A sweet baker with spicy taste…
Marcell lives a quiet life, keeping the treats coming in his aunt's bakery. He is well known for his manners, his shy demeanor, and his perfect cinnamon rolls. He's a classic good boy, who has never stepped so much as a toe out of line.
The Withers Boys are the town bad boys—faerie half-brothers whose only talents are their green thumbs and an unmatched ability to cause trouble. When they're not causing trouble, it's only because the Sheriff has caught them for the moment.
But things are never what they seem in a small town, and it's always the quiet ones…
Midsummer Baker
By Megan Derr
Published by Less Than Three Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Courtney Davidson
Cover designed by Megan Derr
This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition July 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Megan Derr
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-936202-84-3
Midsummer Baker
A Tale of Midsummer's Night
Megan Derr
Marcell had always known someone else used the abandoned barn in the empty field alongside the old McCarthy place. He'd never seen soon who, never tried to figure it out, never wanted to. He'd seen the fresh cigarette butts, empty cans and bottles of beer, and figured there was no harm in time-sharing an empty barn that no one else in Midsummer gave a damn about. Whoever it was probably just wanted what he did—peace and quiet, and somewhere no one else would find him. Marcell respected that.
So
he'd never tried to figure it out, assumed whoever it was either
showed him the same courtesy, or never noticed they were
time-sharing.
Then
Marcell fell asleep. He'd had a particularly rough day at the bakery.
Without both Aunt Mary and JoJo, their part-timer, he’d been
running the place like a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest.
Afterwards, he'd gone to the barn with his whiskey, the one place he
could relax and not the feel weight of other people pressing down
here. He was alone there, but didn't feel lonely.
He
hadn't meant to stay long before trudging home, but he'd dozed off,
and woken up to familiar voices making unmistakable sounds, and felt
his heart lodge in his throat. Surely he was hearing things. He
crawled to the edge of the loft and looked down over the edge,
careful as could be, staring raptly at the two men below, unable to
believe what he was seeing.
'The
Withers Boys,' were nothing but trouble, everyone said.
Half-brothers, half-fae on their mother's side, but only their
remarkably green thumbs gave away their faerie blood. They'd moved to
Midsummer when Boyd was three and Tye was two, and everyone in town
claimed they'd been nothing but trouble ever since. After their
mother had died when they were twenty and nineteen respectively,
according to everyone, they'd only gotten worse.
Marcell
had never understood it. They were troublemakers, sure, but they'd
only ever pulled stupid, harmless pranks on people who deserved it.
Irritating at worst, and no one ever got hurt. Marcell had always
thought they were funny and that some people in Midsummer could stand
to unbend.
He also knew personally that they weren't all bad.
No matter what, they looked after each other. Whatever they were
doing or wherever they were going, Boyd and Tye were together. They
might have been a year apart and only half related, but he'd never
seen two brothers closer.
Every
day they came in for breakfast. They both liked their coffee black;
Boyd always got a cinnamon roll with extra icing, and Tye liked the
donuts filled with strawberry jelly and covered in granulated sugar
rather than confectioner's sugar. Marcell always made certain there
was at least one roll and one jelly donut left for them, even if he
had to hide them in the back himself.
When
apple pie was in season, they came twice a week for them. During
Christmas season, they came in for minced pie. When he made pumpkin
cheesecake, they came for those too. They were good customers, for
all people liked to say they were heathens. Aunt Mary never seemed to
notice they were quiet, polite, and always left a generous tip in the
jar.
More
fun, Marcell had noticed, for everyone to bitch about them. He stayed
out of it, knowing very well just how good they could be, because
drawing attention to them would just cause Boyd and Tye more problems
than it was worth. They didn't care what people thought, so he bit
his tongue and focused on his work.
Usually
when they came into the bakery, Aunt Mary took care of them. But
sometimes, when things were busy or she was out for one reason or
another, he had to leave the safety of his kitchen to run the
counter. When that happened and they came in, it was all he could do
to string two words together and not sound ten kinds of stupid.
After
what they'd done years ago, it seemed like it should be easy to talk
to them—but it wasn't, because he was hopelessly in love with them
both and had no idea how to handle it. So instead he just
blushed and stammered and wished that just once, the floor would
swallow him.
They
always grinned at him, and said, "Hey, Marcy" and "Good
morning, Marcy," and it made him blush all the more, because no
one else called him that. They always had, though, ever since that
day in high school.
When they'd gotten their breakfasts, he
fled back to his kitchens, and day dreamed scenarios where he was
smooth and attractive and did a thousand things he'd never have the
brass to do. He'd never really known how to deal with them or the
fact he loved and wanted both of them. It was just...impossible, he
supposed, to separate them. Boyd and Tye, Tye and Boyd. It was never
one or the other. Separating them was like separating sugar from
sweet.
