Cordell 11

He ran for a long time, the Beretta Nano jammed back into his bag, the black travel bag with its light load sliding around on his hip, a constant reminder of what he had just done. He crossed railroad tracks and turned north along a sparsely trafficked road. Fourteen did not stop running until the sound of sirens turned his bowels to water.

The sunshine pinned him to the empty sidewalk as the urgent warning grew louder. Crazed thoughts came into his head. He would start running along the sidewalk again. He would climb the white lattice wall at his back and hide. He would run into the quickly moving traffic, pull the Beretta Nano from his bag and end his ruined life like Dally (or was it Darry?) in a shower of bullets. The slugs would hit him and he would twist around slow motion like Elvis Parker and fall to the blacktop. Keon and Shane would watch in tears from the sidewalk. Fourteen would lie there crumpled in the street, red blood staining his white singlet.

The indecision pinned Fourteen to the bright sidewalk as he watched the firetruck barrel in the direction he had run. Fourteen watched the traffic slow and give way to the engine’s urgency. Beyond it, at the beginning of Fourteen’s flight in San Ysidro, a thick column of black smoke rose like a funeral fire for Jeremy Gates. Fourteen pushed the black bag back onto the small of his back. He started north again.

Fourteen thinks it is north. (Fucking) Cordell told him San Ysidro was a stone’s throw from the Mexican border walls. The afternoon sun is at his left shoulder, so he must be heading nearly north. He has nowhere to go, except away. Fourteen walks, perspiration evaporating off his body. He has drenched his singlet in fear-sweat and it wicks away in the California Heat.

There is a threatening sameness to this long boulevard. Apartment blocks and strip malls alternate, no easy detours, no place to hide, no hints to what he needs to do. The harsh sound of a passing Harley frightens Fourteen again. Bikers will be looking for him.

Fourteen reaches a golf course plain dotted with trees. The road to the left, the expanse to the right, a vast blue sky above his head, he is so obviously a dangerous-helpless fugitive. The now is a Blazer with (Fucking) Cordell and Elvis Parker pulling up beside him.

No, you murdered Elvis, he reminds himself. Fuck you hard is dead, like Fourteen’s after. A thoughtless moment in the drug dealer’s kitchen and Fourteen applied the pressure to the Beretta Nano’s sensitive trigger. Just a determined insistence that this time Jeremy Gates. was not going to be fucked over. Now, he is a stone-cold killer. You were just blowtorching deadly scorpions, John Cannon’s voice assures him. Fourteen walks north along the boulevard, the shades of John Cannon and Nguyen Huu Tuan ever present.

He has walked an hour and it begins to feel like Fourteen has left the city behind him. (Fucking) Cordell directed Fourteen in along the Interstate, so this route is unfamiliar to Fourteen. San Diego sprawls everywhere about him, and Fourteen knows he has not walked far enough. Fourteen thinks he might jump the chain link fence and vanish into the desert to his right. He could escape the vengeful biker gang, the police who will be looking for a boy with a gun. Somewhere in the tangle, Fourteen can bury the murder weapon.

The Beretta Nano weighs nothing, weighs heavily. It lies in his nearly empty bag as lightly as the PlayStation Vita left in Jeremy Gates’ Chillicothe bedroom. Fourteen wants it to disappear because it is also a heavy stone pressing on his chest. Bless Levi for offering it to him and (I could suck your thoughtful cock, sweetie) Keon for insisting Fourteen take it with him. God damn them both as well for encouraging him to murder. Trash can, dumpster, sewer drain, they all seem likely choices. Fourteen cannot stop imagining the after-danger of disposing of the gun in San Diego.

Nobody walks the streets of San Diego, even so, someone will notice some punky teenage boy whipping the micro automatic from his bag. Sure, careful Jeremy Gates will wipe his prints from Levi’s Beretta Nano. Something will be missed. Fourteen field stripped the weapon endlessly in the KOA in Albuquerque as he waited for Levi to return. Jeremy Gates is all over the insides of this satchel bomb he exploded in Elvis Parker’s kitchen. The weapon in his bag is a permanent threat to his peace of mind. Bury it under a desert bush, and Jeremy Gates will wait in dread his entire life for someone to find it.

The park is past and Fourteen is back to strip malls and businesses. As much as he wants it gone, the Beretta Nano is also a Saturday Night Special reassurance in his bag. Fourteen knows the smoking gun hardly matters. Jeremy Gates’ fresh blood is on Elvis Parker’s cock. His spit on the man’s smug face. Elvis Parker’s torn skin is trapped beneath Fourteen’s fingernails.

Fucking, sexy-hard, drug dealing rapist, Fourteen grinds out in his mind. (Fucking) useless boyfriend, Cordell will tell everything too. Fourteen cannot let the gun go yet. He may need it to fend off another raping biker (sexy or not). He shuts out the after-guilt of abandoning (Fucking) Cordell to the biker’s wrath. The jackrabbit is dead now. Dead rabbits, isn’t that a gang name? When Elvis Parker’s gang comes looking for this Ohio bobcat, Fourteen wants his claws and fangs sharp. Fuck jackrabbits, Fourteen is thinking as he jackrabbits up to Broadway and Main.

The Thrift Store makes him stop and think. Fourteen feels conspicuous in his Chillicothe board shorts and white singlet. 11-51 pedestrian stop, 10-29 check for wants, 10-16 prisoner in custody, Fourteen sees the next now moment ahead. (Fucking) Cordell telling the Triangle, “Pretty Boy is wearing Billabongs, OG Stripe, white bottoms; white tank over that; black gym bag, easy to spot, easy to fuck.” Yeah, Cordell was going to run Pretty Boy into the best resorts in San Diego. That hurt so bad. Fourteen is always so stupid-dizzy about the men he trusts-fucks.

There is a frightening moment when he thinks the cashier will ask for a look inside his bag at the checkout line. It goes smoothly, and Fourteen pays for his goods with a hundred dollar bill. He goes back onto the street wearing anonymous joggers, a Padres cap, and a Nike Windrunner. It is too hot, but he looks different in lichen shades of green. A grey cycling backpack completes the change in profile on the street. Pretty Boy in the bright board shorts is gone. The old Fourteen gets stuffed into the donation deposit with the final bits he brought all the way from Chillicothe.

Being on the street is a tension. Fourteen steps into a Chinese restaurant. Keon is one smart kid, Fourteen reflects. He counts his change below the table while he waits for his order. He knows what it feels like to be John Cannon now. Leave the gun, take the cannoli. Kill a man, go for Chinese Sausage Fried Rice and chicken wings. Talk to the waiter like it’s just supper time. Have a fuck, put a bullet into someone, go eat. Fourteen should be vomiting across the table, but he is hungry and jumped up, planning his after.

