markwildyr.com,
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.
*****
GROVE
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: markwildyr.com
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
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.
Mark
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..
No comments:
Post a Comment