A Gorgeous Mess Read online

  That was us, though. There’s no escaping your nature, right? I buried people for a living, and Ormond fabricated gore. We were used to it. Why would something like that stop us from taking our mutual satisfaction behind a barn?

  CHAPTER SIX

  ORMOND

  They easily found the pot in the alfalfa barn. A dozen hay bales had been stacked up like an igloo around the big jars of buds. But, as Brick had said, no one would dare go near the barn after the heinous events that had occurred there last spring, and the jars were unmolested. The original five hundred pounds had turned into more like four hundred—maybe he’d sold some on Instagram—but it was much better than nothing. A success.

  Of course they could only fit a few jars in their saddlebags, so Anson called Turk for instructions. Turk said he’d send Hobie down with their dispensary truck for the haul, so they had to stay put and guard the cache. Tiny hairs stood up on the back of Ormond’s neck and balls in anticipation of the cocksucking Anson had demanded.

  When it came down to it, though, thinking of the body parts did bother him. I must not be that immune to gore. Real gore, not gore fabricated out of foam latex. Ormond wandered outside the barn, where clean alfalfa bales had sat untouched since May, glad when Anson joined him.

  Folding his arms and squinting into the distance behind his wrap-around Original KDs, Anson asked, “How long since you knew you liked dick?”

  That was a question Ormond got often. It usually annoyed him, because who would think of asking a straight person that? No one would, because it wasn’t seen as an anomaly. Being gay was obviously out of the norm—you were bent, thus the name of their new club.

  “When I was about ten, in Madrid. I liked all the usual boy things, so I was no twink. I liked all the sports, running, wrestling, fighting. I was a tough street kid because my dad was barely ever home. You are right when you say I’m trying to gain his approval. Being into sports made me even more confused when I felt like kissing a boy. Girls were nice and funny and fun to be around, but they left me cold when I thought of kissing one.”

  “So when did you first act on your desires?”

  “When I was about fourteen. I had a best friend, Marcos. I wanted him something bad¸ but of course I could not express it. So one day when we were drinking his father’s alcohol, laughing and joking around, I just sat on top of him and kissed him. The whole thing. Open mouth, tongue, everything.”

  Ormond always warmed up talking about this memory, and Anson seemed to pick up on that. Ormond was leaning back against a stack of bales, so Anson stood in front of him, grasping his hips, pressing his erection against Ormond’s. In his line of work, Ormond didn’t often get serviced. Hell, he didn’t often get touched. Men saw him, knew what he was about, and rammed their cocks down his throat. True, he was often used, sometimes abused. But now, the thrill of having his penis stimulated by Anson’s was nearly causing him to lose his place in the story. He didn’t often get to orgasm in his associations with men. He usually just had to jack off alone afterward.

  “And how did he react?” Anson’s eyes were steamy, full of lust. “Did he punch you?”

  “Yes, how did you know? He threw me off so he was on top, and he whaled away with his fists. I had a bloody, broken nose and a loose tooth, but I got the best of him. Then I was on top, and I kissed him again. I don’t know why I did that, honestly, Anson, I don’t. It was just asking for trouble. And my tooth was wobbly and bloody.”

  Anson’s nostrils flared. He even brushed the back of his hand against Ormond’s cheek. His cock pulsed against Ormond’s. “What’d he do?”

  Ormond had to smile with the memory. “He kissed me back. It was not just my imagination!”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “He kissed me back! He opened his mouth, and he sucked on my tongue. We kissed like demons for another whole minute. And I think that is where my psychology decided that I needed a strong, macho man to throw me around in order to become stimulated.”

  “Wait—what happened after you kissed a whole minute?”

  “He stopped, and threw me off, and we never spoke of it again. But from then on, I knew how delicious it was to be with a boy, and that’s what I wanted. When did you first know you liked boys? On your Rez?”

  “Oh God, no. Are you kidding? Diné would rather have root canals than admit attraction to another man. Now listen. On your fucking knees, slave. Your story’s got my cock pumped up, and thinking of your hot mouth has got me leaking.”

