Landfall - 28. "You Were Already in Here"

The navy Chrysler's charging across I-10, over-driving its headlights. I'm only vaguely aware that the 300 is at 85 and climbing as I get on the Twin Span Bridge heading into New Orleans at 4:30am. To Bubba.

Bubba's been shot … Bubba's been shot.

Thrown on clothes after the call; raced to the car. The infotainment system accepted the verbal instructions of “directions to LSU Medical Center, New Orleans” easily. The touchscreen in the dash immediately flipped to a map, and voice directions started as soon as the car fired up.

Thankfully, light traffic on the highway; only workmen in their trucks heading to job sites for an early start to the day before the heat gets worse. A couple of folks pulling boats for a casual fishing day off. A double plus--no cops out at this hour on Thursday morning.

Bubba's been shot … Bubba's been shot.

The light traffic worked to my advantage, wasn't really focused on driving, made it to the hospital in 25 minutes. Not bad for maybe 35 miles.

Found a parking spot, raced through the Emergency Room entrance to the first desk I found. A couple of guys standing there but pushed past 'em.

“Looking for David Alexander, I'm his partner. Can you tell me what's going on?”

A startled nurse looked up—guess I sounded like a crazy guy. One of the guys I'd pushed past moved up to me before she could speak and stuck out his hand. “You must be Barry Evans. I'm Marcus Wilde, I'm the guy that called you. Come with me, I'll fill you in. Coffee?” He's motioning me down the hallway,

Halfway down an antiseptic hall, we turn into a small office space, furnished with only chairs, a coffee table, and an insulated coffee pot with disposable coffee cups and their accompaniments on a rolling cart. Apparently set up just for the FBI guys to use.

“Ok, Barry, here's where we are; Dave is currently in surgery. Dave and the team had been working the docks as a part of their assignment along with Homeland Security agents. A gun battle broke out. A couple of our guys were wounded, and are being treated here. A couple of the Homeland guys are here, too; one of 'em is in surgery, critical condition.

“A so-called 'lucky shot' from a guy on an adjacent building got him. Thankfully, it happened to hit in the space right at the top edge of his Kevlar/ceramic vest—but when it hit the edge of the Kevlar, the bullet shattered into fragments. The fragments bounced up into his armpit and upper arm.” He's motioning on the underside of his upraised left arm to show where the shrapnel went.

“The doctors don't think it's a major thing; the biggest issue is that one of the fragments nicked a vein. They're working on him to dig out the bullet's remains and fix the vein. It's really just a flesh wound.

“David went into surgery as I was calling you. The doc ought to be out in a few minutes with an update. He'll be looking for you in the waiting room—I just brought you here so we could talk privately. Do you have any questions?”

Big sigh of relief; it all sounds ok at this point, but really want to hear it from the doc myself. Guess it's gotten to me more than I'd thought—hands are shaking. “No, I'm ok, I guess. I'll get the rest of the story from the doc.”

Finished the coffee, headed to the waiting room with Marcus. Room was full with agents from both the Bureau and Homeland Security. Several of the guys came up, introduced themselves, but in enough of a fog/shock that I couldn't tell you their names. All were cordial.

Waiting for the doc with another cup of coffee, had some time to think. Guess the bond Bubba and I have gave the sympathetic physical feelings I'd experienced just before the phone call from Marcus. I was hurting just like Bubba.

Huh....who'd have thunk it. Maybe this spidey sense thing is real.

Twenty minutes later, the doc comes into the waiting room. “Is the family of David Alexander here?” Stood and walked over, introduced myself. He motioned me aside to talk in low, quiet tones, aware that half the room was listening, but focused on me.

“David is doing fine. He'd had a vein that was sliced in two, but we took care of that, had to work for a little while to get the rest of the bullet fragments out. One was deep—up against the shoulder joint itself. Never seen ammunition do the kind of fragmentation this one did. He's going to be sore for a couple of weeks, need to minimize arm movement, but he'll do fine. We're moving him to a room now; he'll be in and out of it for a couple of hours, but you should be able to take him home later today. You'll be able to see him in maybe thirty minutes or so. Now, what have I not answered for you?” A kind smile was reassuring and his direct approach was just what was needed.

“You've pretty much covered it, doctor. Thanks for your help.” Turn to the group. “They're moving him to a room in 30 minutes or so. He should leave here later today.” Quiet applause and a few “hell, yeah”s from the group.

The mood of the room changed in less than 3 minutes when another doc came in, still bloody from the operating room, asking for the family of some guy. A woman walked over, and after a few seconds, collapsed into the arms of a nearby friend. Assuming her husband died.

Stark reminder—this is no game. Scary as hell. If it'd been a slightly-off shot, Bubba would be gone, and it'd be me crying.

Shit.

Went out to grab a smoke and calm the shaking hands while I waited on Bubba to get relocated. Marcus followed.

Nice guy. Native of the area, must be damn good at his job—Bubba had designated he'd be my new handler if something ever happened to him. And, learned the guy's gay. Invited him up to the bar—hell, if we're gonna be associated, might as well make it friendly, right?

We're making small talk when my phone rings. It's Rex. Calling at 6am.

“Barry, sorry to call so early, but I gotta know—is everything ok? I've been up for a couple of hours, and just had the feeling something's wrong. Are you alright?”

Damn spidey sense. Did Rex pick up something from my own episode?

Fuck. What do I do now?

“Yeah, I'm fine, Rex. Had a buddy who's at the hospital, but it's ok now. Hey, look, I need to run check on him—can I call you back later this evening?”

“Sure. Just had to make sure—and no, I'm really not crazy.” He's laughing as the call ends. Remarkable how he can make all this sound normal and joke it off.

Back inside, a nurse comes to the waiting room, takes me to Bubba's room. I'd told Marcus to keep the rest of the guys at bay, give me a few minutes with him. He'd nodded agreement, and approval.

Bubba's lying on crisp sheets pulled up mid-chest. Upper part of left arm and shoulder wrapped in bandages. An IV hooked up to his left inside elbow; a nurse is injecting something in the line as she explains to Bubba, “It's just an antibiotic.”

“Hey there, Bulldog, what are you doing here?” He's grinning like an idiot, eyes a little out of focus. Yeah, he's still working his way out of the anesthetic. “Is it time to get up? Is coffee ready? Do we have any of those sweet rolls left?” Starts to hum a happy upbeat tune. Yup, definitely out of it.

“Bubba, you're in the hospital, you got shot. They had to operate to take the bullet out. Do you remember?” The nurse is smiling at the exchange—certain she's heard far more interesting conversations from folks as they come to from surgery.

“Oh, yeah … I remember now … “ His words are fading in and out; he's drifting off to sleep. “I still want breakfast … I'm hungry ….” And with that he's sleeping again. Lean over, kiss him on the forehead, and leave.

Appetite back, I guess. That's good, right?

Marcus is outside the room. “How's he doing?”

“He's fine, fades in and out, guess from the drugs. He'll be ok. Why don't ya ask the guys to head on home if they're waiting to see him. He'll be back awake later this morning. How about telling 'em to be back around 11am or so? That's a little more than 4 hours from now; he should be in much better shape by then.”

Marcus nods agreement and heads out. I go track down more coffee, grab another smoke, satisfied that my big lug of a lawman is ok. Then back to the room to wait for him to wake up.

Bubba's up a little after 10, and sure enough, he's hungry. Save a bagel smeared with cream cheese, offer it to him with a cup of now-cold coffee—all done with the approval of one of the stream of nurses that are in and out of the room.

By 11am, there's probably 12 or 15 guys outside the room, ready to see Bubba. They come in groups of two or three, stay for just a few minutes, then back out. Each stops by to say hello to me outside in the hall, wishing me well, and hoping for Bubba's speedy recovery. Damn fine group. Need to host 'em all up to the bar one night. Hell, they already know about me and Bubba, certain they know I own a bar, too—hell, they're the FBI, they know everything, don't they?

Around noon, the doc comes in, gives me care instructions, brings a sling for Dave to keep his arm immobile, and releases us. Bubba's jeans and boots are there, but his shirt was cut off, so we get a hospital scrub top. Pull it over his head, slap his happy ass in a wheelchair, and head out.

Marcus is waiting as we exit the room. “I've got the keys to Bubba's truck, I'll follow you back. Jack will follow me, and bring me back. That ok?” Gotta give the guy credit—he thinks ahead. I just nod yes and smile as I give him the address of the hotel.

Bubba's quiet on the drive back. “Thanks for coming for me, Bulldog. Gotta tell ya, it was great to wake up to your fuzzy face.” He's smiling.

“You think I'd shave first before going to see what kind of trouble you'd gotten your ass into?” I'm smiling back, and reach over to squeeze his hand on the center armrest. “Just damn glad you did wake up. Scared the holy fuck out of me.”

He's suddenly serious. “You know it goes with the territory, Bulldog. Can't change that. But I promise I'm careful … it was just a lucky shot.”

“Lucky, my ass. Do that again, and I may shoot ya myself.” I'm giving him my “yes I'm pissed but I'll get over it” look, he looks back in mock surprise, and we both break up into laughter. Nice tension breaker, but doesn't quite cover the seriousness of the conversation—and we both know it.

“Ok, ok, Bubba. I know, don't like admitting it, but I get that it's part of the job. Doesn't mean I have to like it. But maybe I'll get used to it. Ok? Now, how about we get you in bed, I'll get your scripts filled, and grab something for you to eat. You are hungry, right?” Taking the exit for the hotel as I ask about lunch.

Once inside, get his boots off, get the scrub top off, but he wanted to lie on the sofa, watching TV, so kept his jeans and boots socks on.

Got Bubba's drugs, grabbed some hot sandwiches from a Subway; by the time I got back to the hotel, Bubba's out like a light in the exact spot on the sofa he'd settled into when I'd left, propped up with a couple of pillows. At least still managed to keep his arm in its sling. Pulled the comforter off the bed, put it over him, and let him sleep. Figured he needed the sleep more than getting awakened to move to the bed and go back to sleep. Ate a sandwich while he slept. He woke up four or five hours later, hungry, but clear-headed.

The next day started off our new routine. Bubba stiff and moving like an old man when waking up, insistent on getting his own coffee. He'd shower, shave, pull on shorts and a shirt, then lying around the place. I'd spend the morning with him, either fix something for lunch or go out, we'd eat, then he'd nap. I'd go to the bar to do paperwork or other stuff, but back by 5 or so, taking care of dinner later.

Bubba's recovery was faster than predicted. Every day, he's stronger and moving better. Two weeks later at the follow-up doctor's visit, the doc is pleased, got out the small stitches remaining, and allowed Bubba to gingerly start working into full arm motion, with periodic reductions in “sling time”.

One side effect of the recovery period was the amount and quality of time spent together. We really talked to each other, really learned about the other in an environment that wasn't as tense as Florida. There, we were in hiding, temporarily thrown together—optimistic about the life ahead, but no real evidence to base that on, just hope. Here we're building a life together, and a solid future, with all the pieces in place.

Part of that time included talk about our “next step”. A home. Together. Talked about it at length, made an offer on the treehouse and the adjacent seven-and-a-half acres for a total of 15 acres, almost all of it wooded. Damn near 2000 feet of frontage on the river. We'll try to close on the purchase just before Labor Day and move that holiday weekend. All we had to move was personal stuff—our offer included buying the place furnished as Rex suggested.

Rex was silently questioning Bubba's limited mobility when we signed the purchase offer at his office. “I didn't know an analyst's job description was so dangerous!”, he joked as he eyed first Bubba then me suspiciously. He either knows something or think he's figured it out, but kind enough not to say anything more.

Bubba just smiled, and fired back the smartass, “Yeah, that paperwork will get you every time!” We all laughed, but Rex still knows something's going on.

Two weekends before we moved was Bubba's birthday. Had a party on the patio at the bar one Saturday afternoon before the drag show, with the bar regulars joining the group from his office that drove up, including Marcus. Everyone joined in on the drinking and food I'd catered in. I'd made a point to invite several of the “regulars” I'd gotten to know—didn't want to rely on the off chance they'd be at the bar. Rex and Joe were there, Jennay and her girlfriend, too. And some others I was just getting to know.

