Tristan

Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard

This work fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.

If reading this story is not legal in your jurisdiction, stop it right now.

If you enjoy this story, please consider making a donation to Nifty to keep this platform alive.

Chapter 12

Tristan felt that he'd lost all feeling in his right hand, which had surely been amputated. The blister beneath the leather glove `stung like a bitch', as Colt would have rather illogically expressed it. He straightened his aching back and glanced over the hillside, feeling rather like a French peasant in some painting. A quick calculation showed that after almost entire day's work, in wintry conditions, he had pruned about one sixty-fourth of the vines. The others had probably done an eighth.

Tristan had been given his gear early in the morning after a big farmhouse breakfast to which Colton's two brothers came. Beau, their gay cousin, and a neighbouring farmer had joined them. Tristan was provided with gloves and one of Colton's old coats; it was too big but Tristan always liked wearing his clothes. There were elastic gaiters bridging his old jeans and boots, Colton saying they would keep out the rain and dirt and the chances of snakes were slim at this time of the year. Tristan didn't enjoy that thought and for the first few hours started at anything that even vaguely resembled a serpent.

Drake had given him a lesson in how to prune. Nearly all the new growth was to be removed, leaving only about five buds. The refuse was pulled away from the wires and left for collection between the rows. When Tristan came across a difficult vine, it was only a matter of calling to one of the others who would stop and advise him on the appropriate surgery.

Colt saw Tristan shaking his right hand in an effort to restore circulation and walked up to him, holstering his secateurs like a cowboy with his six-shooter. "Have a rest from cuttin'. Why don't y'all rake a spell?" Tristan gladly accepted the wire rake and set to work pulling the long, tangled off-cuts more fully clear of the vines so that Drake could gather them with the big rake pulled behind a tractor.

Tristan had been warmly welcomed by the Stones just the night before. He was hungry and there were plenty of leftovers from the previous day's festivities. Clarice hovered over him, making sure he was quite full when he eventually rose from the kitchen table. Their house was still bedecked with decorations--cheap and cheerful paper ones. A real tree listed slightly drunkenly in the living room and filled it with the tang of pine. Errant scraps of old wrapping paper and ribbon could still be seen lurking in unlikely places, such as behind the television and under the sofa. A fire burnt low in the fireplace and the furnace had obviously been lit.

When he was sated and had thanked Colton's mother, he went back out to his truck and returned with a box of presents.

"What's this fancy thang?" asked Drake.

"It's so you can listen to music while you work, Dad," said Colt.

"Why thank you very much, Tristan. That was mighty gen'rous of you, boy. I hope it wasn't a reflection on m'singin' when I'm workin'." He looked at Colt. "Some 'round her don't think I can carry a toon." He started to sing a mournful country dirge until his wife playfully slapped his arm to silence him. "I guess I don't compare to Colty in the tonsil stakes."

Clarice unwrapped a set of wine glasses. "They're stemless ones and good for red," explained Tristan. "They're popular in Europe and a bit trendy here now. Good for the dishwasher. There's some extra, so don't worry if they get broken." Clarice thanked him sincerely, saying they were too fine to use. Tristan tried to argue with her, but in vain.

Colton carefully unwrapped the rectangle that was his. Tristan tried not to pay attention, but couldn't help but glance sideways. It was a book; an old book with gold leaf on a green cloth binding that displayed some wear. Colton read: "Darwiniana: Essays and Reviews Pertaining to Darwinism. Asa Gray." He carefully opened it and could be seen deciphering the roman numerals. "Shit! 1876."

"Gray was..." began Tristan.

"I know who he was; he was the American who spread the gospel of natural selection. He was a friend of Darwin and Huxley. This must be a first edition!"

"Yes, the bookseller in Houston said it was. Saw it online."

"Oh wow! I'll sure treasure this. Thanks, Tris."

Tristan beamed, warmed by the thought that he had done something to please his friend.

