Shooting Matt Ch. 18

That was fine, truth be told. It, in keeping with the rest of the day, forced me to go slow, gave me more time to play with his tongue, bite, gently, and tug, gently, at his nipples. When his breath started to hitch and his hips began to move, I shifted position. I didn't suck his dick. I held my lips over the top of the crown and pumped his manhood into my mouth. Later, when his dick was a little less sensitive, I took him in my mouth and milked it as it grew soft.

I fell asleep with my head on his abs and his dick brushing my lips. I woke to him running his hands through my hair.

"You should let it grow longer," he told me. "You have such thick, soft hair."

"I'm too old for a ponytail, or God forbid, a man bun," I whispered. My breath caused the hair on his lower belly to vibrate. Cool. I puckered my lips and blew. His dick twitched. A strand of cum dangled from the tip.

"That tickles," he gasped.

"Um, sorry. How 'bout this?"

I took his soft dick in my mouth and tongue the slit. I let it fall back onto his belly then I kissed it, right on the V and sat up.

"Did that tickle too?" I asked, as I settled in beside him, nestled between his arm and body. My head fit perfectly in the groove between his deltoid and pecs. My fingers rested on his belly. I watched it rise and fall as he breathed. I listen to his heartbeat in my ear. I realized I was not only happy. I was content.

And I had immediately sent a silent prayer to -- who? God? The old man in the engineer's outfit? I didn't care, don't care. It was a prayer of gratitude and thanks. There's little worse in this world than someone who fails to appreciate what they've been given.

When I felt him, the him him not the cock him, stirring beneath me, I sat up.

"You want me to make you a sandwich for the road?"

He shook his head. "No. It'll take me until next week to digest that Polish boy concoction."

"Careful there, my friend," I teased. "That 'concoction', as you so unappreciatively put it, is Cleveland's gift to the nation."

"If you say so," he told me, standing and stretching.

God, I love his naked body. Like I've already said, it's not a gay porn star body. It's just a really fucking nice, hot body. It's a real body and for the moment it's partly mine and I fucking love it.

I pulled on a pair of gym shorts. "I'll move the fucking sprinklers one more time before I shut 'em off. I should have dropped some extra coin and had a sprinkler system installed."

"You probably still could. You could check anyway. Can't they lay the lines between the seams?"

"Maybe." I shook my head. "Naw, not worth it. It'll take a couple weeks to get things in order anyway.

He nodded.

He was leaning on the trunk of his car when I came around the house after re-setting the sprinklers. His one small bag sat on the driveway by his feet. I was shocked at how my chest tightened up.

What the fuck? I had wondered, looking at him and trying to catch my breath, this soon? A fucking weekend and this is how he affects you? Dude, you're in trouble.

He noticed the hesitation in my step when I looked up and saw him. He smiled.

I made my mouth smile back and squished my way over the saturated sod to give him a kiss good-bye and fuck the neighbors if they don't like it. I caught myself wondering if I could find a lesbian couple, one black, one Muslim, and really fuck with my tight-ass neighbors.

"Hey, call me. Liam thinks I'm nuts but I worry if I know someone is traveling. Call me, when you get home."

He nodded. "I would've anyway but it's nice to hear you ask." He sighed and opened the door, tossed his bag in the passenger seat, and climbed in. "See you in four days, okay?"

"Hell, yeah. I can't wait. No house or yard work. I'm already working on an itinerary."

"Good," he hesitated. "Randy, this has been one of the best weekends of my life. Honest. Thank you."

"Same here, Kent. I couldn't have asked for a better weekend." I tapped my head, knocking on wood; it's a reflex, only a fool tempts fate. "I don't mean the sex, either, though that was fuckin mind-blowin good. I mean just being with you. I can't wait for next Friday to roll around."

He nodded. He reached for the key; chuckled. "I really don't want to go," he confessed with a shake of his head.

"And I don't want you to go but we both know we can't always get what we want."

He nodded. "Hey, wait. Is that from a song?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Beat it, you cultural Neanderthal. Jesus." I leaned in and gave him a quick kiss and stepped back."

"My mother always said you shouldn't watch someone leave, that it was bad luck," I told him. "So, I'm going to go inside. See ya in a few days. Call me."

"I will. Bye."

And with that I went back inside.

