Quillon's Covert by Joseph Lance Tonlet, Louis Stevens Page A

birthday and they’d spent it up the coast at his grandfather’s house. He’d thrummed with excitement at finally getting to try out his Brand-X Weirdo board. He’d loved that board—its crazy three-dimensional shapes and vibrant colors reminding him of his favorite video game at the time; Q*bert. But, not two minutes in, he’d been tossed off the board, landing palms-first onto the concrete. Although he’d felt incredibly foolish, Martin picked him up and ruffled his hair. “Whaddya say we learn how to ride first and save the crashing tricks for later, huh?” Marty had laughed and wrapped his arms around his dad’s strong neck. Setting him back down, Martin grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and wiped at Marty’s palms. “Nah, barely any blood…won’t even need a Band-Aid…wanna try out those gloves?” Looking back, Marty now understood that in everything his father said and did, there was quiet reassurance. An unspoken guarantee that as long as Martin was around, Marty would be safe.
    This uncoordinated, one-arm hug, right here, the one that had him slightly off-balance with the side of his head pressed to Martin’s, was the same hug he’d gotten that day, and Marty couldn’t help but feel that same reassurance. Wet toiletries, broken arms, smashed cars, and his nagging boner all be dammed, Marty knew everything would be cool.
    Martin released him and bent down, then tore a kitchen garbage bag off the roll lying in the grass. After opening it up, he started with Marty’s left arm, tightly and carefully wrapping his cast. It took Martin only a few minutes to finish, and then he started on the right arm.
    “Dad?”
    “Hmm?” Martin held the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on getting the bag’s top completely sealed off. He looked up at Marty when no reply came.
    “I mean, we’re okay, right? You know I’m sorry about the car, the accident, the casts…all of it, right?” Marty knew they were, everything about Martin’s demeanor said so. But he just needed to hear his father say the words.
    Martin blinked. Then secured the top of the bag with a piece of tape and lowered Marty’s arm. His dad stared at him for a short moment, his eyes indiscernible, then placed a palm on Marty’s shoulder. “I know you are, Bud. And, yep, we’re completely cool,” he reassured, and then guided Marty under the showerhead.
    The water was the perfect temperature for offsetting the muggy lake air; not too hot and not too cold. Unfortunately, it wasn’t cold enough to force the blood from Marty’s unabating lead-pipe of a dick though. It was like the damn showerhead was aimed right at his junk! A constant stream pounded his head, just where it disappeared under the skin, and his fucking cock just bobbed in eagerness.
    He cut his eyes to Martin, somehow convinced that his father could hear his internal, and increasingly profanity-laced, dialogue.
    Doing his best not to squirm under the teasing jet, he chided himself for not choking one out before the shower. But trying to jack off with the casts often left him more frustrated than when he started because he couldn’t always get the friction he needed for release.
    Moments after the shampoo bottle’s top popped open, his dad’s strong fingers began a lather of thick foam into Marty’s hair. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember the last time his father had done this.
    “This is nice,” Martin said softly.
    “Hmm?” Marty asked distractedly as Martin increased the pressure.
    His father leaned forward and spoke closer to Marty’s ear. “Kinda thought I’d never get to do this again.” He pushed his fingers forward, scraping them against Marty’s skull and running them through his hair, just to hook them in and pull slowly backward, only stopping when they reached his nape.
    “Jeez,” Marty moaned and closed his eyes. “Dad, does Mom know what she’s missing out on? That feels really good.”
    Martin’s chest rumbled with a low