Free Reads
Free reads are short stories, not excerpts, usually written for some kind of speed challenge. If they're characters from an existing novel it'll say so; otherwise they're original characters created specifically for that short story. Clicking on the title, below, will take you to that story on this page, or you can just scroll down and see what suits your fancy!
Numbers, Spencer Gets it Right: Keith! Come!, Leather, Fancy Shirts and Pearl Buttons
Numbers
Written Oct 20, 2010, in celebration of the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, and Lt. Choi's re-enlistment.The cards kept blurring out of focus. He blinked, staring at them, trying to notice what he held.
A pair, and useless additional cards of each color. His mind skittered off the cards before he could take in the numbers.
They swam in front of his eyes to the beat of his heart. His skin flushed under the sun. A drumroll hammered in his ears; thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. His mind was filled and blank, all at once. He'd been in battle, had survived gunfire and bombs.
"Drake?"
His head snapped up. Around the trunk they were using as a table, five pairs of eyes watched him.
He looked back down at his hand, at fingers wrapped around slim pieces of brightly painted, waxed cardboard. The numbers and images ran together. Sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades, catching in the indent of his spine and speeding up until it hit the waistband of his camos.
"Hey. You okay, man?"
He looked up again, catching Marshall's pale eyes in a windburned face. Blondes didn't do well, here. They burned and blistered under the desert sun. He glanced around, at more faces. They'd been in battle with him. Hauling his ass out of the way when he tripped, covering him as he went in, trusting him to cover them. Hot days of playing poker around a trunk, waiting for something to happen. That's all war was. Waiting and waiting and waiting before hell rained down.
Hell was about to rain down. Each breath was hotter than the last, lungs sucking in the parched air and expelling it again.
"Drake--"
Marshall's hand touched his arm, heavily callused, grip firm as if going to pull him upward if he didn't respond. No gentle shaking, here. He yanked away as if scalded, and the words came tumbling out. "I'm gay."
Marshall rocked back.
Four pairs of eyes stared at him, while Marshall's blues looked anywhere else.
Drake laughed, high and tight, without humor. He couldn't quite stop it. He dropped his cards. Stood. "I'm sorry." He didn't even know why he was apologizing. Don't Ask, Don't Tell had been lifted. They'd all heard it. They'd been briefed that if they were having problems they should talk to their squad leader, or maybe the pastor.
That didn't mean gays were welcome.
He stood, and turned, and walked away. He still couldn't breathe. The sun hammered down on him, uncaring who or what he was, just trying to leach the color from his skin in the same way it leached color from bones.
"Drake!" Three steps. A hand on his shoulder. He nearly flinched, wondering if now he'd get the shit kicked out of him. If they'd accuse him of looking, when sex was the farthest thing from his mind -- a long, long way behind survival. But the hand pulled him around, turned him until he looked at dark eyes under black brows, at dark skin pulled tight over high cheekbones. "Hey, man." Salas gave him a crooked smile, filled with uncertainty. "We were playing poker. You just gonna wander off? We got a game to finish."
Drake looked past him, at the men sitting around the trunk. Two pairs of eyes met his own, even if the others didn't quite make it. Drake took a breath. Another. Each came more easily than the last. The blood still pounded a drumroll into his ears, but he could hear other things around it, now. "Yeah," he said, the word barely making it past dry lips.
"Shit." Marshall drew the word out, 'Sheeee-it,' and threw his cards down. One man stood and walked away, throwing a glare behind him while the others sat, clearly uncomfortable.
Drake swallowed bile.
"Come on." Two words, so simply put. Salas gave him a tug, then tugged harder, refusing to take no for an answer.
"You can take Marshall's cards," Wallace said, though he still refused to meet Drake's eyes. "We saw your hand when you dropped it."
Shaking, Drake sat. He felt under fire, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely it wasn't this easy. His aching ears searched for noise, and he could hear voices, behind him. Marshall. "--fucking fag in our bunks--"
Salas rapped against the trunk. "Focus on the game, Drake. It's your turn."
He picked up Marshall's cards. They still swam front of him, as badly as his own had. He looked up. Marshall had raised his voice, but was clearly moving away. Around the trunk, three pairs of eyes looked at him, while one studied thin, waxed cardboard.
"Jesus," Wallace muttered, looking toward the pale blue sky as if asking for patience. Finally, he looked at Drake. "Would you please fucking go? So you're gay. Get on with it." Despite obvious unease, he gave Drake a glower. "You're holding up the game."
"Right," Drake murmured. Four pairs of eyes watched him, four men he'd bled and prayed with relaxing slowly in his presence. The cards came into focus at last, slowly.
Five cards. A royal flush.
Spencer Gets it Right: Keith! Come!
