6. Chapter Six
Sylvester
My back was better just about the time Joe had to head back to his job. We had one last evening, though, and I wasn’t going to waste it. Lying on my back still made sense as a safety precaution, but I’d never complain about watching Joe ride my dick, all long lean muscles and straining neck and that farmer’s tan that should’ve been ridiculous but instead turned me the hell on.
He ground down on me as my orgasm hit, clenching so his ass milked every drop of pleasure out of me. When I stopped gasping and clutching his thighs, he jerked himself off over my chest. Three long strokes of his fist and before I could offer to help, he shot spunk all up my neck and onto my lips. I swiped my tongue around, savoring the bitter-salt taste and the way Joe’s cock dribbled in aftershocks as his dilated gaze fixed on my mouth.
Joe’s breathing eased and he leaned forward to kiss me. “Good job, city slicker.”
“You did all the work, cowboy,”
He eased himself up and off, and grabbed a handful of tissues to clean us. I liked knowing he had my spunk up inside him. I’d showed him my test results the third time we hooked up. He just said, “Oh,” and I figured that was that, he wasn’t interested, but a week later he showed me his new ones from a Planned Parenthood over an hour away. “Cheap and safe,” he commented when I mentioned how far he’d gone.
I’d asked, “Are we being exclusive now?”
He’d said, “Better be, if you want me to take your cum.” Which yes, yes indeed, I did. We used condoms sometimes if he wanted easier cleanup, but not otherwise. I grinned at him as he wiped his mess off my neck, then curled himself in at my side.
“You’re sleeping here tonight, right?” I asked, unable to resist pressing a kiss to his hair.
“For sure. That couch is aiming to cripple me up worse’n you are.”
“We should put a spare bed back in one of the rooms, just in case.”
“Or you could not wreck up your spine again. That gets my vote.”
“Mine too.” I pulled the covers higher over us as my sweaty skin cooled.
I was drifting near sleep, and from the deeper louder breaths Joe was blowing in my ear, so was he, when a weird noise jolted me, a horse sounding like an off-key bugle. Joe bolted upright in the bed. “What the fuck?”
The odd neigh came again and Joe scrambled up, hunting for his jeans as I switched on the light. “If someone’s messing with the horses, I’m gonna kill them!”
“Wait for me!” I called futilely as he sprinted off toward the stairs.
I’d been wearing sweats so getting them on was fast, but I didn’t want to take a chance charging down the stairs, so I was thirty feet behind Joe when he burst out the kitchen door and across the yard. Over by the barn, flames lit a patch of grass at the base of the wall and licked up the fresh paint. A heavyset man sprinted away from the fire and tried to climb into the cab of a waiting pick-up. Joe caught up to him and grabbed him by the jacket, hauling him backward.
The man hit the gravel, and the pickup backed up twenty feet. For a second it sat there, engine revving, aimed our way. I shouted, “Joe! Look out for the truck!”
He was fighting with the other man, the two of them hauling on each other and punching, but he managed to swing the guy between him and the pickup. The truck backed farther, squealed in a tight gravel-spraying turn, and drove off toward the road, leaving the second man behind.
The new floodlights we’d put on the barn threw stark shadows, making it hard to see who Joe was beating. I was torn between the fire and the fight. Joe hauled back and landed a punch somewhere in his opponent’s face. The guy fell and scrabbled back on the dirt, reaching under his jacket. Joe kicked him, barefoot heel to the groin. When the man tipped backward, gasping, Joe leaped on him, fumbling at his jacket. A moment later, Joe came up with a gun.
“Shit!” I wanted to call 9-1-1 but had left my phone behind like a fool. Fire. Gun. Fuck!
“You can’t do this,” the guy on the ground said. “I’m an officer of the law. You’re in a shit-ton of trouble.”
Morse. The cop Morse. Oh, hell!
Joe turned to me and held out the gun. “You keep him here. I need to get a hose on that fire.”
“Get your phone and call emergency services!”
“After.” As soon as I had the pistol in my grip, Joe sprinted for the barn.
Morse moved as if he was getting up and I channeled all my fear and anger. “You move another inch and I will shoot you in the gut. I don’t like guns but my granddad taught me to shoot right here on this ranch you tried to burn.”
“I didn’t try—”
“Shut up!” I held the gun steady, aimed nicely on center of mass.
Joe dashed back around the corner of the barn, water arcing from a spraying hose in his hands. He reached the fire and aimed the spray at its base, dousing the flames, starting at the edges as if driving the fire back to its start. “There’s a fucking torch!” he called to me. Water hissed in the heat but the dancing flames of red and gold faded and shrank down. Joe kept at it, steady sweeps, high on the wall and lower along the base where dry weeds ignited in little puffs of yellow-white. With each pass, the flames lessened, shrank, died, until they turned to flickers of embers and then were gone.