Elvis Parker and (Fucking) Cordell Faulkner hammered him into a different shape. He’s not the nice kid who stopped to help a couple on the road. He is not the hyperventilating victim stepping into Levi’s Luxor Winnebago. He is not the trusting fool riding out to Malcolm King’s Pueblo. Your not a boyfriend, his gasping sobs draw the waitress’ attention. He shakes his head at her, waves her concern away. Fourteen swallows some water and rubs his eyes furiously.

Fourteen is going to be the bobcat now, fuck Pretty Boy. He should wear shades. If he sees a store, he is going to have shades. Bobcat gets an anxious-guilty spasm in his gut. He is lost in the middle of the San Diego sprawl. Fourteen is a hunted man with no after-prospects. He needs a way out of the city that is searching for him.

They must be searching for me now, Fourteen reminds himself. Fourteen leaves the restaurant and starts walking West, Far East. He needs to reach the ocean. The Pacific was always going to be the end of his journey. Fourteen could cry his broken heart out. He could shed tears for Jeremy Gates robbed of his March-after promise.

West, Far East is blocked to Fourteen. He can see the ocean, but a chain link fence and pools of brackish salt lie blocking his way. He follows the road north past industries and lawns. For a stretch, the disappointing ocean is lost to him behind green lawns and quiet buildings disgorging workers from their long day. Fourteen walks on, because he has no place to go. Less than three hours ago he was Jeremy Gates going home. Now he is John Cannon, man-killer on the run.

BayFront Charter School, this is a reassurance to his left, the ocean still waits for him. The buildings remind him of a prison. Patrick’s prison waits for Fourteen. He flinches at the memory of Patrick’s self-pity-malice. The poison words the young man used to grind into Jeremy Gates’ virgin mind. Four years, it was a routine. They put me in the corner on the bottom. Every day, Fourteen, always at least one of them. Everyone knows you are a cock whore. All the way to graduation, you are the cum sock for boys whose balls have hardly dropped. Patrick knew this Jeremy Gates’ prison-after long before, (Fucking) Cordell and Elvis Parker tried to force a hooker-now.

God damn sexy tattoo biker! One look at Fourteen and the drug dealer knew Fourteen was going to be willingly bent over a couch. Fourteen taking it just like Patrick had in prison. The handsome biker pinned him to the wall, cut his clothes away. The man touched his body, hurt him, took Fourteen on the couch. For all his fighting, it was just rough sex with an iron body. The Chinese food comes up into the gutter. Fourteen cannot keep the John Cannon, stone cold killer down. The fear, despair, and self-doubt comes out in a bile-bitter rush.

Jerry, this is a bad idea. Just put the gun down. It will be okay, trust me. It’s a really bad idea. Fourteen walks away from the vomit, remembering Cordell’s anxious words. Could Levi Fisher have talked Nguyen Huu Tuan down as the Vietnamese youth stood ready to ignite the satchel bomb? Fourteen understands Tuan far better now. Elvis had a gun, so Fourteen’s answer was automatic. The Beretta Nano solution just went off: Boom. Fourteen ended Jeremy Gates’ short life.

Fourteen did not think things through in Elvis Parker’s house. Nguyen Huu Tuan set off his satchel bomb in Da Nang to avenge his lost family, or build a new nation. Did he rage, or was he calm? It was simply rage that prompted Fourteen to pull the trigger. Rage at what he had endured.

Third time, some man thought Jeremy Gates was for the taking-disposal. Fourteen could not let Jeremy Gates slide into that again. Goddamn smirking-sexy, no-means-yes, orgasm-giving biker cock, all Elvis had to do was let them walk away. Elvis had to pull a gun. (Fucking) Cordell had to take the drug dealer’s side. You’re so beautiful, Jerry. You are golden. Pretty Boy, so hot, you are probably going to save my life. They love you, Pretty Boy, don’t they? They love you, my Pretty Boy. Fourteen vomits again.

Just along the horizon, Fourteen can make out the hazy strip of yet more land. He could keep walking, but Fourteen knows this spot is where he has to stop now. Fourteen has come as far West, Far East as he can go today. “Hey Levi.” Fourteen whispers. He sobs regret and loneliness.

The coast is not what Fourteen expected. He imagined a Malibu stretch of groomed beach. Surf would roll up onto the sand, receding back to the shimmering sea. The sun is there, dropping toward the Pacific. Fourteen squints. He leaves the path he followed and picks his way down over the rocks to the water’s edge. Fourteen squats down and tastes the brine. From Gifford Pinchot State Park to this moment, he had his goal. Make it West, Far East with Levi Fisher, then go home. Even (Fucking) boyfriends were not going to deflect him from that goal.

The desolation of San Diego is at his back, Levi sundowned across the Pacific somewhere beyond the hazy strip of land stretched across Fourteen’s horizon. He can hear the water mingle with the rocks at his feet. Birds overhead and perched on a post out in the bay. Pristine park behind him, people on the benches, all lost in their own safe happy now. A sailboat glides-graceful toward the marina sheltered by this park. So sparkling-bright, and Fourteen only feels the desolation. Go home, Jeremy Gates advises Fourteen.

Fourteen sits down on a flat rock. There is no safe after for Jeremy Gates. Fourteen’s well worn deck of cards shuffles by the sea shore. Fourteen’s after is a biker gang’s revenge. (Fucking boyfriend) Cordell will help them find him. The next card says police. Police like the man who drove out to the Pueblo and then abandoned him there for reasons Fourteen is still not clear about. So easy to predict the next cards in the deck. The Police will hold him for murder. Elvis Parker’s friends will find him in lockup and they will kill him in the shower. If the gangbangers don’t kill him, then it will be worse. Somebody’s gonna hurt someone, before the night is through. Patrick Hunter’s haunting song promises fresh after-misery. Five years, Fourteen, every night. Fourteen shudders and his empty stomach wants to void itself again.

Fourteen activated one of Elvis Parker’s drug-phones at the Chinese restaurant just to see if it worked. AT&T, nothing but phone and text, with data at some hot spot. Makayla’s iPod was more useful. The prepaid is in his pocket. After six months, the restored weight of world connection is unfamiliar on his thigh.

He stares at the phone, certain of his next move, but flummoxed by an unexpected problem. He cannot remember the family phone numbers. Who bothers? Fourteen frowns. The Chillicothe landline is the only one he learned. He trotted out that number dutifully since the first day of school. Don’t think, just do, Fourteen dials the home number.

“Gates’ residence, Remy Gates speaking.”

Fourteen doubles over from the wave of anguish. Elvis Parker just sank his fist into Fourteen’s side again and Fourteen cannot breath. He presses the phone to his ear and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Hello?”

The now drags on as Fourteen sways gently forward and back. The setting sun is just a blur through his gathered tears.

