Brandon was practically crackling with unreleased tension as he dropped the soiled clothes into the washing machine and twisted the dial. He could still hear the muffled roar of shower drumming in the cast iron tub above the kitchen when he emerged from the basement.  It hadn’t taken too much persuasion on his part for Kyle to accept an offer of clean clothes and a shower.  By the time they had wrestled his leg free, there was scarcely anything left to suggest the original color of Kyle’s clothes. And somewhere in that scramble, Brandon had managed to calm his erection from a screaming throb to a rumbling ache. The damp patch at his crotch had been quickly camouflaged by the mud and water that had spattered him in the rescue process. 

Sherlock sat up from his curled up position on the desk chair and stared reproachfully as Brandon crossed to the sink to wash his hands. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “If anyone understands conquest, it should be you.”  The evening had washed the yard in a deep violet light, and through the kitchen window Brandon could see glow of the upstairs bathroom light reflected on the chrome accents on Kyle’s truck. Above, the shower turned off.  

Brandon was wracked with a spasm from his unspent libido. Just on the other side of that paneled ceiling, a naked Kyle, droplets of hot water still running down his torso and legs, was stepping onto the bath mat. Brandon chucked the hand towel aside and leaned against the counter, looking up into the glare of the recessed lights and willing himself to see through the floor joists. 

He had turned to distracting himself with placing buttered ears of corn in foil when the bathroom door finally opened. The stairs snapped and creaked beneath Kyle’s tread, and he appeared at the kitchen doorway, damp-haired and with a sheepish grin on his face. 

Brandon smiled back at him. “Well that’s better!”  He took in the clothing he had hastily, but strategically gathered for him to change into—faded Aeropostale t-shirt, slim blue jeans, and a certain pair of black Vans slip ons, all of which belonged to Anthony. He had even grabbed a thick pair of brand new, bright white socks, but as Kyle was an inch or two shorter than Anthony was, the jeans bunched at his feet and obscured the view. Still, Kyle looked hotter than ever in the outfit. Brandon found himself grateful to be standing behind the kitchen island. 

Kyle scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, thanks. I really appreciate the clothes. And the shower.”

Brandon spooned minced garlic over the corn, the sharp, fresh scent permeating the kitchen.  “Please!  It’s the least I could do. I’m mortified by what happened to you. I’m just so, so sorry.”

Kyle waved a dismissive hand and approached the other side of the work surface, watching as Brandon deftly peeled another clove. “Hey—it wasn’t your fault. I’m just glad you were here. Can you imagine if I had been by myself? Probably still be out there!  What the hell do you think is going on back there?”

Brandon found it easier to sound nonchalant when he told his lies to the baking sheet in front of him. “It occurred to me that we do have a water line back there. There’s a slop sink in the garage. I found the shutoff to it downstairs. I’ll call someone to look at it in the morning.”  He looked up at Kyle, whose ashy ginger hair glowed with golden tips under the kitchen lights. “But I’m guessing we might have to postpone our other work on the swale for a little while. Until we’ve dealt with that expense, anyway. I’ll discuss it with Anthony.”

Kyle bobbed his head agreeably. “No worries. You definitely need to get that taken care of. Guess I’ll have to take the mower the long way around the garage for a little while!” he chuckled. 

“Or wear rubber boots for the next few visits,” Brandon added cheerfully, but not entirely insincerely. “Can I convince you to stay for dinner?” He pinched a bunch of fresh parsley on the cutting board between thumb and forefinger and stood with his chopping knife poised. He had no idea what the two of them would even talk about if Kyle accepted his invitation, but he felt obligated to make it. Kyle waved his hands at the food. 

“It smells amazing. And that’s really nice of you to offer. But I really should be going.” 

Brandon nodded graciously, setting the knife down and feeling a guilty relief. He wiped his hands.  “Let me take care of your boots,” he said as they started toward the covered porch. “I want to be sure they are properly cleaned along with your clothes before I get them back to you.”  

“That’s nice, man, but really not necessary.”

“No, I insist.” They pushed through the squawking screen door and into the cool dusk. The crickets in the corn had been joined by katydids, who were strumming furiously on their summer postlude.  The cacophony enveloped them as they moved toward the truck. In the dim wash of day’s last moments of light, Brandon could make out the white bands outlining Anthony’s Vans as Kyle stepped onto the running board. A thrill of knowing that Kyle was wearing shoes that had been christened with his own juices on multiple occasions layered upon the many other thrills he had enjoyed in the past hour. Suddenly, he was acutely impatient for Kyle to leave—his presence had more than served his purpose. 

Kyle leaned out the window as he started the engine.  “Well, I’ll be back in a few days to mow.”

Brandon nodded. “Just let me know. I’ll try to have your stuff ready for you by then.”

