Brandon felt a surge of heat as Sam stepped up onto the running board and knelt with one knee on the driver seat as he dug through various items in the center console. The nearly pristine white sole of the right boot turned to fully face him in an indiscreet taunt.  Had this been a movie, the scene would have gone grainy black and white as the fantasy took over.  Brandon would unclasp his belt buckle, unzip his khakis, and press his crotch against it, savoring the ridges of the hexagonal groves through his silky briefs.  Sam, feeling the advance, would glance back over his shoulder before pressing back, driving the boot into his straining manhood. 

In the real, technicolor world, Brandon stood and quietly gaped, regretting that there was only so much that his moisture-wicking underwear would wick. “Crap,” Sam muttered as he backed out of the truck. 

“Problem?”

He scratched the side of his jaw. “I owe you some keys.  For the Bilco doors out back of the building.”

“Ah. Yes. They would be useful.”

“I’ll bet they would,” he agreed absently. He was lost in thought, staring at his left boot, which he flexed over the lip of the running board. It was apparently an idiosyncrasy—one that drove Brandon to distraction. “I thought I had them with me. But if they aren’t here…”

“Hey—don’t worry about it. Really.  I can get them anytime.”

“That’s gracious of you. But you should have them, and I want to cross it off my list. They have to still be at home.” Sam dug his phone out of his overalls. “Can I get them to you later this evening?” He traced his finger down the screen. “Darn—never mind, I can’t this evening. Back to School Night.  I’m in Maryland tomorrow, so I won’t be back until later…” he trailed off.

Brandon put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Would it be easier if I came to you?”

Sam looked up at him, index poised over his calendar. “To Maryland?”

“Well, maybe not Maryland, but wherever.  Here. School parking lot.  Anywhere you like.”

Sam shook his head. “You already drove out here.  Let me just figure this out. I’m sure you need those keys soon.”

“Sam, seriously. I don’t mind. I’m in a lull right now. I’m waiting for a ton of orders to come in, but in the meantime I’m just sitting on my hands. And you’re right—sooner rather than later would probably be good with those keys. I’m going to need easy access to the basement store rooms in a few days.”

Sam ran his hand over his face and looked at him for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Maybe that’s easiest.”

Brandon nodded. “Alright then. Name the place.”

“Would you be okay with swinging by my place when I get back end of day tomorrow?”

Shrug. “Sure—no problem. Just send me the address and let me know when.”

Brandon turned and took once last look at the barn as Sam began tapping out a text. It’s tall, chipped green louvered windows were topped with gothic arches, like four glowering eyes watching the lane at the top of the ridge. “When I was a kid, my sister took riding lessons from a woman we knew from church. She boarded her horse at a place that looked something like this.” Brandon’s pocket vibrated with the arrival of the address. 

Sam tucked his cell back in his overalls and glanced up.  “Oh, yeah?”

“A hundred, hundred-fifty years old, I think. Always wondered just how many generations of animals had lived their lives out in that barn.”

Sam cocked a sideways grin. “Or just think of all those rolls in the hay,” he added. 

---

“I think that about does it.” Anthony paused and collapsed his selfie stick. His Hunters were still ankle deep in muck, and his legs wobbled unsteadily on the soft ground as his weight shifted from the movement. 

Brandon tapped the pause button on his phone and straightened from the boardwalk rail where he had propped his arms. He was mildly surprised, actually. Between being self conscious that he was with a stranger who knew his darkest secret and not having the faintest idea of how to shoot adequate b-roll, he hadn’t seemed to have even had any bandwidth left for his endocrine system at all.  

Anthony pulled the phone from the clamp and looked up expectantly at him. “Well?”

Brandon shrugged. “It was okay,” he admitted. 

Anthony grinned and bobbed his head in a slow, exaggerated nod. “Okay, then. That’s…well that’s pretty great, isn’t it?  This could work.”

“Wait—what? What could work?”  

Anthony gestured between the two of them with his hand hand. “This!”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. This was a one-time thing.  I don’t plan to make a habit of tromping the muddy countryside with you.”

Anthony shot him a mock, hurtful look. “Come on, brother, it’s perfect! I crank out these amazing, professional-looking videos, you—” he waggled a hand in Brandon’s general direction, “—achieve your objectives—” Brandon grimaced, “—and, who knows?”  Anthony lifted a sodden boot from the marshy surface and began to trek back to the footpath. “Maybe we‘ll even enjoy each other’s company. Eh?”

Just then, Anthony’s left Hunter all but disappeared beneath the surface of a particularly insidious patch of ground just beside the boardwalk. Brandon watched in shock as the matte black shaft, glowing in a fleeting moment of sunlight, slid smoothly into the earth like it was nothing more than peanut butter. Anthony flailed his arms to regain his balance, and the bog belched around his foot, its appetite apparently satisfied. 

“Shit,” he exhaled. “Well that was unexpected.”  He leaned forward and jerked his leg inside the Hunter. The heel of his black sock emerged, but no boot. Brandon watched wide-eyed as Anthony rocked, tugged, swiveled, and strained. Panting, he finally looked up sheepishly from his exertions. “I don’t suppose you could lend me a hand, could you?”

---

Brandon stepped onto the patio once the drone of the lawn mower was replaced with the scratching of dry corn stalks in the breeze.  The sky had deepened to a clear sapphire, and the shadows clawed long across the ground in the last fiery light of the day. Soon the grass would be slick with dew. Fall had definitely arrived. 

