The Man with the Jeep
Chapter 69
When lunch finally rolled around the next day, John suggested going to a nice little cafŽ rather than just meeting up to share the meals they brought from home.
He was so excited that they had barely ordered when he started talking about establishing some ground rules between them like not spending the night with strangers, giving each other the power to veto each other's plans if either were uncomfortable with an imminent situation, trying to let each other know before something happened if possible or at least immediately after if it did, and biggest of all, no secrets about playing with others.
Andrew said it was very much in line with what he was thinking too, which was nice to hear.
John was fairly certain they had talked about a lot of this before, but there was something momentous about having it all said at once in a direct way that just felt right.
Once they were definitively on the same page, John admitted to Andrew that he had to come clean about something, and told him of his fling with Brady the night before. He had hoped that his openness and candor would encourage Andrew to do the same, but that was not how it worked out.
Andrew looked stunned and inexplicably hurt.
"Oh," is all he said in a quiet voice.
Instantly, John mentally backpedaled.
"I'm sorry," John said to fill the void. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Liar,' screamed a voice in his head. That's exactly what you were going for!'
To drown out that condemning thought, he kept going.
"I just got carried away. I felt guilty about it instantly, and that's what made me realize we should have boundaries set..."
`Liar, liar, liar,' said his conscience.
Andrew still did not reply before lunch was served.
John could not escape from the feeling that he'd just betrayed Andrew in exactly the way he swore he never would. It felt like he was cutting his own heart out with a spoon. What was he thinking last night?
He did not intrude on Andrew's silence until he felt like he was going to explode.
"Would you please forgive me?"
Andrew paused long enough that John had given up hope for a response before he finally answered.
"Yes," he said quietly.
They both shuffled food around their plates pretending to eat for a little while before John dared to speak up again.
"Did I just kill us?" he finally asked.
"No," came the next quiet reply. "I told you I'm all in for the long haul, and I stand by that. I just wish you had made a different choice."
No condemnation, just resignation and sadness. John felt absolutely horrible.
"Look, I need to get back to work, so I will talk to you later."
Before John could he even respond, Andrew was gone.
Well, that was an absolute disaster.
There was no sense in the pretense of eating at this point, so he flagged the waiter down to pay the bill and box up the uneaten food.
He rued his mishandling of the situation as he drove back to work. He had been so sure everything would be ironed out and they would be good again, but instead he had hurt Andrew and made everything worse.
And then another thought pushed its way in: Andrew hadn't even come clean himself!
John had been so focused on Andrew's feelings that he had forgotten what had started this whole ball rolling. Andrew was the one who had started messing around and he didn't even have the decency to admit it? So that's how it was!
He was instantly mad, hurt, and indignant all over again. He was so riled up by the time he got back to work, he realized he didn't dare go back in. He texted his boss that lunch didn't agree with him, and he needed to go home. After all, it was essentially true, right?
He waited a few minutes to get his boss's "get well" reply text and went home, driving stupidly and aggressively all the way.
He fumed while the slow gate opened to let him into the building, and as soon there was (barely) enough room to go through without knocking the gate over, he recklessly raced through the arches, tossed the tail out in his turn toward his parking spot, and skidded his car to a stop, barely missing his dad's motorcycle.
Rather than dispel his tension, it just continued to ratchet up. He got out and slammed his door shut with such a rattling bang that he knew he'd regret it later.
He didn't even bother going upstairs. He made a beeline for the dusty punching bag hanging at the back of his parking stall and proceeded to pound the hell out of it for the next two hours with his bare hands.
By the time he was finally too spent to keep going, his work clothes were thrashed with sweat, dirt, and blood from his bleeding fists. Only then did he drag himself upstairs. His hands were so swollen that it took a bit to unlock his front door, which did nothing to soothe his mood.
He finally made it into his apartment and his training kicked in. He mindlessly shed his clothes on his way to the shower, where he ignored the stinging pain from his hands while he cleaned himself up and then sterilized and bandaged his wounds.
His mind was not in a resting mood by any means, but his exhausted body walked up the stairs and threw itself down on the soft bed. He startled himself a bit to realize he was crying before his body mercifully shut down and he fell asleep.
The next morning, John woke in an almost complete ache. He moved his hands up to rub his itchy eyes before being reminded they might as well be mitts with all the gauze he'd wrapped them up in yesterday.
Ugh.
He recalled the intense session with his long-neglected bag, then the brutal way he treated his car, and the completely inconsiderate way he drove home.
He was ashamed of himself. He knew better than to behave that way.
He made his way downstairs for his morning piss through his morning wood, which he was also somehow mad at.