In
all his wildest imaginings, even the ones liberally dosed with
whiskey, he had never actually thought he would ever look down from
the loft to see Boyd fucking Tye into the barn floor, pounding into
him like the world was ending in five minutes.
Marcell
swallowed, suddenly, uncomfortably hard. He could not take his eyes
off them, not if his life really and truly depended on it. He
watched, listened, memorized every move, every thrust, the panting,
moaning—
No way had he ever really allowed himself to
picture—
Well,
maybe a few times, when he definitely drank too much whiskey (way too
much, given Aunt Mary was a stick in the mud and thought smelling
whiskey was too much). His imagination was no match for the reality.
Boyd
cried out, thrust one last time, and Tye's cries mingled with Boyd's,
filling the barn. Marcell was so hard he hurt, but he didn't move,
was half-afraid to breathe. For all the special consideration they
showed him, they'd still kill him, surely, for seeing them like that.
Somehow,
watching the tender, loving way they kissed and held each other after
seemed far more an invasion of their privacy than watching them fuck.
He was never going to be able to look them in the face again,
not without passing out. Or coming hard in his jeans.
He
bit his lip, fingers digging painfully into the overhang as he tried
not to give himself away. They lay curled together on a ratty old
blanket, thankfully not staring up, speaking too softly for Marcell
to catch the words.
How
long they lay there, he didn't know, though it must have been the
better part of an hour. Eventually, Boyd sat up and moved to the
backpack against the wall, digging out his cigarettes and lighter. He
sat against the wall, naked as the day he was born, laughing at
something Tye said.
They
talked a few minutes more, and then their manner changed, Boyd
motioning with his head. Marcell couldn’t see it, but he just knew
Boyd was smirking in that hot little way of his that always forced
Marcell to go cool off in the walk-in.
Tye
crawled over to his brother, wrapped a hand around his cock and
leaned in to kiss him, deep and hard. Marcell barely muffled a rough,
needy noise of his own. Tye broke away from Boyd's mouth, kissed his
jaw, his neck, his throat, working his way steadily down Boyd's body
until he finally took Boyd's cock in his mouth. Boyd gripped Tye's
hair, grunting, moaning, swearing, urging Tye on, his cigarette
falling to the floor, forgotten. He came with a rough shout, and
after a moment Tye drew back, and Marcell just knew he was smirking
too now.
Shifting,
Boyd abruptly shoved, sending Tye tumbling gracelessly back,
squawking in protest—but it quickly turned into a cry of
satisfaction as Boyd returned the favor, sucking him off hard and
fast. Marcell came in his jeans, biting his lip so hard he drew
blood.
After
that, he drew back, huddled in his corner of the loft, shaking,
breathing slow and steadily to calm himself, waiting until he finally
heard them leave. He waited several more minutes, before finally
climbing down from the loft and heading for the woods where he'd
stashed his motorcycle. Firing it up, he drove home as quickly as he
could without guaranteeing himself a ticket.
Once
home, he parked his bike behind his doublewide and went inside. He
went through the motions of his evening, showering, fixing dinner,
watching the sports channel, the news. Somehow, the quiet never
stopped being loud. He was just too used to mama always being there,
even two years after her death.
Finally
fed up with being awake, he shut off the TV and went down the hall to
his bedroom. It'd been mama's once, but not using it had seemed silly
when it was the better of the two bedrooms. And he'd been trying to
move on.
If
only stupid Walt would let him buy the McCarthy property like he
wanted—but that was something to sigh over tomorrow, not right now.
Turning off the bedroom light, he climbed into bed. He'd barely
settled when he was pushing a hand into his boxers, fisting his cock,
body tight and hot as he replayed all that he had seen in the barn.
He
came with a soft cry in only a moment, muffling it by habit. For a
few minutes, he simply lay there, panting in the dark, mind playing
and replaying things that would never happen, however much he might
wish for them.
When
he finally got too uncomfortable to ignore it, he climbed out of bed
and cleaned himself up, changing his boxers for clean ones. Climbing
back into bed, he pulled up his blankets and closed his eyes, driven
into sleep by thoughts of Boyd and Tye and the need to escape the
loneliness permeating his home.
*~*~*
"It's
about time, I say. They've gone too damn far this time! Those good
for nothings!"
Marcell
looked up, out through the open window between the kitchen and the
front, immediately alert to that particular tone and subject matter.
Ms. Tanner and her cronies were just gossiping, but he was always
painfully aware whenever anyone talked about Boyd and Tye.
Thankfully,
Aunt Mary was more than happy to catch up on the gossip, sparing
Marcell from having to figure out a way to ask without actually
asking. "What have them useless Withers boys done now?"
"Stole
Arthur Milton's Cadillac and drove it straight into Yellow Creek. Did
it last night, while Milton and other good, respectable citizens were
attending the Sunday Supper at Criston's. Sheriff arrested those
worthless boys this morning; I hope they stay locked up good and
tight for a long time."
