Ridge Road, Chapter 13 · Just the Three of Us

The taillights were real. Sam counted eleven of them pulling out of the High Plains lot at 5:50 Monday morning, red in the dark, and when he went into the office to drop the key Lorraine had already wiped the board and written one word on it in green.

TOLD YOU.

“I see taillights,” she said, and hung the key on its hook. “Tell the big one the chair’s his if he wants it.”

“He’ll say no.”

“Then tell him I said drive careful.” She looked up then. “Both of you, hon.”

Out in the lot Hank had the Pete running and the lights on, and behind it, two spaces back, Teddy’s blue Freightliner was idling with frost still on the hood. Teddy was standing beside his steps in a knit cap with a thermos.

“Doyle says channel nineteen,” Teddy said. “Says you’ll talk too much on it.”

---

Elk Mountain was white on both sides and black down the middle where the plows had scraped it. Hank drove at forty-five. Teddy stayed three truck lengths back the whole way, his headlights small and yellow in the blowing snow.

At the top of the grade, where the wind came across from the south and shoved at the trailer, Hank picked up the CB.

“Teddy. Wind’s going to push you at the rest area. Don’t fight it. Let it lean you and steer easy.”

“Ten-four.” A pause. “That’s the most you’ve said to me on a radio in four years.”

Hank hung the mic up. Sam looked over at him and Hank kept his eyes on the road, but the corner of his beard moved.

They fueled at Rawlins, ate gas-station burritos standing between the two trucks, and rolled again. By eleven they were coming into Rock Springs, which was what they’d agreed. Teddy would go on from there to Salt Lake alone.

At the exit Teddy keyed up one more time.

“This is where I peel off, gentlemen.”

“Drive safe, Teddy,” Sam said, because Hank was signaling and had both hands busy.

“I’ll do that. Springfield. Supper.” The Freightliner’s turn signal went on. “Hank. Thanks for the breakfasts.”

“Both of them,” Hank said.

The blue truck went on west and got small. Sam watched it until a hill took it.

---

The rest of the restaurant equipment came off at a supply house on Elk Street, and by two o’clock the trailer was empty and Hank had a load of drilling pipe fittings out of a yard by the rail line, going to Oklahoma City, which was close enough to home to count. They ran it as a team. Sam slept first, four hours in the bunk while Hank took them down through Colorado, and then Sam drove the night across Kansas with the heater blowing and Hank asleep behind the curtain.

Somewhere past Hays, around two in the morning, the curtain moved and Hank climbed into the passenger seat in his socks.

“You’ve been chewing on something since Rock Springs,” Hank said. “I can hear it from back there.”

“What do you think Walt’s going to say?”

Hank looked out the side window at nothing. “I think he’s lonely. I think he’s been lonely nine years and he got good at it, and then you walked into his kitchen and opened that box, and now he can’t do it as well.”

“And you think he wants you back.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say no.” Sam heard himself and stopped. He made his hands loosen on the wheel. “Sorry. That came out mean.”

“It came out honest.” Hank was quiet a while. “Here’s what I know. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got a key to my house on your ring, and your name’s on the forwarding slip at the Harvard place in your own writing. Whatever Walt says Wednesday, you hear it with me next to you. You don’t hear it alone and come find me after.”

“And if I don’t like it?”

“Then you say so. In his kitchen. Out loud.” Hank reached over and put his hand on the back of Sam’s seat, not on Sam, just on the seat. “Same as you’d say wait.”

---

They dropped the fittings in Oklahoma City at nine Tuesday morning and deadheaded home. The porch light on the Lewis house was on in broad daylight, which meant Mrs. Pruitt had given up on the timer altogether. She was out on her own porch in a housecoat, and when Hank parked the Pete along the curb she raised one hand and went back inside.

They slept until four in the afternoon in the back bedroom, in the dip, with the cedar box shut on the dresser. When Sam woke up the light was going orange and Hank was already in the shower. Sam could hear the old pipes knocking in the wall.

He lay there and listened a minute. Then he got up.

The bathroom was small and the steam had already fogged the mirror. The tub was the old cast-iron kind, deep, with a shower head on a riser and a plastic curtain printed with fish that had been Walt’s choice, eleven years ago, and Hank had never changed. Sam pulled it back. Hank was standing under the water with his eyes shut and his head bent, the grey hair on his chest flattened and dark, water running off his belly and down his thick thighs.

“You’re letting the cold in,” Hank said, without opening his eyes.

“Then let me in.”

Hank opened his eyes and looked at him. He looked a long time, the way he did, all of Sam from his feet up. Then he stepped back to make room.

Sam climbed over the high edge and the water hit him hot. Hank pulled him in by the hips. Sam put his face against the wet hair of his chest and breathed and Hank’s hands slid down his back and took hold of his ass with both palms and squeezed, slow, hard.

