Mountain Prey
Aug. 27th, 2011 09:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lit_galLet's try this again. Livejournal is being bitchy today.
Despite the fact I have a half-dozen originals already started, I think this may be my next. What do you guys (honestly) think?
Mountain Prey
Stunt Folger has a good life as a forestry technician. He can tend his beloved Appalachian mountains by day and drive to the city when he needs a little kinky fun. Other than a few moonshiners who just hate federal employees for philosophical reasons, he doesn't have a problem in the world. However, walking the trails puts him in the center of danger when he runs into Justin Soto, a man out for revenge. Just out of prison, Justin knows first hand that the justice system doesn't treat poor and rich equally, so when he sets his sights on avenging his brother's death, he goes outside the law. However, when an innocent man lands in the middle of his plans, he doesn't know what to do... other than take him hostage. And sadly, that's only the start of how strange this adventure is about to get.
Stunt Folger turned slowly, trying to figure out why he had the feeling of someone staring a hole in the back of his head. In this part of the country, that wasn’t even particularly a metaphor. He didn't know of anyone running a still in this exact area, and there weren’t any families squatting around these parts, so he should be safe, yet his gut screamed that he wasn’t. After doing as much stupid shit as he’d done in his life, he was pretty good at recognizing that sense of looming danger.
This part of the mountain was good hiking territory… not that bad things didn’t happen even on the well-marked sections of the Appalachian trail, and he was a good sight west of the official trail—near where private land started. Mostly ecologists and nature nuts wandered off onto this branch of the trail, but those folks tended to be loud and Stunt could see them coming from a ways away. Right now, he couldn’t see a single leaf out of place.Despite that, he couldn’t escape that cold shiver you got when there was something particularly nasty sneaking up on you.
The day was relatively cool, the trail littered with little saplings struggling up out of the hard packed brown earth and between the gray shale rocks with their edges stained green with moss. The sugar maples shaded the ground, leaving the younger beech and white ash to starve in their shadows. It wasn’t healthy, a whole cluster of one kind of tree, and Stunt figured humans probably mucked something up in the ecology ‘round here, but other than a lack of diversification in the flora, he couldn’t figure what had him twitching so bad.
They said these mountains were some of the oldest, and Stunt figured they’d still be standing come the end times, but sometimes the mountain lied. It made you see things that weren’t there. Stunt still sometimes swore he could feel Wicked John rushing by him on the breeze, his soul exiled from heaven for sinning and from hell because he’d given the devil so much grief before died. It was a stupid kid’s story, but Stunt turned a full circle as he searched for something that didn’t exist.
“You’re losing your mind out here,” he told himself out loud, hoping the sound of his voice would scare off any spirits. The only answer was the stirring of the wind through the branches so that shadows danced on the ground.
“The work ain’t doing itself,” he chastised himself as he pulled on a set of gloves. He could use poison to keep the trail clear, but he didn’t like the idea of dropping poison in his metaphorical backyard. He’d rather put in a little extra effort and clear it the old fashioned way. Wrapping his hands around a thin beech trunk, he gave it a good yank, ripping out the young roots and tossing it far back into the maples.
Stunt bent down to pull another sapling when a flash of something caught his eye. He couldn’t say if it was a shape or a color or a movement, but he peered at a rough shaped lump of something near the base of a tree, struggling to figure out what he was looking at.
He was looking so hard and so long that when the lump turned into a man leaping at him, Stunt couldn’t do more than stumble back a step. His heel caught on a bit of shale, and he windmilled his arms and staggered back, trying to not fall on his ass. By the time he’d gotten both feet directly under him, the man had a pretty impressive rifle pointed right at Stunt’s midsection.
Stunt raised his hands high. “Now, no need to do anything drastic,” he hurried to say. “If you have a claim on this bit of land I am more than happy to find myself someplace else to be.” This wasn’t the first time Stunt had a gun pointed at him, and it wasn’t the first time he’d decided that a certain bit of the federal trail system could do without maintenance. Hell, Stunt chose to let trails go back to nature on a semi-regular basis because it came too close to some cranky soul with a gun. They were kind of a dime a dozen in these parts.
“Who are you?” The man was about Stunt’s age—mid to late twenties. Unlike Stunt who had a real talent at being average looking, this guy was seriously good looking, especially for a gun-toting psycho.
“Stunt Folger,” he introduced himself. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, and if it doesn’t bother you none, I will be taking myself back down the trail.” Stunt eased his way back. Mr. Gun might be cute as hell with sandy brown hair and the yummiest blue eyes Stunt had seen in a while, but that gun was a very big deterrent when it came to chatting.
“Freeze.” Mr. Gun raised his rifle, and Stunt absolutely froze.
“Now, let’s all calm down,” he urged quietly.
“I am calm,” Mr. Gun announced as he climbed up onto the trail, leaves falling away with each step. He’d buried himself in the leaf litter, which did tend to indicate he was up to no good. No self-respecting moonshiner would bury himself in leaves just to avoid one little forestry technician. With each passing second, this was looking a little bit worse.
“You may be calm, but I’m not,” Stunt said as Mr. Gun kept on coming closer. “In fact, I’m freaking out a bit, so how about you giving me a second to just think?”
“Think with your hands behind your head, fingers interlocked,” Mr. Gun ordered. Okay, this was bad in that Stunt really didn’t want to be helpless in front of this guy, but at least the man was ordering him around instead of shooting him, which was one small point in Stunt’s favor. “Now!”
Stunt took a step back as that rifle came dangerously close. “If it keeps you from shooting me, no problem.” Stunt carefully put his hands behind his head and interlocked his fingers. “Whatever you want, I’m not in any position to give you grief, so why don’t you just move on?”
“Turn around.”
With his heart pounding painfully hard, Stunt studied the man and tried figuring out if his life expectancy had just dropped from years to minutes. “You don’t want trouble any more than I do. You don’t want to pull that trigger.” Stunt kept his voice nice and quiet, like when some neighbor had his crazy-ass dog ready to bite you in the nuts if you didn’t run fast enough.
Mr. Gun gave Stunt a real dirty look, the kind teachers and mothers loved to throw around. “I don’t plan to shoot you.”
“Your big-ass gun is saying something else. I’m really hoping it’s a liar.” Knowing he didn’t have a whole lot of choices, Stunt slowly turned around, putting his back to Mr. Gun.
“On your knees.”
Before this day was done, Stunt was going to have a heart attack if he didn’t get shot in the head first. “If you’re going to shoot me—”
“I already said I wasn’t.” From the tone, Stunt had managed to offend the crazy man. Great. “I may, however, gag you if you don’t shut up and start following orders.”
“You might want to stop with the threats before my heart gives out,” Stunt countered as he struggled to kneel down without slamming both his knees into the rocky ground. It wasn’t that easy with his hands behind his head. It made the angle very awkward, even for someone who was normally talented at going to his knees.
“You look healthy enough.
“And you look sane. Imagine that,” Stunt snapped. His common sense kicked in about a second too late to save him from his mouth, and there was a long silence. Insulting the man holding you at gunpoint was bad. Insulting him and then not being able to see the reaction because your back was turned and he’d gone utterly silent was so very much worse. Stunt’s heart pretty much stopped beating as long, silent seconds passed.
“You’d be safer if I did gag you,” Mr. Gun finally said, but he almost sounded amused. Stunt started breathing again and silently promised God to take up praying in the very near future.
“That’s a possibility,” Stunt admitted. “I have been known to insert two or three feet into my mouth at once. But feel free to tie me to a tree and leave me, only could you give someone a call and let them know where to find me? I’m not fond of the idea of dying of thirst out here.”
