Ganymede

69

Chapter 1

Five miles [8 km] outside Daytona I pulled off the freeway. I was getting tired of the Firebird's exhaust and the whistle of wind through the soft-top. I needed something to eat and a bathroom break. There were a few restaurants to chose from. Instead of following habit and going for a hamburger and coffee, I chose the Subway in the nearest gas station. God only knows why I did. It was totally out of character. Never before had I been interested in counting calories or watching my intake of saturated fats. That's where I saw him the first time. Of course, I didn't know his name was Tyler Kincaid, or that he was ten years old, or that he was the hottest thing since we stuck a four-barrel Holley on a bored-out Chevy V-8 and got the compression up to 12 to 1, yet he still made an impression on me. He was wearing a nascar* tee shirt emblazoned with 'Gordon Jeffries', 'Duraflex', and '3' for his third win of the Winston Cup.

It really wasn't that surprising when I thought about it. Just about kid who lived south of the Mason-Dixon line, and a lot who lived north of it, thought Gordon Jeffries was the best. Hell, Jeffries had just tied Richard Petty's modern-era record with thirteen wins for the season. I would have been lucky to actually finish thirteen races in an entire season.

Maybe it was the car I was driving. Jeffries's supercharged Henderson Motorsports Monte Carlo was unstoppable. Maybe it was skill. Maybe he was just plain lucky. Maybe it was Jay Everingham's expertise guiding him. Whatever it was, he had all the cards in the deck. Jeffries was a winner. He had always been a winner. He was twenty eight years old and the best looking driver in nascar. His wife, Kristi, was auburn-haired and drop-dead gorgeous, at least every one said she was. Frankly, I wasn't much interested in women.

When Gordon was eleven, he won the national championship for quarter-midgets for the second time, or maybe it was the third fucking time because I lost count. Back then, I was twenty-four and infatuated with the dark-haired boy I watched though a pair of binoculars. He had all of three horsepower at his disposal and he knew how to use every one. It was like his three horses were race horses. He was a short, skinny kid, but he was so confident that he could have been in his late teens. I could still remember the smile on his face when he climbed onto the victory platform, his right arm lifted up like he had just won the Monaco grand Prix. He knew he was number one, and he was only eleven.

I got an erection just thinking about what my little preteen hero wore under his blue and white race-suit. And yes, there was a neat little bulge right where it was supposed to be. He was all boy. I drooled over him, cut out his picture from the local paper, and shot my loads until it was hard to see his face through the spots. For the next few weeks, that memory was never out of my thoughts.

The last time I had seen him was in Atlanta. He went past me like I was standing still, which I was at the time. The Cracker-barrel 500 was on March 14th. That was the race where I was holding my own in 20th place until I blew a rear tire in the back straight and took out the front end of my car. That little episode cost me over five grand and the next two races.

However, I'm getting away from the story, or at least how it started. I pulled through the gas station and parked next to a pickup. Actually I parked a bit closer that I intended, but I could still open my door. I didn't care if the people already parked there could get back in or not. It was hot, even for midday June in central Florida. I sauntered across the parking lot. I was a dozen paces from the Subway when he came out. My first thought was that he was 'cute'. He looked like a track-rat. He was a bit on the rough side with stained sneakers, grease-spotted, frayed blue-jeans cut off a few inches above the knees, and his Jeff-Gordon fan shirt. As I approached, he raised his eyes and looked directly at me. 'Cute' immediately changed to 'drop-dead gorgeous'. He had blue eyes. Not 'blue', but 'BLUE', like the clear middle-of-the-day sky overhead. He was dirty-blond and he needed a hair-cut. Actually, he needed more than a haircut. His hair came to his shoulders and hung below his eyebrows. He also needed a bath. For the next few seconds he continued to stare me down. I was also looking right at him, until I was only a few feet away.

"You like 'im?" I said abruptly.

"Huh? Who?" he said.

He had a high-pitched southern drawl that told me his voice was still a long way from breaking. Up close, he even looked like a prepubertal boy, still soft on the edges and smooth like a girl.

"Jeffries."

"He's real cool!"

"Yeah, he's cool all right," I said as I passed.

I opened the screen door that led into the gas-station-Subway store. I spoke over my shoulder for no other reason than I wanted to tell him what I thought of Jeffries. God only knows why I said what I did

"The mother's married, y' know."

I could feel the boy glaring at my back, wondering what on earth I was talking about. I smiled, imagining the boy's consternation if he had any idea that I had just changed my opinion of him from 'cute' to 'drop-dead gorgeous' to include 'pretty darned sexy.'

"What's him bein' married got to do with it?" I heard him ask.

I stopped and slowly turned around. I didn't want him to think that he was interrupting me. I shrugged.

"Nuthin'… Everythin'… Depends, don't it? Whatcha momma gonna think?"

"You're weird, man, you know that?" he squeaked awkwardly.

I smiled again and shrugged, casually lowering my gaze to his groin. His crotch was a compact 'v' crease with not much underneath shape showing. It was just enough to show he was either male, or had the start of the biggest pussy in the county. At about the same age and size, Gordon Jeffries probably had substantially more between his legs. Unfortunately, there was only so much that I had been able to see with a pair of 7x50 binoculars. I had to fill in the details with an imagination of a horny twenty-four-year-old who was to scared to do anything about it.

"Weird sucks," I said absently. "I'll agree with you on one thing. I'm different, kid. Most people get either used to me sooner or later, or they take a hike."

He grinned and shook his head in disbelief. I wanted to say something to take the smile off his pretty face. He looked so confident standing there, like a little Gordon Jeffries after winning his umpteenth race. So proud and innocent. So fucking beautiful it took my breath away. The sun made his tousled hair glisten. He was Florida-tanned and slender, and when he breathed his little nostrils flared out like the air was too hot to breath, which it was. His forehead and the bridge of his nose were spotted with tiny beads of perspiration and a few tiny freckles. He looked like he had been running, or having hard sex. There was no denying the thought foremost in my mind. I wanted to have sex with him. His lips were well-shaped and red, a bit too much like a Saturday-night hooker to pass unnoticed. When he kissed, you were either going to get tongued or get your face slapped. I winked right at him, instead of blowing him a kiss, my choice.

"Yer still weird," he retorted with an impudent grin.

"You're sassin' me, boy?" I laughed. "I don't take no sassin', not from bratty little boys. Even if they are movie-star cute."

His eyes sparkled and he backed away, visibly appreciating the 'movie-star' comment, but preparing to run if I reached towards him.

"Weird, weird, weird," he chortled. "Man, you are so crazy."

"Listen Ace, I don't get in your way, you don't get in mine. Don't annoy me when I'm hungry."

"Whydaya call me Ace fer," he demanded.

"'cause of tha' there three. Ace is three times, kid. Do anything three times and you're an ace."

"Oh, ya mean ma shirt?" he asked proudly. "'cause of tha '3' on it?"

"Ya' haven't had that little pokey of yours in three girls, have ya Stud?"

He giggled, glanced down sheepishly. When he looked up his eyes were bright with amusement.

"Yeah, right. Like a kid my age has sex with girls?"

"No!" I grinned at him, pretending surprise. "I guess not. Not with pussy anyway. Then it's gotta be 'cause you got yerself a three-inch [7½ cm] dick down there."

He smirked, enjoying my crudeness with more pleasure than the vast majority of preteen boys, but right up there with a few track-rats I had known over the years.

"How do you know how big it is?" he giggled softly.

"It's smaller?" I enjoyed taking his ego apart.

"No! Hell no!" he added for emphasis.

"Ain't no bigger but, now is it?" I countered.

"How do you know?" he shot back.

"Go figure, Stud. If you must know, it's related to the size of your thumb," I teased.

He was fooled, but only for an instant. It took that long for him to glance at his right hand. His thumb was only about two inches [5 cm] long. He looked up again, grinning. He was thinking of what to say when I ended the conversation by turning away. He was still giggling when I entered the store to order my 400 calorie turkey-and-cheese sandwich and diet coke. I was doing my best to lose weight. By the time I came out again, he had disappeared. For the rest of that day all I could think of was the little crease between his thighs, his bashful smile, and the sweat on his forehead.

***

I didn't see him again until race day. It was strange how it happened. I pulled out of the Pepsi 400 with an overheating engine, blowing a continuous cloud of white smoke that boded nothing but hell for a twenty-grand short block. I was in a mood fit to be tied. The last thing I needed to do was ruin an engine. I had been going faster than I had for the entire year, so my mood was grim. On the previous day, I had an unsuccessful meeting with some potential sponsors. For some reason, nobody wanted to support a loser, despite the fact that I was a good driver.

Even my car, a two-year-old Pontiac, had a chance of winning if I could ever finish a race. What I needed was money for a decent pit-crew, spare parts, a couple of factory-reworked engines, and a team manager who could drag my operation out of the fiscal mess it was in. Unless things changed, my racing days were fast drawing to a close. I had a few thousand in the bank, not much considering what I had inherited from my grandfather. It was remarkably easy to spend $790,000 in two years. I should have kept my share of Papaw's trucking business and drove eighteen wheelers across the country.

The problem, as it turned out was a leaking radiator hose that sent a spray of water over red-hot exhaust pipes. It really was not all that surprising considering the temperature was in the low 90s [32-35°C] that day. What was surprising was how much super-heated steam looks like white smoke.

"Fuck it!" I swore.

I slammed the hood down only a moment after Bobbie Gerdsen pulled his hands away. He was a moment too soon.

"You should'ha tightened the fuckin' hose clip properly. You're fired, you dumb ass-hole," I bellowed.

My ex-mechanic glared back at me. I fired Bobbie about once a month. However, the fact was that he was better than most mechanics on the nascar circuit. He was simply trying to do too much with too little.

"It's not the fuckin' hoseclip. Look! The mother fucker hose got scorched there, y'see. I warned ya' 'bout it. It's fuckin' got a big spit on the underside. The hose is too fuckin' old. We should'a replaced it weeks ago. I done warned ya' 'bout them hoses, Terry. They all gotta be done. That's where the fuckin' water is comin' from. It woulda' pissed out right over yer exhaust manifold when it was pressured up. I'll go see if I can borrow one from another crew if ya want."

"It ain't fucking worth the trouble," I said angrily.

"Tha hell it ain't. They got a yellow out there."

He was right. The cars had slowed to a crawl and some were beginning to come into the pits for gas and tire changes. We would lose some time, but it was not a complete disaster. As Bobbie took off towards the next pit, I knelt down on my hands and knees and tried to peer underneath just to make sure he was right. With only a few inches of clearance I couldn't see very much. I wanted to scream 'FUCK' at the top of my lungs. I saw a pair of sneakers. Dirty sneakers. No socks. Laces bedraggled and undone, one dragging in the dust. Sneakers that had a brief but very hard life. Small, boy-sized sneakers. Sneakers I had seen before.

"Fuck," I said under my breath.

There was no doubt. There were thin ankles coming out of the sneakers. Bony boy ankles. Ankles with a layer of grime, suggesting feet that needed a bath. Ankles that should not have been in the pits. And then I remembered his voice. Not broken but scratchy, a long way from being husky. His voice was incredibly sexy, like his face, like his entire body. Hurriedly, I clambered back up, still not believing my eyes even though my heart was pounding like I was leading the pack through the S-curves.

He smiled when I stood up. Same kid, different haircut. He had a close-cropped cut. The only sign of the rat's nest he had before was a six-inch [15 cm] rat's tail down the back. He wore another shirt, newer, yet still stained with spots of oil. This time his shirt was emblazoned with '69', my number, and a name 'Terry Atkins', my name.

"Hi Ace!" I said.

He grinned the same infectious grin that said he enjoyed life. His eyes sparkled with an intensity that said there was a real brain thinking real thoughts inside his head. My eyes dropped instantly. He wore what appeared to be the same cut-offs with frayed legs. The little crease in the crotch was still there, this time accentuated by a smear of something that was probably grease. He raised his head, his eyes meeting mine, his eyebrows so thin they were almost nonexistent. His eyes asked 'why'.

I held up three fingers and his smile continued, maybe even started turning into a grin before he stopped himself. He stared at me while he tried to think of an appropriate response. After a few seconds of silence, he held up his hand, holding his thumb down. I counted four fingers even before I realized what he was saying. I barely noticed my team jacking the car up to change tires.

"In yer dreams," I laughed. "Not even on a good day, kid. Maybe in a year or two when you start growing. Yer gonna have to wait for puberty for anything that big. That, and your thumbs will have to grow longer first," I teased relentlessly.

"The size of a guy's thumb ain't got nuthin' to do with the size of it," he retorted, still grinning, eyes sparkling with more life that he knew what to do with. "What happened? Whydya pull out for, Terry?"

"Fuckin' burst a goddamn water hose," I grunted. I smiled, very conscious that I had just cussed in front of a kid. He didn't seem to mind.

"I was hopin' you wain't out of the race?" he asked uncertainly. His voice grated against my ears. It was accented, both innocent and full of lust. The southern twang was strong. His eyes flashed and he stepped closer, leaned forward and peered into the engine bay. Steam was still flowing over the hot exhaust pipes, sizzling as more green fluid continued to leak out despite the loss of pressure.

"Maybe. Don't know yet. My pit-crew is trying to round one up."

"You goin' back in then, Terry?"

"Maybe," I repeated. "I like yer shirt, Stud."

Stud grinned finally. "I got it fer you. I didn't recognize ya at the store."

I shrugged. "You gotta win races to be recognized."

"I seen ya picture on the Pepsi website."

I nodded, trying to decide whether he had the most beautiful set of lips I had ever seen. Then, I realized I was staring at him. Not that he seemed to mind. He stared tight back at me with those midday-sky eyes of his.

"You ain't married neither," Stud announced with a knowing smirk.

I didn't have the chance to find out how he had discovered that important piece of information, or even why he thought it was important. At that moment I heard Bobbie's shout. "Git it the hell off!"

He came back running, or as rather trotting as fast as an 250 pound [115 kg] man can go. Above his head he wielded a length of curved black pipe. Trevor and Pete had been lounging by the side of the car after refilling the gas tank and changing the tires. Now they sprang into action. By the time Bobbie had reached them, the old pipe was removed. I did not need to tell them to hurry. I had enough experience to know that I had less than twenty seconds before I was back in the race. I slid back into my seat, slamming the harness buckles back into place with reassuring clicks. Seconds ticked past. From the side I could see the boy. He was still grinning, more enthusiastically than seemed possible. Those bright blue eyes flashing eagerly, showing interest in everything around him, sucking up life experiences like a Hoover. Vaguely, I wondered how he had been to get past the track guards and into the pit area.

Instinctively, my fingers turned the ignition key, cranking the heated engine back to life. I heard it fire. Stop! I mouthed the word 'fuck'. Still cranking. Firing on less than a full complement of cylinders. Must have flooded a couple. 'Damn! Fucking hell!'. Then, roaring back to a blood-pounding scream as the engine revs increased. The tachometer lifted past eight thousand, dropped down to four. A moment later the hood slammed down. My foot came off the clutch even as I found first gear. Through the carbon fiber and foam padding of my helmet I could hear the screech of rubber. He waved exuberantly.

I don't know what got into me that afternoon. I drove better than ever before. The burst radiator hose had cost me nearly a lap and half. Jeffries was two laps and three hundred yards ahead of me, yet I held the time difference for the next few laps. He was still three hundred yards ahead when we hurtled down the straight. However, Jeffries was pulling away, increasing his lead over the rest of the field by one or two seconds every lap. After ten laps I had moved from last place to second last. There were twenty-eight cars in front of me. As Jeffries ducked and weaved past a group of four cars, I followed him. I counted the places I picked up. On pitrow, I saw Bobbie give me the thumbs-up sign, the boy beside him. He had his tee-shirt off, making it into a flag and waving furiously. It struck me that he was my one and only true fan. He was somewhere between brown and gold.

I made my mind up then. I knew I wasn't going to win, but I was going to do my best to get a place. With thirty laps left, that meant going around the circuit two seconds faster than Gordon, and doing it consistently. It took all my concentration and everything the car had to give. I kept it in the gears as long as I could, waiting until the tachometer needle was nearly out of the red zone before I changed. At the end of the straight, it took all the prayers I could remember as I slammed the brakes hard. Even with forty-six inches [117 cm] of rubber on the road, the car still continued on.

"Fuckin' understeerin' piece-of-goddamn-shit!" I cursed aloud as the tail of the car slid sideways.

I twitched the wheel, nearly over-correcting. We had spent a god-awful amount of money trying to solve the handling problems, but without a factory engineer in the pits it was a matter of trial and error, mostly error. Then, with the engine reaching a banshee wail, I accelerated at full throttle pulling up nearly two car lengths before I had to back off again. Into the S-bends, breaking synchro-crashes each time I changed gear, the stench of burning rubber and racing oil filling the cabin until breathing became unpleasant despite the wind that buffeted through the latticed side windows.

It had to be a dream. Through the bends and down the back straight I held the few lengths I had gained, seemingly even cut a few more yards off Jeffries' lead. hard on the brakes, lining up the corner at the top of the main straight, letting the car slew slightly in a controlled drift as I slid back into third gear. The tachometer came right through the red and out the other side when the scream peaked. The gap narrowed, one foot at a time, closer and closer, until I was near enough to nudge his ass if he backed off. The extra muscle of Jeffries' car was inevitable and I dropped back a car length or two when he changed gear. But I was still within spitting distance. We rushed past the grandstands at 165 m.p.h. [265 km/h]. I was barely aware that a cheer was building for the underdog. Instead, the barest sideways glimpse caught the bronzed boy, waving with a frenzy that spurred me on even more. His mouth was open, screaming. Gone!