Joe kept on soaking the area, long after the last of the fire seemed out. He expanded his sweeps, watering a wide swath of grass and gravel and the whole of the wall.
Morse tried to take advantage of my distraction, getting his feet under him, but I gestured with the gun muzzle. “I can aim lower. I hear getting shot in the balls really smarts.”
“You don’t have the guts.” He stood up, glaring at me.
“I grew up gay in the nineties. Try me.”
“Huh?”
“You think you’re the first bully to try to take what’s mine?” I fixed my hardest stare on him. “I’m on my land and standing my ground. Make my day.” I had no clue if Colorado even had stand-your-ground laws, but it sounded good.
“I’m a cop ! You can’t shoot me.”
Joe left the hose spilling water along the wall and came up beside me. “Where’s your uniform, then? Where’s your patrol car? Fuck you!” The note of fury in his voice made me rethink handing him the gun.
I said, “You’re faster than me, Joe. Run and get your phone and call 9-1-1.”
“You sure—?”
“Go,” I told Joe, before he could help Morse decide to doubt me. Because if push came to shove, I wasn’t sure I would shoot him.
Joe sprinted across the barnyard, took the porch steps in two bounds, and was gone only a moment before running back, phone in hand. “Yes,” he said into the phone. “Tried to burn our barn. I think I put it out but you’d better send the fire department too.”
“You should let me go,” Morse said. “Before my fellow officers get here and see you holding a gun on me.”
“And when they see you tried to burn a barn?” Joe snarled. “Folks don’t take kindly to that around here.”
“That wasn’t me.” Morse scoffed loudly. “I was trying to stop the guy. You let him get away.”
I managed not to glance up at where the new cameras sat unobtrusively under the eaves. “You can tell it to the sheriff.”
We stood there waiting. The smell of smoke hung thick in the air. Over in the pasture, Donner paced up and down the fence, not bugling anymore but making loud huffs and nickers, pawing at the ground. I shuddered, the chill of the November night seeping into my bare shoulders and naked feet on the gravel. Joe stood planted beside me, arms crossed in a way that emphasized his biceps lined in shades of tan, and glared at Morse.
“Joe,” I murmured. “Could you grab us coats and then settle Donner down a bit. I’m worried he might hurt himself.”
Joe shook himself as if coming back from a nightmare, then turned my way. “You okay to watch this guy?”
“My grandfather called me his little sharpshooter.” Not long before he called me the spawn of Satan and a whore’s nasty offspring, but hey, partial truth works. “I plugged a lot of cans off posts. I can hit a belly the size of Morse’s.”
“That’s my gun!” Morse complained.
“Mine now,” I said, partly to watch him fume.
Joe murmured against my ear, “Don’t provoke him. We don’t want anyone ending up dead and if he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”
I kissed his cheek, partly to wind Morse up. “Go get my coat, honey.”
As Joe hurried across the yard, Morse shouted after him, “You’re pussy-whipped, McNeil.”
Joe turned, walking backward, a big grin on his face. “That’s dick-whipped, you sorry son-of-a-bitch, and I love it.”
The next ten minutes were cold, boring, and uncomfortable, despite the parka and slippers Joe brought me. The first emergency vehicle that came screaming down the lane was the fire engine. The driver got out and edged toward us. “Uh, someone called?” He kept his big-eyed stare on Morse.
“Tell them I’m a cop,” Morse demanded. “They can’t do this.”
“You tried to burn our barn,” Joe snapped. “We sure as hell can.” He waved the firefighters over to the barn. “This bastard tried to set the place on fire. Can you make sure I got it all? Tap for the hose is around back.”
“Sure thing.” The firefighter backed away, probably glad to do something that was in their paygrade. He waved the other two out of the truck and they hurried over to the charred wall. The woman went into the barn with a big flashlight, presumably to check for spread on the inside.
A cop car arrived next, lights and sirens blaring. As they pulled up in the yard, headlights blinding me, I set the gun on the ground behind me and raised my hands. The door swung open and Deputy Lancaster got out, hiding behind the door panel, her gun aimed. “Everyone stay put. Hands where I can see them. All of you.”
Morse called, “Lancaster, it’s me. Come put the cuffs on McNeil for assaulting an officer.”
“Not till you put them on Morse for fuckin’ arson,” Joe yelled.
“Shut up. Morse, you keep your hands up too.” Lancaster didn’t budge. “Sheriff’s on his way.”
“Can we finish putting out this fire?” the firefighter asked.
“Sorry, sure, Mac. Just stay well clear of those others.”
For a few minutes, as the firefighters dragged their hose into the barn, I kept my hands up and tried to relax. My back was working its way into a spasm, I could tell. Finally, I had to say, “Officer Lancaster, I have a bad back and I need to put my hands lower.”