That was three hours ago. It only takes a couple hours to get to Pittsburgh. Hell, less, Kent lives on the west side of Pittsburgh. He should have been home an hour ago, even if he stopped for gas or something, he should be home and he should have called.

I'm shitting bricks here. I'm afraid to call him. I'm terrified of calling him and having a cop or ER nurse answer. I've pick up my phone a dozen times and set it back down. I'm sure he just got caught up in something mundane, like doing laundry for work tomorrow, and forgot to call. I won't even be pissed about it.

***

Kent drives on autopilot. The traffic is light. It's suppertime on a Sunday evening. The miles unspool beneath him as he goes over the weekend in his head. He past Youngstown but paid no attention. He pulls his mind away from Randy and goes over his I-have-to-work-tomorrow checklist.

"Take this exit! Now!"

The voice in his head is loud, deafening and not to be disobeyed. He hits the turn signal and moves over onto the exit ramp before stopping to think about why he did so or even realizing he was following orders.

The driver's side wheels are still on the highway when he hears a horn blaring ahead of him and the chattering sound of locked up wheels. Both sounds come from the semi he'd been following. As his brain is processing the sight of the smoke coming from the semi's tires and the way the trailer is hopping all over the highway, there's a loud bang. He sees a car fly up from in front of the semi and cartwheel over the shoulder to land, wheels up, on the side of the road. The rear of the car is an accordion of metal.

The trailer, still hopping, jackknifes into the car in the passing lane. It careens into the median, over corrects and slams into the side of the car that had, only moments ago, been behind it.

Everything skitters to a stop. He's pulled into the wide V-shaped strip where the exit ramp leaves the highway. He hits the emergency flashers, looks over his shoulder and jumps out of the car. Like every ER or intensive care nurse, he has flares in his trunk. He runs back along the ramp, dropping them before turning and sprinting toward the car on the side of the road. He stays well off the shoulder, running in the grass.

As he passes the semi, he sees the driver climbing down from the cab. There's blood on the side of his face but he's upright and walking and there's not a lot of blood. He keeps running toward the car. For some reason, he notes that the car's tags are from Arizona. He's never been to Arizona. He's always wanted to go but he's never had the time.

He goes to the driver's window first. He does so for the simple reason that's the closest part of the car to him. The driver's hanging half out of the window. He thinks it's a man but he can't be sure. A large chunk of scalp is hanging over the upper part of the face and the rest of the face is covered in blood. The driver is not moving but the bubbling blood over his nose shows he's breathing.

Kent manages to fumble past the unconscious driver and get the seat belt unfastened. The man, he can see whiskers under the blood now, falls out of the car. There's nothing Kent can do but try to control the man's head and neck. He cradles the man's head between his arms and pulls him free of the car. The man's left leg is pointing in an impossible direction. He drags him to what he hopes is a safe distance from the car. The man's breathing sounds like someone blowing bubbles in a milkshake. Doing his best to keep the neck stable, Kent rolls him onto his side, hoping that will clear the airway of blood. He jerks his shirt off, wads it up and uses it to support the man's head in a neutral position.

He looks around. The semi driver is standing, looking at his truck.

Maybe he's dazed or in shock but it pisses Kent off. "Hey, driver! Get over here! I need help!" The driver glances at him, stares and then goes back to looking at his truck. "Goddamn it!" he screams. "Get over here! Now!"

The driver continues to ignore him as a woman comes racing around the other side of the truck. She looks fine. He decides she must be someone else who stopped and not someone form the other two cars he knows are on the other side of the semi.

She skids to a halt and drops to her knees.

"What do you need me to do?"

Kent likes her immediately.

"I'm not sure about his neck but when he's on his back, blood runs into his mouth and nose. Just hold his head, sorry I don't have any gloves."

"No sweat. Anyone else in the car?"

"I haven't had time to look. What about the other cars?"

"Shook up, bruises, a couple cuts that will need suturing but I didn't see anything critical." She looks at Kent. "EMS?"

"No, ICU nurse, neuro, Kent," he replies. "You?"

"Volunteer back home. Kate. My friend is doing a quick check on the others. He should be here soon."

Before Kent can say anything, she pulls her own tee shirt off, folds it quickly and pushes the man's scalp back up in place. She applies pressure to the scalp with one hand, supports it with the other.

"Not too hard, he might have a skull fracture under there."

"Gotcha. Go check the car. Go. I got this."