I slip-streamed Jeffries right up to the end of the main straight. It was now or nothing, but dare I try to pass him. I braked sooner than Jeffries, but only by a fraction of second. If there was one thing Bobby knew it was brakes, and mine were the best on the track. I took a wider line than normal, to the other side of Jeffries, cutting it close to the rail before steering in tight. It was something only a fool would do, or someone who know his car would do what it was supposed to. As we came through the center of the turn, the gap between us narrowed to inches. He was leaving me no room and he knew it, and he was still a half-length in front of me.

"Fuck you, mother-fucker," I swore loudly.

He had closed me out of the passing maneuver even before I was halfway through the turn.

As one of the supposedly slower cars I did not warrant a cockpit camera, but those next seconds would have shown the most exciting action of the day. My inside wheels grazed the rail and the car bounced away. I corrected, not too much, just enough, lost a little momentum, kept going. Foot all the way to the floor, engine bellowing, pulling closer, slamming through the gears, finding a gap. As he finished the turn and started down the short straight, I closed up again. I was finding horsepower through prayer. Then, looking sideways, seeing him next to me. Neck and neck. Fucking Hell! Jeffries and I were going side by side.

I crept ahead then lost it when I upped a gear, picked it up again under brakes. Through the s-bends, never more than a yard or two between us. Lap after lap we stayed like that, nose to tail like two dogs, like I was sniffing his ass, or had my knot stuck up a bitch. In a way, I was joined to him. I passed him a half-dozen times, and he passed me in return. I was a lap behind, yet as the field spread out, I picked up places running in Jeffries' suction.

One place after another, from the rear of the field to the middle, from twenty-eighth to twelfth with seven laps still to go, then tenth place, then count-down. Picking up one place every lap. Passing big-budget drivers who were still wet behind the ears. During the last lap, there was a dull roar outside the closed world of my cockpit. People were standing up, waving, screaming, cheering Jeffries onto his victory. I was next to him, then slightly in front as we came around the last corner. Both flat out-winding every precious horsepower from our straining engines. There was no red-line. Engines reaching a banshee scream. Pushing harder and harder until there was no more to give and the checkered flag jerked furiously. Was it over?

I was shaking, my hands sweating and sore from the tension of holding the wheel. I changed gear, missed my timing, dropped back a few lengths until I realized that the race was not over for me, not yet. I still had the last lap to go because I had crossed the finish line ahead of Jeffries. So, needing a cold beer so bad that it hurt, I kept on. Running hard and fast, with the fuel gauge getting awfully, scary close to empty, and knowing all the time that every car I passed might mean one more place for me. Two more cars went by. Had I passed one of them already? Number 37? An all black bastard with a cigarette sponsor. Back into the curves, swinging low, clipping the rippled edge with my tires. Hard on the accelerator. Back up through the gears. Shaking now as I came down the straight. Glimpsing the flag, no longer waving but held straight out and waiting for me. Backing off for the second last time. Changing hands. trembling. My throat was parched. I needed to go to the bathroom, badly. My ears were ringing. The roar was getting louder. The smell of something burning. Electrical? No, oil, or rubber. Temperature way too high. Slowing down. Make the turn into the pits. The engine idling roughly. Smoke the color of blue ice belching from under the hood.

Then, Bobbie's reddened face was at the side window, reaching in, unfastening my harness, and screaming in my head.

"Fantastic! Fuckin' fantastic! Man, you was fuckin' incredible, Terry!"

I was aware of several dozen people in the pits who weren't there the last time I stopped. But he was there, my track-rat boy. He stood back from the rest, yet he stood out like a brilliant diamond. He looked like something out of a dream, a very beautiful dream, the kind of dream you have once and never forget because you know it will never happen again. His dirty-blond hair glistened in the sun, his rat's tail blowing in the breeze. He raised his arm in a salute, lifting his shirt halfway up his slim muscled belly to reveal Florida sun-tanned skin that was the same treacle color of virgin 20-W-50 engine-oil.

Then, he smiled and waved. The gesture went right through my consciousness until all I think about was him. 'Drop-dead gorgeous and pretty darned sexy'. That was him! I climbed out onto unsteady legs. I waved back at him, barely aware that a camera was flashing again and again. My shirt was sticking to the sweat on my back. I needed a shower, but even more than a shower, I needed to use the bathroom. From the corner of my eye I saw two trackreporters closing in, one with the camera, the other with a microphone. I wondered why they were there. There was a man with a very large video camera balanced on his shoulder.

"Fuckin' hell!" I said softly as I lifted my helmet off and passed it to Bobbie.

"Not wrong, Terry. You're a fuckin' hero!"

"Huh? What? Who? Me? What the hell are you goin' on about?"

"You, Terry! For Christ sakes, you might have been playin' tail games with Jeffries out there, but you just set a new track record."

"Huh? What the hell are ya talkin' 'bout, Bobbie?"

"You showed Jeffries, Terry. You just clipped a tenth off-a his old record. You showed that little fucker in the Chevy! You pulled a 196 [315 km/h] and a bit on the next to last lap. You got a 146.6 [236 km/h] average."

"I did?"

"She-e-e-e-e-t! Didn't you see the crowd go wild? They were screamin' 'go Atkins'. You kept pullin' past cars so fast I lost track of where you were."

"How did I finish?" I mumbled in exhaustion.

I don't know why, but at that moment all I wanted to do was to get out of the pits, away from the limelight, away from the people who had gathered around me clamoring for interviews. There were even two track wenches giving me the 'look'. If I wanted to get laid, all I had to do was tell one or both of them when and where to meet me. They were better looking than any Saturday-night hooker. If I liked women I would have needed a box of rubbers.

Instead, I looked for the boy whose name I still did not know. I spotted him by the back fence. Our eyes met over forty feet [12 m], finding a pathway through the milling crowd, until they locked together. He was still smiling, even shaking slightly like it was all too much for him. His eyes blinked several times and his hand lifted up. He was crying, crying because he was so happy. Damn! More than anything, I needed to be with him. I had an urge to hug him that was stronger than anything I had ever felt. I tried to move forward, but it was impossible to go more than a few inches. His hand lifted higher until I could see his three fingers extended. Three! Three inches [7½ cm]! I was surprised it was that big. If I was taking bets, I would have lost my shirt and pants with a less-than-three-inch maximum.

"Huh? You mean you don't fuckin' know? You finished in third, Terry! Ole '69' come in third! A fuckin', incredible third!"

"Huh? Third? "

"Are you okay, Terry? Terry?"

I shook my head dulledly. He was leaving. I could see his back. Small, skinny back with a rat's tail hanging down his neck. I wanted to call him back. I wanted him to participate in my moment of glory. I wanted to share my first triumph in two years with him. I had done it for him. Only for him. I looked at Bobbie blankly, still not understanding.

"Third?" I asked absently.

Bobbie nodded energetically. "Yup! You did it, Terry. Third. You were pushing so hard I thought you were gonna blow the fuckin' engine. From the looks of the smoke, you probably did."

"It was stinking pretty bad on the last lap. Gotta be burnin' oil. Maybe I ruined it?"

"Who gives a shit! It was ready for the scrap heap anyhow. Them hoses is just part of the problem, Terry. We got number threes in the pots with oversize rings. It was just about done in. There ain't no room left for a rebuild."

"Hell! Well that's fuckin' it then. I can't afford a new block."

"The hell you can't. You just made a hundred grand, you asshole," Bobbie laughed.

"I did?"

"Third place, remember. Coming in third pays about seventy. Throw in the lap record and it oughta round out to a hundred grand, Terry. Maybe you'll even get some sponsors out of it as well."

I started to laugh. Yet, even as the full meaning of what had happened began to sink in, I was looking for him. I saw his back, that was all. He was even further away. Just his back and the number '69' plastered boldly across his tee shirt, and the rat's tail hanging below his shoulders. I stopped laughing, started to push through the crowd, stepped out of the reach of the reporter's microphone. I felt Bobbie's hand grasp my shoulder, heard his voice asking what the problem was, shook my head.

"Hey Terry, you cain't leave man. Not now! It's too important!"

"I gotta go, Bobbie. I'll be right back."

"You cain't leave, Terry. They want to do a spot on you for the national news. You made the big time out there today, Terry. You gotta new record to talk about. Don't blow it."

"It'll just take a minute or two, that's all. I just gotta talk to someone for a moment," I said angrily.

Bobbie shrugged. "If you're lookin' for Ty, he'll be back later."

"Ty?"

"You know, Ty! Geez, what planet are you on. He's probably your biggest fan, Terry. He was cheering like he knew you were gonna win. I never seen anyone so wound up when you were chasin' Jeffries's ass."

"You mean the kid who was here when I came in earlier?"

"Yeah, him. Ty's the kid who was hanging around 'bout then. I thought you knew him."

"The little blond-headed boy?"

"He's the only one 'round here dumb enough to wear your number," Bobbie guffawed, "and not get the '69' joke."

There was no sign of Ty as I scanned the pits again. Of course, with the large crowd that had gathered and was milling around, it was difficult to see anything besides people. I wanted to see him again, even a glimpse would be enough. Of course, a glimpse would not be enough. A glimpse of an angel would never be enough for me, but at that moment all I wanted to do was feast my eyes on him once more. I wanted to tell him that I had done my best to win, but there was simply no way I could make up the distance after the unscheduled pit stop.

"He looks a mite like my sister's kid, Joel, only a helluva lot cuter. He was hanging around here till a minute ago."

I looked at Bobbie uncertainly. He smiled slightly and then nudged me towards the reporters and the television camera. The interview seemed to last forever, but in reality took less than five minutes. I was never very good at presenting myself. I was reluctant to say what accounted for the sudden burst of performance from '69'. It was all the reporter could do not to burst out laughing when we talked about '69' and setting a new lap record. All I could say was that the Pontiac finally came through when I needed it most. I tried to introduce the members of the pit crew. Most of them hung back sheepishly. Like me, they were not used to being in the limelight. Bobbie mumbled a few words about how useful the third-prize money would be, and how the sponsors should take a look at some of the other teams. Then, the interview was over.

The crowd dissipated quickly, vanishing back to wherever they had come from almost as soon as the reporters were gone. I stood there, dry throated, still needing a 'piss', suddenly very tired. I glanced at Bobbie.

"Thanks, Bobbie. I owe you," I said simply.

"Sure." He started to walk towards the car. He turned around and smiled. "Ty said he'll be back 'round five, Terry," he added as an afterthought. "Assumin' yer still around."

"Thanks again." I scanned the area, still looking for him.

"It's cool. You better get cleaned up and get your ass over to the 'circle'. We need that fuckin' check more than you need to get laid by some cute little track rat."

My mouth dropped open as Bobbie began to walk to the other side of the car, giving instructions to Trevor and Pete about cleaning up and putting the equipment away as he went. It was impossible that he meant it the way it sounded. Not that I would have any objection to having sex with Ty, or any boy for that matter, if the opportunity ever arose. It would be a lie to say otherwise. I was only human. Still, I was shocked that he would openly acknowledge the possibility to me. Carrying my helmet, I headed off towards the grandstand, still looking for Ty whatever-his-last-name-was.

Chapter 2

It's a strange feeling to have two checks for a hundred thousand dollars in your pocket, when for the last couple of months there was nothing in your wallet but credit card charges. The triumph should have elevated my spirits. Instead, I wandered back to the pits with a sense opf aimlessness, checking my watch every few hundred feet, as if another minute would make all the difference. I couldn't get my mind off the boy. 'Ty'. I thought about his name, again and again. It was a name that suited him. It was a simple, direct, monosyllable. It was him, his name. 'Ty'. A boy's name. The perfect name for a boy like him. I played games with that monosyllable as I walked. 'Ty one on'. 'All Ty-ed up'. 'Mai Ty'. His name! Why was I surprised when it was so obvious? What was his last name? I wanted it to be Atkins. He could be the son I would never have. Having a son meant getting married and there was no way in hell that was going to happen.

I stopped. I checked my watch for the twentieth time. Five past five! I stared at my watch in disbelief. How was that possible? The last time I had looked at my watch could not have been more than a minute ago. The time had been… what? I laughed aloud and people stared at me, that overweight race car driver with the red and black suit emblazoned with '69' and 'Grand Prix'. I began to walk quickly, thinking of the five, nearly six minutes that passed already from the time I was supposed to meet him in the pits.

He wasn't there. I felt like a flat tire, running on the rim, going 'kersplat-kersplat'. I walked over to Bobbie and waved the checks in his face.

"Fuckin' wonderful. You gonna pay us what you owe us," he laughed. He did the arithmetic in his head. "One-hundred-and-three-fuckin' thousand. It's enough to buy all the shit we need for the rest of the season and put some rubber on the truck as well."

"How about my Firebird?" I demanded. "I'm lookin' at steel on two tires already."

"Okay. So git yerself some new rubber, but don't go wastin' it, Terry. There's some Michelins down at Sam's 'll do you just fine. Oughta run about eighty-five apiece with tax."

I laughed. "It's a deal." I glanced around. "So where's ma biggest fan, Bobbie?"

Bobbie laughed. "I was wonderin' how long 'fore ya asked, Terry. He was waitin' 'round for ya, but he got bored."

"Damn!"

He laughed again and winked. "I let him sit in the sweat seat. He's having the time of his life, I reckon. He's either dreamin' 'bout winnin' tha race, or he's up there jackin' off."

I glanced at the truck. They had loaded the Pontiac into the back of the trailer already. All I could see was the trunk and the huge tires at the rear. Bobbie gave me a friendly shove.

"Go have some yerself fun, Terry. Go talk with the kid fer a while. You ought have a coupla minutes 'fore his momma comes lookin' fer him."

"Nah, you guys need help cleaning up."

"Tha hell we do! You deserve some time off after what you done out there today, Terry. Me and the guys'll finish up here fine and meet you back at the motel. You wanna go eat out somewhere?"

I shook my head. "I need a shower and somethin' to eat before I sack out. Pick me up some fried chicken and a six-pack."

I ambled off, trying my best not to rush up the ramp and into the trailer. I even made myself turn around when I got to the top of the ramp and look out over the pit area like I was interested in what was happening. It was a hive of activity as teams dismantled their equipment and got ready to pull out. It would be at least a day or two before everything was gone. It was always kind of sad after a race. It was a bit like a circus leaving town after a big show.

I could see his head through the back window. He was hunched over the wheel. He was making race car sounds, sounding more like a clapped-out Formula One engine than a 700 horsepower nascar Chevy. The tire sounds were even less realistic, but you had to give him points for trying. He was certainly getting into it.

I squeezed down the side, between the brightly polished paint on the side of the car and the plywood wall of the trailer. I had my head in the window before he even realized I was there.

"Hiya Ace," I said right in his ear.

I think he came close to losing a load in his shorts, but I certainly got his attention. I don't think I've ever seen a kid that surprised.

"Hey, hi Terry."

"Having fun?" I asked. "It goes a mite faster when the engine's runnin'."

"Yeah, I know. Only Bobbie told me if I started it up, he'd have my butt for breakfast."

"That sounds like Bobbie," I laughed. "I bet he said a tad more than that."

"Yeah, he said a 'fuck' a coupla times too," he chortled. He had no shame. he said 'fuck' like he had been saying it all his life. No wonder I liked him right away.

"Hey Terry?"

"Yeah?"

"I figured out why Bobbie calls it the sweat seat. It's why it really stinks in here. Ah cain't even smell tha gasoline."

I laughed. "It gets kinda hot right where yer sittin', Ace. After a while yer soakin' in sweat. It stinks 'cause I stink, I reckon."

"I don't sweat much," he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Yer too young to sweat. Wait till yer balls drop," I grinned. "You'll stink worse than me then."

He grinned right back at me, flashing his sexy blue eyes just like one of the race babes who were still hanging around the pits waiting to get laid. They all had the same look when they were ready to breed. He might be a boy, and he probably had no idea what he was playing with, but he was sending messages right to my crotch. He was a free spirit, ready to take on the world and find out what was there for him. I got an urge to talk dirty, just to see what he did with it. A test to see if he was for show or go. I let out a slow breath and tried to calm down. He was way too young, even for me. He was one-hundred-percent jail bait.

"You got somewhere to go, Ace?" I asked absently.

"Nah! You wanna get rid of me?"

"Not particularly," I answered. "I gotta go get cleaned up though."

He studied me, concentrating, furrowing his brow, trying to figure something out.

"You pissed at me, or something?" he asked softly.

"Me? Nope! I'm just tired, and I'm hungrier than hell, and I stink like a dead horse, but other than that I got no problem with standin' here talkin' to you."

That made him laugh. His laughter was music. It made me like him even more. His eyes flashed again, crinkling with merriment. He was a boy who wasn't ashamed to have fun. He laughed because he was having fun.

"That's all?" he finally managed to get out.

He deserved something for his time, for his laugh, for his interest in me. I leaned through the window and reached over him, pulled the gear stick into neutral, double checked it by waggling the knob to the side. Still leaning over him, smelling him, aware of him, so slender that he could blow away in a stiff breeze. I cranked the engine. It caught on the second attempt, immediately settling into a deep-throated gurgle. The suck of the Holley and the sound of the exhaust was deafening.

He quivered with instant excitement, responding as any car-lover would to the raw adrenaline-surging power of the machine. I responded as any boy lover would, being that close to a 'drop-dead gorgeous' boy. I got an erection, my hard-on sticking straight out into my fireproof race suit with no where to go and no one to fuck. I backed out of the cabin as fast as I could.

"Cool!" he shouted.

"Give it some gas, Ace," I shouted back.

He had to slide right down in the seat, so far that his butt was in mid-air and he had to hold onto the steering wheel to keep his ass off the grease-covered floor. He goosed the accelerator and the engine roared. His eyes opened wide. Inside the trailer, the noise was enough to give you a migraine. He backed off instantly and scrambled back up into the seat, hanging onto the wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

"Fuckin' hell," he said with awe.