Clarice produced two parcels from the pine wall unit that had obviously been home-wrapped and placed them in Tristan's lap. The tiny one contained a cardboard box. Inside was a leather necklace with a stylized animal in silver.

"It's a coyote, isn't it?"

"Yeah, me and my buds all have one. I ain't been wearing mine durin' football, but we all got one. Y'see this teacher was fed up with our goofin' round and called us `a bunch o' no account coyotes' and the name kinda stuck. We're good ole boys and you is one now too--even though y'all is a fore'ner." He grinned.

"Thanks!" said Tristan as he fastened it. He let out a whoop.

"Well, we'll need to work on that some," said Colt in a flat voice. "Sounds far to po-lite." There was laughter.

The next present was also ethnic dress. When the paper was folded back there was a beautiful western shirt. It was in very fine cotton with a shadow plaid (or check, in other Anglophone parts) and in shades of lettuce green-and-white with a fine Lurex thread to make it fancy. There was the traditional yoke and breast pockets with sawtooth flaps. Instead of buttons, there were pearl `snaps'. "Wow! I love it. Thank you so much!"

"Well, I woulda got one f'm'self, 'cept'n they don't make 'em for men."

"Shut up!" said Tristan and gave Colton a very girly punch on the shoulder.

"Hey, I seen you ride a horse, remember." Tristan blushed and Drake called them out as a pair of mangy coyotes.

The oil furnace must have had asthma, because the bedroom at the back of the house was decidedly cool. Tristan made a show of getting under the covers of the middle bed but Colton stayed him. "In here with Colty, Tris. Y'all a good ole boy now. Take y'shorts off--my shorts, I see. Leave y'coyote on."

"Colt," said Tristan as he lay with his head on Colton's bicep staring at the dark ceiling. "Colt, did the good ole boys sleep together?"

"Course not, they's not gay--'cept for Beau who is, obviously. We had our circle jerks o'course--'specially when we was the better for drink an' a little weed. Mighta helped one another out at times, like buds do, but no gay stuff."

"Oh," said Tristan.

"Tell me about your Christmas, Tris. How was it?"

Tristan gave his account.

"So you and y'pa okay now?"

"Not completely, but I have accepted a few things. Dad will never be like your parents. He never has let anyone know what he thinks or feels and since the divorce..."

"Maybe he hides it, like deep down."

"Yeah. He says he loves me and I must believe that. The stuff he provides is perhaps his way of showing it. I can't understand why Mum would say those dreadful things about me, though. I was happy she found someone after Dad left. I had no quarrel with Rodger and I certainly didn't want to break them up, but it was clear there was no place for me. She just built this kind of wall around them and kept me out. When I came home from School there it was."

"Maybe she was frightened she would loose them. Maybe you reminded her of y'dad."

"Maybe, but I blamed Dad for destroying the family, not Mum. It was Dad with other women. Dad saw that I was on Mum's side, that's why we drifted apart."

"Maybe he went with other women because it was not a good marriage. You said your mum was pretty uptight. Not like Cylvah."

"You may have a point there. Cylvah is totally the opposite of Mum--as far as you can get. Maybe that's why Dad is comfortable with her--she's not challenging. I feel kinda sorry for the poor bitch, though. I realised that too."

There was a long pause.

"Colt, do you want me to `help you out'?"

"Y'mean like stroking m'big ole horse meat and lickin' m'ball sack and bitin' on my titties till I'm shot through with 'lectric shocks?"

"Yeah."

"Nah, I think I'm good."

"Oh"

" 'course I is capable o'bein' 'suaded like most dudes. Y'all might start with m'earlobes. 'suadin' is most 'ffective when y'takes y'time."

The first day in the vines was exhausting, although Tristan found that he loved being out-of-doors except when there were cold showers of rain. If Drake decided the rain was too heavy for work, they sought shelter in the barn until it passed. Clarice and another woman brought out sandwiches and coffee on these occasions. Then there was the pervading perfume of the burning vine prunings, which smouldered all day in three great smoky heaps and the not so pleasant smell of the disinfectant that had to be used on one's boots and secateurs between rows.