Kent heads for the car. Behind him he hears Kate yell. "Roy, bring the bag from the truck and get that fucking numb nuts driver helping or at least get him to put out more flares!"

Kent drops to his knees beside the car. He doesn't notice the glass that slices into his right knee. There's a woman, lying on the roof, now the floor, of the car. It doesn't appear she was belted. There's blood on her face and a long laceration along the left side. He wonders if she hit the doorpost when the car cart wheeled. She's jerking and moaning. If she's trying to say anything it's not in English. She is not a small woman. This is going to be tough without some help.

He hears Kate hollering at the semi driver. He also smells gas.

He stands up, kicks as much of the glass away as he can and yanks on the passenger door. Nothing. He kneels again and leans inside the car. He tugs the woman into position and tries to drag her out of the car. She's heavy and her dress is caught on something. He vows to himself to never go anywhere again without a first aid kit that includes scissors and a seatbelt cutter. And a cervical collar or two. He yanks again, and hears something rip. Yank, rip, yank and suddenly she is half way out of the car. Most of her skirt remains in the car, not that she's likely to care at this point. He's able to stand and pull her the rest of the way out of the car. She's not fat. She's pregnant.

Kent looks around and sees a man, Roy presumably, dropping more flares. The fucking semi driver is talking into his phone.

"Fernando," the woman moans. "Fernando."

Kent drags her over to Kate. "She's pregnant," he tells her, panting.

"I see that," Kate replies, looking grim. "Who's Fernando?"

"Him?" Kent asks, nodding at the man on the ground.

"Maybe? You check the back seats? Make sure there's no one else inside."

"Not yet," Kent says, taking a gulp of air. "I'm going to kills that son-of-a-bitch first."

He sprints over to the semi driver and spins him around.

"What the fuck are you doing!" he screams, spraying the man with spittle.

"It ain't my fault," the man whines. "I have to call this in to dispatch." He looks back at the phone in his hand.

Kent bats it out of the man's hand. It sails away, flashing in the fading sunlight. "What you have to do is get your fat ass over to that car and help me check for any other victims."

"That's my phone asshole," the driver snarls. "They must have hit their brakes or sumpin'. This ain't my fault. I need to let the company know about this."

Kent grabs the man by the shoulder and suddenly there is a gun in his face. He'd not notice the holster on the driver's hip.

"Touch me again and I'll fucking kill you!" the driver snarls. "This ain't my fault. That's gas on the ground over there. I don't get paid to be a hero or nothing."

Kent shakes his head, appalled. "Oh, you're a nothing alright. You got no worries on that score." He turns and runs back to the car.

"Kent! Roy!," Kate screams. "She said something about 'bambino'. Check the car for a kid or a baby!"

Kent sees the man dropping flares turn and start running toward the car. Kent beats him to the car and peers through the back window on the driver's side. There's not much room; the back seat is pushed right up against the front seats. Smashed against the back of the front passenger seat is a car seat. He can't see into the car seat. He doesn't need to. A small hand dangles.

"Oh, goddamn it," Kent sighs to himself. "Hurry up!" he screams at the man running toward him. "There's a kid in here!"

Suddenly Kate, drops to her knees beside him. He looks at her, confused.

"He stopped breathing, no pulse. I can go back and do CPR and he's still not likely to make it, or I can help get this kid outta this thing before it blows."

She's right. Trauma victims that need CPR almost never survive, not unless it happens right in the ER and you can get lines in them and fix, like right that second, whatever the problem is. He nods.

"Go around to the other side. I'm going to try to squeeze in the driver's window and reach between the seats, see if I can get the buckle open. I don't suppose you got a seat belt cutter?"

"No, but Roy has a knife." She looks over her shoulder. "Roy! Knife! Fucking now!", she hollers as she races around the car.

Kent shoves his body past the steering wheel and twists so that he can look between the front seats. He sees a clump of black hair. He fumbles for the small hand, gets a finger on the wrist. He can feel a pulse.

"I gotta pulse here!"

He gropes with his hand, feels his way past the small face, trying to reach the buckle. The smell of gas is stronger. He feels dizzy.

He sees Kate through the passenger window. Roy drops to his knees beside her.

"Knife," Kent demands. "I can't reach the buckle. I have the strap on this side between my fingers. I'll cut it and give you the knife back. See if you can bust out the window on your side."