I gave him a 'what-did-you-say' look and he grinned right back at me. Not quite perfect teeth. He was missing a tooth, one of those big back teeth that kids lose when they're about ten years old. Even still, he had a lot of cute little baby teeth. I leaned in again to switch off the engine. His breath smelled like hotdogs. He slid out of the window the same way that stock-car drivers did. I caught him in my arms, held him, turning him around. He must have weighed all of seventy pounds [31 kg]. It was like carrying a fivegallon container of gas, except there was no handle, and he clung to me so that I had to carry him to the back of the car. I gave him a playful hug and then eased him down so that he could stand up. He was trembling.

"That was so fuckin' incredible," he gushed.

"You sure have a helluva mouth on ya, don't ya, Ace? I guffawed.

He tilted his head, looked up at me through one bright-blue, seemingly innocent eye, and winked. The top of his head barely came up to my nipples. It would have reached my nipples if he was standing straight. Instead, he was looking down towards his feet. My eyes followed his. I didn't get to his feet. Goddamn if he didn't have something sticking out into his shorts. I shouldn't have been surprised. Unleashing 700 horsepower was about as exciting as life could get for a ten-year-old track-rat. His fingers pushed at it, trying to relocate it so it was not as obvious. All he succeeded in doing was keeping my eyes riveted on his crotch.

"Three inches [7½ cm]? Yeah, right on," I joked. He scowled at me and held up four fingers. "Maybe three inches [7½ cm] hard… if you're lucky," I added boldly.

I started to walk down the ramp, leaving Ty standing by himself, still trying to rearrange the blunt little bulge that had formed in his shorts. Bobbie caught my eye and waved. I went over to him and handed him the checks. I was glad to get rid of them.

"You probably know what to do with these better that I do," I said. "Just don't forget the new rubber for tha Fire-turd."

"Sure, Terry. I'll see ya in Me-hi-co," Bobbie laughed. "What are you going to do about him?" he added. "He said he got in here by himself."

I followed his gaze to Ty. I shrugged. "Find out where he lives, and take him home, I reckon. 's not safe for him to be hangin' around perverts like you."

Bobbie laughed. "Who ya callin' a perv?" He nodded. "Cute kid, though ain't he, Terry?"

"Yeah. Funny too. He sure got a foul mouth, though," I chuckled.

"And he ain't even close to shavin'. I'm surprised he's out by himself."

Bobbie turned back to me. He didn't say anything as he regarded me with narrowed eyes for almost as long as it took Ty to walk across to join us.

"Just be careful, Terry," he said softly. "Some of them track rats can run hot and cold. I seen some who could blow a piston or two fer ya 'fore you know it. You oughta back off the gas a tad."

"Huh?"

He grinned at me and swatted Ty playfully on the rump before he started back to help Terry and Pete load one of the tool chests.

"Hiya Ace," I said. "Just cain't get rid of yer, can I?"

Ty grinned. "Whatcha talkin' 'bout with Bobbie?"

"You," I said honestly.

"Me? Why?" Ty asked boldly.

"For one thing, Ty, kids ain't allowed in the pits."

"Did Bobbie go and tell ya that? My name, I mean."

"Yeah, he told me. How did you get in 'ere anyway?" I asked.

Ty grinned. "It ain't hard. I got past the gate guard when he was talkin' to some babes."

I nodded thoughtfully. "You live 'round here?"

He shrugged and gave me a vacant look that suggested that where he lived was none of my business. Which it wasn't, but there was no way I was going to leave him in the pits by himself.

"You a runaway, ain't ya?" I asked testily.

"Nope!" He looked surprised that I had even suggested it.

I plunked my hand on his shoulder. "Look, Ace, I'll give you a lift home if it ain't too far. Only problem is I really need a shower and somethin' to eat. You need ta call someone first?"

"Nope! It's cool, Terry."

It wasn't that I didn't trust him. He was a track rat, and Bobbie was right. With his looks and charm, he was more dangerous than a rookie. At that moment, Ty gave me the sweetest smile, all teeth and sparkling innocent eyes. Talk about being seduced by an angel's face, even a grubby angel. He must have known I was having doubts. I got beguiled in one second flat!

"Aw fuck," I said with an exasperated laugh. "Okay, come on. I'll stop by tha motel and clean up a bit. I'll eat after I got you back to ya mommy."

He followed me, puppy-style out to the pit parking area. More than half of the cars had left, which only goes to show how few people really needed to be there in the first place. My Firebird was parked a couple of hundred yards away. It was a bright red '97 Trans Am T-roof with the dark grey leather power seats and 17 inch [43 cm] wheels. Other than a six-speed manual transmission, and ram air induction, the engine had very little in common with the Detroit production model. Bobbie had taken it over and made some engine mods that added a hundred plus horses at the rear wheels. It sang.

"Fuckin' awesome," Ty said admiringly.

"I'll take that as meanin' you like it," I chuckled.

"Hell yes! She stock or what?"

"Tha she's a he," I snapped. "And he's got one hot little mother of n' engine under tha hood," I said with an unnecessary emphasis on gender.

"Yeah?" Ty approached, reluctant to touch the paint like any autofan who had respect for the machinery. "Whatchya done to it, Terry?"

"He's got heads like you wouldn't believe. Ported and polished just like a race car."

"Stock or after-market?"

I laughed. "Ace, trust me. The work Bobbie does is better than any after-market crap you can buy. He worked the cams up and did a bunch of other stuff during the off season. It's still street legal, least till we get to California."

"Whydya say it's a he?"

"'cause he is. Tits don't belong on muscle cars. Keep the she's for the Barbie cars."

"But dicks do?" Ty said gleefully.

"Depends on tha dick," I chuckled. "Some dicks do."

I opened the door for him and watched as he dropped his compact little body down into the firm bucket seat. That little bugle between his skinny brown legs was back to normal preteen boy size, but to my eyes it bulged out like it was hiding something worth seeing. I lifted off the roof above him and placed it behind his seat. The sun made his dirty-blond hair glisten like yellow-gold corn silk. He looked up at me and beamed. I was making his day big-time. These were the kind of memories that a boy would treasure into old age. And I was right there beside him in memoryville. This was one boy who I would remember for a long, long time.

"You race it much?" Ty asked. He looked around inside, checking out the dashboard and instruments while I went to the other side. I slid down into my seat.

"Nope, but I can tell ya this is one bird that fuckin' screams down the quarter."

"What'll she, I mean what'll he do?"

"In the mid twelves. I ran it around Talledaga last year and pulled a one-seventy with another coupla hundred left on the tach."

"Cool!" He sounded impressed.

"Try the seat-belt on for size, Ace," I reminded him.

He grinned at me. I heard his belt click before I started the engine. It always took a couple of tries before it caught. The exhaust was loud, vibrating in your ear-drums, gut-churning loud. It wasn't as loud as the Grand Prix, but I still hoped it would give him another erection.

I backed out of the space, engaged first gear and let the clutch out just fast enough that the wheels spun briefly. What did I care? Bobbie was getting new tires for the beast anyway. The roads outside the track were busier than downtown at five p.m. I stopped the car. There was a local cop supposedly directing traffic, but doing his best to totally screw up the flow.

"You gotta girlfriend?" He had a sing-song voice sometimes.

I was startled, although I hid it well. I kept my eyes on the traffic lights and the oncoming traffic, waiting for a chance to get onto the main road and show the little prick-teaser what the Firebird could do if I planted my foot. With luck I could scare the crap out of the cop as well as Ty.

"Nope! How 'bout you?"

"Me?" Ty giggled. For the first time he sounded like a little boy. He shook his head. "No way, Jose!"

"Yeah, I guess there ain't no point when all ya gots' three inches [7½ cm] to poke with," I laughed.

He grimaced. "You oughta know. It ain't what ya got, but what ya do with it," he smirked, increasingly emboldened.

If I didn't know better, I would have sworn he was flirting with me. It was time to change the subject, and quickly.

"How old are ya?"

"Ten 'n bit. You?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you!"

"Fuckin' inquisitive little track-rat, ain't ya?"

I gave the car a dose of high octane and came off the clutch quickly. The big wheels spun for a second or two before they gripped on the black-top. The 'bird took off with a surge that left your stomach ten feet behind. We were pulling a notch over fifty before I backed off and shifted into fourth gear. The cop had been turned the other way so he probably missed seeing my plates, although there was no doubt that he heard the car thundering down the road. I glanced at Ty. He was hot! His eyes were wide and he was grinning.

"Hot!" he said, taking the word right out of my mouth.

"Yeah! Very hot!" I said with emphasis that was deserved. "So what were we talkin' 'bout?" Turning to look at his 'drop-dead-gorgeous' face side on.

"How old ya were." He looked right at me and smiled, showing pure white teeth that looked like they would never need braces.

"Uh huh. I remember."

"So?"

"Boy, I'm old enough to be yer daddy," I laughed. "I ought take yer pants down and whip yer cute little ass till its red raw."

"If that's what turns ya on."

I laughed again, again glancing at him quickly to make sure that he was kidding. He poked his tongue out at me. A little pink tongue. When he kissed, he was going to tongue good! I winked at him. He was having a kid's fun in an adult world.

"Have a guess?" I suggested.

"Um… Thirty eight?" Ty answered teasingly.

"You knew already didn't ya, so why ask?" I said surprised.

"'cause."

He smirked at me, not volunteering to elaborate why he had taken the trouble to find out how old I was. I wondered what else he had discovered. I didn't have too long to wait.

"So why ain't ya married, Terry?"

"'cause I don't wanna be," I said flatly.

He thought about that for a few seconds and came back with a little sly smirk that made me feel quite uncomfortable. It was as if he understood exactly why I wasn't married. What was worse, he knew it was redundant to say why. The only problem was that unlike Bobbie, I didn't wear my inclinations around my neck.

One more block zipped by. There was the motel on the other side of the street. It was a seedy, family-run joint. It was painted pale blue and white. Rooms were $50 a night for race weekends, $60 if you used both beds. It came with hot showers and parking space for eighteen wheelers. You hoped the sheets were clean, but it was almost guaranteed that you'd find a pubic hair or two. The big-budget teams were on the other side of the track. They stayed in national chain hotels, one room per person and suites for the drivers and team managers. For sixty bucks a night, I shared a room with Bobbie.

I pulled across the two lanes of oncoming traffic as soon as a break opened up, and stopped in front of room 105. I switched off the engine and the noise abruptly ended.

"You can wait out here if ya want, Ace," I said as I unfastened my seat belt. "I need a shower somethin' awful, and tha room's a pig sty."

Ty shrugged. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

"I guess I'll come in fer a while. 's hot out 'ere."

With that, he opened the door and jumped out. I thought about putting the roof sections back into the T-roof, but I didn't plan on being in the room even for ten minutes.

Inside the motel room, the air was stale and damp-smelling, almost despite the air conditioning that we had set to run when we left earlier in the day. There was a lingering odor, of grease and Bobbie, and the beers we had consumed the night before. At least the beds were made up and the beer cans had disappeared from the top of the television.

He walked across the room like he owned it, inspecting as he went. He wrinkled his nose, his eyes still busy taking it all in.

"Smells pretty bad, don't it?" I chuckled. "You can always wait outside."

He shrugged. "It ain't that bad!"

"Well, you watch the tv if you want," I offered. "I'm getting a shower, Ace."

I opened my suitcase and searched through it until I found some clean boxers and a tee-shirt. Ty ambled over to the cabinet where the television was secured with a thick steel strap. He picked up the remote and flicked at the buttons.

"That remote don't work by tha way," I said over my shoulder.

I glanced back from the bathroom doorway. He was rubbing at the little bulge in his crotch with his right hand, not 'scratching an itch', but something else that hinted at pleasuring himself. He caught my eye and grinned just as I turned away. 'Hot' had just been revised to 'incredibly HOT'. Was he sending the message that I wanted to hear? The chance was about the same as me winning the Daytona 500. I closed the bathroom door behind me, but not all the way. There was nothing in the room of any value. The car keys and my wallet were in my pocket. The funny thing was that I wasn't worried about that. For some reason that was probably completely illogical, I trusted him. So why did I leave the bathroom door ajar a couple of inches? For the same reason that I hoped he was rubbing his crotch. I was sending my own message, just in case.

I turned on the shower, expecting to wait forever for the water to become hot. It had taken about five minutes that morning. I undressed, dropping my clothes on the floor. I yawned. It had been a very long day. Exhaustion was beginning to set in. The last thing I wanted to do was get back in the Firebird and drive halfway across town. I pulled back the grimy yellowed-plastic shower curtain, tested the water. Lukewarm was better than icecold. I closed the curtain and began to soap myself up. The water was just becoming warm when the bathroom door opened further.

"Yeah?" I said abruptly.

"I need to use the can, Terry" Ty replied. "Ya mind?"

"Are we talkin' piss or shit?"

"I gotta pee somethin' awful."

"Okay."

I watched his head over the top of the curtain rail. He stopped in front of the toilet. With the shower running, I could barely hear anything. Talk about being exposed to temptation. He was about two feet away from me with his dick hanging out. All I had to do was stand on my tiptoes and look over the curtain. I heard the faint sound of pee splattering in the bowl. I heard the soft sigh that came from the immediate relief of pressure in the bladder. It made no difference whether it was a man or boy, we all sighed.

"I bet that feels better," I laughed.

"Uh huh! I needed to go real bad."

I heard his final dribble, but not the sound of a zipper being closed. I gave in to temptation. Any man would have in my position. I smiled and looked down. he had turned away from the toilet, towards me. He held his dick between the first finger and thumb of each hand, shaking off the last few droplets. Like 99.9 percent of other white southern boys, he was circumcised. His dick was blue on the end surrounded by a pink frilly collar. Not blue like his eyes, but a hue of blue that made me think of something cold rather than warm living human flesh. His eyes flashed at me, then instantly grinning widely enough to bare his brilliant white teeth. Other boys would have cupped a hand to cover their privates, but not Ty. It looked like he was showing it off.

"I reckon I probably need a shower too," Ty said boldly.

I panicked. "I'll be done in a coupla minutes."

My answer was obviously not the answer that he wanted to hear. He began to reach for his zipper, his face showing nothing but distain. I turned away so I couldn't see him, couldn't feast my eyes on that precious morsel of his boyhood. My heart was revved up. I had the same adrenaline surge that came just before the start of a race, that hand-shaking, gut-twisting thrill as engines roared into life and tachometers swung into the red zones.

Chapter 3

"Why cain't I get in the shower with you?"

"Um, I don't think so," I muttered. "Ah don't reckon it's a good idea, Ace."

"It's not like I'm a girl or somethin'."

Another hot flush, hotter than before. It was impossible to believe that he really said it. Not like that. Not pleading. He really wanted to get into the shower with me. Again, I tried to control the rush of emotions, the burgeoning urge that was so insistent that I wanted to drag him into the shower with me and rape him right there and then. I closed my eyes and tried to count slowly to ten. It usually worked when I was stressed. Of course, being stressed and driving a race car at over 180 m.p.h. was a lot different to standing in a shower with only a plastic curtain separating you from a 'drop-dead-gorgeous' boy who wanted to get in the shower with you for God only knew what reason.

"Aw fuck!" I gave up.

I dragged open the shower curtain before I reached 'five'. He had started to leave. He was at the door, but he turned around, looking straight at me with unwavering eyes. He was looking right at Terry Atkins Junior as if he had never seen a man's cock before. His eyes were wide, boggling wide. He didn't say anything. He just stared.

"Well, get yer clothes off, Ace. You look like ya need a shower near as bad as me."

Ty grinned happily. "Only you stink worse than me."

He started to undress, still keeping both of his beautiful blue eyes on me, on the one part of my body that he seemed to find more interesting than any other. I was staring right back at him, watching his deft little fingers unfastening the metal button of his cut-off shorts. He pulled down his zipper, easily getting past his cute little bulge. He stopped then and dragged up his grimy tee shirt. I could not take my eyes away, following the sensuous curve of his bronzed muscled belly, a ribbed chest that seemed far too narrow to contain his vital organs, his graceful thin arms as they reached above his head. I turned away then, guiltily. I was getting an erection. I finished soaping up while I stared at the cream-colored fiberglass wall behind the bath. I heard the shower curtain being opened, felt the plastic pulled against my butt. I started to shampoo my hair because it gave me an excuse to close my eyes when he stepped over the side of the bath tub.

"Hey, gimme some of that water back here."

"I told ya to wait a coupla minutes," I laughed. I stepped back away from the shower head so that he was sprayed for a few seconds. "There! git yerself soaped up and I'll give ya some more."

"Fuck!" Ty shrieked. "Gimme some more water. I'm freezin'"

"Nope! I gotta wash my hair," I chortled.

"Come on! Move over!"

Ty shoved at my back, trying to get me away from the shower again. It was like a mouse trying to move an elephant. He laughed and moved away again. I started rinsing my hair, no longer able to stop myself from peeking at him. It was like looking at a boy-god, you know what I mean? He was even thinner without his clothes on. Long brown legs, Florida-suntanned all the way from his feet to the last few inches of his slender thighs. He had small feet and little knobby knees. There was a pale band at his middle where the sun had never been seen. His buttocks were nearly white. From a few inches below his 'outie' belly button on up, his skin was soapy but under the white foam, he was golden brown.

I kept my head under the water, rinsing off the shampoo. My eyes were half-closed, but I was still looking. It was impossible not to look. Even watching his hands moving up and down his body, sliding the soap into his little armpits, running it up and down his flat bronzed tummy and over his ribs, sent a thrill through me that was every bit as exciting as starting a race from the front of the grid.

"Yer starin' at me," Ty said gleefully.

"Am not!"

"Yeah ya're." He smirked. "Look all ya want, Terry. I don't care."