Marcell
froze. Last night, during the Sunday Supper? But they couldn't have
done it last night, not then. That was at seven o'clock, went until
nine or so. He'd finally gotten out of the bakery at six thirty, and
gotten to the barn just before seven. He'd woken up to find Boyd and
Tye—in the middle of things—and by the time they'd left and he'd
gotten home, it'd been just on nine-thirty. There was no way they
could have driven all the way out to Milton's place, stolen his car,
and then driven it clear to the opposite edge of Midsummer. That
would have taken them the full two hours of Sunday Supper, and they'd
spent at least an hour in that barn, probably had arrived not long
after him.
There
was no way they could have done it, not when they'd been too busy
fucking each other in the old McCarthy barn. Heart thudding in his
chest, Marcell left his kitchen and went to the front counter,
blurting, "Are you sure they did it? That sounds meaner than
they tend to be ."
All
four women, including his Aunt, looked at him like he was crazy. "Of
course they did, who else would? Meaner, indeed. Besides, everyone
knows they hate Arthur Milton—and for no good reason, you ask me."
"He's
not a very nice man," Marcell said quietly.
"Marcell!"
Aunt Mary said sharply. "You watch your tongue! Arthur Milton is
quite respectable. He was your teacher, if you recall, and a fine
one."
"Yes,
Aunt Mary," Marcell replied dutifully. He'd never bothered to
relate his very personal reasons for despising Arthur Milton. No one
would believe him, and he wasn't getting away with it anymore, thanks
to Boyd and Tye. They'd saved him that day, when he'd only been able
to run with no clue where he could stop. He'd always had a crush on
them, ever since really seeing them in high school—but after that
day, he'd been more than a little in love.
"I
gotta run an errand," he said, hastily discarding his apron.
"Watch the cinnamon bread," he added, not giving Aunt Mary
a chance to demand where he was going, just bolting for the front
door, snatching up his ball cap from its hook on his way out, bell
above the door ringing.
He
shoved the hat on his dark, rusty curls, then shoved his hands into
the pockets of his jeans to still their trembling, walking as quickly
as he could for the police station. His heart was thudding so hard
and fast in his chest, he thought it might pop.
Boyd
and Tye might be trouble but they weren't malicious, and whoever
drove that Cadillac into the lake, it wasn't them. He just hoped they
wouldn't kill him, when they found out he'd seen them in the barn.
Maybe the Sheriff wouldn’t tell anyone it was him, if he asked.
Marcell
snorted. Right. And maybe his Aunt Mary would stop gossiping like she
needed it more than oxygen. He loved her, he surely did, and she'd
been willing to help him out after mama died—but there was good
reason mama had always called her a stiff-necked, unbending busybody.
If he didn't love the bakery so much, exactly as it was, he'd start
up his own.
Reaching
the police station, Marcell shook off his wandering thoughts and
slipped inside. Whatever happened to him, helping them out was the
right thing to do. Mama would have tanned his hide, if she had ever
thought he'd known the truth but was holding back. Not that it was
ever in doubt, not with Boyd and Tye involved.
"Marcell,
is that you?" Nancy, the Sheriff's assistant, looked at him in
astonishment. "Something wrong, honey? What brings a good boy
like you in here?"
"Oh—uh,
nothing's wrong, ma'am," Marcell said, and removed his hat.
"Only, I was wondering, is Sheriff Kirby in? I was hoping for a
word."
She
looked at him, as if reading his mind or something, but clearly she
didn't, because she only nodded and motioned. "He's in his
office, honey, you go right on in."
"Thanks." He strode to the indicated door and knocked, even though it was wide open. Sheriff Kirby looked up, just as surprised as Nancy had been when he saw Marcell. "Marcell, what's wrong? Something going on at the bakery?"
"No,
Sheriff," Marcell said. "Um—it's about—I heard you had
Boyd and Tye locked up. Only, I know they didn't do it. Dump Arthur
Milton's Cadillac in the lake, I mean."
"Come
in, close the door," Kirby said, and when Marcell had done so,
asked, "How do you know that, son?"
Marcell looked
at his hands, face going red—but he made himself look up, meeting
Kirby's eyes, because telling the truth wasn't anything to be ashamed
of. Well, he was telling most of the truth, but whatever. "I—uh—after
work, I like to go hide in the old McCarthy barn. I'm sure everyone
knows I'm looking to buy the property, but Mr. Walt at the bank won't
let me—anyway, I go there sometimes cause the house is so empty
with mama gone. I always knew someone else went there, I just never
knew who before.
"Then, last night, I fell asleep almost right after getting there and woke up to hear voices below. I was up in the loft, see. It was Boyd and Tye, they were in the barn smoking and drinking and just talking, and it seemed like they'd been there nearly as long as me. By the time they left, and I could leave, cause I didn't want to bother them, it was about nine thirty when I got home. So they couldn't have done it and been in the barn for at least an hour, probably closer to two than not."
Sheriff
Kirby stared at him, in that pensive way of his that made everyone
scared of him. "Have you seen them, since last night, Marcell?"
"No,
Sheriff," Marcell replied. "Normally, I see them in the
morning first thing when they come for breakfast, but we ran out of
milk and I had to run out to get it and they were long gone by the
time I got back."
Kirby nodded. "Where and what time
did you buy the milk, son?"
"Carl's
grocery, about six o'clock this morning, give or take a few minutes."
"All
right, I'll check it out, but I believe you. Thanks for speaking up.
I'll be honest—I didn't think it was them, but I had no way of
proving otherwise, not with so many people insisting. But your story
matches what they were telling me, minus of course your presence."
He winked. "Get on back to work then, I'm sure Mary is
screeching for you. I'll take care of the Withers boys."
Marcell
laughed, because Aunt Mary was probably shrieking and had probably
burned his bread, too. He'd never understood why a woman who couldn't
even boil water had opened a bakery and coffee shop. "Yes,
Sheriff," he said, and left.
Back
in the bakery, he fled to his kitchen and saved his bread just in
time, then buried himself in work so he had reason to dodge every
question Aunt Mary tried to put to him. When he finally went home
around noon, he was exhausted and dying to know how Boyd and Tye were
doing, but had no idea how to go about finding out.
He
nearly fell off his motorcycle when he pulled up to his doublewide
and saw an all too familiar black '69 Camaro. Parking his bike next
to it, too stunned to take it around back like he would normally,
Marcell unfastened his helmet with unsteady fingers, then undid his
riding jacket. Oh, god. What were they doing here and what were they
going to do to him? He raked a hand through his messy curls, feeling
the flour and who knew what else that was in it.
They
obviously had wasted no time in finding out who had been responsible
for clearing them—assuming Sheriff Kirby hadn't just told them—and
that meant they knew damn good and well what bits Marcell had left
out of his witness account.
It
should probably annoy him that they'd obviously picked the lock on
his front door and gone on inside, but he felt it would be a bit
silly to be offended by an invasion of privacy at this point. And,
really, terrified he might be, but he would probably never again have
Boyd and Tye in his living room. Just thinking about them making out
on his couch—
Swallowing,
Marcell made his feet move, and finally climbed the stairs and went
inside. To his relief and disappointment, they weren't making out on
his couch. Boyd was at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and
nursing a longneck. Tye was stretched out in the recliner, watching a
football game. For a moment, Marcell just froze. Whatever he'd been
expecting, it wasn't for them to look so…so at home. So like
home. They looked right, so much it made something in his chest ache.
They
were so fucking gorgeous; he wondered how no one ever saw that. He
was plain as pudding and twice as boring; his greatest talents were
cinnamon rolls and apple pie. Boyd and Tye were half-fae; they owned
several acres of land that produced most of the fruit that went into
Marcell's apple pies. Trouble they might be, but they'd never been
thieves.
Both
of them wore faded jeans, dusty and dirty from work. Boyd wore a
black t-shirt, Tye was just in a wife-beater, both shirts showing off
their well-formed muscles. Both had dirty blonde hair, but Boyd's was
cut military short, whereas Tye's was just long enough to grab hold
of. Boyd had brown eyes, thin lips, sharp cheek bones. Tye had a
softer-looking face, green eyes, a spray of freckles across his nose,
a small white scar on his left cheek where Milton's old class ring
had once cut it open. Marcell had felt so bad about that, but Tye had
only laughed. They smelled like earth, like cigarettes and apples,
banishing any imagined trace of his mama's heavy lilac and rose
perfume.
As
he stepped inside, they both shifted to look at him. "Uh—hi—"
Marcell said. "I'm glad the Sheriff let you go. Milton's an ass,
he probably drove the car into the lake himself and didn't want to
admit it."
Boyd
snorted softly. "If we had done it, we would have put his body
in the trunk first, but I guess you know that, Marcy." He
paused, then said, "Thanks for clearing our names. Sheriff said
we had better come and thank you personally, so that's what we're
here to do." He smirked.
"S-sure,"
Marcell said, heart beating even faster than it already had been.
"How could I not help the two of you?" His face was so hot,
he half-thought he had a fever, or might spontaneously combust. He
had no idea, now, what to do or say or even think.
Tye
snickered softly and slowly sat up, uncoiling from the recliner like
a cat from a long nap, well-rested and eager to pounce something. "So
you go to hide in the old McCarthy barn, too, huh?"
Marcell
choked, coughed. "Uh—yeah, but I wouldn't tell—last night
was the only time I saw—I didn't know it was you that used the barn
too—"
He
hastily backed up as Tye drew close, oofing as he collided with the
closed door. He was fit to pass out as Tye reached him and braced his
arms against the door on either side of Marcell's head, trapping him.
So close, and he hadn't been this close to them in years, not
since they'd saved him from Milton. He'd been a crying, scared
shitless kid barely into his teens then. That had been nothing like
this. Back then, he'd just been crushing on older boys. Now—lord
almighty, how did the rest of the town not see what he saw? "I
won't go again," he whispered, looking up into the green eyes
because he couldn't not, wishing he knew what was going on.
Tye
laughed, but it was a husky, smoky sound. "So why didn't you
tell the Sheriff what you really saw in the barn?"
Marcell
shook his head. "Wasn't anyone's business. Not mine, not the
Sheriff's, not anyone's. Sides, I could never get the two of you in
trouble for anything, not after…"
Tye's
face darkened briefly. "I wish we could put that
bastard's body in his car and drive it into the lake. Actually, I
prefer he be alive when we did it. He deserves it."
"He
ain't worth that kind of trouble," Boyd said from behind them,
and Marcell assumed he was still at the table. "Get on with it,
I'm tired of waiting."
Marcell
frowned. "Get on with what?"
"Saying
thank you," Tye replied—then kissed him.
Marcell
squeaked, jerked back, swearing as his head slammed into the door. He
looked up in surprise. "What—" Tye laughed, then grabbed
the back of his head, cupping it, fingers tight in his hair. He
kissed Marcell again, this time keeping his head firmly in place,
giving him no choice but to take the hot, heady kiss and return it.
Marcell
could not believe Tye was kissing him—and that Boyd was watching.
He whimpered, hoping he would not wake up any time soon, wishing his
dreams were always this magnificent. It only got better as he was
pulled away from the door, into Tye's arms, against Tye's fine, broad
chest. A hand slid down to grab his ass, jerk them closer still,
grinding their cocks together.
Eventually
Tye broke the kiss, nibbling along Marcell's jaw, and Marcell could
only cling to him and struggle to remember how to breathe. "Pretty
little Marcy," Tye murmured. "Perfect grades, the perfect
son, the perfect nephew, perfect baker—who knew you could be this
naughty. Did you like what you saw, last night? How much did you
see?" Marcell could only moan, legs spreading without permission
as Tye cupped him.
Tye
pulled abruptly away, leaving him stumbling and fumbling, going
easily as he was led across the room. Boyd had claimed the large
recliner, sitting in it like a king on his throne. "What did you
see?" he asked, repeating Tye's question. Tye pushed Marcell
forward and down, until he was straddling Boyd on the recliner, hands
on Boyd's chest, hot and dizzy. This could not be happening.
"Tell
me," Boyd ordered, hands on Marcell's ass, fingers digging in,
making him gasp and moan again.
Marcell
tried to remember how to speak. "Uh—I fell asleep, and woke up
while you were—uh—" If his face got any hotter, he would
pass out, surely. He swallowed. "A little later, Tye—and then
you—"
Boyd
laughed, that same husky tone to it that Tye's had held earlier. "So
articulate, Marcy. You woke up while I was fucking Tye, is that what
you're trying to say? And later, he sucked me off and then I sucked
him off?"
"Y-y-yeah,"
Marcell managed. "I didn't know you were actually that close."
They
both laughed, and Marcell jerked as Tye's teeth nipped the back of
his neck. "Actually?" Tye echoed. "Has sweet little
Marcy been jerking himself off thinking about the Withers Boys doing
filthy things to each other?"
Marcell
groaned as Boyd jerked him down, bringing their cocks together, hands
still firmly on Marcell's ass. Boyd smirked at him. "Your bed is
plenty big enough for three, Marcy. We looked, earlier, while we were
waiting for you to get home. Wanna be dirty with us, Marcy? You
should have said something sooner." He dragged Marcell down
close, kissed him hard and sure, then said huskily against his mouth,
"Should have climbed down from the loft and asked to play. We
would have let you in. We've always wanted you, Marcy."
Gasping
at the words, because he had never in a million years thought to hear
them, he could only go with it as Boyd kissed him again, harder,
rougher than his brother. Tye had kissed like he had the right to do
so. Boyd kissed like Marcell belonged to him. He groaned again and
wrapped his arms tightly around Boyd's neck, holding on for dear
life. He'd gone out a few times, all the way to the city, the clubs
there. It wasn't hard to find someone to spend an hour or two with,
but he'd never cared for it He had stopped doing it after only a few
trips.
This
was everything he had missed in those encounters, and so much more
besides.
Marcell
floundered briefly, as Boyd moved them, getting them on their feet,
and then they were going down the narrow hallway to his bedroom.
Marcell almost came then and there, as they began to strip. He
flushed as they watched him expectantly, and began to take off his
own clothes, getting tangled and fumbling and nearly tripping—
But
eventually he managed it, not even able to get upset when they
laughed because it wasn't mean at all, only the warm, friendly
laughter they had always used with him. Boyd sat against the head
board, surrounded by pillows, once more looking like a king. Marcell
went as Tye pushed, crawling onto the bed and right up to Boyd, going
obediently when Boyd grabbed his hair and angled his head just so for
another hungry kiss.
