Quillon's Covert (8 page)

For Marty, life couldn’t be better. Or perhaps it could, depending how he looked at it. He was well on his way to securing the baseball scholarship he’d worked so hard for. It was to an in-state college, and the odds looked really good that he’d get it. He was doing exceptionally well in school, and had cultivated several close friendships, including a few he knew he’d hold for life. To top it off, his dad had been awesome about his coming out, and even helped him broach the subject with his mom, who ended up being as equally cool as Martin had been. Yet, the one thing he wanted more than anything seemed further away now than ever.

It was the reason his legs now refused to move. It was the reason he couldn’t get out of the truck, march up to his home-away-from-home, and look the most important man in his life in the eyes. That reason? Last year’s shower. Well, not just the shower, but the shower
and
everything that had led up to it. Starting with his tremendously stupid joy-ride-fuck-up, then culminating with Martin soaping his dick, and Marty ignorantly telling his father how much he liked it. He’d asked himself countless times why he’d made the confession, but the answer was the same each time: because he loved his dad. Which would’ve been fine, if his were the kind of love sons normally felt for their fathers. But he knew that wasn’t the case. That fucking shower had set so many things in motion, and changed so much about how they interacted afterward. It began with the very next night’s shower, which Martin had used a washcloth for, performing it like a task and not something shared between them. By last year’s end, the nightly showers had become so impersonal and chore-like that Marty had actually dreaded them. Now he wasn’t sure if he and Martin would ever be able to get back to the place they’d been before.

Sure, they still hung out as much as ever. They still played baseball on the weekends, worked on his pitching and catching, still went to games, and did all the regular guy stuff. But something was off; physical closeness had always been natural and easy between them, but it now seemed somehow tainted and strained. Yeah, the fucking shower—his confession—had changed things. What Marty didn’t know for sure was is if the change was solely on his father’s part. Had he put more emphasis on the confused look in Martin’s eye last year than he should have? Had that uncertainty caused him to pulled away too? Was the distance he felt now, and in those last few showers, partly his own doing? He sighed and leaned his head against the passenger window. Now they were back in the mountains and everything he’d tried not to dwell upon the past year was back in full force.

“Hey, Slacker,” Martin called from the porch. He clinked his elbows together and scowled. “No casts this year, so no loafin’. Pull your ass out of the truck—and bring my beer and Oreos with you!”

Marty smiled slightly, thankful that at least not everything had changed.

“Seriously?” Martin asked and dropped his fork on the paper plate with an exaggerated sigh. “What’s with the mood, Bubba?”

Marty bit his tongue and shuffled potato salad around on his plate. He and his father had been doing a marathon of
Nash Bridges
episodes over the past few nights, and the new nickname was like a punishment to him. He wasn’t a kid anymore, and the nicknames had really started to bother him. “You know that nickname annoys me…and this potato salad sucks.”

Martin sat the paper plate on the small deck table that separated their two outdoor chairs, bunched up his paper towel, and dropped it on what remained of the awful potato salad. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

Marty offered a small shrug at his dad’s dejected scowl.

“Every year you want me to make it, and every year it turns out the same horrible way.”

Martin eyed the last piece of his bratwurst peeking out from under the napkin, picked it up, shoved it into his mouth, and pushed the paper plate with the uneaten salad farther away. Despite everything, Marty found it far more difficult than he should to look away as his dad’s lips stretched obscenely around the sausage.

Martin picked up his beer, sat back in the deck chair, and drew his brows together in an exaggerated scowl. “You know, if you hadn’t scoffed at the potato salad Mom made for us years ago and just accepted it, I wouldn’t have to try and copy it every year for our inaugural barbecue. But no, you were all about, ‘Dad can make it, Mom. He knows how.’”

Martin sat back in his seat and twisted the beer in his hands. Even his ribbing wasn’t getting much of a rise out of Marty. “Seriously, Buddy. Talk to me. I know whatever’s been going on with you isn’t just hormones anymore.” Martin swallowed a mouthful of beer. “We’re over the worst of that now anyway.”

“I’m happy you think so,” Marty snorted.

Martin laughed and adjusted his balls; they’d become pinched between his thighs when he picked up his beer. The routine gesture didn’t escape Marty’s notice. He allowed his gaze to linger a moment and admire just how perfect and heavy and hairy they still were. Did Mom teabag Dad?
Whoa!
Those thoughts weren’t gonna help anything.

Martin reached for his shades, to protect against the sun’s rays as it set over the lake. “Look—” Martin scratched his chin and broke off. Dead
nervous tic
giveaway.

Somehow the knowledge that his dad felt awkward too was somewhat comforting to Marty, and he finally started to relax a bit.

Martin kept facing forward. “I get that this is a difficult age, and I’m thankful we’re still as close as we are. I see some of the relationships my employees have with their boys…it’s just…I know how lucky you and I are.” Martin cleared his throat. “What I’m tryin’ to say is, let’s not let anything ever come between us, okay?”

Martin turned his hidden gaze to Marty. He knew his dad was trying to tell him that things could be okay again, and Marty appreciated it more than Martin would ever know, but he just wasn’t sure how they’d get there.

Although he didn’t really feel it, he reassured Martin. “Of course, Dad. Nothing. We’re rock solid.”

Martin laughed and glanced down at his crotch. “Is that a quip at me?” he asked. “I’ve only been away from your mother ten hours and my dick is already starting to complain.”

Marty dared the quickest of peeks at his dad’s fuller than normal dick, but no more. “At least you have Mom to help you out,” he said, and damn if it didn’t come out sounding much more resentful than he’d intended.

