Thursday, June 18, 2020

Grove – A Curt Huntinghawk Story (Part 2 of a 5 Part Series), Post #121

Last week, Curt finally faced his longings for his very macho partner. But Grove’s a physical guy, quick to anger and quick to love. And Hawk can’t be sure which way the wind blows. So what’s he to do? Let’s see what Part two reveals to us. Oh, and by the way, there’s a real-life mystery going on at the same time Hawk’s fighting these unexpected feelings. A deadly mystery.

A Curt Huntinghawk Story

          Midday on Thursday, the truck radio squawked. “Hawk,” Amadeo said, sounding distant. “Sheriff Reed called. Found another body. Asked if he could borrow you’n Grove.”
          Hawk got directions to the site, and twenty minutes late, they spotted the sheriff and four of his men standing beside a patrol car. Reed was apparently impressed with their talents because he hadn’t let any of his own people near the body this time. He shook hands with them grimly and got right to business.
          “Blowed to hell like the last one. See what you boys can reconstruct for me, okay?”
          Hawk took the perimeter again while Grove slowly approached the body, carefully scanning the ground before putting down a booted foot. Thirty minutes later Hawk showed the lawmen where the bullet had been fired from and how the killer had approached the victim afterward. This time, it looked like a backpack was taken. Grove pointed out a small amount of white powder on the ground.
          Hawk summed it up. “Bullet went through the man and entered the pack. Shooter wiped out his tracks like before but didn’t notice he was trailing powder. Same vehicle, at least it’s the same tire. Got that little notch in it. Departed to the east to hook up with the highway, I’d guess.”
          One of the deputies held up a field test of the white substance. “It’s pure-ass cocaine, Sheriff.”
          The lawman swore. “That rips it…it’ll bring in the feds.”
          “We won’t tell them if you don’t,” Hawk volunteered.
          “Naw. I’ll play by the rulebook, but I’m gonna keep my hand in. Thanks, men.”
          After duty the next day, Grove wanted to hit the Blue Mesa so they stopped without even going home to clean up.
          There were times when Grove went to the bar to pick up women, and there were times he just wanted to drink. These tended to be more dangerous because he’d been known to pick a fight or two.
           A big white man with the look of a trucker got up from his table too fast or too drunk and backed right into theirs. Grove caught half a pitcher of beer right in his lap and came up like a shot.
          The man turned around. “Hey, man! Sorry! Shit, made a mess, didn’t I?”
          Hawk breathed easier. It might turn out all right.
          “I like you red-asses, so I didn’t do it on purpose. ‘Scuse hell outa me.”
          “What’d you call us?” Grove asked in his you-wanna-fight-you-got-it voice.
          “Sorry ‘bout that. Meant ta say redskins. There, that better?”
          Grove got right in the man’s face. “No, it’s not! I’m a hundred percent Native American of the Machik persuasion, not a fucking redskin.”
          Shit, ya don’t have to git snotty about it. Somebody oughta teach you some manners. I ‘pologized best I know how.”
          “Your mama didn’t teach you how very good.”
          “You leave my mama outa this.”
          “Don’t tell me you know who your mama is?”
          “Why you son of a bitch! I’m gonna give you a lesson!”
          Before the man could wind up, two bouncers ushered them outside. Others at the trucker’s table trooped along to watch but didn’t show much interest in backing him up. Nonetheless, Hawk stood at the ready, a little worried that Grove had miscalculated this time. The man had the look of a street fighter. Of course, so was Grove, but he was outweighed by forty pounds and outreached by several inches.
          The fight was long and brutal. The man could box, and it cost Grove dearly to get in close to put an end to it. Once the trucker was down, Hawk approached his friend gingerly. When Grove’s blood was up, he’d swing on anyone. But he was hurt this time and didn’t protest when Hawk loaded him in his Dodge and drove him to his rented house. He grimaced as he inspected his friend by the kitchen light. One eye would be black and blue in hours. Cut lip. Swollen nose. Hawk stripped Grove, dumped him in a tub of hot water, and left him to soak while he heated up some green chile stew.
           When he returned to the bathroom, Grove was exactly as he’d left him. With a sigh, Hawk picked up a washcloth and gingerly cleaned the dirt away. Grove lay with his closed, but he was conscious. Hawk picked up his friend’s bruised and torn hands and scrubbed grime from the knuckles. Grove grunted once. Before he realized it, Hawk was bathing Grove’s smooth chest, enjoying the feel of firm muscles. He’d actually taken a swipe across the belly when he caught himself and tossed the washcloth to his semi-comatose friend.
          Grove worked half-heartedly at cleaning his nether regions and allowed himself to be helped from the tub. Hawk dried his head and torso, barely able to keep from taking liberties. He handed over the towel and fled the bathroom, busying himself with preparing tortillas to go with the stew.
          “Shit, Hawk,” Grove complained a few minutes later. “Chile’s not the best thing to serve a guy with a split lip.”
          Hawk released his tension in a gust of laughter. “Taking on a truck driver with forty pounds on you’s not the best preparation for eating chile.”
          “Damn, man! Don’t make me laugh,” Grove said with a painful grin. “You expect me to stand for the man calling me a red ass?”
          Hawk suppressed a grin. “Have you looked at your ass lately?”
          “Oh, no! I’m not gonna play that game. You got me to admit I was a fucking Indian once, you’re not going to do it again. Sure picked on the wrong one, didn’t I?”
          “He did, too, bro. He did, too. You’re an amazing son-of-a-bitch, you know that?”
          “So they tell me. Now bring out the beer.”
          “You’re still flying. But okay, it’s your funeral.”
          Hawk poured Grove into bed around one o’clock and once again found himself undressing his comatose friend. He couldn’t resist stroking Grove’s chest, circling the aureoles with the tips of his fingers. When he found himself cupping his friend’s genitals, he turned and staggered out of the spare bedroom to masturbate.


Wow. Things are about to get out of hand. Masturbation? Hawk hasn’t done that in a long time. So the pressure’s getting to him. What happens next week?

As usual when I have a three-part or more story, I’ll post weekly until it’s ended. Then I’ll return to first and third Thursday of the week.

Tell your friends to order a copy of Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, It’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog:
Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:

And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.


New posts at 6:00 a.m. on each Thursday until the story is finished. Then we’ll return to first and third Thursday of the month..

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