Page 4 of Shifting Years (Whispering Hills #5)

The spring air was thick with the sounds and smells of a new city and hopefully an adventure as I hopped off the truck's tailgate and thanked the driver.

Brick buildings rose tall and grey, adorned with metal ladders and rusted balconies.

Some store signs read English, while others were in unknown languages.

My nose wrinkled at the distinct scent of sewer water and various other foods like those in Los Angeles. It was familiar, yet different, like a recipe made by someone else.

I pulled a weathered copy of Jack Kerouac's On the Road from my backpack and held it tight for inspiration.

Jack went out and lived life like I was going to do.

I didn't have a specific destination in mind, and I suppose that's okay.

Traveling across America by hitchhiking is still exploring, but it feels like I'm supposed to be somewhere.

But where?

Wanderlust called me toward New York, but that was just common sense. Hard to go west from California without a boat.

I wished I had taken that guy's offer in Arizona.

Acid to open my mind would've pointed me in the right direction and answered my questions.

I closed my eyes and held my hands out like an Indian yogi.

If you want a destination, make one. I opened my eyes, unsure if the thought was mine or from an unknown astral guide. Still, the message was clear.

There were places for people like me. Going to a gay bar in LA wasn't an option. The thought of being arrested and sent home to my mother and uncle was too risky. I crossed the country on my own, so what could stop me?

Well, cops, but I'll run if they do a bust.

Jack's On the Road talked about Beatnik communities but didn't mention other places. A guide or symbol would be so handy.

With no more universal guidance, I headed to the city's roughest part.

There couldn't be an upscale gay bar, so it had to be in the poorer area.

Several smelly blocks later, I stood where garbage wasn't collected, colorful graffiti had painted concrete and brick walls, and the windows stayed dirty and broken.

No cars drove, and I scanned my surroundings, desperate for a connection or clue.

One boarded-up building with covered windows had a muscled, mustached guy dressed in a red and black plaid shirt and jeans step out. He hung at the door like a runner before a sprint, then looked from side to side. Soon, he rushed off with his head down.

My hand went out, hoping for an ESP tingle, but nothing came. Guess gay radar's a lie. It's got to be one.

I approached the door and knocked. My cheeks burned when I realized I should have just walked in.

It opened with a creak, and a tall, scowling man with a shaved head and a tight t-shirt looked out, then down. "Yeah?" he said with a New York accent. Behind him, soft dance music played from the darkened interior. My guess was The Beatles.

"Help you, kid?" he said.

"I want a drink?"

He had a booming laugh. "You sure? Is that a question?" After staring at me for several uncomfortable seconds, he spoke. "Eighteen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sir? Ha!"

Heat flashed over my cheeks again, and I pulled my wallet from my back pocket.

He held out the license with a younger photo showing dark-brown hair and thick eyebrows. He made a show of comparing it against me, narrowing his green eyes, then shrugged. "Welcome to The City , Cali boy."

He stepped aside, inviting me into a dimly lit and smoky bar, alive with activity and filled with men, I was sure . I made my way in deeper, taking in the leather and alcohol scent, mixed with heavy male musk. It alone could make me drunk.

Guys pressed against each other with no shame, and I smiled at the freedom and acceptance.

My chest tingled with excitement. This is where I belong.

My gaze lingered on a Black bodybuilder-looking man kissing a slender White guy.

Lyndon Johnson outlawed segregation five years ago, but there were still places where it was 'understood' not to mix.

And they don't care. It's wonderful!

A deep feminine cough grabbed my attention. The bartender wasn't male, but an older, thick lady with short hair.

"You're a woman!"

She burst out laughing and clapped her hands as if I had answered a hard question.

"Sorry, I thought—"

"—there would be only men here, Darlin'?"

I nodded while my cheeks grew hot yet again.

"First time?" After a whispered yes, she continued. "Let me make it easy for you, and in return, you help a lady out." With quick motions, she sliced a lime, cleaned a mint sprig, and then poured bourbon and sugary syrup over a few large ice cubes.

"Don't get used to this." Her smirk reminded me of my mother. "This place is for people who want to get drunk and screw." She shrugged. "If that's what you're into, fine… but you seem different."

I took a sip, and the minty sugar masked the bourbon. She leaned in. "You like it, don't you?"

"Yeah. I never had this before. How'd you know?"

"Comes with being a bartender." She left to wipe the bar's far-off end, leaving me alone.

Soon, fingertips ran down my back, then to my ass, and goosebumps rose.

I spun, meeting a hairy chest and a man over six feet in height.

His muscles weren't defined, more pudgy than firm, like someone who worked with their body every day, but not in a gym.

His thick New York accent drew out. "Hey, you're pretty short." He leered. "And short and pretty."

I got compared to girls in high school, but men couldn't be pretty, could they? I stepped off the bar stool, and he matched my backward footsteps perfectly while running his fingertips over my chest.

The bartender's voice lowered to a near growl. "James! Leave the kid alone."

He backed off, wisely deciding it's best to stay friends with the person making your drinks.

He wasn't my type, but who was, besides gay? Bobby was cute, but more brother than lover. Half the men here were good-looking, but who's the one for me?

Sleep with one and see if we get along?

No. Sex would be great, but I want… a husband?

Yeah, that's it. Not someone for an hour.

I stared at the thick glass and the dark liquid. "I want a husband."

A man's chest collided with my back. He was shorter than the previous man but with defined, taut muscles.

He wore a white tank top, adorned with a leather strap studded with silver.

He looked like an old-style gunfighter, and the slight Southern twang in his accent added to his cowboy aura.