“What happened with Tony?” Martin asked, adjusting his ball cap and taking another swig of beer.

“Turned out to be a bottom. Wasn’t a good fit.”

Martin laughed, and Marty thought he sensed relief in the man’s rugged features. Was it only because Marty had made a joke? Or was his dad trying to tell him that he’d be more comfortable with his son sharing more personal aspects of his life? Maybe Martin missed them talking, really talking, as much as Marty did? Like the way he’d overheard Martin’s friends talking to their sons about girls? Did his father want him to talk about the guys he’d begun dating? Would that help bring back the missing ease in their relationship?

“Yeah,” Marty said, testing the waters. “And he was into really weird stuff. Like once, he wanted to suck my toes. How creepy is that?”

Martin choked on his beer, spewing it over his stomach and fatter than normal dick. “You’re kidding!”

“No way!” Marty said, feeling his mood lighten a bit.

“But he seemed like such a wholesome boy.” Martin wiped his stomach and gave his dick a yank to remove the spilled beer.

Of course, Marty couldn’t help but wonder how a mix of beer and precum would taste. Fuck, he was hopeless.

“I drew the line when I woke up to discover a pair of my Nikes were missing. I knew he’d taken them the night before ’cause he couldn’t wait to get home after our make out session.”

“You’re killing me,” Martin said with a laugh.

Marty smiled, thankful that a bit of their easy camaraderie had returned. If there was one thing Marty should have learned over the years, it was to never underestimate the healing powers of Quillon’s Covert.

Martin / 37

“The fire out?” Martin asked through a yawn and pulled the covers back on the bed.

Although the air conditioner was working just fine, the small window unit couldn’t match the 102-degree day they’d just had. At some point during the night, they’d need a sheet, and perhaps even a blanket if they were lucky, but right now Martin just bunched both down to the foot of the bed. The campfire wasn’t for warmth, but rather a moderately successful attempt at keeping the mosquitoes at bay.

“Yep. It’s out. And the fishing poles are put away, and there’s no food left out to attract critters, and the seat is down on the outhouse stool, and—”

Martin punched the pillows to fluff them up, tossed his cap onto the nightstand, and pointed a finger at his son. “Look, you aren’t too old for me to bend over my kn…” His son’s lifted brow and subtle smirk kept Martin from finishing his words.

“Yeah, ’cause we both know how well that went over last time.”

Marty nudged his father’s shoulder. “Get into bed, Old Man, I’m beat! Next time the roof ‘only needs a few shingles replaced’ I vote we hire someone.”

Martin climbed into the bed and schooched over to take his customary spot next to the wall. “Well, so long as your vote comes with the cash to back it up, I’m good with that.”

Martin lifted his arm and Marty snuggled down next to him, resting his head on his father’s firm chest.

Martin was
so
glad the weirdness, which had begun near the end of last year’s trip—after the shower—and that had kept them apart, now seemed behind them. During the first few days of this trip, he’d felt sure the change would be permanent; Marty had seemed as distant as he’d been since the end of last year’s trip, if not more so. Martin understood the catalyst that had caused Marty to pull away. And perhaps Martin had pulled back too. He vividly remembered trying to avoid any contact in last year’s subsequent showers that could be misconstrued as more than bathing. And, after they got home, Marty had started sitting in one of the living room chairs, instead of on the sofa next to him, when they’d watch movies or games. While he’d reluctantly chalked their new dynamic up to last year’s shower, he also tried to reason that Marty was getting older and a growing distance between a parent and child was natural. The thought had made him sadder than he’d imagined, but it seemed every time he got remotely close to discussing the subject, Marty would change topics. Now, after more than a week at Quillon’s Covert, it seemed things had miraculously returned to the way they’d once been. Perhaps Marty finally understood they could be close—very close—without things veering into a direction he was sure neither of them really wanted.

“Not gonna be too hot is it?”

Martin yawned. “Nah, it’s never too hot to snuggle.”

He was once again relieved that Marty was gay, particularly now that they’d fallen back into the familiar, comfortable habit of lying with each other at night. Martin knew most fathers and teenaged sons didn’t snuggle together. But, with Marty being gay, it somehow lessened the need for Martin to put on some sort of hyper masculine front. Not that throwing fictitious fronts up had ever been part of their relationship. But without a doubt, Marty being gay made it easier to be physically close.

“Not that I didn’t enjoy it, you know.”

Martin picked up the thread of their earlier spanking conversation and ran a sleepy hand down Marty’s back. “Um, yeah, that part was kinda hard to miss. And you have the nerve to complain about Tony
being into really weird stuff
. And we’re
so not
talking about this. Shut-up, Bobcat. Go to sleep.”

Marty’s fingers softly skimmed through the hair on Martin’s chest, and he felt his son’s growing erection thickening next to his thigh.

“And don’t be grinding against me all night either, Horndog,” Martin warned with a snort.

Marty laughed and the warm breath across Martin’s chest relaxed him even further. “It’s not my fault that you’re so damn hunky just lying next to you gives me a bone.”

Martin ran a hand through his son’s still shower-damp curls. “If that were the only time you popped wood, I might believe you. I’ll be so damn glad when your hormones even out. I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep this whole trip. But, at this point, I’m beginning to think that may not happen until your early thirties.”

Marty’s lack of response and easy breathing led him to think his son had fallen asleep. Several long moments passed when Marty quietly asked, “Dad? Do you think we’ll still cuddle like this when I’m in my thirties?”

Martin pushed his nose into his son’s hair. “I sure hope so. Now, Go. To. Sleep.”