During their breaks the men chatted. Tristan was curious to meet Beau, the only other gay, it seemed, in the village. He was about seventeen and still at school. He smiled shyly at Tristan and Tristan assumed that he had already been informed of the British visitor's notoriety. He was not unlike the others in the barn, perhaps slighter in build and more fresh-faced, although this might have been more to do with his age than his sexuality. His hair was neither long nor short and he was dressed like the others in denim and a baseball cap. He wasn't a flamer. They talked about neutral things, but like Tristan himself, Beau's eyes tended to search out Colt when he was not nearby and Tristan was left to ponder their extent of their `closeness'.

That night, after the aching Tristan had been lowered into a bathtub that Clarice had doctored with salts' and they had eaten an enormous meal, satisfied with the day's progress, the boys went into town to get drunk'. Tristan and Beau (who was underage) were the dedicated drivers.

The town was rather quaint and presided over by a steel water tower on splayed legs--like the Martian invaders in War of the Worlds. The residential section boasted modest but attractive homes set in wide, unfenced lawns. The side streets were named after species of trees. Its `historic district' was less spoilt by glaring modern intrusions than in many other places that Tristan had seen. Apparently a tourist trade in summer ensured that everything was well kept and there were few empty shops. Most of these were built in single-storeyed rows under fruity Victorian parapets. The heart of the town was signified by several sets of traffic lights and commercial buildings that rose to two floors or even three, and a few of which had ornamental verandahs over the footpaths like in Western movies. A couple constructed of local stone--perhaps defunct banks--sprouted boastful towers that were reminders of the optimism of the past.

They parked on an angle in Main Street with commendable simplicity and it was just a short walk to the front door of a noisy bar. The noise was produced by the Saturday night crowd of locals and was augmented by a karaoke machine located on a low dais on the back wall. A timber counter with stools ran down one side and booths and tables filled most of the remainder.

Immediately Colt slid into the `down home' groove. He was continually being greeted with whoops of joy and with his hand heartily wrung and his back companionably slapped. Clearly he was a hometown hero as much as he was a Big Man on Campus.

Matt had only one drink and departed for home, accepting a ride with Beau. Tristan found himself talking to Dacey. Dacey had left his small apartment above a hardware store and had his truck packed for his move to Midland. Until the pruning was completed, he was to sleep in his old room with Colton and Tristan. He did not seem overly concerned with his breaking it off with the minister's daughter and was optimistic for the future. He thanked Tristan warmly for his part in this. "I see y'all a low down coyote, too." He motioned to the necklace that Tristan was wearing under his new western shirt and a corduroy coat that belonged to Colton.

Tristan replied with a laugh that he'd been inducted and Dacey flashed his own. Several of Colt's contemporaries wore the necklace too. Tristan found that he was being continually introduced to big young men with names like Tanner and T.J. and Buck. One was called `Icebox' for his apparent size. Xavier, Garrett and Andy were African-Americans and Tristan supposed that their grandparents or even parents might not have been welcome in this bar in the not so distant past. They all were coyotes.

He was pressed to take a drink, but he pleaded that he was the D.D. so he drank `Coke'--all soft drinks of what ever make or flavour seemingly given this appellation down South. He found it harder and harder to understand what they were all saying as the liquor (or rather beer) took hold and they found that they could not follow what Tristan was saying and he wearied of continually having to repeat himself.

A party of girls arrived, apparently all from Colton's year in High School. They too were rather high-spirited and pulled several of the boys, including Tristan, up to dance, the karaoke stage being mercifully empty at the time. "Your accent is sure cute...what did you say y'name was, honey?"

"Tristan, Cindy" said Tristan leaning into a silver hoop earring and straining his vocal chords.

"That is so..."

"Cute," finished Tristan. "Apparently."

"Y'all is a friend o'Colt Stone?"

