MJ/Sonny at Halloween, for Julia

"I will not."

Sonny's lips twisted and he held out the costume again. "Please? For me?"

MJ arched one eyebrow and considered how many bullet holes he could put in that big, fine body before the man bled out. "Not a chance."

"Now, Precious." It didn't escape MJ's notice that Sonny put himself between MJ and the bedside table. Like there wasn't a Glock in between mattress and box spring, right under his right thigh. They were on land, after all, and that was always problematic. "You don't have to wear it out. I just want to see you in it."

"You're a sick fuck, Sunshine."

"What? It's not a ninja or the Unibomber."

"It's a harem girl. Bells and gauze and shit. There's probably a bra." MJ was considering being insulted, really.

"No." Sonny's voice went low, deep. "No bra. Just see through and soft. Loose. Good for yoga."

"And the bells?"

Sonny grinned, slow and lazy. "Ding a ling, Precious." 

MJ rolled his eyes, but took the costume. "And what are you going to be, redneck?"

"Same thing I am every year."

MJ eased his jeans off. "My motherfucking hero?"

"Such a smart man, Precious. Now, put on the see-through pants and say trick or treat."

 

MJ and Sonny are the stars of the Road Trip series. :D

BA

Happy Halloween: Coke/Dillon short

Dillon stood.

Stared.

“You guys are not serious.”

Coke grinned, the greasepaint wrinkling around his eyes.

Four of them – Nate, Coop, Coke and Fred – all in old-school rodeo clown get-ups. Baggy shorts, suspenders, striped tights. Coop even had a wig on. A bright green, afrotastic wig.

“You have to work tonight.”

“Uh-huh.” Coke and Nate were dressed just alike, makeup and all and, for half a second, Dillon could see it, the Terrible Twosome, fighting bulls together in every little event that was paying.

He’d pay good money to have seen that, more than the once he had.

“I don’t know what’s got your panties all in a wad, Clown-Boy.” Nate gave him a once-over. “You’re the one with a hula skirt and a lei.”

“The coconut bra is a nice touch, mate.” Fred was a fucker.

“Uh-huh. Your belly’s going to get cold, though.” Coke would notice his stomach. “This is Massachusetts. Winter comes early up here.”

“It’s just for the…” He stopped, shook his head. “Just tell me you have your vests on under the costumes.”

The boys all snorted in unison, like a weird four-part dismissive bullfighter harmony.

“We are working tonight, ain't we, Hoss?” Nate looked at Coke.

Coke looked back. “We are, Nattie.”

“And we wear our vests when we work, don’t we?”

“We do, Nat…”

“Oh, shut up and go fight bulls, asshats.” He rolled his eyes and turned to stomp away, the coconut bra chafing his skin.

Something hit him between the shoulders on his way out and he spun around, ready to kick someone’s ass. He looked down, one of Coke’s soft-soft t-shirts at his feet.

“Happy Halloween, cowboy.” Coke gave him one of those grins, one that made promises.

“Go to work, Coke.”

Coke laughed at him, tossed him a bag of M&Ms. “You first.”

Needing a Nap (Fighting Addiction, Sebastian, gen)

Sebastian looked at the wall, counting to fifty, then counting again.

There was precious little he hated more than being stuck in the antechamber of Jack’s office, waiting for his manager to get finished with whatever the fuck the man was doing to make them all more money so that he could sign whatever bullshit contract he needed to sign.

Jack was lucky he was in Nashville this week.

Damned lucky.

“Quit pacing, boss.” Beverly grinned over at him from where she was messing with her phone.

“Are you playing solitare?”

“Bejeweled. You’re making me nervous.”

“Yeah, right.” Bev wasn’t the nervous type. Stubborn, yes. Emotional, sure. But not nervous.

Sebastian plopped down in a chair, foot tapping. “Am I busy this afternoon?”

“You’re co-hosting something at the EXSTV station. Most extreme singers. Alan Oliver asked, you said yes.”

“I did?” He did like the man, snowboarders were a fun group, even if they snacked a lot.

“Yep.”