Kyle was at the trailer, fastening a protective cover over his weed trimmer.  “Oh, hey Brandon,” he called. “Thanks for coming out.”

Brandon crossed to the driveway and, with both a pang of regret and a small spark of titillation, noted Kyle’s black Kujo Jags.  “Of course! What can I do for you?”

Kyle ripped the Velcro straps of his gloves open and removed them, tucking them into his back pocket. “Well, it’s like this: I’ve been kind of avoiding you since, you know…” he nodded in the direction of the garage. 

Brandon’s stomach clenched. He couldn’t remember much about the incident beyond the sheer disbelief of the effectiveness of his trap—that and resultant pleasure, of course. Had Kyle seen something? Perceived something? He forced an uneasy laugh. “Again, I’m so sorry that happened,” he lied. “I had no idea—” Kyle stopped him with a hand. 

“You have nothing to apologize for! You couldn’t have known about that leaky water line under there.” Brandon innocently shook his head in agreement.  “I just—I just felt a little foolish, you know?”

Brandon stared for a moment. This was not the direction he had expected this conversation to go. “Foolish? About what?”

Kyle stuffed his hands into his pockets and chuckled.  “I’ve been in the landscaping business for a long time now. But I’ve never had anything like that happen—much less in front of a client. Anyway…” he reached into the truck cab and produced a canvas bag and a Tupperware container, which he presented to Brandon. 

“What’s this?”

“My wife insisted I get off my high horse and thank you properly for services rendered! There are some fresh tomatoes from our garden, some of her fridge pickles—which are amazing—and that,” he indicated the container, “is her fresh peach pie.”

Brandon was at a momentary loss for words as he accepted the items. “Kyle this is—it’s so not necessary. I mean, it’s amazing, but—”

“Please. It’s the least I can do.  And thank you, by the way, for the amazing job cleaning up my boots. Talk about unnecessary. It’s like nothing happened to them!”

Brandon felt another wave of heat at this—a flush of remorse mingled with excitement at the thought of the Brunts. It was true that he had outdone himself cleaning the soft leather uppers, blotting and brushing them until they had be restored to their original golden saddle color.  The insides, however, were a different story—they would forever contain a bit of him.  He thought of how he had writhed with ecstasy that evening on the bathroom floor, surrounded by the damp of Kyle’s shower. The thrill of knowing that Kyle’s foot would be against the residue of his semen the next time he rested those boots on his ZeroTurn was enough to make him express his gratitude one more time then quickly excuse himself to the safety of the house. 

He stood at the island, hands clasped on the edges of the bullnosed stainless steel work surface. He could feel the cool surface grow sticky beneath his palms as he stared at the crumpled canvas bag of tomatoes and the round Tupperware.  Get a fucking grip, he thought.  When was the last time he hadn’t been completely at the mercy of his urges?  Was it never, or just too long ago to recall?  Hell, hadn’t he ended up living in this house because he couldn’t control himself? 

He had started to busy himself with unpacking the bag and lining the tomatoes up on the kitchen windowsill when he realized Kyle’s truck was still in the driveway. Before he had time to wonder where its owner was, he heard his voice filter through the screen door on the covered porch.

“Hey, Brandon?”

“Yeah!” he called, leaning back to look out through the archway. The door squawked on its hinges and Kyle stepped inside. He held up a plastic grocery bag straining under the weight of unknown contents.  It’s handles were knotted.  “What’s that?”

“Sorry—almost left without returning this. It’s the stuff you lent me. The clothes?”

“Oh!  Right. Thanks.”  He took the bag and the two stood awkwardly for a moment. 

“It’s all there,” Kyle finally added. 

“That’s great. Thanks again.”

After a painful moment where it became clear that there was nothing further to be said, Kyle made his farewell and Brandon saw him to the door.  Once the truck had roared to life and the crackling of the tires on the driveway had faded, he started up to Anthony’s bedroom with the clothes. 

The room was stuffy and looking dingier than ever in the failing light. He tore the bag open and let it’s contents fall to the bed. He was relieved to see the Vans again.  He scooped them up and examined them—it had all started with these babies, hadn’t it?  He slipped his hand into the left sneaker and spent an enjoyable moment thinking about Kyle’s foot occupying the same space before moving them into their rightful place in the closet—right next to Anthony’s sad pair of red Adidas Tubulars. He plucked up the t-shirt and the jeans from the bed to put them in the dresser when something else fell to his feet.  It was black fabric—shiny. Brandon squatted and took it into his hands, feeling the lightweight stretchy material between his fingers. 

It was a pair of boxer briefs. Tommy Johns. He frowned. He didn’t remember giving Kyle a pair of underwear that evening. In fact, he was sure he hadn’t. That would have been…weird. And neither he nor Anthony owned any Tommy Johns…at least that he was aware of. His heart started to palpitate as he brought the garment to his face and inhaled. It was smelled faintly musky, and the scent made him immediately rock hard. He was shocked at strength of the involuntary reaction. 

Kyle had just given him a pair of his underwear and it wasn’t clean. Was this an embarrassing oversight? Or….oh, god!  He let out a shuddering gasp.

Had this been intentional?  He got to his feet and stared out the window for the taillights that were already long gone.