Goin' Down In Four Horse Crossing

© 2014


Jonathan Longhorn

Copyright © 2014 by Jonathan Longhorn (jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com). All rights reserved. Except for the use of less than two pages in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means is forbidden without the express written permission of the author. Express permission is granted to The Nifty Erotic Stories Archive for storage, indexing, retrieval, and display of this work.

Disclaimer: The material in this work is for mature audiences only and contains graphic sexual content and language. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older. All of the characters in this work are assumed to be at least 18 years of age.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In the real world having sex without using a condom can be very dangerous to your health. Don't ruin your life or your future. Slip it on before you slip it in.

Note: There are some references in this story and others, to things mentioned in another of my stories, Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord's Revenge, which you can find here: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/target-nemesis-the-tentacle-lords-revenge.html. The story itself is about the movie being watched by characters in several of my stories - in which an alien warlord bent on revenge, `has his way' with an Earth Forces Brigade hero. While I hope that you would enjoy reading that story, it may be a bit brutal for some readers and you do not need to read that story first in order to understand or to enjoy this story.

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Chapter 3

Moving from a metropolitan area of 4+ million with highly rated, private schools and all the privileges that came with them to a rural county of barely 18,000 with—gasp—a `consolidated' school district—had been hard for all of them—for any number of reasons. Their mother had sat them all down at the big glass dining table and explained that Grandma and Grandpa needed help. Grandpa got sick after he got hurt. He couldn't keep the farm going on his own for the time being; maybe ever. And, as much help as the boy from the farm next door was proving to be, giving every spare second that he could, that couldn't last forever. The boy had his own life, his own family's farm, school, a handful of sports...

Grandma needed to take care of Grandpa. But, she wasn't in the best of health either and she couldn't run the farm all day if she was taking care of Grandpa.

Vicious circle? Yeah.

It was hard for them all. But, each of them remembered that `Grammy' and `Grandpa' had come running to help them pick up the shattered pieces of their lives when the news came that their father's helicopter had gone down in a mountainous region of Afghanistan. They had been there for them. They had helped them pick up the fragments and piece together `most' of their lives. A few pieces would forever be missing ... gone ... out of sight ... beyond their hearing ... beyond their touch. How do you explain `forever' to the little ones?

For Clint Braddock, it was nearly impossible to recover. He was the eldest. Move? From their family home? The only home they had ever known? The home they had grown up in with their father before he was killed? Leave the memories? The scuff marks? The worn boards here and there that creaked under their feet? To leave his school? His friends? His part-time job that he loved even though in their family, he didn't need the money?

Leave football?

Leave his status as the #1 quarterback in the nation? Prep, public, or other? #1 in the nation no matter what ranking—from 1-A to 6-A?


And he wasn't even a senior yet.


He understood.

That's what made it even harder.

He understood.

It was the right thing to do. Dammit and hangitall, fuckin' right thing to...!

Yeah, as much as it hurt, even he knew that it was the right thing to do. For his grandparents. For his Mom. For his siblings. For his Dad.

He had suddenly and irrevocably been thrown into the role of `Man of the House'. It was his job ... his duty ... his responsibility to step into the leadership role and do anything necessary to help ease some of the burden off of his mother's shoulders as she, in turn, stepped in to ease the newfound pressures and burden's that Grammy had to take on with Grandpa's accident and health issues.

Their grandparents were facing issues. Issues that they could not tackle alone. They needed help.

It hurt. Fucking Hell, it hurt.

He was leaving everything ... everyone ... behind. Worse? Maybe even worse than football? His best friend—Dane. He had no idea what Dane would do without him, or what he'd do without his lifelong best friend. They knew each other so well. Dane told him everything. He told Dane things that he'd never told anyone else. He even told Dane things about himself. Things that he never, ever thought he'd utter to another living soul. It took Dane a long time to finally break down his barriers and make him understand that he could trust Dane with anything ... no matter what ... and not risk losing him. There's no way you could put a price on that kind of friendship. They'd done so much together. Good times and bad times, but always together.