  Though he was disappointed he didn’t get to hear Anson’s story, the idea that a few droplets of jizz had spurted from Anson’s long, fat cock already had Ormond weak in the knees. As much as he was thrilling to the overwhelming sensation of Anson’s dong massaging his own, it was out of years of habit that Ormond fell to his knees, greedily undoing the belt buckle.

  The burning hot dick popped out, slapping Ormond on the cheek. It burned so hotly it practically left an imprint there, and Ormond captured it in his dry palm. He inhaled deeply of the hot, sweaty aroma as Anson shoved his jeans down below his knees. His slit gleamed brightly in the indirect sun with a dash of slick semen, and he was spreading his feet, evidently primed for some ATM action.

  First, though, Ormond couldn’t resist opening his lips and blotting that droplet with his tongue. It stung like sugar, making his eyes water, and Anson grabbed a handful of his thick hair.

  “Oh, yeah,” Anson growled down at him. “That’s it, you sweet thing. Lick my balls. Take my balls into your mouth, you fucking fag. You know you love it. You love tasting men’s balls, chewing on them, sliding your tongue into their asshole—ah!”

  Ormond smiled inwardly at how quickly he could shut up Anson. Ignoring the cock, which pulsated, drooling alongside his neck, Ormond played a delicate network of tiny tongue tickles to the full ball sac. He mouthed the sac, worried it like a terrier, and almost immediately the tremor started racing up and down Anson’s inner thighs. Yes. He was working it.

  His hunger for cock in general had become something specific in the past twenty-four hours. Ormond was hungry for Anson Dineyazzie’s prick. Earlier today as they were exiting the coffee shop, Leroy Sinquah had stood close to Ormond and murmured in his ear, “Why don’t you stop by my office later with a hot tip about some criminal?”

  “Thank you, but I won’t have time,” Ormond had said politely.

  “I can’t stop thinking about your hot mouth,” the cop had said. “You really drained me dry last time.”

  The whole thing had even seemed vaguely repellant to Ormond, for some damned reason. Now, munching away at Anson’s delicious scrotum like there was no tomorrow, he wondered if Anson had already ruined him for other men. What the fuck was happening? They had even walked by another Anglo cop in the streets of Parker, some highway patrolman Ormond used to blow in the back seat of his patrol car. He had given Ormond “The Nod.” The knowing nod, and Ormond had completely disregarded the guy! What the fuck was the world coming to? He’d been so obsessed tagging along after Anson’s shapely ass, the CHP might as well have been a fly on the window.

  Now Ormond put his all into it, slathering his tongue all around the hairless testicles, rolling each one in turn with bruising precision, gorging himself on its heft. Taking the fullness of one ball into his mouth, Ormond hummed a tune, knowing the vibrations would radiate through Anson’s groin pleasantly, driving him higher and closer to spending.

  He knew he was riling Anson by how guttural Anson’s outbursts became. It sounded like Anson groaned in Arabic as he kneaded his meat against the side of Ormond’s face. Ormond saved the crowning glory for last. As he worked Anson to a higher fever pitch, his thigh tremor buzzing like magic fingers in a cheap motel bed, Ormond dipped his head lower, tilting his head to the side. Lifting the ball sac out of his way, he twined his tongue around the bulge of the perineum, and Anson nearly stopped breathing for an entire minute.

  Ormond worked it good, occasionally darting his tongue out to tickle
the puckered anus.

  “Ah!” Anson finally gasped when his hole was teased. He uttered more Arabic filth, punctuated by a few English syllables. “Bastard! You sweet fuck…you nasty tease…that’s it, do it…lick me, you gay fucker. Lick me! Eat my asshole till you make me explode. Just a few more seconds. That’s it. Ah, God, don’t stop!”

  After swirling his tongue around the crinkled hole, Ormond dove in for the kill. He slid first one, then two fingers up the lubricated channel, going right for the P-spot. He could tell by the bulging fullness of the perineum and the cock that the man was set to detonate any second now, and he was not disappointed. As he massaged the back of the prostate, he finally inhaled the plump penis, deep-throating it, letting his throat muscles massage the tight, squeaky glans.