"Yeah, I'm his roommate at University."

"Well, that must be sure somethin'. We all think he's hotter than a Stallion on mid-summer's day."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, we was all for him at School. Well, he plum worked his way through just about all the gals before the summer."

"All of you?"

"Well, I ain' saying nothin' but after the Punkin' Festival and Tractor Pull Picnic I couldn't sing in the choir for three Sundays. Couldn't walk too straight neither."

"Oh, I see."

"But Colty is real sweet with it, not like most other boys."

"Takes his hat off, you mean?"

"And his boots. And he has the sweetest family, bless 'em. They is good people. Why, only recently they took in Willa Sontag when she was kicked out of her home without a skerrick by her own daddy. Poor girl got herself gone at fourteen. Most folks reckoned it were her brother. He's a bit simple-minded, you know, and couldn't defend hissself, but I reckon it was that Ridge Tannenberg what works at Walmart. Willa wouldn't tell nobody who the daddy was and the Stones didn't make her. Just afore she had the baby, they found her kin out in Terrell County and took her there." She looked alarmed for a moment and put her beer down firmly on a ledge. "Oh, don't go thinkin' it was Colton Stone's baby. It weren't, it's just that his folks is so nice, always doin' stuff like that for others."

Eventually it was time to go and the party rolled out into Main Street. Colton and Dacey were laughing with Xavier and Garratt.

"My sister only went out with you 'cause she felt sorry for your ass," said Xavier to Dacey. "It were a sympathy fuck, that's all." He was trying to stifle his laughter and had to hang on to Dacey.

"Well, it weren't sympathy when that bitch done went out with Colt," put in Garrett.

"That was en-tirely diff'ent. Dacey only had a momma to fuck."

"Your momma," interjected Dacey

"No, your mom."

"No, your mom." They were laughing stupidly

"Oh Fuck!" cried Tristan.

They all stopped and looked to where Tristan was pointing. Someone had scratched all the side of the truck with a key or something similar.

"Why, the low-down cunts!" snarled Colton.

"Hasn't faggot' got two g's?

"Prob'ly not at Community College," said Garrett.

"Geeze, I'm real sorry, Tris," said Colton. "I didn't think this would happen in this town. I feel ashamed."

Tristan was bitter. "Perhaps your good ole boys' are just like good ole boys' everywhere else. The good ole boys got drunk and raped his queer ass; the good ole boys burned down the uppity nigger's church." He kicked the tyre.

"Hey, you don't think it was any of my friends?"

"How do I know? Can you be sure?"

Garrett broke the tension. "Hey, Tristan, I work for T.K. Auto Repairs right here in town--just yonder." He waved his arm. "Bring her in early t'morrer and well do a cut-and-polish. Most will come out I reckon, leastwise till y'kin get it done at home. No charge for a low down coyote like y'self."

"Thanks, Garrett, we have to be on the road the day after and I don't want to drive across the state advertising that I do guys like a plumber does faucets. But you must except payment."

"No man, I feel real bad about this. It has dissed our town." He grabbed Tristan and gave him a complicated bro hug, which was doubled by Xavier.

Tristan drove the Stone brothers back to the farm in silence.

Getting ready for bed Colton raised the subject again, saying how sorry he was. Tristan was starting to feel bad about perhaps having over-reacted. Colt had nothing to do with it of course, it was just that straight boys never had to heed the lurking dangers, real or imagined, in daily life; every gay knew that life was still precarious. "Don't worry about it, it can be fixed up like it had never happened." He knew it couldn't.

"Hey, Coyote!" called Dacey from the third bed. "What are you, twelve?" Tristan looked at him bare-chested in bed. "Lose the shorts."

"Oh, I didn't think you'd want to look at my gay arse."

"Just cause you got a little one, don't mean a thing."

"It's not little!" yelled Tristan. "It's...it's...average."

"Not average in this room," said Colton who was similarly bare-chested in the first bed, and could be seen grasping it beneath the covers. "And yours ain't nothing special, Dacey."

