Racing the Moon (4 page)

"I want a beer. I'd best go with a soda." Damn. They were almost being civil. Must be the drugs.

"'Kay." Two Cokes came out, along with a big assed bunch of grapes in a froufy little bowl. Damn. The boy must be fucking the real estate lady. No one got that kind of service.

"Mind?" He grabbed a couple of grapes, knowing that some food would start settling his stomach.

"Go for it." MJ swiped the fucking remote and spread out on the floor, flipping until he hit a
 
news station. Then a roll of heavy-duty Ace wrap came out, along with this long piece of curved metal. "Okay, I'm going to wrap it up. It's going to fucking hurt. Don't scream."

"If I'm a good boy do you kiss it and make it better?" Fuck, it already had him sweating.

"No, if you're a good boy I'll give you a shot of morphine and let you sleep." A quick snip with the scissors and his sock was history.

Oh, that sounded good. Course he might wake up by himself, but oh, well. He'd get all the toys.
"Lemme have it."

"Let me get you bandaged up and then you can flash your ass for the needle." The tape was wrapped around, MJ surprisingly careful, not jostling his foot too much.

It looked pretty gross, but he'd hurt himself enough to know that while it would take a few weeks to be right again, it wasn't going to have to come off. Grinning at the thought, Sonny stared at the ceiling until MJ finished, his eyes only watering up once.

"You got good hands, Precious."

"They seem to work for me. Almost done, man. Just breathe and don't puke on me."

Oh, good time for that warning. All of that sweet, gentle lead up was just a prelude to the excruciating pain that came after, when MJ wrenched his foot into a ninety-degree angle with his leg. It was like the guy in prison who kissed you nice and tender before bending you over in the shower and ramming you without any lube.

He didn't scream, puke, or hit MJ. Hell, Sonny didn't even pass out. It was a near thing though.

"Okay. Okay, Sunshine. Come on. Breathe. I'm drawing a shot for you, yeah? Just fucking breathe." He was rolled to one side, jeans unbuttoned and tugged down.

"You just...want my ass..." He was panting, but he had to maintain his damned reputation, didn't he? Sonny clutched the couch cushions, feeling the shot start to relax him almost immediately. Morphine worked great on him. Too bad he'd wake up puking his guts out...

"You know it, man. It's a fine specimen. You can ride me tomorrow when you're sober." His jeans were tugged back up, cock tucked right in as he was zipped up.

He just shook his head, a ghost of a grin on his lips. "Fuckhead," he slurred, flopping a little as MJ got him all arranged on the couch.

"Yeah, yeah. Morphine make you sick, man? I got a patch. I don't want fucking puke on my carpet."

"Yeah. I...makes me. Gross." Whoa. Fuzzy tongue.

"'Kay. I'll patch you." Something sticky got pressed to the back of his neck. "Night, Little Mary Sunshine."

"Hold me, Precious." He laughed his way right into sleep, listening to MJ chuckle. The guy wasn't all bad.

For such an asshole.

***

Dude.

Note to self. Waking up after your reds crash on you? Harsh.

MJ blinked, looking around the room at all the equipment strewn everywhere. Man, he'd been busy.

Real busy.

He logged in, checked the date (man, he'd slept eighteen hours), his bank account ($15,000 happier), transferred funds around, and gave himself a thirty-day vacation.

Then he pulled up the weather reports for Maui, Aruba and Cozumel. Somewhere nice and sunny.

Oh.

Damn.

Sonny.

MJ got up and wandered out toward the front; hopefully he hadn't killed the man. This town was a bitch to hide a body in.

The guy was asleep on the couch. MJ could tell Sonny wasn't dead, or at least hadn't been a while ago, because he was naked, his jeans, boots and shirt strewn across the floor on the way to and from the bathroom. A little plastic-lined wicker trashcan and an empty Coke can sat next to the couch.

Jesus, the man was built like a brick shit house.

He'd take two, please.

Of course, dude, one fucked things up well enough, didn't he?

MJ spent a minute looking, long enough that his cock started to really take an interest, his fingers sliding over the soft-soft material of his shorts. Okay. Whoa. Just whoa.

Big, hurt, meth-lab running redneck.

Not a possible fuckbuddy.

Of course, the guy looked as banged up as he did, bruises blooming all over Sonny's skin, scratches on his arms and face lurid in the bright daylight.