The man nods. "Hang on a sec," the man tells him. Kent sees him smash the butt end of the knife into the back passenger-side window. It's a clasp knife and not a very big one at that. He hits the window again and again.

"Here," Kate tells Roy, handing him a rock she found along the road. "Give Kent the knife, use this."

She takes the knife from Roy's hand and leans inside the car through the front passenger window and gives the knife to Kent. He starts to saw, blindly, at the strap between his fingers. He's scared to death he'll stab or cut the kid. The strap parts suddenly and the kid slumps lower. Most of his head and one shoulder are visible. The window beyond the car seat succumbs to the rock and two pairs of hands being to pull the safety glass out of the frame.

Kent wiggles the kid, worrying about the kid's neck, but he needs to get him out of that seat. He tugs on the shoulder that's free, pulling it toward him, trying to work the other arm from under the second strap. It's working. The kid's head drops down. His nose is smashed flat. He must have been smothering, crushed between the seats, because once his head is free he begins to wail and kick.

Feeling like he's delivering a baby, which in a way he is, he keeps pulling at the shoulder. Suddenly, just like at a delivery, the other shoulder pops free and the kid drops, squalling to the floor/roof of the car.

Hands reach from the other side and pull him out. Kent tosses the knife out the window and begins to wiggle his way back out of the car. He gets caught on the steering wheel.

He hears a hiss, then a whoosh. The back seat fills with flames. For the first time since he pulled off the road, he's afraid.

***

When the phone rings, I jump and holler. It's Kent's number but that doesn't mean it's Kent calling. I jab at the phone, certain the fucking button won't work and it will roll over to voicemail.

"Kent, is that you?"

"Yeah, Randy. It's me and I'm fine. Really, I'm okay."

"Nobody is every fucking fine when they start off by saying 'I'm fine'," I snap. "What's wrong?"

His phone chirps. It's Liam. He rejects the call. His phone chirps. He ignores it.

"There was an accident ahead of me on the highway, south of Youngstown. I wasn't involved in the accident but there several people in one of the cars." Randy hears him gulp. "The man, the driver of the car died. We got him out but he died. The woman, I don't know. She's pregnant. I don't know about the baby. There was a kid too. He was in a car seat, thank God. He's doing OK. He's a pissed off little dude but he's OK."

"Where are you? What's wrong?" I demand. I'm sorry the man's dead and I'm happy for the kid but I want to know what the fuck is going on with Kent.

"I'm at St. Elizabeth's in Youngstown. I'm fine..."

"Quit telling me you're fine and tell me what's wrong. Fuck!"

"There was a fire. I got some of my hair singed off and some second-degree burns on my head, hands and arms. The hair will grow back and the burn doctor says I shouldn't scar, as long as I keep the burns clean and there's no infection, it's basically just a bad sunburn."

"Oh, you are so full of shit! You don't end up in the hospital with a sunburn..."

"Yeah, Randy, you do, sometimes you end up in the hospital if the sun burn is bad enough; I know you're upset. Well, so am I; settle down or I'll hang up."

Would he? I wonder and decide he would. "Sorry, I've been freaking out here. I tried to convince myself you got caught doing laundry or something but I knew it wasn't true. I knew there was something wrong."

"It could have been a lot worse. If I hadn't gotten off the freeway when I did, I would have ended up under the semi's trailer."

"Jesus," I gasp. "Okay, I'll throw a few things in a bag and be down there is an hour or so."

"No, don't. They're keeping me tonight for observation. I hate to ask but with my hands bandaged it's going to be hard to take care of myself. Could I crash with you for a few days?"

"I'm fucking pissed you even thought you had to ask but of course," I snap. Stress makes me cranky. "You want me to stay with you at your place? It's nicer."

"No, it's not. It's bigger. It's fancier. It has a view and bigger shower but it is not 'nicer'. I'd rather stay with you if that's okay."

"What time do I need to be there?"

***

Our top story tonight: A fiery crash and dramatic rescue on I-76 south of Youngstown this evening. To those of you tuning in, the video you are about to see is disturbing.

Liam and Matt are sitting at the snack bar. They've endured another one of Leon's training sessions this afternoon. Glenna made them supper and since they've been hanging out too pooped to do more than play a couple of games of ping pong. They made their way back to the snack bar and are sipping on a couple of Cokes while Glenna shuts the grill down for the evening. The 9 o'clock news is on the television above the bar.