“By the Hitman”
What am I doing? Bull thought, kissing the young soldier harder, deeper, so deep he could taste his own body on Chris Hendricks’ lips and tongue. The first load he’d dumped across the handsome soldier’s unshaved cheek restored the memory of the events that led him to this point.
Bull struggled with the images. He wanted to bury himself in the hot, male-smelling richness of the young man’s body, finding something like heaven in his armpits, toes, the heaviness of his full nuts, the thickness of his cock, and the tight, hairy asshole he had plundered like an invading army. Bull kissed Hendricks again, plunged his tongue to the back of the young soldier’s mouth, savoring the bittersweetness of the oral sex they’d shared earlier while slowing his thrusts up the other man’s fuck-trench. Hendricks had loosened some since the first time. Bull felt the old, slick spunk of his previous load as his rock-hard cock painted the service-hardened walls of the young soldier’s hole with fresh precome.
“Fuck, dude-!” Hendricks growled around Bull’s mouth. “You’re fuckin’ awesome!”
Clenching his teeth, Bull growled and shoved in all the way to the hilt. Hendricks squirmed beneath him. The young soldier’s hair-covered legs wrapped even tighter around his ass, sealing them together mouth to mouth, chest to chest, cock to ass.
Bull would have told him the same, though any confession like that would only crack the gap in his armor wider. He was an Army Ranger, not some queer who got off on fucking the cans of junior officers. Still, given everything he knew about the day and the young soldier pinned beneath his bone-hard cock, Bull couldn’t deny it himself.
I could love you, Hendricks: a voice in his head admitted. Truth is, you saved me today. Saved me from myself. Fuck, you’re pretty damned awesome yourself, dude:
But then, just as his cock neared its inevitable, second fuck-squirt, the third total he would dump in one end of Private Chris Hendricks’ perfect mass of muscles or the other, the young soldier did the unthinkable. He voiced what couldn’t be spoken of.
“I love you, Sarge -”
Bull rose up off the other man’s sweat-stained, hairy chest, balanced his weight on one arm, and to both their shock, he struck the twenty-two year old across the side of his painfully-handsome face.
“What-?” Hendricks gasped, pale blue eyes wide with disbelief.
Bull caught his own surprised expression in the young soldier’s irises. Joined now only by the pole Bull had plugged into Hendricks’ tight, slick asshole, they faced off. The sound of the cold March rain falling outside the motel room’s windows and the intermittent droning of a car as it passed down the highway turned the silence in the room to a choking haze.
“I-” Bull stuttered, still not understanding what it was he had done. The head of his cock, lodged in the young soldier’s can, went from itchy to painful, paralyzed in a channel of his own stale load. “Dude, I’m so sorry-!”
Hendricks’ hairy throat knotted under the influence of a heavy swallow. Saying nothing, he seemed to freeze beneath Bull, his handsome face and toned hundred and ninety-five pounds tensing.
Soon after, Bull felt it, the constricting and dilating suction on his cock. The pressure intensified, and a wet slurping sound broke between Hendricks’ legs. The young soldier, Bull realized, hadn’t merely tensed just for the sake of it; he had focused his energy on exercising the soldier-toughened muscles of his ass, and that ass was now working to pleasure Bull’s cock.
“You’re good,” Bull growled, a semblance of the respect he expected by his subordinates restored.
The young grunt grunted, “Yes, sir,” and opened his shithole wide, drawing Bull’s cock deeper inside him.
The clammy sweat that covered Sergeant Thomas John Bullen shifted back to the warmth he’d known before the incident. Bull shoved in, accommodating the young soldier’s efforts, and again his come-packed low-hangers skidded along Hendricks’ hairy ass cheeks.
Noticing the red welt on the side of the young man’s face, Bull leaned down and nuzzled his cheek against the twenty-two year old’s. After a few tentative pecks, they were kissing hungrily once more.
It’s true, I do, Bull thought, trying to ignore the voice in his head. I could love you, real fuckin’ easy, even though you’re only a few years older than my son. Any man would be proud to be your father, Chris. You’ve become a man, maybe one I could love beyond tonight:
“I’m glad I met you too,” Bull settled for instead, pushing in one last time. The room, already glowing slightly from neon signs visible through the slatted window blinds and the light of the muted television, erupted suddenly in a shower of stars. Bull moaned, howled, his voice rising to a shout of half-formed expletives. He was still coming up the young soldier’s asshole when something hot and wet flared across his stomach. Hendricks had come with him, blasting nut juice like a hail of bullets.
Face stained in beads of sweat, Bull collapsed onto the twenty-two year old. He held Hendricks tightly and reveled in the warmth of their bodies. They kissed again, and in those stolen minutes, Bull didn’t want to let go. The other man’s perspiration and the unrivaled feel of his sperm on Bull’s flat belly was so much kinder a finish to the day, which had begun dark, raw, seemingly hopeless.
