The haunted house spit us out into the parking lot at 11:40. Fake blood on Locke’s forearm. A plastic chain still hanging off my wrist from the last scare actor. The fair lights were dying one section at a time. Cotton candy machines off. The zipper ride still spinning empty for nobody.
Locke walked like he owned the gravel. 2Pac hoodie jacket unzipped over a bare chest, Adidas shorts, Yeezy sneakers. Faded cut sharp. Beard lined up. Dark eyes already on the highway in his head. Twenty-nine and moving like the night was a quarter-mile.
The fair had been his idea. He saw the billboard on the way back from the body shop and said we were going, no discussion. I paid for nothing. He bought the beers, the tickets, the cotton candy, the fried stuff that sat in my stomach the whole walk through the barns. Every time a scare actor jumped out he didn’t flinch. He laughed. He put a hand on the back of my neck and steered me through the dark like I was still twelve and this was a corn maze.
His boys had texted the group chat the whole night. Photos of some girl at a bar. A clip of a dunk from earlier. Locke answered one-handed while we stood in line for the zipper, thumb moving, grin sharp.
“They asking where I’m at,” he said. “I told ‘em I’m with my little brother. They know what that means. Hands off.”
He liked saying it. Liked the way it made me look at the ground. The mascot thing wasn’t a joke to him. It was a rule. I was the gay kid he could show and protect and never have to explain. Glass. Until the car. Until the highway.
On the zipper he sat across from me, hoodie open, tattoos jumping every time the cage flipped. He whooped at the top. I watched the way his shorts rode up his thighs and hated myself for it in a circle of cheap lights.
When we got off he threw an arm around my shoulders and left it there all the way to the parking lot. Heavy. Warm. The 2Pac hoodie smelled like the blunt and the metal of the ride.
“Get in, Payne.”
I got in. Twenty-two. Gay. His little brother. The mascot he showed his boys at the park on Sundays.
This my baby brother. Don’t even look at him wrong.
He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for the beers at the fair without asking. He treated me like glass until he didn’t.
The black matte Defender woke up like an animal. Lifted. Tinted. Exhaust that made the next row of cars look at us. Inside it smelled like the blunt he’d smoked behind the funnel-cake stand, sweat from walking the fair in August heat, and the oil he never quite washed off his hands from the shop. He dropped his phone in the cup holder, queued an old Migos album, and turned it up until the doors shook.
We sat in the lot for a minute while he rolled another one. Not talking. Just the tick of the engine and some trap song. He lit it, cracked the window, and pulled out toward the interstate like the road had said his name.
For the first ten minutes he drove normal. Which for Locke still meant eighty in a sixty-five. One wrist on the wheel. The other on the shifter. Hoodie open. Tattoos moving when he changed lanes.
“You see that girl in the coffin room?” he said. “The one with the fishnets. I would’ve hit that in the parking lot if you weren’t standing there looking like somebody’s little brother.”
“I am somebody’s little brother.”
“That’s what I said.” He grinned without looking at me. “You have fun or you spend the whole time watching me?”
I spent the whole time watching him. I didn’t say that.
“It was fun.” I was more blasé, he’s the excited one.
“You good?” he asked.
“I’m good.”
“You look like you seen a ghost. It was fake blood, Payne. Relax.”
It wasn’t the blood.
“You been quiet all night.”
“I’m quiet.”
“Nah. Different quiet.” Dense smoke crawled across the cab. “You thinking about some dude? Don’t lie. I can tell when you got that look.”
“I’m not thinking about some dude.”
“Aight.” He didn’t believe me. He looked straight while driving fast. Hands gripping the beast that’s his car.
I watched his hands. I always watched his hands. Veiny and strong. They can punch a guy out.
He passed me the blunt. I took a small hit and coughed. He laughed and took it back.
“Biggest fantasy I got,” he said, casual, like he was talking about a new exhaust, “some girl sucking me off while I’m doing ninety on the interstate. Head down. I don’t even gotta look. Just drive. Fast and Furious shit but with a real mouth on it.”