If they didn't know Bubba and I were a couple, they did shortly. First, he looked like a little kid opening the big box I'd gotten him, enthusiasm gone wild. I took a picture of his grinning face as he held up his new pair of silver-grey elephant Lucchese boots I'd gotten him. Hell, framing that picture—good times, and at this point, the only picture I've got of him.

The confirmation of the relationship was when he thanked me, then came over, grabbed me in his arms and kissed me an energetic, not-so-chaste kiss. Yeah, it was hot as fuck; yeah, we both chubbed up after the thirty seconds of makeout. And yeah, the group wolf-whistled, applauded, and laughed at the intensity of it.

Everyone stayed for the drag show, the Bureau guys and gals included. We'd hired a new guy, Ralph, a part-timer, to help tend bar on busy nights. I got to be off and drink with the group this night. Everyone had a great time at the show. At the end of it, all the “girls” pulled Bubba up on stage, made him sit in a chair, danced around him and did trash talk, then made the bar sing “Happy Birthday” to him.

Fun to hear 150 or so strangers sing “Happy Birthday”, led by an over-sized, not- so-young drag queen. Yup, the man can still blush, and the catcalls from his work buddies only added to it, especially when one of the drag queens rubbed her “tits” in his face as he sat in the “birthday boy” chair. Fun times—and yeah, I got more pictures of him.

Back at the hotel, both of us buzzed. Bubba started stripping as soon as he walked in the door. “I smell like a bar—heading to the shower. Join me?” His lecherous grin made it clear this wasn't just going to be focused on washing away the bar smell.

Both naked, stepping in the shower, Bubba pushes me against the wall, kisses me like there's no tomorrow. Yeah, he's ready for play—already rock-hard, you'd think he was an octopus the way his hands were covering every square inch of me in reach.

The bastard can sure kiss, though. Makes me so fucking hot. And he's got one hand playing with my chest, working through the hair, lightly squeezing and stretching my nipples as he works his way from one side to the other of my body. His left hand alternately strokes my hard dick, lightly squeezes my balls, and kneads my right ass cheek. System overload for me—too much going on. Damn near ready to blow my load, and we've just started.

“Sto ... sto … sto … stop”, panting as we break the kiss before I pass out. “Fuckin' hot … about to ... cum already.” Yeah, Bubba does that to me. Kisses like that, the intense physical sensations, the warm water—can't make complete sentences, and still gasping for air.

Bubba chortles. “Good.” Pleased with himself. “I'm gonna make you fully let go tonight, Bulldog. Take ya over the moon. My birthday present to me.” And he leans in to start another round of kissing and body play.

Same effect, I'm gasping for air when his lips leave mine, but he doesn't stop, even as he keeps me pinned against the wall in the shower's spray. His mouth moving down to graze against my right pec, licking, sucking, nibbling, lightly chewing on the nipple. His other hand is giving attention to my left nipple, alternating back to stroking my cock, playing with my balls, a finger occasionally working underneath toward my ass while nuts get a workout.

The sonofabitch works non-stop between each nipple, holding me pinned with his head against my chest, still trapped in place against the tile. If the water splashing at different angles weren't keeping me drenched, his tongue and lips would have done the trick.

He works his way south, hands in constant motion, my orgasm almost at the edge of the Grand Canyon, but the sonofabitch always seems to know exactly when to pull back. Keeping me on the edge. Fuckin' ready to scream, but wanting more.

Bubba drops to his knees, swallows my erection in one swift gulp. My dick is in a nuclear reactor's pool—hot, wet, searing energy as his tongue teases and massages my cock buried in his wet throat. One of his hands continues to play with my nipples; the other works its way from my ankle to calf to thigh to balls to my butt.

How the fuck can he do all this at once?

Thirty seconds later, I'm at the edge again, orgasm almost here—and the bastard pulls off, massages both cheeks of my ass. “Turn around” in a hoarse whisper as he spins me by my hips to face the wall, the massage on my butt non-stop as he looks up at me in the eyes, hair on his head and chest slicked back from the shower.