Hands patted Stunt down, pulling his pockets out and getting running up and down Stunt’s thighs. Normally Stunt’s dick would have embarrassed itself by now, but luckily it was too busy trying to climb back up and become an internal organ to care. “You’re coming with me,” Mr. Gun announced when he finished.
“That doesn’t sound ominous, not at all,” Stunt said sarcastically.
“I’m not going to leave you behind to describe me to the state police.”
“And the ominous just keeps on a’coming,” Stunt muttered.
Behind him, Mr. Gun gave a sound that sounded a little like a growl. “Look, I’m only going to say this once. I wouldn’t shoot an innocent man. So relax and you’ll get through this.”
“Yeah. Relax. I’ll get right on that.”
“Cross your ankles and do not move.”
“Does shaking count?” Feeling like he was walking to his own execution, Stunt complied since he couldn’t figure out what else to do. Maybe if he kept Mr. Gun happy he could avoid turning up in the local obituaries.
“Look at it this way, you’re going to have one hell of a story to tell your buddies.” Mr. Gun stepped on the back of Stunt’s top leg, pinning both his feet to the ground and making a sharp rock dig into the flesh of Stunt’s shin. Damn that hurt.
“Have you considered therapy?” Stunt flinched as metal ratcheted closed around his right wrist. Of course this man carried handcuffs. Perfect. Ropes wouldn’t have been a problem, but cuffs…. Shit.
“You’re insulting your captor? I’m not the only one who might want to sign up for a few sessions,” Mr. Gun pointed out.
Stunt sighed as he realized that the guy was probably right. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
“Where’s your gun?” Mr. Gun pulled Stunt’s hands behind his back and closed the cuffs around his left wrist. Panic nearly crawled up Stunt’s throat and choked him to death before he could swallow it back down.
“Considering you just frisked me, you already know I don’t have one.”
Mr. Gun’s warm hands left him, and Stunt stared head at the split trunk of a maple, his brain spinning off into trivial thoughts about how they should come out here and thin the trees and clear a few damaged ones. A cold barrel pressed against the back of his neck. “I won’t ask you again,” Mr. Gun warned, his voice cold.
“In my truck. It’s under the front seat,” Stunt offered up. He definitely wasn’t winning any points here.
“Not smart, walking around without a gun.”
“Have you looked around? This isn’t exactly crime central. At least, it wasn’t before you showed up.”
“I don’t know about that.” The gun barrel withdrew, and Stunt took a couple of deep breaths to stave off a pending case of unconscious. “You seem to have some new neighbors. Trust me, you should keep your weapon on hand.”
“I tell you what, cut me loose, and I’ll go get it now.” Danger always had made Stunt a little giddy and stupid… which is why he had earned the nickname Stunt. He’d gone out of his way to do the most dangerous shit he could, but this was far beyond even his comfort level.
“Funny.”
“Not really. Terror makes it hard to really tell a good joke.”
Mr. Gun reached up between Stunt’s legs and pressed up, nearly sending Stunt falling forward on his face, only Mr. Gun grabbed his shoulder and righted him before reaching around and fumbling with Stunt’s belt.
“Hey, hey, hey, if you’re looking for some fuck buddy who is into seriously fucked up kink, I can give you the name of a club. You do not have to do this.”
“I’m not going to rape you. I’m checking for knives.”
“Okay, I have to ask. Where the hell do you keep your knife?”
“You’d be surprised as what a man can hide in his pants.”
“After this, you pretty much know everything I have in my pants. Feel free to have some homophobia kick in, you know, the sense the maybe you shouldn’t look at another man’s dick in the school showers or ever touch a man’s crotch. Ever. I’m okay with that sort of homophobia right now.”
Mr. Gun’s hand ran along the inside of Stunt’s pants before pulling out the belt. “I’m gay.”
Stunt closed his eyes. Of course. Fuck. Under normal circumstance, he’d love to meet a gay may this good with a set of cuffs. Right now, he was figuring this really couldn’t get too much worse. “You do know that does not make me feel better, right?”
“I told you, your virtue’s safe with me.” He checked Stunt’s right boot.
“You have a bit of a credibility issue with me. You know that, yes?” Stunt asked, groaning when Mr. Gun checked his left boot and found the sweet little Mini Tak Beavertail skinning knife tucked down in it.
“Yep. I figure we both have trust issues at this point.” Mr. Gun stepped to the side and pulled Stunt up to his feet. “Let’s head to your truck. You do not want me to get spooked so be a good boy and I won’t have to shoot you in the back.”
“Great,” Stunt sighed. If he thought he had any chance of getting Mr. Gun to listen, Stunt might have suggested a quick trip to the emergency room because his chest hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. However, he cooperated as his captor escorted him trail. Today was not a good day.
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Walking down the trail, Stunt sorted through every fact he knew about hostage situations. The fact that most of them came from television was not exactly comforting. “So, what do you want?” Stunt’s words came out a little more aggressive than he intended. Mr. Gun’s hand tightened, and for a second, Stunt thought he was being warned to shut up. However, Mr. Gun yanked him off to the side of the trail so they both slid down the leaf litter and down into the trees. Without hands to slow his decent, Stunt ended up with his face shoved into the leaves and mold, the warm smell of rot rising up from the dirt. He sneezed, and felt snot slid down toward his lip, his instinct being to wipe it away, which left him fighting the cuffs.
Mr. Gun lay on top of him, the cold barrel of the gun pressed into the spot just under Stunt’s ear. “Shhh.” He said. For someone who kept claiming he didn’t plan to do any killing, the man spent a consider amount of time point his gun at Stunt.
“They come through here about once a month,” a male voice said.
“I don’t like it.”
“They’re not cops. They’re more like yard boys, only paid by the feds.”
“And having a fed around is not going to make the boss happy,” the second man said. He had a strong accent, something sharper than Mr. Gun’s western California-boy. They sure weren’t local, not any of them.
“Around here, even feds know to mind their own business.”
“And where is he now? If he’s playing yard boy on the trail, shouldn’t we see him?”
“The chances are he has to check all the trails and streams for miles around. We’ll probably never see him, and he’ll sure as hell never see us since he doesn’t have the right to come onto private property.”
The voices were fading now, and Stunt frowned. Why the hell were two strangers worrying about him doing his job? Hell, even moonshiners knew he was pretty impotent, in the legal department anyway. Of course, that didn’t prevent them from pointing gun at him, but at least they generally weren’t willing to take it farther than that. This new crop of crazy though… Stunt wasn’t sure about them.
“We move fast and quiet,” Mr. Gun ordered in a rough whisper. “Those two will shoot you on sight.”
“And you won’t?” Stunt whispered back, but he struggled to cooperate and get his feet under him as Mr. Gun pulled him upright.
“I’m really getting sick of telling you I don’t plan to kill you.”
“Imagine that. I’m annoying you,” Stunt said in a flat voice. He somehow wasn’t feeling too much sympathy for the man. A glance over his shoulder revealed that Mr. Gun had on his unhappy face. He scowled darkly, the blue of his eyes turning into narrow bands of color. Either the man was scared out of his mind—scared enough to make his eyes dilate—or he was stoned off his gourd. Stunt wondered which would be worse, but he didn’t have much time for contemplating. Mr. Gun pushed him toward the path. He had to really give Stunt some good shoving to get him back up to the trail since without his hands free, Stunt was pretty much helpless against the slippery ground. Under the dry layer of leaves, slick mold crept from leaf to leaf, turning it into a layer of slime that soaked into Stunt’s pants every time he went to one knee… which was too often.
After some almost silent curses from both of them, they got back up on the trail, and Mr. Gun broke into a trot, hurrying Stunt along with a hand around his arm.
Stunt tried pulling off the trail. “Wait, hey,”
“Keep moving.”