He glanced over. Dark eyes. A little red from the weed.
“What’s yours, little bro? Don’t say some gay shit like getting married.”
I should’ve lied. The beers from the fair were still warm in my chest. The blunt made my mouth honest.
“Sucking you. And your basketball crew.”
Locke barked a laugh so hard the Defender drifted.
“Yo. You wild. You playin’.”
I wasn’t. My hand was already on his thigh. Adidas shorts. Warm skin, strong legs, my brother didn’t skip legs day. Muscle jumping under my palm. I slid higher, slow, giving him time to knock it off.
“Payne.” His voice dropped. Not loud. Worse. “Don’t touch my dick. You’re my brother.”
I didn’t take the hand away. I massaged the inside of his thigh, thumb tracing the hem of the shorts. The car smelled louder now that I was leaning in. Skunk. Sweat. Him. My brother Locke.
He lasted maybe thirty seconds.
“Aight. Touch it. See if it even gets hard. This is stupid.”
I palmed him through the shorts. He was already filling. Heavy. The shape of it curved down against his left thigh, thick enough my hand didn’t cover it. When I squeezed, he hissed and the truck kissed the rumble strip before he yanked it back.
“Fuck.”
It got hard fast. A downward curve made a fat, ugly outline in the black fabric. Head already shoving at the hem. Locke stared at the road. Jaw tight. The faded line of his cut sharp in the dash light.
“You gonna suck it while I drive or you just gonna hold it like a bitch?”
“I’ll suck it.”
He nodded once. Like we were calling a play.
“I got you. I got your back. Anything happens, I handle it. You just do what you said. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
My heart was in my mouth. From the opportunity to suck my big bro. From the speed waiting in his foot. From the way his whole face changed when he talked about going fast.
He hit the hazards and yanked the Defender onto the shoulder so hard the gravel sprayed the undercarriage. The music died mid-bar. For a second the only sound was the tick of the engine and the cars ripping past us at eighty.
Locke sat there with both hands on the wheel. Jaw locked. Staring at the dark like it had called him a name.
“This is fucked,” he said.
Not to me. To the windshield.
“This is actually fucked. You’re my little brother. I raised you when Dad was working doubles. I walked you into school. And you got your hand on my dick on the interstate like that’s normal.”
He laughed once. Ugly. No humor in it.
“I should put you out on this shoulder and make you walk home. That’s what I should do.”
He didn’t move.
The 2Pac hoodie jacket was still on. Unzipped. His chest going up and down too fast for a man who wasn’t scared of anything. I could see the line of him in the shorts, hard, shameless, curved down against his thigh. He looked at it like it had betrayed him.
“You did this,” he said. Quiet. Mean. “You put your hand there. You said that shit about me and my boys. You sat in my truck all night looking at me like that and now I’m hard on the side of a highway thinking about my brother’s mouth. You understand how twisted that is?”
“I know.”
“Don’t I know me.” His hand left the wheel and pointed at my face without touching it. “You don’t get to be calm about this. I’m the one who has to look at Mom tomorrow. I’m the one who has to ball with my boys knowing I let you—”
He stopped. Dragged a hand down his mouth. Looked at the bulge again like he hated it.
Then he ripped the hoodie off and threw it in the back.
Bare chest. Ink. Sweat from the fair still on him. He looked bigger in the dark. Pissed. Hard. The two things fighting in the same body.
“I almost said no,” he said, staring at me. “I almost drove off and left this whole conversation in the lot. You know why I didn’t?”
I shook my head.
“Because I’m still hard. That’s why. Because you touched it and it got worse instead of going away. Because the second you said you’d suck it my foot got heavier. That’s the part that’s making me angry. Not you. Me. For not shutting this down when I had the chance.”
He shoved the shorts and the boxers down enough in one angry motion, like if he did it slow he might stop. His cock sprang out, long, thick, veined, curving down toward the seat like it had its own gravity. The head was half-covered until he was all the way hard. It looked mean. It looked built to sit in a mouth at this angle without anyone having to crane their neck.
He clipped the seatbelt back on. