Best Friends
By J.M. Snyder
Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords
Published by JMS Books LLC
This story is included in the print book Shorts by J.M. Snyder.
Visit http://www.jmsnyder.net for more information.
Copyright 2010 J.M. Snyder
ISBN 978-1-93575-301-8
For more titles by J.M. Snyder at Smashwords visit https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jmsnyder
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Cover Photo Credit: Jan Csernoch
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All Rights Reserved
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
NOTE: A shorter version of “Best Friends” appears in the anthology My First Time Volume 5, published by Alyson Books.
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Best Friends
By J.M. Snyder
A breeze picks up as I climb into the back of Riley’s pickup truck and for a moment I think I’m underdressed—a T-shirt and cut-offs seemed sensible when I left the house earlier, but the wind has a bite to it that feels like rain’s on the way. But the hot bedliner feels nice under my bare feet, and the heat seeps through the denim seat of my shorts when I sit down, already reaching for the cooler that holds a six-pack of beer Riley’s dad bought for us. This evening’s a celebration, of sorts—tomorrow my best friend leaves for basic training, but I won’t let myself dwell on that.
Raising my voice over the rustle of tall grass, I call out to Riley, “Charlene’s gonna be pissed you’re spending your last night with me.” I pop open one can, take a quick swig, and feel the cold alcohol swirl down my throat to my groin, where it curls into a warm ball of bliss.
From the cab of the truck where he’s taking off his sneakers, Riley answers, “Let her bitch.”
“You only say that because you won’t have to listen to her anymore,” I reply, setting the beer aside. I pull out another, open it, and take a sip of that one, as well. “After tomorrow—”
I take another gulp of beer. That was the closest I’ve come to admitting that he’s as good as gone.
Riley slams the truck’s door and vaults into the back with me, his bare feet almost knocking over the first beer. “What,” he asks, “you don’t think she’ll call me at the barracks just to chew me out?” Then he sees the two cans. “Save some for me, dude. My dad’s the one that hooked us up.” He picks up the can in front of him and frowns at it, studying the dampness condensed around the top. “Did you drink out of this?”
“Did you see me?” I ask, my eyes studiously avoiding Riley’s.
He glares at me for a moment, then shrugs and downs half the can in one gulp. The beer relaxes him—I can see the tension in his arms disappear, and his face clears as his throat works with the drink. From the corner of my eye, I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, his taut cheeks, the bristled skin that rolls at the base of his neck when he leans back to savor the beer. I’m staring, I know it, but I’m not used to the buzz cut yet—for as long as I’ve known him, Riley’s always had long dark hair that curled into unruly waves he constantly had to shake out of his face. This shorn look, tight and trim, is new to me. I want to run my hand over the top of his head, feel what’s left like the hard nubs of a brush against my palm. My fingers clench around the thought, and the beer can I’m holding begins to crumple in protest. “Watch it,” Riley warns with a nod at the can.
I down the rest of the beer. It’s settled into my crotch now, heating my blood and thickening my cock half erect. For the first time in years, I can’t think of anything to say to Riley, and the silence is uncomfortable between us. “So,” I try, searching, “you excited?”