He
whimpered again, completely drugged on them, on the fact this was
actually happening, still more than half-convinced it was a dream.
Breaking the kiss, Boyd licked Marcell's lips, stared into Marcell's
eyes, his own eyes dark, hot, not even blinking as he ordered, "Tye,
get him ready, then fuck him. Marcy, you don't come until I say so.
But you can wrap those pretty lips around my cock whenever you want."
Marcell
tried to say something, anything, but could only shyly take another
kiss—then gasped, jerked, as he felt warm, slick fingers push
inside him, Tye wasting no time in following orders. Boyd's fingers
tightened in his hair, gently encouraging. Marcell did not even
consider protests, merely bent obediently and took Boyd's cock in his
mouth as Tye's cock pushed inside him.
The
only thing hotter than being completely at their mercy, he thought
hazily, would be a chance to watch them like they'd been in the barn,
but so much closer. He moaned around Boyd's cock, sucking eagerly,
too lost in the dream come to life to let himself think about it
ending.
Tye
fucked him hard, harder than the few other men he'd been with had,
like he knew that Marcell could take it—wanted it. People always
assumed that shy and quiet meant soft and fragile. Boyd and Tye,
though … it was like they knew how much he could take. Marcell
should wonder about that, be surprised by it, but he wasn't.
All
his thoughts fractured, scattered, as Tye thrust harder still,
pounding into him with all the heat and force that Boyd had used
fucking Tye in the barn, and he came with a shout that damn near
shook the house. Marcell wanted so badly to come, but Boyd had said
he couldn't until Boyd said, and that meant more. He focused on
Boyd's cock, but then was abruptly pulled off. Before he could
protest, though, he was being moved, shifted, dragged into Boyd's
lap. Marcell tried to remember how to speak, tried to ask some
question, but then as sudden as that Boyd's cock was buried inside
him and all he could do was gasp, fingers digging into Boyd's
shoulders.
Boyd's
fingers were tight on Marcell's hips, and then Marcell was lost to
sensation again as he was made to ride, rising up and being driven
back down as Boyd thrust up. He was sweaty, gasping for breath,
fumbling to keep his grip on Boyd's shoulders—
Even
habit didn't keep him from shouting, as Boyd ordered him to come, and
he came so hard his vision blacked out for a moment, and he only
barely heard Boyd's cry.
It
seemed ages passed before he could breathe properly again. He
realized he'd been settled between Boyd and Tye on his bed, a
position he found he did not mind in the slightest. Even if it seemed
surreal. "I can't—I don't—why are you really here?" he
asked.
Boyd
laughed and kissed him. "Because we want to be. Hell, we've
always wanted to be, just didn't know until today that we could."
Marcell looked at him in surprise, half-turning as Tye leaned over
him, not knowing what to say.
"We've
always kind of thought of you as ours," Tye said quietly. "Ever
since that day. We've always looked out for you, even if you never
knew it. It always … felt right. But, we couldn’t expect even
you, Marcy, to be okay with…"
"Incest,"
Boyd said bluntly. "Half-brothers is still brothers, after all.
We didn't know until today that you wouldn’t have a problem with
it, though we always thought maybe you saw us as more than just the
guys who saved you."
Marcell
looked at them both. "You've always been special, to me. You
know that, you must know that. You saved me, but …" He tried
to shrug. It went deeper than that. Since that day, there had always
been something there, but he'd always thought it was just him.
Tye
kissed the space behind his ear. "Did you know you're the only
one who calls us Boyd and Tye? Everyone else, we're just the Withers
boys."
"Those
are your names," Marcell said. Boyd laughed, and Marcell
couldn't stop staring at him. The slightly squashed nose from being
broken a few too many times, the five o'clock shadow, hard lines from
a hard life even though Boyd was only twenty five. He was so damn
beautiful and Tye just as fine. "I wasn't even sure, sometimes,
you remembered that day much. I figured I must have seemed like a
real dumb kid to you."
Tye
snorted. "We were still kids ourselves, really. That day changed
a lot of things. I still wish we had killed the son of a bitch."
"He
ain't gotten away with shit since," Boyd said. "That's all
that matters. Not unless all this shit with his car has something to
do with it. I hope the bastard hasn't slipped by us, but I have to
wonder." He sighed.
Marcell frowned. "Maybe we
should just tell the Sheriff, see what he does. Sheriff Kirby will
listen, I think, and maybe he can get rid of the bastard once and for
all—legally."
"Maybe,"
Boyd said, not sounding quite as confident, but Marcell supposed that
was fair. Law enforcement and the Withers boys had no love for one
another. "Anyway, we've always looked out for you, ever since
that day. Like Tye said—it just felt right, you being our
responsibility. But you get so flustered around us, we just let you
be."
Tye
bit his ear. "Didn't know you were only sweet on the surface,
you never gave an inkling of that. Then the Sheriff comes along and
says we're free to go, the baker boy corroborated our story, was
apparently up in the loft the whole time."
