Wednesday, March 6

Have the tissues handy...

This is an excerpt from my official Work In Progress, Being Lost, Getting Found, in which I am once again tackling more than I'd planned to tackle when the idea presented itself in my head.
 
Some of you may have caught the 7/7/7 challenge for this one on Facebook... but for those who didn't here's a few more than seven lines from p. 7 (since I'm no where near p. 77):
 
“Everybody dances! Come on! Please? Pretty please? We’re missing the best part!”
Laughing, Dillon followed his exuberant new friend toward the dance floor. “Just one song,” he cautioned. But he wasn’t surprised when one song turned into two and then three. By the fourth song, Andy had undone two more of Dillon’s buttons and Andy was rubbing his whole body up and down Dillon’s, the most exquisitely rapt look on his face. Dillon grasped the boy’s slender hips and laid his mouth against Andy’s neck, kissing, nipping, caressing his tender flesh hungrily with his lips. Andy tasted of salty sweat and vanilla—Dillon had no idea what he was wearing, but he liked it. He snaked his hands over Andy’s chest and found himself trying to imagine Andy lying naked underneath him. It was wrong. God it was so wrong, Andy was just barely legal! But he didn’t want to stop.
“You can bite harder,” Andy told him, leaning up so he could whisper right into Dillon’s ear. “I like it rough.”
Dillon’s cock responded with a surprising surge forward—Dillon had never been turned on by rough play. But when his hands slid under Andy’s T-shirt and found the hard nubs of the boy’s nipples, he found himself rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. The harder he pinched, the more Andy arched into him, pressing his crotch against Dillon’s thigh, allowing Dillon to feel for himself exactly how turned on Andy was too. Dillon’s own cock was threatening to rip right out of his pants, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so turned on…
..................................
 
And then from Chapter 3...
Walking past the burned out, boarded up houses toward Jace’s place, Andy thought his luck might be holding; Jace’s pickup wasn’t anywhere in sight. But when he got up to the front door, he discovered that his key didn’t work. He pulled it out and shoved it back in again, but it still didn’t turn. The bastard had changed the lock on him. He huffed out a breath and tried to stay calm. It wasn’t the prospect of being temporarily homeless that made Andy’s stomach tie itself up into knots, it was the fact that everything he owned was inside. If Jace didn’t throw it out. Andy ran around the side of the house—but the only things he found in the big plastic trashcan were pizza boxes and paper plates. He leaned back against the cold brick house, frustration threatening to bring tears to his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. He beat his fists against the wall behind him to keep from crying. If it was just his clothes, he wouldn’t care, but there were things in his backpack he couldn’t replace.
Maybe if he waited for Jace…but Jace had to be really fucking pissed to have changed the locks, if he came home in a bad mood…Andy swallowed hard. There was only one option. He had to break in and get his stuff and pray he was gone by the time Jace got back. Surveying his options, he realized the only way in would be through a second story window; all the windows on the first floor had bars on them. Hoping he wouldn’t need it, Andy picked up a good sized rock from the yard and tucked it into his pocket before making his way over to the side of the house where several big trees grew. Only he couldn’t get into any of them without first climbing the fence, and even then it was a painful stretch. Sharp pain lanced through his side as he hauled himself into the lowest branches of the neighbor’s pine tree and he had to sit for several seconds catching his breath while it subsided. He just prayed that Jace didn’t come home anytime soon; if he did, a stitch in his side would be the least of his troubles.
The bark was rough against Andy’s hands as he climbed, and sticky and gross where golden resin oozed out. Pine needles dug into his arms; looking up made the task seemed impossible; looking down made him feel dizzy. All he could do was look at the branch ahead of him as he made his way up. By the time he reached his goal, Andy’s heart was pounding; he’d almost slipped and fallen twice and now he had to scoot forward on the limb to get close enough to the window to see if it would open, or if he’d have to break it.
For half a second, he considered just going back down, getting the hell out of there, but the only picture of Manda and Nanna he had—the only picture he would ever have of either of them—was in his backpack. He swallowed hard and prayed Jace hadn’t gone through his stuff, hadn’t done anything…Andy closed his eyes. Jace had no reason to go through his backpack, he knew Andy didn’t keep any money in there, not after the first time Jace stole from him. Even if he did go through Andy’s stuff, he wouldn’t touch a couple of old photographs. They weren’t worth anything to anyone but Andy, which was why he promised himself that if he did get his stuff back, he’d find a safer place to keep them.
Except there was no safer place. He hadn’t had a home since he left Ann Arbor two years ago.
Swallowing back the last of his fear, Andy forced himself to crawl out onto the limb and to keep crawling until he reached the window—of course it was Jace’s bedroom window. Clinging to the branch with both legs and one hand, he reached out with the other to see if he could get it to open.
No such luck. That only him with one option he could think of. Andy pulled the rock out of his pocket and used it to smash in the glass, then knock free the shards that hung ominously in the frame like teeth. As carefully as he could, Andy shimmied in, right onto Jace’s bed. He rolled off it as fast as he could as much to avoid the broken glass as to avoid the memories of every other time he’d found himself in the other man’s bed. Andy hurried to down the hall to his own room; his backpack was under the mattress, right where he’d left it, lain carefully flat so as not to damage the photos. The relief was short lived. He heard the front door swing open and knew he would barely have time to get away if he made a dash for it—but maybe if he was quiet, Jace wouldn’t realize anyone was in the house. If Jace stayed downstairs, Andy could make it back to the window and get out of there—or if Jace stayed downstairs, he might just be able to make it down the steps and out the front door without Jace catching him.
With his heart hammering in his ears, Andy tiptoed to the closet to get his denim jacket and an armload of clothes and stuff them into his bag. When he heard Jace’s heave footsteps coming up the stairs he braced himself to make a run for it. He just had to get down the hall and down the steps. If Jace went into the bathroom…but instead, he heard Jace heading into his bedroom. Shit. A second later, he heard Jace swearing up a blue streak and sprinted as fast as he could to get out of there.
He made it as far as the base of the steps before a big hand grabbed him from behind. “You little fucktard!” Jace’s voice boomed in Andy’s ears. He could barely react before was slammed face first onto the hardwood floor so hard all the air was knocked out of his lungs. Andy clung to the straps of his backpack. All he had to do was get out of there, he just had to get into the streets, Jace would never hurt him where there were witnesses. Andy got onto all fours, but Jace’s foot connected toe first with his ribs, bringing him back down again. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing breaking into my goddamned house!” Jace roared.
“I just wanted my stuff.”
“What about the fucking money you owe me?”
“I have eighty—” he cried out as Jace grabbed a fist full of hair.
“You owe me a hundred—plus a fucking window!”
“I’ll get it to you, I promise. I’ll go out tonight. I’ll pay you double—”
“How about I just take it out in trade?”

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