Cordell 10

The whole Pueblo community is there, and they all seem to be ranged against Keon. Keon stands firm-defiant, thin arms folded with his back against the Bollinger’s dusty side panel. Samuel Faulkner has cuffed his face once and there will be a black eye. Ruby-Leigh put a stop to that nonsense.

“Keon, you have to be reasonable. Hand over the keys.” Malcolm says this half-heartedly. Holding Jeremy Gates never sat right, and he is relieved the boy found a way to settle the matter. Next comes the law. You own your actions, Malcolm consoles himself.

“No sir, I won’t.” Keon’s jaw sets hard. “Jem has a right to go home to his mamma and papa. You can’t keep him here.”

“What’s done is … “ Ruby-Leigh begins, pleased with Keon’s brass.

“Bullshit!” Samuel Faulkner interrupts. “You must have spare keys for this thing!”

“Three sets, all missing.” Malcolm shrugs his shoulders. Keon holds his silence, letting the adults waste more valuable time. It has only been half an hour since the Blazer’s engine caught everyone’s attention. Fourteen and Cordell are still inching their way over rough ground in bad light.

“The twats stole my Blazer!” Samuel argues.

“Take that up with your son when he comes crawling back next time.” Ruby-Leigh remarks. The Morman is going to do whatever he plans to do. She and her boys still draw breath, ready for the next step. Ruby-Leigh held Franklin on the sidewalk while he bled out. She can handle what comes next.

“Vondell,” The little boy looks like a mouse trapped in an elephant stampede. “You know where your brother hid the keys, don’t you?” Vondell looks around the circle. Keon is glaring a warning at him. He does not know what his grandpa Malcolm wants him to say, but his mama shakes her head just a bit. She wants him to stay out of this conversation.

“So Jem and Keon were talking kinda loud on the bed.” Vondell slides a knowing-curious look at his big brother, “They stopped talking (emphasis on that) and Jem takes off with his bag. Keon sits a bit, then he left too. I was really tired, so I went back to sleep.” Vondell shrugs helpless-innocent. Keon has a blush on about the something-something his brother does in the bed below Vondell.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Samuel Faulkner is fuming. “Okay … okay, we’ll hotwire the Land Rover.” Keon slides in front of the door to block the handle with his thin body.

“No, Sam.” Malcolm decides.

“I’ll give you the keys at lunch.” Keon concedes.

“Those punks will be in Kingman by that time.” Samuel is calculating things, trying to understand what Cordell plans to do. He turns back to Keon. “Listen boy, they took my car. You have to see the right of this. So your friend goes home. I should still get my car back. You have to see the right of this!”

Keon is feeling overwhelmed by the adults pressing in on him. He has to give a little. “Jem said they were going to San Diego.” It was wrong to give that away, but Keon feels the pressure drop like someone lifted a stone off his chest.

“San Diego?” Samuel is disgusted. He was hoping for Phenix. A quick call to Roman and Angela and the boys might be found as they took Interstate 17 south. There is no way to stop them from going to San Diego. “The Blazer won’t make the nine hours.” If Roman left Phenix right away, the Montreals might catch up to the teenagers.

“Jem has money from the old doctor man.” Keon sticks that fact to Samuel Faulkner. “Just a raggedy-ass old heap of junk anyway. Not worth much is it? You still got wheels, old man.”

Ruby-Leigh won’t brook this sass from her eldest son. “Respect, Keon.”

Keon said too much. He can see it in Samuel Faulkner’s eyes. They narrow at him, cold and angry-hurtful; maybe flecks of alarm with a twitch below his right cheek. Keon said too much. Damn boy, you need to learn to shut up!

Samuel stares the black boy down. Keon King is still standing against the Bollinger’s door, defiant. There is something he just said, Samuel ponders. He could get it out of the boy if the Kings would let him. Samuel is outnumbered two to one.

Asher Montreal is no help. The pimply punk is obviously pleased to see the back of Cordell and Fourteen. Everyone is. Samuel looks around for Inez. She never joined the group. She is back in his bed still. Cordell and Inez were thick as thieves. Thieves, Samuel starts to sweat. Oh Cordell, what have you and Inez done?” Samuel needs to talk to Inez with the back of his hand.

♪♫♬ Life's like a road that you travel on

Where there's one day here and the next day gone ♪♫♬

Sometimes you bend sometimes you stand

Sometimes you turn your back to the wind

There's a world outside every darkened door

Where blues won't haunt you anymore

Where the brave are free and lovers soar ♪♫♬

“Come ride with me to the distant shore,” Cordell shouts over Fourteen’s sweet voice. He gives Fourteen’s shoulder a light punch, which sets the Blazer towards the margin of the road. Fourteen grins back from behind the wheel. The drive out of the canyon back to Frazer Wells was tense. Fourteen felt the pressure of balancing speed with safety as he challenged himself with the unfamiliar vehicle. They made it to pavement finally. Shit, he could do anything! Fourteen turns to his boyfriend as the song launches into ...

♪♫♬ Life is a highway

I want to ride it all night long ♪♫♬ (do, do … do, do, do)

If you're going my way

I want to drive it all night long ♪♫♬

The oldie just popped up on the Boomer radio station and it fit Fourteen’s mood perfectly. He has to sing along. Let freedom ring!

♪♫♬ Through all these cities and all these towns ♪♫♬ Fourteen sings soprano.

“It's in my blood and it's all around,” Cordell shouts joyfully and opens his arms wide to the desert horizon.

♪♫♬ I loved you now like I loved you then, ♪♫♬ Fourteen assures Cordell. They both just listen to the next part.

♪♫♬ This is the road and these are the hits

From Mozambique to those Memphis nights ♪♫♬

The Khyber pass to Vancouver's lights

Knock me down and… ♪♫♬

Then, both teenagers are head banging in sinc as Tom Cochran rocks out the rest of the song. Needles is ahead and Interstate 40 is clear to San Diego freedom.

Fourteen taps out at the Hi Sahara Oasis. It is a wide expanse of poured concrete with island’s of sheltered pumps and a Comic Sans sign declaring NAJAH’S DESERT OASIS ON ROUTE 66. Fourteen stretches the kinks out of his legs while Cordell fills up the Blazer at the sheltered pump. South, it feels South-warm to me now. Oh the delayed-promise of somewhere warm after his winter journey, freedom is sweet! Fourteen celebrates. He watches the traffic flow in and out of the gas station, marvelling at his new-found freedom. Najah has snacks, but Cordell assures Fourteen it will be better to eat in Palm Springs.