Marcell
laughed, face going hot again. "Never thought I'd wake up to
that."
Boyd
smiled, slow and hot. "Take a nap with us. When we wake up,
you'll have a better view than a loft for seeing me fuck Tye 'til he
can't walk straight."
The
words made Marcell's cock jerk, made him moan. "Am I awake—hey!"
He yelped as Tye bit his ass cheek, trying to turn enough to glare.
"Sound
awake to me," Boyd said, smirking. He kissed Marcell then,
possessive but sweet. "But sleep for now, cause we're plum worn
out. You'll love waking up, though. Promise."
Marcy
nodded and settled in, thinking it should probably be weird or at
least uncomfortable to be sleeping between two other people in a bed
that normally just held him—but it felt nice, and right, and was so
much better than sleeping alone.
*~*~*
He
woke up to the sound of someone banging on his door.
Sighing,
because it wasn't the wonderful wake up he'd been promised and no one
ever knocked on his door to deliver good news, Marcell slowly climbed
out of the delightful pile of Withers he was tangled in, and fumbled
for a pair of jeans from his dresser. He stumbled his way down the
hall and to the front door. Yanking it open, he stared for a moment,
then said, "Howdy, Sheriff."
"Marcell,"
Kirby said, stepping inside as Marcell motioned. "Sorry to bug
you so early. Milton's place was vandalized all to hell and back a
couple of hours ago. I drove by here earlier and saw the Camaro, but
I wanted to double check with you. Are the Withers boys with you, and
how long have they been here?"
"Uh—they
were here when I got home at twelve thirty," Marcell replied. "I
left the bakery at noon and came straight home. They've been here
since, never left."
"I
see," Kirby said. "Never knew they were friends…" He
trailed off as Boyd came out of the back, jeans hanging loose on his
hips, not a single other stitch of clothing on him, hair mussed,
still groggy, and given that there were only two bedrooms and the
other one was on the opposite end of the house …
Marcell
turned bright red as comprehension filled the Sheriff's face.
"Sheriff," Boyd said, yawning. "What did we do this
time?"
"Trashed
Milton's house," Kirby replied dryly.
Boyd
laughed, and helped himself to Marcell's fridge, pulling out a bottle
of water. "I know faeries and trolls don't get on traditionally,
Sheriff, and I've told you before that we hate that bastard, but we
ain't inclined toward juvenile shit where he's concerned. When I
decide we're going to hurt him, you'll know it's us what's
responsible. We might be troublemakers but we ain't liars. We do
something, we own up."
"I
know it," Kirby said with a sigh. "But it doesn't hurt when
you have a solid alibi. Where's your brother?"
"Here,"
Tye said, looking just as sleepy and half-naked and obviously
well-fucked as Boyd.
Marcell was beginning to think his face would never stop turning red, as Kirby's eyes went dinner plate wide for a moment, before he just shook his head, and looked at them sternly. "Is this new?"
Boyd
shrugged. "Yes and no. We've always looked out for Marcy, in our
way. He's our responsibility. But this?" he motioned to the
three of them, indicating what they had clearly been up to not so
long ago. "Yeah, it's new. Going to make something of it,
Sheriff?"
"None
of my business," Kirby replied. "But I'll say this. Ms.
Cathy was a good woman, and Marcell is a good boy—"
"And
standing right here," Marcell muttered, then added more clearly,
"I can take care of myself, Sheriff."
Kirby
ignored him. "He doesn't need the grief that comes from being
troublemakers—from being with troublemakers. I'm not going
to stand by, and neither will most folk, if you start messing his
life up. You'd better wise up, if you're going to be spending
significant time with him."
Marcell
rolled his eyes and went to go make coffee. Boyd sneered. "We
don't need to wise up. You tell whoever is trying to frame us to back
off, or we'll wise him up. You should also warn him that he
needs to back off, or Milton will really hurt him."
Tye
looked at Boyd in surprise. "Boyd—"
Gripping
his bicep lightly to silence and reassure, Boyd kept his eyes on
Kirby and kept talking "You ask me, it sounds like Milton pissed
someone off right good, touching what wasn't his to touch. You might
try seeing who's been getting extra tutoring from him. I thought we
had him, but maybe he's getting sneakier these days. You take care of
him, Sheriff, or we will."
Kirby
narrowed his eyes, and asked quietly, "What are you talking
about?"
"I'm
saying that man is about as respectable as me," Boyd replied.
"Marcy said we should finally tell you, so I am. It's as close
to wising up as I'll ever get, and the last time I'm doing it. That
bastard tried to hurt a boy years ago, a poor fifteen year old kid.
Tried to give lessons the boy didn't want to learn, you catch my
meaning. The boy got away, ran into us. We fixed Milton up good and
proper, and we've kept an eye on him ever since. Every time we
thought he was starting to get cocky, we set him straight. But all
these pranks mean he's up to his old, nasty ways again, I'm thinking.