He put his hands on his hips and posed, swivelling his hips like a boy doing a crude imitation of a fashion model. I had a sudden premonition of him, doing exactly the same thing but pretending to be a hooker. He had long fingers, fingers with small gray splotches where de-greaser had not cleaned the skin, thin fingers with narrow nails, nails that had black grime underneath and up the sides, with cracked and flaked edges. His hands were not afraid of working with machinery.

He watched me watching him, slowly, dreamily rotating his compact pelvis just like one of pit babes. They hung around the motels too, flaunting themselves in their tight, bright bikinis. Then, he smirked. His eyes followed my eyes and his hands moved, facing inward, the tips of his fingers pointing directly at his penis. I panicked again. I shook the water from my head, opened the curtain, and stepped out into the very cramped space between the bath and the toilet. Behind me, I could hear him giggling. All I could think of was the last thing I had seen. He was getting an erection, giving himself one deliberately, without even touching himself, just by thinking about it. It was only half erect when I had panicked, but already the tiny blue tip was lifting upward and outward, pointing towards me.

I took one of the two remaining dry towels and began to dry myself off. My mind was spinning out of control, whirling on thoughts that should not have been there, running at full speed that could only bring disaster. He was ten years old! Talk about jail bait! I could get twenty years for just touching him!

Then, the shower curtain was flung back and there he was in all his naked beauty, so obviously a boy. He smiled at me, shyly, holding out his hand for a towel, or did he want a hand getting out of the bath? I took the safe course and tossed him the last towel. From the look on his face a towel probably wasn't what he wanted.

I backed away to make room for him to get out of the bath. Instead, he chose to stay there, vigorously rubbing the towel over his body until he was mostly dry. He tossed the towel at me when I bent down to put on my boxers. The bunched up towel hit my shoulder with a surprising amount of force. I stood up, growling threateningly. Ty saw my narrowed eyes, instantly got the message, clamped both hands protectively over his crotch, although one hand would have been more enough. He backed up behind the shower curtain so I couldn't see him. I took one corner of the now-damp towel and spun the rest around to make a poor but adequate imitation of a whip. I yanked back the shower curtain and stepped back, flipping the end of the towel back and forth. Ty shrieked and backed up even further until his rear was against the fiberglass wall.

"Now," I said gleefully. "What were ya sayin' about me starin'?"

"Y'were," Ty giggled. "You were checkin' my dick out like some perv."

"And you were showin' it off," I laughed. "Tha question is, do I whip ya now or later."

"Later!" Ty replied. "'cause ya might change yer mind by then," he chortled. he held his hand out. "Gimme ma clothes."

"Say what?"

"I ain't gettin' out with you pervin' at me. It ain't safe," he laughed. "Gimme 'em."

"You ain't said please," I reminded him.

"Please. P-l-e-a-s-e," he spelled it out just in case I missed it the first time.

"He kin spell too," I chuckled. "Now try pretty please," I suggested.

I just wanted to hear his voice. It was somewhere between soprano and treble, like the Moffat kids before they hit puberty.

"Okay. Pretty please," Ty snickered. He beckoned, snapping with his fingers, pretending to be impatient. "Ma clothes?"

"Ah don't know why yer 'fraid of me seein' yer boy-dick, Ace," I smirked. "It ain't nuthin' much. Sure ain't worth hidin'."

"Neither's yours," Ty came back. "Yer big ole hairy thing prolly never even seen a pussy let 'lone fucked one."

He laughed when he said it, such a free-willed shameless laugh. Yet, his eyes were on it the whole time, never once looking away for more than a second. The urge returned, stronger than before. An insistent, demanding, unrelenting need. There was only one thing I could do short of picking him up and carrying him into the bedroom. I squatted down and began to pick up his clothes.

I caught a whiff of his underpants lying on top of his shorts. It was not a fresh clean smell. It was a boy's smell, sour, sweaty, exciting. The elastic had pulled away from the cloth for several inches. There were holes in both the front and the back, including a large one on the part that would have covered his right cheek. The front was yellowed. The back was streaked with brown. Just the idea of him having to put them on again, angered me. He deserved better.

I stood up again, leaving his underpants on the vinyl-covered floor.

"Hey! ma clothes?"

"Yer clothes stink worse than the sweat seat, Ace." I turned around, picked up my tee-shirt and tossed it to him. "It won't fit ya too good, but 'least it's clean."

Ty held it to his chest, considering. For a moment his teeth chewed on his bottom lip. It was the first time I had seen him nervous. He blinked quickly and then looked away for a moment or two.

"Whatcha gonna wear yerself, Terry?"

"Don't worry 'bout me, Ace. I ain't goin' naked. I'll be wearin' boxers," I chuckled, "So ya cain't perv on me."

"Fer a grown up yer so fuckin' weird," Ty laughed. "Whydaya think I'd even wanna look at yours fer?"

I grinned at him and didn't answer. I think we both knew the answer so I left it alone. I stepped into my boxers and pulled them up. At the same time, Ty slid into my tee-shirt. He looked like he was wearing a sheet. It came down well past his elbows, and covered his knees. On his slender body, there was a little but very prominent bump right over his crotch and a fold that continued on down. He looked down, then back at me.

"Thanks," he said absently. "It's cool."

"No problem."

I heard the plaintive sound in the boy's soft voice, like a knife right into my heart. I suspected he didn't say 'thank you' very often because he had very little to be thankful for. he followed me out of the bathroom, leaving his clothes on the floor next to mine.

The television was turned on and showing one of those mindless fishing shows where the camera follows a fishing line being pulled through the water and the fishermen make inane comments about lures and rods and whatever else they can manage to think of. There was only one thing more boring than fishing that was watching a television program about fishing.

Ty walked over and plunked himself down on the bed with his head against the pillow, the pillow that had been mine until he decided otherwise. He crossed his feet at the ankles, put one of his arms behind his head and used the other to straighten out the T-shirt so that it followed the contour of his body perfectly. It was like looking at a white-marble boy, with everything revealed. It was not my imagination that I saw the tiny points of his towel-abraded nipples, the ridge of his belly button, the ripples of his ribs and muscles. The detail was less visible at his crotch, although my eyes lingered as I tried to see through the white cotton of the tee-shirt. There was a lump there, a startlingly prominent lump considering the relatively small size of what I now knew to be hidden underneath. He was not a well-endowed boy, but he was bigger than some of the boys whose photographs I had discovered on an Internet site. He was certainly as photogenic as any of those boys.

"You like fishin'?" I asked after a very boring minute has passed.

"Never bin, but it looks like fun."

Ty glanced at me. He appeared reassured, comfortably at ease when most boys would be skittish. He turned back to the television.

"You can change it ya want, Terry," he offered.

"'s okay. Don't really bother me," I answered.

It was impossible to take my eyes away from him. I tried again and again, but always I was drawn back. I felt like a hungry man, feasting my eyes on a cornucopia of delicacies. Each taste slightly different, but contributing inexorably to gluttony. There was something magnetic about him, a sense that if I looked at him long enough and hard enough, I would never forget him when he was gone. I had to take him home. I sighed.

"Where ya live, Ace?" I asked after a while.

Ty looked up again. "A ways."

Where I came from, 'a ways' usually meant somewhere between ten and twenty miles [15-30 km]. Any further than twenty miles [30 km], it was 'a fer ways'.

"How did ya git to the track?"

"Walked some."

"And?" I prompted.

"I hitched some of tha way. He let me out a coupla miles from here."

"That's dangerous," I said instantly.

He shrugged. "I ain't worried. I kin take care of myself when I gotta."

"Yeah, I guess you can," I mused.

Sooner or later I had to take him home. If I did the right thing I'd take him to Walmart and buy him some new underwear. He needed someone to take care of him. It was obvious that he wasn't getting the attention he needed. He was sitting in a motel room with a stranger and there was a strong undercurrent that was dragging us both in the same direction. It wasn't right.

"Terry?"

I looked up. "Yeah?"

"Nuthin'! I was just seein' if you was 'wake."

I laughed. "Yeah, but I'm really droopin'. Goin' flat out for four hundred miles is a real killer."

"Where ya from, Terry?"

"Me? Asheville. Ya know where that is, Ace?"

"Yeah. North Car'lina."

"Yeah, that's it."

Ty went back to watching the fishing program and I went back to watching Ty. He knew I was watching him because every minute of so he smiled at me, not more than a hint of a smile but enough to show he was aware of what I was doing. Other than his occasional smiles he gave no other sign that he was aware of my presence. He appeared to be quite content to be left alone. On the other hand, I needed to talk. To pass the time, I picked up the food-stained guide to the local 'restaurants'. They were all fast food places with a block or two. Undoubtedly, the list was very different to the lists provided at the national franchise motels on the other side of the track.

"You like fried chicken, Ace?" I asked absently, thinking of what Bobbie was supposed to be bringing back for dinner.

"Yeah. 's okay. Yer still callin' me Ace," Ty grinned.

I nodded and smiled back at him. "Yeah. Only 'cause of that there three inches [7½ cm] ya got."

"I told ya it's bigger," Ty said boldly.

"Not from what I seen in the shower."

He giggled. "You ain't seen it hard… yet." He looked at me and smirked.

I raised my eyebrow, showing some interest but nothing like what I was feeling inside. It felt like someone had just driven right into my butt and given me one hell of a shove. He lay there thinking, waiting, no longer smiling but his blue eyes were looking fixedly at me. I knew he was thinking the same thing that I was. I could hear the police sirens in the distance.

"So?" I suggested.

I left it at that. I was not going to beg to see his dick. He would show me in his own good time. That was why he was there, lying on his back on a stranger's bed in a run-down motel room. I felt sad for him, but not that sad that I would not take advantage of anything he wanted to give me. We stared at each other for a long while.

"You wanna see it?"

His voice was soft, nervous, barely holding back his excitement. He was too young to be doing what he was doing. By his own admission, he was ten years old. I wondered whether he was doing it for the money. I would pay him the sixty bucks and change in my wallet if that was what he wanted. Yet, somehow, I knew he wouldn't ask for money. Most of the women who paraded around the pits did it to get laid by one of the drivers. Most of them settled for pit-crew when they didn't score for the night. He wasn't like that, either.

"Yeah," I said quietly.

He thought about that for a while, shifting his eyes back and forth from the television to me. The monotonous dialog on the fishing program finally gave out to make way for the sponsor's commercials. His attention shifted.

Casually, he lifted up the front of the tee shirt. I swallowed, gazing directly at his hairless genitals. His dick, not even as big as half my thumb, was lying on his right thigh, getting out of the way for the small pink hemisphere of his ball-sac. I was staring at a perfect little boy-hood.

"That sure ain't three inches [7½ cm]," I teased.

"It ain't hard yet," Ty rebuked. "I gotta blue tip, see."

He pointed at the end of his penis. It was blue, or rather bluish, like a forged rod that had been heated to too high a temperature.

"Yeah, you do," I answered.

"Ya reckon it's weird?" Ty asked uncertainly.

"Na! It's cute."

He smiled shyly. "I got this friend, ya know. He says I'm weird."

"You might be, but yer dick sure ain't!"

Ty laughed. "'sposed to be pink."

"Maybe, but my favorite color is blue. Blue is fer boys ya know."

Ty lifted his head up and studied me for a while, visibly thoughtful. I had an image of thoughts going through his mind as he tried to figure out what he was going to do next. His fingers edged downward, coming closer and closer to his penis until he touched it. I licked my lips and he smiled slightly.

"Three inches [7½ cm], Ace," I teased.

"Whatcha gonna call me if it's four?" Ty smirked.

"Nuthin!" I laughed. "'cause yer dick ain't close to three, not even when it's rock-hard."

"What if it's bigger 'n three?"

"Then I'll buy ya dinner, Ace," I replied, teasing him one more time

Ty smirked, stroking a single finger along the squat soft shaft. He licked his lips. This time, I smiled. I was entranced as he caressed his penis. The television droned in the background, but at that moment we could have been sitting on the starting line with seconds to go and it would not have made any difference. Two fingers came into play, one on either side, moving very slowly, very deliberately up and down. Already, it was longer, but not by much.

We both witnessed the miracle of erection, a little piece at a time. We kept looking at each other, sharing the experience whenever our eyes locked, which seemed to happen with increasing frequency. And then it was fully extended, stretched out and standing up an inch [5 cm] from his flat belly like a finger pointing towards his belly button.

"Okay," Ty said huskily. "That's it."

"That's all of it, Ace," I teased. "No free dinner, that's fer sure."

He poked his tongue out at me and made a rude sound that sounded like a fart.

"You got a ruler or somethin'?" he demanded.

He scratched his fingertips over the now-much-darker tip. The blue hue was even more apparent when the glans was swollen and hard. It was very close to being purple. Fully erect, his circumcision mark was actually closer to the base than the head. The brown ring, which for years I had associated with excessive masturbation, was also quite noticeable.

"Nope, 'fraid not."

I walked over to my suitcase and opened the lid. Somewhere inside there was a small tape-measure that was attached to the keys to the workshop. After a few seconds I found it and I went over to where Ty was lying. I held it out.

"Here. Go 'head, Ace," I chuckled.

Ty giggled and sat up. He took the tiny tape measure from me. He pulled out the first six inches [15 cm], twice what he needed, and pushed in the button to keep it extended. He held it against what would normally be the underside of his penis, with the metal bracket generously placed where it was attached to his scrotum.

"Four inches [10 cm] see," he proclaimed boldly.

"Four inches [10 cm], bullshit!" I chortled. "You got it halfway down your ball-sac and then some."

"So?"

"So yer cheatin'," I replied. "You gotta measure the other side with the tape just touching the skin."

"Who says?" Ty shot back. "It there like some standard or somethin' for measurin' dicks?"

"Prob-ab-ly," I answered. "There's a fuckin' standard for nearly everythin' else in this world. What's it measure my way?"

He lifted his penis up and put the tape where I had suggested. The blue-tinted tip was still a quarter of an inch shy of three inches [7 cm]. I felt vindicated. He smirked.

"Four inches [10 cm]!" he claimed again. "See, I fuckin' told ya."

"Sure, and when ya get yer first pussy, stick yer balls in there too."

Ty laughed. "You better answer tha door," he said as someone rapped hard.

I hurried back to suitcase, pulled out a shirt, hastily put it on as I strode to the door. I didn't bother use the peep-hole to check who was outside. I knew that rap anywhere. I opened the door to Bobbie.

"Sorry," Bobbie said apologetically. "Thought you'd be dressed by now."

I shrugged, pulling the shirt together in front of me. "'s okay. I took a long shower," I added.

His expression said 'liar' and he tried to look beyond me into the room. He saw Ty lying back on the bed. However, he shrugged as if it wasn't important.

He handed me a large white and red cardboard tub that screamed fried chicken and a six-pack of Budweiser Light Beer.

"Whats left 's all yours," he said. "We ate already, Terry. I guess there's seven or eight pieces left. "

"Okay."

I stepped back from blocking the doorway, reached behind me and placed the chicken and beer on the table next to the door. Just the smell was enough to make my stomach realize it was running on empty. It was never a good idea to eat before a race, just in case there was an accident and you needed surgery. Now, I was famished. Bobbie moved to block the doorway with his bulk.

"Hiya Ty," he boomed.

"Hi Bobbie," Ty answered as if it was perfectly natural for him to be lying on my bed dressed in my tee-shirt. He sounded right at home.

Bobbie smiled at me. It was a knowing smile, a smile that said a lot, and left a lot unsaid. His eyes met mine. Neither of us said a word, a friendly 'Mexican' standoff.

"We got a plan worked out," Bobbie began.

"Okay?"

"We reckon the best plan's to take the next two weeks off from racin'. Trevor and me head back up to Asheville first thing tomorrow and start buildin' us coupla new short block engines. First class all the way. It oughta take the best part of ten days."

"What about Pete?" I asked curiously.

Pete had been with the team since the season began, I didn't like him very much but I was starting to get used to having him around. He was fast at changing tires.

Bobbie shrugged dismissively. "He wants to be paid up, Terry. He's cuttin' loose. I figure we're better off without him. All he's interested in is gettin' his tool up the babes."

"Okay. 's good a reason as any. How much you reckon for the blocks?"

"Twenty, twenty-five a piece, to start. I'll do the heads 'n all myself. We oughta have enough to do two engines, git some spares, and put tires on the truck. And yer 'Bird too," he added with a laugh. "We'll still be running on fumes for the rest of tha season, but we gotta take tha chance."

I nodded, in complete agreement with his plan on how to spend a hundred thousand dollars. It was all about taking risks.

"You oughta take some time off, Terry," Bobbie suggested. "Ain't no need fer ya to be rushin' up to Asheville with us." He looked over my shoulder again directly at Ty. "Didn't know ya liked trollin'," he smirked. "Looks like ya hooked somethin'."

"Huh?"

I turned around, glimpsing the television. The fisherman was reeling in a large struggling bass, or something. Ty had moved into a sitting position, pulling his skinny brown legs up so that his feet were against his but. Sitting like that, the tee-shirt draped over his legs, I could see the undersides of his thighs and the twin pale hemispheres of his buttocks. It was obvious that he had nothing on under the tee-shirt. Then, I realized that if I could see, Bobbie could also see the pink bubble of Ty's small rounded ball-sac. It was squeezed down between his thighs and it looked like it was ready to pop. I stepped to the side to block Bobbie's otherwise unimpeded view.

"There's plenty of chicken fer both of ya," Bobbie chuckled. "You want me to pick up some cokes for yer fan."

"Nope. I'll git him some from the machine down tha hall," I answered. "I lost a bet so I guess I owe him some dinner 'fore I take him home."

"Well, there ain't nuthin' like chicken. 'specially white meat, though I'm partial to thighs myself," Bobbie smirked. "Just a matter of taste, I reckon."

My ears burned. I swallowed. I wanted Bobbie gone. I could feel my heart pounding hard and fast.