What was he supposed to do now?


By himself?

Without his best friend?

Without `any' friends?

How could Dane not be an integral part of his life now? Ever? Would they drift apart not only in location but `everything'? Long distance friendships were usually as successful as long distance relationships. Right?

But, it was the right thing to do—for his mother, for his siblings, for his grandparents. And, it was what his father would have done. What his father would expect of him. He wanted to make his father proud. Even if he was gone—forever.

Still, his younger brothers were excited about going to `The Texas' and getting to see `cowses' and they were positive they could now have enough space for things they've always wanted. Things like `Elephantses' and `giraffeses' and `23.5 dogses'. He had to laugh at that one. He wasn't quite sure exactly what would be a ½ a dog. Maybe a Chihuahua?


Clinton Jordan Braddock III nearly crawled the last few feet into the house. He was filthy—covered in dirt, mud, clumps of crap he didn't even want to know the ID of ... maximum muckage. He had hay, or—something—stuck in his hair; he was fairly sure that something had crawled inside one of his ears ... he probably had who knew what kind of crap and gunk stuck in his butt crack.

He had been up since 4:35 A.M. Breakfast would choke a killer aardvark—eggs, bacon, ham, biscuits, pancakes ... coffee, juice, milk... He looked up incredulously at his grandparents and his mother. He usually grabbed a Pop Tart packet on his way out the door. "It's a long time to lunch, Sugar Pie" his grandmother had said as she finger combed his hair. "Eat up. Don't worry about that body you've got goin' on, Sugar Pie. You'll burn it off by lunch." How did he argue with that? But, `really'? Did she have to talk about his body? Eww.

He had gone out with his grandfather, his frail steps unsteady but he leaned on Clint for support. The second day they were there, it was time for him to learn how to feed the livestock and do other mandatory daily chores around the farm. They did that together for the first week they were there. Slowly, he became familiar with the daily routine and timing but he realized early on that farming—even with all the new equipment and computerizations was a minute-to-minute grueling, back and knee breaking life.

And, it was fully dependent on one thing that surpassed everything else put together. Water. Either pumped or the old fashion way—rain.

The massive amount of work still amazed him. Grandpa still managed the farm, kept the records, did the books but those tasks would be passed along to him as well, at some later date.

His grandfather got him up the second week but made him go it alone. After a week of communicating back and forth on their cells if he had questions, he was on his own. He took over that roster of duties all to his lonesome self. `If' he survived this inundation of information, and, `if' he got it down, he would turn some of it over to the twins—Lynx and Lennox. They would be 13, soon. They could start getting up with the adults and those fucking, damned roosters—and they could feed and water the livestock before school and take on some other chores they could handle for their age and size.

Clint took care of the bales. Loading, unloading, stacking, and pulling. He checked the oil, water, and fuel in the trucks, SUV, the other car, the pickups ... the farm equipment. He checked the irrigation systems—under the relentless, oppressive grip of 108 degrees with wind like a blast furnace that could bake everything in no time at all. Water meant the difference between crops and livestock or dust and bones. Simple as that. The pumps and systems were doing a good job of it. Not great but it was keeping things alive and producing, anyway; his grandfather said that while it wasn't a perfect crop it was still marketable.

He did this every day, except Sunday. Even then, the livestock still had to be fed. A farmer's work was never done and there was no full day of rest. Not all day, anyway.


God, he missed football.

He tried not to think about it. To concentrate on his chores and his mother and his grandparents, his sister and brothers. Being the `Man of the House'. Helping where he could.

God, he missed football.