“Four days in a motel and you still want more,” Hank said into his hair.

“I want it at home. That’s different.”

“How’s it different?”

“I don’t know yet.” Sam pushed against him. Hank’s cock was already filling against his stomach, heavy, getting heavier. “Show me.”

Hank didn’t answer. He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and pressed, gently, and Sam went down on his knees in the bottom of the tub with the water beating on his shoulders. Hank’s cock was in front of his face, thick and dripping, the head dark. Sam took it in his hand and licked the water off it and then took it in his mouth. He sucked it slow, as far as he could, his lips stretched around it, then pulled back to tongue the slit and the thick ridge under the head while the water ran into his eyes. Hank put one hand flat on the tile above him and groaned, and his hips pushed forward once before he caught himself and held still and let Sam set it.

“That mouth. Christ, Sam. The way you take it.”

Sam pulled off and looked up through the water. “You like that?”

“I like it too much. Get up here. I’m not finishing in your mouth tonight.” Hank hauled him up by the arms. “I want to be in you when I go.”

Hank kissed him under the water. It was a long kiss and wet and it tasted like shower water and sleep, and while he did it he reached for the bar on the soap dish and lathered his hands and washed Sam. He did his shoulders and his chest and the soft of his belly, and then he went lower and washed his cock and his balls, slow, slippery, until Sam was hard and shaking against the cast iron. Then his soapy hand went between Sam’s cheeks and stroked there, just stroking, and Sam groaned so loud it came back at him off the tile.

“Hank. God. Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me in here. Right here. Under the water.”

Hank’s hand stopped. “You sure? It’s slippery. You could go down.”

“Then hold on to me.”

“Here’s the deal,” Hank said. “You put one foot up on the edge and both hands on the wall, and you keep them there. You start sliding, you say wait. I’m not having you crack your head on this tub.”

“Wait. I know the word.” Sam was already turning around. “Hank. Yes. I want it.”

Hank reached out through the curtain to the shelf over the sink, where Sam had put the Walmart box and the second tube from the Petro when they unpacked that morning. He came back with a rubber and the tube. He rolled the rubber on with the water running over his hands, and Sam watched him over his shoulder, watched that thick cock get wrapped and shine.

“Water-based washes off,” Hank said. “So I’m using plenty.”

He did. He squeezed a cold line of it down Sam’s crack and Sam gasped at the cold against all that hot water, and then two of Hank’s fingers were pressing into him. Sam put his right foot up on the curved edge of the tub. He put both hands flat on the white tile, high, and spread his fingers. The water drummed on his back.

Hank worked him open slow. He used two fingers and then three, twisting, slicking him again when the shower rinsed it away, his other arm wrapped tight across Sam’s chest so Sam was held up against him. Sam’s forehead went down against the tile. His cock bobbed in the steam and he left it alone, because his hands were on the wall, because Hank had said so.

“You’re so damn open for me,” Hank said low against his ear, and crooked his fingers until Sam’s thighs shook. “Four days and you open right up. Feel how you pull on me.”

“Because it’s you. Come on. I’m ready.”

“Tell me again.”

“I’m ready, Hank. Put it in me.”

Hank pulled his fingers out. Sam felt the blunt head of him slide down his crack and catch and stay there, pressing. Hank held it there and held it there until Sam was pushing back, whining, and then Hank pushed in.

It went in slow and thick, and Sam’s mouth opened against the tile and nothing came out. Hank kept going, one long steady push, until his belly was flat against Sam’s lower back and his thighs were behind Sam’s thighs and Sam was full of him. Hank stopped there. The water ran down between them.

“Breathe,” Hank said.

“I am.”

“Let it out.” Hank’s hand spread on his chest. “There. Like that.”

Sam breathed out and something in him let go, and Hank sank in the last little bit, and they both groaned at the same time.

Then Hank started to move.

He did it short at first, short hard strokes with his hips, never pulling far out, his arm across Sam’s chest keeping him tight against him. The foot on the tub edge made everything open and Hank was hitting deep, hitting the spot right away, and Sam’s legs started to shake. The tile was slick under his palms. He pressed in tighter.

“Fuck. Fuck, Hank. Keep hitting it. Don’t stop doing that.”

“I’m not stopping.”

“Rougher. I can take rough. Give me all of it, I’ve waited since Rock Springs.”

Hank gave it to him rough. The sound changed, wet slaps under the noise of the shower, Hank’s thighs hitting the backs of his. Every stroke shoved Sam up against the wall and Hank’s arm pulled him back down onto it. Sam couldn’t think. He could only hear himself, and he was loud, louder than he ever got in the truck, louder than the motel, the noise of it bouncing all over the little bathroom.