"Hey, too big, too small but just right!" he said in a singsong voice. "That Golidilocks babe told me."

"That slut liked bears; y'all is too smooth to get her motor runnin'," said Colton. "But she sure liked m'porridge. Said it was real sweet and hot and wanted a second helpin'."

Tristan was now laughing at their silliness. "It's J.O. time," said Dacey. "You got a towel, Colt?" Colt threw him a pair of Tristan's boxers.

Thus they spent about ten minutes with their hands under the covered. Dacey came first, wiping himself on Tristan's boxers before throwing them to him. "Man, I needed that," he commented. Tristan was not far behind him and let out an ursine growl as he orgasmed. Colt was still going at it. Five minutes became ten. Dacey got out of bed, his cock drooping and went over to his brother's bed to watch. After a minute Tristan did too, both boys standing at his bedside as if her were an invalid. "Y'all got a great technique, man," said Dacey, admiringly. "No wonder y'throwing arm is so strong."

"Come on," urged Tristan who was entranced and hardening.

"Yeah, bro, squirt, man."

"Arch your back, Colt," advised Tristan who knew this from experience.

"Go for it, man!" encouraged Dacey.

Still it went on, Colton varying the pace and the grip until, at last, he gasped, "I'm cummin'!" and slowed to a crawl. Tristan lost count of the shots that rocketed from Colton's penis in an almost controlled manner as Colt squeezed and released it. He was sure one went over his head.

"Fuck, I wish I could do that!" said Dacey shaking his head as he walked back to his bed. "You're the man, bro."

Tristan handed over the boxers. "How do you like having brothers, Tris?" asked Colton, mopping up and grinning.

"Unbelievable," was all he could say as he too staggered back, his own aching cock erect and dripping.

The next day the pruning of the vines was interrupted early by the trip to Garrett's `shop'. Clarice drove him back in their old truck so that Colt might continue with the work. She and Drake had been very upset and were all for informing the police. Tristan was adamant that he did not want this, privately imagining that the police chief or sheriff or what ever the town had might have done it himself--probably being a secret member of the Klan as well. That's how it was in the stories.

The day's work went particularly well, without interruption by rain. Lunch and coffee were brought right out into the vines like a picnic. By four, with nearly half the vines done, Drake suggested that Colt and Tristan take a break while he used the tractor to rake up and that they should saddle up and go for a ride. Colt jumped at the idea and the boys found themselves at the horses.

Tammy, of course, was fine--putty in Colt's hands. His own one, he imagined, glared at him, perhaps cross that her plans for a quiet day eating grass had been upset. Colton told him not to be so ridiculous and that horses loved to be exercised. He checked Tristan's saddle and straps.

In the end Sissy proved to be reasonable and only had to be pulled hard a couple of times when distracted by what apparently must have been particularly tasty verdure off the path that they had chosen. Tristan was sore from the work, but he did not want to spoil Colton's pleasure, so said nothing.

The slow ride only proved to Tristan how attractive this Hill Country was. Colton could talk eloquently about the evolution of the vegetation from the time the limestone was under the ancient seas. They passed neighbouring farms and Colton gave potted biographies of their owners. A few had been the homes of is girlfriends. They passed the trailer park where Mia had lived in a `double wide' until reunited with her road gang husband. Colton pointed out the convenience of Mia's abode with respect to the High School, which stood a little closer to the town proper. He could visit during lunch hour if he didn't have football practice.

The school, while neither old nor distinguished architecturally, seemed very handsome and complete compared to most Secondary Moderns in his own county, but the emphasis on sports was striking, with a professional running track made of some red substance and marked out with white lines, a huge gymnasium with a `natatorium' and a football stadium with a proper grandstand and lights that would have not disgraced a smaller British city. Colton told him the cost--some staggering sum. The yellow busses parked in a lot indicated that students were bussed in from distant farms, although many drove their own vehicles from a young age.