He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. God, he was so fucking tired of this shit, all of it. The interviews, the mess, the way Jack was on his back, all the time, about getting his face out there, dating some girl he had no interest in fucking.

Maybe he should see if Bev wanted to date.

He stopped, pondered that a minute. It wasn’t a bad idea, really. It would keep the media off his back, Bev put up with all his shit anyway. He could take her out, spin her around, let people take pictures of her.

He looked over at Bev. “Hey, Bevvy…”

“No.” She didn’t even look up from her game.

“What?”

“Whatever it is, no. I’m not interested. I don’t get paid enough. I don’t want to. It’s against my religion. No.”

“But you don’t even…”

“I don’t have to. You have evil written on your shirt.”

He actually looked at his t-shirt. It said, “Real Men Last Eight Seconds”. Sebastian grinned, the smile just growing and growing on his face. She was amazing.

It was no wonder he kept her around.

“I love you, Bev.”

“Uh-huh. You love pineapple and guitars. Me, you use for your own nefarious purposes.”

He nodded. “But I pay well.”

“Spectacularly.”

Jack’s door opened, the old man standing there. “Sorry, son. Phone call. How do you feel about Tokyo?”

“I wouldn’t be the shortest man there, and they have shrimp.” That was the best he could do, on short notice.

“Good. Come on in.”

He stood, rolling his head on his shoulders. “I don’t have long, Jack. I have a TV thing.”

Yeah.

Tired.

Grateful for everything, but… he could use a nap in the worst way.

***

Sebastian's story is in Fighting Addiction -- http://www.torquerebooks.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=3702

Saloon Girls (Cotton/Emmy, m/f)

“Em. Love? Are you ready, baby?” Cotton tapped his foot, impatient. They were going to be late for the party, and there were supposed to be all sorts of folks there – media, sponsors, guys. It was a big Western dress-up shindig and he’d promised folks he’d be there. He was all dressed up, even, in his old timey get up, brown slacks and a vest with a pocket watch, a bandanna.

The bathroom door opened and his lady stepped out, hair pink and purple, teased to the ceiling, eyes painted up, little sparkles all around the edges. That wasn’t what made his lips about as dry as Arizona in July. It was that dress – the top cut down to there, barely covering her assets with black ruffles. Those assets were held up with a bright pink corset and there was a black full skirt pulled up, showing off her legs, the fishnets disappearing into high-heeled lace up boots.

“I. What. You. That.” He sputtered.

“Saloon girl.” She winked, smiled at him. “If I’m naughty at the party, will you arrest me, Sheriff Cotton?”

He gaped. Good lord and butter.

“Woman. I. You.” His cock was battering at his costume, more than happy to ponder a wicked Emmy. “Shit, girl. I’m the one gonna get arrested, if one single man lays eyes on you.”

Her giggle made him groan. He was in for one hell of a night.

She leaned forward, left a quick kiss on his cheek, her perfume sweet and light. “Let’s go play, baby. Dillon says he’s driving, so I can indulge.”

Please, God, Cotton prayed. Please, let me not beat anybody down tonight.

At least not anybody he liked.

(You can find Cotton and Emmy in City/Country on Amazon)

copyright 2012 BA Tortuga

Pansy Fetches (Coke/Dillon, m/m, pg, snippet)

Pansy came out to the backyard, just about the time Coke was pondering whether to go in or go get another set of floodlights. The new pizza oven was looking less like a mess and more like something on purpose, but he wasn’t nowhere near done and…

“Yarp.”

He loved how his Pansy sounded like she was really telling him something. “What, baby girl?”

She looked back toward the house, the warm light coming out of the kitchen where he could see Dillon making something, then back at him. “Yarp!”

His lips twisted. “My cowboy tell you to come fetch my ass?”

She stomped her big basset rhino butt toward the porch, stopping again to wag, bark, then push through the doggie door.

Coke reckoned, if whatever Dillon needed was important enough to send one of the dogs, he probably ought to check it out.

Just about then, Dillon appeared at the backdoor wearing nothing but an apron and holding a bacon sandwich and a beer. Huh.

Night air wouldn’t hurt them rocks, none…

 

 

Copyright BA Tortuga 2012