Another part of it being so hard for the kids was the timing. The middle of the summer was a rough time to move under any circumstances but the kids had never been here before. They had never seen a farm. They thought food and grains and vegetables just came from the grocery store. Like it had some magic machines in the back of the store that pumped the stuff out in cans, boxes, jugs, cryovac packaging and shrink wrapped. They were definitely going to learn where some of their food came from now. He grinned thinking about teaching them how to milk the cows. Of course Granddad had milking machines now, but still, you had to learn how to do it the old way, just in case.




God—he missed football.

He missed his friends and his classmates, well some of them anyway, but he really missed the close friendships he had with some of his teammates. Being the starting quarterback and calling the shots based on what Coach Anderson wanted. Being a team captain. Working as a team, the guys rallying around him. Guys coming to him with some of their problems.

He wondered about his new coach. What was he like? Would he want him on the team? How would he rate in Clint's books compared to Coach Anderson? Well, he had to meet the guy first, he guessed. Meet him. Try out for him. Blow his socks off.

School was starting the last week of August. School, and then two weeks later, the opening game of football season. Before that, walk-ons and tryouts were coming up fast. Real fast. Monday after next. And the next day, Tuesday—the coach would announce rosters and practices would begin that Wednesday with two-a-days. He badly wanted to walk-on and try out for the team at his new high school. He didn't know a soul here. He had no friends. No one to ask for a heads up on the head coach, or for that matter, any of the coaches. He knew nobody on the team or prospects who would walk on the same as him.

He had no #83 wide receiver who instinctively knew where his passes would be, who could take them and run the winning touchdowns. Their on field silent communication was amazing. They just seemed to know where the other was at all times. Now, there was no #83—Dane.

He doubted he'd win the starter position at quarterback. For that matter, it was probably doubtful that he'd even win back-up. He probably would walk into the locker room and suit up and trot out onto the field with everyone else and he'd find out that he was facing an entrenched hierarchy that would be hard to topple. If he didn't snag either of the QB slots, maybe he could hammer down a tight end or wide receiver slot. He had magnificent hands and he could run like a stallion. That had to count for something. It would feel so odd—so empty—without Dane on the field, anticipating his every move.

God—he missed football. He wasn't even sure he could handle it now; the duties at home with his family, his grandparents, working the farm and the livestock, all—had to take priority. He probably wouldn't even have time for friends and that was a depressing thought. Maybe one of the horses would listen to him when he needed to talk.

Getting to play football again was probably nothing more than a pipe dream. But, sometimes you have to start somewhere and dreams were as good as any place, he guessed. Could he do it without his #1 main man? Without Dane? He just didn't know but he could try, he guessed.

Clint nearly crawled into the kitchen, kissing his grandmother as she fixed a plate for him. Every. Single. Muscle. Every. Single. Bone in his body. Ached. Throbbed. Hurt. Could he do this 6 ½ days every week? Day in and day out? Plus do school `and' grueling football workouts and practices and two-a-days? Just the thought of it made him even more exhausted than he already was. He wasn't 100% positive but he thought that right now, even his hair hurt.

He aimed for the back stairs and headed up to his room. Slowly. One foot in front of the other. He knew he'd make it. Somehow. He had to. He stripped down, washed up enough to pass Grammy's muster, and put on clean clothes. He'd take a full-on shower later. He looked himself over in the mirror on the back of the closet door and then he headed back down to the kitchen—food.

As he aimed for the stairs, the kitchen, and the food, he glanced in the other bedrooms on this floor. Lynx was on the bed—texting. She couldn't have made friends here that fast. Could she? Well, knowing Lynx and how outgoing she was, maybe she did. But it was probably one of her old friends back home.

Lennox who was more the quiet—okay, `quieter'—twin was sitting on the window seat in his bedroom—gazing out the window. He was probably wondering what alien planet they had landed on and missing his own friends. A planet Cullen and Hayes still called `The Texas'. As in, we're going to The Texas! We can have cowses and... As tired as his was, it still brought a smile to his face. They were so innocent and so wide-eyed curious about everything.

