Bus Stop
Bad Enough
Sean’s not unconscious. He’s actually quite alert.
Norman stumbles back with the force of a heeled black boot to his chest. It leaves a dusty imprint against his shirt. He can’t help but silently laugh at the sight of it, despite the fact that he can’t breathe and feels like a rib may be busted.
“Good one.” Norman rasps and even manages a slight smirk.
Sean crawls out while Norman recovers in short breaths.
Sean is sweaty and pissed. It’s like old times. There’s dark blood matted in his hair, sticky red down the side of his face. Norman wants to lick it off.
“You little shit. You think I’m gonna go quietly? In my own fucking car?!”
“You kick like a girl.” Norman taunts. So easy. Even easier to guess where the next swing will come from and duck just in time.
The punch grazes a shoulder. Norman gets the next hit. Sean doubles over and bounces back against the bumper of the car, hard.
They fight like sex. Sean trips Norman as soon as he gets his footing. They land in tangled mess on the ground. Norman’s eyes glaze out momentarily as he bangs his head back painfully against the ground. Sean takes advantage and quickly straddles him
“Now who’s the bitch?” Hard thighs squeeze Norman’s hips, pinning him to the ground along with a small metal blade grabbed from a boot held up against his throat. They’re both semi-hard.
“Still you.” Comes a voice behind him. Norman’s eyes shift from one set of intense blue eyes to another. Marshall. He smirks. He clearly has a thing for angry blue eyed guys.
“Get up motherfucker.” Marshall has the gun held three inches from Sean’s turned head. “Drop the fucking blade and back away slowly.”
Sean rocks his hips against Norman’s and mutters; “Bitch.” But he puts his arms out to the side and drops the blade.
It lands nose down in the sand.
“Now get the fuck up.”
Sean locks eyes with Norman briefly. A knowing look passes between the two. Marshall doesn’t see it.
“Yes, sir.” Sean mocks as he turns slowly as if to stand up in open surrender. When he’s halfway turned he grabs the gun and yanks Marshall off balance towards him.
It clicks uselessly as they wrestle for control.
Marshall’s on his stomach in seconds, a face full of dirt as Sean climbs on top of him.
“What the fuck?!” Marshall can feel Sean’s hard-on against his back.
Norman watches. Does nothing.
It’s a test.
Marshall feels his face heat as Sean presses his clothed cock against him and tries to align their bodies.
This is not going to happen.
Marshall sees red. It’s like his school days all over again. He’s not a weaker, smaller frightened punk kid anymore. Sean gets an elbow in the side of his head that makes his teeth rattle and glob of blood splatter out against the dirt. Marshall rolls out from under him. He doesn’t give the other man anytime to recover before he presses a dusty forearm against his windpipe and takes pleasure in his gurgled choking.
“Did I pass motherfucker? Am I bad enough to be in the fucking club?!”
Norman starts laughing from where he lies. He sits up and takes the knife out of the ground. “Don’t kill the bitch yet we may still need him.” There’s a smile in his voice and Marshall manages to let go of his anger a bit and eases the pressure off Sean’s throat.
***