“Hello?” The urgency is there in his mother’s voice. How many times has she answered the phone anticipating-needing this resolution-connection? How many times could Fourteen have tried to make this simple-impossible call? “Hello?” His mother tries again.

“It’s me.” Fourteen manages. Two words forced out through the constriction in his throat.

“Jem? Oh my God, Jem?” Incredulity mixed with the relief-grief of half a year's silence.

“Mom,”

“Grey!” She interrupts him. Remy is screaming away toward wherever greyness his dad is temporarily lodged in. “Grey,” Remy shouts, “It’s Jeremy! Oh God, it’s Jeremy!”

The interruption offers Fourteen a chance to clear the fingers clamped about his throat. “Mom?”

“Jem,” then a querulous “Greyson” added as if his truant dad is ignoring her for some sports channel as she deals with some common household crisis. “Where are you? Are you alright? Oh, are you alright?”

“I’m on the shore, watching the sunset.”

“Jeremy,” His mom’s voice calms instantly. The dish has broken. It is time to pick up the broken shards. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know, I just walked here. It’s a park I guess. There’s a marina with lots of sailboats.” Fourteen blinks away the last of his tears. He looks past a slim young man slouched on the bench nearby. His mother’s question finally registers. “I’m in San Diego.”

“Thank God!” Remy breaths. “Jeremy, it’s Jeremy.” They are together there in Chillicothe, mom and dad, the partner-problem-solvers.

“I’m sorry I never phoned. I didn’t think I could, then Levi needed me, then I was stuck out in the desert. I could not get back out till Cordell helped me. I … I know I should have phoned.” Fourteen blurts out his apology-excuse.

His parent’s phone clatters suddenly in Fourteen’s ear, exasperated exclamations, then the rasp-sound of fingers fumbling on plastic. The timber is different after that. Speaker phones sound hollow with the ancient headset. “Jeremy?” His mother asks fearfully.

“Mom?” Fourteen replies, Still here mom, sort of ....

“He’s in San Diego.” Remy explains to Greyson. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”

Hard questions for Fourteen to answer. He is, and then he is not. “I’m on my own now. I don’t know what to do.” This conversation and his circumstances are overwhelming. “I’m …”

“Jeremy, go to the police. Go anywhere and tell them who you are. People will help you.”

Oh God, oh God, his dad’s calm voice is so reassuring, but his dad is naive. People don’t help you. His dad does not know, he will never understand what Fourteen has gone through and he does not know what his son has done. A gutted-sob comes out. This was how the conversation was supposed to go before the San Diego kitchen. “I can’t.” He answers defeated. “You don’t know!”

“Jem,” Greyson’s voice is gentle. “It’s so good to hear your voice.” The warmth flows through the phone across the distance. Their son is panicked and Remy and Greyson need to be his rock. “We will work this out.”

“Jem, what happened doesn’t change anything for us. We love you so much.” His mother’s voice is reassuring. Mom and dad, team Jeremy.

Fourteen nods his head as if they are all sitting around the table, working out his latest angst. “I have to get away from here. Levi gave me some money … oh mom, Levi is dead!“

“That son of a bitch!” Greyson growls to Remy.

“Levi saved me!” Distress-defensive. This is the nightmare. Nobody will understand The long journey he has made, nobody will accept what he hid from them in Chillicothe. “Don’t blame Levi, it’s not his fault. He should have just trusted me more, let me stay with him till the end. It’s not Levi’s fault, it’s my fault. I screwed up and now I have to get away.”

“Jeremy, it’s not your fault. Don’t ever blame yourself for what he did to you.” Calm-conviction from his dad. This is Greyson Gates laying out the truth, because in just this same calmness, his dad always helps Jeremy to accept his mistakes. “We are on our way. We’ll be there in San Diego by morning. Having you back is all that matters. You say you have money?”

“About a thousand from Levi.” Fourteen replies. “Cordell took the rest.”

“He can’t get a hotel room, he’s too young.” This aside is to Remy. “Go get help.” Greyson insists. “The police will keep you safe. We will be there in the morning.”

“I can’t go to the police!” Fourteen is washed away by the panic and despair. His life is in ruins. There is no Chillicothe-before, Neighborhood Watch easy-solution. Fourteen is a fugitive on the run. The police or (Fucking) Cordell’s Triangle-tattooing biker gang are closing in on him. “You don’t know what I’ve done. They are looking for me! I can’t let them find me! Mom, dad, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry! It’s bad, so bad and I can’t undo it now. I didn’t mean to, oh shit, shit, shit! Keon was right. He saw it and I didn’t listen to him. I had no choice, oh God! I shouldn’t have done it, but I thought I had no choice!”

The hurt is overwhelming, and Fourteen has to catch his breath. “I just wanted you to know, I’m here. I love you. I can’t see you, I can’t be with you anymore. I’ve, I’m a … I’ll be sent to jail.“

“You’ve done nothing wrong!” His mother assures him.

“I have! I’ve … “

“Stop talking Jeremy!” Greyson’s loud voice cuts him off.

“Dad, it’s all fucked up, I’m just like John, I’m Neil Jardine, don’t you understand? I’m  just like Nguyen Huu Tuan, only he blew himself up and I’m still alive. They will send me to prison, dad. They send … “

“Don’t say it!”

Fourteen shakes his head in frustration. When he puts the phone back to his ear he listens to his dad’s voice. “It sounds like it would be better if we don’t talk about this over the phone, son. Remy, he should not be talking over the phone. Can you give us your phone number? This old thing doesn’t have a call display. Never mind, we will have our mobiles. Do you remember my number?”

“No,” Fourteen is exhausted. This is the new after. His parents cannot accept what he has become. He listens to the number and sensible Jeremy Gates repeats the sequence in his head automatically. His parents are coming to get him.

“This is what you need to do. We will hop on the first flight out of Columbus, not sure when we will arrive. The FBI has been looking for you all over the Southwest. You get to a police station, easier to find than the FBI. Don’t talk to anyone about anything until we get there.”

“I can’t do that! Don’t you understand? Haven’t you been listening to me? I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!” Fourteen hurls the phone into the ocean before him. Fourteen collapses over his legs, holding himself against the crushing reality.

Fourteen is perched on a rock with his head bowed over his knees. Ocean sounds meet the city at his back. The Pacific sounds the same as his Great Lakes. They are both an overwhelming vastness of rippling water, wind and sky, but the brine-garbage decay has a different quality to it than the Great Lakes. There are decisions to be made. His thoughts are jackrabbiting about and he needs his bobcat focus.

Fourteen lets the kitchen-confrontation replay in his mind. Each player in his place. (Fucking) Cordell by the table (Sexy tattoo-faced) Elvis edging toward a doorway. I’ll be honest. I have to hurt you a little, that’s the way it is, then maybe we can be cool. Cordell distracted him, then suddenly the hidden gun was in Elvis’ stone-cold fingers.

