Six Ways from Sunday

Six Ways from Sunday

By
Mercy Celeste

Copyright

Six Ways from Sunday is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Mercy Celeste

Edited by Jason Huffman

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Mercy Celeste

Warning: All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any many without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away, as it is an infringement on the copyright of this book.

Contact the publisher for further information:

[email protected]

Cover Art provided by Reece Notley

Acknowledgement: I would like to thank Kendall McKenna for the time she took away from her own writing to help me craft Dylan’s Marine Corps background. I couldn’t have managed any of that on my own and am extremely grateful for her patience and incredible knowledge of all things Marine

Trade Mark Acknowledgements:

Skype

Gator Aide

Jack Daniels

Disney

Dedication

I’m dedicating this book to a school. On December 25, 2012 Murphy High School in Mobile, Alabama was hit by a tornado. The school is an historic landmark in the state with beautiful tiled roofs stucco walls. It is also the high school my three oldest children attended. My third daughter is currently a student at Murphy and this past semester has been trying. All students were relocated to portables at a middle school so that the school could continue without splitting the students up. Repairs and renovations are currently underway but the damage was extensive, all of the buildings are uninhabitable. I dedicate this book to the school and to the students, past and present who lost a part of them on Christmas day.

If you would like to donate to the tornado relief fund please contact the Murphy Alumni Association at this link  
http://www.murphyalumni.org/

Thanks so much,

Mercy

Chapter One

“When were you going to tell me?” The slamming door brought Dylan up short as Hurricane Bowen swept into the room bringing chaos in his wake. “I had to find out from the mail lady. The mail lady, Dylan!”

Dylan glanced around at the baskets of laundry, packing boxes, and luggage then winced. “Bo.” He had no idea what to say. Or how to explain. “I was going to tell you tonight.”

“Are you sure you weren’t going to wait until I was gone and just run off and…” Bo raked his hand through his short hair, making it stand up on end. He wore swim trunks that were at the moment dripping onto the carpet. His golden body shimmered from the pool. His gaze roamed the room, taking in the disorder that occupied the usually tidy space. “You enlisted? In the Marines? Come on Dyl, tell me she was lying. Tell me you aren’t…fuck you
are
leaving me, aren’t you?” he shouted when his gaze came to rest on the piece of luggage in front of Dylan.

Dylan could feel the rage coursing through his friend from across the room. And that made him angry. “
I’m
leaving you? Pardon me, but who is the one having the going away party tonight?”

Bo stopped staring at the open suitcase. Dylan was trying to whittle his worldly possessions down to one small bag but so much of it couldn’t be left behind. He’d agonized all morning, sorting things to go into storage or to get rid of completely. One small bag of things he’d need and the things he couldn’t live without. The picture of the two of them taken right after the State win in December, both in uniform and sweaty, was on top. He couldn’t leave that behind.

“I’m just going to school, only a couple hundred miles from here. You’re going to…they’ll send you to war. You can’t go.” Bo took the frame from its place on top of the few items of clothing Dylan had packed and held it like a shield. “I won’t let you.”

“You won’t let me?” Dylan stopped folding the t-shirt in his hands, or twisting it, he’d stopped folding long before. “I wasn’t scouted and I didn’t get a scholarship. Big Man Bowen Murphy is going all the way to the NFL and I’m not going to stay home pining for him.”

“You could have come with me. You could have gone to school and maybe gotten a walk-on tryout.” Hope entered his friend’s eyes, a hope that Dylan didn’t want to kill. But he had no choice.

“I can’t go to school, Bo, not this year. There’s no money. I don’t qualify for financial aid because on paper there is money. But there isn’t. Dad left tons of debt. Mom is going to sell the house. The insurance barely covered his funeral. Maybe next year. But next year—“

“Next year you’ll be in Iraq or Afghanistan. The year after, probably Iran or Syria. Or hell, maybe we’ll invade Mars in the next year. Or you’ll be dead.” Fear tinged his voice. One thing about Bowen was his no fear mentality. Take no prisoners. Show no fear. Beat them at their own game in their own house. That’s why he had the big scholarship and the bright future. All the way back to pee wee league it had been the same. Bo, the big chunky boy who didn’t talk much, but no one pushed him down. No one pushed Dylan down either. They’d have Bo to deal with. Bo and Dylan. Dylan and Bo. They were a team. A unit. Where one went, the other wasn’t far behind.

Except now, Dylan had to stand on his own. “I can’t be dead. You’d fly over and take on the whole Middle East if that happened.” He tried to laugh it off. Hoping to make Bo accept that this wasn’t such a bad thing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” So much for that idea. Bo threw the frame against the wall, the force of impact shattered the wood and glass, and the photo fell face down in the pile of debris.

“You asshole, why’d you do that?” Dylan was across the room before he knew what he was doing. He shoved Bo as hard as he could, but that was like shoving a brick wall. A brick wall that shoved back and Dylan landed on the floor. Bo followed him down, straddling him; his fist raised just enough to punch. He was so close Dylan could see the fear and anger in his eyes. Betrayal. This was betrayal, something he’d never seen before. Something he’d never done before. Dylan steeled himself for the blow but it didn’t come.