“Don’t listen to the fruitcake, he’s trying to snow you,” Morse growled.
Maybe Lancaster didn’t like insults either— no doubt Morse was a less-than-fun coworker for a woman. She said, “Okay, lower your hands but keep them out from your sides.”
“Yes, officer.” I almost groaned at the relief.
Another cop car came our way with more lights, more sirens. Donner whinnied his displeasure, pacing the fence. The man who got out looked about fifty, built like a tank, with that cop strut that said he was in control. “Deputy Lancaster, what’s going on?”
“I responded to the 9-1-1 call about arson and assault. Arrived to find Mr. Georgia-um there holding a gun on Deputy Morse. Joe McNeil was standing beside them. The fire brigade was engaged in putting out a burn over by the barn. I had Mr.… Sylvester put the gun on the ground and waited for you.”
“Got it. Secure the weapon in an evidence bag, Lancaster.” The new cop headed for me, as Lancaster edged around the outside of our little group, knelt, and collected Morse’s gun. “I’m Sheriff Breyer. You’re Sylvester Georgiadis? This here is your property, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Want to tell me what’s going on?”
Jumping in before I could reply, Morse said, “I caught some guy in a pick-up truck trying to set fire to that barn. Before I could stop him, Joe McNeil assaulted me and took my service weapon. The truck got away and they’ve held me prisoner. That’s kidnapping a police officer, sir.”
Breyer turned to me. “You got anything to say to that?”
“It’s a lie!” Joe broke out.
Breyer held up his hand. “Mr. Georgiadis?”
“It’s not all a lie,” I said, my mind racing. The more Morse incriminated himself, before he found out about the cameras, the better. “We were alerted in our beds by the horses getting excited. A dark-colored pickup truck was parked out here, with a man holding a flaming torch against the barn. Joe and I ran over to stop them and the man inside the truck drove away. Joe was able to stop the man with the torch from getting into the truck and escaping. Him.” I pointed at Morse.
“Boss, they got it wrong. I was trying to stop the arson. I’d have hauled the guy out of the truck and taken him prisoner, if McNeil hadn’t punched me in the performance of my duties.”
I could see Joe getting ready to explode and I tried to wave him down subtly. He glared but subsided.
I asked, “If you were stopping the guy in the truck, not helping him, how did you get here? Where’s your vehicle?”
Breyer said, “Good point. Where are your wheels, Morse?”
“I, um.” He glanced around. “I, uh, heard someone making plans to commit a crime and I climbed in the back of the pickup. I hitched a ride out here that way, planning to stop him.”
“Who was he?” Breyer asked.
“I didn’t see his face, just heard him. Before he drove off.”
“And where were you when this started?”
“Outside Max’s. In the parking lot of the queer bar. Heard one of them talking.” He gave a nasty grin.
I said, “Then the sheriff will find your vehicle in the parking lot at Max’s?”
The grin vanished, but after a second, he said, “My brother dropped me off.”
“Let me get this straight,” Breyer said. “Your brother dropped you off in the parking lot of Max’s half an hour before closing, in civvies? To do what?”
I told Morse, “If you wanted to get your dick sucked, you’ll have to go somewhere the men don’t know who you are.”
“Hush up,” Breyer told me. He turned back to Morse. “I repeat, what were you doing?”
“Surveillance. Lots of crime goes on there. You have no idea.”
“I didn’t order any surveillance of Max’s.”
“I was on my own time. Keeping the county safe for normal folks.”
Over by the barn, one of the firefighters called, “Hey, sheriff? There’s a spray can of paint over here. Not sure if the guy was trying to use it as accelerant or what.”
“Don’t touch it,” Breyer called. “We might get prints.”
I checked Morse’s hands— no gloves— and grinned.
“I might’ve handled that,” Morse said. “In trying to stop the perp from starting the fire.”
Joe scoffed. “I thought you told the sheriff you were trying to pull him out of the truck. That can’s nowhere near where the truck was.”
Morse took a step toward the sheriff. “Come on, sir, you know me. I’ve worked for you a long time. I hitched a ride out here in the pickup bed, tried to stop the perp, and when he got away from me, tried to keep him from reaching his vehicle. McNeil interfered with my duties and punched me more than once, while the perp got away. McNeil’s the one you should be arresting.”
Enough is enough. I pointed up toward the eaves. “Sheriff, what Officer Morse didn’t know is that between the last vandalism and this one, I installed not just more lights, but a very good camera surveillance system. The field of view covers the driveway and this whole area. You can look for yourself and see if Morse was in the back of that truck or the cab, and who held the torch.”
There wasn’t enough light to see if Morse’s color changed, but he pressed his lips shut.
“Morse?” the sheriff said. “Want to change your story?”
He shook his head.
Joe demanded, “Are you going to arrest him?”
“Not yet.”