Stunt planted his feet and nearly got pulled to the ground before Mr. Gun stopped. “You said you wanted to go to my truck. It’s this a’way,” Stunt jerked his head up the gentle slope. Here most of the leaves had been whisked away by some quirk of summer rains or wind, leaving the trees’ roots peeking through the dry forest floor in search of oxygen.
“If you’re playing a trick,” Mr. Gun warned.
“I’m unarmed and handcuffed. Exactly what sort of trick do you think I’d be playing?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That makes two of us. Now, I ain’t saying that I wouldn’t love to trick you, but right now, I’m one plan short of a plan. I just don’t feel like following a loop of the trail an extra two miles when I’m dirty, sore, and scared enough to make my heart stutter like Jimmy Bolleau.”
Mr. Gun narrowed his eyes and considered the slope before looking back at Stunt. “If we run into someone, you do not want to know what I am capable of,” he warned.
“I pretty much figure I know already seeing as how you keep threatening to shoot me. Trust me, I’m very fond of my skin being in one piece.”
Mr. Gun’s gaze skittered to the section of trail they’d come down as though looking for those two guys to come back and then to the other end of the trail and then up the slope before coming back to Stunt. “Your face is dirty,” he observed, which seem a mite bit like a non-sequitur, but seeing as how Stunt’s brain wasn’t exactly tracking real well, he couldn’t blame the man.
“You shoved my face into leaf mold. I reckon it’s all kinds of dirty,” he agreed.
Mr. Gun pulled a cloth out of his pocket and pulled one of those green plastic canteens off his belt, pouring some water onto the cloth before wringing it out. Stunt watched, not quite sure what to think as Mr. Gun reached up to stroke the damp cloth over Stunt’s face. The word surreal was making another appearance, that’s for sure. Moving slow, Mr. Gun wiped Stunt’s forehead and then down over one temple before cleaning his left cheek and then his right one. As he worked, Stunt could see the tattoo on his right forearm—a simple cross with uneven black lines that pretty much screamed “prison tattoo.”
Stunt bit down on the urge to say something inappropriate. If he wanted to come out of this alive, he really needed to stop poking the ex-con who had taken him captive. And it was hard to keep that in mind when the ex-con in question ran the cloth down Stunt’s nose, cleaning off the running snot and mud as carefully as a mother.
Clearing his throat, Mr. Gun took a quick step back and shoved the cloth in his pocket—mud, snot and all. “Let’s go,” he ordered, a gruffness in his voice as he tightened his hand around his rifle. He wasn’t as comfortable carrying it as most of the folk around here, but that wasn’t necessarily a point in Stunt’s favor. People could make some mighty big mistakes when they weren’t familiar with a weapon, and given that this guy tended to point his gun at Stunt on a regular basis, that was not a comfort.
“This way,” Stunt said, which was rather redundant seeing as how he was already heading up the slope. Mr. Gun stayed just to the side of him, looking around with those blue eyes like he expected Wicked John to come flying out from behind a tree.
“Who are we running from?” Stunt finally asked as they cleared the dry creek that always took out Thompson’s road in spring.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I’d sooner know than get shot over something that isn’t making a bit of sense. I mean, as far as I can tell, you’re all funny turned.”
“Are you talking like that for my benefit?”
Stunt shot Mr. Gun a confused look. “Excuse me?”
“You sound smarter that most people around here, so I’m wondering if you’re trying to pull some game by talking like that. Like you’re some hick.”
Stunt stopped long enough to really and truly glare at Mr. Gun. “Just because I have an accent does not mean I ain’t intelligent. I know as well as the next person that ‘ain’t’ ain’t a word, and if you’re going to get all brigedy about how I talk, we’re going to have a problem.”
“Funny, I thought we had a problem because I pulled a gun on you,” Mr. Gun commented in a perfectly droll tone. For a second Stunt only stared at him, greatly tempted to smile. This man was just bending Stunt’s head every which way.
“You have issues,” Stunt finally proclaimed.
“I have an alphabetized and indexed library of issues,” Mr. Gun agreed, tugging at Stunt’s arm to get him moving again. “Do you really think I’d be running around these mountains if I didn’t?”
“There is that.”
“Yeah, there is.” With that, Mr. Gun fell silent, and Stunt really couldn’t think of much to say. Usually his mouth was willing to run away with the rest of him, but right now he had so many questions that his brain was spinning, and he wasn’t sure he wanted any of the answers. If he knew what was going on, would he be more or less likely to end up face-down in a shallow grave? He really wished he had an answer to that. Desperately wished.
“So how far is this truck of yours?” Mr. Gun asked as they approached a low ridge.
“Other side of the hill.”
“So, you just parked in the forest?”
“The trail loops back around. I’m parked just off Thompson Road.”
“I can check the map when we get there,” Mr. Gun said. Stunt grunted, but he didn’t comment. Around here, maps were nigh-on worthless. People changed roads when it suited them, and let them fall back to forest land when it didn’t. Every time a good-old boy moved a still or a meth shed, it seemed like the whole network of roads shifted to accommodate. And if that wasn’t bad enough, most every everyone Stunt knew had stolen at least one street sign, himself included. It was a sort of prank, something to challenge the local law. Challenging the law was a rite of passage, and confusing strangers was another, which is why stealing street signs was such a popular pastime.
Shoulders aching, Stunt finally got to the top of the rise where they could see his pickup parked with two wheels off onto the slope so the vehicle listed to one side, leaving enough room for another truck to pass. “Right where I promised,” Stunt pointed out. See, he was playing nice. His high school English teacher would be amazed at how nice he could play when he had a gun pointed at his back. Mind, he wasn’t advocating the teaching of English at gunpoint, but it would have improved his GPA.
“Gun under the seat?”
“Unless someone has stolen it, but given how my day is going, I’m not discounting that possibility.”
“Your day could have been worse if the other two had caught you.” Mr. Gun said.
Stunt wasn’t sure he agreed given that the other two seemed ready to live and let live, even if they didn’t like him. Mr. Gun here kept promising that he wasn’t into killing innocent men, but the prison tattoo was a little worrisome, and Stunt wasn’t sure how Mr. Gun intended to end this. It seemed as if Stunt had a really good description of Mr. Gun right now. He had a long-sleeved black shirt and camouflage pants, military surplus boots and gear and a Model 700 Remington Buckmaster hunting rifle that he seemed a little less than comfortable with. He had light blue eyes, a strong Roman nose and slightly squared chin with sandy brown hair and long fingers that felt good as they wiped your face clean. Honestly, though, he should probably edit that last part out of any statement to the police, at least unless he wanted to end up sounding crazy as a bedbug. And he couldn’t figure out what this guy was thinking because Stunt could give the police all that… as long as he survived. That last was the rub.
Mr. Gun had already taken Stunt’s keys, so when they reached the truck, Stunt got shoved stomach first into the side of the truck. Without a word, Mr. Gun kicked his legs apart and pulled on Stunt’s belt to make him shuffle back until his legs were obscenely spread like one of those men on a police show getting frisked or one of those guys in porn about to get seriously nailed. It was funny how the pose was similar in those two cases. “Stay.” Mr. Gun ordered.
Without moving, Stunt answered with a “Woof.”
“Keep it up and you’ll be on a leash, Rover.”
“Stunt.”
“What?” Mr. Gun had opened the driver’s side door, tossing aside the fast food trash from under the seat in his search for the gun, but now he looked up at Stunt.
“Stunt Folger. Stuart Folger actually, but no one calls me Stuart except the preacher and my mother and no one at all calls me Rover.”
“So we’re having introductions now?” Mr. Gun seemed to think about that, and Stunt swallowed as it occurred to him that Mr. Gun might not have realized how much information Stunt was gathering up on him until this very moment. After all, hanging out in the leaf litter wasn’t exactly a sign of great intelligence.
