Racing the Moon
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by B. A. Tortuga
Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Romance
Description: Sonny has a shipment to deliver. Moonshine, the old fashioned way. Too bad some jerk blew up his road in the Carolina mountains, keeping him stuck, high and unfortunately dry. MJ is on a mission, ridding the world of another environmental threat, shutting down a logging organization. Running into Sonny in the foggy woods throws a wrench in his plans. But it's when Sonny kidnaps him for an impromptu vacation that things go completely awry and get hot as hell between the sheets. Do these two have enough in common to prove they can give the moon a run for its money?
eBook Publisher: Torquere Press/Top Shelf, 2006 http://www.torquerepress.com
eBookwise Release Date: May 2006
171 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [201 KB]
Reading time: 135-189 min.
Man, people said the city was foggy. San Francisco didn't have shit on this. MJ was pretty sure that by the time the sun burned all this away, he was going to be a big mass of bruises.
He'd managed to deliver his packages to the Greater N.C. Logging equipment sheds before the fog rolled in, then headed out on foot. That was the problem with using a Jeep to hold a metric fuckton of C-4. The damned things just never handled right after.
MJ grinned and checked his compass. A couple more miles on foot in this up-and-down, full-of-brush bullshit that he was trying to save and he'd reach the little convertible waiting to take him to Wilmington for a couple of days R&R before his next gig. Fucking cool.
He tripped over another fucking root, catching himself on a tree and scraping the living fuck out of his palm. Well, it would be cool in two hours when he could fucking see.
Of course, he didn't have to see to know what the sound coming from behind him was. The sound of a round clacking into place was unmistakable.
He went still, sliding one hand back where the little .38 was resting at the small of his back. No way it was the loggers. They hadn't even seen the damage yet.
"Don't even think about it, buddy. Just take the piece out nice and easy and put it on the ground." The voice was about as rough as the rifle, like water over gravel. It came from just above and to the right, telling him the guy was maybe an inch or two taller than him and banking on him being right handed.
Well, that was one lucky break. Go him.
"I don't have anything to steal, man. I'm just hiking."
"Hiking at the crack of dawn in the worst fog we've had in near a year?" Okay, there was no way that voice was local, either, at least not originally. It came from the Deep South. As opposed to hillbilly south. Because, obviously, someone like him would know the difference. Christ. "I don't think so. I know you've got a gun. Get the damned thing out and put it down."
He held up his right hand, taking a half turn toward the voice. "I haven't got any beef with you, man. I'm just passing through."
Fuck, he didn't want to start playing Shoot the Local.
A twig cracked, the sound moving to his left. Fuck, the guy was onto him. Maybe the guy wasn't a stupid yokel. "I have a beef with you. Take out the fucking gun or I'll blow your goddamned head off and leave you for the possums and the foxes."
"Fine. Fine. Keep your dick in your pants." He growled. He liked that piece. Of course, he liked his head attached to his body more. Fucker. He slipped the pistol out, kneeling down to set it on the ground, the knife strapped to his calf a comfort.
"Now up, and your hands on the back of your neck." As soon as he complied, the barrel of the rimfire pressed against his folded hands, holding them in place. "What the fuck are you doing out here?"
"I told you, asshole. I'm hiking. Trying to get back to my fucking car so I can visit the beach." If he grabbed the barrel and tugged, he might get the rifle free, but if he didn't, he was deeply screwed. "What? Did I piss on your favorite tree?"
"No. Take three steps to your right." The barrel prodded, so hard that if he moved his hands the guy would know in a split second.
He swore, if he fucking died in fucking North Carolina...
He moved, snarling low, just itching to turn around and look at the man.
"I got a hair trigger, so watch it. Now move. Forward. And watch the rocks. Wouldn't want you to slip and fall backward, would we?" If he guy poked him again, he was going to explode.
"You watch your own footing and I'll worry about mine." God damn it.
"Just keep walking, buddy. We'll sort this out, but on my terms." He kept on going, because he didn't have a choice, but he was about to do something pretty stupid when he practically stumbled right into a cabin wall of split logs so fresh they still oozed sap.
He moved his hands without even thinking, going to catch himself on the wall. This was motherfucking Deliverance.
"Now, there's a door on your left. Watch your step going in. Low clearance." The gun backed off, just enough.
Rule number one. Being stuck inside sucked. Rule number two. Being stuck inside with a crazy hillbilly sucked harder.