He's kneading my ass harder now, like recalcitrant bread dough; the next thing is a hot slick patch of wet swirling around from one side of my butt to the other. Then up and down my crack. Then working its way deeper as his hands pull my ass apart and upward.

Heaven.

His tongue lightly laps at my hole, teasing the edges. One of his fingers joins in, working in a spiral, his face keeping my cheeks firmly separated.

His other hand isn't bored—nope, it's exploring from my left nipple down my belly, occasionally stroking my cock, lightly tugging at my balls, then back up to repeat the cycle all over. And all the while, his tongue stays busy, swiping and twisting and making me forget my name.

He stops for a minute, gets up, grins. “I'm drowning here. Follow me.” Gives me another session of those heart-stopping kisses, then leads me by my erection to the bed.

Spinning me around, he shoves me down on the bed, pins me in place with that hairy body of his, then more kisses. Based on the energetic activity, you'd never know he'd been shot only a few weeks before.

Heard the phrase, “smothered in kisses”? That's exactly what happened. Was gasping for air when he stopped, then impaled my hard cock in his mouth again. Still working my nipples, still playing with my ass cheeks, still stretching/squeezing/massaging my balls while teasing underneath toward my hole with a free finger or two. Orgasm is just … right … there … then he takes a break, while I try to find the rest of my mind.

What planet is this?

Somewhere got the strength to grab him just right, and managed to flip him on his back. “My turn now, Bubba … and I'm gonna make you pay. Gonna make ya sweat, gonna make ya beg—for more.” Smiled my most devilish smile as I said it. “It's your birthday, boy, and I'm in charge.”

“Yes, SIR,” he almost shouts, guess from the sexual surprise of me taking charge.

“You're gonna get a fuck like you haven't gotten before, Bubba. Hope you're ready for that.”

“Yes, SIR.” He wiggles his ass underneath me, fully expecting a workout from me.

Not gonna happen that way.

Something I'd been thinking about a long time. Never been fucked, and Bubba sure seemed to love it. Know lots of guys at the bar who like it too. Hell, Rex admitted once he'd occasionally let Joe fuck him. Maybe tonight's the night for me.

Leaned in, kissed him as hot and hard as I could, and tried to mimic all the stuff he'd done with my body. After a few great makeout minutes, I moved on to give attention to the rest of his body, just like he'd done with me. First nursing on one nipple while my hand played with the other, then changing positions. Or letting one hand work its way down his belly to his thighs and his balls, while still sucking and licking his tits, but never touching his leaking dick.

He's squirming. Sweating. “Come on, Bulldog, come on … lemme cum.”

“Not yet,” between nibbles on his groin, just where his thigh joins his crotch, “not yet. More to do.”

“Shit …. “

“Close your eyes, Bubba.” I give an evil grin, then watch as he closes 'em.

Squirm down in between his legs, then lightly lick and swirl my tongue slowly up his right inner thigh, all the way up to—but not onto—his balls. Same treatment to his left inner thigh. He's groaning, legs twitching; maybe he's a little ticklish there? Doesn't matter. Know I'm getting to him because his cock is leaking a steady stream of precum on his hairy belly. Definitely fired up.

Return visit to his right thigh, but this time go all the way up, slurping on first his right ball, then the left, trying to suck 'em down in my throat, using my tongue to massage 'em as I suck.

After a few minutes of this, keep his nuts in my mouth, but stick out my tongue to lap below his balls. He groans and simultaneously shivers—and when my fingertips touch the head of his dick as I'm licking, you'd think an electric current has run through him. His long sigh echoes in the room; it's that loud.

“Damnit, Bulldog, lemme cum, please....”

Keep up the work with my tongue, working toward his hole as I massage his balls with my right hand and tease his cock with my left, using just fingertips on it.

All I'm tasting is clean salty flesh, the long shower made sure he's clean and he's loving what I'm doing. Smells like soap, too. Take his knees then fold 'em up to his chest. I'm eating ass—another first—and loving it. Even more, loving the constant litany of both endearments and profanities Bubba's putting out. He's babbling.