  That did it. Like Anson’s dick was a funnel, he sucked the insistent spurts. He gulped the necklace of oysters one after the other. Unbelievably, the jets kept coming. Just as he thought he’d detach and catch his breath, another spurt would fill his mouth, and he had to gulp quickly to keep up with them.

  At last Anson let him stop. The military man stumbled back a few steps, practically hoo-weeing with amazement, his face stunned, surprised. “Wow! What the fuck was that? Fuck me dry! Now I can really say that. Fuck me dry.”

  A glow of self-righteous pleasure spread through Ormond. The warmth of the blob of semen in his gut cheered him, but just knowing he’d done an excellent job was the best payment ever. He lived to please.

  He watched avidly as Anson stuffed his half-mast dick back into his jeans, hitching his hips to position it correctly. Without looking at Ormond, he said, “Is that all you do? I mean, you never want your own satisfaction?”

  Ormond shrugged. “I rarely ever receive it. My game is giving pleasure.” It took a while for Ormond to figure out why Anson was holding out a hand to him. Oh. He was helping him to his feet. Ormond accepted the hand.

  “Well,” said Anson. He was panting slightly from exertion. “You must get release some of the time. Otherwise, it’s downright unhealthy. All that come backed up inside you. Navajo are taught the body has two sections. Left and right, male and female. The male side is for the protection of the soul, for logic. Then of course the female side calms, like a body of water.”

  “Does that explain why some of us are born liking men?”

  Anson looked into the distance, thinking. “I guess so. We are all born in water, so we’re all born female. Then again, everyone is also simultaneously male—one doesn’t mean you can’t have the other. They’re equal. They exist side by side, in perfect harmony.”

  Ormond nodded. “It must be happy to have a culture that teaches you such soothing things.”

  Popping out of his reverie, Anson quirked a grin at Ormond. “Not really. Sort of a pain in the ass most of the time, actually.”

  By that time, Hobie was arriving with the pot truck, so the men sprang into action to secure the cache of weed. Ormond thought the whole time about Anson. He seemed to give a shit how Ormond felt. For a guy whose regular job was icing rebels, he definitely had a softer, feeling side.

  The next day, they paid a visit to Iceman Gustafson in Gila Bend. Anson had the feeling the cook house operation wasn’t Hellfire club business, that Iceman was running it on his own, so they met in a low budget truck stop on West Pima Street. Ormond had met Iceman on several occasions—if by “met,” you meant “had to ride fast in the opposite direction when you saw him coming.” He was a nasty young man with a face like a pissed-off ferret, pinched, constipated.

  Iceman stirred about three tablespoons of sugar into his coffee and barked, “Now what’s the fucking meaning behind this sit-down? Last time I saw you, we were running you off your own turf at the RV Park in Quartzsite.”

  Ormond narrowed his eyes at his enemy. He didn’t need to run from this colossal asswad anymore. Now he was armed. Now he had the muscle of men like Anson Dineyazzie backing him up. It was a learning curve, training himself to stand up for himself. “In case you didn’t hear, the situation has changed greatly since you used to try to give us royal flushes and interrupt our scheduled naptime. We’re organized now.”

  “So I heard.” Iceman sneered. “Started some kind of new gay club called the Twisted Pansies or something.”

  Ormond was about to respond, but Anson got up in the young white-haired guy’s face. “The Bent Zealots, and that’s a name you’re going to hear ringing in the street, dirtbag. It’s come to our attention that you’re running a cook house op in our backyard, down at Stumpy Meadows’ old ranch. We want you to cease and desist. That whole swath of the Colorado River was given to us by Papa Ewey when Lock Singer left The Assassins of Youth.”

  “Yeah. When he slunk away in shame because he was forced out of the closet by Stumpy Meadows.”

  “Yes, well,” said Ormond pointedly. “Stumpy Meadows isn’t here to tell that tale, now, is he?”

  His point seemed to be well-taken. Iceman shut the fuck up about that particular subject, moving back to the topic of turf. “You can’t just give someone a whole fucking Rez. I’ve got the cartel connections, the Injun connections, although from the looks of your red friend here, maybe you’ve got some gay boy cocksucking connections too.”