"Take some time off, Terry," Bobbie advised. "Ya don't git to play much during tha season. Ya deserve a break. You oughta spend some time 'round here fer a while."

"Maybe," I ventured. I glanced over my shoulder at Ty. He was appeared to be busy watching television.

"He'd sure like it," Bobbie added under his breath.

"Huh?" I turned back again and caught the last of Bobbie's smile. "Whatcha said earlier, Bobbie, 'bout him? 'bout track rats running hot and cold?"

"Some do," Bobbie acknowledged. He gestured with a slight move of his head. "That one's hotter n' hell, if ya ask me. I'd sure be careful, if I was you."

"Meaning what?" I asked awkwardly.

Bobbie shrugged nonchalantly. "Meaning nuthin', not unless yer interested in boys."

I felt my face become hotter instantly. "Uh… I… I'm takin' him home as soon as he's fed," I muttered.

"Whatcha do with him is between him and you, Terry. I ain't tellin'. I got my own problems. There's some rubbers in tha lid of my suitcase."

"What?" I said agitatedly.

"That one's been around the track a few times, I reckon," Bobbie said quietly.

"Christ, he's only ten," I retorted. I lowered my voice. "For God's sake, Bobbie, whatdya take me fer. I ain't some pervert."

"It ain't none of my business, Terry, but I seen how he looks at ya. And how you look at him."

My neck was getting redder and redder. I shifted uncomfortably. I glanced over my shoulder. I don't think he heard what we were saying, but maybe he was just pretending. I shook my head, trying to show it was not true. Yet it was true. Bobbie stepped back through the door and I closed the door behind him before I realized that all I had in my wallet was notes. Without change I had nothing to use to buy something for the boy to drink. If Ty didn't have any change, I could easily go next door and get some from Bobbie. With that in mind, I carried the half-empty tub of chicken and the six-pack of beer across to the bed. I placed it midway between where Ty was sitting and were I was planning to be, what I hoped was a safe distance away.

Ty leaned over and pulled the lid from the tub.

"You like breasts or thighs, Terry?" he asked.

"Don't matter so long as it's chicken," I answered. I popped the top on a Budweiser. "Hey, you got any change, Ace?"

"What's with tha 'Ace'?" Ty rebuked playfully. "Ah thought we done settled that question already."

"Yeah, when I see ya git both yer balls up a pussy, ya got four inches [10 cm]," I laughed.

He picked out a chicken leg and held it up by the joint-knob, wavering it in front of me without saying anything. He was implying that his penis was as big, but we both knew otherwise. He would have been better off holding up a chicken wing.

"Whydya need change?" Ty asked.

He bit into the chicken and tore off a long strip with his teeth. He licked his lips, lapping up the grease and crumbs. Even eating, he was sexy. Everything about him screamed 'sex' to me. His tongue was pinker than pink.

"'cause. Ya need somethin' ta drink."

"I'm okay with Bud."

"Tha hell y'are," I laughed.

"No shit! I drink Bud all tha time," Ty replied with a grin.

He reached out and jerked a can out of the plastic sleeve. Perhaps I should have stopped him. His eyes stayed locked on mine, sending that same message that had been there all along. It was like looking at a fallen angel. His eyes seduced me every time. He knew it. I knew it. We both knew that there was no way that I was going to stop him from drinking beer.

He ripped off the pop-top using his thumb, like he had been doing it every day of his life. He lifted it to his mouth, gulping quickly. His tiny Adam's apple bobbed, and bobbed again before he stopped guzzling. He wiped the back of his hand over his lips and gave a ten-year-old burp. He gnawed some more off his chicken leg, ignoring the fact that I was staring at him. He licked his fingers, sucked on them, chewed on the bone like a puppy, drank some more beer. I kept thinking of his plump little ball-sac, and I wanted to look underneath the tee-shirt again.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" Ty asked between bites.

"Nuthin'!"

"Yeah, y'are."

He wiped his mouth again, smearing shiny grease over his cheek. He licked his perfectly shaped lips.

"I was thinkin' yer gonna get grease all over ma' shirt," I laughed.

"Ya want me to take it off?" Ty said suggestively.

"Um… ah…" I stumbled. "No, that's okay."

Ty smirked at me, licking the chicken bone. I wondered if he intended it the same way that I saw it. Then, he popped more than half of it in his mouth and sucked on the remaining flesh so that his cheeks pulled inward. I licked my lips absently, barely believing that he could be so uninhibited. The only way that I could force myself to look away was to take a long drink of beer.

I took out a piece of chicken, gave a momentary thought to removing the skin and herb crusting, and decided to eat it anyway. There was no point in not eating the best part of the chicken. I ate hungrily, watching the fishing program without interest, occasionally glancing at the boy next to me, with interest.

He had started on a chicken thigh and was already half way done. He looked up and grinned at me.

"Ya like chicken, don'tcha Terry?" he asked boldly.

"'s okay."

"Ya like Bobbie more?"

"Huh? 'course I like Bobbie. We've been together for a coupla years now."

"Ah don't mean like that," Ty said after a long pause. "Ah mean like." He smirked at me. "As in l-i-k-e."

"Huh?" I answered absently.

"You and him."

"Whatcha talkin' 'bout?" I demanded.

There was a momentary shock on his face. My tone had taken him by surprise.

"Sor-ry," he murmured. "I got it wrong, I guess."

"Got what wrong?" I persisted.

"Nuthin'! I'm sorry." He glared at me, furrowing his eyebrows. "I reckon I oughta be goin' home soon." he started to get up off the bed.

"Answer the fuckin' question," I said. "Got what wrong?"

"Nuthin! Okay!"

"Not okay."

"Ah thought you and Bobbie was a pair, like… I fucked up!"

"Huh?" The words sank in slowly. "You mean…"

"Tha way people look at yer, ya can tell, ya know, what they like 'n all."

"Look? Whatcha talkin' 'bout?" I asked. "You thought me and Bobbie's a pair of queers or somethin'?"

"He is. I kinda figured yer one too, from how ya look at me."

"Whatcha mean, Bobbie is?" I persisted. "He ain't married, but it don't mean shit."

"Don't really matter if he's married. Some guys swing both ways," Ty said offhandedly.

"How can ya tell?" I asked after a moment.

Ty shrugged. "It's how he looks, ya know stares 'n all. Ah reckon when them two babes came over durin' tha race, and he told 'em to fuck off, there weren't no doubt 'bout it then."

"Oh?"

I was lost for words. I could think of several times over the last few years that I had any real cause for doubt beyond a lingering suspicion about Bobbie Gerdsen's sexual inclinations. All the times, the hundreds of times that we had shared a motel room, nothing had happened. It was like sharing a room with a priest who actually believed his vows of chastity.

"So you thought… him and me were…"

Ty nodded slightly. "Ain't ya?"

"Me and him? No way," I shook my head firmly. "Good friends is 'bout as far as we go."

Ty stroked his bottom lip thoughtfully, reconsidering.

Chapter 4

We finished eating at about the same time as the fishing program finally ended. I think my sigh of relief was audible. There was an undefined, but clearly exceeded limit to how many times I could watch a man who I did not know from Adam reel in a bass and then throw it back. By then, Ty had eaten three pieces of chicken and was ready to start on his fourth. He had downed one Budweiser and was well along on his second can, complete with loud slurps and lip smacking that left no doubt that he enjoyed the taste every bit as much as I did. He took one look at the remaining piece of chicken, a greasy looking thigh, and he put up his arm ready to arm-wrestle me for it. I had to smile.

"What's so funny?" Ty grinned. "Ya reckon I cain't beat ya or somethin' 'cause I'm just a kid?"

I shook my head, trying not to laugh. He looked so sexy, kneeling down on the bed, one elbow planted firmly, his other arm out at an angle to brace himself if I actually took up the challenge. With the tee-shirt draped loosely over his slender torso, I had an unimpeded view of his boy-sized sex organs, which was what exactly he intended to occur. Up close, the tip of his penis was actually quite blue, almost unnaturally blue. I could not stop looking at it.

"Nope," I laughed.

I put my elbow next to his and then seeing the difference in the heights of our hands, moved it back nearly a foot and leaned my arm towards his. Our hands gripped, levering in play but also taking the pressure. His hand was a lot smaller than mine, yet it was remarkably strong. Ty smirked boldly. Surreptitiously, yet undeniably, he glanced away, looking downward under his chest. Within the few seconds that it had taken for me to get into position, Ty's little penis had awakened and begun to grow. I watched it lengthen, lifting up noticeably as it stiffened. It was still a long way from being erect, but there was no question that it was quickly becoming both harder and bigger.

"You ready to lose?" Ty smirked.

He would have been blind not to realize that my attention was diverted because at that point I was staring between his legs, watching his tiny blue acorn-shaped tip become darker and darker until it was nearly purple. His penis quivered, bouncing up and down in anticipation of… I had no idea what he was thinking about. He applied all his weight without warning, dragging my arm down suddenly. I was conscious of what happening, but I was so entranced by the small throbbing shaft and the little wrinkled dome underneath that I did not respond until it was too late. By then, my hand was on the bed and Ty was laughing hysterically.

"Hey, that's not fair," I rebuked when he finally calmed down enough to hear me.

He grinned proudly. "I gotcha fair 'n square, Terry."

"I wasn't payin' attention, Ace," I answered.

"Yeah, you was lookin' elsewhere, weren't ya?" he chortled. "Ain't ya ever seen a boy's dick before?"

He burst into another fit of laughter, this time rolling around on the bed. The tee-shirt pulled higher up his body as he wriggled and twisted around, nearly coming up far enough up his flat brown belly to see his belly button. I feasted my eyes on his morsel. It was much smaller than my penis, but it was not so small that it could be ignored. By then, it was fully erect and it stuck out from his groin. It was so hard that it did not touch his belly, not even when he was lying flat on his back.

"Sure, 'n all of 'em was bigger 'n yours," I laughed. "Of course, I ain't seen any that were blue on tha tip."

Ty smirked and playfully flipped at his rigid little penis so that it snapped back against his lower belly with a loud slap. It had been many years since my penis was hard enough to do that. It was one of the benefits of being young! He reached for the bucket, eager to take the last piece of chicken.

I caught his wrist just as his hand came out of the bucket. He smirked at me, crudely yanking up his tee-shirt past his belly button. This time his display was intentional and calculated to get my attention. He was very aroused, so hard that even the veins under the shaft were beginning to become visibly distended. However, this time I was not distracted.

"Flashin' yer cute little boyhood at me don't work but tha once," I chortled.

He grinned, jerking his hand back in a feeble effort to escape. I shook my head firmly.

"You really want tha chicken, Ace?" I asked teasingly. "What's it worth to ya?"

I was not at all sure what I intended by that, or that I intended anything at all. Perhaps he suspected I was up to something, perhaps not. Perhaps he was still hungry, although it seemed very unlikely that after three pieces of chicken and two cans of Budweiser, he could still find somewhere to put another piece into his slim belly. It did not even enter my mind that he was more than slightly drunk. He smirked and nodded boldly, slicking his lips with his pink small tongue.

"Ah guess this means ya like chicken, huh Terry?" he said slyly.

His eyes flickered, making a downward sweep to his groin. His penis was standing straight up like a little flag pole with a blue-purple flag for everyone to admire. He glanced back at me, smirking obscenely. Unless I was greatly mistaken, he was ready for some fun.

"Some guys will do anythin' for chicken," I replied ambiguously. How far would he go? I had a feeling that he would surprise me.

"Like, um, what did ya have in mind?" he asked. His voice was soft yet urgent, turning husky as he completed the question.

I inclined my head, looking sideways with one of those 'if-you-have-to-ask-you-don't-want-to-know' looks that made him giggle. Still holding his wrist with one hand, I drew his hand towards me until I could take the piece of chicken from his fingers. I let his hand go. His eyes followed my every move, watching as I peeled off the greasy, herb and crumb encrusted skin, leaving the thigh bare.

"This here chicken's yours, ain't it Ace," I said, holding the chicken thigh, barely able to keep from laughing.

"But ya took the best part offa it," Ty pretended to whine.

"You really want to eat this greasy stuff?" I laughed, dangling it over his bare belly.

Ty's eyes met mine, teasing, enticing, luring me on. His mouth was partly open, as if he was ready to say something, or smile. His tongue flicked absently at his bottom lip. If I did not know better, I would have sworn his penis was becoming even harder. Mine was. It was sticking out into my boxers, making a prominent bulge that made Ty giggle when he noticed it.

"Whatcha gonna do with it?" he demanded hesitantly.

"Hm… You really want it?" I asked.

"Uh, it depen…"

He did not finish the word. I interrupted his thought by grasping his boyhood with the slimy piece of chicken skin. He squealed, then he shrieked, then he finally tried to escape. He laughed hysterically, trying his best to push my hand away with both of his hands. I rubbed the greasy, crumb-coated skin all over his sex organs, making sure that everything was covered before I dropped it in the now empty tub.

"Man, you are so fuckin' gross," Ty shouted. "Ya got it all over me, Terry."

"Yeah, I did, didn't I?" I laughed. "That'll teach ya not to cheat, Ace."

I grinned at him and he managed a pouty yet playful smile back at me as he settled back down on the bed. He burped and slurped the last of his beer before crushing the can in his hand.

"Doin' what ya just done means ya gotta be queer," he taunted.

He flicked off some of the crumbs and smeared the grease with his fingers. His penis glistened with an oily sheen, just as hard as it could be. It had been fun.

I shrugged. "It takes one to know one."

"Not me. I ain't like that," Ty said simply.

I shrugged. "Don't bet on it," I said as I pointed to his persistent erection. "It looks to me like Junior down there thinks he's gay."

Ty glanced down. "Dicks don't know shit!"

He fingered his slippery shaft, pulled it between his fingers, keeping it excited while he pretended to examine it for a sign of intelligence beyond the ability to pee, get hard, and in Ty's case, stay hard for a long while.

"My dick's dumber than a rock," he giggled.

"It sure's harder than rock," I replied with a yawn.

I was tired and my belly was full, and I'd consumed three cans of beer in half an hour. It was time for a nap. I figured that I could sleep for an hour and then take Ty home. I rolled onto my back and moved towards the other side of the bed, establishing what I thought was a safe distance between us.

"I'm gonna sleep fer a bit," I mumbled. "Wake me up in 'n hour, okay?"

I did not hear his answer. I was sound asleep.

***

You know the feeling of having to wake up because you realize something is wrong? That was how I felt when I woke up. Something was happening that should not have been happening. I opened my eyes, suddenly becoming aware that I was not alone. It took a few seconds before I remembered enough of what had happened to be able to relax. I wondered how long I had been asleep for. It was dark in the room, but there was enough light to see him. He was standing next to the bed, gazing down at me. He was still dressed in the tee-shirt I had loaned him. His right hand was over his crotch, fiddling with what was underneath the white cotton. His hips bowed slightly, pushed out noticeably, and then moved back. His hand spread out, cupping under what was immediately revealed as an outward bulge caused by something pointing out into the cloth. He smiled and lifted his arms up, taking the tee shirt higher, exposing his belly and chest. He started to pull his head through the opening. He was undressing. I stared in silent wonder as his body was revealed in its beautiful naked splendor. The teeshirt dropped noiselessly to the floor. He had a very beautiful body, so lean that it would have been difficult to find anything that was not bone, muscle or sinew. Except for a small pale area around his middle, he was suntanned to a dark brown.

He did not move for a long time. He breathed deeply, seeming to concentrate, trying to decide. Whatever he did, it had to be his decision. I smiled, trying to look less formidable and more reassuring. He stepped closer, until his legs were against the bed. Carefully, he climbed over me, his little stiff member bobbing up and down. His arms and legs brushed against me. He was warm to touch and I felt a powerful surge, the thrill that came with knowing what he was doing. My penis responded instantly. Without saying a word, he eased down onto the bed. Then, he wriggled back until his back was pressed into my right side. Instinctively, I rolled onto my side, bringing my knees up behind his, curling so that we were like two spoons in a drawer. I grazed his bare smooth shoulder with my fingertips, stroked downward across his soft chest, then down to his sleek taut belly.

I trembled slightly as my hand drew ever nearer to his proud boyhood, then I thought the better of it and immediately retreated to circle around his belly button until I gained the courage to touch that hard hot part of him. I pressed closer to him, smelling the shampoo that he had used in the shower, caressing the silky skin of his belly. I was fighting a losing battle. With every pass, I was advancing to within a fraction of an inch of his groin before withdrawing again. Ty quivered. His hand slipped over mine, guiding firmly until my fingers touched the blunt small spike between his thighs. I caressed his aroused part, fascinated as much by the intense shudder that came immediately as by the unbelievably silky smoothness of his most sensitive place.

I pushed against him, following the instinctive urge of all men who are attracted to young boys. Some men might be able to deny it, others try to resist it, but the need to join is always there. My erection poked at his bottom, fitting neatly, even naturally into the crack between his firm small cheeks. I pressed into him, pushing my penis deeper, burrowing the hot hardness between his smooth flesh.

"I ain't doing nuthin' back there," Ty said warningly. "Tha behind's off limits."

I eased back quickly, guiltily, feeling very frustrated but accepting his reluctance because I had no other choice. There was only one rule. We did what he wanted, not what I wanted. Still, there was no reason why I should make certain that 'nuthin' really did mean 'nothing'.

"You sure?"

"'course I'm sure. I already told ya I ain't no fag."

"Okay," I said, still reluctant. "It don't have ta go inside ya know."

"Huh?"

"Does it bother ya what I'm doin' right now? It feels good, doesn't it?"

He thought for a moment. "No, ah guess not. 's okay."

He sounded nervous, yet he had not said it did not feel good. He was being deliberately vague, holding back because he knew what it meant if he said otherwise. Gently I stoked his upper thigh, then casually slipped my hand underneath to lift his leg higher.

"Let me try somethin'. I think yer goin' to like it."

