St. Nacho's
ST. NACHO’S
Z. A. Maxfield
www.loose-id.com
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This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
St. Nacho’s
Z. A. Maxfield
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Loose Id LLC
870 Market St, Suite 1201
San Francisco CA 94102-2907
www.loose-id.com
Copyright © December 2008 by Z. A. Maxfield
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.
ISBN 978-1-59632-829-7
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader Printed in the United States of America
Editor: Barbara Marshall
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
Dedication
This one’s for my Mom and Dad. Adopted kids are a grab bag of someone else’s DNA; I don’t think I realized how much until my lit le t apples fell right off under the tree. Thanks for expecting the good, putting up with the bad, and loving me anyway!
Chapter One
I didn’t plan, when I originally stopped, to stay for any length of time in Santo Ignacio.
The tiny seaside town seemed a decent enough place to pull off the road and rest, so I rolled out my quilt on the sand next to the wall that butted up against the boardwalk and took a nap.
That no one rousted me, asked me what I was doing there, or gave me shit about transient this, homeless that, or vagrant whatever was the first clue I had that I might want to spend more than a somnolent hour there. When I rose it was dusk, and I had to pee so badly I took a chance and entered Nacho’s Bar on the boardwalk. It was a sleepy little dive with a kind of cantina vibe where men were already lounging on the patio in the balmy ocean breeze sipping Coronas. They kicked back in beach clothes, licking salt off bronzed hands and biting into limes before knocking back shots of Cuervo.
These were my people.
That I was no longer one of them briefly irritated me as I asked the bartender if I could use the bathroom. He jerked his head as if to say, “Go ahead,” even as he looked at me with a practiced eye. I probably presented an odd picture, dressed as I was in old jeans and an older motorcycle jacket with a club name emblazoned on the back. That had been a gift from a man who would no longer speak to me because I stole from him. I wouldn’t be welcome in that club anymore, and I couldn’t be too optimistic about my chances of being welcomed here.
The man stared at me, considering my piercings and the tat on my neck. I’d ridden hard all day and looked it, and I carried a battered violin case. Any one of those things made me appear odd in this place where everyone seemed healthy and laid-back, wearing fewer clothes than I, and I unconsciously tucked the instrument under my arm to make it less visible. As if.
2 Z. A. Maxfield
I looked like the bike rode me here.
I went and used the bathroom, trying to get the worst of the dirt off my face and hands.
It was actually an unexpected kindness, being allowed to use a bathroom in a bar when I hadn’t purchased anything. I carefully tidied up the sink before I left. I went to the bar and asked if I could get a cup of coffee. The bartender served me one in a white ceramic coffee cup with a saucer, like at a diner, giving me little plastic creamer pods and a couple of sugar packets.
“Passing through?” he asked, and I was transported to a thousand different bars, most of which I only half-remembered, but all the same.
“Yeah,” I said, setting my case down next to the stool. I was pulling my jacket off, making myself comfortable. I knew how to bar. “Nice here. I needed a rest.”
“This is a good place for it,” he said. He stared at me hard. “Notice anything unusual?”
“Nope,” I said, stirring my coffee. “Should I?” The bartender looked amused. He leaned over, elbows on the bar in a way I found provocative. He probably meant to shock me. “There aren’t many women here right now,” he said, waiting. “At all.”
“What’s your point?” I asked, knowing what it was. Really, I wasn’t that into labeling myself, nor did I really want to share. I could see where he was headed, and I thought he probably wanted to shock the biker boy, but I just didn’t have it in me at that moment.
“This is a gay bar, dude,” he said, his eyebrows disappearing into the fringe on his forehead. Fringe. I got that from Neville, the Oxford bad boy who broke my nose the first time it was broken, after I’d been kicked out of Juilliard, but before I went home to my parents in disgrace. For an entire year, which would have been memorable if only I’d been sober enough to remember it, I’d lived in New York. There I sampled a sordid assortment of what I thought were sophisticated pleasures, including a month as the darling of the trust-fund set, followed by a fascination with BDSM clubs, a brief time as the pet of a motorcycle gang, and homelessness. It wasn’t likely that anyone in this place could shock me.
“Dude,” I said, and I’m sorry to say I sort of mocked him, even though he’d been nothing but kind. I was tired. Shit happens. I looked around at the mellow crowd. “I could suck any one of these guys through fifty feet of irrigation pipe, but as it happens, today I’m not looking for love.”