Cullen—10, was telling some Wild West story to his 7-year old brother—Hayes. Where had they found cowboy hats? And, they both had on one of his discarded, sweaty tees—over their other clothes. Sometimes that was `all' they'd wear running around upstairs when the `girls' weren't around, giggling and whooping like wild little monkeys. At least his tees came down to their knees and covered the essential boy parts if that's all they had on.

He wasn't sure why they did that but they'd almost always be there when he took off his tee and instantly snag it before it hit the ground, taking off running and giggling. The tees always smelled so stinky to him that he couldn't wait to get out of them and shower, put on a clean one. How could they breathe that stuff? Maybe it was his big brother scent that made them feel safe and protected. It certainly didn't smell good to him. On the other hand, maybe a small part of him understood. He used to sleep in his dad's tees or his old jerseys, too. Hell—he had a few of Dane's in zipper bags... Well, in Dane's case, it was for other reasons. Reasons he had never told anyone. Especially Dane.

Cullen talked on, building the story like a master writer. The little one's eyes were wide in awe ... amazement ... wonder. It was some story about cowboys, train robbers, a Texas Ranger on dragon back and fireballs. Hayes was in rapt attention. In part, because of the story but mostly because Cullen was telling it. Hayes worshiped Cullen. The twins had each other so it was really good that Cullen was the perfect `big brudder' for Hayes. Very protective of him, always looking out for him and taking care of him in so many ways. Like taking his hand if they were crossing a street. Showing him how `big guys' did stuff, emulating how Clint did things, to Hayes. It was really cute to watch.

God—he was tired.

God—he hurt and ached ... everywhere.

God—he needed ... something.

All he could think about was food and visiting with his grandparents and a very long, very hot shower, and—that king-sized bed with those four pillows that he could bury himself into and under ... and the world just melted away.

He finally walked away from the bedrooms and hit the stairs. His knees ached so badly that he held the railing all the way down. He finally landed in the kitchen and he slunk into a chair at the table and his grandmother laid dinner out in front of him. He had an enormous glass of milk that joined a heaping man-size bowl of homemade stew. A hand towel was draped over a platter of fresh rolled and baked biscuits ... a big hunk of butter on the side. Dessert? Oh, yeah—dessert. Apple pie nearly dripping with a cinnamon syrup coating that was both crunchy and slurpy. He washed it all down with a glass of sweet tea that was poured over crushed ice in a glass handled mason jar.

Oh. God. Was. That. Good...

His Mom was a good cook, but man, his Grammy could `cook'. And bake. Fresh, homemade bread and biscuits. Mouth wateringly good. It was some of the best stuff that he had ever tasted. She still put up fruits and vegetables and other things for when they were out of season. Her 14-day pickles were really great with tuna salad. Which was really something in his case. He considered `tuna anything' to be one of the seven deadliest foods on the planet. Like Brussel sprouts. But the pickles were amazing. They were from a generations old family recipe that her older brother Stephen had passed along to her. There were no store bought pickles on earth that could ever taste as good.

Hell, he could sit at the table or in front of the television with a jar of those pickles and just eat them like potato chips. Once he bottomed out, he would probably consider slurping and chugging down the juice, too. Yeah, those pickles were that good.

Clint barely remembered eating. But, oh man that tea was ... it was ... it was, just... Smooth. Easy. Cool. Quenching. And the apple pie for dessert was orgasmic when you got right down to it. Not that he'd ever say that to his Grammy. He was so stuffed he could barely move. Or maybe it was all the hard work he had done that day. Or, maybe a combination of everything.



Do the right thing.

Bed sounded `so' right.

But, the kids were bored out of their minds. They needed ... something.

He inhaled deeply. The fingers of both hands kneaded his scalp through his still moist hair. He sighed again. He nodded. Resolved to do the right thing—again.

The bellow that erupted up the stairwell and resounded throughout the entire house was so close to sounding like their father that everyone jumped ... even Clint, himself.

"Lynx! Lennox! Cullen! Hayes! Kitchen ... now ... front and center!"