"You gonna look all day, or are you gonna come help me unkink my back?"

"I was considering looking, then you woke up." He headed over, staring down at Sonny, enjoying being the tall one for once. "You need another shot, Sunshine?"

"No. I've seen enough of my insides, thanks." Sonny grabbed the waistband of MJ's shorts and used them to...well, to try to pull himself up, it looked like. Too bad the man was so stiff. Yep. Too darned bad.

He sort of just stared as the waistband stre-e-e-e-e-e-e-etched, just showing off all he had. "An
A
 
d what? Now you want to see what I have?"

"Why not? You've been ogling mine. And since I'm stuck here, I might as well." Sonny craned his neck, peering. "Nice."

He arched an eyebrow. Right. Better than nice. Hell, the ink around the base qualified for better than nice all by itself. "I didn't get your ass naked."

"I know. It was a slow, laborious process. Trust me." The man was still staring at him, licking his lips. Sonny had a fucking pretty mouth.

Uh. Okay. Hands off the shorts before he got a stiffy. Seriously. That would suck. And possibly put Sonny's eye out, as close as the man was leaning. "Okay, man. No drooling."

"Not drooling." Those eyes snapped up and met his as Sonny let go of his shorts. "Help me up."

"Say please." Oh. Ow. Elastic. Pubes. Ow.

"Oh, fuck you, man." Grimacing, Sonny pushed himself up, muscles rippling in his belly and chest, heavy cock sliding on his thigh.

"Careful." MJ reached to help, hand on the small of Sonny's back. His other hand caught the center of the man's chest, giving Sonny something to lean against.

"Thanks." Sweat popped up on Sonny's shaved head, going pale under Sonny's tan, but he held it together. Kind of like he had when Sonny had tried to bash his head in. Tit for tat.

"Yeah." This had to be the weirdest fucking situation. Honestly. Up until the whole naked-looking thing? Singapore was still at the top of the list, but now? Definitely number two.

It got even weirder when Sonny sorta...climbed him, grabbing on to various body parts and shimmying up to a standing position, swaying against him. "Spinny."

"Breathe, and don't tear any important body parts off. I need them."

"Oh, you'll definitely need them, Precious. I have plans for them." Oh, that son of a bitch, hardly able to stand without him and making cracks like that...

"Don't make me beat your tight little ass, man. You're not in any shape to go head-to-head with me right now." He kept holding on, reminding himself that his face was fucking black and blue and his throat looked like he was a leper.

"You got a point." That voice sounded blown, rough and gravelly. Must have had a bad night. "You help me to the bathroom so I don't have to crawl again? I'll even shut up about it for five whole minutes."

"You got a deal." They shuffle-slid to the little bathroom, MJ helping Sonny keep the weight off that foot. "You good, man? I'll go make coffee. Food. Something."

"I can take it from here." A deep bass rumble came from somewhere at belly level. "Food good."

"Yes, cave-redneck. Food good." He amused the fuck out of himself, really he did. "Maybe there's eggs."

"Maybe there's sausage." O ye hungry but hopeful. He left Sonny standing in the bathroom, batting stupidly long eyelashes at him.

MJ stopped in the bedroom and got jeans and a T-shirt on before he got to the kitchen. Burning dangly bits was never good, no matter what the freaks in the tattoo parlors said. He got coffee started and found sausage patties and biscuits in the freezer, eggs in the fridge.

Score.

He plopped the sausage and the biscuits in the microwave and grabbed a skillet to stir eggs in. See him. See him be domestic.

"God, that smells good." Hobbling out, Sonny looked down at his jeans, wrinkling his nose. "You got some sweats or something?"

"They'll be highwaters, but yeah. Gimme a second." He stirred the eggs a little and then went to find those old, thin sweats. They were long on him and would be tight on the man's ass. "So what's your plan, Sunshine? Where do you go from here?"

Taking the pants, Sonny shrugged, sitting on one of the little cane stools to put them on. "Wherever, I guess. Someplace where I can set up again."

"Good for you. World can never have enough of whatever illegal shit you're making." He rescued the eggs, plopped them down on two plates with the not-too-hard biscuits and sausage. He was going away, no question. Somewhere tropical.

"It wasn't a meth lab, you know. Kinda out of the way of the customers way out there, don'tcha think?" Leaning, Sonny snagged a plate, pulling it over and taking the cup of coffee he offered as well.