“Justin,” Mr. Gun offered. It was such a normal name that it took a second for it to really sink in. Oh, Stunt hadn’t exactly expected him to be named “Killer,” but “Justin” seemed pretty pedestrian for a guy who ran around taking hostages. Justin went back to searching under the seat, finally coming up with Stunt’s Jericho 941 pistol. “Well, this is fancier than I expected around here.”
“You mean from us hicks?” Stunt said.
“Yep.” Justin agreed without rancor, checking gun and pulling the ammo out quickly. He was better with a pistol than his hunting rifle, that’s for sure. “Any more weapons?”
“I have a nice booby trap in the glove compartment that will blow your hand off,” Stunt said with a sweet smile. “Want to try it out?”
Justin shoved the gun into the back of his pants and pulled his shirt over it to hide it, not that anyone would care around here. “Do you need a gag? I could dig one up if you can’t control that mouth of yours.”
“Oh no. Do not blame me if you get some wild hair and feel like getting into more bondage. This is all about you and your dysfunction,” Stunt said. He grunted as he shifted to push one of his shoulders against the side of the truck without moving his feet. Justin struck him as someone who wouldn’t appreciate him moving too much, but his shoulders were really hurting. Stunt got tied up often enough, but usually he was on his bed and his hands were over his head, not wrenched behind him. This was more annoying that he would have thought, and sadly, he had come up with scenarios pretty close to this more than once when he was choking the old chicken.
“My dysfunction wouldn’t include an unwilling partner, so how about you stop pushing that button before you ruin my favorite fantasies?”
“Oh yeah, because I really worry about your sex life. As long as it doesn’t involve me, I don’t care about your kinks.”
“Really? Because you’re the one who offered me a club where this would be considered foreplay. I think that implies I’m not the only one with kinks,” Justin pointed out. Stunt cringed. Okay, so A) Justin wasn’t as dumb as Stunt had hoped and B) Stunt really needed to work on being more subtle. Usually he was pretty good at not shoving his gayness or his kinkiness in anyone’s face since this wasn’t exactly open-minded central around these parts, but Stunt had definitely outted himself.
“My kinks include the word consensual.”
“And safe and sane, I bet,” Justin said with a grin that quickly fell away when Stunt didn’t return it. As the person tied up, helpless, and terrified, Stunt really didn’t want to even think about what it meant that his sex life so often included the first two of those. Justin cleared this throat. “I’m not into rape, I’m not into murder. I’m not going to hurt an innocent man unless he does something really stupid like back me into a corner. So can you please stop assuming the worst of me?” asked the man with the big gun and the keys to the cuffs. The irony wasn’t lost on Stunt.
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that. You could always drop me off in town and let me look for a good shrink with emergency office hours,” Stunt offered as Justin took him by the arm and pulled him around the front of the truck.
“Your mouth must get you into a lot of trouble.”
“Your tendency of taking hostages must do the same.”
Justin gave a quick huff of laughter. “You’re my first. I’m in virgin territory here.”
Stunt figured that meant that, if he took Justin’s word for things, that kidnapping, murder, and rape were off the list of things Justin had gone to prison for. That still left a lot of terrifying territory, especially when Stunt figured some guy in the hoosegow for shop lifting wouldn’t be getting a prison tattoo.
Justin forced him up against the side of the truck, pushing his legs apart like on the other side. Sighing, Stunt cooperated, watching while Justin searched the passenger side. Unfortunately, the glove compartment wasn’t booby-trapped and all he got out of it was the department’s credit card for a local gas station. He pulled a blanket out from behind the seat and folded it carefully before arranging it on the floor of the passenger side.
“Okay, in you go, knees on the blanket,” Justin ordered. Stunt frowned, but he didn’t really have much choice but to climb awkwardly into the passenger side and kneel on the floor. The space was too small for comfort, and he was awkwardly jammed between the glove box and the seat. Between that and the cuffs, he would not be trying anything heroically stupid in the near future.
Justin got into the driver side and started the truck before he pulled out a map and opened it on the bench seat.
“Comfortable?” he asked as he studied the network of roads that totally didn’t match reality.
“Bite me,” Stunt answered. Justin’s gaze flickered toward him, and he smiled, but he didn’t comment as he searched the map for something. It looked like they were taking a road trip.
Let me know what you think because now is the time to tweak the characters and/or hook.
Despite the fact I have a half-dozen originals already started, I think this may be my next. What do you guys (honestly) think?
Mountain Prey
Stunt Folger has a good life as a forestry technician. He can tend his beloved Appalachian mountains by day and drive to the city when he needs a little kinky fun. Other than a few moonshiners who just hate federal employees for philosophical reasons, he doesn't have a problem in the world. However, walking the trails puts him in the center of danger when he runs into Justin Soto, a man out for revenge. Just out of prison, Justin knows first hand that the justice system doesn't treat poor and rich equally, so when he sets his sights on avenging his brother's death, he goes outside the law. However, when an innocent man lands in the middle of his plans, he doesn't know what to do... other than take him hostage. And sadly, that's only the start of how strange this adventure is about to get.
Stunt Folger turned slowly, trying to figure out why he had the feeling of someone staring a hole in the back of his head. In this part of the country, that wasn’t even particularly a metaphor. He didn't know of anyone running a still in this exact area, and there weren’t any families squatting around these parts, so he should be safe, yet his gut screamed that he wasn’t. After doing as much stupid shit as he’d done in his life, he was pretty good at recognizing that sense of looming danger.
This part of the mountain was good hiking territory… not that bad things didn’t happen even on the well-marked sections of the Appalachian trail, and he was a good sight west of the official trail—near where private land started. Mostly ecologists and nature nuts wandered off onto this branch of the trail, but those folks tended to be loud and Stunt could see them coming from a ways away. Right now, he couldn’t see a single leaf out of place.Despite that, he couldn’t escape that cold shiver you got when there was something particularly nasty sneaking up on you.
The day was relatively cool, the trail littered with little saplings struggling up out of the hard packed brown earth and between the gray shale rocks with their edges stained green with moss. The sugar maples shaded the ground, leaving the younger beech and white ash to starve in their shadows. It wasn’t healthy, a whole cluster of one kind of tree, and Stunt figured humans probably mucked something up in the ecology ‘round here, but other than a lack of diversification in the flora, he couldn’t figure what had him twitching so bad.
They said these mountains were some of the oldest, and Stunt figured they’d still be standing come the end times, but sometimes the mountain lied. It made you see things that weren’t there. Stunt still sometimes swore he could feel Wicked John rushing by him on the breeze, his soul exiled from heaven for sinning and from hell because he’d given the devil so much grief before died. It was a stupid kid’s story, but Stunt turned a full circle as he searched for something that didn’t exist.
“You’re losing your mind out here,” he told himself out loud, hoping the sound of his voice would scare off any spirits. The only answer was the stirring of the wind through the branches so that shadows danced on the ground.
“The work ain’t doing itself,” he chastised himself as he pulled on a set of gloves. He could use poison to keep the trail clear, but he didn’t like the idea of dropping poison in his metaphorical backyard. He’d rather put in a little extra effort and clear it the old fashioned way. Wrapping his hands around a thin beech trunk, he gave it a good yank, ripping out the young roots and tossing it far back into the maples.
Stunt bent down to pull another sapling when a flash of something caught his eye. He couldn’t say if it was a shape or a color or a movement, but he peered at a rough shaped lump of something near the base of a tree, struggling to figure out what he was looking at.
He was looking so hard and so long that when the lump turned into a man leaping at him, Stunt couldn’t do more than stumble back a step. His heel caught on a bit of shale, and he windmilled his arms and staggered back, trying to not fall on his ass. By the time he’d gotten both feet directly under him, the man had a pretty impressive rifle pointed right at Stunt’s midsection.
