Chapter 8 #2
Tate pushed his bike back to the garage after riding really hard in a useless attempt to get Bryce out of his head.
His limbs ached, tired in a good way, and he hoped to just go get a shower and crawl into bed.
Once the trainer came, he'd dictate everything right down to when Tate could sleep and for how long.
He might even tell Tate what the hell to dream.
Until he got there, though, Tate would sleep when he wanted and hopefully, that would mean sleeping late.
“Hey, how's the bike running?” Brett asked, taking the machine from Tate's hands.
“Pretty good. I can't complain. Haven't broken it yet, but I'll keep trying.” Tate only half joked.
He did like to run bikes into the ground and was thankful for MSR for always replacing them quickly.
During the racing season, he had two race bikes at the rack at all times, plus a practice bike stored at whatever track he practiced at between races.
Tate tended to ride hard, although he had lightened up a bit since training with Davey.
He turned the bike over to Brett, fighting his urge to stay and talk.
He knew he was lonely, but he couldn't let that emptiness take control.
He needed to focus on riding and training.
That meant taking care of himself, too. Paying attention to his body's need to rest, he waved bye and got a quick wave in return, as Brett refocused on the bike.
He didn't really want to talk to Tate anyway.
There wasn't anything else to do but head for his bunk.
As he was punching in his code, another racer approached.
He hoped it was Bryce, but turned to see someone else.
Warren Tanner. He'd been coming to this camp for a long time.
He spent almost as much time in the chapel trying to convert everyone as he did on the track.
He was a big guy, bigger than most riders with broad shoulders, and too bulky to be a really good racer.
That was probably why he never made it to the pros.
He was about the same age as Tate, in his twenties.
Tate figured he kept coming to camp to hang on to something he'd never really had a shot at.
“Tate,” he said, his voice low. “I've seen you around mooning over that kid. You don't even bother to acknowledge anyone else.”
Tate figured this was the start of his conversion speech. “What are you talking about?” His door popped open, and he held it as if holding on to his last refuge in a world of conflict.
“You know what I mean. What's his name? Bryce?”
Tate narrowed his eyes, unsure of what Warren was getting at. “What about Bryce?”
Warren sneered, his wide nose scrunching up in his long face.
He wasn't bad looking. His brown hair leaned toward golden and his smile was usually broad and welcoming, but not at this moment.
His distaste warped his pink lips into a mask of disgust. “I know what you want.
I can give it to you. You don't have to go following him around like some lost puppy. I got what you need.” He grabbed his crotch and raised an eyebrow.
“Uh, I don't think so, Warren. You know, uh, I'm here to ride. Whatever you think you saw between me and Bryce, well, uh, you're wrong.” He took a step inside his room, pushing the door open just enough to get in.
Warren stepped closer, leaning in. He put his hands on Tate's shoulders and shoved him into the room, pushing the door closed behind them with his foot. Tate's heart pounded. This was new.
Warren stepped into Tate's space and breathed down into his face. He was just a little taller than Tate, but used the height difference to loom over him. “I know what I've seen. I know what I've heard. It's true isn't it?”
“What? What are you doing here?”
“I know you want it and I can give it to you.” He reached down and tugged at the fastener at his waist.
“What? Why?”
“Fuck! Shut up, Jordan. Get your pants down.” Warren's own pants dropped down to his thighs, and he shoved his jock strap down. His fat cock flopped out, half hard. Warren started stroking it with one hand and reaching for Tate with the other. “Come on.”
Tate stood there with his mouth hanging open. He didn't know what to say or do. Warren was big and suddenly demanding. He grabbed at Tate's shoulder and shoved him toward the bed.
“Pants. Now.” Warren grabbed Tate around the waist and pushed him hard, flinging him to the bed and yanking him up on his hands and knees.
He reached around and fumbled at the fastener of Tate’s pants, pulling the strap out with clumsy fingers.
He yanked and pulled and had Tate's pants and jock down to his knees in a quick minute.
Warren's dick rubbed up and down Tate's crack, and damned if his own cock didn't respond.
“I've got a condom,” Warren growled, moving away from Tate's body. Tate wanted that heat back. Wanted some kind of personal closeness, even if it was from Warren.
“Lube. You need lube.”
“Right.”
For a long drawn out second, Tate wasn't sure if that right had been agreement or sarcasm. He waited, confused.
“Uh, you have lube? Where?” Warren muttered. Tate twisted to the side and looked over his shoulder. He didn't know what Warren saw in his face, but Warren's face scrunched up like he'd bit into a lemon slice. “Dude. I'm not an asshole. This is me being nice. Damn.”
“I don't get you. This.”
Warren groaned and stomped into the bathroom. Tate could hear him rummaging through his things. “This?” he asked, finally coming back into the room.
Tate had no words, staring at Warren holding up a bottle of lube, his cock jutting up and wrapped in a condom, ready to go, like some twisted present for him. He nodded and turned around.
“This is good, Tate.” He squirted lube down Tate's crack and followed it with a blunt finger, pushing into his hole. “Look. Works for both of us. You want this and I'm horny. My girl is a thousand miles away. So...”
Tate didn't respond to his any port in a storm philosophy.
It did make Warren an asshole, but with his fingers in Tate's hole, jutting in and out and circling the rim in turns, Tate's brain stopped understanding any other language than what his own body was making.
His hips thrust forward. It had been too long and Tate was too lonely.
Then, Warren abruptly shoved his shoulders down onto the bed, and Warren 's hard cock breached his hole with a shove. “Damn! You are tight. And hot. Like an oven.”
Tate's face was smashed into the mattress. Warren had one hand between his shoulder blades, holding him down, the other was gripping his hip as he fucked Tate without mercy.
Tate tried to relax, but he hadn't been ready. He tried to shift his hips to get a better angle, but Warren was in command and not letting him move. “Hold still, damn it,” he growled out.
The mattress muffled Tate's cries, but he could feel the tears on his cheeks. It hurt and he couldn't relax. His erection softened. He hoped the brute would accidentally brush against his prostate, but Warren's cock didn't seem long enough. Thick, yes, but squat like the rest of him.
Finally, Warren called out, a grunt and a “Fuck!” and then he pulled out, leaving Tate on the mattress empty. He shuffled into the bathroom. Tate heard the toilet flush. “Thanks man. Catch you later.” The door opened and shut.
The silence hung in the room like an accusation.
A cold hole opened up in his chest. What had he just done?
The truth hit him hard and fast. Despite all of his confidence on the track and his perceived bravado, Tate knew damned well, that deep inside him, in a place he never let anyone see, hid an insecure kid that just wanted to be loved.
That kid, yeah, he’d do anything if he thought he’d be loved for just a few moments. ..
Tate curled up in a ball and sobbed.