Elvis and Cordell, both Patrick-crazy to think Fourteen was going to bitch-boy bend back over sofas willingly. Somewhere in Fourteen’s bobcat-soul John and Tuan reached out to him at that moment, do it! Not your fault, his mom would say. This time, Fourteen tells himself in that fateful moment, maybe better (someone’s) dead than (me) bed. He is not reconciled to this truth yet, so Jeremy Gates weeps for his lost innocent-after.

She watched his lanky tangerine dance harmlessly-seductive down the path towards her park bench solitude. He seemed a kindred gypsy-spirit. Sophie Wilson recognized the way the young man carried his world in a single backpack. The young man settled nearby where he could contribute to her view of the setting sun. Very animated, the conversation that followed. The young man might have been talking to her mother in Christ Church. The agitated conversation ended the way her exchanges always did. The young man pitched his phone in the chop.

Live-A-Boards should stick together. It is a gregarious-solitary existence. Port life is very fluid, very dynamic with possibilities. Keep everything in your bag, because on a whim you might get beached or the long passage soured things and you need to jet. Maybe you’re in Penang and Mertasari Beach draws you back instead of Puducherry. Then, you’re boat-sitting in San Diego while Graham Sumner abandons you for shore business. All the while, you are thinking about the next port-possibility, the next encounter. Port life is competitive for crew, but the solitary boy on the rocks is male and no competition for her berth. He is male … interesting. This boy moves animal fluid, very dynamic-delicious and Sophie is bored.

“Are you okay?”

Fourteen turns to the voice. Not a young man, the short-cropped hair beneath the salt stained ball cap misled his distracted senses. She studies his face curiously, then turns her gaze to harbor.

“Yeah, no.” Fourteen answers. His adolescent voice draws her face back. Some damn tangerine-gene fires neurons and he offers the young woman his self-deprecating best smirk. Companionship unties the latest knot in his belly. “It’s mixed up.” He explains.

Yeah, well, it’s always a bit mixed up or we would all be in college somewhere, or working 9 to 5. Sophie decides the young man is younger than she thought. “So San Diego is your home? I haven’t seen you about the marina.”

“The marina?” Fourteen looks over his shoulder to the crowd of boats. “No, I’m just trying to get out of here.”

“Did you get beached?” His confusion is kissable-cute. “Sorry, I just assumed you were passing through like I am. I’m crewing on an Oyster; a sailboat. I’m Sophie. So are you from San Diego?”

“I’m from Ohio.”

Sophie loses him to his thoughts and the harbor. Tears are still hanging in his eyes. Liquid pools like some Korean Boy-Band crush. She drops another year or two off his age. She is close enough to nudge him with her elbow. “Hey! What’s your name?” There is a sniff and Sophie is rewarded with a brilliant-shy smile.

“Fourteen.”

“Okay, so Fourteen.” She is trying out this answer, seeing how dodgy it is. “Fourteen?” Her expression is as pheromone-enchanting as the boy’s.

“No, I’m Jeremy, not fourteen either.” Fourteen decides. Dropping his real name was a mistake. Jeremy Gates should be in San Diego, so close to Elvis Parker’s dead body. Using his real name feels like leaving fingerprints about the crime scene. He wishes he had never told (Fucking) Cordell his name. The truth might have stayed with Malcolm King out there in Arizona. A kid named Jeremy Gates is a wanted man in San Diego now.

“Do you need a place to stay?” Sophie asks. “You look pretty down, Jeremy. You want to come back with me?”

“Where?”

“Graham’s boat, just over there in the marina.” Sophie stands up.

“Whose Graham?”

“Graham is the skipper of Born to Run. Don’t worry, he’s not here. Graham decided to go to Palm Springs. I have the Born all to myself till he comes back. There is plenty of space, he won’t mind.”

“I don’t know what to do.” Fourteen is talking to himself or confessing something to her.

“It will come to you.” It is like that sometimes. Sophie has beached herself in some unfamiliar ports. You do not have to have a plan, but something different comes along. “Just sleep on it.” Fourteen is obviously new to this, however he found his way to this jetty and to her. “Were you hoping to ship out on a boat?”

“I never even thought about it. Grab the bus out of the city maybe.” When Fourteen stands up, Sophie is reminded of why he caught her eye. He is only slightly taller than she is. A dreamy, storm-tossed boy.

Fourteen lets Sophie lead him down the path back to the road and around to the marina entrance. The young woman says little as they walk. Still, Fourteen learns she is from New Zealand. Sophie wants to circumnavigate the globe. He asks about the man who owns the boat. The consensual-sexual subtext is obvious. It all sounds very much like Fourteen and Levi Fisher cruising the Interstate.

Sophie’s young companion is jumpy. The marina security makes the boy nervous. Sophie sees this. Fourteen is very watchful. “Are you on the run?” Sophie was on the run from her mother when she left Christchurch, dodging police.

“They are looking for me.”

Sophie does not know who they are. Once in Port Moresby she had to lose herself amongst the houseboats. She was fifteen and still green. “It’s okay. Nobody will pay attention to you on the Born to Run. “You can tell me about it if you like. Or not, your business.” Fourteen seems content to be led by her. “You like boats, Jerry?”

“Please don’t call me that. Jeremy or Fourteen, not Jerry.”

“Jeremy or Fourteen.” Sophie eyes the boy speculatively. “Who would I like better?”

“I don’t know.” Fourteen’s laugh is genuine-tangerine on the dock between the gently shifting boats. This is just a super-crowded aquatic KOA. The marina-life is as familiar as it is disorienting. Sophie is that foxy little girl on the Flagstaff playground roof all over again. She is connecting with his inaccessibility. Fourteen feels at home in this crowded boat parking lot. The marina returns Fourteen to the comforting sense of constant motion and security he felt in the Luxor Winnebago.

He considers the fascinating girl’s question. High school classmates always liked closet Jeremy Gates’ hetero possibilities. “You would like me to be Jeremy, probably,” He tells Sophie. Then again, this confident Tom Boy might accept who he really is. “Yeah, but Fourteen suites me better right now. I’d rather you called me Fourteen.”

“This is the salon.” Sophie explains. “First time on a sailboat?” She asks.

The deck of the single mast Oyster is super cool. Fourteen takes in all the teak decking, sparkling chrome and white paint. It lures him away from his confusion and despair. Below deck, he feels like he is back in the Luxor Winnebago. “This is cool,” Fourteen begins. “I’ve sailed small boats at camp. Nothing like this, this is big. Everything is so perfect.”

“No it isn’t.” Sophie laughs. Try being stuck on here for a month.” Fourteen nods understanding. “I like it though.” Fourteen stands beside the table, turning slowly, trying to make sense of everything he sees. His mouth twitches as he thinks. “Okay, let me give you the tour.”