They were now on the main highway and getting close to the town, so Colton said they should turn back. It was near suppertime by the time they had settled the horses and Tristan found that he was hungry and the prospect of fat-rich pork chops, to his amazement, did not revolt him.

The next day was for goodbyes. While Colt joined the others in the vineyard, Tristan was again taken into town to collect his truck. "It has been wonderful having you here," said Clarice. "You're getting to be a real Texan, although the idea was for Colt to get some polish off you. Is that Skoal you've got?"

"No, only a wad of gum, Clarice. I like Colt just as he is. Why would you want him to acquire `polish'? That's all bullshit--if you'll pardon my cussin'."

"Well, yes and no. Colt's going to go places. You've said how smart he is yourself and even if he doesn't get drafted to the NFL, he's destined never to come back here. He's different to Matt and Dacey. Ain't that the truth?"

"Yes, it is, I suppose," sighed Tristan.

"And to make his way in the wide world his charming looks and brains won't be enough. He'll need to mix with people--people like your dad or your friend, Professor Macpherson. He'll need to leave Texas, maybe go some place like Boston or even London. Being a poor cowboy there will not cut it. Do you know what I'm driving at?"

"Yes."

"Be a good influence on him, Tris. I knew when I read your dorm assignment that you would be."

"My dad filled that out."

"Be that as it may, you are a gift to Colt and perhaps he's been a gift to you."

"Yeah, definitely a gift to me. I was a mess a year ago."

"Well, there you are. Now let's see if your truck's fixed."

It was and it would certainly do until they were back at University. Colton pressed two bottles of bourbon on Garrett and his boss. They apologised on behalf of the whole town and vowed to find out who had done it and beat the shit out of them. Tristan would have liked that, but instead said to forget about it and such people only made themselves unhappy--the correct thing to say.

He drove back to the farm and started packing. Colt had ceased work and was getting ready too. "Hey, what's that?" he said as he effortlessly swung a case of beer into the back.

"It's a retro drinks' cooler--Dad gave it to me for Christmas." Colt admired it. "And I took the liberty of bringing this, Colt."

"My guitar!"

"Yeah, I think it would be nice if you played up at the cabin. We'd all like that--our Kumbya moment." Colton snorted as he laid a couple of fishing rods carefully in the truck bed.

Clarice loaded them up with food. They kissed her goodbye then trudged up to the barn where the men were having coffee and said farewell to Drake, Matt, Dacey and Beau. "Y'all come back now y'here," said Drake sincerely, giving Tristan a hug and kissing his son on the cheek. Tristan was touched, although he could not help but think of Jed Clampett.

Because it was late when they got away, they did not have a break until Temple when they changed drivers. The boys listened to music, then turned it off to talk--about their homes and families--and sometimes there would be silence while the Texas countryside peeled back past the truck's windows. Some comment made by Tristan when he was driving sparked Colton into singing. He lay right back in his seat and put his bare feet on the dash. It was a gutsy Mike Zito blues-rock song and he beat time slapping his jeans-clad thighs or drumming on the consol between the seats. It was really very good and Tristan thought of the tradition of Cowboys who sang to calm their herds.

It was late when they pulled into Zenith. They ate at McDonald's and then took the truck a short distance to a rundown motel that advertised, `VAC_NCY' in broken neon. "This is just like the motel Truck Stop Cock Slut," said Tristan excitedly as they crunched across the broken asphalt of the forecourt. Colton just grunted and said, "Wonder if Norman and his mom runs it."

The units were ranged in an L-shape, with a skimpy white-painted timber verandah over the concrete path that united them. The front doors alternated in blue and orange paint. The panels below the windows were yellow and pink, although probably they had not seen a paintbrush in decades. What had been a restaurant was labelled: `Sorry-- closed for renovations!'--these must have stalled about 1975. A light behind a screen door advertised the office.