"You ain't doin' nuthin' in my butt. Ya got that, okay?" Ty asked awkwardly.

"I promise. Nuthin's goin' inside ya, Ace. Not if ya don't want it to."

"I don't." He hesitated, still uncertain. "I guess 's okay then."

I placed my penis between his thighs, up close to his penis so that my glans rubbed against his testicles. Then, I lowered his leg back down so that my penis was held between his slender thighs. I leaned over him, glancing down. The head of my penis poked out from between his legs, bumping against his ball sac. His penis was stretched straight out, not deviating even a fraction of an inch because of gravity.

"How's this?" I asked.

"'s okay. Just don't be tryin' to stick it up me," Ty answered.

I moved gently, rocking against him, watching my penis appear and disappear with every slow thrust against his rubber-firm bottom. He squirmed slightly, wriggling, lifting his upper thigh before clamping it back down again, this time tighter against my penis. Fortunately, there was still some of the chicken grease on that part of his body otherwise the friction would have made the situation less than comfortable.

"You pretendin' I'm a girl or somethin'?" Ty asked after a minute or two.

"Huh?" I muttered.

"Yer fuckin' me between the legs like it's some pussy or somethin'."

"Don't know why I'd want to do that. You feel way better than any pussy," I answered playfully. "Ya don't like this?" I added.

"I didn't say ah didn't like it," Ty said huffily. "I don't mind ya humpin' me. It's just weird how yer doin' it between my legs, that's all."

I didn't think to ask him about why it was weird, or rather that he had implied that it was weird compared to something else. It was obviously not the first time that he had engaged in sex play with someone who was older. Given his reaction to any activity concerning his butt, my first thought was that it was very likely that someone had gotten him to participate in anal sex, without a great deal of satisfaction on his part. I promised myself right there and then, that I would never pressure him to do something that he did not want to do.

I continued to 'hump' him, pumping back and forth between his slender firm thighs, sliding on the greasy residue, building up to the inevitable climax. Every few seconds he trembled and gasped, yet I had to wonder whether there was much enjoyment in it for him, or whether he was just lying there pretending to like it. Certainly, my penis was rubbing against his testicles, and that probably gave him some pleasure. I changed my technique, reaching over his hip to take hold of his still very rigid boy-penis. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it jerked when I touched it. I began to rub, using the tried and true method of varying the speed and pressure until it throbbed and jerked between by fingers no matter what I did.

Within a matter of a few minutes it was very apparent that Ty was into it as much as I was. It did not take very long before his hips began to move back and forth, rapidly pumping his thighs against my penis at the same time as his much smaller penis moved between my fingers. The slimy secretion from the end of my penis coated his scrotum and I even managed to get some onto his penis which helped to reduce the friction. We were building up to the culmination very quickly. Our bodies were covered in a film of sweat, sticky hot flesh slapping loudly as we writhed in ecstasy.

Even though Ty had been slow to get start, he was making up for lost time. He made a lot more noise than I did. Each breath came in a deep gasp that was followed by a groan. Without warning, he orgasmed. His body stiffened, momentarily becoming a two-by-twelve inch [5x30 cm] board with three inches [7½ cm] of steely nail in the very center. he groaned, his body contorting in the throes of orgasmic delight. His penis pulsed between my fingers, a half-a-dozen jerks as he wriggled and twisted and shuddered in front of me. I had an image of one of the fish he had been watching on the fishing program, except then the fish was fighting for its life.

No matter! Realizing what he had experienced was more than enough to take me to the final peak. I grasped his hip, slamming furiously against his small buttocks, driving my penis between his thighs. My frenzy lasted only a few seconds. Indeed, Ty's penis was still throbbing when the first of my semen spurted out over his scrotum. The rest of it followed, exploding into my cupped hand and completely covering his penis, his scrotum, and between his thighs with the thick slippery fluid. I stopped moving as the last of it dribbled out. I was aware of Ty's trembling body, the quick short breaths he was taking, his buttocks moist and flattened against my groin. I lovingly massaged his sex organs, letting my semen ooze through my fingers. Then I moved my hand upward, up his slender brown belly, bringing the excess with my fingers. I smeared it over his belly, until it was wet and slick, and then further, up to his chest, until he was covered in it from his shoulders down to his crotch. Then I hugged him and brushed my lips to the back of his head. I kissed his hair and nuzzled his upper ear. I did not tell him that I loved him. He was not ready to hear it.

"Don't be kissin' on me, okay," Ty said softly.

"I wasn't kissin' on ya," I answered. "But why not?"

"'cause kissin' 's queer. And I ain't!" he said adamantly.

Such was the irrefutable logic of a preteen boy! I could cover the front of his body with my semen and he did not seem to mind one way or the other, but dare to kiss him? That was 'queer'? I smiled to myself.

"You sure made a lot of it didn't ya," Ty said after a while.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to make a mess on ya, Ace. I'll get a washcloth from the bathroom in a bit."

"'s okay. Ah don't mind gettin' spermed. It just surprised me yer had that much." He wriggled around, getting comfortable. "Ya can hold my dick some more, if ya like Terry," he offered.

"Ya sure ya don't mind, Ace?" I asked sarcastically.

I regretted the instant that the words were out of mind. I quickly reached down and took his slimy little penis back between my fingers. It had softened, but he still tensed slightly when he felt my touch.

"I ain't queer or anythin', but ya know somethin?" he said softly, "it sure is nice bein' held like this n' all."

I hugged him, wanting so badly to tell him how I felt about him. I needed to tell him that I loved him, impossible though it might seem after such a short time. His wavering voice, nervous and distressed, revealed much more than what he said. He was desperate for affection.

After a minute, Ty's little penis was standing at attention again. The blessed joys of being young, I mused. It was enjoyable lying there, curled up behind him, my penis still clamped between his thighs, the slippery film over his belly and chest gradually becoming tacky, then sticky. I fondled his penis, not thinking about bringing him to a second climax as much as simply making him feel good, about holding that beautiful part of him, the part that defined him as being male.

"I guess I had better take ya home, Ace," I said after a while. "It's getting near nine p.m."

"Ya don't have to," Ty answered sleepily. "I can hitch in the mornin'."

"Tha hell ya can. 'sides, I don't think yer Mom would be too happy not knowin' where ya are all night."

"I don't have a mom," Ty said after an awkward pause.

"Ah'm sorry."

"I guess she's alive but we don't know where she is. I live with my mamaw. She don't give a fuck 'bout me."

"That's not true," I said.

Ty sighed. "'s easy fer ya to say.

I suspected he was not exaggerating, although I had no facts to back it up other than the fact that he was at the track by himself. I gave his hard penis a fond farewell squeeze and stood up. Ty padded behind me when I went into the bathroom to urinate. He nudged me to stand to the side and we stood next to each other, emptying our bladders in that familiar male-bonding ritual. He shook of the last few droplets and then bent down to pick up his shorts and underpants. While he dressed, I went back into the bedroom and searched through my suitcase until I found some clothes that were close to being clean.

"Can I keep the tee shirt, Terry?"

At the sound of his voice, I turned around. Ty was standing in the doorway to the bathroom. He swallowed, awkwardly wiping his cheek. he sniffed loudly, then wiped the other cheek. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" he demanded, still trying hard not to burst into tears.

"What's wrong?"

"Nuthin'! Ya don't have ta take me home. I told ya I can hitch a ride, even at night. Yer tired 'n all," he added angrily.

I shook my head with parental firmness. "Forget it! I'm takin' ya home and that's all there is to it."

Ty gave me a sour look. I could not understand his bitterness. I wondered what Bobbie would say in the morning as I made sure that the door was locked behind us.

Chapter 5

That I managed to get Ty back to where he lived was a stroke of luck. What saved us was as much a matter of luck as any driving skill on my part, although afterwards Ty was quick to claim the contrary. No, according to him it was 100 percent driving skill, while I put it down to good old-fashioned luck. My good fortune had run out years ago when I moved from weekend episodes on local tracks in North Carolina and Tennessee to full time racing with my grandfather's money and a dream of winning at nascar. What I finally came to realize that night was that with Ty beside me, my luck appeared to have been restored.

Now, I have to say right off that my mind wasn't completely on the driving when the accident happened. You might say I was distracted by what I was doing to Ty. It started almost as soon we were out of the motel parking lot. I accelerated up to 40 m.p.h. [65 km/h] and put the car in fourth gear. With Bobbie's re-worked cams, the engine never ran smoothly until it reached about 2,000 r.p.m. My right hand moved cautiously from the knob on the gear stick to the slightly larger but equally smooth knob of Ty's kneecap. Casually, my hand inched up his leg, feeling the long thin tendons underneath. My fingers stroked gently, marvelling at the silky smooth skin. I was fascinated about how soft his leg was while very gradually moving higher, higher until my fingertips brushed the frayed hem of his shorts. There was firm muscle in abundance. His slender leg was entirely bone, muscle and sinew. He could be a fast runner when he needed to move quickly.

"Ya mind?" I asked as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be feeling a boy's leg up while I drove him back to his home.

I glanced sideways. Ty smirked and slowly shook his head. His leg moved a few inches to the side, so I did not have to reach quite so far.

"It feels okay," he ventured. He hesitated. "Ya like boys, don't ya Terry?" he added under his breath.

I tried to decide what to say. I could lie and tell that I'd rather be getting laid by one of the pit babes, or I could come right out with the truth and tell him that I thought he was the sexiest person I had ever met. He was!

"Some," I answered. I waited for him to say something. He didn't. "Some more than others," I added vaguely.

"Like me?"

His voice crackled. He was as nervous as I was, perhaps more so.

"Yer cool, Ace," I admitted.

"Ah know what ya need. Ya need ta get yerself some pussy, Terry," Ty chortled.

"Yeah, one day I will," I said listlessly.

I continued to stroke his thigh, slipping my fingers under the hem of his shorts and into a warmer zone. Ty trembled slightly. He looked at my hand and for a disturbing moment I thought he was going to move my hand away. Then he smirked.

"What's so funny?"

"You!" Ty giggled. "Ya never even had it in a pussy, have ya Terry?"

"None of yer business. Have you?" I retorted.

He nodded boldly. "Sure! I've done it with a girl lotsa times, only it was a coupla years ago."

The way he said it did not sound like he was lying. I still laughed.

"Okay, now ya tell me what's so funny?" he rebounded gleefully.

"Yer kiddin' me, Ace! A coupla years ago yer dick wouldn't 'a been two inches [5 cm]."

I took my left hand off the steering wheel for a moment and held my thumb and first finger about two inches [5 cm] apart.

"Just 'bout big enough to rub a clit," I joked. "But it ain't goin' inside far enough inside to do anythin' she's gonna like."

"Huh?" Ty asked.

I chuckled. "Ya wanna tell me 'bout how ya got this up a girl, Ace?" I asked teasingly.

I lifted my right hand up and lowered it down over the little lump in his shorts. I squeezed gently, pushing my fingers into the spongy bulge, rubbing my thumb over where I thought his penis was located. He shrugged, pretending to be disinterested. However, his thighs lifted up slightly. At the same time, his legs moved a few inches further apart. He was as interested as I was, perhaps more.

"Her brother and me messed 'round some in tha woods behind where we lived," he said. "We both done it to her."

"How old was she?"

"I guess she was 'bout five. She was a coupla years younger than me."

I had a mental picture of Ty as a younger boy, aged seven or eight, and a little five-year-old girl. It was not difficult to imagine what happened. Sex play among children that age is probably more common than most parents are prepared to admit. There were some parts of the country where a lot of girls have lost their virginity before they start kindergarten. Incest was a fact of life.

"How old was her brother?" I asked curiously.

Ty did not answer for a while. He licked his lips, visibly thoughtful, in all likelihood remembering what happened in the woods. I continued to fondle his penis and testicles, aware that he was becoming aroused. I could feel his penis expanding and getting harder under my fingers.

"Older 'n me," he answered. "Like twelve or so. He could shoot."

We were nearly through the intersection when I saw an oncoming truck begin to change lanes. At the last minute, the Ryder rental truck swerved back to avoid hitting a car on its right side. The truck bounced against the low curb that separated the traffic from the grass covered median strip. For the simple reason that the driver had been speeding up to get through the intersection before the lights changed to red, he was unable to keep the vehicle under control. It mounted the curb, sliced through two small trees, sheared off a light post and slewed across the oncoming traffic. I was the oncoming traffic. With the truck broadside, it completely blocked all of the lanes. There was literally nowhere to go.

I did what any race car driver would do. I spun the steering wheel to the right and yanked the hand brake on as hard as possible. The Trans Am spun instantly, completely a full 180 degrees before it stopped, its trunk only inches away from going under the side of the truck. If that was all there was, it would have been a miracle. However, Ty and I stared straight ahead at a vehicle bearing down on us. It was a beat pickup truck, the kind of vehicle that Mexican fruit pickers drive. It was approaching as if nothing was out of the ordinary, despite the fact that my headlights were directly ahead of it and a truck completely blocked the road. A moment later, the driver woke up and stomped on the brakes, locking both of its front wheels in a screeching skid. It came straight towards us in slow motion. If there had been any driving skill on my part involved to that point, it was supplanted by pure luck. Instead of engaging reverse gear, which is second nature to a race car driver on a spin out, I rammed the gear stick into first gear.

"Oh Jesus!" Ty shouted.

Instinctively, I reached across, grabbing at Ty's shoulder to drag him down. It did not take a brain surgeon to figure out that when the pickup hit us, it was going to force the Pontiac under the truck. At the same time, I floored the accelerator and Bobbie's re-worked engine screamed, releasing all 400 horses in a frantic effort to get out of the way of the impending collision. The car literally jumped over the curb, tearing out clumps of grass before rejoining the traffic in the opposite direction to the one we had been originally going in. The limited slip differential kept both wheels spinning, leaving dual black tread marks until I stomped on the brakes. We stopped on a dime and a cloud of white, stinking smoke slowly rose up over the trunk. It had all happened in a matter of a few seconds. The pickup stopped in a similar cloud of smoke, its front tires about where my rear tires had been only a second or two earlier. The lighter rear end had drifted to the side so that the pickup and truck were nearly parallel.

I stopped the car in the middle of the intersection and leaped out. I ran to the other side of the car, opened the door and dragged Ty out. I made sure he was safely out of the way before I ran to see what had happened.

By then, the driver of the truck and the pickup were standing, staring, mouths wide open, pointing at where the Pontiac had been, and where it should have been, eight feet [2½ m] under the truck. The nose of the pickup was about an inch from the metal edge of the Ryder truck. Its tailgate had fallen down and was blocking the truck driver's door.

"What in the hell?" the truck driver said. He stared at me. "Man, how in the hell did you do that?"

I shrugged. There was nothing that I could say. It was the closest I had ever been to a collision off the track. We were all thinking the same thing. A miracle? Ty waved from the side of the road and then pointed as a police car turned through the intersection and stopped with its hazard lights flashing eerily. I wanted to get away from them, to find the time to think about what might have happened. I had a persistent mental picture of Ty being decapitated by a Ryder truck. It felt like I was going to throw up.

It took about ten minutes before the policeman allowed us to leave the scene. Since there was no damage to my car, and I could not 'remember' anything that preceded the truck crossing over the median, there was no point in keeping me any longer. I got away without being required to take a breath test, that despite the obvious suspicion when the policeman was close enough to smell my breath. I collected Ty from the median strip and we headed off to the Pontiac to continue on our way.

"Wow! Yer awesome!" Ty proclaimed effusively. "That was some wheelie ya popped too, Terry."

"Huh?" I was gripping the wheel and I forced myself to relax.

"Whatcha did back there! It was way above awesome!"

I shrugged. My heart was still beating quickly. My throat was parched. I needed another beer. I replayed what had happened in my mind. Sure, there was some driving skill involved, but it was more than that. I remembered flinging my arm out in front of Ty, trying to grab him, pulling him down between the seats. There was luck involved, an awful lot of luck, luck that overrode instinct when I put the car into first gear instead of reverse, luck that floored the accelerator and pointed the car across the median and in the opposite direction to the way the pickup was going to slide.

"It wasn't skill."

"Yeah, it was." Ty rubbed his shoulder absently. "It was some god-damn great drivin' that saved us."

I shrugged. "I reckon yer my little good luck charm." Ty grinned, still massaging his shoulder. "Did I hurt ya, Ace?"

"Na, I'm okay."

"I didn't want ya goin' under tha truck. Ya might 'a gotten that pretty blond head of yers all bruised," I joked feebly.

Ty smiled, brushing his hand back through his close-cropped hair. He looked different to the boy who I had first noticed at the Subway. I loved him with his short hair and rat's tail. It suited him. He was a free spirit. He was also very good looking, the kind of good-looking that made a man like me want to look at him again and again. He might not think of himself as being homosexually inclined, but he should have been. His good looks were wasted otherwise.

"Why didn't ya git yer own head down, Terry?"

I shrugged. "Guess I'm too ugly to worry 'bout gettin' my face creamed, Ace. Besides, I figured maybe a plastic surgeon could'a fixed me up so I look better."

He laughed. "Ya ain't ugly. Not by a long shot. Yer cool, Terry! You gotta turn right at tha next intersection," he added.

We sat in silence for the next two miles [3 km]. I watched the buildings becoming increasingly run down. A lot of the shops had boards over the front windows or permanently installed chain mesh or metal bars. From what I oberved it was apparent that the blacks had a tenuous relationship with the Cubans. White faces were clearly a minority in this neighborhood.

After crossing rusted, trash-covered railroad tracks, I turned left through what may once have been a quite attractive entry but was now an unkempt tangle of plants and weeds. A peeling sign proclaimed Happy Valley Trailer Village. Ty lived in a trailer park.

"Ah can walk from 'ere," Ty said nervously.