He went to the kitchen and realized he had little use of his fingers to cook with, so he had to settle for some boring yogurt and a banana. He realized the irony of not being able to cook after bringing home two uneaten lunches from yesterday, but he had left them in the car, so they were probably not especially safe to eat anymore and, in all likelihood, smelling up his car.
Ugh.
He managed to use the audio feature on his phone to text his boss and let her know he would be taking a sick day today. He heard it beep with a reply, but didn't bother to read it past "OK, sorry to hear you're still sick..."
Now what? Without his hands, there wasn't much he could do besides sit and watch TV.
Ugh.
He could tell this was already going to be a long day. He eventually went down to get the leftover food out of the car so it wouldn't smell it up too much and confirmed the lunches were indeed stale and not worth eating.
Ugh.
He made his way back upstairs and texted Andrew that he wasn't well enough to make lunch, who replied that he understood and hoped John felt better soon.
Did Andrew really understand, or was he just playing along? At this point, John didn't know, but he did know he wouldn't figure it out until they met up again in person.
Ugh.
He was really not looking forward to that. He needed to calm down and recalibrate before that happened. As mad as he was, he still didn't want to hurt Andrew in his fury. Later that morning, he texted Andrew to tell him he was being sent off on another work trip for the weekend.
This was the first time he had blatantly lied to Andrew, but he didn't know what else to do to buy himself some time to calm down. He didn't realize how much time they'd been spending together until he needed to make some space to think.
The day was bright and beautiful with clear blue skies, few clouds, and a beaming sun. It made his loft too happy a place to match his mood, so he threw a bunch of stuff in a duffle and headed out to the Jacks.
It wasn't until he approached the sign that he finally decided he wasn't going to stay in the campground itself. He passed it and took the old dirt driveway instead, pulling up to the Quonset hut garage so he could take the Jeep up to the old cabin. Only after he pulled up to it did he remember that his grandparents would probably still be there, and the Jeep was back by the office.
Ugh.
He turned around and drove back to the main Jacks entrance and then drove up to a small dirt path just past the office. He cautiously drove his little car over the rutted trail and around the corner where he found the Jeep right where he had expected it to be.
He thew his stuff in the back, and closed the top of his BMW before he confirmed what he had feared last night: he had dislodged the side window of his car from the track inside the door when he slammed it shut. Either hundreds of dollars or several hours of work to fixÑ-once his hands healed enough to even do it.
Ugh.
He found an old sheet of plastic and some duct tape on the back porch of the office and proceeded to tape around the opening so any rain wouldn't get in. Between his mangled hands and the secondhand supplies, it looked properly ghetto by the time he was done, but it should do the job. Hopefully.
Ugh.
Disgusted with himself, he climbed aboard the Jeep, fished the key out from the ashtray, and drove it out and onto the highway. He retraced his earlier route to the garage and then just plowed into the undergrowth, following the path upwards.
There was something about this old thing, he thought as he drove, that settled him down. It was a machine of utility that gave no promise or hint of being anything else. There was no ambiguity about it at all, unless you counted fourth gear. It was rough, worn, scarred, and ugly, but it did its job reliably and without complaint.
It did so better than John himself was doing lately, he noted wryly.
He eventually made it to the copse of trees to park, grabbed his duffle, and made his way through the grass to the old shack.
He opened the heavy old door and tossed his duffle on top of the bed before making his way to both windows to open them up and get a breeze going to freshen the air inside. Working on the windows, he realized he might have made a mistake choosing this place to crash when his hands were barely functional. But his pride prevented him from changing his mind. He'd figure things out.
On the plus side, he and Andrew had stockpiled plenty of firewood, restocked the food cabinet, and cut the grass the last time they were here, so there wasn't too much work to do to stay.
He could probably still use a can opener and work his fly, and those were the two most important things he could think of at the moment. On second thought, he realized one thing that might be tougher to overcome: starting a fire with bandaged fingers.
Well, when the time comes, he'd just have to figure that out too.
But the day was still young and warm, so he put that off until later. He was still tired from yesterday, so he fished around inside the linen cupboard until he found a wad of mesh shoved into a back corner and brought it out to the front porch along with a light blanket.
The sun was just starting to be in the perfect position as he hung the hammock on two hooks at the front of the porch, laid the blanket on top, and climbed in.
He tried to let himself be distracted by the mundane to help push more intense things out of his mind as he swung gently in the open air with the cool breeze and warm rays combining for perfect front porch sitting weather.