"Is that so?" he asked, his hand brushing over mine as I gripped my glass.

"I'll be your husband, cute stuff." His hands came to rest over his chest. "It won't be City Hall, but we'll be married in our hearts. "

I quickly downed my drink, the sugar syrup and bourbon burning my throat as I set it down. My brain told me to make a run for it, but fear or confusion led towards a back room.

It was dim with shadows, and I had to watch my steps, especially with the sea of bodies. Yet in the murk, one person grabbed my attention and wouldn't let go.

Wow! Who are you?

He was six-foot and towered over me. We had to be both around eighteen. Without thinking I stood on my tiptoes, meeting his dark-green eyes. The room was alive with the sounds of intimate men, but I couldn't tear my gaze away.

My hands moved with no thought, tracing the contours of his chest and shoulders, feeling hard biceps. He was severe-looking but undeniably attractive. I never thought I had a thing for nearly-shaved haircuts, but now I couldn't imagine myself with anyone else.

Goosebumps already came, but now it was electric, especially down there. My cock pushed out against my jeans, turning the uncomfortable into painful. This guy had to be gay, but why just stare?

"I don't think this tall kid's gay," said the man who had offered to be my husband. He might have joked, but the others didn't laugh.

A formerly kneeling man stood and wiped at his mustache and pointed at the taller guy before me. "He's been in here staring at us, like some freak. Must be how he gets his rocks off or…"

He's the police.

"I'm not with the police," he said, guessing their thoughts. My heart melted from his deep commanding voice which unfortunately sounded like a cop's tone.

If I could see auras, I'm sure it would have turned the already dark room black.

The conversations sputtered so fast around us I couldn't keep track of who said what.

"It's another damn raid."

"Got an undercover pig."

"We didn't do nuthin' so leave us the hell alone, fascist!"

"He's a cop for sure."

"What about the little one?"

The bartender wouldn't see from another room. More whispered accusations came with a warning of an upcoming bust. Some suggested running, and others said there'd be no report if they took care of us.

A male from the shadows called out, "Cops can't screw if they're undercover. It's a fact."

Sex needed to start with something, like a kiss, right? For years, I imagined, but it was always in the woods or in secret. In the back of a theater could work, but never with a watching crowd.

My heart pounded in the darkness, but I was grateful for the handsome stranger towering over me. We were both in trouble, and other men were sure we were cops, but there was something protective about him.

The jeers and catcalls grew louder and meaner.

I don't know how two guys are supposed to kiss. I know the guy goes first when there's a girl. Does the taller one start? Then why didn't he? Does short equal unattractive in the gay world?

I stood on my tiptoes, leaned up, and pressed my lips against his. He was statue-still, and I deepened my kiss. His hands ran down my sides, gripping my butt through my jeans.

His muscles pressed against mine, amplifying his scent—like nature and trees after rain, mixed with the raw tang of male sweat. Oh my God, I'm actually kissing another man. So, this is what it's like! Solid!

As if I let an astral body go, I watched a young man my age but with a military haircut grind into me. Now I stood still. Am I making out with one of them? The enemy?

No. He just works out. That's why he's got muscles.

He stopped as I did. "What's your name?" I asked after panting.

"T-Todd, I mean, Dave. Yeah, Dave."

"Where are you from?"

"Here."

"A kiss isn't sex," yelled a gruff man to the side.

"A cock in the mouth is," said another.

"Do it and y'all aren't cops," said a Southern-accented third.

Todd and not Dave turned to the others. "I can't."

"I can," I sputtered. "If you want?"

Slow seconds ticked by, and his chiseled face stayed unreadable. Fear I think, but of what? Getting beaten up? Well, I need to make sure that doesn't happen.

Slowly, I lowered myself to the grimy floor, steadying my shaking hand. I unzipped his pants, the sound louder than I expected, revealing his white underwear already damp at the tip. With a long inhale, I took in more of his muggy male aroma.

After I pulled his underwear down, his length stood out hard. Wow.

Even with his jeans around his muscled legs, he could have shuffled back but didn't. Was it a message to go ahead?

He trembled as my tongue touched his tip. I never had a girl do this, but common sense gave me instructions. More of his manhood slipped inside, and it was as salty as I had read.

He leaked more into my mouth while his fingers dug into my hair. It wasn't long before his hips rocked back and then forward, grinding into me. Despite the crowd, it was just us as if the outside universe didn't exist.

His wallet began slipping from his pocket with each thrust. I shouted around his cock, pointing at the dim ground.

He didn't understand, but my muffled yelling took him out of his altered state. He stared down as if seeing me for the first time. "What am I doing? I'm not a… I can't do this," he whispered. "I'm getting married!"

***

"Married?" asked Kim again with narrowed eyes under bright-red punk hair. We still hadn't told him what happened.

"Or so I thought," said Todd. I didn't need our Alpha-Omega connection. His glare outside my vision was obvious.

"That day wouldn't have come, even if I hadn't… well, you know."

"There were better ways to have handled it, Mike."

"Maybe." It wasn't Omega submissiveness, but he was right. I kept it ambiguous so he wouldn't have a definite win and hold it over me.

"So, what happened?" asked Kim while my mate carried plates to the back kitchen for cleaning.

From the other room, he shouted, "Encyclopedia Brown tracked me down."

"Who?" asked Kim.

"A kid detective from old children's books," I explained and took a warm cup of tea from Todd.

After waiting for a thank you, my man continued. "Mister Teenage Detective decided there was a mystery to solve."

"Did he?" asked Kim.

"Oh yeah, and more than I wanted," said Todd.

***