Stunt raised his hands high. “Now, no need to do anything drastic,” he hurried to say. “If you have a claim on this bit of land I am more than happy to find myself someplace else to be.” This wasn’t the first time Stunt had a gun pointed at him, and it wasn’t the first time he’d decided that a certain bit of the federal trail system could do without maintenance. Hell, Stunt chose to let trails go back to nature on a semi-regular basis because it came too close to some cranky soul with a gun. They were kind of a dime a dozen in these parts.
“Who are you?” The man was about Stunt’s age—mid to late twenties. Unlike Stunt who had a real talent at being average looking, this guy was seriously good looking, especially for a gun-toting psycho.
“Stunt Folger,” he introduced himself. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, and if it doesn’t bother you none, I will be taking myself back down the trail.” Stunt eased his way back. Mr. Gun might be cute as hell with sandy brown hair and the yummiest blue eyes Stunt had seen in a while, but that gun was a very big deterrent when it came to chatting.
“Freeze.” Mr. Gun raised his rifle, and Stunt absolutely froze.
“Now, let’s all calm down,” he urged quietly.
“I am calm,” Mr. Gun announced as he climbed up onto the trail, leaves falling away with each step. He’d buried himself in the leaf litter, which did tend to indicate he was up to no good. No self-respecting moonshiner would bury himself in leaves just to avoid one little forestry technician. With each passing second, this was looking a little bit worse.
“You may be calm, but I’m not,” Stunt said as Mr. Gun kept on coming closer. “In fact, I’m freaking out a bit, so how about you giving me a second to just think?”
“Think with your hands behind your head, fingers interlocked,” Mr. Gun ordered. Okay, this was bad in that Stunt really didn’t want to be helpless in front of this guy, but at least the man was ordering him around instead of shooting him, which was one small point in Stunt’s favor. “Now!”
Stunt took a step back as that rifle came dangerously close. “If it keeps you from shooting me, no problem.” Stunt carefully put his hands behind his head and interlocked his fingers. “Whatever you want, I’m not in any position to give you grief, so why don’t you just move on?”
“Turn around.”
With his heart pounding painfully hard, Stunt studied the man and tried figuring out if his life expectancy had just dropped from years to minutes. “You don’t want trouble any more than I do. You don’t want to pull that trigger.” Stunt kept his voice nice and quiet, like when some neighbor had his crazy-ass dog ready to bite you in the nuts if you didn’t run fast enough.
Mr. Gun gave Stunt a real dirty look, the kind teachers and mothers loved to throw around. “I don’t plan to shoot you.”
“Your big-ass gun is saying something else. I’m really hoping it’s a liar.” Knowing he didn’t have a whole lot of choices, Stunt slowly turned around, putting his back to Mr. Gun.
“On your knees.”
Before this day was done, Stunt was going to have a heart attack if he didn’t get shot in the head first. “If you’re going to shoot me—”
“I already said I wasn’t.” From the tone, Stunt had managed to offend the crazy man. Great. “I may, however, gag you if you don’t shut up and start following orders.”
“You might want to stop with the threats before my heart gives out,” Stunt countered as he struggled to kneel down without slamming both his knees into the rocky ground. It wasn’t that easy with his hands behind his head. It made the angle very awkward, even for someone who was normally talented at going to his knees.
“You look healthy enough.
“And you look sane. Imagine that,” Stunt snapped. His common sense kicked in about a second too late to save him from his mouth, and there was a long silence. Insulting the man holding you at gunpoint was bad. Insulting him and then not being able to see the reaction because your back was turned and he’d gone utterly silent was so very much worse. Stunt’s heart pretty much stopped beating as long, silent seconds passed.
“You’d be safer if I did gag you,” Mr. Gun finally said, but he almost sounded amused. Stunt started breathing again and silently promised God to take up praying in the very near future.
“That’s a possibility,” Stunt admitted. “I have been known to insert two or three feet into my mouth at once. But feel free to tie me to a tree and leave me, only could you give someone a call and let them know where to find me? I’m not fond of the idea of dying of thirst out here.”
Hands patted Stunt down, pulling his pockets out and getting running up and down Stunt’s thighs. Normally Stunt’s dick would have embarrassed itself by now, but luckily it was too busy trying to climb back up and become an internal organ to care. “You’re coming with me,” Mr. Gun announced when he finished.
“That doesn’t sound ominous, not at all,” Stunt said sarcastically.
“I’m not going to leave you behind to describe me to the state police.”
“And the ominous just keeps on a’coming,” Stunt muttered.
Behind him, Mr. Gun gave a sound that sounded a little like a growl. “Look, I’m only going to say this once. I wouldn’t shoot an innocent man. So relax and you’ll get through this.”
“Yeah. Relax. I’ll get right on that.”
“Cross your ankles and do not move.”
“Does shaking count?” Feeling like he was walking to his own execution, Stunt complied since he couldn’t figure out what else to do. Maybe if he kept Mr. Gun happy he could avoid turning up in the local obituaries.
“Look at it this way, you’re going to have one hell of a story to tell your buddies.” Mr. Gun stepped on the back of Stunt’s top leg, pinning both his feet to the ground and making a sharp rock dig into the flesh of Stunt’s shin. Damn that hurt.
“Have you considered therapy?” Stunt flinched as metal ratcheted closed around his right wrist. Of course this man carried handcuffs. Perfect. Ropes wouldn’t have been a problem, but cuffs…. Shit.
“You’re insulting your captor? I’m not the only one who might want to sign up for a few sessions,” Mr. Gun pointed out.
Stunt sighed as he realized that the guy was probably right. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
“Where’s your gun?” Mr. Gun pulled Stunt’s hands behind his back and closed the cuffs around his left wrist. Panic nearly crawled up Stunt’s throat and choked him to death before he could swallow it back down.
“Considering you just frisked me, you already know I don’t have one.”
Mr. Gun’s warm hands left him, and Stunt stared head at the split trunk of a maple, his brain spinning off into trivial thoughts about how they should come out here and thin the trees and clear a few damaged ones. A cold barrel pressed against the back of his neck. “I won’t ask you again,” Mr. Gun warned, his voice cold.
“In my truck. It’s under the front seat,” Stunt offered up. He definitely wasn’t winning any points here.
“Not smart, walking around without a gun.”
“Have you looked around? This isn’t exactly crime central. At least, it wasn’t before you showed up.”
“I don’t know about that.” The gun barrel withdrew, and Stunt took a couple of deep breaths to stave off a pending case of unconscious. “You seem to have some new neighbors. Trust me, you should keep your weapon on hand.”
“I tell you what, cut me loose, and I’ll go get it now.” Danger always had made Stunt a little giddy and stupid… which is why he had earned the nickname Stunt. He’d gone out of his way to do the most dangerous shit he could, but this was far beyond even his comfort level.
“Funny.”
“Not really. Terror makes it hard to really tell a good joke.”
Mr. Gun reached up between Stunt’s legs and pressed up, nearly sending Stunt falling forward on his face, only Mr. Gun grabbed his shoulder and righted him before reaching around and fumbling with Stunt’s belt.
“Hey, hey, hey, if you’re looking for some fuck buddy who is into seriously fucked up kink, I can give you the name of a club. You do not have to do this.”
“I’m not going to rape you. I’m checking for knives.”
“Okay, I have to ask. Where the hell do you keep your knife?”
“You’d be surprised as what a man can hide in his pants.”
“After this, you pretty much know everything I have in my pants. Feel free to have some homophobia kick in, you know, the sense the maybe you shouldn’t look at another man’s dick in the school showers or ever touch a man’s crotch. Ever. I’m okay with that sort of homophobia right now.”