Could be stupid stuff, but better safe than sorry, I guess, even if
that means I have to put up with you."
"You
should have told me all this years ago—you should have reported it
to someone! We could have—"
"Gotten
his version, decided them no good Withers boys was fucking liars, and
closed the case," Tye said flatly. "We weren't going to
make that poor kid's life miserable by dragging it out for the whole
town to gossip about."
Kirby
shook his head angrily. "I would never have let an accusation
like that just fall by the wayside. Like hell. Who the hell did he
hurt?" His gaze shifted, landed on Marcy, but he didn't say
anything.
Marcy
nodded and said, "Me, Sheriff. I'd gone to Milton's house for
some extra tutoring on math, only it wasn't math he wanted to teach
me. I managed to hit him over the head, then ran like hell, nearly
got myself run over by these two driving down the road." He
shook his head, able to remember the day so clearly and yet not at
the same time. "I was crying, scared and confused and—a lot of
things. Milton had come after me. It didn't take them long to figure
out what had happened. They took care of him, and took me home."
"I
remember that report," Kirby said. "They should have gotten
a much harsher sentence, but they were still juveniles at that point,
and the report said Milton himself insisted on a lighter sentence. I
guess he was afraid what would happen if you were disciplined too
harshly." He looked between all three of them. "You all
should have spoken up sooner." He looked at Marcell. "Especially
you, Marcell. You're the well-behaved one."
Boyd
and Tye both smothered laughter at that.
Kirby
rolled his eyes and shoved his hat back on his head. "You should
have said all this much sooner," he repeated.
"We're
saying something now," Boyd said. "We could just handle it
ourselves. If your handling it does anything to upset Marcy, we will
handle the matter ourselves."
"Hell,
I wish I'd known sooner that the baker boy was the key to settling
you two idiots down," Kirby said with a sigh. "I could have
had you boys turned respectable years ago."
Marcell
flushed all the more when Boyd and Tye only shrugged in reply,
neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
"Y'all stay here, until
I get this matter settled," Kirby ordered. "The less folks
see you, the easier it'll be to straighten everything out without
them trying to tar and feather you. Marcell, I'll speak with your
Aunt and tell her you're taking a few days off."
"Yes,
Sheriff," Marcell replied.
Kirby
left, leaving them alone again. "You didn't have to tell him if
you didn't want to," Marcell said quietly. "You could have
dealt with Milton yourself, like I know you prefer. You don't have to
change because of me. No one cares what I do, so long as I get the
baking done first."
Boyd
laughed. "It's a good thing for us that you never notice all the
flirting directed your way." He strode across the tiny kitchen
and tugged Marcell close by his belt loops. "Anyway, Marcy. Now
we have you, we'll have no choice but to trim down the antics. Who's
going to make you scream yourself hoarse if we're too busy stealing
cows and shit to do it?"
Marcell
smiled faintly, ignoring that his cheeks were going red again. "I
suppose that's true."
Tye
yawned, but moved to join them. He draped himself over Marcell,
kissed his cheek, then leaned forward enough to kiss Boyd, squishing
Marcell between them.
"So
is it true that you're trying to buy up the old McCarthy place?"
Boyd asked.
"Yeah,"
Marcell replied, faltering briefly as Tye began to kiss and nibble
along his shoulder. "Can't stand this place, really, with mama
gone. Thought the house would be something to fix up, keep me busy
when I'm not working. The land is good, too. Mr. Walt at the bank
keeps turning me down, says twenty three is too young to know what
I'm doing, even though mama left me with plenty enough money to buy
the place outright."
Tye
scoffed at this, leaving off nibbling just long enough to say, "We'll
take care of that. It is good land; we could have fun with that, eh
Boyd?"
"Yeah,"
Boyd agreed, before kissing them both senseless. "Sounds like
fun."
Marcell
couldn’t even form a reply, too dizzy with the newness, the dream
turned reality—
He
yelped as Tye bit harder, moving back, then forward, laughing a bit
as he realized he was well and truly caught between them. "My
Aunt is going to screech whenever she finds out about this, and with
everything that's about to hit the fan because of Milton—everyone
is going to find out about this."
It
was giving him a headache already, thinking about what people would
say or do, the way they'd all come in to the bakery to gawk and be
nosy. His Aunt would probably have a heart attack and threaten to
fire him. She wouldn’t actually, because he might be young, but
he'd been making cinnamon rolls since he was twelve and he knew no
one else made them better and she knew it too.
Boyd
and Tye only laughed. "Who cares?" Boyd said. "It's no
one's business but ours. The only thing that matters is that we get
apple pie and mince pie and good coffee whenever we want now, because
if we're giving you sex, that seems only fair."
Marcell
burst out laughing and was still chuckling when Boyd bent to kiss
him, agreeing happily, "That does only seem fair."
Fin