There was no one there and Tristan looked around. The arrangement of room keys seemed to indicate that business was light on this chilly Texas night. There were some dusty and dated travel brochures in a wire rack. Apparently this town was `The Gateway to the Davey Crockett National Park'. He peered through the slatternly venetian blinds. To one side of the motel was a trailer with its lights on. In the gloom could be seen several other trailers, perhaps unoccupied, and the shapeless grey forms of assorted junk.

Colt found a bell and pressed it (or pushed it, as the more violent Americans tend to say) and presently a young woman emerged from the trailer and sashayed over. Tristan immediately had a bad feeling, but said nothing. She was young and very curvaceous and, although dressed in jeans and a windcheater, they were skin tight and sort of slutty. The screen door opened and she stood there for a moment while she took a last drag of her cigarette before flicking it in a glowing arc into the parking lot.

"You boyz needin' rooms?"

"Just one," Colton, managed to say. He looked like he's been hit with a baseball bat. Sex drive unfettered by British notions of class distinction, thought Tristan, was dangerous combination. "Just passin' through on the way to m'friend's cabin."

"Well, that's surely nice." She moistened her lips while she pretended to scan the register. Tristan almost wanted to laugh; it was so clichéd.

"Yeah, a whole bunch o' the football team's coming for New Years."

"Well, you just make sure they stop here, honey. I might can do a special rate for college boys--group excursion," she added, as if trying to classify her comment for bookkeeping purposes.

"Sixty dollars. We don't do breakfast but there's fixins for coffee and such in your room. Check out is at 10:00." Colton took the key with the outsized number seven on its plastic tag. "If there's anything amiss, y'all just come over to the trailer. I'm shuttin' the office now."

They easily found their room and pushed the door open. Immediately the smell of old carpet and damp linen assailed their nostrils. The décor from the wallpaper to the Tetron throw cushions can be imagined. Beside a print of an Asian girl by Tretchikoff was the door to a bathroom. Poking his head around the water-stained door fame, Tristan was immediately reminded of Charles C. Selecman House.

Colt had brought in their two bags from the truck. He expressed some concern for their possessions and went out again and moved the truck right in front of their unit where an overhead lamp would illuminate it, but possibly make sleeping difficult, as the blind did not seem to work properly.

When Colt went to turn on the little electric heater that was fixed to the wall, he found that it too was defective and only gave off a burning smell. The internal fan did not seem to revolve either. "This is no good. We'll, freeze," he said as he unpacked his kit and ferried it to the bathroom. "I'm going over to tell her. Sixty bucks is sixty bucks."

"Don't bother," called Tristan, but Colton was insistent. When he returned to the room he smelled dreadfully of Axe."

"Going on a date?" asked Tristan sarcastically and rolling his eyes.

Colton was already out of his old shirt and had pulled on a fresh, tight, white tee-shirt that he struggled to ease over his abs. He adjusted his jeans. "The one y'miss is the one y'never had," he said with a grin and made for the door.

By half-past ten Colton still hadn't returned and he had been right in one respect, it was freezing and so Tristan decided to go to bed without risking the doubtful shower and crawled under the covers wearing his boxers and a tee-shirt. A few minutes later he turned on the bedside light and got out of bed again and searched for some socks to wear. He turned off the light again and, frustrated by the glare of the outside light, tried to sleep.

There was a noise at four in the morning, Tristan flicking on the lamp and sitting up to reach for his phone on the recharger. "Sorry t'wake y'Roomy," said Colton.

"The heat's still not fixed," Tristan said sarcastically.

"I'm plum burnin' up right now," said Colton as he pulled his clothes off.

Tristan watched him and saw that Colton was admiring himself in the mirror above the counter that ran the width of the room. His tee-shirt came off in that jock manner--crossed arms and hem first. Next is sockless Van's were toed off--the laces being already undone. Then his cowboy belt. He emptied his pockets. Tristan heard their room key and some loose change clatter on the Formica surface. He plugged his phone in before sliding down his blue Wranglers. He was not wearing underwear. "Musta lost 'em someplace," he said with a chuckle in reply to Tristan's enquiry. He looked hot as hell as he rubbed his chest in the mirror and hefted his balls.