"How the hell would I know? That's outside my realm of expertise." Mmm. Cream. Sugar. Coffee. Good. Oh, he might live.

"Obviously. Lemme tell you, buddy. C-4 is a hell of a lot more dangerous than white lightning." The man could shovel down the food, no doubt about it.

"White lightning?" Some heroin thing or... Oh. Oh, wait. That was like, booze. "That's still illegal?"

"Hell, yes. The kind I make is, anyway. Pure grain, baby, and enough to give you hallucinations." He got a wide, feral grin. "Not to mention the whole not-taxed thing."

"And people like it?" Okay. So the logic there escaped him. Hallucinations tended to suck -- even those fucking peyote ones.

"Hey, I don't judge them. I just sell it to them. Or rather, to the guys who sell it to them. I'm in production and... goddamn it! My car."

"What car?" He hadn't seen any car around that shitty cabin. Making moonshine must not pay very well.

"Fuck. My car. The one I use for runs that need interference. Woody drives the truck, I drive the car. It's in Asheville. Fuck-a-duck." Sonny smacked the counter for emphasis.

Okay. Well, he felt enlightened now. Instead of asking again, he ate a bite of sausage, a bite of egg.

"It's got a hell of a lot less play in the back end than your 'stang, a lot more stable on the road. And she's fast. A '62 Starfire. I did the engine mods myself." Grinning, Sonny shoveled in the last of his egg and then poked his fork at MJ. "You'll have to drive me back up to get it."

"I will? Dude, I'm going to the beach. I'm on vacation. Getting on a boat and getting the hell out of town." He'd have to drive. Right. Asshole.

"Sounds good. I like the beach well enough."

"What?" Had he missed something?

"I'll just get Woody to put the old girl in storage. That way we don't have to backtrack. How do you feel about Hawaii?"

While he sat there, mouth hanging open, his food steadily disappeared into Sonny's. Mouth, that was.

"Hawaii's beautiful. It's the drive to San Francisco to get a ship that's a bitch." What the
hell
...

"A ship." That finally got him a look, Sonny's brows drawing together. "What the fuck? Why not a plane?"

"I don't do planes." He didn't do enclosed places. Period. No way. No how.

"Oh-oh. That little thing about. Yeah. But you know, you can look out the window." The very last piece of biscuit went whoosh.

"I'm aware they have windows." Not that it mattered. Man, he needed to pack the 'stang.

"So what's the big deal, Precious? Or, you know, you have enough drugs for me to knock you out for at least twelve hours."

Where exactly did he lose control of this conversation? MJ got up, poured himself another cup of coffee. "It's not a big deal. I don't fly. Simple as that. My jobs are spaced to accommodate."

"Nice work if you can get it." Sonny winked, managing to look devilish as hell with the bruises and scrapes. "You want some more? I think I can stand on one leg and cook this round."

"One-legged cooking? That's either a sport or a terrible idea looking for a redneck."

"What's being a redneck got to do with it? Look, you wanna take a shower? I'll make the second course." Those eyes were wide and butter wouldn't melt in that mouth. "Oh, hey, you got a passport?"

"Yes..." Of course he had a passport. Hell, he had five of them, just in case.

"With you?" Sonny asked, popping up off the stool and doing a decent job of one legging it around the tiny counter to the kitchen.

He found himself nodding before he stopped short. "Like that's anything to you. You couldn't pass as me."

Hell, a small-time moonshiner would be a fool to try to pass as him.

"Precious, I may make a pass
at
you, but I won't try to pass for you." That drawl got deeper, just plain infuriating.

"I can't begin to tell you how comforting that is." He stood, poured another cup. That shower sounded better and better.

Shower. Jack off. Get his head on straight. Pack the car.

"I know it. Amazing what you'll do when you think someone is out to get you." Sonny gave him a wink as he limped away, starting to whistle a jaunty little tune.

Bastard.

MJ grabbed himself a couple of towels and his ditty bag. Water.

Hot water.

Then he'd get himself out of this current mess and onto a nice, sandy beach.

Chapter Four

Sonny hummed to himself as he cooked up some sort of meat that the guy at the market had assured him was pork. He wasn't so sure, but he hadn't argued. As soon as he got it browned and got those weird banana things and the sauce in it, he'd go check on MJ.