Quillon's Covert

QUILLON’S COVERT

JOSEPH LANCE TONLET

LOUIS STEVENS

CONTENT NOTIFICATION / DISCLAIMER

This book is a work of fiction that contains explicit erotic content between consenting adult (over the age of 18) men, and it is intended for mature readers. The acts may be immoral, illegal, and/or unsafe. The authors utilize these acts for dramatic purposes. Readers should not deem the acts contained within as moral, legal, and/or safe. Do not read this if it’s not legal for you. All characters, locations, and events are works of fiction. Resemblance to actual people, places, and/or events is purely coincidental.

DEDICATIONS

To all of the brave authors and readers out there, inspired by passion,

and unwilling to conform to someone else’s
standards
, this is for you!

Peace,
JLT

To Kol Anderson, your magnanimous sprit, strength,

and perseverance inspires me every day.

Thank you for changing me for the better.

Louis Stevens
 

To our brilliant editor, Jack, the care you showed

Martin and Marty (and their story) touched our hearts

in a way we’ll never be able to fully express.

You have our most sincere appreciation.

J and L

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Preston Hultz:
PJ is an amazing graphic designer. Need a flyer for your organization or group?
A print ad? A photo retouched? A book cover or social media banners? He’s your man. Find his website and portfolio here:
http://www.prestonhultz.com

The Most Awesome Beta Team Ever

We honestly couldn’t do it without y’all. You have our deepest gratitude!

Jen Boltz

Bey Deckard

Amanda Eisenthal

John Gothro

Preston Hultz

Tony Williamson

Ann Wright

Chapter 1 – Still a Kid

Martin / 34

“No…you know how he is whenever he’s in the truck…he’s been asleep since we hit the interstate,” Martin said and smiled into the phone. “I’m about to hit the dead zone. I’ll call you as soon as we’re back down the mountain. I love you, Allie…”

Martin didn’t hear his wife’s reply before their cell connection dropped. He tossed the phone into the center console of the truck, adjusted his ever present, backwards baseball cap, and bid good-bye not only to his lovely wife but also to civilization for two weeks.

He and his son, Martin Junior, or Marty as the family called him, had been making the annual boys’ trip up to the cabin ever since Martin felt comfortable caring for Marty on his own. Well, to be more precise, ever since Allie felt comfortable with Martin’s parenting skills and allowed him to take Marty off alone. The boy was fourteen now, and it was only their third year making the trip.

He glanced over at his son, sprawled out in the passenger seat, a small scrape from baseball practice temporarily marring the otherwise serene face, and his heart swelled. It wasn’t that he was a bad parent, or that anything had ever happened to cause doubt in Allie’s mind about his ability, but Marty was the only child they’d ever have. That, combined with the boy’s choking scare when he was a preschooler, made them both understandably overprotective at times.

Martin failed to resist another sweep of his sleeping son and couldn’t help but remember that fright-filled drive to the hospital.

“Is he breathing?” Allie asked.

“He’ll be fine, just get us to the hospital.”

Martin wiped a hand over his son’s sweaty forehead. He could tell Marty was attempting to be brave, but the tears finally fell from his frightened eyes and rolled off his face into his hairline. Those didn’t concern Martin nearly as much as the blood seeping from the corner of Marty’s lips.

“I just took my eyes off him for a minute.”

Martin didn’t reply to Allie. Instead, he just kept rubbing Marty’s hair out of his face and tried to offer a reassuring smile.

“We’re almost there, son, almost. Just keep your eyes on me and breathe slowly, okay?”

“D?”

“Yep, right here, Buddy.”

When Marty had first begun talking, he hadn’t been able to say
dad
, so he’d shortened it and called Martin
D
. What started out as a toddler’s speech limitation had grown into a term of endearment, and years later he still used it.

The boy ended up requiring surgery to remove the lodged peppermint candy cane. The surgeon had done a phenomenal job at extracting the hook-shaped sweet and repairing the damage it left. Marty’s only permanent physical impairment was a slightly narrower-than-normal esophagus.

That was the physical damage, but the majority of the incident’s repercussions were psychological; Marty had a terrible fear of choking, and what had started out as a nickname for Martin—
D
—had turned into a sort of distress call in the hospital. As his son laid recuperating, he repeatedly called out
“D”
for Martin. All it took was Martin’s response of
“Yep, I’m here, Buddy”
to calm his son. But that request for reassurance had carried over long after his discharge. From then onward, anytime Marty became overly agitated or uncertain, he’d call out for Martin. He’d call out
D
. That, paired with the boy’s stutter, had Martin’s heart aching for the boy, especially whenever he was stressed.