Cordell pulls away from the pump and drives to a quiet, sun-drenched corner of the parking lot where palm trees offer a pool of shade. Fourteen is left to follow across the sun-drenched pavement to join him. Cordell fusses in the back of the old Blazer. “What’s up?” Fourteen asks his boyfriend.

“You got us on to the highway. You look a little beat.”

“I am.” Fourteen confesses. The Blazer is far easier to drive than the Luxor Winnebago, but negotiating the rocky trail out of the Pueblo, Samuel Faulkner hot on their trail, wore him down. There was no sleep during the night, and before that it was the fight with Keon by the cliff. It has been a long 24-hours.

Cordell has the tailgate dropped and he is heaving their two bags over to the back bench. “I’ll drive to Palm Springs. We will switch off there again. You are the better driver, I think. I want you to drive San Diego’s freeways.” The city driving scares Cordell. “Without a phone, I’ll have to figure our way in.”

“We definitely need a phone.” Fourteen agrees. Fourteen could kiss his boyfriend right there on the tailgate. Cordell’s confidence makes Fourteen feel good. Cordell thinks he can do anything.

“Stretch out babe.” Cordell encourages Fourteen. He stops Fourteen with a palm on his chest. “Here, let me help you.” Fourteen does not need the sweatshirt in this desert. The shirt beneath comes off as well. They have this corner of the Sahara Oasis to themselves, so Cordell shows his appreciation. It starts as hungry kissing, and then Cordell’s hands are owning the ripe boy. He rips at Fourteen’s old jeans. “Thank you for driving, Jerry. Thanks for getting me out of that fucking hole in the wall.”

Cordell’s tongue pops into Fourteen’s mouth and his hand starts to reward his Pretty Boy. Fourteen’s arms reach around his neck and the boy snuggles close. Cordell’s hand cups his scrotum softly like the well worn denim he likes to wear. It has been a long 24-hours, but Fourteen is always ready for his boyfriend. “Shit you’re hard,” Cordell snarls. The bobcat just wants to purr. “Show me the love, Jerry.”

The love is there, hard in Cordell’s palm. The hungry kissing, dazzle-sunlight, hot-breath wind, the sound of doors, shouts, and motors from the distant gas pumps, Cordell’s hand roaming his back, Fourteen wants to grasp as much sunlight-life as he can. Everything is really just now, you have to grab it because before is lost to you and after is always risky-regret. Love now because it will slip away.

This is risky-love out of the blinding sunlight, Arizona desert nothingness. Fourteen is fifteen-hot for this. He is tired of drawn RV shades, furtive bubble tents, and musty adobe shelters. This is Love by the Tailgate Light.   Fourteen is ready for a tailgate party with a cowboy.

And I never had a boy, Looking any better than you … Fourteen leans back into Cordell, letting his cheek rest against the man-stubble on Cordell’s chin. He closes his eyes to the sunlight. It never felt so good, it never felt so right … Cordell does not need technique. He just needs to love Fourteen’s hard cock with his palm. Take the 24-hour stress out. And our bodies are oh so close and tight … and Jeremy Gates is glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife … C’mon hold on tight, Oh c’mon hold on tight ...

“Ughh, ah, ah, ah!” Cordell-cowboy makes him cum across the tailgate. Then it is the ten-second rule, push the orgasm-afterglow further. Coat the cum back over the shaft and to the tight scrotum.

“Yeah Pretty Boy, there you go.” Cordell milks the hard shaft. “There you go, baby.” The seminal fluid milks out of the little mouth in two afterthoughts. Cordell keeps Fourteen boned. Fourteen is melting into his chest, pressing his bubble butt into Cordell’s hardness. “I don’t deserve you. You’re so perfect, Jerry.”

This is fucking hot, Cordell tells himself. He jacked a boy in a fucking parking lot. Well that was hardly a new thing for Cordell, but this piece of meat in his hand is high-grade wagyu beef worth $200 per pound. As Samuel Faulkner would approve, Fourteen has utility. That was pretty fucking hot, Cordell massages the spunk right back into the boy’s crotch as Fourteen nuzzles mindlessly at his neck. Fourteen is Cordell’s bitch. Cordell had two thousand in his pocket. The knapsack he took out to his father’s van with six bricks of cocaine and pop’s weed. No telling what the Blow will be worth. He wants a taste, but Cordell needs to keep his head clear. Six bricks, and he could sell the location of the rest to Elvis Parker, demand a finder’s fee.

Fourteen’s ever-cock in his hand ever-sexy. Jerry’s mouth is still trying to snatch kisses from Cordell. Jerry all slut-needy turns the seventeen-year-old on. But six bricks of cocaine guarantee Cordell’s freedom. Six bricks is respect on the street! That makes Cordell fucking horney. Cordell measures the gap between this tailgate party and the gas pump business. “Give it to me Jerry!” He growls deep in his throat, oh fuck, the God-damn cocaine right there in front of me!

Fourteen turns in his arms so he can drop to his knees, ready to give his boyfriend’s cock sunshine and his eager tongue. Cordell checks his turn. They exchange a hard kiss. Cordell just eats Fourteen’s tangerine face, bites the soft lower lip. Fourteen’s good sense is evaporating in the heat of their encounter. Fourteen left his good sense splattered on the tailgate.

“Your ass, right here, right now, give it to me Jerry!” Fourteen is food on the table for his boyfriend. He simply nods his head, wanting Cordell’s arms, Cordell’s teeth, Cordell’s closeness, Cordell’s utter confidence to guide him. Fourteen is open to this crazy sunshine now. Just a whimper-capitulation, hurried nod of the head, just happiness.

Cordell tugs the old jeans down the slim legs. “Step out,” he commands the boy. “Here and now, Jerry, I need you here and now.” Oh fuck, control feels good! Pretty Boy just opens for him. Jerry always does. The pelvis-thrust submitting to him. Cordell licks his fingers good, then works the practiced-sphincter muscle. Jerry adjusts his legs, drops his torso onto the tailgate. Cordell is fucking with his fingers. Sunlight glares as he glances around the empty spread of pavement. His fingers own Pretty Boy.

Cordell rests a hand on the smooth tailbone where Cordell will plant the first tattoo. Maybe Johnny Sparks will even let Cordell add CF on either side of the new triangle. Jerry’s pussy holds his fingers tight. Fucked in a parking lot. Jerry naked by the highway, resting on elbows, legs planted on the pavement. Kids moving about in the distance, and Jerry just tosses his head like a pony, bitch ass open. Pretty Boy wants Cordell that bad.