“I’m in no rush,” he called over the crunch of the tires as he turned the truck around and pulled away. “Talk soon. Have a good night.”

Brandon waved at the receding taillights, waiting just long enough to see the brake lights illuminate as the truck reached the bend at the bottom of the hill. He thought about the faded Van pressing the brake pedal and shivered, hurrying back along the patio. He plucked up the encrusted Brunt boots from the back steps and bounded back inside. His erection was already frantically straining against his pants as passed through the kitchen, half-prepared corn still lying on the island, and climbed the hall stairs to the bathroom.  

The small room was still warm and damp. The scent of body wash hung in the air, and two wet footprints were pressed into the fuzzy mat.  Brandon could endure no further arousal. He sank to the floor and leaned against the tub, allowing the sticky moisture of the rug to soak through the seat of his pants. He wedged the muddy left Brunt between his legs.  The boot, which was surprising supple and light given how clunky it had looked on Kyle’s foot, shed shards of drying mud. The dirt crumbled to the floor and smudged against his pants and he dug the toe into his solid crotch. He raised the open shaft of the right boot to his face and inhaled. It was gorgeous. New leather, but mingled with a salty musk that could only have been from Kyle wearing it all day. He glanced at the patterned insole, imagining Kyle’s sweaty foot pressing into it as he struggled in the mud. 

His body threatened to tear open. He frantically fumbled at his belt and fly as the first precursory wave of an explosive orgasm bloomed near his prostate. By the time he had slithered out of his waistband, the unleashing tension had shimmered all the way into the tops of his shoulders.  Then with a mighty rush, the energy drew back to a single point and lanced with a searing heat as it hurled from him. 

Brandon screamed Kyle’s name as a week’s worth of anticipation and longing emptied from him and onto the enormous boot, softly tapping against the fuzzy grained leather.  The hours and days of fantasizing and waiting now shimmered and rolled down the boot to rest along the ridge of the wedged sole in thick, creamy pools. The room grew quiet and dark as Brandon’s mind could attend to no other senses in those agonizing seconds of release. 

When he returned to himself, still quivering as he emptied himself of every last drop, he managed to pull the boot’s opening over his pulsing shaft and drop a few of his last pearls onto those beautiful insoles. 

Those, he knew, would be spared from his cleaning. 

---

Brandon felt himself hold his breath as the phone rang. He stared at his plate, pushing a few stray remaining kernels of corn through the congealing butter with his fork. 

“Hello?”

A shuddering exhalation escaped him. And a sob almost came with it. Almost. “Hey, Anthony. It’s me.”

“Yeah, hang on a sec.” Anthony’s voice bore a falsely bright note. Like plastic that’s intended to look like solid brass. Brandon knew he was excusing himself from the room. Maybe even leaving the house. Katrina was there. He stabbed a single tine through a piece of corn as he waited for Anthony to return. When he did, the tone had been replaced by a somber softness. “Hi.  What’s going on?”

No “hey.”  No “bro.”  The intimacy had been stripped away. This was Anthony, the shell. Brandon swallowed. 

“I—I thought you should know that Kyle was here today. He gave an estimate on regrading the yard so it drains better.”

A pause. “Okay. Is that…something that’s needed?” Wow. He hadn’t even said ‘we.’ ‘Is that something *we* need?’  Brandon felt his cheeks grow hot with disappointment.  And a wisp of resentment. 

“Well, we had some water in the basement this morning. And Kyle thinks he can make it easier to get the mower along the side of the house by the field.”

Another pause. “How much?”

“Between four and six.”

The intervals of silence were like a expansive gulf dotted by remote islands of words. Brandon tried to imagine Anthony, perhaps standing on the porch and staring out into the mossy beards of gnarled live oaks, silvery in moonlight. It was a romantic image. But then Katrina appeared, peering through the window just over his shoulder, her fingers like talons as she parted the blinds.  

Anthony finally spoke. “I don’t know. It seems like a lot.” 

It was Brandon’s turn to insert silence. “Well, I just wanted to let you know your options.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I know you’ve got things…looking really good there.” His words came in bursts, like he was only capable of carefully measuring and delivering so many at a time. “Just not sure…if I want to invest…any more.”

The words hit Brandon in the gut. “Are—are you thinking you might sell?” Panic had wound its rubbery fingers around his neck. He struggled to form the words. 

“I don’t know. Just—just trying to be smart.”

“I’m quitting my job. Starting my own design business.”

The line hummed for a moment. “Wow. That’s…huge. Good for you.” Anthony had either missed or ignored the connection. If he was going to sell out from under Brandon, now would be a good time to let him know…before the toothpaste couldn’t be put back in the tube. “I’ve gotta go. Take care.”

The buzzing sound of air unfilled with words cut off, and Brandon pulled his phone from his ear and saw the home screen. 

Anthony was definitely gone.