Even though the action threatened to wake Marty, Martin couldn’t help but reach across and gently graze a thumb over the sleeping boy’s scraped cheek. Although the dark blond lashes fluttered slightly, Marty remained comfortably ensconced in a peaceful, worry-free slumber. And any worry-free time was a cherished thing for a teenager with a speech impediment. Life, and all its complications, all of its ugliness, would likely come rushing back the moment Marty woke. Not being able to offer his son 24/7 protection had always weighed heavily on him. From nearly the time Marty had spoken his first words, Martin’s trips to the school had begun; more often than not, due to schoolyard bullying, and Marty’s unwillingness to back down from larger, stronger classmates. He admired his son’s fierce tenacity and brave spirit, but he understood it came at a price. Indeed, Marty, beginning at an age when he should have had no worries, was exposed to some of the most ugly aspects of human nature, mostly in the name of one Eddie Michaels and his ruthless band of pack animals. Therefore, since their first trip up to the cabin, and every year after, Martin strived to ensure Marty’s time in the mountains was filled with relaxation, and fun, and loads of affection; far away from the ridicule Martin knew his son stoically endured.

His phone dinged one last time, valiantly attempting to maintain a signal, with a text from Robert, his construction foreman, second in command, and best friend. He glanced down and saw one of the man’s characteristically brief texts.

Relax. Have fun. Don’t worry.

Martin trusted Robert to run Quillon Designs, his architectural landscaping business, even if it was only for two weeks. A talented team of designers led the sixteen projects currently underway, and the one project he personally took on a month, to keep his hands dirty, had just completed. No, things were in capable hands and he’d be able to relax without the stress of keeping a successful business operational. But there wasn’t a time when his friend’s use of the phrase
Don’t worry
didn’t bring back the memory of walking into the construction trailer to find Robert, work jeans around his ankles, banging a secretary intern across the desk, and later telling Martin, “Don’t worry, she’s not gonna make trouble, boss…it’s all good…she liked it.”

He shook his head and grinned at both his foreman’s laid-back view of life and the crazy memory of the delightful sounds that had emanated from the intern. He cut a glance at Marty before shifting the growing bulge in his shorts. Admittedly, the most difficult part—hell, the only thing he missed—while on these trips was being away from Allie, and their very satisfying sex life. But that was a tiny price to pay for spending uninterrupted quality time with his son. The one person he’d always choose to be with above anyone else.

After stealing another glance from the road, his eyes landed on Marty again. The bridge of his nose and smaller stature left no doubt the boy was Allie’s, but the rest of his features reminded Martin so much of his own father. The still forming jaw would be distinct and strong like his dad’s; the always curious but simultaneously kind, blue-gray eyes were definitely his father’s; and the small nodule sitting atop the shell of his left ear, which every male in his family carried, was trademark Quillon lineage.

Turning off the highway, and then heading east toward the mountain, Martin checked the volume on the CD player before flipping on the classic Maroon 5 album,
Songs About Jane
. Marty stirred briefly as “Harder to Breathe” began playing, and Martin wondered if he’d get to enjoy his son’s company before they arrived at the cabin. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when the boy’s dark sandy curls once again pressed into the seat’s headrest.

Music had always been a part of the drive, even as far back as he and his father’s trips up here. They’d listen to an AM radio station, one of the few they could get tuned in, and the truck’s beat-up cab would be filled with the twang of Johnny Cash, or Merle Haggard, or Waylon Jennings. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought that Marty came by his love of country music quite naturally.

While Matchbox Twenty’s “Hang” closed out the album
Yourself or Someone Like You
, Martin turned the truck onto the winding lane that began their property, and marveled at how in little more than the span of three CDs, they’d left the city behind and entered the tranquil solitude of their land. He pulled up to the closed gate, with the oak sign his grandfather had carved still hanging above it, announcing Quillon’s Covert, and had no more than put the truck in park when Marty stirred to life.

“Hey there, Sport. Nice nap?”

Marty turned his eyes toward his dad. “M-m-musta,” he started but then fell silent as Martin reached over and laid his index finger on his son’s lips.

Although Marty’s stutter had vastly improved, there were still times, like when he first woke up, that it returned in full force. Years ago, they’d discovered it was immediately stifled by Martin simply placing his finger to his son’s lips for a few seconds. The unassuming gesture had an instant calming effect and, once he removed the finger, Marty’s stutter was quelled. The action was so natural between them that they’d long ago stopped acknowledging it. It just was. If Martin allowed himself to dwell on it, every instance would kill him a little. Not because he was ashamed or embarrassed by it, but because of the near terror that still filled his son’s eyes every time it happened. Martin understood that distress all too well; he’d also stuttered all the way through his late teens. He understood the fear, intimately knew the taunting and teasing, and had experienced the dread of being called upon to speak in class. That’s why he instead chose to focus on the positive; his finger could remove that fear and return the ease to his son’s eyes, and he was eternally grateful for that gift. Martin’s only wish—barring the total disappearance of the stutter—was that he could be by his son’s side and offer Marty that comfort anytime, anywhere. But, much to his dismay, that wasn’t the way the world worked.

“Musta fallen asleep, huh?” Marty said with a yawn.

Martin’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Ya reckon?” Nodding toward the gate. “If you can manage to pry your skinny butt off the seat—”

“Hey! I’ve been workin’ out, Old Man,” Marty interrupted and threw open the door. “A few more years and—” The rest of his son’s witty retort was lost when the cab’s door closed a little too firmly.

Martin laughed and pulled the truck past the open gate and a sleepy, grinning Marty.

“I’ll have you know,” Martin started when Marty reseated himself and closed the door, “thirty-four is not old.”