“Oh God, Hank. You’re so thick. I can feel you halfway up my belly.”

“You want the whole street to hear?”

“Let them hear. Let Mrs. Pruitt hear.” Sam reached back blind and got a handful of Hank’s wet hip and pulled him in deeper. “Like that. Every time like that.”

Hank laughed, a short rough sound against his shoulder, and bit down there, not hard, and fucked him faster.

“This what you wanted at home?” Hank said, rough. “Me bending you over my own tub?”

“Yes. Yes. Your tub and your cock. Don’t stop, Hank, I’m so close I can taste it.”

“Not yet. You hold it.” Hank slowed, dragging almost all the way out, making him wait for it, and then slammed back in so deep that Sam’s hands skidded on the tile and he yelled. “You hold it till I say.”

Then Sam’s foot slipped.

It went off the curved edge of the tub, just a few inches, and his whole weight dropped and his hands squeaked down the tile and he said it without thinking.

“Wait.”

Hank stopped. Everything stopped. Hank’s arm locked across his chest and his other hand caught Sam’s hip and held him up, and Hank stayed deep in him and didn’t move at all. Only the water moved.

“I’m holding you,” Hank said, and his voice had gone completely calm. “You hurt?”

“No. Just slipped.” Sam was breathing hard. “Just my foot.”

“Get it back up. Take your time.”

Sam got the foot back on the edge. He found the wall again with his hands. Hank waited, still inside him, solid as a post, and didn’t push.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Okay. Go.”

“Slow first.”

“Slow first,” Sam agreed, and Hank started again, slow and deep, a long drag out and a long push in.

“Still good?” Hank said.

“Good. Better. Don’t make me ask twice.”

Hank pulled almost all the way out and held there, the head of him just inside the rim, until Sam was pushing back for it, swearing at the tile. Then he sank back in, one slow slide until his belly met Sam’s back, and ground there, hips rolling, and Sam groaned so low he felt it in his own chest. In about a minute he forgot he had ever slipped.

It built back up fast. Hank’s breathing went ragged in his ear. His hand slid down off Sam’s chest, down his wet belly, and stopped just short of his cock, his fingers spread low on Sam’s stomach, pressing in, so Sam could feel his own belly pushed out against Hank’s palm with every stroke.

“That’s me in there,” Hank said. “Right under my hand.”

“Yes. Yes. Hank, I’m going to come.”

“Then come. Don’t touch it. Come with me in you.”

Sam pressed his forehead to the tile and pushed back hard and Hank drove up into him three, four more times, deep and fast, and Sam came. It went through him like the water was suddenly too hot. His cock jerked untouched in the steam and he shot against the white tile in long pulses, crying out, his whole body locking down on Hank, and Hank swore and held him up with both arms and fucked him through it.

“Jesus, Sam. Jesus. You squeeze me like that, I’m done.”

“Do it. Let go. I want it, Hank.”

Hank pushed in deep and held. Sam felt him swell and throb deep inside him, felt the big body shudder all along his back, heard the long low groan Hank let out into his neck. Hank stayed there, panting, his beard against Sam’s shoulder, until it was over, and then a while after.

The hot water started to go lukewarm. Neither of them moved.

“Water heater’s twenty years old,” Hank said finally.

“I know.”

“We’ve got about a minute.”

Hank eased out of him, careful, and dealt with the rubber, and turned Sam around and kissed him while the water went cold, and they were both laughing and swearing when Sam shut it off.

Later, in the dip, with the window dark and the yellow porch light on the ceiling, Hank put his mouth against Sam’s temple.

“You did right,” he said. “Saying it. I’d rather stop a hundred times than have you go down once.”

“I know,” Sam said.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

---

Walt’s duplex smelled like pot roast and coffee. He had the table set for three with the good plates, the ones with the brown rim, and a jar of pickled okra in the middle that Hank looked at and said, “You’re showing off.”

“I’m feeding you,” Walt said. “Sit down, Doyle. Ortega, you take the chair by the window. The green one stays empty.”

He hooked his cane on the table edge, served the roast with his own hands, and made them both eat a second plate before anybody talked.

When the plates were cleared he poured coffee. Then he put both his hands flat on the table and looked at them.

“I’m going to say this once,” Walt said. “Then you two can say what you like. You can walk out, if that’s what you want. I’ll still freeze you a chili.”

“Go on,” Hank said.

“I’ve been by myself nine years. I don’t mind telling you I got decent at it. I go to the yard and come home and watch the Weather Channel like it’s a ball game.” He turned his cup a quarter turn. “Then Ortega sat in that chair and asked me about the first winter, and three Sundays later I’m reading letters you never sent me, Doyle, with your handwriting on every one. And I found out I haven’t been decent at it. I’ve been asleep.”