Cordell drives into Fourteen, pushing him into the Blazer. It’s not the bare shoulder that turns Cordell on. The bare shoulder where the QR code is going to lie, so useful in San Diego. It is not the animal-hungry response Cordell gets each time he slides his bare cock into Fourteen’s clenching ass. It is the bag of cocaine-freedom-respect that makes Cordell want to spew his shit into the willing boy.

“Oh God, I love you Cordell.” Fourteen offers.

Cordell slows down. His hands run over Fourteen’s back, appreciating the boy, marvelling at his supple body. Fourteen chases the after-nausea away like nobody can. Cordell has a taste of the horny-innocent tangerine that lingered on John Cannon’s jaded pallet like one of Levi Fisher’s fine wines. Pretty Boy deserves a reward for what he will do for Cordell. Pops never understood that. You have to hand out rewards if you are going to expect loyalty. Johnny Sparks never understood that either. Jerry is a good kid, he has earned a reward.

Cordell tripped up with this-and-that shit on the streets of San Diego. Pretty Boy is too fine for shit. Drugs will ruin Jerry’s bankable tangerine. Oh fuck! Tight as a thirteen-year old bitch’s twat! Cordell needs his cum-dump, but first Jerry needs a hit. Maybe no tattoos, the high ends don’t like tattoos. Jerry needs his hit of the love-juice.

“Love you too, Pretty Boy, my Pretty Boy. Gonna make you cum Jerry, cum in your ass for five minutes, maybe. Dry cum,” Cordell is massaging his boy now, finding his inner weakness. “We have time, Jerry. Just the two of us together here. You, me, connected right here.” Cordell moves his cock about Fourteen’s warm depths. The unlubricated anus and Cordell’s cock tingle deliciously together. “Make my Pretty Boy cum,” Fourteen’s coyote-cowboy croons, and the bobcat whines in the back of his throat, alto soft. Fucking hot, drugs and sex. They are both in now, easing out of the Pueblo before. Cordell will dump his spunk in Jerry’s bitch-ass, no rush. Jerry is going to orgasm, sure enough. Can’t get Cordell’s cock far enough up his ass, right here, right now in this fucking parking lot. “Make my Jerry cum, Pretty Boy is going to cum for me. Isn’t that right, Jerry?”

Cordell takes the wheel reluctantly. Fucking little bitch drives confidently over boulders, and I’m pissing myself on a two-lane highway, broad daylight. Well, Cordell fucked the dizzy boy silly before he dumped his load in the kid’s ass. There was no ejaculation, this time. No spunk puddled on the old Blazer’s dusty carpet. Jerry just jello-jiggled his sexy torso all over the tailgate babbling the love nonsense. Pretty Boy just Morse-coded his pleasure onto Cordell’s cock with sphincter-spasms while Cordell scratched his sexy cat-back. Cordell figures the boy’s anal orgasm stretched past three minutes. He did not wait to see-feel any of that. He just helped Fourteen into the cramped back of the Blazer and took the wheel. He left the fucking worn out pair of jeans on the cement parking lot. Pretty Boy should be wearing the slut pants when they get to San Diego. Cordell should have checked for a fresh top too.

Cordell could really use a couple of lines of Dust. It would keep him awake, keep him coyote-smart for when he has to brave-face Elvis Parker. Fourteen climbs over the back bench and kisses Cordell on neck. “Love you,” Pretty Boy whispers. Cordell reaches back to pat Fourteen’s hand. People who felt love, Cordell could never relate to that shit, just words you use to bust a nut.

“Catch a nap, Jerry.” Fourteen nods. Cordell is treated to the boy’s tight ass as he searches for his pants. Cordell’s old jeans are gone, so Fourteen picks a pair of black slacks left over from his road trip with Levi. After he pulls them on, he stretches out on the back bench. Jeremy Gates is feeling very Fourteen, fresh fucked by his cowboy. They drive in silence down Route 66. “It grows as it goes,” Fourteen remarks softly.

Fourteen thought he might phone home from Palm Springs. Waiting till San Diego will not be so bad. His folks would understand if he wants to get to the ocean. He could look across the waves West, Far East and wave to Levi Fisher and Nguyen Huu Tuan at Mỹ Sơn Temple. He could thank Levi again for teaching him to be Fourteen-free about himself. Levi prepared him well for this love affair with his coyote-cowboy. Fresh fucked by his boyfriend, carrying Cordell in his depths, Fourteen drifts off to the rocking of the ancient Blazer.

Fourteen wakes up well past Palm Springs. Cordell jerks the Blazer back to the middle of the road. “Shit, Jerry, I must be tired.”

“I’ll drive, you rest.”

“Or you can get your pretty ass up here and blow me.” Cordell chuckles.

Fourteen laughs at that. “You’d leave the road for sure.” He takes over driving and lets Cordell sleep-sexy beside him. Missing Palm Springs settled the debate in Fourteen’s mind. I’ll phone mom and dad from San Diego, then I’m going to look at the sea, Fourteen promises himself.

San Diego’s neighborhoods; Cordell has Ubered through the hipster areas, preppy places, neighborhoods where college kids thrive, and of course, the ghettos. It seems as if there’s a neighborhood for everyone in San Diego, and someone in each neighborhood takes an interest in Cordell and his friends.

San Diego consistently ranks as one of the best places to live in the country thanks in part to a strong economy and tons of entertainment. It is a festive sunshine port. Cordell knows it is not all rainbows and sunshine in San Diego. Some neighborhoods are not as great as others. Cordell’s crib-neighborhood for the twelve months was San Ysidro. He sits beside Fourteen, one knee constantly in nervous-motion. His hand is on the leg, trying to still his nerves. Pretty Boy makes him roll the window down because he will not have the second hand smoke in his lungs. Cordell needs a joint, he really needs a line or two of Cocaine. Three times, Cordell started to reach for the backpack on the floor behind him. He really needs a rail of snowdrift.

Fourteen does not have time to think. He is in the middle of four lanes of traffic. Everyone either wants to get by him or drive the old Blazer off the freeway. He just drives and waits for his boyfriend to give him directions.

“Shit, if the cops stop us.” Cordell is thinking about the drugs in the back seat.

Fourteen shrugs, feeling like a pro behind the wheel. Driver training, he smiles smugly. “Samuel’s valid registration is in the glove compartment. I’ve got my licence.”

“You’ve got some fuck named Kale Euler’s licence.”

“Hey! I’m Kale Euler, got the documents to prove it, thank you very much.” Fourteen is breezy, decides to dodge around a semi. Damn Luxor Winnebago couldn’t do that! “Chill, boyfriend, I’m eighteen, trust your elders!”