Shit, love making him feel this good. Hotter than I've ever been in my life.

After a few minutes of this, pull his legs back down, and move back up to kiss him, while stealthily reaching for the lube in the nightstand's drawer.

“More fun ahead, Bubba. Get ready.” He's tossing his head from side to side on the pillow, my words sounding like a threat.

Start working my way down again, first his tits, then down lower to his belly, working through the hair. Stop halfway to his cock—it's hitting my chin and pulsing more precum in time with his heartbeat—and then pull back, sit on his thighs, and lube my hand.

Lube up his cock, then mine. He looks and smiles, guess he's betting I'm gonna jack us off, one cock against the other. Wrong. Just grin back at him.

“Watch this.”

I move back up, so that I'm now sitting on his belly, my hand reaching behind to find my hole and work some lube on it, and using a finger, in it. Raise my ass up, rub his cockhead up and down my crack till I find the spot, then move down on it a couple of inches—and the head of his dick pops in.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Porn makes this look easy. Hell, Bubba made it look easier than this. This fucking hurts. I freeze in place.

“Bulldog, stop. Just … stop. We don't have to do this.” He's seen the look of discomfort/pain/whatever on my face.

“Don't hafta do this, Bubba. Want to do this. Give me a minute; lemme get used to it.” At least I'm not sounding like I'm dying, but not certain my ass is gonna forgive me for this anytime soon. And my dick is wilting.

I stay in position for a few minutes, then start to relax a little. Thankfully, my butt is somehow getting use to the log going in. I relax my thighs a little, and get a little more of Bubba in me.

It continues like that for a few minutes. Finally, I settle all the way down—and Bubba's cock fills me up. And, it's feeling better. Oddly satisfying, too. Feeling not only a sense of accomplishment, but the sexual energy is back. Getting hard again.

Bubba hasn't been idle; he's playing with my chest, jacking my cock, massaging my belly, jigging my balls in a big hand. Think that helps--a lot.

Finally comfortable. “Promised you'd get a fuck like you hadn't before, Bubba. You ready?” I start to move up and down, riding him just an inch or two up, then back down. Relaxed enough that it's feeling good. I'm hitting a spot just inside that makes me tingle whenever Bubba's dick passes by it. Feels great

After a few minutes, aware that Bubba's panting. Sounds like the fucker's running a marathon.

“Almost … there …. ,” he whimpers breathlessly.

“Nope. Not yet.” I stop, settle down on his cock. Squirm around a little trying to get more comfortable. Bubba groans.

“I'm there … Fuck! …. I'm cumming!” Neighboring rooms can't be sleeping with his shouting between gulps of air. And if anything, his cock feels bigger, harder, inside.

I lean forward, getting him in a bear hug as I kiss him, then break the kiss to kiss his neck and let him get some air. His hard cock has stayed in place. He's sweating alright; the marathon analogy wasn't far off.

“Goddamn, Bulldog, where'd ya learn to do that?”

Pull up from the bear hug and look him in the eyes. “Do what? Get fucked? That was my first time. Glad it was you. It was a challenge, not gonna lie, but worth every bit of it. Now I've got even more of you inside me.”

He pulls me down and gives me one of those toe-curling kisses. Swear to God he needs a patent on those. “I know it was your first time, Bulldog. I'm honored you trusted me enough to do that. But no, I meant, where'd ya learn to flex your ass like that around my dick That's what sent me over the edge. Felt like a piece of pipe trapped in a velvet vise. Phenomenal. Now my turn to take care of you.” He starts to move up but I push him down in place.

“Nope, this isn't a ballgame, no one's keeping score. My pleasure that you enjoyed yourself—now shut up and relax.” The smile in my voice tells him I'm serious about it, but still doing my “in-charge” role. He lies back and sighs good-naturedly.

“What'd ya mean by that line 'even more of me inside you?' ” He turns his head to look at me as he asks the question.

I pulled up from the embrace we 're in. “You were already in here,” as I thumped my chest over my heart.

We both slept well that night.