Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

Regret.

“I don’t want to think about this anymore,” Chess said, finally. “So . . . you’re gonna help me out with that, ain’t ya, Ed? Yeah, that’s right. ’Cause you’re gonna get me so I can’t.”

Morrow couldn’t begin to guess how — and even if he had, this wouldn’t’ve been the first idea he came up with: Chess leaning forward all of a sudden, using both Morrow’s biceps to haul him down hard. Chess friggin’ Pargeter, at maybe half Morrow’s height, dragging him eye-level, the better to stick his tongue deep between the bigger man’s teeth.

Morrow reared back almost immediately — pants tight, stomach cold. “What — what the hell was that?” he demanded.

Chess smirked. “What’d it seem like?”

Somethin’ might get me killed, Rook ever found out, was Morrow’s first idea. But instead, he said, carefully, “Look, Chess — just how drunk are you?”

“Depends. How drunk are you?”

“Not drunk enough.” But that didn’t sound right either. “Look, I, uh . . . I like girls.”

Chess shrugged. “Sure. Half the men I’ve messed with’d say the same. But you know better ’bout me: ladies ain’t my meat, and I ain’t theirs. I do like you, though, Ed — always have.”

“. . . oh?”

“Yup. You do what you say, and mean what you do. Don’t run your mouth. And you’re clean in your habits, too — I admire that in a man.”

So I hear, Morrow remembered.

But now Chess was all up in his face again, nuzzling hotly ’round the pulse-point of Morrow’s jaw and rubbing their bearded cheeks together like he was either grooming Morrow, or grooming himself on Morrow. Probably looked ridiculous, but the effect was soon enough to render simply breathing a difficult task indeed.

Morrow groaned, forcing out: “But, the Rev — ”

“He cared enough to help me out, he’d be here already; he ain’t. ’Sides which . . . this is his fault, too. So screw ’im.”

“Now, that don’t make a — ”

“Just shut the hell up, Ed.” Chess kissed him again, delving deeper. “Now . . . man up and skin off, ’cause I don’t got all night.”

Morrow bristled. “Oh, now I really want to,” he threw back, oddly insulted by the implication that them getting to it had become an utterly foregone conclusion.

’Course, if a hex made you, it wasn’t nothin’ to feel shame over, was it? And Chess’d probably kill him one way or the other, if he refused.

While he waffled, however, Chess was already slipping one of his hands right down the front of Morrow’s trousers, deftly plucking his buttons apart. And here came the thing itself, free at last: poker-stiff, drooling. It filled Chess’s palm, fingers playing just as smooth and nimble on it as Morrow’d always thought they might, ’til he hefted it, and laughed out loud at the strength of Morrow’s reaction.

“Ah, Christ shit Jesus — ”

“Yeah, that’s right. Quite uncommon instrument you’re packin’, Ed. Very — manly.” Chess hauled a bit harder, then stopped to admire the result. “Oh, and I do like this, too — a big man, all raw and needy and beggin’, and all because of me. Not to mention a nice, thick piece like you got right here, stuck in just as far as it’ll go, justabout any damn place that’s handy.”

Morrow gasped, glancing down — saw himself magnified a size more than expected, purple-weeping, and looked away again, before he ended up with scarred eyeballs. Shaking his head, and demanding, “But what the hell do you get out of it, exactly?”

“My way, Ed. It’s like killin’, almost — almost as good. ’Cept nobody has to die. Anyhow — you could do something for me, in return, you were willin’.”

“Like what?”

“Like you might could fuck me, fool. What’d you think I meant?”

“But — don’t that hurt?”

“Oh, you poor innocent. ’Course it does.” Chess was all but straddling Morrow now, yet swung in just a tad further, voice dropping, to explain: “That’s what makes it good.”

“Chess, I ain’t that way.”

“You ain’t complainin’, though, are ya?” As Morrow hesitated: “C’mon, for Christ’s sake! It’s the exact same act, no matter what the accoutrements — ”