This stretch is hardly urban. Clumps of trees flash past along a dry-green hillside. Balboa Ave, Garnet Ave slips by. “Take it straight downtown. Jesus, don’t get off of the freeway, I’d have no clue where we are!” So Fourteen keeps the speed limit, even if cars flash past. Fourteen stays on the road. The trip has been smooth sailing and Cordell needs to relax.

El Camino Real opens up. Beyond a chain link fence and rows of palms, Fourteen sees the Pacific for the first time. Made it Levi, for just a while, Fourteen forgets the cowboy slumped beside him. His mind goes back to Ed Harris-Levi Fisher. The old man’s troubled ways. Levi should have brought him here in the Luxor Winnebago. Maybe they could find a beach to walk. One last hug in the surf before Levi broke it gently to Jeremy Gates that the West, Far East road trip was complete. Fourteen would sit on the beach watching the sun set, then phone Chillicothe. Mom, dad, it’s me Jeremy …  Fourteen blinks the sunshine-tears from his eyes. Levi could not finish the trip with him. The incredibly fit old body gave out too soon. Fourteen made the coast on his own. “The water and the sky are the same.” Fourteen remarks.

“We’ll surf that together, Jerry.” Cordell assures Fourteen.

Cordell could do this better with Google Maps. He usually ride shares his way about the city. The seventeen-year old wracks his brain to remember the way into San Ysidro. They got lost, and Fourteen simply laughs Cordell’s frustration away. Finally, Cordell finds his bearings and sends them down a drive that strikes Fourteen as a tidy alley. It was narrow, so no cars are parked along the lane.

The Blazer drifts past neat fence lines and cinder block walls. Some wooden fences are painted with simple murals. Fourteen thinks he caught a glimpse of Cordell’s sexy triangle sketched on a wall. He eases the Blazer past three people walking in the late afternoon heat. A boy about Keon’s age stares at Fourteen.

“That’s it, baby. Red tree on the left. Just pull through the gate.” Cordell is jumpy and this sets Fourteen on edge. “We’ll stay here till we’re settled.”

“I’ve got to phone home, Cordell.” Fourteen reminds his boyfriend.

“For sure, baby.”

The cement drive is clear, so Fourteen wheels the Blazer in beside a red minivan and two Harleys near a fat palm. One bike engine is broken down, parts scattered about. When Fourteen gets out, he tosses the Blazer keys to Cordell, and eyes the scattered tools and a two-gallon tank with Briggs and Stratton on its label. There is a lawn mower, which seems odd, because the backyard is beaten earth. The only life is the fat palm.

“Grab your bag, Jerry.” Cordell pulls him close and they suck face. Fourteen will go with the flow for a while longer. He steps closer to the two bikes, curious to see what is being done. Then he gazes around at the dusty backyard. Rooflines everywhere with lone palm sentinels punctuating the suburban jumble. So very different from home, Fourteen thinks. He will have a treasure trove of memory-impressions to carry back with him. Some to keep in his heart, some to share.

Cordell welcomes Fourteen’s wander. He sorts his bag and drops four of the Cocaine bricks on the floor behind the driver’s seat. He reaches for Fourteen’s grungy tangerine sweatshirt, lays it carefully over his precious stash. My precious! Gollum, gollum. The plastic wrapped bricks of white gold are his winning lottery ticket. Cordell can hardly bear to leave them.

This is San Ysidro, but if the Blazer was parked in Carmel Canyon, Cordell would feel no different. He wonders at his father, living years with the abandoned van sitting in the desert, unguarded, and look how that turned out. Two bricks of of Blow, Cordell calms his jitters. This is going to work out, he assures himself. Elvis will smooth things over with Johnny, then I’ll find a room, some chicks to fuck, and party-free. Cordell can taste the Cocaine-celebration on his tongue, the anticipation-rush can get him through the door.

Fourteen is jackrabbit-sober as soon as he sees Elvis Parker slouched on a couch watching The Five on Fox. The man takes a John-hard look at Cordell, a bored glance at the talking heads, then pulls on a can of beer. His eyes barely touch Fourteen’s sketchy bobcat. Jackrabbit is whispering run, and Fourteen decides he needs to be way cool around Elvis Parker.

Elvis is biker gang poster boy. Yep, that is what a biker looks like, Fourteen confirms. Cordell’s tattoos are wannabe beside this iron-man. Ball cap cool-reversed, it covers a short nap of hair and half a blue tattoo over Parker’s left eyebrow. Elvis Parker is into some Maori thing. His cheeks are covered and he has a tattoo soul patch. Fourteen figures the tattoos on his neck meet up with the tattoos blanketing his arms. Then there have to be more on the thick thighs and calves.

Cock-connoisseur that he is, Fourteen thinks Elvis Parker is more than sort of hot. His Clint Eastwood makes Cordell seem sort of Toy-Story-Woody. Fourteen could ride the back of this man’s Harley, arms wrapped around the sleeveless denim jacket, touching muscle-steel six-pack abs. Maybe feel the gas tank between my naked thighs while this animal rides me bareback. Vibration on my balls, my fist will rev the Harley motor as he revs my motor. Just a moment’s lustful thought before Fourteen slips into jackrabbit caution.

“You’ve been missing,” and Fourteen’s brash coyote-cowboy is a whipped puppy. Elvis goes back to watching Fox, but even Fourteen understands the threat here. This is more than Shane screwed up again with the garbage and Jeremy Gates has to witness the smack down.

“It’s cool Elvis.” Cordell begins. He uses the voice reserved for Samuel Faulkner. It tries to mirror the man’s hard edge, but cautious, oh so cautious. There is jackrabbit in Cordell’s coyote attitude. Should be too, because Fourteen’s gut tells him he has crossed America from one John Cannon to another: sexy-hard, stone-cold killers both. John Cannon and Elvis Parker working out their alpha dominance over Fourteen’s slack cavities. Oh God, there’s a thought-visceral reaction! Fourteen feel’s little-boy foolish getting horny in his shrink-pants.

“It’s cool Elvis, I’ve come to settle up.”

Cordell yanks all two thousand from his pocket and drops it on the coffee table. The hundreds fan out for Elvis. Elvis listens to the Fox conversation, then dryly answers, “That’s not even going to cover four days of what your puss ass owes Johnny, bitch.”

“Two thousand, Elvis,” Cordell begins.

“Five weeks MIA, Cordell.” Elvis finally takes in Fourteen’s tangerine-slender vulnerability. “Who are you?”

Fourteen clears his throat. Fuck! This man is a Saturday Night Special in my mouth!

“Hey,” Cordell pipes in. “This is Fourteen.”

