By the time I cross the Sabine River into Texas, I’m happy to have Louisiana in my rearview. I’ve been looking forward to this leg of the trip, excited to check out Austin’s music scene and maybe go on a hike.
Having been delayed a few hours, though, it feels safer to stop in Houston for the night. Emboldened bywhatever that was in New Orleans, I set about finding a gay bar. I wonder if they’re all this loud.
A guy buys me a drink then follows me into the restroom. Something about him feels off, so I pull away from his advances, but he isn’t taking no for an answer.
“Stop being a tease,” he says, shoving me up against the wall.
I fight him hard, but he manages to pin my wrists above me and get my jeans unzipped. Cold terror races through my body and my heart begins to pound out of my chest.At least I’m not numb anymore.
In fact, I’m furious.
I manage to wrench an arm free and pull away enough to put my fist through his nose. The crunch is more satisfying than this morning’s blowjob. Right as he comes at me again, a guy a foot shorter and a decade older than me brandishes a pink pearl-handled gun. Dripping blood down his chin, the asshole decides I’m too much trouble and runs off.
Adrenaline pounding through my veins, I lock eyes with the shorter man as he holsters his gun. He gives me the slightest up-nod, and I pounce on him right there in the bathroom. Our hands and mouths are everywhere, and within seconds, he drops to his knees, yanking down my zipper, rough as he pulls out my dick.
“Fuck, you’ve got a pretty cock,” he says right before devouring me whole. Other men drift in and out around us. Some watch, but my whole world is the suctioning, wet cavern of his mouth. I spill quick and dirty, but it’s not enough.
“Oh, I know that look,” he says, his lips curling up in a dark smile. “You got a place close by?”
I nod, and he follows me out of the club and into an Uber to head back to my room. We’re on each other the second the door closes, and… holy shit, his cock hangs halfway down his thigh. I gag myself on him, loving how debauched this all feels, and he comes down my throat within minutes.
I grab him by his collar and push him toward the bed, flipping him on his belly so hard he bounces.
“Fuck.Yes,” he grits out, pushing his ass against my crotch. “Condom and lube in my back pocket. Fucking destroy my hole.”
I fish out the supplies from the tight material, then rip down his jeans and say a prayer of thanks to whoever manufactured the black silk jock he’s wearing. It perfectly frames his juicy ass and the sweet, pink hole he wants me to destroy.
I suit up and waste no time getting inside of him. Spurred on by his grunts and barked orders, it’s fast and violent, and I hammer into him until we’re both too fucked out to move. I vow to leave an extra tip to cover what we did to the duvet.
He leaves an hour later with a limp and my handprint around his neck.
As far as surreal experiences go, this one edges out New Orleans. But not by much.
The second he shuts the door, I crash hard and don’t wake until mid-morning. Eventually, I rise out of bed and stretch, wincing at the soreness in my hips and thighs. Still, I can’t help but smile. I feel lighter today than I did yesterday. Like things might actually work out for the best.
Examining the slight bruises around my wrists and the scrapes on my knuckles, I bite back another grin. I fought for myself last night, hard. And fuck, it feels good to be alive.
Terrifying if I think about it too much, but good.
Time to get back on the road.
Having had enough of I-10 playing merry hob with my sanity and my rusted-out Honda, I take Highway 290 to get from Houston to Austin. Somewhere around Brenham, my engine light goes on. That’s happened before, and my temperature gauge still looks good, so I ignore it.
Turns out, some warnings aren’t meant to be ignored.
Chapter2
Carter
My first stupid-human trick is that I can diagnose most car problems based on how they sound, especially if the engine is involved. On the rare occasion when I’ve been wrong on my first guess, my second guess is usually the winner. Stupid-human trick number two is that I can tell the make and model of any car by the sound of its engine.
This is why I know that a ’97 Honda Civic just threw a rod, and the owner of the car must’ve seen my sign because they’re currently coasting into my parking lot. I feel bad for whoever it is, but this repair alone is gonna pay for my lease this month. I step outside into the blazing sun and curse under my breath.
It’s a’98Honda Civic. Same engine, so it can be forgiven, but the muffler makes a slightly different sound, and my ears were too lazy to pick up on it. Better luck next time.
New question: old coot or college student? Because those are the only people driving a car like that. My money is on student, but the sun reflecting off the windshield makes it hard to see inside.
The door opens and, well, at least I’m one for two this morning. Out steps a guy who’s likely a couple of years younger than me, looking more angry and lost than I've ever seen a person look in my entire life. He’s got chocolate-brown hair streaked by the sun, and it's slightly out of control, blowing in the breeze. Awfully pretty. He’s wearing a plaid button-down with the sleeves rolled up, ratty jeans, and off-brand Vans. But there’s something about him that makes me think he and I share a persuasion.