I glanced at him, bringing the car to a halt. The engine quickly returned to its gurgling, deep-throated gurgle. Over the years, I have seen a lot of trailer parks, but none of them struck me as being so dilapidated, so utterly unpleasant that the possibility of anyone living there was enough to sicken me. The park was not only close to, but directly down wind of a sewage treatment plant.

"It's not a problem, Ace," I said firmly.

He glared at me. "This is far enough, okay!"

"Not when I'm bringin' ya home. It's dark, and this ain't the best neighborhood. I want to see ya home safe!"

"Fuckin' safer out here than where I live," he said under his breath.

"Where to, Ace?" I said tiredly.

He directed me to take the road to the left. The road was pot holed like something you might see in one of the worst parts of Detroit. Eventually, even the black-top stopped and we bumped down a sandy track towards the last few trailers that were within a stone throw of the sewage ponds. The smell was terrible. Ty shrank down in his seat, his expression dismal as I carefully negotiated the last few hundred feet between a half-dozen abandoned and rusted-out cars. The trailer was smaller than most, but it had been expanded by a couple of clumsily built roofs on the southern side. I glanced at Ty. He made no effort to get out of the car. I expected he wanted to spend a few minutes saying goodbye. I knew I wanted him to stay there for as long as possible. After a while, he sighed.

"What's up?" I asked quietly.

"She's still up."

His voice sounded pitiful, empty, emotionless. I had a feeling that his life was so miserable in this god-forsaken dump, that he was beginning to think that he would be better off dead.

"Do ya want me ta take ya in, Ty?" I suggested. "I could explain why yer late 'n all?"

He shrugged. "She don't care! I know she don't want me 'round."

"If you were my son, I'd sure want yer 'round," I said.

Ty turned and gave me a shy curious look. "I ain't her son. I ain't nuthin' to nobody!"

"Yer special to me," I said honestly.

"Yeah, right."

His nostrils flared as he took a deep slow breath. He shook his head. he opened the car door and got out. Walking slowly, scuffing his feet in the sandy dust. I could hear him crying, sobbing from the depths of his thin chest. I swallowed, sat silent and still in the leather bucket seat, fuming with a growing sense of guilt and frustration. Why did I have this feeling of impending doom if I left Ty alone? What was happening to me? A few minutes passed until the crying stopped.

"Ty?" I called as I climbed out. I left the motor running and the headlights on.

He turned and walked back slowly. I placed my hand on his shoulder. There was a lot that I wanted to say to him, but whatever I might have said was meaningless when I thought about it. What could I say that would have meaning for him? 'Hey, stick it out, Ace.' 'Work hard in school and you'll become rich one day.' 'Life isn't all that bad.' Those things did not have meaning for me so why should I expect them to have meaning for him.

I closed my door with a loud slam.

"Ya know, Ace, I don't even know yer name," I said. "'ceptin' Ty, that is."

"It's Tyler Kincaid."

He wiped his cheek and pointed to a collection of twisted roofing that had been nailed into a rough shelter.

"That's my kart over there," he announced proudly. "Ya wanna see it, Terry?"

I followed him over. The light from the headlights was enough to see that the shelter was secured by fencing wire to the side of a tree, providing the lateral stability that two-by-four inch [5x30 cm] nailed together lumber could not. He dragged away a green tarpaulin. Underneath was a go-kart, or rather the chassis of one. There was no engine, at least not where it was supposed to be. The engine was in pieces, disassembled and lying on several oil-spotted wooden orange-packing crates.

"It's an Olimpic," Ty explained. "That's the best fuckin' chassis there is, Terry," he added haughtily. "I got it fer free. I seen 'em on the web at more 'n fourteen hundred. Check out the tubin', Terry. It's chromoly, one and a quarter. Ya can set it up just like a race car. 's got 'justable camber, 'n ride, 'n everythin'," he added proudly. "I got the body stashed under the trailer till I'm ready fer it ta go back on. It got cracked up pretty bad in a wreck, but I reckon I can fix it with some fiberglass. It's got everythin'. Soon as I get it put back together ah am ready to race."

"Ain't got an engine," I chuckled.

"Ya noticed," Ty laughed. "I got it cause some dumb asshole seized the engine. Kept runnin' it after he wrecked. That's a Briggs Raptor III over there on the bench, only it's been done over by Stinger. It's got the full thing, blue printed, with a head job that's better 'n your car I bet."

"Only yers don't run," I teased. "You really gonna race it?"

"Once I get it fixd," Ty smiled. "I need new everythin'. Bearin's, crank, piston, everythin'. It'd be cheaper to buy a new one only I ain't got a thousand bucks."

"That much?"

"That's just to start. The Raptor's only a coupla hundred. The rest goes in gettin' the performance up ta scratch."

"You need ta get a job," I quipped. "Hell, I need a job, the way I'm goin'."

Ty grinned. "I'll give ya a blow job if ya buy me a new engine," he offered teasingly.

"No way! It'd be nice, but it sure ain't worth that much," I joked.

He laughed. "Well, I ain't doin' nuthin' in the butt, that's fer sure. It ain't worth bein' turned into a fag, not fer some gokart engine."

I glanced back at the trailer. It would be a long while before he had the engine running again. He deserved to grow up in better circumstances. He deserved to have his go-kart fixed and racing. he had the look of a winner. He even looked more like a winner than eleven-year-old Gordon Jeffries when he won the quarter-midget national championship for the second time.

"Come on, Tyler Kincaid," I said dejectedly. "Let's take ya on in."

I stopped by the car to turn off the engine. Together, we went up to the front door. I knocked a couple of times before there was any sign of life inside.

"Who's there?"

It was a woman's voice, raspy, bad-tempered. I heard loud footsteps clumping across the floor. Ty shrank back until he was nearly behind me. The front door opened, but before I had a chance to see inside, an overweight, dyed-blond woman filled the opening. She appeared to be middle aged, although lifestyle and liquor had taken a greater toll than years alone. She leered at me through the torn fly-screen door.

"What do ya want?"

"Sorry to bother you, Mam," I began self-consciously. "I, er… I met up Ty today. I thought I'd better bring him home."

"Yeah?"

She glared at me, saw Ty standing behind me, and then turned away, no longer interested in furthering the conversation. Cautiously, I pulled the no-longer-insect-proof door open and waited a moment before I followed her inside. Something, an inner sense, told me that I needed to follow her, to stay as long as possible, that Ty was depending upon me.

There was a pile of empty beer cans on the kitchen counter, stacked into a pyramid, four wide at the base. One can was missing from the top. I glanced at the woman, barely believing that all nine cans could be hers. Yet, even as I watched she picked up the tenth can from the low table in front of the television set. She drank, emptying the can in one mouthful. She lifted an eyebrow, daring me to comment.

"Where did ya find him?" she demanded arrogantly.

"At Daytona," I answered. "Earlier today," I added.

Over my shoulder, I saw Ty standing next to the door. His jaws were clenched. He looked like he was ready to run.

"Little bastard! I was wonderin' where he fuckin' got off to."

She burped loudly. She tossed the can at Ty, rather than to him. He managed to catch it in one hand. He deftly placed it on top of the pyramid without thinking about it. I had a feeling that I was participating in an almost surreal yet well-rehearsed play.

"He found his way into the pits at the race track," I added.

"Could have fuckin' guessed that's where he'd be."

She snorted and ambled back into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and pulled out one of the two remaining cans of beer. Ty stepped back, pushing open the screen door behind him. The woman sneered at him, almost challenging him to go away and leave her alone in her drunkenness.

"Ya brung him all the way back 'ere?" she demanded. "What for?"

"No reason, except I didn't think it was safe for him to be hitch-hiking."

She laughed. "Don't you worry about 'im. He's been hitchin' up to the track for a coupla of years now. And if he gets in with the wrong man, he knows how ta take care of himself."

I stared at her, remembering what had happened in the motel bedroom. She was probably right, although the very idea of Ty doing that with another man made my stomach turn. She ripped back the metal pop-top and drank heavily. Ten cans of beer! Even the night when my mother died, I hadn't drunk that much. Six was my limit. After that, I spend more time peeing and less time drinking. I glanced back at Ty. He cowered, not inside the door, but not outside either. He was frightened. There had been no signs of abuse on his body, at least none that I had seen, but there were other ways of abusing a child besides inflicting physical injuries.

"Um… Mrs. Kincaid?…"

"It's Tompkins now! Ever since I married that worthless sonnabitch," She snapped. She dropped down into a threadbare couch, obvious to a film of dirt and tiny pieces of potato chips.

"What?"

"Can we talk fer a minute 'bout yer son?"

"He ain't mine. He's my daughter's. She had him when she was fourteen and too fuckin' dumb to know who its father was, though it weren't too hard to figure out when she dropped her brat with me and took off with him. She ain't been back here in ten years. I hear she took up with some truck driver over in L'siana and she got herself three more now."

"Terry, can ya just go, please," Ty said plaintively from behind me.

"Ty, just a minute, okay," I said patiently.

There was no way I was going to leave Tyler Kincaid in that place. The only problem was how to avoid what seemed to be an insurmountable obstacle; this woman who was apparently his grandmother!

"Mrs. Tompkins," I began again. "You probably don't recognize me, but I drive for a nascar team."

"Which one?"

"We don't have a sponsor yet," I admitted.

"What fuckin' number then?"

"Sixty-nine," I answered with a straight face.

The woman laughed, spitting beer over the couch. "Yeah, I seen it on TV. Yer that Atkins guy?"

I nodded. "That's me."

"Sixty-fuckin'-nine huh? Yeah, that sounds about right for Ty. Just like him, suckin' up to some driver."

"Pardon?"

"Nuthin'! So you have a fuckin' race car. Big fuckin' thrill. So what?"

"Well, today, we came in third."

"He set a new lap record, too," Ty interjected from his position by the door.

"Yeah, I saw some of it. I'm so fuckin' thrilled for ya," she said arrogantly. "I'd offer ya champagne, if I had some. And there ain't no beer left."

"That's okay," I said patiently.

"Git to tha point, Mister Atkins."

I could not believe what I was about to say. "The point is, Ty brought us luck. A lot of luck. We haven't been doin' so good the last few months. He's kind of a good luck charm."

"Ty? Lucky? Git real!"

"Well, we think he did a lot to help today," I said boldly. "The team wants him along for the rest of the summer."

"Yer jokin'."

"Nope. We got a coupla weeks up in Asheville to do some work on the car, but then we're back on tha road. I'd like it if he could come along."

She smirked knowingly. She turned to Ty, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"You put him up to this?"

"No!"

"Liar! Whatcha done with him? God-damn faggot!"

"I ain't. Nuthin' happened like that, I swear. I didn't do nuthin' with him," Ty said heatedly.

His grandmother glared at him. He was lying and we all knew it.

"He ain't takin' ya 'cross the country for nuthin', boy. It ain't hard to figure out what he wants."

Ty shrugged and boldly stared her down. "I'll be helpin' the team out 'n all, Mamaw," he said nervously. "It ain't like that."

"A tiger don't change its stripes neither." She turned back to glare at me. "Ya know what yer gettin' into with him?"

"He's a bit on the wild side but I'm sure he's basically a good kid," I answered.

She laughed. "Yeah, but good at what? That's the question, ain't it, Mister Atkins? Yer takin' him for the whole summer, right? Yer buyin' him food and whatever else he needs?"

"Yes," I said quickly. "I'll get him back before school starts."

"Don't matter! Keep him as long as yer want. I just want him outta my hair. Anyway, he skips school more often than he goes."

"I do so go," Ty said adamantly. He glared at her. "I missed a coupla times, that's all."

"Shut up! Yer a god-damn little liar!"

"It doesn't matter. Get your stuff, Ty," I said loudly.

I waited until Ty was out of the room. I hated to think what his room was like, or even if he had a room of his own.

"I need to get somethin' in writin' I expect," I said.

"Like what?"

"Somethin' about how he's goin' with me with yer permission."

She shrugged. "You write it, Mister Atkins! There's paper over there someplace," she said with an angry gesture of her ample hand towards the kitchen counter.

I searched among the litter on the counter top for a minute before I found a food-stained writing pad. I lifted back nearly half of the pad before I found a page that was clean enough to write on. I sighed, hoping that I was not making a mistake.

I… I stopped writing.

"What's yer full name?" I asked.

"Tina Tompkins."

Tina Tompkins… I wrote.

'Hereby' was a good legal word. What I needed was a lawyer, but I had an aversion to lawyers.

hereby gives permissun for her…

"Ty's yer grandson, right?" I asked. She nodded curtly. "Yer his legal guardian too?"

"I got guardianship. There's somethin' in writin' 'round here some place. I told yer I ain't seen my daughter fer near ten years now. I had to get it done so's I could get him into school. Most people 'round here think the little bastard's mine."

I started writing again. … grandson, Tyler Kincaid, to go with Terry Atkins for the summer… I hesitated to write more. What did a letter like this one need to say anyway? I added lines for our names and addresses and phone numbers. I signed and then filled in my name and the address of the workshop in Asheville.

"Here," I said. I carried it over and handed it to her.

"Don't say much, does it?" she said sarcastically. She ignored then pen I was trying to give her. She handed it back.

"What else then? Like what should I add?" I asked.

"Ya gonna take care of him. Whatever happens. I'm givin' ya guardianship. Write that down."

I started writing again, squeezing the few lines between what I had already written and my name. I hereby give gardianship to Terry Atkins. He will take care of Tyler whatever happens.

I handed the completed agreement back to her for approval. She signed and dated it, and then scrawled her address beneath it.

"I ain't no lawyer, but I know enough to know it probably ain't no good if it ain't witnessed," she said sullenly.

"Anyone around here who could witness it?" I suggested hopefully.

She shrugged. She staggered up from her couch-potato position and lurched across the room and out the door. I followed outside, across the dirt and garbage to the nearest trailer, and up to the door. She hammered impatiently on the closed door. After a minute, a grey haired man came out. A young girl about eight years old poked her sand-colored head out from behind her. The man pushed her back.

"Yeah?" he said sleepily. He yawned. "What is it, Tina?"

"I need ya ta sign somethin' for me."

"Who's this?"

"Some guy Ty picked up. He goin' with him fer the summer. I need ya ta witness the paper sayin' he's got my permission."

"Huh? But ya said Lou and yer was leavin' next week?"

"It don't matter what I said. Just sign somewhere on the bottom and write 'witness'.

"I need fer ya ta understand somethin'," she said as we walked back to her trailer.

"What?"

"'bout that boy. He's outta my hands now," she said vaguely. "He's yer problem from now on. Ya better keep a close eye on him. He's a wild one, like the dumb bitch who brought him into the world."

"What's that s'posed to mean?"

"Whatever. I happen to know fer a fact what he likes. His mother got off with anything with a cock and I bet he ain't no different."

"He's just a kid," I said protectively.

"Tha hell he is. Why don't ya ask him how he got that damned go kart?"

"How did he get it?" I asked.

She shrugged. "It ain't none of my concern what he done ta get it. You just ask him 'bout how he got it."

"Maybe it is a concern of mine. I intend to take care of him," I answered. I tried to hold back my distaste.

"Ya better get him outta here then," she laughed. "This ain't no place to raise kids. They're either pregnant or getting stoned stupid."

I stopped before we climbed the three rickety stairs at the front of the trailer. It was difficult enough to think of Ty growing up with the constant stench of sewage, but surrounded by this mess, and living with this woman? I guessed one became used to the smell after a while, like the smell of oil and gasoline. Then, I remembered the great pride that Ty had demonstrated when he showed me his go-kart. I had an idea building in the back of my mind. I could not do much to help him, but I could do a few things.

"Tha kart of his. Ya got a problem if he takes it with him?" I asked blandly.

"It's his god-damn fuckin' mess. I'm tired 'a havin' it 'round junkin' up the place, but it ain't gonna fit in yer trunk," she guffawed.

"He'd like to take it with him, I reckon."

At that instant, the screen door opened and Ty came down the stairs with his arms full. Mostly, he carried clothes, but on the top of the pile was a big cream-colored teddy bear. It was dressed in a bedraggled woollen sweater with a red bandana tied around its neck.

"Take what?" Ty asked immediately. There was certainly nothing wrong with his hearing.

"Yer kart." I watched his eyes light up. It was enough to give me a warm feeling inside. "I'll have the guys drop by with the truck and pick it up tomorrow," I said.

"Terry, thanks. That's so awesome," Ty gushed. "I was gonna ask you, but I was kinda 'fraid yer'd say no way."

"'s okay. Who's this?" I asked playfully as I squeezed the bear's little black nose. "I know I'm taking you fer the summer, and yer go-kart too, but I didn't plan on takin' no bears."

"This here's Theodore Bearington, Terry, but I call him 'Bandit'. He's ma buddy," Ty grinned. "I won him at a flea market raffle a coupla years ago. I don't go no where without the Bandit."

I laughed. "Okay put yer stuff on the back seat and get in the car. Bandit can ride up front with you."

Ty grinned happily. "Hey, if ya keep callin' me 'Ace', and I already got Bandit, ah guess I get ta call ya 'Smokey', 'cause 'a that big smokin' wheelie you laid earlier."

I laughed. "Terry'll do just fine, Ace. But if ya gotta call me Smokey, just don't be doin' it 'round Bobbie and the other guys."

Chapter 6

"So how come yer bear-buddy didn't make it out to the race track, Ace," I teased, raising my voice so that he could hear over the road noise from the wide tires. "The noise too much for him or somethin'?"

"Bandit don't mind the noise," Ty said seriously.

"Maybe he don't like the smell of gasoline?" I suggested.

Ty gave me his 'are-you-crazy' look. He turned the bear's head away and cupped his hand over its furry little ear. "He's afraid of people, okay Terry," he said in a lowered voice. "Particularly when he don't know them."

"Oh," I said, equally softly. His explanation stopped my teasing.