“Jeremy Gates,” Fourteen adds. He recognizes John Cannon’s disposition just as well as Cordell. Fourteen might be standing in a tight girl’s T-shirt, cock-hugging pants on his skinny ass, black bag slung over a thin shoulder, but he is going to meet this biker-bear like a bobcat. John always liked the sexy-bobcat in his adolescent tangerine. You do not have to be pussy.

“Get me a beer.”

“Where?” Stupid question. Elvis stares at the boy, liking his stance, the deadpan expression. The boy is quick witted, rolls his eyes my bad, and smirks like he just struck out at the plate. Fourteen does not wait for an answer. He turns back to the kitchen. Elvis turns back to the bitch, soon to be ex-Cordell when Johnny Sparks gets over to his house.

“You fucked yourself up royal, Cordell.”

“Look,” Cordell begins. He should have done those lines, Elvis just needs to listen. Elvis can make it copacetic with Johnny Sparks, turn this all around. “I can settle up with this.” Cordell takes the first brick of cocaine out of his bag and puts it on the coffee table. It sits there between them. “Easily $150,000, Elvis. That clears my tab and buys me in.”

Elvis eyes the the valuable cocaine. “You figure we are going to let you jump in?”

Elvis puts the beer can down and picks up a clasp knife on the coffee table. He hefts the weight of the brick. It is three kilos, easily. Elvis pricks the packaging, takes a sample to the tip of his tongue. Pure, he decides. He sees the small mark on the brick, recognizes the symbol. Pure, and deadly. The knife point dips into the brick for two snorts.

Cordell watches, wanting his own turn, he has earned that turn. “That shit proves my worth. Take me on, I can deal for you.”

“What the fuck, Cordell! You promised! You swore you would have nothing to do with that!” The teenager in the slut pants has brought his beer. He put it down beside the dead soldier and turned on Cordell. Elvis lets them argue it out while he enjoys the rush.

“We needed the money, Jerry.” Cordell dismisses Fourteen. Pretty Boy is barely relevant at the moment.

The bickering boys are both irrelevant, as far as Elvis Parker is concerned. Elvis eyes the slim boy as he cools his throat on the fresh beer. Elvis can read Cordell like the novelty toilet paper he is.

“Nothing has changed, Cordell.” This interrupts the argument. Fourteen turns away in frustration, heaves his gym bag against the living room wall and stands with his back to man, hands cradling his head in frustration. The tight black slacks are painted on the boy’s firm ass like spandex. Elvis does not care for boys, but it is a pretty sight. “Nothing has changed. You do not know the streets, you don’t know the schools, you have no street credit, no affiliations. You’re useless to me Cordell.”

“You could bring me in!” Cordell pleads.

“I’ve got enough people.” Elvis continues. This is just noise to him. The boy in the black pants is more interesting. His phone is on the table beside the knife. “You belong to Johnny. I’ll call him and tell him to collect you. The blow here will settle your bill with both of us. I can’t say he will be happy to see you. You have inconvenienced him, set a bad example for the others.”

“No,” Cordell moans. “No, listen,” He reaches into the bag. “Here!” Cordell yanks out his second brick. “Here’s another. My God, that’s a fucking fortune. Tell me that is not worth it?”

“Done deal, Cordell, you know you belong to Johnny.” Another brick with the cartel’s mark on it. If Elvis was not high, he would be sweating. This is flesh-melting blowtorch shit landing right next to the Mexican border. He wonders if these stupid boys knew the death they were carrying.

“No, no, that’s just it!” Cordell swings around to where Fourteen has been listening with a growing emptiness in the pit of his stomach. His boyfriend has made such a mistake coming here. Fourteen just needs to get out of this bland Spanish-style bungalow. It is like Fourteen is back in the barn watching John Cannon decide if he was going to live or die. Cordell catches Fourteen’s shoulder and swung him around to face Clint Eastwood’s Dirty-Harry menace. “I brought Jerry! Jerry for me!”

“What?” Elvis and Fourteen get this out together. Only, Fourteen’s confused and Elvis just thinks Cordell is delusional.

Elvis finally gets off the couch. The knife blade goes back into the cocaine for another hit. Cordell is so stupid, just a stupid bitch, but he is right about the pretty boy. Johnny Sparks would like to add this little cunt to his stable. He is dressed like a Rent-Boy, probably some vulnerable fresh-hoe who knows he needs a pimp to watch his back. The kid will meet Johnny Sparks’ eyes and accept the protection.

Cordell is encouraged by Elvis’ shift in focus. He is holding onto Fourteen. It is sort of like Cordell is saying, It’s okay. It is okay. Cordell will take care of Fourteen, treat him right. He just has to sell the idea to Elvis and Johnny. If they will not jump him in, then he can run Pretty Boy’s action, or skip town with the other four bricks.

Fourteen shakes Cordell off about the point where Elvis Parker reaches him. Fourteen glances at his boyfriend for support. “Fourteen?” The man tries out the nickname.

“No!” Fourteen insists. Bobcat instinct lashes out with a punch to Elvis Parker’s face. It only knocks the man’s ball cap off when he ducks to take the blow on his forehead. The pain travels up Fourteen’a arm.

“No, Elvis, wait!” Cordell tries. This is wrong. This is not the plan. Cordell knows his Pretty Bitch, this is unnecessary. This is the wrong move with Pretty Boy.

He is only a fourteen-year old boy again. Fourteen knows this before moment and the inescapable now of an implacable wall of male flesh. He tries another punch, but the man bats it away. “No!” This is not Fourteen’s childish wail in the barn. This is a stubborn bobcat anger with bared teeth. Cordell is talking words, Elvis is smiling at him, and everything he tries is futile.

Elvis takes Fourteen’s shirt and walks him to the wall. He is high, so the little bobcat’s claw marks are just funny. Cordell says something about the boy being an amazing bitch. Cordell is swearing Jerry is a born bottom, cock-sucker. Elvis licks a trace of cocaine off his knife blade. The boy pinned against the wall glares at the knife. The knife-threat calms him down, so he is simply quivering in Elvis’ grip.

The boy face merely sets like cold stone when Elvis snakes the blade under the girlie shirt. They are matching eyes, like the young hooker says, bring. it on bastard. Elvis forgets he has a prick. He is reading, Show me what you’ve got, in the little man’s eyes. Knife tickles hard abs. Elvis’ hand goes up. The clasp knife ends near the boy’s jugular, tickling his ear. “No!” Another stubborn response. Elvis brings the razor edge down, flaying the shirt open. There should be soft breasts waiting, but Elvis does not care. The boy is captive now. The knife blade is enough to hold him on the wall. Their eyes are locked when Elvis rips the blade down from Fourteen’s hip to his knee. It is like, I could gut you like a fish. All the boy does is clamp a hand around Elvis’ wrist. Yeah, those white pearls would snap my cock off, Elvis decides.