The Born to Run is far more complex than Levi Fisher’s old RV. Fourteen cannot remember half of what she says. Forward past the salon is the tiny Head. Across from that is a Berth with two bunks. “Mostly, we keep excess stores here. Rain gear, food, whatever.” Two beds are in the bow. “Guest Berth, this is sort of mine, but mostly I sleep in the Master Cabin.”

Fourteen expects no less. He nods and thinks the low ceiling is claustrophobic. Everything is compact, everything screams of efficient design. Since stepping down the gangway, Fourteen feels safe. San Diego streets are wide open. Fourteen needs this claustrophobic shelter.

“You could leave your bag here, take this berth.” Fourteen is tuned to Sophie’s open ended offer.

“Yeah, I’m gay, Sophie.” She is so crazy-different, old-not-old. Fourteen has to break this to her with a sheepish grin. The strike-out boy, his smile tells her, sorry coach.

“Whatever,” Sophie shrugs. “Follow me.”

They return to the salon and she points out the navigation station. There is another blizzard of terms and slick electronics to point out. The galley is on the other side.

“Oh! This is cool.” Fourteen exclaims. He is noticing the stove on gimbals. “Tight, I’m used to being tight.”

“You cook?”

“Yeah, that was my job.” Fourteen is opening cabinets and drawers. He finds the fridge and freezer under the counter. “So cool.” He murmurs. Sophie watches him stand in the galley way and twist one way or another to see how far he can reach. The sexy boy is cooking something in his mind. He lifts an arm to one of the railings, imagining the roll of the deck below his feet. The crazy kid actually holds the handle and sways on his feet. He sees her watching and his face gives off this sheepish grin.

“Are you a good cook? That could be useful.” Sophie points toward the berth beyond the galley. Fourteen takes a look, then surprises her by dropping his pack on the bed.

“Thanks,” He offers shyly. “I was feeling kinda lost there. It has been a really shitty day for me.” Fourteen shakes his head slowly. There is just no way to explain how bad a day this has been. “If you give me a chance to shower. Is that okay? Can I take a shower?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” Fourteen smiles gratefully. “I can cook you something, afterwards.”

Sophie watches Fourteen take his Padre cap and coat off. He is wearing the white tank top and she decides it suits his frame. The light muscles remind her of his youth. She tests him for a moment more. He strips off the top first and then pulls down his pants.

“We are hooked into the marina, so don’t worry about the water.” She glances at his naked body appreciatively. “I’ll be on deck. Just call if you need anything.” The boy is just standing there looking too good-touchable to leave alone. Sophie thinks Fourteen has prospects. “Have you ever slept with a girl?”

Sophie sees the flash of annoyance, or is that exasperation. “I’m gay, Sophie.”

“Don’t get your back up with me, girl.” Sophie grins. “Just wondering.”

“Yeah, I have.” Fourteen admits. Sophie thinks that is Live-A-Boards useful too.

In the shower, Fourteen does his best to scrub the memories of Elvis and Cordell off his body. It cannot be done. He turns off the water and sinks soapy to the floor of the cramped shower. Alone in the cabin, he can cry.

Eventually, the tears stop. He cannot forget the sex with the two men. He can try and put away the bad and good feelings. Done is done, Fourteen decides. He betrayed Cordell and killed a man. There is no telling where he will end up after this day. He might be a killer now, he ended a man’s life. The reality of this is so devastating. That in itself is a reassurance. He is not stone-cold John Cannon, not yet. Fourteen takes a ragged sigh. The shower starts again and Fourteen tries again to scrub the day off his tingling skin.

On deck, Sophie calls a greeting to a neighbor. She knows the boats passing through quickly, the ones who never seem to move. It is a regatta unlike any WalMart parking lot. The Live-A-Boards life is in her blood. Sophie thinks she was born with it.

Graham keeps in touch. They suit each other well enough and he wants her on his boat for the next leg of his journey. There is the promised circumnavigation. If he does not keep her here too long, she will crew for him, share a bed.

In port, Sophie always studies the angles. There are other boats to consider. People to meet, stories to exchange. Sophie loves the freedom of this life on the water.  She stands by the mast and surveys the forest of possibilities about her. Fourteen wants out of San Diego in a hurry. She does not know Fourteen’s reasons, but he is afraid to go back into the city. Sophie begins to weigh the owners of the possible boats she already knows.

Fourteen sits across the table with his feet up on the bench as he sat by the water break hours earlier. Some pasta and the last of every fresh or frozen vegetable Sophie has ignored sits uneaten on his plate. He did not lie, Sophie concedes. Fourteen knows how to cook. He has been drinking Graham’s wine. Fourteen has a taste for wine, it seems. It was pleasant to watch her companion in the galley without his shirt on. His expressions were so funny, so intent on what he was doing. Divorced from his problems on the shore, the full tangerine blossomed before Sophie. He is like an open flower she just has to pollinate.

“So that’s the story.” Fourteen finishes with another sip at the Pinot Noir. He drank half the Mac Forbes on his own while Sophie enjoyed a hot meal. He cannot decide if the wine makes him more or less horny for the men in the San Ysidro kitchen. He is fifteen-gay, not much he can do about that. Just cut my clothes off with a knife.

“The cruise across the country with this old man in the big RV, that sounds so much like what I do. Passages between land ports. I could do that. Your boyfriend (this in quotes),” Sophie is only three years older than Fourteen. She is far more pragmatic. Crewing sailboats means she has to be. “Fourteen, first boyfriend?”

“Yes”

“Girl, you were just hooking up. Your heart moved too fast, sister.” She mimics Fourteen’s posture from the long bench across the salon. She smiles at his first love naivety.

“I hurt him. I left him all alone in that house.” Fourteen looks at her with wet eyes. “I betrayed … “

“You were raped. You had to get away.” Sophie has friends raped on the beach. She could tell their stories, but they are not her own. Sophie has run from trouble, but been spared that cock-up. You have to be able to read the people you ship with, Sophie is very good at that.

“I abandoned Cordell.”

“Yeah, nah, girlfriend, he led you to that crack house. Well that was a total cock up, wasn’t it? Don’t tell me he did you any favours. Bloody all mouth and no trousers, that Cordell. Men are dangerous, Fourteen.” Sophie grins away the sting of her rebuke and shakes a finger at the beautiful boy. Christ this boy is freaking skux!

“You are lucky you made it out the front door.” She lets this sink in. “Your weather sucks at the moment. It's hard out.” Sophie translates. “No worries, she’ll be right. You say you talked to your parents, it wasn't your choice to take the trip. You could go home. No impediments there, eh?”

“No,” Fourteen agrees.

