Marty still felt self-conscious about having to rely on someone to perform even the simplest of tasks.

Martin snickered, deriving more than a bit of enjoyment in his son’s displeasure.

“Oh, I’ve got a ton of tasks lined up for you to complete over the next two weeks…and I’m gonna love watching you try to do them with both arms in casts, you damn Goober!”

“Whatever,” Marty said. Waving the tips of his fingers in a
get on with it motion
, he complained, “Are you gonna take my shorts off or just play with my zipper all day?”

His son’s diverting retort was a feeble attempt at focusing the conversation on anything other than the “accident”. Martin had to admit, Marty rarely fucked up, but when he did, he did it royally. The joyriding car accident was one of those times. Unfortunately, Marty would have to pay for that fuck-up—in a few different ways—and Martin wasn’t particularly looking forward to his part: doling out the required punishment.

Martin stopped short of getting the zipper completely down and stepped toward the back of the truck. He dropped the tailgate and grabbed the first box of supplies.

With a wink, he said, “I think it should start now…with you getting your own shorts off. I’m gonna get to unloading.”

“Dad. Come on, dude. I’ll be here forever.” Gone was the cracking, pubescent voice of last year. A richer, deeper tone had taken its place in the last six weeks, and he was still getting used to the mature pitch coming from his son.

Martin carried the first box past an annoyed Marty and smirked. “It’s not my fault you decided to wear some fancy shorts with zippers and buttons to a nudist’s haven. I’d have gone with a pair of sweats myself.”

On his second trip to the cabin with boxes, he barked out a laugh when a frustrated Marty yelled
screw it
, followed by the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing and a button bouncing off the side of the truck.

When Martin stepped into the slightly stale smelling cabin with another load, Marty had managed to plug in the window air conditioner and was on his hands and knees trying to get the refrigerator plugged in. Seeing his son’s upturned naked ass, he couldn’t resist another jab.

“I hope you don’t expect me to wipe your ass for the next two weeks, because there ain’t no amount of love—”

The refrigerator kicked to life and Marty pulled open the door, avoiding Martin’s eyes. The avoidance, paired with his son’s stiff posture, spoke volumes and told Martin all he needed to know.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned. “I gotta wipe your ass? What have you been doing at home?”

Marty stared into the open refrigerator long moments before quietly responding. “I guh-guh-go once a day…ruh-ruh-right before my nightly bath…so…”

He finally turned from the fridge, closed the door, and with some difficulty managed to pick up a tangerine from the box closest to him. He silently studied it for several seconds before letting it slip from his fingers and drop back into the box.

Obviously Marty felt a lot more self-conscious about the whole thing than Martin did. Sure, it’d been years since he’d wiped his kid’s ass, but he’d changed more than his fair share of diapers when Marty was young. This wasn’t
that
big a deal.

Martin set the box on the counter and then leaned his butt against the back of the sofa. Crossing his legs at the ankles, he tried to convey an easy, chill vibe. “Okay, so once a day before showering. I can handle that. But if you need to go more, I mean…”

Martin watched as his son’s eyes briefly met his before landing over his left shoulder. By the look on Marty’s face, there was no doubt in his mind what had his son’s attention.

The paddle. They both knew the joyriding car accident mandated punishment.

When those blue-gray eyes settled on his, Martin didn’t say anything, but instead gave a short nod in response to his son’s unasked question.

Christ, he thought, let’s go from one uncomfortable conversation to another.

Marty sighed and picked at the corner of a box. “I mean, fuck. Haven’t I been through enough already?”

Martin pushed off the sofa and stood facing his son. The mood had suddenly grown even more serious, and he stared at Marty until his son finally brought his eyes up and met his own.

“That’s seventeen. You will not ever swear at me. I’ve done nothing to deserve such disrespect. Am I clear, Martin Junior?”

Long ago, back with Martin and his father, it had been determined serious infractions warranted a strike for every year of his age. The tradition had been carried on with his own son. Marty’s “accident,” unquestionably, called for sixteen strikes, the profanity—the utter disrespect—directed at him, added another.

As much as some things remained the same at the cabin, others changed. When Martin was a child, the paddle was kept at home and would make the trip up to the cabin along with him and his dad. However, Allie didn’t approve of corporal punishment, where Martin devoutly believed in its merits. As a result, the paddle now permanently hung next to the bed in the cabin. And even though spanking wasn’t a part of Marty’s home life, an infraction, at any point in the year, would be dealt with upon their next trip to the mountains. The arrangement, though a huge departure from Martin’s upbringing, worked for their family. And, it wasn’t as if the paddle got used every year. In general, Marty was an exceptionally good kid.

The irritation in his son’s demeanor quickly faded. And when his eyes met Martin’s, he could already see the apology in them.

“Duh-duh-dad, I duh-duh-didn’t mean…”

Normally there wouldn’t have been anything that would have kept Martin’s calming finger from his son’s stuttering lips. Today he stood firm as Marty broke off, trying to stifle the stammer on his own. Marty took a few steps, closing the distance between them, and hooked Martin’s hand into his. Before he understood what was happening, Marty brought Martin’s calloused index finger up to his own lips. Holding it there, he closed his eyes and stilled himself. When he opened them again, he stood close enough that Martin could see the gray flecks that gave his son’s eyes their extraordinary color.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I never meant to be disrespectful,” he said quietly against Martin’s finger.

There wasn’t a single question in Martin’s mind about his son’s sincerity. That, combined with what Marty had done with his finger, left Martin’s throat tight and his eyes tingling with emotion.