Mr. Gun’s hand ran along the inside of Stunt’s pants before pulling out the belt. “I’m gay.”
Stunt closed his eyes. Of course. Fuck. Under normal circumstance, he’d love to meet a gay may this good with a set of cuffs. Right now, he was figuring this really couldn’t get too much worse. “You do know that does not make me feel better, right?”
“I told you, your virtue’s safe with me.” He checked Stunt’s right boot.
“You have a bit of a credibility issue with me. You know that, yes?” Stunt asked, groaning when Mr. Gun checked his left boot and found the sweet little Mini Tak Beavertail skinning knife tucked down in it.
“Yep. I figure we both have trust issues at this point.” Mr. Gun stepped to the side and pulled Stunt up to his feet. “Let’s head to your truck. You do not want me to get spooked so be a good boy and I won’t have to shoot you in the back.”
“Great,” Stunt sighed. If he thought he had any chance of getting Mr. Gun to listen, Stunt might have suggested a quick trip to the emergency room because his chest hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. However, he cooperated as his captor escorted him trail. Today was not a good day.
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Walking down the trail, Stunt sorted through every fact he knew about hostage situations. The fact that most of them came from television was not exactly comforting. “So, what do you want?” Stunt’s words came out a little more aggressive than he intended. Mr. Gun’s hand tightened, and for a second, Stunt thought he was being warned to shut up. However, Mr. Gun yanked him off to the side of the trail so they both slid down the leaf litter and down into the trees. Without hands to slow his decent, Stunt ended up with his face shoved into the leaves and mold, the warm smell of rot rising up from the dirt. He sneezed, and felt snot slid down toward his lip, his instinct being to wipe it away, which left him fighting the cuffs.
Mr. Gun lay on top of him, the cold barrel of the gun pressed into the spot just under Stunt’s ear. “Shhh.” He said. For someone who kept claiming he didn’t plan to do any killing, the man spent a consider amount of time point his gun at Stunt.
“They come through here about once a month,” a male voice said.
“I don’t like it.”
“They’re not cops. They’re more like yard boys, only paid by the feds.”
“And having a fed around is not going to make the boss happy,” the second man said. He had a strong accent, something sharper than Mr. Gun’s western California-boy. They sure weren’t local, not any of them.
“Around here, even feds know to mind their own business.”
“And where is he now? If he’s playing yard boy on the trail, shouldn’t we see him?”
“The chances are he has to check all the trails and streams for miles around. We’ll probably never see him, and he’ll sure as hell never see us since he doesn’t have the right to come onto private property.”
The voices were fading now, and Stunt frowned. Why the hell were two strangers worrying about him doing his job? Hell, even moonshiners knew he was pretty impotent, in the legal department anyway. Of course, that didn’t prevent them from pointing gun at him, but at least they generally weren’t willing to take it farther than that. This new crop of crazy though… Stunt wasn’t sure about them.
“We move fast and quiet,” Mr. Gun ordered in a rough whisper. “Those two will shoot you on sight.”
“And you won’t?” Stunt whispered back, but he struggled to cooperate and get his feet under him as Mr. Gun pulled him upright.
“I’m really getting sick of telling you I don’t plan to kill you.”
“Imagine that. I’m annoying you,” Stunt said in a flat voice. He somehow wasn’t feeling too much sympathy for the man. A glance over his shoulder revealed that Mr. Gun had on his unhappy face. He scowled darkly, the blue of his eyes turning into narrow bands of color. Either the man was scared out of his mind—scared enough to make his eyes dilate—or he was stoned off his gourd. Stunt wondered which would be worse, but he didn’t have much time for contemplating. Mr. Gun pushed him toward the path. He had to really give Stunt some good shoving to get him back up to the trail since without his hands free, Stunt was pretty much helpless against the slippery ground. Under the dry layer of leaves, slick mold crept from leaf to leaf, turning it into a layer of slime that soaked into Stunt’s pants every time he went to one knee… which was too often.
After some almost silent curses from both of them, they got back up on the trail, and Mr. Gun broke into a trot, hurrying Stunt along with a hand around his arm.
Stunt tried pulling off the trail. “Wait, hey,”
“Keep moving.”
Stunt planted his feet and nearly got pulled to the ground before Mr. Gun stopped. “You said you wanted to go to my truck. It’s this a’way,” Stunt jerked his head up the gentle slope. Here most of the leaves had been whisked away by some quirk of summer rains or wind, leaving the trees’ roots peeking through the dry forest floor in search of oxygen.
“If you’re playing a trick,” Mr. Gun warned.
“I’m unarmed and handcuffed. Exactly what sort of trick do you think I’d be playing?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That makes two of us. Now, I ain’t saying that I wouldn’t love to trick you, but right now, I’m one plan short of a plan. I just don’t feel like following a loop of the trail an extra two miles when I’m dirty, sore, and scared enough to make my heart stutter like Jimmy Bolleau.”
Mr. Gun narrowed his eyes and considered the slope before looking back at Stunt. “If we run into someone, you do not want to know what I am capable of,” he warned.
“I pretty much figure I know already seeing as how you keep threatening to shoot me. Trust me, I’m very fond of my skin being in one piece.”
Mr. Gun’s gaze skittered to the section of trail they’d come down as though looking for those two guys to come back and then to the other end of the trail and then up the slope before coming back to Stunt. “Your face is dirty,” he observed, which seem a mite bit like a non-sequitur, but seeing as how Stunt’s brain wasn’t exactly tracking real well, he couldn’t blame the man.
“You shoved my face into leaf mold. I reckon it’s all kinds of dirty,” he agreed.
Mr. Gun pulled a cloth out of his pocket and pulled one of those green plastic canteens off his belt, pouring some water onto the cloth before wringing it out. Stunt watched, not quite sure what to think as Mr. Gun reached up to stroke the damp cloth over Stunt’s face. The word surreal was making another appearance, that’s for sure. Moving slow, Mr. Gun wiped Stunt’s forehead and then down over one temple before cleaning his left cheek and then his right one. As he worked, Stunt could see the tattoo on his right forearm—a simple cross with uneven black lines that pretty much screamed “prison tattoo.”
Stunt bit down on the urge to say something inappropriate. If he wanted to come out of this alive, he really needed to stop poking the ex-con who had taken him captive. And it was hard to keep that in mind when the ex-con in question ran the cloth down Stunt’s nose, cleaning off the running snot and mud as carefully as a mother.
Clearing his throat, Mr. Gun took a quick step back and shoved the cloth in his pocket—mud, snot and all. “Let’s go,” he ordered, a gruffness in his voice as he tightened his hand around his rifle. He wasn’t as comfortable carrying it as most of the folk around here, but that wasn’t necessarily a point in Stunt’s favor. People could make some mighty big mistakes when they weren’t familiar with a weapon, and given that this guy tended to point his gun at Stunt on a regular basis, that was not a comfort.
“This way,” Stunt said, which was rather redundant seeing as how he was already heading up the slope. Mr. Gun stayed just to the side of him, looking around with those blue eyes like he expected Wicked John to come flying out from behind a tree.
“Who are we running from?” Stunt finally asked as they cleared the dry creek that always took out Thompson’s road in spring.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I’d sooner know than get shot over something that isn’t making a bit of sense. I mean, as far as I can tell, you’re all funny turned.”
“Are you talking like that for my benefit?”
Stunt shot Mr. Gun a confused look. “Excuse me?”
“You sound smarter that most people around here, so I’m wondering if you’re trying to pull some game by talking like that. Like you’re some hick.”
Stunt stopped long enough to really and truly glare at Mr. Gun. “Just because I have an accent does not mean I ain’t intelligent. I know as well as the next person that ‘ain’t’ ain’t a word, and if you’re going to get all brigedy about how I talk, we’re going to have a problem.”