  Ormond was going to field that one too—he had to learn to fight his own battles—but Anson half-rose from the table. “Listen, you pin-headed albino. That entire section of river used to belong to the Assassins, from Yuma all the way north to Henderson. When Lock left in good standing, Papa Ewey carved it up and handed it to the Zealots. So yes, you can just hand someone a section of river.”

  Ormond added, “We just never stepped up to claim it until now. We were unaware you were operating in our backyard.”

  Iceman shifted in his chair, slinging one white arm alongside the back of it. His fingers diddled with the ostentatious bling around his neck, a gaudy fake gold gangsta chain. The pendant was a likeness of Jesus Malverde, patron saint of drug dealers. It was a little bit too on the nose for Ormond. A guy might as well wear a sandwich board that announced he was a meth cook.

  “Fuck off,” Iceman said simply. “I’ll just move the cook house. You can’t keep following me everywhere. I’m the one with the cartel connections. I’m valuable. They need me. I’ve come up with a recipe for Blue Angel meth that’s ninety-five percent pure. If you think you can get rid of me and just move in and use my connections, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  Ormond and Anson exchanged glances. Anson leveled his fierce eyes on the towheaded asshole. “You’re terrorizing those kids you’ve got cooking for you, paying them peanuts for the most thankless job in the world.”

  “I’m paying each one three thousand a month. That’s more than they make all year in food stamps.”

  “For working twenty-four seven under disgusting, hazardous conditions?” Anson asked. “I know how these ops go. We’ve got eyes on you. You also put those kids up to jacking our weed from our Rough and Ready dispensary.”

  As expected, Iceman put up his hands. “I don’t know nothing about any weed. If they did it, they did it on their own.”

  “We’ll give you until the end of next week to pack up your shit and leave.”

  It was Iceman who stood this time. “And I’ll just beef up security. You fairies don’t scare me. The day someone runs Iceman Gustafson off his own property and out of his own business is the day I keel over and take it up the ass.”

  “Have it your way.”

  Iceman appeared to be searching for a witty retort. He started leaving, lurching to one side, thought better of it, and came back to gulp the rest of his cold sugary coffee. But he still didn’t have any witty response, so this time he really did bolt out of the truck stop.

  Anson and Ormond looked at each other and sighed deeply.

  “That pretty much leaves us only one option,” said Ormond.

  “Really?” Anson said skeptically. “The way I see it, there are at least three.”

  Ormond sat
up straighter, interested. “I was thinking we blow up his cook house.”

  “That’s one of the options, yeah. I was thinking we could get some more Zealots in on the action, make a big, grand statement when everyone sees us riding together.”

  “Yes!” Ormond was excited. “We haven’t done anything like that since founding the club, and we need to make our presence known. What is the other option?”

  Anson’s face was placid, almost serene. “Bury Iceman.”

  Ormond vaguely knew what that term meant. “Bury, as in…”

  “As in ice the Iceman. That’d solve a bunch of different problems on a bunch of different levels. We need to boss up, Ormond. We can’t just expect to tell someone to take a walk, especially with absolutely no street cred to back us up. I pretty much expected Iceman’s reaction. What we need to do is figure out who is his crew boss. Who is running this op, who’s the kingpin in Culiacán? We need to eliminate Iceman as the middleman, deal directly with the Sinaloans.”

  Ormond had assumed that’s what would need to happen. But now it was a bit terrifying. He knew there was no going back from a partnership with the cartel. Lock and Turk had somehow taken out Carmine Rojas, the kingpin who used to traffic up and down the river between here and Mexico. That was the only street cred the Bent Zealots had, up until now. Now they’d need to step up to the plate.

  “I knew this would happen,” Ormond admitted, “but I just didn’t know it’d be so…”

  “So real? Yeah. Welcome to my fucking life. And I’m just doing this basically because I want Turk to tell me about my real father. They gave me some shit about being able to trust me better if I do a few errands for them.”

  “Turk knows your real father better than you do?”

  “Yeah. He was an officer in The Bare Bones MC out of Pure and Easy. I only met Riker once, when I was twelve. I thought I was the luckiest boy in the world, my father finally coming to take me out for the day. He took me out onto this mesa that we knew as sacred, so I figured he’d been teaching himself something of the Diné ways.”