Cordell gives up. He sits down on the couch, takes some cocaine on his pinky finger. This is so useless! He could have managed Pretty Boy. Jerry would walk-docile into the Fairmont for Cordell, the boy was that valuable. Best hotels and resorts, that was where Pretty Boy would do his trade. Some Paul Lacono down for the sun, or the latest Tim Cook floating in a marina, they would make Cordell’s fortune with a boy like Jerry. Real parties! There was Elvis Parker raping Pretty Boy like a back street mugger. Cordell listens to the slaps. He remembers Johnny Sparks’ hard slaps. “Just let him do you, Jerry.” Cordell decides another pinch of snow will make him feel better. Pretty Boy would whore gladly if he was handled right.

There is some unnecessary blood now. So stupid, Cordell thinks as he watches. The action moves over to the couch. Cordell takes the discarded beer and moves over to the wall beneath the flat screen. His back slides down the wall and he watches with a dull disinterest. He might be watching a hound copulating with a bitch in the backyard. Elvis wants Jerry over the couch arm. It is not much of an argument.

The struggling is a waste of energy. Curious, Elvis fucking Jerry like this. The man is all about the girls. He likes them young and sassy. Elvis is tasting the sass in Jerry.  Inez almost caught the dealer’s eye. Maybe that started the whole mess. Cordell promised Inez to Elvis, took credit before Inez split. Cordell was screwed. Cordell frowns at Elvis Parker. Pretty Boy was under control, Elvis is ruining everything. Cordell swallows some beer. Elvis wants to tailgate Jerry’s ass. What a waste!

Jerry thinks fighting back will make a difference. Fuck you. Shut up, stupid, the before memory comes to Cordell. The hungry days Inez and Cordell spent when they first hit San Diego. No money, no jobs, just scrounging to get by. He saw the confident teenagers with their girls. Cordell could tell by the way they were dressed. They dress denim and leather, dark glasses, short hair, tight pants, talked bikes though few had one. Cordell would see them.

They would catch his eye, and he would just watch them. He could picture himself in their place. What he would be doing in their place. The gang members had all the girls, and don't give me shit attitude. Cordell did not really care too much for the sex they bragged about, but they were controlling. They could say whatever they wanted.

They liked to fight, so when the bangers said, Fuck you, and you want to rule, you replied shut up. If you backed down, they rule over you. If you say no and you fight them, then at least you had the heart to fight them. That is how it went. Whether you won or not does not matter. Cordell fought like Jerry does. It did not matter.

Fourteen twists an elbow into Elvis Parker’s face. The tough dealer simply mashes the boy’s face back into the sofa cushion. They like to fight, that is how it goes. Whether you won or not does not matter. It might have worked. Cordell might have earned their respect. Only, Cordell screwed up, and Jerry is born to be a bottom bitch. Elvis sees it too. Elvis understands that Pretty Boy is another brick of cocaine on the table. The dealer is just trying a line through Jerry’s tight ass.

Elvis is tired of the elbows in his face. Slapping Fourteen has been ineffective. He is liking the little punk too much to hurt him worse. Elvis has Pretty Boy in a headlock now. It gives him leverage as he rapes the boy’s tight ass. The cocaine is a buzz, so Elvis is not feeling the burn as he pistons into the boy’s flesh.

If Elvis would slow down, he could feel how willing Jerry always is. Cordell would have got his Pretty Boy stoned, show Elvis and Johnny how easy it was to make the little slut cum in his ass. Elvis is not interested in slow. Pretty Boy will back down. He is not as tough as Cordell, so he will back down. Pretty Boy does not back down until Elvis finishes in his pussy.

Johnny is going to like this bitch, Elvis concludes. A man fucks anything on a dare or just to prove who has control. Cordell needs reminding where his place is. The junkie whore needs to know his life is not negotiable. The gang does not negotiate. The smooth boy’s ass was satisfying. Elvis likes a bitch with attitude.

Cordell is sipping his beer with an angry look on his face. The stubborn cunt brought the cartel’s cocaine right to Elvis, brought a new whore for Johnny’s stable. The fresh Rent-Boy is tight on his dick. Elvis could cut Cordell some slack. He could let the teenager keep a thousand, hook him up with his favorite shit. Give this little cunt five hundred for a good screw and watch Cordell’s face drop. Elvis pulls out and the boy’s pussy sucks the last of his cum off like a girlfriend’s lips. Elvis heads to the fridge for a fresh beer.

Fourteen pushes himself off the couch as soon as Elvis lets him go. Cordell let it happen. His boyfriend stood and watched while he was raped. That hurts more than the now of dry sex. There was no pity on the arm of the couch, so Fourteen expects none now. Cordell could come console him, but instead he has followed Elvis into the kitchen. Fourteen lets the latest tears come. He should be jackrabbit scared. Scared of this now and frightened of the after. Fourteen is just numb and the tears will not stop rolling down his cheeks.

Elvis is leaning against the counter beside a box of prepaid phones for his band of dealers. “You did good to come to me, Cordell.” Elvis begins. “You were smart. So stay smart.”

“That was stupid! I was handling Jerry. He was eating candy out of my hands. If you just let me pimp him, he would be gold.”

“Cordell, you know the score. You know your place. Johnny runs you. You bring in a fresh boy of girl, you get some credit on your account, maybe a holiday in Tijuana with the bitch of your choice. If the new boy works out, that is.” Elvis adds, sipping his beer.

“If you only let me run Jerry, show you what I can do! Okay, you don’t need help on the street. Convince Johnny I can pimp. I start with Jerry, shop his ass to all the best places. Prove myself, get my own stable.”

“Come here,” Elvis waves a lazy hand. Cordell is leery. “Nah, you ran off, but you came back with the boy and the money. It’s all good with me.” Johnny Sparks was an entirely different matter.

Cordell comes closer so Elvis can place a hand around his neck. “Just let it go, Cordell. You’re not getting jumped into the Triangle. You’re cattle, Cordell. You’re livestock, not a man. This tattoo here,” Elvis fingers the neck tattoo. “This tattoo tells everyone what you are, who you belong to. Johnny thinks you are pretty enough. You still have some mileage in you before we sell you off. Johnny is mad you stampeded off like that. Might make shit hard on you for a while. He won’t wreck you. Johnny knows you have years left in you, resale value.” The palm on Cordell’s neck tightens. “You’re a fucking milk cow. You knew that when we laid our mark on you. Just keep giving milk and nobody is going to put you down.”