Ty was cradling the bear in his arms, stroking its forehead with his thumb as if trying to get it to go to sleep.

"I reckon I know just how he feels," I added quietly. "I'm kinda that way myself."

Ty looked up at me and smiled. His eyes flickered. He licked his bottom lip thoughtfully, still stroking the bear's head. There was a dirty splotch over the bear's right eye. It was a sad looking thing, but it was loved. I could tell from how he was holding it that it was loved a lot more than most teddy bears.

By then, we were out of the trailer park and well on the way back to the motel on State Route 415. As soon as we passed the freeway intersection, he neighborhood had changed from one of mixed-race and low income to middle-class white. The trash, pot holes, and broken down cars had disappeared from the streets. A few minutes later, we passed a food market, a huge Piggly Wiggly with dozens of cars in the parking lot despite the late hour. The next store was a 'Target' and it was also open. I was past the first entry before I remembered the dire condition of Ty's clothes. From what I remembered seeing when he came out of the trailer, the rest of his clothes were no better. I glanced back between the seats. From what I could see, Ty had brought a pair of blue jeans, a denim jacket that had faded to a pale blue, and a couple of tee-shirts, including the Gordon Jeffries shirt that he had been wearing when I had first seen him. There might have been a couple of other things underneath, but it was clear that he did not have very much.

I pulled into the 'Target' parking lot and parked as close as I could to the entry. There were less than a dozen cars there, a situation that was not at all surprising considering that according to the sign posted in the center of the entry door, the store was due to close in fifteen minutes. I gave a hurried explanation to Ty that I wanted to pick up a few things as we rushed inside, grabbing a shopping cart from the end of the line. Fortunately, the boys' clothing section was close to the front of the store and not too difficult to find. Given the frequency at which I visited the laundromat, I figured that he would need clothes for about two weeks. In my book, and at the rate at which I went through clothes – which was a function of oil spills and sweat smell – that meant about six or seven sets of shorts and tee-shirts and a dozen pairs of underpants. The only problem was that a day earlier I had called the credit card company to check my limit and hopefully get it increased. The woman on the telephone was understanding but polite. The end result was that I had about fifty dollars left on my card before my credit was so far into the red that the store clerk at the check-out called the police.

"Ya got a favorite color, Ace?" I asked when we reached the racks of shorts, and found size 10.

Ty shrugged. "Ya don't have ta do this, Terry. Ah got some clothes in tha car."

He held the bear by its ear, looking forlorn and more than a bit tired.

"Yer right, I know I don't have ta, but I wanna see ya dressed up in some clean nice clothes fer a change, Ace," I answered before I thought.

Ty's face instantly became crestfallen. His lips compressed and he clutched the bear's ear so tightly that his knuckles paled. It was apparent that he did not have very much. In my mind, it was only to be expected that he was proud and possessive of whatever he had that he could call his own.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded, Ace. I just want ya to look nice, okay?"

"Okay… but don't be buyin' expensive stuff like this," Ty said heatedly. His voice was huskier than usual. He avoided my eyes. "Twelve bucks for some dumb shorts is just crazy."

I gulped. I had not noticed the price tag. At twelve dollars I would barely have enough to buy four pairs of shorts. He still needed shirts and underwear, and from the look of his shoes he could do with some new sneakers as well.

"What do you suggest?" I asked simply.

"Maybe over there," Ty said as he pointed.

There was a rack of clearance merchandise with a bold sign in red and white, 'SALE 50% off last price'. I led the way and pushed some of the hangers to the side to make some space on the jam-packed rack.

"It's mostly beach stuff," I said.

I lifted out a hanger with a pair of gray-blue and black swim shorts. It was plastered with strange graphics and looked like it belonged in a science fiction movie with its pockets, zippers, and snaps. It was of a style that came down a to just above the knee. It was trimmed in black webbing and it was the only one left on the rack. It was size '10'. I checked the price. The last price was marked at $9.99. I was hopeful. I held it out.

"Whatcha think?"

"Way cool!" Ty did the math in his head. "See, it's only five bucks. You could get two for the price of one of them ones over there."

"So pick out two you like," I suggested.

"You got one of 'em already," Ty grinned. "I like tha one there that's in red okay," he added cautiously.

I picked out the second hanger. It was nearly the same style as the blue and black shorts, but the legs were shorter and it was trimmed in purple webbing. I decided that Ty's taste was about the same as mine. Even Bobbie made fun of my clothes. From my point of view, there were two advantages in buying him swim shorts. First, he would probably swim every day at one of the motel pools when we were travelling – minimizing the need for frequent visits to the laundromat, and second, he would not need underpants. I smirked at the thought.

So far I had spent ten dollars. I started looking for tee-shirts on the sale rack. The selection was pretty minimal. Most of the shirts were Hawaiian style or featured out-of-fashion cartoon designs that Ty rejected summarily as being 'nerdy'. He picked out a neon-blue-colored 'wife-beater' shirt, basically a sleeveless tee-shirt with openings for his arms that extended halfway down the chest. He looked at me hopefully.

"There ain't no way, Ace," I laughed.

When I held it up against him, my decision changed instantly. As much as it was a 'wife-beater', it was also a 'boy-lover' shirt. It was the next best thing to him being naked. My second choice in the shirt department was one of the Hawaiian shirts, assuming that I could convince him to wear it without doing up the buttons. I picked out one that was mostly orange, yellow, and red except for some purple splashes that could have been paint stains or fruit. It was impossible to tell.

"How about this?" I suggested.

I received another 'are-you-crazy' look before he grinned.

"Both?" he suggested hopefully.

"Okay," I agreed. I looked at the price tags. "Twenty bucks!"

"Each?" Ty asked in surprise. "It's way too much money. Ah really don't need 'em, Terry," he added sincerely.

"No, fer both," I answered.

"'s still a helluva lot to pay, Terry. Ah don't need 'em. Ya can get good clothes at tha flea market fer a whole lot less."

I smiled. I found myself liking him more and more. I figured I had twenty dollars left, not including the tax. I was not good at mental arithmetic. In fact, I was not very good at arithmetic, period!

"Let's go look at some sneakers," I said.

"They're okay," Ty replied. "Ya spent too much already, Terry."

He glanced down at his dirty oil-splattered shoes. The laces were frayed and the sole of one shoe had recently pulled away slightly, leaving little doubt that it would soon become a gaping mouth to his toes. I shook my head, letting him know that I would buy him sneakers no matter what he said. He followed me obediently, carrying the two shirts.

The shoes were not on sale, at least as far as I could see. I scanned the rack, seeing prices of $35.99 and above. There was nothing cheaper.

"Ah don't need no shoes, Terry," Ty claimed again.

His voice worried me. It sounded as if he was going to burst into tears.

"I'm not takin' no for an answer." I grinned at him. "Those shoes 'a yers are gonna fall right off yer feet in a coupla days."

"'n I ain't takin' no charity."

I shrugged. "It ain't charity. Yer gonna be workin' on tha team, Ace. This is an advance on yer pay."

He beamed immediately. "Yer really gonna pay me?"

"If ya work hard." I smiled at him. "But yer gonna need some sneakers, 'cause they won't let ya into tha pits barefoot."

"'kay," Ty laughed. "You win."

"There's only one problem. I'm gonna be about twenty bucks short," I said.

"I got a twenty here somewhere," he offered.

Ty reached into his pocked at extracted a scrunched up ball, which when folded out, was a twenty dollar bill that was getting close to the end of its life.

"Pick out a pair you like," I suggested.

Ty strolled alongside the rack, flipping at the shoes absently until he stopped in front of a pair that were in the right color and style range. He checked the size and kicked off one of his sneakers to try the new shoe on. In less time than it took me to check the price on the side of the box, he had finished.

"Can I go try the new stuff on?" he asked. "It won't take more 'n minute, Terry."

Beyond validating that the sizes were appropriate there did not seem to be any point in it, and it was getting very near to the store's closing time, but I agreed anyway. It was so late and there were so few people left in the store that the changing rooms were unattended.

"Come on," Ty said over his shoulder. "You wanna see if they fit, don't ya?"

I shrugged, so tired that I was oblivious to his gleeful mode. I followed him into the men's section. Ty chose the largest space, which was probably designed according to some esoteric access-for-the-handicapped guidelines given the pale blue wheelchair symbol next to the door. I slid the bolt behind me, locking the door, just in case some woman came in to tidy up. I picked up blue-gray swim-shorts and the 'wife-beater' shirt from the clothes. Ty grinned and started to get undressed. Until then, I don't think I had ever seen anyone get out of clothes as fast as Ty did that night. He was dressed one second, and naked as the day he was born the next. He took everything off, his tee-shirt, his cut-off jeans, his soiled frayed underpants, even his dirty sneakers. He was shameless, exhibiting his bare body to an audience of one, himself. It was almost as if I was not there, standing in the change room in front of him. I don't know what brought it on. Perhaps it was me. It was enough just being in there with him, and with the store's closing time rapidly approaching, he had to move quickly. Although I hesitated to think it, I also wondered whether it was his way of thanking me. The very thought gave me a guilty chill.

He strutted around the tiny room, naked and flexing his arms and tensing his belly to make his muscles stand out while he studied his reflection in the mirror. I stood to the side and behind him, my eyes wide and my mouth open. Every time he exerted his muscle-boy pose, his buttocks tightened and pinched in. It was more than enough to make breathing difficult. I felt my penis getting larger and becoming uncomfortably tight under my boxers.

"Ya think I'm okay lookin'?" he asked after a prolonged study of himself.

His eyes were questioning, ambiguous, disturbing. He looked directly at me, as if silently searching to discover what I did not say.

"Uh huh. Yer okay!" I said vaguely. He was a lot better than 'okay'.

"Not too skinny fer ya, huh?" he asked boldly.

"Yer worried about bein' skinny?" I laughed. "Don't worry, yer not. Ya got a real nice body, Ace," I joked.

Yet, from his innocent smile I doubted whether he had any idea of what was going through my mind. The epitome of boyhood was being subjected to my depraved thoughts. Every time I glimpsed his butt I trembled as I imagined what it would be like to savor that pleasure with him. He would be tight. You could tell that just by looking at him, at his slender thighs and his narrow pelvis. I swallowed. My throat was dry. He was looking at me curiously. Interested. His head was slightly askew. His eyes met mine. I glanced away quickly and pretended to be checking the labels on the other clothes.

"Ya want me to try 'em on now?"

"Huh?" I turned around again. "Sure whenever you get through playin' with yerself."

He grinned. He was playing with his penis. It was half-hard, already lifting up from its resting place against the soft pouch of his scrotum. In the bright light from the overhead fluorescent lights, his glans was far more blue than I had remembered. One expected that part of a boy's body to be flesh colored, not cornflower blue. As his penis continued to harden, the hue darkened, becoming closer to the same deep-colored blue that was on the hood of the Pontiac as the skin grew tight and shiny. It looked so unnatural that I could not take my eyes away. His penis twitched, jumping an inch at time at the tip. The short, hard shaft was swollen and variegated with tiny dark veins, bulging just under the skin.

I did the only thing, I could do. I handed him the clothes I was holding. I turned away immediately. I had become hard almost instantly, or rather my penis had become hard. The rest of my body felt like Jello after it had been through a blender. By the time I had turned back, imprisoned by unsatisfied lust, that part of his body that interested me the most, was covered again.

"Whatcha think?" he asked.

He put his hands on his hips and swivelled, parodying what I presumed was a fashion model. He didn't have much talent, but what he lacked he more than made up for with his smile. He was incredibly sexy and he knew it. Without a shirt on, the top of his shorts started within a fraction of an inch of his navel and reached almost to his knees. If he put any weight at all in his pockets, the shorts would drop down his skinny waist until they were restrained by his slightly wider hips.

"They look okay," I said reluctantly. He looked great, but he looked even better naked. "They feel good?"

It was not what I wanted to say, but I reckoned that he would not want to hear what I was really thinking. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. My penis was so goddamn hard it felt like it would burst any second.

"You like 'em, Ace?" I asked.

"Yeah. I like 'em a lot. They're hot, ain't they?"

He turned around and gave me the back view. It was every bit as delectable as the view in front. Instead of a small bulge between his slim thighs and a crease that ran part of the way down one leg of the shorts, there were two 'melon halves' split by the furrowed seam down the rear. His suntanned slender back and shoulders lacked the interesting detail of belly button and nipples, but the graceful curving line of tiny bumps and the prominent wings of his shoulder blades got my attention almost as much.

"Cute butt," I said, without thinking.

I said a lot of things without thinking. Bobbie often said I opened my mouth just to change feet. I guess it's who I am – Mr. Big Mouth.

"Forget it, Terry," Ty said sarcastically. "It ain't available."

"I didn't think it was. It's cute, that's all. Try the shirt on too."

He grinned at me again and then pulled on the shirt. I stared. I know I stared. He looked into the mirror admiringly. The change was unbelievable. Not just in how he looked, although that was incredible, but in how he acted. Gone was the playful mocking of a fashion model showing off clothes. This was a very different boy. He backed away, holding my eyes with his deliberate gaze, slowly, casually, rocking his hips the same way that hookers do when they're on the prowl.

"Sexy," I said softly. "Very sexy."

"Ya really think so?" His eyes brightened. A moment later he scowled. "I reckon it's only 'cause ya like boys."

I was not at all sure what he intended by that, and from the way he started to remove his shirt, it was clear that he did not want to elaborate. I shrugged it off. He dropped his shorts simply by undoing the button at the top and letting them slide down to his feet. His penis was still rock-hard and the tip was even darker than before. He smirked at me and teasingly reached down with his right hand. I watched, mesmerized as his hand enclosed it, pushing down onto his pubis until the little knob on the end was squeezing between his thumb and first finger. His hips moved slightly, an inch or two [5 cm] back and forth, a slow deliberate rhythm that should have been foreign to him, but was not. His nostrils flared whenever he breathed in deeply. I wondered what he was thinking. It was highly unlikely that he would be thinking the same thoughts as I was, but that did not stop me from hoping. I wanted to touch him, to replace his hand with mind.

"The store will be closing in five minutes."

The announcement was loud and Ty jumped. His eyes flashed and he backed away. His penis was so hard that it quivered when he moved.

"Too bad. Ya missed yer chance," he taunted.

"Yer spendin' the next coupla months with me," I reminded him. "There's gonna be lots a chances to play with yer dick."

He dressed again, giggling, still teasing me right up to the very end when he sat down to put his old sneakers back on. Even then, his penis was standing straight up and making a definitely noticeable bulge in his crotch. He followed me out of the change room and tagged along behind me all the way to the checkout counter.

I handed over the selection of clothes and waited while the middle-aged black woman rang up the prices and removed the antitheft tags. Ty hung around behind me, drifting back and forth, idly looking at the merchandise rack. Like most stores it was loaded with junk, but directed to encourage children to annoy their parents while they waited.

"Y'all visitin' fer the big race?" the woman asked.

I nodded and chose not to elaborate. It was taking forever for the credit card charge to go through. Instead, I yawned and made a desultory effort to cover my mouth.

"Them tattoos is all the rage. My boys is wearin' 'em too."

"Huh?"

"Yer son," she said as she started to put some of the clothes into a plastic bag.

Ty was picking through a collection of temporary tattoos. He held one up, his expression hopeful. The tattoo was of a hand, with the middle finger up and slightly curved. I smirked. I shook my head. Immediately, he picked up a second tattoo, this one of a skull and serpent. Again, I shook my head. It was promptly followed by a shark. I could live with that one. I stepped back to where he was standing.

"Yer lookin' fer somethin', Ace?" I asked.

"They don't cost much all that much, Terry. Even the big ones is two bucks."

"This is you," I teased. "I reckon this would look cool on yer…" I leaned down and whispered in his ear. "Butt."

"A blue flower. There ain't no way. How about this?"

He had selected the American eagle in a triumphant pose. It was patriotic, but in my mind it was not the sort of thing that a boy should be wearing on his butt. I took it from him and put it back on the rack. Ty grinned and picked it up again. He held it against his right arm, close to the shoulder and screwed his head around to see what it looked like. He looked at me hopefully.

"It's only a buck," he suggested.

"Okay," I relented. "But I get to pick out the others."

"What others?"

"Well, this for one," I said.

It was bold and brazen and it said what I wanted to say. 'SEXY' in brilliant red, orange and neon blue.

"I ain't wearin' that," Ty giggled. "'least not where anyone's gonna see it."

"Where I got in mind, ain't no one's gonna see it. 'ceptin' me," I added quietly.

His eyes widened and he glanced down his front. There was only one place that a tattoo of that size could go and not be seen – between his belly button and his sex organs. It was where it belonged.

"It's two bucks but, Terry," he said.

"Which reminds me we need some fer yer butt," I teased. "Not flowers? Are you sure. How about some of them red roses, one on either side."

Ty shook his head adamantly, rejecting the suggested tattoo but not the proposed location. I held up a 'smiley face'. He shook his head again. 'Lips' met with same response.

"Hm…" I pretended to muse. I held up two red circles with diagonal slashes. "This is you!"

"Huh?"

"No entry," I teased.

"No way!"

I laughed and glanced quickly to see whether the woman had finished with our purchase. She was looking at me with impatience, holding out the charge slip for me to sign.

"You pick then," I said. "Just no skulls on yer butt."

I signed the charge and took the receipt as Ty came up behind me.

"Hey, can we get these too?"

He placed the tattoos on the counter. There were four all together. The 'Eagle' and 'SEXY', and two that I had not seen before. One proclaimed in bold squared off red letters, 'STOP', and the other advertised, 'KEEP DREAMING'. I handed over the five dollars I had just received and the loose change in my pocket to cover the tax. Ty beamed and bounced up and down on his toes excitedly as the woman rang up the additional last-minute purchase. We were the last customers out the door.

NEXT PART