“Funny, I thought we had a problem because I pulled a gun on you,” Mr. Gun commented in a perfectly droll tone. For a second Stunt only stared at him, greatly tempted to smile. This man was just bending Stunt’s head every which way.
“You have issues,” Stunt finally proclaimed.
“I have an alphabetized and indexed library of issues,” Mr. Gun agreed, tugging at Stunt’s arm to get him moving again. “Do you really think I’d be running around these mountains if I didn’t?”
“There is that.”
“Yeah, there is.” With that, Mr. Gun fell silent, and Stunt really couldn’t think of much to say. Usually his mouth was willing to run away with the rest of him, but right now he had so many questions that his brain was spinning, and he wasn’t sure he wanted any of the answers. If he knew what was going on, would he be more or less likely to end up face-down in a shallow grave? He really wished he had an answer to that. Desperately wished.
“So how far is this truck of yours?” Mr. Gun asked as they approached a low ridge.
“Other side of the hill.”
“So, you just parked in the forest?”
“The trail loops back around. I’m parked just off Thompson Road.”
“I can check the map when we get there,” Mr. Gun said. Stunt grunted, but he didn’t comment. Around here, maps were nigh-on worthless. People changed roads when it suited them, and let them fall back to forest land when it didn’t. Every time a good-old boy moved a still or a meth shed, it seemed like the whole network of roads shifted to accommodate. And if that wasn’t bad enough, most every everyone Stunt knew had stolen at least one street sign, himself included. It was a sort of prank, something to challenge the local law. Challenging the law was a rite of passage, and confusing strangers was another, which is why stealing street signs was such a popular pastime.
Shoulders aching, Stunt finally got to the top of the rise where they could see his pickup parked with two wheels off onto the slope so the vehicle listed to one side, leaving enough room for another truck to pass. “Right where I promised,” Stunt pointed out. See, he was playing nice. His high school English teacher would be amazed at how nice he could play when he had a gun pointed at his back. Mind, he wasn’t advocating the teaching of English at gunpoint, but it would have improved his GPA.
“Gun under the seat?”
“Unless someone has stolen it, but given how my day is going, I’m not discounting that possibility.”
“Your day could have been worse if the other two had caught you.” Mr. Gun said.
Stunt wasn’t sure he agreed given that the other two seemed ready to live and let live, even if they didn’t like him. Mr. Gun here kept promising that he wasn’t into killing innocent men, but the prison tattoo was a little worrisome, and Stunt wasn’t sure how Mr. Gun intended to end this. It seemed as if Stunt had a really good description of Mr. Gun right now. He had a long-sleeved black shirt and camouflage pants, military surplus boots and gear and a Model 700 Remington Buckmaster hunting rifle that he seemed a little less than comfortable with. He had light blue eyes, a strong Roman nose and slightly squared chin with sandy brown hair and long fingers that felt good as they wiped your face clean. Honestly, though, he should probably edit that last part out of any statement to the police, at least unless he wanted to end up sounding crazy as a bedbug. And he couldn’t figure out what this guy was thinking because Stunt could give the police all that… as long as he survived. That last was the rub.
Mr. Gun had already taken Stunt’s keys, so when they reached the truck, Stunt got shoved stomach first into the side of the truck. Without a word, Mr. Gun kicked his legs apart and pulled on Stunt’s belt to make him shuffle back until his legs were obscenely spread like one of those men on a police show getting frisked or one of those guys in porn about to get seriously nailed. It was funny how the pose was similar in those two cases. “Stay.” Mr. Gun ordered.
Without moving, Stunt answered with a “Woof.”
“Keep it up and you’ll be on a leash, Rover.”
“Stunt.”
“What?” Mr. Gun had opened the driver’s side door, tossing aside the fast food trash from under the seat in his search for the gun, but now he looked up at Stunt.
“Stunt Folger. Stuart Folger actually, but no one calls me Stuart except the preacher and my mother and no one at all calls me Rover.”
“So we’re having introductions now?” Mr. Gun seemed to think about that, and Stunt swallowed as it occurred to him that Mr. Gun might not have realized how much information Stunt was gathering up on him until this very moment. After all, hanging out in the leaf litter wasn’t exactly a sign of great intelligence.
“Justin,” Mr. Gun offered. It was such a normal name that it took a second for it to really sink in. Oh, Stunt hadn’t exactly expected him to be named “Killer,” but “Justin” seemed pretty pedestrian for a guy who ran around taking hostages. Justin went back to searching under the seat, finally coming up with Stunt’s Jericho 941 pistol. “Well, this is fancier than I expected around here.”
“You mean from us hicks?” Stunt said.
“Yep.” Justin agreed without rancor, checking gun and pulling the ammo out quickly. He was better with a pistol than his hunting rifle, that’s for sure. “Any more weapons?”
“I have a nice booby trap in the glove compartment that will blow your hand off,” Stunt said with a sweet smile. “Want to try it out?”
Justin shoved the gun into the back of his pants and pulled his shirt over it to hide it, not that anyone would care around here. “Do you need a gag? I could dig one up if you can’t control that mouth of yours.”
“Oh no. Do not blame me if you get some wild hair and feel like getting into more bondage. This is all about you and your dysfunction,” Stunt said. He grunted as he shifted to push one of his shoulders against the side of the truck without moving his feet. Justin struck him as someone who wouldn’t appreciate him moving too much, but his shoulders were really hurting. Stunt got tied up often enough, but usually he was on his bed and his hands were over his head, not wrenched behind him. This was more annoying that he would have thought, and sadly, he had come up with scenarios pretty close to this more than once when he was choking the old chicken.
“My dysfunction wouldn’t include an unwilling partner, so how about you stop pushing that button before you ruin my favorite fantasies?”
“Oh yeah, because I really worry about your sex life. As long as it doesn’t involve me, I don’t care about your kinks.”
“Really? Because you’re the one who offered me a club where this would be considered foreplay. I think that implies I’m not the only one with kinks,” Justin pointed out. Stunt cringed. Okay, so A) Justin wasn’t as dumb as Stunt had hoped and B) Stunt really needed to work on being more subtle. Usually he was pretty good at not shoving his gayness or his kinkiness in anyone’s face since this wasn’t exactly open-minded central around these parts, but Stunt had definitely outted himself.
“My kinks include the word consensual.”
“And safe and sane, I bet,” Justin said with a grin that quickly fell away when Stunt didn’t return it. As the person tied up, helpless, and terrified, Stunt really didn’t want to even think about what it meant that his sex life so often included the first two of those. Justin cleared this throat. “I’m not into rape, I’m not into murder. I’m not going to hurt an innocent man unless he does something really stupid like back me into a corner. So can you please stop assuming the worst of me?” asked the man with the big gun and the keys to the cuffs. The irony wasn’t lost on Stunt.
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that. You could always drop me off in town and let me look for a good shrink with emergency office hours,” Stunt offered as Justin took him by the arm and pulled him around the front of the truck.
“Your mouth must get you into a lot of trouble.”
“Your tendency of taking hostages must do the same.”
Justin gave a quick huff of laughter. “You’re my first. I’m in virgin territory here.”
Stunt figured that meant that, if he took Justin’s word for things, that kidnapping, murder, and rape were off the list of things Justin had gone to prison for. That still left a lot of terrifying territory, especially when Stunt figured some guy in the hoosegow for shop lifting wouldn’t be getting a prison tattoo.
Justin forced him up against the side of the truck, pushing his legs apart like on the other side. Sighing, Stunt cooperated, watching while Justin searched the passenger side. Unfortunately, the glove compartment wasn’t booby-trapped and all he got out of it was the department’s credit card for a local gas station. He pulled a blanket out from behind the seat and folded it carefully before arranging it on the floor of the passenger side.