Written July 15, 2010. Given nine words (cheese, correction, leash, penguin, poison, sunset, command, molehill, crystal ball) to work into a story with the heroes from Off Trail, this was the result. Titled by Tanya, who won a free copy for her contribution!
Keith sat on a hill overlooking the lake, wiggling his bare toes in the grass. He propped his chin in one hand, fingers curling over his mouth to try and hide the laugh that wanted to escape. Below, Spencer cursed as he tried to untangle lines hooking each dog to the cart. The sunset cast him in red, splashing color over the dogs' glossy coats and stretching all their shadows long over the ground.
Finally, Spencer stood and walked back to the cart, hopping on and grabbing the wheel. It was a rudimentary thing, meant specifically for beginners. It was ugly and crude, but if it toppled it wouldn't be hurt. Bracing himself for a rough start, Spencer took a deep breath, muscles pressing against the thin material of his black A-line tank, and said, "Hike?"
Hughie lunged forward against his harness, yanking on Mason and Kara. Mason took two steps, but Kara looked from Spencer to Keith and back again, seemingly confused. The six month old puppy they'd tied to Kara but hadn't hooked to the cart -- she was much too young to pull, and some said too young to run -- flopped down in the grass and began to roll.
Keith took a deep breath to make sure he wasn't going to start laughing, then spoke through his fingers. "You're asking a question. You need to give a command. These aren't huskies -- they won't run for just anything."
Spencer frowned at the team. The puppy, Copper, pounced on a molehill, and dirt went flying. "Hike!" Spencer said, so loudly all three of the dogs jumped and looked at him.
Keith started laughing, reaching out to put a hand on Sam's furry shoulders. Even Sam had pushed up to a sitting position, alarmed at the tone Spencer had used. Sam gave one high-pitched bark, dark eyes sharp with excitement, but didn't otherwise move. They'd tuckered him out earlier, walking him around in his wheelchair.
"You know what?" Spencer said with disgust, letting go of the wheel. "I give up."
Keith knew he shouldn't. He knew it wasn't nice. He did it anyway. "Dogs! Come!"
All four heads whipped up to face him, and then the three dogs lunged up the little hill, the puppy scrambling to get to his feet and catch up. With a squawk, Spencer fell off the back of the open cart, landing on his ass. The cart banged and rattled as the dogs zipped to Keith, sliding to a halt at the last minute. Lines twisted and tangled as they swarmed around him, trying to each get the first lick in. He laughed and pushed them away.
Spencer was walking slowly after them, blue eyes sparkling with dangerous mischief. "That was mean."
Keith laughed harder, pushing at Copper as she began to play. "I know, I'm sorry, I just couldn't help it. You okay?"
Spencer bent, picking up one of the several leather leashes that they'd tossed in the grass before hooking up the dogs. He ran it through his strong hands, glancing from it to Keith and back again, a considering look on his face. "My ass hurts."
Keith flopped back onto the grass, laughing even harder.
"Aren't you always telling me that if a dog does something wrong, I shouldn't just let them do it?" The end of the leather leash brushed against his chest, dragging downward. "What sort of correction does knocking someone down deserve?"
Keith grinned and caught the leather, wrapping it around his hand and dragging Spencer slowly in. He grunted when Kara stepped on his leg, but kept tugging. Gradually, Spencer fell to one knee, smiling the whole while.
"I'm sure you can think of something," Keith murmured. He leaned up, brushing his mouth over Spencer's. Spencer tasted ever so slightly of sunscreen, warm air, and the indefinable flavor that was Spencer himself. It was addictive.
Lowering his head, Spencer slid his hand round the back of Keith's neck, supporting Keith and deepening the kiss. "You're distracting." Spencer's lips moved seductively against Keith's. "But I won't be distracted. I'll figure something out." Another kiss, on the corner of Keith's mouth. A flick of tongue, there and gone again. "I'll ask friends. Neighbors. My crystal ball."
Keith laughed, but was cut off by the hot slide of Spencer's tongue into his mouth.
The dogs went silent.
Keith yanked sideways, eyes flying open to see what was going on, nearly hitting Spencer's face with his own in the process. "Copper!" he snapped, catching sight of her as she gulped something down. "Spit it out!"
She looked innocent.
"Crap." He struggled to get out from under Spencer and the mess of dogs, whapping at them with his hands when they got excited and tried to help.
Spencer groaned and rolled away, onto his back in a parody of how Keith had been just moments before. Keith ignored him, grabbing the puppy by the scruff and dragging her closer. He pried her jaws open, mouth aimed toward the ground, and shook slightly as if he might be able to shake the morsel out.
"It's probably nothing," Spencer said from the grass.
"It's probably poison," Keith shot back. God knew people around here used bait, even when they weren't supposed to.