"Where's your wallet, Colt?"

Colt turned suddenly back to the counter, his cock swinging a moment after the rest of him. He searched the counter and then his jeans, which were on the floor. He retraced his steps and even opened the door to the room, despite the chill and his nakedness.

"Why, I..."

Tristan leapt out of bed and grabbed his own jeans and pulled them on roughly. He snatched his own phone from the charger.

"What are you...?"

"Wait here!" snapped Tristan, now in a furious temper. He stepped into Colton's Vans, which slopped around on his own, smaller feet, and made straight for the trailer. Colton looked from the window at the disappearing figure of his friend.

Tristan approached the trailer. It stood in behind a twee little picket fence--a parody of a cottage garden. There were no flowers, however, and possibly never were and certainly not at this time of the year. There were some overturned plastic chairs and an old couch and other assorted junk. Tristan had never been in a trailer--they were rare in Wimbledon--and wasn't sure he could even detect the front door (did they have back doors?) in the expanse of aluminium. But eventually he did and rapped hard.

A male voice cried out, "Fuck off!"

Tristan knocked again thinking, the man might well have a gun, but at that moment he just didn't care. He knocked harder in his fury.

Eventually a large, greasy and unshaven man in a wife beater opened the door--it opened outwards so Tristan had to step back.

"My friend left his wallet here a few minutes ago. I want it back."

"No wallets here, kid. Piss off!"

Tristan wasn't going to argue. "I want his wallet and I want it now. I have a text ready to send to the police on my phone," he waved it at the man, although it was really too dark to see. "I only have to press `send' and they'll be rolling around here like oranges. Is a wallet worth that much?" He ostentatiously held his thumb over the phone.

The girl's voice from somewhere inside called out, "He never left no wallet!"

"My friend was underage, " he lied. "You could be in a lot of trouble!" he directed this at the woman inside.

"Listen you British motherfucker, get of my property or I'll fuck you up proper."

Tristan tried another tack. "There's a `reward' for the missing wallet--a hundred dollars." He pulled two fifties from his jeans while keeping his thumb still poised. "Have a look for the wallet. It has his cards and stuff--no use to anyone else. There's only about fifty in it."

"Oh, just give it him, Crash," called the girl. "That boy was worth fifty. Best fuck I've had in a coon's age. Lotta stamina and real big too. He ain't never sixteen!"

"His grandfather was Secretariat," shouted Tristan through the door. "Do you want the hundred?" he demanded of the man.

He hesitated and the girl's voice urged him on. He vanished from the door and was back in a second with the wallet. He opened it and looked at Colt's ID."

"Says here he's 21, you lyin' piece o'shit."

"That's false. Now hand it over."

"False?" He studied it with a professional eye in the light from the doorway. "This looks like Rattler's work--or maybe his mom's." Tristan said nothing, but held up the money tantalizingly.

Crash threw the wallet on the ground in front of Tristan. Tristan did not bend or even look at it; he kept his eyes firmly on him. Crash reached out and plucked the hundred dollars from Tristan's fingertips and Tristan kept eye contact until the door was snapped closed. Only then did he pick up the wallet with shaking hands and turn back to the motel room.

Tristan opened the door. His legs felt like jelly, but he was determined that Colton would never know. He handed the wallet over without comment and got into bed.

"Where did you get it?"

"You must have dropped it."

"Aren't you comin' over to Colty's bed, Tris? S'awful cold."

"No. And you smell like that whore." He put out the light and there was silence for a long time. After about fifteen minutes Colton felt his bed shake. Tristan was lifting the covers.

Colton extended his arm so that he could cradle Tristan against his chest. "Why, Tris, y'shakin'!"

"Just the cold."

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and will endeavour to reply. Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put Tristan in the subject line.