“But the cocaine!” Cordell tries helplessly. Elvis is like his pops. He thinks he sees the utility in Cordell, but he does not have the vision.

“Yeah, what about the cocaine?” Elvis’ voice is soft-hard. “You trying to lead a cartel right to my doorstep? You want to bring the Triangle down? I have to sell all that shit without Los Zetas taking notice. You made work for me, Cordell. Where did you get the bricks? Is Los Zetas on your sorry ass? Should I turn you over to them?”

“No way!” Cordell pauses for a moment. He has the bricks in the Blazer, but he sees it now. He can keep giving everything he has to Elvis and it will not change a damn thing. He simply has to run as far as he can.

Fourteen is wounded. The bitter-metal-bite is in his mouth where Elvis cuffed him. He can hear Cordell and the fucking rapist in the other room talking. Cordell is angry-frightened, and Fourteen does not care. Cordell ripped his heart out. “Johnny runs you. You bring in a fresh boy of girl, you get some credit on your account.” Fourteen hears this and the dealer’s knife might have just gone into his gut with an extra twist. “Convince Johnny I can pimp. I start with Jerry, shop his ass to all the best places.” That is Fourteen’s boyfriend talking.

He is naked in the barn again. Fourteen is trussed up in the Bronco listening to Patrick’s crazy singing while he waits for an unknown after. Fourteen is down to his last pair of tight black pants and the loose board shorts he wore to the August fair. He wants the shorts. They might be tighter at the waist now, but they are Jeremy Gates. They are the before. Fourteen needs the before-comfort of the fabric around his violated flesh. Just Levi’s white singlet in the bag. “You’re cattle, Cordell. You’re livestock, not a man. This tattoo here,” Fourteen hears this, and his knuckles brush the Beretta Nano by his hand. Shuffle the cards and finally something new comes up. Thank you Levi, thank you Keon, Jeremy Gate’s whispers to his lovers.

Elvis can see the new boy slowly drawing on some clothes. He has half a mind to tell Johnny he needs another runner. A gopher with some spark to keep around. The kid looks older than fourteen. He has an intelligent face. Elvis hardly needs a teen cock in his bed, but the little punk has spirit. The board shorts and the singlet look right on Fourteen’s hard body. “Where did you get the bricks from?”

Cordell forgot to think of this. He steps back from Elvis, wanting the kitchen table between them. They will beat the answer out of him. Elvis will squeeze him dry. “I found them in the desert. There are more, just lying there for the taking. I tell you where to go, you cut me loose.” Cordell is just buying time.

Then there is the distinct sound of a gun being cocked and released.

“Fucking rapist bastard!”

This is a high-pitched, hell-hath-no-fury bobcat-snarl from the archway. Cordell and Elvis turn toward the voice. Fourteen is planted in his board shorts, white singlet tight about his torso. His black bag is slung across his back and Beretta Nano is trembling dangerously in his hand.

“We’re getting out of here. Now, and you won’t stop us.” Fourteen wants John Cannon’s stone-cold killer tone, but he gets Remy and Greyson Gates’ scared little boy. “Are those phones?” This is a stupid question and breaks the drama of his intervention. “Step away from the counter, you fucking rapist, you… Step away from the counter and move over toward the wall.” Fourteen motions slightly with the gun. Elvis looks at him coolly, very much amused. He starts to walk toward Cordell. “Get out of the way, Cordell.” Fourteen cries anxiously.

“Oh Cordell,” Elvis comments heavily. The dealer ignores Fourteen and the weapon pointed his way. “You are so fucked. You brought heat into my house? You threaten me? Was this your plan, or are you such a fuck-up you let this kid go concealed. It doesn’t matter. You’re dead now. Johnny is going to change your profile and you will be in a world of hurt. When they scan your shoulder, the page is going to say S&M. Maybe you get to star in a snuff film.” This is all said quietly as Elvis moves as close to the kitchen pantry as he can.

Fourteen gabs for an Android from the box. The prepaid phones are packaged like Fort Knox. Frustrated, Fourteen swings his bag around. One hand holding the gun unsteadily on the dealer-rapist, he stuffs three packages into his bag like a kid grabbing Halloween candy. He interrupts Elvis Parker’s monologue. “Okay, we go now. You’re … you’re going to stand right there and let us go. You have the drugs, you let us go. Are we cool?” John’s voice echoes in Fourteen’s memory.

“Fourteen?” Elvis growls softly. “I like that name. It’s tough. It suits you. I’m going to walk slowly over there. You are going to hand me that girly gun. I’ll be honest. I have to hurt you a little. You have guts kid, but that is the way it is. I have to hurt you a bit. Then maybe we can be cool.”

“Cordell, we have to go now!” Damn hot and sexy biker! Even now, especially now, with his bowels loose with fear, Fourteen can feel the cum dripping out of his ass. It wets his thigh and teases him. You going to fuck me now? Fuck you hard. John assured him. Fourteen is done with that (for now, under the current circumstances, all so unfortunate the way things work out). God damn sexy tattoo biker action! Fourteen changes his stance like Malcolm tried to teach him. Two hands now, the Beretta Nano centered on the man’s chest.

Elvis makes it to the open pantry door and leans against it easily. The kid he fucked is rattled. The kid does not look like he has the requisite killer instinct. Well, he tapped the boy hard. He might have a chip on his shoulder. Elvis will absolutely keep this little banger’s sassy ass around for a while, he is too fun.

“Jerry, this is a bad idea. Just put the gun down. It will be okay, trust me. I will take care of you. Don’t cross Elvis. It’s a really bad idea.” Cordell knows some shootout is not the way out. He needs a chance to get back to the Blazer, start his epic vanishing.

Fucking gun, fucking Keon King! Cordell searched Pretty Boy’s bag just before they decided to leave. Bastard little nigger gangbanger slipped one over on him. It was the problems you failed to anticipate. Cordell remembers. Fourteen can’t hit shit with a gun. Cordell remembers that too.

“Cordell,” The boy’s voice is strained-hurt-yearning, the gun wavers and Fourteen’s eyes shift to his boyfriend. Elvis tries a reach for his concealed Glock. It comes back out, then there is a sharp hypersonic report. Elvis twists around and falls into the pantry. The Glock’s heavy thud is the only sound in the room for a moment.

Fourteen stands frozen for three painful heartbeats (shit, shit, shit) and then he wails one last time, “Run Cordell!”

Cordell is frozen in his place. Fourteen sobs his despair and escapes out the back door alone.