The soft wind died down before too long, and John found himself a little too hot, so he roused himself enough to remove his shirt and trousers. He lay back again, luxuriating in the feel of the sun's caresses on his skin. In typical fashion, his cock began to grow inside his boxers, but after a few fumbled tries, he realized there was no relief to be had with his hands today. He was disappointed, but there was no help for it: puffy mittens of tape and bandages just wouldn't cut it to jack off.
Instead, he just closed his eyes and enjoyed the touch of nature on his body.
Across the glade, Jeb saw the young man doze off in his hammock.
He had just decided on a whim to check out the cabin and see if he might snag a can or two of food from the cupboard, but now that someone was there, he had second thoughts. He had been by many times and knew the place was left unlocked, so he assumed whomever owned it wouldn't begrudge him a can or two.
He had initially thought of moving in. It fit him well: solid, humble, and far removed from people at large, but he had found a better place to hole up, so he didn't usually bother with this place.
He kept pretty much to himself, preferring to buy his food than steal it, but his supplies were running low, so he'd remembered this cabin and here he was.
The guy on the porch was obviously city folk from his clothes, so Jeb knew he could just come back later, but he paused. There was something familiar about him that he just couldn't place.
Oh well, he eventually decided. It was probably nothing. He quietly made his way toward the track, but as soon as he saw the rusty red Jeep parked on it, his memory was jogged. That was one of those two boys at that pond that he had seen when that little fat ass Colton was following him around and making his life miserable. He spat at the memory.
He suspected that Colton was right about them being queer, but he would never give Colt the satisfaction of being right if he could help it, punk kid that he was.
Now Jeb wasn't so sure he wanted to leave. Only a few minutes later, he made up his mind and worked his way back to the edge of the clearing.
The guy on the hammock had woken up from his nap and was thrashing around weirdly. It took a bit to figure out he had gotten too hot and was trying to take off some clothes, but it seemed unnecessarily harder than it should have been.
The man had finally removed his pants, and when he saw him start struggle with his shirt, Jeb finally noticed his hands were all wadded up with bandages.
He almost laughed at the sight then. Like a turtle on his back, every move seemed futile, though eventually he managed to lose his shirt and dump it on the floor with his trousers.
Captivated, Jeb watched as he began to take off his boxer shorts next. It wasn't as chaotic this time, and then Jeb realized he wasn't trying to doff the shorts at all. He was trying to jack that huge boner inside them. With huge gauze mittens.
Jeb's chuckles faded as he felt bad for the guy. To have a beautiful cock like that and not be able to do anything with it would be torture.
Then an idea hatched in his head.
He walked out into the glade and made his way toward the little cabin and the cinnamon bear in his hammock.
Not wanting to startle him, Jeb called out before he got too close.
"Howdy there! Mind if'n I ask a favor?"
John's eyes snapped open and all trace of relaxation vanished instantly.
"What's that?" he asked suspiciously.
Jeb raised both hands placatingly.
"Sorry to bother you," he said. "I was just wonderin' if I might could earn some vittles."
"What brings you up here?" John asked. "It's a bit far from the road, isn't it?"
Jeb was having second thoughts about his grand idea now...
"Yessir," he agreed. "I like hikin' and wand'rin' around."
"Hiking..." John repeated skeptically.
"Yeah," Jeb said.
John just looked at him.
Jeb shuffled his feet uncomfortably under the weight of the stare.
"You could jus' say no," he finally said.
"I'm not going to say no," John replied. He knew the guy was lying to his face and he wanted to say how much he hated liars, but he couldn't bear that level of hypocrisy in himself just now. "I just want to know what you're doing on my property that's all."
"Yer property?" Jeb repeated.
"Yeah, this is my family's land and has been for more than a hundred years."
"Sorry," Jeb mumbled. "Didn't see no signs."
"We don't post signs," John acceded. "I just don't usually run into people I don't know. You're free to pass through."
Jeb was visibly relieved. This had turned out far differently from how he had wanted it to go.
"Thank ya, sir," he drawled.
"You're welcome," John said. "Feel free to grab a few cans of whatever you want."
"Yer most kind," Jeb answered. "But I hate to just take something when I can earn it."
"Well, my boyfriend and I already got this place pretty much taken care of..." John began.
Boyfriend, huh? Jeb thought. Perfect!
"The cabin is in fine shape," Jeb agreed. "But I saw something else that needed help."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"I saw you fumblin' with yer hands," Jeb said carefully. "Mine work fine, and I thought I might could do things fer ya."
"What kind of things?" John asked suspiciously.
"I dunno," Jeb said. "I c'n cook dinner, make a fahr, or mebeeÑ"
Without breaking eye contact with John, he boldly reached out and took a firm hold of John's tool.
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-DurtyRiter
DurtyRiter@protonmail.com