Against his own wishes, as he hugged Hendricks in his arms, Bull remembered how it had all begun that morning, his first morning in the town of Seaside in over twenty years:
It was raining torrentially, a cold March downpour that soaked through Bull’s army jacket and seemed to make the gray landscape even gloomier. He wasn’t sure just what it was he’d been feeling as he stood before the granite headstone. The March rain had drowned Becky’s name, making the letters barely legible. The petals of flowers left long ago at the grave had also gone gray beneath the freshly melted snow.
Bull studied the date of death carved beneath the temporary waterfall the rain had created – November 2, 1999 – and wondered who’d made the effort to mail the letter Becky had written to him only a month and a half earlier.
The wind rose while he stood beside the grave deep in thought, a wind so strong it turned the rain horizontally against him. The muck of open sod underfoot had soaked the toes of his boots, but hadn’t yet worked through the well-made leather. Still, it was the one thing he was feeling that Bull could pinpoint, the cold. It had started in his toes and worked its way up the legs of his jeans, through his guts and chest, and had radiated out to arms, neck, fingers, face. The rain pouring off the bill of his baseball cap now stung at his eyes. Bull turned away, back to his Harley. It was time to go.
Shoving the ball cap into his coat pocket, he donned his helmet and angled the winding, narrow paths out of the remote cemetery. The roads, sloshing with melted snow and the result of the rainstorm, had mostly been abandoned at the outskirts of Seaside, Massachusetts. The town had changed much – hell, in the last twenty years, it had given rise to one of the baddest hockey teams in the Eastern Conference. Still, he remembered his way around. Twenty minutes and a lot of soul-searching later, he found himself on Pelham Street off Route 38, making his way toward what had been a red ranch house with white shutters back in 1979.
Heart beating rapidly, Bull counted off the familiar landmarks on his way to Number Eleven. The old barn on the corner of the field still stood, but the field itself had become a garrison house. Gone were the hedges of thick junipers and the stockade fence separating Becky’s place from its nearest neighbor. The house had been painted gray. Its shutters were now black. But it was the FOR SALE sign hammered into the soggy, brown sod of its front yard that was the most telling about the changes that had taken place in the old neighborhood.
Bull locked the Harley’s kickstand in place and dismounted. The rain had let up some, but not its chill. Peeling off his helmet, he approached the house’s front door. Each step felt like twenty, the seconds weighing with the sluggishness of hours. Finally, he reached the steps. At the kitchen window, Bull peered in. The house was a shell, empty of any sign of life.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood staring into the house. The carpets had been changed, probably more than a few times since he and Becky fucked bare-assed on them that summer when his life was forever changed. Everything except the layout of the rooms was different, too. Like ghosts, Bull imagined himself, then 19,and Becky as they moaned together from one room to the next, drunk on cheap beer. One of those fuck-fests had produced a son, Jason, a son Bull had run out of clues now on finding.
He’d gotten so involved in these thoughts he didn’t hear the other man’s approach until a cadence of sloppy footsteps though puddles sounded nearby. Bull spun around to see an older man – fifties, he guessed – marching up the drive.
“You here to see the house?” the man asked gruffly.
Bull shook his head. “No, old friend of the family that used to live here.”
“Rebecca?” the man said, drawing in a deep breath and extending his hand. “Yeah, real sad. I’m Dan Greenley – neighbor next door. Been looking after the place for the realtor since the family cleaned out of here late last year.”
Bull accepted the gesture and shook back, squeezing down hard enough to break the hands of lesser men. “Thomas Bullen. You said family – you know where from?”
“West Coast. Didn’t talk too much with them, though. Figured they needed some peace after their loss.”
Bull thought back to the letter. “West Coast? San Diego?”
The older man nodded. “Yup. Real good-looking young man with them, seemed to be taking things doubly hard. What a shame.”
“Jason,” Bull sighed under his breath. “Do you have any forwarding info – a phone number or address? I need to contact the family. See, I’m an old friend.”
“Naw,” Greenley sighed, swiping the rain off his face. “But the realtor would, since they’re handling the sale of the house.”
Bull glanced toward the FOR SALE sign, then darted back to his hog. “Thanks,” he called over his shoulder, a surge of warmth cracking the icy chill inside him.
The rain continued falling. Ten minutes later, Bull stood beneath the overhang of a pay phone, dialing the number he’d snagged from the realtor. On the third ring, a woman answered.
“Hello, Mattie?” Bull asked, his usually confident voice broken by uncertainty.
“Yes,” she replied. “Who is this?”
“It’s Thomas,” he said, forcing out the words. “Bull. An old friend of Becky’s.”