“Okay, in you go, knees on the blanket,” Justin ordered. Stunt frowned, but he didn’t really have much choice but to climb awkwardly into the passenger side and kneel on the floor. The space was too small for comfort, and he was awkwardly jammed between the glove box and the seat. Between that and the cuffs, he would not be trying anything heroically stupid in the near future.
Justin got into the driver side and started the truck before he pulled out a map and opened it on the bench seat.
“Comfortable?” he asked as he studied the network of roads that totally didn’t match reality.
“Bite me,” Stunt answered. Justin’s gaze flickered toward him, and he smiled, but he didn’t comment as he searched the map for something. It looked like they were taking a road trip.
Let me know what you think because now is the time to tweak the characters and/or hook.
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Date: 2011-08-27 04:58 pm (UTC)Perhaps Justin can redeem himself assuming they survive.
And the mystery gets even deeper.
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Date: 2011-08-27 08:44 pm (UTC)So more of this???
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Date: 2011-08-27 09:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2011-08-27 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-27 09:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2011-08-27 10:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2011-08-27 10:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-04 09:58 pm (UTC)I'm going to take this to email. If you want to be on the mailing list, all I ask is that you give me feedback... I don't care what form: proofreading, logic checking, general feedback on what you're thinking.... totally up to you. If you have experience with this part of the country, I'd love to know that so I can lean on you a little more for local color because it's been a long time since I lived in the South. If you're interested, email me at litgal1 at gmail dot com
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Date: 2011-08-27 10:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-04 09:57 pm (UTC)I'm going to take this to email. If you want to be on the mailing list, all I ask is that you give me feedback... I don't care what form: proofreading, logic checking, general feedback on what you're thinking.... totally up to you. If you have experience with this part of the country, I'd love to know that so I can lean on you a little more for local color because it's been a long time since I lived in the South. If you're interested, email me at litgal1 at gmail dot com
looking good
Date: 2011-08-28 04:43 am (UTC)Love the accent and verbal play between characters. Awesome. The first couple of paragraphs are a little rough, they stumble for me and I'm unsure if its because you are 'in voice' for Stunt or what.
I think the hook and premise are solid. I definitely want to see whats on the private land and watch these boys circle each other and then have crazy sex, not necessarily in that order, sex first is okay with me too. I'm easy. Guess that goes with out saying. :)
looking good
Date: 2011-08-28 04:43 am (UTC)Love the accent and verbal play between characters. Awesome. The first couple of paragraphs are a little rough, they stumble for me and I'm unsure if its because you are 'in voice' for Stunt or what.
I think the hook and premise are solid. I definitely want to see whats on the private land and watch these boys circle each other and then have crazy sex, not necessarily in that order, sex first is okay with me too. I'm easy. Guess that goes with out saying. :)
Re: looking good
Date: 2011-09-04 09:57 pm (UTC)I'm going to take this to email. If you want to me on the mailing list, all I ask is that you give me feedback... I don't care what form: proofreading, logic checking, general feedback on what you're thinking.... totally up to you. If you have experience with this part of the country, I'd love to know that so I can lean on you a little more for local color because it's been a long time since I lived in the South. If you're interested, email me at litgal1 at gmail dot com
Can't wait for more
Date: 2011-08-28 08:29 pm (UTC)Someone mentioned that they didn't like the fact that we already know both characters are gay and into an alternative lifestyle. I don't think that needs to be a problem at all. It simply opens the story up to being about the two of them falling for each other, every story doesn't have to be about an introduction to man on man sex and kink.
I like the fact that Stunt really seems to be scared of Justin. Which he should be, the man is pointing a gun at him! Due to that I'm really happy there were no sexual feelings on Stunt's part while he was being frisked. For me that adds to the realism of the story.
Looking forward to seeing where you'll go with this.
Re: Can't wait for more
Date: 2011-09-04 09:55 pm (UTC)And yeah, I do think that Stunt should be scared. I read a capture book with zero realism, and it annoyed me into wanting to write my own.
I'm going to take this to email. If you want to me on the mailing list, all I ask is that you give me feedback... I don't care what form: proofreading, logic checking, general feedback on what you're thinking.... totally up to you. If you have experience with this part of the country, I'd love to know that so I can lean on you a little more for local color because it's been a long time since I lived in the South. If you're interested, email me at litgal1 at gmail dot com
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Date: 2011-08-28 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-04 09:54 pm (UTC)I'm going to take this to email. If you want to me on the mailing list, all I ask is that you give me feedback... I don't care what form: proofreading, logic checking, general feedback on what you're thinking.... totally up to you. If you have experience with this part of the country, I'd love to know that so I can lean on you a little more for local color because it's been a long time since I lived in the South. If you're interested, email me at litgal1 at gmail dot com
no subject
Date: 2011-08-29 01:26 pm (UTC)You've got witty, likeable, intriguing and, yes, hot characters here, and handcuffs as a bonus ;) and mystery and villains.
For me though, there's an issue which detracts from the story: that there's too much sarcastic wittiness and bantering, too much back-and-forth.
It gets a little repetitive and is slowing down the story where it shouldn't. The exchanges would be more effective if there was one less reply all the time. It's like when putting on jewelry for a night no the town - put on the things you want, then remove at least one item.
Also, it's hard to believe Stunt is terrified when he goes on like that, and likewise Mr Gun quickly loses his desperado vibe. I get that some people will babble under stress, and if someone had a gun to me I'd have no trouble remaining terrified however they talked. I guess it's just harder to make it work in writing...
Okay, seems like I'm all about the complaints, but I do really like the story, promise! :)
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Date: 2011-09-04 09:53 pm (UTC)And thinning down the sarcasm will be a goal in rewrites. Either that or hopefully I'll convince you that Stunt is this sarcastic.
I'm going to take this to email. If you want to me on the mailing list, all I ask is that you give me feedback... I don't care what form: proofreading, logic checking, general feedback on what you're thinking.... totally up to you. If you have experience with this part of the country, I'd love to know that so I can lean on you a little more for local color because it's been a long time since I lived in the South. If you're interested, email me at litgal1 at gmail dot com
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Date: 2011-08-29 04:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-04 09:49 pm (UTC)I'm going to take this to email. If you want to me on the mailing list, all I ask is that you give me feedback... I don't care what form: proofreading, logic checking, general feedback on what you're thinking.... totally up to you. If you have experience with this part of the country, I'd love to know that so I can lean on you a little more for local color because it's been a long time since I lived in the South. If you're interested, email me at litgal1 at gmail dot com
no subject
Date: 2011-09-01 04:24 am (UTC)I really like the characters and their interactions. I love the snark and find it pretty believable for the most part. Maybe you need to add a little more descriptors or something to show that even if Stunt is mouthy he really is quite scared of the hunk holding him hostage (and I too really like that there was no sexual attraction during the frisk and isn't jumping straight to any).
I think maybe you might want to add a bit more about why Justin is there (and yes! please change the name, my bro is named Justin and that just throws me right out every time). The summary sets it up but in the actual story he just comes accross as totally wacko hiding in leaves and stupid not knowing anything about the area he's tromping about in (needs a map? why doesn't he have one already? did he do no research into this area for his revenge thing?).
Anyways, this is a pretty cool set up and I am hooked ;)
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Date: 2011-09-04 09:49 pm (UTC)I'm going to take this to email. If you want to me on the mailing list, all I ask is that you give me feedback... I don't care what form: proofreading, logic checking, general feedback on what you're thinking.... totally up to you. If you have experience with this part of the country, I'd love to know that so I can lean on you a little more for local color because it's been a long time since I lived in the South. If you're interested, email me at litgal1 at gmail dot com
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Date: 2011-10-02 11:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-06 11:45 pm (UTC)