Spencer began to chuckle. "You said that the last time, too. What was it again?"
Keith peered into Copper's mouth, saw a lump of something disgusting, reached in, and took it out. He examined it, nose wrinkled. "I don't want to talk about it."
"It was cheese."
"I said I don't want to talk about it. Besides, too much cheese can make them puke." He let go of Copper, firmly said, "Leave it," and tossed the lump of food away. He looked back up at Spencer, eyes traveling greedily over Spencer's lean form. Shorts rode low on Spencer's hips, exposing the very edge of patterned boxers. Quickly, Keith unclipped each dog from the tug lines, leaving them in-harness, Copper still tied to Kara. "Go play."
The dogs all took off, barking and romping across the hillside, leaving him and Spencer gloriously alone. He crawled to Spencer, flattening his hand over Spencer's chest and letting it drift, feeling each hard ridge of muscle. He tugged at Spencer's shorts, undoing the button before dragging the fly down slowly.
He paused. "You have penguins on your boxers."
Spencer grinned, hands busy with one of the leather leashes. "Mm hm."
"This is a new level of bizarre, even for you."
"Hmm."
Supple leather dropped over his head, a loop tightening around his neck. He looked up in surprise, only to have Spencer shove him onto his back and take one of his wrists, wrapping the leash around it as well. Spencer grinned, lazy and seductive. "I got an idea. Turns out I didn't even need to consult my crystal ball."
Keith's eyebrows rose, but he didn't protest. He wasn't about to protest -- not when Spencer's mouth was easing down the side of his neck and Spencer's groin was grinding up against his own. He relaxed back down into the grass, happily pinned, and wondered how long it would be before it was totally dark. If this was Spencer's idea of a correction, Keith was going to happily bait him. Again and again.
Leather
Written April 12, 2010. Rick and Jay, from In the Rough
Rick leaned back against the bar, eyes skimming the crowd of bodies, lingering here and there to appreciate the male form. When he didn't see anyone who really struck his fancy, he finished his beer and stood, heading to the men's room.
One of the stalls had two sets of boots showing under the door, and unmistakable noises. He twitched a smile and went into the farthest empty stall he could find.
It was only moments before he finished and left, but he looked over the crowd again anyway. He didn't get to check out everyone before a body pressed up against him, a broad hand coming around to rest on his abdomen.
"Buy you a drink?"
He shifted against his admirer, feeling the bulge of a half hard cock and the easy slide of leather. If he grabbed and twisted, the body would fly right over his shoulder and crash into the ground, air knocked from its lungs.
Rick didn't grab and twist. "'Fraid I'm waiting for someone." Still, he could feel the muscular chest against his back. He pushed against it, felt the man's arm tighten. Not many people were taller than Rick, but this guy was.
"I think you've been stood up."
Rick considered the bar and his boyfriend, and then nodded. "I think you're right." In one quick move he whipped around, catching his admirer off guard and spinning them both into the bathroom. He pinned the man against the wall, grinding into him, running his hands down a mesh shirt that barely covered pale skin and onto black leather that hugged every shape and line of lean hips and hard thighs. "I could fuck you instead."
Jay grinned, blue eyes twinkling under red hair. "I'll do the fucking." He pushed; Rick pushed back, and for a moment feet scuffled and hand grabbed. Then Rick gave way, fumbling backward into the stall he'd just vacated.
"Only my boyfriend fucks me," he said, already undoing the leather fly. Christ, but he loved the way those pants looked on Jay -- and loved even more taking them off.
Jay's grin widened. "That's the idea."
Fancy Shirts and Pearl Buttons
Written April 12, 2010. Tim and Con, from By Degrees
Con's head flopped back on the pillow. He reached up to rub at curls of dark hair stuck to his temple, then slipped his hand down to rub over Tim's bare shoulder, feeling the contours of lean muscle.
One of Tim's long-fingered hands rose, brushing over Con's chest, sliding under the no-longer crisp white cotton of Con's dress shirt to brush across his nipple. Con twitched and wrapped his hand more firmly around Tim's shoulder, but it only seemed to prod Tim back into action. Pushing upward, Tim straddled Con's waist, looking down.
Con folded both his hands behind his head, letting his shirt fall farther open. Tim smiled; a ghost of a smile, the tiny one Con was so fond of that barely touched those thin lips. "So," Con said as Tim began to stroke him once more, buttoning up the shirt and then unbuttoning it again. Tim followed fingers with mouth, licking at every bit of bare skin that was exposed, deftly sliding pearl buttons in and then out again of the buttonholes.
Con closed his eyes. Already he was getting hard. "The shirt was a good one, then?"
Tim's only answer was to carefully slide another button free and flick his tongue over Con's breastbone.