Scuffle. Scurry. A thunk. Another thunk. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Eight feet came pounding down the stairs carrying a stampede of arms and legs and bodies. They hit the kitchen floor one after another after another after another and scooted and slid to a stop at the side of the table—lined up side-by-side.

When Clint bellowed...

"Here's the 411," he said as he stood up and slowly paced back and forth on the other side of the table. "`If' you can be ready in less than 12 minutes and 59 seconds, we can make the movie theater over in Four Horse Crossing."

Lynx looked at Lennox who looked at Lynx. Hayes started bouncing up and down, his eyes wide as dinner plates. Cullen fist pumped the air while he tried with his other hand to keep his little brother from bouncing right through the kitchen ceiling.

"Right ... e ... ous!"



"Really, Clint? Please don't tease us becau..."

"12 minutes and 48 seconds," he interjected. "There are 4 of you. You know the `movie rule'. If we make the next showings, we can maybe hit two movies tonight and then tomorrow night we'll go back and hit two more movies that the other two of you can choose. But, you now have 12 minutes and 20 seconds to get upstairs, get washed, brush your teeth, `clean' tees, guys, and—comb your hair, and..."

The rest of his instructions fell on deaf ears. They all disappeared in a tornadic flash. Zoom. A speeding bullet couldn't catch them.



Clint sank back into his chair at the kitchen table and sucked down a couple fragments of sweet tea flavored ice. So delicious. So cool. Just ... so ... good...

God—he hurt.

God—he was tired.

God—he wanted a full-on, steaming hot shower and bed.

But, he had to do the right thing. Do what a loving, protective big brother would do. What his Dad would have done. And now, he guessed, what he'd do as `The Man of the House'. He missed his Dad so much, and it hurt so badly, but now it was his job to help the younger kids deal with that loss as best he could. Deal with the loss. Hang on to the memories. And, move forward.

He could never fill his Dad's shoes, but for his siblings, he would do his very, very best or die trying.

Naturally, Lynx had chosen the latest romantic chick flick. The boys had groaned but they understood the rules. Clint groaned, too—he was a guy and guys had to stick together, but in all honesty? He was glad that she picked it. The male lead was hot as fuck and shirtless a lot, and in one well publicized scene, he was completely naked and the butt shot garnered a lot of attention. He had wanted to see that and dream about it later. But those were the rules. Everybody picked a movie. Everybody went to every movie, together—as a family.

Lennox had chosen the latest `robot transforming earth into flames battle-galactic' flick. Cullen had wanted to see a cyberbully espionage flick set in a middle school with an 8th Grade superhero. Hayes had studied each and every movie poster ... except the one for something called Target Nemesis ... which his big brother had quickly steered him away from when he noticed `fig leaves' and tentacles stretching toward unspeakable places on the star's body. At least there `were' fig leaf stickers over the ... parts.

Hayes had finally decided he wanted to watch the latest in the line of `stomping' flicks because he loved to imitate the male dancers, and—he was really, really good at it. He could bang and clang a trash can lid and `stomp' and `spin' and even `flip' with the best of them. Half of the time, rather than calling him Hayes, they called him `Stomper'. They had all actually enjoyed that movie and they were all relieved because they were sure he would have gone for the Disney flick in the next theater. The one they had already seen 9 times before they left home for `The Texas'.

Clint had stared every chance that he got at that other poster. The one that he had pulled Hayes away from. Target Nemesis. He had seen the uproar online. He had heard the postulating and threats by everyone from preachers to politicians to school board members to parents who felt they could dictate the lives of their children, and worse—everyone else's children. He had checked and rechecked and re-rechecked the trailers and the pilfered cell postings of bits and pieces of this one. God—he wanted to see this one. All of it. At least once. Every ... last ... inch ... of ... it.

But, how?

How could he hit the movie when he was always farming and choring and being the `Man of the Family' to his sibs?

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