He tipped his head back and laughed, and I could see a smart-looking hickey under his jaw on the right. “Coffee’s two bucks, refills on the house,” he replied. He left to help some other patrons, but I felt a shift in the force of the room, as though, having made him laugh, the tension eased and life could return to normal. I shoved the rest of my creamer and sugar into my pocket and, taking my coffee with me, made for a corner of the patio where I figured I could smoke, and tried to remember if I knew what normal was.
St. Nacho’s
3
The patio was enclosed by tall Plexiglas walls and heated by those large propane outdoor furnaces. It was so pleasant out there that I had an intense emotional moment of the kind that come over me now and then when I least expect it, and I turned my head away from the other patrons to hide it. I lit my cigarette with a shaking Zippo lighter I’d nicked off some guy in San Diego last month and figured that was another damn thing I had to make amends for. Shit. List was already a thousand fucking miles long and I couldn’t go two days without adding to it.
I remembered I picked up his lighter when we went out behind the tiny restaurant to get busy. It was on the table and I thought I’d want to smoke after, to shut my mouth over the things I wouldn’t want to say. When it was over, he tied the condom off and threw it in my face, and I sort of reacted to that with a little more force than strictly necessary. I had to get the hell out of Dodge before the manager came out and called the cops on us both.
Gotta love romance. I don’t mind taking it up the ass against an alley wall, but nobody needs to disrespect me.
I angled my chair so I could smoke, drink my coffee, and pretend I was alone on the beach except for the occasional person strolling on the boardwalk. I don’t know how long I sat there. It was full dark before I realized it, and the ashtray I’d snagged was half full when the most beautiful hand I’d ever seen brought a coffeepot to hover over my cup, the long, elegant, and beautifully tapered fingers accented by a number of silver rings. I stared, fascinated by the relaxed and easy grip of that large hand, until I realized its owner was probably waiting to see if I wanted a refill. I looked up into a young man’s face that was dazzling in its vitality. I nodded jerkily, recalling myself to the moment, and lowering my eyes under frank golden brown ones I would describe later as invasive, I watched that lovely boy fill my cup. For a moment, I almost saw the world in color. Almost.
At about ten o’clock I’d had as much coffee as a man could drink and also a plate of really first-rate nachos, for which the bar was famous, so I stopped by the bar to drop off my cup as a gesture of goodwill and asked if there was somewhere cheap in Santo Ignacio I could stay for the night. I did have some cash, not a lot, but I’d been longing for a bed and a shower for three days.
“If you don’t mind the noise,” said the bartender, “there’s a studio upstairs. I used to live there when I first bought the place, but I moved in with my partner, and now I use it for storage more than anything. There’s nothing up there but a bed and a bathroom and some file boxes.” He considered me carefully. “You look like trouble slowing down.” I lowered my eyes again. It seemed I’d become the submissive’s submissive. I didn’t know what the hell I was besides three days tired and dirty. “I’d appreciate that for tonight. I could pay, work, or shag it off.” No harm in being up front. He leaned over the bar again and put his head on his hand, resting it there.
“You’ve got nothing I need,” he said, almost on a sigh. “Just trying to help.” He held out a hand. “Jim.”
4 Z. A. Maxfield
“Thanks.” I took it and gave it a manly shake. “Cooper. Sorry if I didn’t sound…”
“It’s all right, Cooper. Pleased to meet you. Don’t try to come down here and drink after closing. The place has an alarm and cameras.”
“I don’t drink,” I said. I don’t…period. Never would again. He looked at me with eyes that said he’d heard it all. Not from me. I don’t drink. I’d fucking kill myself first.
I picked up my violin and headed to my bike for my duffel. When I came back I mounted the stairs Jim had pointed out. They were in the corner of the bar at the beginning of a long hallway where the beautiful coffee boy with the amber eyes watched me in silence.
I walked up the wooden planks as quietly as I could and entered what was almost a closet it was so tiny. It had a lock, and when I tried the hot water, it came out hot. Bliss. I was asleep long before the cantina downstairs closed and it was midafternoon the next day before I even stirred again.
If I had a higher power…when I had one…it was Hypnos, god of sleep, about half the time, and Thanatos his twin, god of peaceful death, the other half.
Fucking Greeks knew how to live.
* * * * *
When I got up, I just pulled on the jeans I’d worn the night before. Out of necessity, I only had a small bag with me, containing just a couple pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, socks, and, like, two pairs of underwear as a kind of homage to my mother. I wanted to check my bike, and I was tripping down the stairs and out the door before I effectively registered that anyone was in the bar. When I looked, Jim, his staff, and an odd assortment of others --
about eight people altogether -- sat at pulled-together tables, eating family-style from dishes of what looked like rice, beans, carnitas, and tortillas. It didn’t look like the bar was open yet.