“So meet them.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Course you can, it’s a piece of piss.” Sophie urges Fourteen. She is talking a foreign language and he gives her his stellar frown. “It’s easy, sister. You’re worried about the Oldies going ballistic because you hook up with mates? Sort of mid-century don’t you think?”

“Yeah, no.” Fourteen sighs. “I suppose that is the least of my worries. I stressed that all the way to Arizona. After that, I just wanted to get home. I’m in deep shit and no way to dig myself out. They can’t help me. Not while I am here in San Diego.” Fourteen gets thoughtful. “Maybe later.” This is a new thought. He takes a bite of the pasta concoction he worked up in the galley. Maybe later, when I get a better idea of where I stand with the police in San Diego. Maybe this is not goodbye.

“It’s a piss.” Fourteen just shakes his head I have no idea. what you just said!, annoyed with her casual slang. “It’s easy Fourteen. Crew out of here. Do you have a passport?” Sophie does not ask this hopefully.

Fourteen gets up with a finger raised, asking her for patience. He returns with a ziplock bag full of his documents. He sits beside Sophie on the bench. “Two,” he shows her.

“You’re very Jason Bourne, aren’t you?”

“Man of mystery.” Fourteen agrees.

“Oh behave!” Sophie drawls. “Okay, so this Jeremy Gates one, fifteen year old citizen of Antigua and Barbuda, that’s the real deal? This American Kale (yuck!) Euller, sounds like you’re vomiting doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Fourteen laughs.

“Kale is eighteen. Totally fake, good quality, useful while you get away. Then you are this guy.” Sophie holds up the Caricom Passport Levi purchased for him.

“Fake real; government issued to the wrong face. Levi’s grand nephew it seems.” Fourteen explains. “For oh so many reasons, Levi was an interesting guy. I miss him, is that crazy?”

“Not crazy at all, Crewing,” Sophie begins.

“So how do I make that happen?” Fourteen asks anxiously. Crewing on a sailboat sounds like more West, Far East and that is the only movement Fourteen understands right now. Every other direction feels like Patrick giving it up to a train of young Elvis Parkers on the back lower bunk. Sexy in the abstract, Fourteen blushes. Sexy knife cutting my clothes off.

“I’m on it.” Sophie skips that hurdle. “So, crewing probably means you are a bed mate, know what I mean? It’s part of Live-A-Board if you don’t have your own boat.  Can you handle that?” Gay-sex on two legs shrugs indifference at her. “You can cook, but you have no sailing skills. What do you think you can handle? Oldest?

“Seventy-three, I think.” Fourteen starts blushing.”

Sophie nods like he said he likes aged cheese. “You’re not stuck on that, are you?” She is being so practical about this. “God’s truth, before I left Malaysia, this fourteen-year old beech boy.”

“Twelve,” Fourteen blushes bright red.

“Full on sex?”

“No,” Fourteen concedes gratefully. “Just like,” he nods his head back and forth, “giving head.”

“Ha, ha, ha, well eleven In Christ’s Church then.” Sophie tussles Fourteen’s hair. “Well aged cheddar and fresh curds. It really helps if you are open. Can you do a girl?”

Fourteen answers by leaning forward. He draws Sophie’s head close to his lips and then they are dueling tongues and biting lips passionately. Sophie draws him like no girl he has met. Streamlined androgynous appearance with tiny breasts, and crop hair style, she is almost she-male. Hers is not just the beauty of youth but of experience, same as his. Sophie’s honest sexuality appeals to Fourteen. To get out of America, Jeremy Gates can play straight and fuck his way out of this trap. He is open to this girl anyway.

For offering him shelter on this floating Luxor Winnebago, Fourteen would willingly have sex with Sophie. She leads him to the main cabin and lays beside him. “Today was a bloody mare. They hurt you. You cry sister, it’s okay. Have a good cry.” So Fourteen does.

Sophie is up again while Fourteen finally sleeps his misery and guilt away on half a bottle of Western Australian Red. Anton is across the marina fretting for his missing young stud. She can find him on his Super Maamu wondering if his boyfriend will come back to him. If she is going to proposition him, she better do it tonight. Anton will normally sleep till noon, easily. The passports are on the bench where Fourteen left them. Sophie selects the American passport that claims Fourteen is just eighteen.

Sophie works her way around the marina past the main buildings. She is acquainted with the permanent residents, so here and there she stops to exchange a friendly word. The friendly gossip can tell her what boats are headed out on passage south. It is the end of February, not much interest in heading to Canadian waters. Sophie checks Boatfinder and Crewseekers. The apps never helped her find a boat, but it is worth a look.

Two surly looking police officers are on the shore talking with an elderly couple. Sophie stops to watch. Are they looking for Fourteen? The woman points toward the water break where Sophie met the boy. Then her hand sweeps around past where Born to Run lies gently tugging on her lines. Sophie sighs relief when the four figures turn to look away towards the north. She let Fourteen’s panic infect her. The boy was raped, he got away, but his fear is about something more important. He has done something illegal, Sophie thinks. 

Jeremy’s cat-like beauty is seductive. His orange-blossom fragrance still hangs in her memory. She is drawn to his gritty experience, same as hers. Fourteen had his land passage across America, crewing for some old Salt in a RV Live-A-Board. The extended kissing, his ferocious intent, convinces Sophie he could take to this live-on-ship life. She is fluid shaping herself to the boats she crews. He reminds her of a young girl stepping off her first boat. Fourteen just needs experience. He has a whole world to hide in.

Anton Schroeder is standing by the mizzen mast with a tumbler of rich amber in his hand. The Sirocco is much bigger than Born to Run. It is an Amel Super Maramu. 52 feet with a beam of 15. Deeper draft than Graham’s Oyster. The Sirocco invites more crew. Sophie asked about the name Sirocco. Errol Flynn’s boat, Sophie had to Google that one. Anton sees her and salutes her with his highball. The Sirocco’s stern is pointing East to where Anton’s young partner Daniel Ayers is working out his future.

“Come to keep an old Queen company, Sophie? Did you bring your strap-on?” Anton enjoys an amused sip of Irish Whisky. “Ah, I see you haven’t. Come by for a drink?”

“You’re a crack up, Anton. I brought you something better.” Sophie smiles. She holds Fourteen’s American passport up with his picture. “I found you a choice crew member for your next passage.”

“Lovely girl, always thinking of my needs.”

Fourteen stretches out on the bed, then turns towards the young woman beside him. She sleeps on her side, one leg hiding her sex, an arm nearly masking a flat mound of breast. He slides off the bed trying not to disturb his host. He is Jeremy Gates, so everything is folded neatly in the grey cycling backpack that has replaced the black bag Levi bought for him. He lifts it, and goes past the tight galley into the salon.

