Nothing Special V (Nothing Special 5)

He shivered; his eyes rolling in his head as God gave him shallow pumps first, keeping them connected in every way they knew how. “You’ll never be without me, Cash.” Day tightened and clenched around God, swallowing the yells that erupted from his slick mouth.

“I want you to say that the entire time I make love to you right now, Leo.”

“Never, Cash.”

“Say it our entire lives.” God pulled out and glided back in.

“Never be without me.” He grunted after God hit a spot so deep inside him Day thought he’d pass out from the feeling. God pressed all that bulk and muscle down on him, making him sink deeper into the plush mattress. Their chests were sweaty, gliding together, the friction and emotion so overwhelming Day forgot what he was ordered to do, and God had no qualms reminding him. The full length of that cock slid out and paused like God was using a remote control. One of his legs was knocked off God’s shoulder and pushed out to the side. God aimed in another direction, going deeper than before, and a rumbled growl tore through him that vibrated Day’s chest. “Say it, Leo.”

“Ohh. Never… never… never,” Day moaned with each languid drive inside of him. God took his time, took his pleasure, loving him well into the morning.

Steele

Damn, why couldn’t people just leave him the hell alone? Steele had arrived back in Atlanta only three weeks ago and his uncle had already sent for him. He wasn’t the least bit concerned about making a difference anymore. All he’d done was fight for the good, the innocent, fight for his country, and look what it got him. Look at all it took from him. Half of his battalion killed behind enemy lines. Then his partner shot and killed because his backup was a goddamn homophobic sonofabitch. But Steele’s last straw was when his own department covered it up. He was turning in his shield and there was nothing his uncle could do about it.

Steele took another shot of Jack, not caring that it was only one o’clock in the afternoon. He’d heard that day drinking was the new trend, anyway. Everyone’s doing it. He grinned at himself, kind of liking his new sense of freedom. He pulled on his tan rustic leather jacket and bent over to tie his black shit-kickers but stopped when his head protested. Shit. He groaned and stood back up, automatically looking around for his badge before realizing he didn’t need it anymore. Ever again. Fuck Oakland.

His phone buzzed in the pocket of his ratty jeans, but he ignored it again. He knew who it was and he knew he was late, but he was too fucked up to get on his bike. He might not care about his own miserable existence right now, but he wasn’t going to kill anyone else.

Because you care. You’ll always care; it’s who you are, Steele.

Steele growled at the sound of his best friend’s voice in his head and pulled the half-empty bottle of whiskey back out of the cabinet, this time not bothering with a shot glass. He tipped it back and gulped a couple times, wincing at the harsh burn. He’d do it until he couldn’t hear that voice anymore. Until he could get some peace, maybe even some sleep.

You won’t find peace unless you’re fighting for what’s right.

Gulp. Gulp.

He stepped outside the broken screen door of his single-wide trailer and lit the last half of his Swisher Sweet Little cigar. The air was brisk and comfortable this time of year, reminding him that he’d always liked Atlanta in the fall. It was boots and leather coats weather, perfect for riding his bike. He needed to ride, wanted to feel the vibration against his balls, feel the freedom that came with it. But he’d have to sober up enough, first.

He looked around the rundown trailer park, kicking a couple beer cans to the side as he stood on the rickety porch surveying the filth around him. He was never a man of expensive taste or much class. Give him a decent television with good reception and a roof and he was satisfied. He didn’t need a walk-in closet, overpriced furniture, or a fancy kitchen with stainless steel appliances; shit, he couldn’t cook anyway, hence the garbage bags full of takeout containers and pizza boxes. He worked out enough to combat the negative effects of his diet.

“What up, cop?” a man who lived a few trailers down threw at him on his way by. It wasn’t a friendly greeting or one that warranted a response. He wasn’t a social neighbor and most that came across his path never had the desire to see him again. Which suited him just fine.

Steele pulled a deep inhale off his cigar, blowing half of the sweet-smelling smoke out of his nose. His phone buzzed again and he let his cigar hang out the side of his mouth while he pulled his jacket open to get it. He read the short text, frowning at the audacity of his one and only relative.