A drop of moisture on his nose made him open his eyes in time to see Bo swipe at his eyes. “You can undo it? Please, undo it. Go tell them you made a mistake. Tell them that you can’t go.” He lowered his hand and leaned over, his face so close Dylan could see every pore, every single blond growth of stubble. He could see Bo’s fear…and smell it. See and smell and feel, enough to react when he’d sworn he wouldn’t. This was something he had to do and there was nothing left to decide.

“I can’t,” Dylan whispered, swallowing back the thick greasy bile that threatened to climb out his throat. He couldn’t allow Bo’s fear to engulf him. He’d never be able to leave if he did.

“Why? You always wanted football. There are other colleges. There are ways—“

“I want to go,” Dylan said, ignoring the pain in his friend’s voice. He’d never told Bo that football wasn’t his dream. Bo’s dream had always been big enough for them both. Until it wasn’t anymore. Senior year was spectacular but he’d known early on that he wasn’t anything special. He was just an average run of the mill quarterback and the recruiters had too many quarterbacks with so-so arms. They came to see Bo play, Badass Bowen Murphy who could snatch a fly out of thin air and take on the biggest meanest lineman any team could throw at him, that’s what the recruiters wanted. He was big and agile and poetry in motion. “Football is your dream, Bowen. My talents lie elsewhere.”

“You always did like to talk about the future but this isn’t what we talked about. I can’t see you with a gun in your hand.” His voice took on a wheedling childlike tone. One he used when they were six or seven and in trouble. All the time in trouble.

“Not all military jobs end up on the battlefield.” But Dylan knew that Bo knew he lied. If he’d wanted a safe computer job, he would have joined a different branch of the military. He was born to be a Marine like his father, and his grandfather before him. He was born to serve the way they had.

“Promise me you won’t get dead.” Tears clogged Bo’s throat, he made an impatient noise and leaned over until his nose touched Dylan’s. “Promise me you’ll write. Email. Whatever they let you do, every day. And that you don’t get dead.”

“I promise.” Trapped by his friend’s hazel gaze, Dylan gulped down the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t go away. He’d write every day. He’d Skype. Everything he could. He couldn’t promise that other thing. But he didn’t need to tell Bo that. “I promise. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Bo nodded, his jaw clenched and unclenched, he breathed out a quick breath. One that smelled of orange soda. And then Dylan tasted the orange soda, on his lips, his tongue. Shocked, he didn’t realize why his mouth was fused to Bo’s until Bo sat up. His dick hard and straining beneath the wet trunks. The look in his eyes wild, embarrassed—no, ashamed. Shame and fear. So much fear that turned to confusion.

Confusion echoing in his own mind, Dylan caught his arm before Bo could clamber off him. Holding on for all he was worth, he said the words he thought he never could. “Kiss me! Again! Please.”

* * * * *

The buzzing of humiliation and shame was all Bo could hear. The look on Dylan’s face, shock, fear, loathing…not loathing. Why was Dylan looking at him as if he’d lost his damned mind? Because he had. Time to go. Play it off as… as what? Stupidity? The buzzing in his mind intensified the longer Dylan stared at him. His lips moved but Bo didn’t hear a word his friend said, his fingers dug into Bo’s arms, effectively keeping him from running. He hadn’t meant to kiss Dylan, he didn’t actually know that he had, except that Dylan’s tongue was in his mouth and then he knew what he’d done.

Held captive by the death grip on his arms and the stunned look in Dyl’s eyes, he straddled his best friend, his dick so damned hard he’d come if Dylan so much as looked at it. Dylan’s shorts and t-shirt were wet where he’d dripped onto him. A thick bulge beneath the loose cotton shorts caught his attention but he wouldn’t let himself think about that right now. No way did Dylan have a hard-on for him. No way. He couldn’t breathe or think or run. All these years of keeping this shit from Dylan. Of wanting to be with him. Football and Dylan. That was all he’d ever wanted. Now he had football but was losing Dylan. But Dylan seemed to be saying what he wanted to hear. He wanted so much to do as Dylan asked, but then he’d confirm what Dylan already suspected. No way was he willing to risk that much no matter how many times Dyl licked his lips and said the word. Yet he couldn’t stop staring at the word on those lips.

Bo didn’t lean over and do what the lips asked for. He remained frozen, hovering above his friend, blood pumping too fast in some places and too slowly in others. His brain for example, no blood at all in there. He had no idea how the thing even worked anymore. Dylan did a half crunch, holding Bo’s arms to keep himself in the position, and kissed him. God, it was like, god, and god…Dyl’s lips were so damned soft, his tongue hot, wet, insistent. Bo opened his mouth and inhaled like a man rescued from drowning. Breathing through his nose, he crushed Dylan to his chest. And then they were flat on the floor again, body to body, mouth to mouth, dick to dick.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” The words were an imitation of his from earlier, but different. Softer, full of wonder and regret. Bo had no answer besides the obvious.

“Why didn’t you?” He forgot what the question was or why he wasn’t supposed to be on the floor humping his best friend. Dylan’s hands slid along his back, lover-like. Exploring him, delving inside his swim trunks. Fingernails dug into his ass cheeks. He moaned into Dylan’s open mouth. His hips took on a mind of their own, rocking his excruciatingly hard cock along the hard ridge trapped beneath him. His skin dried only to become sweat soaked as he moved.