He sits on the bench and digs the second prepaid phone out of his pack. He could go back to being Jeremy Gates right now. Teenage-tangerine-trust the assurances he is offered. Fourteen has had six months of lies. Looking back, it felt like from North Platte to Flagstaff, the lies stopped for a while. He partnered honestly with his failing old lover. Then in Flagstaff the lies between them started again. Well, you lied too, Fourteen reminds himself.

Sophie is talking about prostitution or at least the easy promiscuity he tried in Albuquerque while Levi convelessed in the hospital. Scott Beck, Fourteen’s first one night stand. He feels an adolescent tingle at that raunchy memory. Beached like Sophie in some strange Southwestern port, nothing better to do. I could do that again, Fourteen decides. His way home to Chillicothe before is blocked by a warrant for murder. Patrick and John made it pretty clear what his now would be like in prison. Heading West, Far East is the only after option.

Fourteen takes Levi Fisher’s Japanese Hikari folding knife from the handy pocket of his backpack. 70mm of Damascus steel and the stag horn handle feel like safety in his palm. If he touches his breast, or slides his fingers along his thigh, he can feel the whisper-touch of close-death on his body. Thin scar lines to remember Levi by. Fourteen slices through the stubborn plastic on the second prepaid phone.

Where are you guys? Fourteen texts to his dad. Best to throw this phone away right now, Fourteen advises himself. Instead he lets it lie on the table. He carefully folds his (mine now) Hikari and tucks it in his bag. Coffee on the Oyster is Kapal Api Special Mix. While he waits, Fourteen makes a cup. The first sip makes him frown. The slight bitterness in this brew is not nearly enough to counterbalance the sweetness. Levi taught him to appreciate black coffee from a French Press.

He is leaning against the galley sink appreciating the elegant flow of the Oyster’s cabins, not appreciating Indonesian coffee, pondering his narrow after choices when the phone rings. Fourteen lets it ring three times before he moves to pick it up.

“We just landed, where should we meet you?”

His dad’s voice is the siren song luring Jeremy Gates onto the prison-rocks. Fourteen needs sealing wax and strong ropes to lash him to Born to Run. He listened to Levi Fisher, Malcolm King, trusted-loved (Fucking) Cordell Faulkner. Greyson and Remy Gates have never let him down, not once. But this time, Fourteen knows they have no concept of the Patrick Hunter danger waiting for their son in prison. Patrick went in for shoplifting for fuck’s sake! They have no idea John Cannon and Nguyen Huu Tuan have settled Jeremy Gates’ after.

“We can’t meet, dad.”

“Jeremy, we can talk this out.”

The ringing phone has brought Sophie to the salon. She takes his coffee from the counter and sips at it. Her long legs extending from her panties and the tube top barely lifting across her breasts grounds Fourteen a little. She is Keon-reassuring. He can reply calmly to his dad this morning.

“We can’t dad.” Jeremy Gates wants to just start sobbing again. “I’m sorry, but we can’t. If I meet you both, you’ll talk me out of it. You are so good at that, dad. You will make it sound easy, logical. Before, that might have been the right thing to do. Now, I know you can’t help me work this out.”

“God damn, we’re in this noisy airport waiting for an Uber. Tell us where to go, Jeremy. I can’t tell your mom you won’t see us. How bad can it be?”

Fourteen stares at Sophie’s eyes. The question hangs somewhere between the young people on the sailboat and his parents waiting for a rideshare. “You tell me dad, what could be that bad?” Fourteen moves on quickly, he needs the sealing wax stopping up his ears, he needs Sophie to lash him to the Oyster’s mast. Jackrabbit wants to bound into his mother’s safe arms. “Check into a hotel. Give me some time to think.” He cuts the connection.

Okay, don’t do anything stupid.

Fourteen smiles at the message. Too late for that advice, he knows. He shrugs at Sophie.

“Are you going to meet them?” She asks handing him his coffee. He puts it on the table beside the phone.

“No,” Fourteen replies regretfully. “No point in them running all over town. Maybe dad will watch the news, find out what I did. Then they can go home. Anyhow, If I try to meet them, the police will stake them out, grab me. I can’t let that happen.” Fourteen is not going to jackrabbit his way into Patrick Hunter’s prison cell. He can imagine the smug satisfaction on the raping bastard’s handsome face all the way from Hershey, Penselvania. Fourteen is going to bobcat-claw his way out of this John Cannon’s way.

“What could be that bad?” Sophie echoes Fourteen’s answer to his father.

The teenager stands all tangerine-fuckable in the salon. Long legs stretching down from the package of his sexy boxer briefs. He is a no-shirt kissable a step or two away and Sophie remembers this boy’s eager lips and hands. Face of a troubled angel, fallen angel. Sophie knows fallen angels. Angel-face boys mask devil-issues. “What did you do after the bastard raped you?”

Fourteen’s face winces with some deep-guilt memory. So good to see that, Sophie sighs. That was an honest wince. He is very open, this tangerine-delectable boy. She steps up to his silent obstinacy and smacks him hard across the cheek. “You’re a bit sus, Jeremy Gates. I have a nice friend who will take you out. He’s a friend you can trust. He trusts me, Jeremy Gates. So what did you do after the fucking bastards raped you?”

So Fourteen tells her. He tells her about Patrick and John in the abandoned barn. He tells her everything from the moment he stepped out of the Blazer in Elvis Parker’s dusty backyard to the moment he ran blind-panicked down the San Ysidro roads. Sophie lifts his chin from where it is tucked into his chest. His eyes are blurred from the tears.

“Good on you, Jeremy Gates, good on you.” Sophie whispers fiercely.

Then they are two healthy animals kissing away the PTS, celebrating heart-beat lives after Jeremy Gates’ near death. No point in taking the moment back to the bed. No point in offering gay excuses. Fourteen is open-hard for this wisp-woman,this boy-girl. She lets him start by taking her from behind. Between passages, that is what they both are, and the tangerine length of teenage cock is just another good lay on the beach. Fourteen does not reject her nipples, nor her swelling loins. There are no missing parts between them.

Sophie pulls away from Fourteen’s thrusting hips and turns for a savage kiss. Then the boy is down on the bench across from the table. He’s sitting slouched except for that hard cock rising up ready. Sophie impales herself on the sweet shaft. This is sort of mindful-mindless sex. For Fourteen, it is like Scott Beck in Albuquerque. This is totally consequence-free rutting on an Oyster. Fourteen is bruised by his latest skateboard-Elvis spill. Life is hard knocks and healing. Sophie understands that too. She is helping him to heal.

“I’m gay, Sophie, gonna stay that way.”

Her laughter is wild abandon. “That’s good, Jeremy Gates, because I want a faggot’s hard cock right now.” She loves it. She loves Fourteen right then. She loves the manhood breaking loose in her loins, and she loves the kindred-spirit of youth. Sophie loves the orgasmic freedom of life and each casual-significant encounter. It is always consequence-free for Sophie.