What the fuck did Jerry just do? Cordell is frozen by the kitchen table. “This isn’t good, not good at all.” This is offered to nobody in particular, certainly not Elvis Parker crumpled in a cramped pantry. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He is dead now. Cordell is screwed, the bitterness wells up like acid reflux. Always, I’m getting screwed over, he boils over. His bitch mother, Dakota, his fucking father, selfish Inez. They all left Cordell hanging. Now fucking Jerry.

The micro compact does not have the BOOM of a magnum, but someone probably heard the noise. Someone is going to 911, if they do not know their dangerous neighbor. If they do know Elvis Parker, they will leave well enough alone. The cops might come along, but the real problem here is some damn Triangle member coming by to score or share a brew with Elvis. Then there is Johnny Sparks. Cordell needs to jackrabbit out of this crime scene.

Elvis was dead. No loss there, Cordell thinks matter-of-fact. There might be drugs about Elvis Parker’s house. They would be useful. Cordell remembers the two thousand and the cocaine on the coffee table. Everything goes to shit, Cordell’s bitterness returns. It’s not my fault!

Inez and Cordell were lost in San Diego. Visits to Flagstaff and Phenix hardly prepared the Pueblo youths for San Diego. Lost and confused, Cordell found friends dressed in denim and leather, dark glasses, short hair, tight pants. Fifteen-year old Cordell wanted to be them.

Cordell’s new friends always fought. They used to tell Cordell to fight, and he would fight with them to see who would win. Cordell could win a lot, because pops taught him to fight dirty. He really didn’t understand it all. The Pueblo teen just did it. Cordell would do whatever they wanted because they had it all and he wanted in. His friends had money and they would say, “Hey, I got money, let’s do something. Let’s go do some shit.”

Cordell does some cocaine shit before he drops the two bricks back into his backpack. There are no police cruisers on the street out front, so he does a bit more shit. At this point, he is feeling more charitable to the fag who screwed up his plans. He wanders Elvis Parker’s bungalow a bit speculating on where he would hide drugs and cash if he were Elvis Parker. He grabs a fresh beer from the fridge; adds some cans to his loaded bag.

Alcohol is liquid courage and there was always harmless shit to smoke or drop. After a while, Cordell would get this little knot-feeling in his stomach, like how sex always felt after he did it. Cordell would be like, Wow, I wonder what’s going to happen tonight? He started doing Elvis Parker’s good shit, hanging out, fucking when it suited him. That knot always dissolved when he had some shit. Who cares what happens?

All Cordell cared about was getting in with this gang. They said fight, he fought. They wanted him to fuck, he would fuck anything. He fucked for money, too. Cordell made promises about Inez. He figured she would pay his way into the gang, but she split. Cordell partied on. One day, Johnny Sparks told him he had debts to pay. The Triangle was putting food in Cordell’s mouth, the gang was putting a roof over his head, He had debts now, so Cordell had to do what Johnny told him to do.

Cordell heads back to the kitchen. The prepaid phones catch his eye as well. One is going in the bag when Elvis groans from the floor. Cordell pisses his pants (literally). This is unexpected. It is always the problems you don’t anticipate, Samuel Faulkner reminds Cordell, yet again. “Fuck!”

The Glock is still on the floor beside Elvis Parker’s shifting feet. Cordell calculates the distance from the fridge to the back door, compares that to the steps over to Parker’s body. The gun, he decides.

Cordell slips the Glock in the back of his waistband before he carefully nudges the dealer’s prone body. His toe prods the man’s side. Coyote wants to shy away, but there is a hunger. Cordell rolls the man over, then skitters-cautious back. The Beretta Nano caught Elvis in the chest fair enough, wrong side. Jerry can’t shoot, Cordell sighs.

Unfortunately, the wound does not look fatal. Fortunately, Elvis Parker looks unconscious again. Cordell thinks of his pop hiding out in northern Arizona. Seven fucking years, he reminds himself bitter-sour. Loose ends; Fourteen, Elvis. Between the two, Elvis is the problem.

Cordell looks out the kitchen window, half expecting to see Fourteen waiting by the Blazer. There is no sign of the teenager. Nothing about this ends well for Cordell. Jerry is a young fool. It was going to be so perfect. “It was a good plan.” He tells the wounded man. “I hope you bleed out you stupid fucker. Jerry’s a pro you asshole. The little cunt knows things … I think that old fucker fucked Jerry’s ass across America. Taught him useful shit. The little cunt knows things ...” Cordell looks at the Harleys beside pops Blazer.  Loose ends, Cordell decides, make yourself hard because life is hard. One thing is for sure, Cordell owes this dying bastard nothing.

Crime scene, Cordell is smack in the middle of a CSI field day. What has he touched, who touched him, DNA is flaking-shedding everywhere. Elvis moans again.”Oh fuck kid, you and me are going to have fun together. Get your skinny butt over here with one of those phones. No, get mine from the living room.” Elvis is a hard man, he chuckles to the ceiling. “Fuck this hurts!” He laughs again.

At 16 years old, Cordell’s now revolved around cruising the streets and nights in the back of cars and motels. He hung with the other hookers, partied when he had free time. Cordell lived the life of San Diego and Tijuana. It was epic. If he was lucky, he got women. Mostly, men wanted his cock or ass. Cordell was a top, but he would bottom if that was what his John wanted. Cordell’s pop always expected him to take care of himself, so he did the work. The tricks all scanned his shoulder and money sent the money somewhere. Cordell never saw it. If his account did not tally $500 a night, Cordell got abused. Johnny Sparks would punch his face, Black eyes and all, Cordell still got told to go back on the street.

This fragment of now just is. Make yourself hard. Be ready for a better after. Cordell glances at Elvis Parker on the floor. He has moved again, but Cordell does not think the man is going anywhere. Cordell steps out of the house. The gas can has utility.

Cordell starts in the living room, pouring a trail of pungent gasoline on the couch where Fourteen let himself get fucked. The carpet where the bags sat, the coffee table, the wall Cordel slid down; it all needs sanitizing. Cordell jiggles the heavy plastic tank. He walks backward into the kitchen with a backward glance toward the drug dealer. Elvis had moved about three feet.

Cordell pours gasoline on Elvis Parker’s back. “What have you got about the house, Elvis?”

“Fuck you,”

“You’re right,” Cordell concedes “It doesn’t matter.” He pours a trail to the back door. The neighbors are quiet on a lazy afternoon. A truck drives by, but the driver has eyes on the boy beside him. Cordell is as anonymous as he can be. “Okay, I’m out of here.” Cordell lights a cigarette with his Bic, wondering if flicking it onto the floor will actually ignite the gasoline. After a long drag, he blows on the tip and launches it close to Elvis Parker’s shifting body. Yeah, that worked.