Sam’s hands were in his lap. He held them still.

“I don’t want him back,” Walt said, and he looked at Sam when he said it. “I want to be clear with you first, Ortega, before anybody. I don’t want to take him. I had him eleven years. He’s yours now, and I watched how he looks at you in my kitchen and I’d be a fool to try.”

“Then what do you want?” Sam said.

Walt took a breath.

“I want to be in it,” he said. “Sometimes. With the two of you. In the room, in the bed, if you’d have me. And if you wouldn’t, I want to know it from you and not wonder about it at the yard window.” His voice stayed dry and even the whole time, but his hand on the cup wasn’t. “That’s my thing. I’m fifty-five with a bad knee and I don’t have anybody, and the two people I’d most like to go to bed with are sitting at my table.”

Nobody said anything. The refrigerator clicked on.

Sam felt it come up in his chest, hot and sour, the same feeling as the Village Inn in Laramie with Teddy across the booth. He let it come. Then he said it.

“I’m jealous,” Sam said. “Right now. I’m sitting here jealous of you, Walt, and I like you. You had eleven years with him and a whole house. I’ve had three months and a key.”

“That’s fair,” Walt said.

“And I’m scared I’d be in the bed watching the two of you remember something I wasn’t there for.”

Walt nodded slowly. “That’s fair too.”

Hank had been quiet the whole time, leaning back, his arms folded over his belly. Now he unfolded them.

“I’ll tell you mine,” Hank said. “Since we’re telling. I’m jealous too.”

Sam turned and stared at him.

“Both directions,” Hank said. “Walt’s looked at you since the first day you walked in my yard, Sam, and I didn’t like it. And you look at him like he knows something about me you’d give a lot to know. I’m too old to be this stupid, and I am.”

Walt laughed, short and surprised.

Sam looked at the two of them and felt the sourness in his chest start, a little, to go somewhere else.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Then here’s what I need, if we do this. Nothing behind my back. Nothing behind his. You two don’t talk about it on the phone at the yard and then tell me after. And anybody says wait, it stops, for everybody, right then.”

“Agreed,” Walt said.

“And I get to say no. Any night. Even if we already started.”

“Every one of us gets that,” Hank said. “Walt too.”

“Me too,” Walt said. “My knee gets a vote.”

Sam laughed. Then he stopped laughing, and looked at Walt across the table, at the white mustache and the bald head shining under the kitchen light and those pale steady eyes, and said the thing he’d been afraid to say all the way across Kansas.

“I want to know what it’s like,” Sam said. “The two of you. I want to see it. I want to be in it with you.” He swallowed. “I’m saying yes, Walt. Not to everything tonight. But yes.”

Walt didn’t move for a moment. Then he looked at Hank.

“Doyle?”

Hank was looking at Sam. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. I said it in your kitchen, out loud. Like you told me.”

Hank let out a long breath through his nose. He looked at Walt. “Yes,” he said. “God help me. Yes.”

“Then I’d like to kiss him,” Walt said to Sam. “Just that. Tonight, that’s all I’m asking. If you’ll let me.”

Sam’s heart was going hard. “Go ahead.”

Walt got his cane and stood up, slow, and came around the table, and Hank stood up too, and they were close in the little kitchen with Sam sitting between them looking up. Walt put one hand on Hank’s face, on the grey beard. He held it there like he was checking it was the same face.

“Nine years,” Walt said quietly. “Last time was a bus lot.”

“I know where it was.”

Walt kissed him. It started slow and careful and then it got hungry, and Hank’s big hand came up along Walt’s jaw, and Sam watched it happen a foot away and felt jealous and dizzy at once, and didn’t look away.

When they broke apart Walt was breathing hard. He leaned on the cane and turned to Sam.

“Ortega,” he said. “Your turn, if you want one.”

Sam stood up. He was half a head taller than Walt, which surprised him. Walt reached up and took his chin in dry fingers and kissed him, a different kiss, unhurried, curious, tasting of coffee, and Sam’s hand went to Walt’s thin shoulder and held on. Behind him he felt Hank’s hand settle on his back, warm through his shirt, staying there the whole time.

Walt stepped back and sat down heavily, laughing at himself.

“When?” Hank said.

Walt looked at them both for a long moment, and Sam could see him deciding to be careful, and deciding it on purpose.

“Not tonight. Saturday, if you both still want it after three days of thinking. Your house, Doyle. The back bedroom.” He picked up his coffee. “I’ll want my old side of the bed.”

“You can have the dip,” Hank said.

Walt looked at Sam.

“No,” Sam said. “The dip’s mine. You get the right.”

Walt grinned under the mustache and raised his cup to him, the way he raised it to Hank from the depot window.