“Oh god, Sophie!”

“Nah!” She responds. “You came too soon, you powderpuff. Like a little boy on his first diddle. You don’t have much time before Anton and Daniel sail. We’ve got things to talk about before you start the passage.” Sophie runs her fingers up Fourteen’s sweaty chest. Two young animals, that is all they are. Words, words, words, Sophie is not Inez. She cares bugger all if this young body prefers to be fucked hard by men. “Chur,” she smiles, Fourteen is still teenage strong in her velvet grip. “Show me what you’ve got gay boy. Show me what Anton is getting.”

Fourteen lifts her light body on his cock, hands holding her by the slim hips. “You’re not going to make it down the passage like this gay boy.” Sophie wraps her long legs around his waist and clasps her hands behind his neck. Fourteen proves her wrong. He tops her on the bed.

Fourteen took a life, he wants to make a life. Fourteen feels so bad. As bad as Levi Fisher torn with survivor’s guilt. He feels something John Cannon is too broken to feel. Fourteen feels bad, but he still wants to live. Antigua, I want to see Antigua and Barbuda. Jeremy Gates is Fourteen, and his after lies somewhere safe West, Far East, or maybe South. Levi Fisher always promised southern warmth. South to Antigua, Fourteen promises himself. Levi Fisher promised him that.

Sophie seems to orgasm beneath him. It’s a shuddering climax that reminds Fourteen of the deep release he loves so much. Fourteen has not cum, but there is satisfaction in a job well done. He pulls out and drops beside her, the cabin’s stuffiness generating sweat across his chest. Sophie sits up beside him and begins rooting about beside the bed.

“So you found someone who will take me to Mexico?”

“Take you through the Panama Canal, do the islands on the other side. You crew for him and his boyfriend Daniel. If Daniel goes a runner on Anton, be ready to take his place. Anton’s a bottom, Jeremy. Not old, more fit than not, he likes a fresh cock now and then, and your cock is fresh.” She laughs easily at this, because that is her gift.

“Okay, what are you doing?” Fourteen props himself up on the bed. Sophie presents herself with an eight-inch strap-on. His eyes widen at the sight of the black shaft and bulging scrotum. His wilting cock begins to rise again.

“Rape is nasty, gay boy.” She struts her threatening junk. “Bet you would do the ladies all the time if they could give you this.” Sophie’s grin is pure Dr. Levi-Evil. “Awe, don’t look at me like that. You fell off the horse, Jeremy Gates, landed hard on your bum. If you are going to crew, you need to get back on the horse.”

Sophie pushes Fourteen back onto the covers. She hooks his legs up onto her shoulders. God damn, Jeremy Gates found a woman he could relate to. The strap on is mesmerizing him. The charcoal dildo waves threateningly over Fourteen’s anus. She is slathering lubricant like this is mastrurbation. “Okay, sister. I’m gonna make you scream like a little girl.”

“Does that thing vibrate?”

“Oh yeah.” Sophie reaches between her thighs as if she is fingering herself. The sound is loud. Fourteen could ejaculate just listening to it. Sophie smiles blissfully at the massage against her cliterus. “Time to ride the horse, gay boy.”

And yes, after a while Fourteen starts screaming like a little girl. She pulls out to ride his second ejaculation. The black penis and large balls bounce and vibrate as he cums. Then just like Levi Fisher would, she goes back inside him like she’s wielding Icicles No. 5 7-inch Sapphire. Sophie fucks the hurt out of Jeremy Gates. She fucks the toxic memory of wanting (Fucking) Cordell right out of him.

“I’m breeding you Jeremy Gates,” Sophie gleams at his helplessness. “Gonna put my baby into your pretty fag ass. Boy or girl, Jeremy Gates?”

“Oh fuck, does matter?” Fourteen’s desperate-aroused with these tireless ministrations on his grateful anus. The deep attack on his rectum is beginning to fibrillate his prostate-everything. He is Fourteen riding his orgasmic-now. He is giving himself up to this exquisite invasion of his body. Riding the salty waves rippling up from his prostate to the little-girl, man-shout of his Fourteen-Yawp. Sophie fucks the orgasms out of him with her magic-wand, vibrating phallus. That gut-wrenching catharsis was for him.

The next orgasm rises sometime later in a hazy-safe Dreamtime for Sophie. She takes his third ejaculation riding his cock slowly. Fourteen drifts off tangerine fresh-squeezed dry. She strokes her belly above the still vibrating strap-on. This one's for her. There are passages to make and more encounters on the beach. Sophie strokes her belly. She will carry this sad boy’s tangerine along with her over the next passage.

She pulls off Fourteen's failing cock. They will talk about what he needs to know before Anton needs him on the Surroco. Sophie will let her young companion rest for a short while. The boy’s phone buzzes on the table.

We are at the Holiday Inn. We need to talk.

Sophie reads the phone number and writes it on a pad. Fourteen is just testing-torturing himself. He will not call his parents. She thinks of his tears. The anguish written across his face. It is clear there is no anger in this family. Between Sophie and mirror-mother in Christ Church, there was hurt.

I love you mom and dad. Sophie thumbs out on Fourteen’s phone. Hang tight, I will explain everything when I get there. She sends the message.

Jeremy Gates’ parents crossed a continent to see him. Sophie is curious about them now. It is like she shares Fourteen’s odyssey and these frightened people are part of it. Sophie thinks about Fourteen’s phone. She goes on deck in nothing but her tank top. Acknowledges her next door neighbor with a pleasant word. The San Diego spring warms her bum as she hides Fourteen’s prepaid phone where he might forget it. When Fourteen is safely on his way, there will be a story to tell the people at the Holiday Inn.

Too bad he has to go so soon, Sophie smiles lightly to herself. The fifteen-year old boy lies coma-fucked on Graham’s bedding. She hopes to make the same passage Fourteen will take to the Carribean, then cross the Atlantic. She is confident Fourteen will crew on the Surroco. Anton will like him very much and Fourteen can top. She imagines crewing with him on the Surroco. Fourteen is sweet, but she has a passage around the world to make.

They will likely never hook up again. She has his seed until it dissolves into her body, then she can carry the tangerine memory of this congress around the world. I’ll take a picture. His mom would like a picture of him too. She sends them to her mother in Christ Church. One for each beach she makes. Too bad our time was short, but Sophie is the sea breeze shifting endlessly until the trade winds push her west around the world.

Fourteen blinks upon the bed. “Good, you’re awake. I want another of your tasty meals, we need to talk and the tide will turn before too long. There are still things to learn, Jeremy Gates. Then you better go meet Anton. When his Daniel shows up, he is going to be distracted.”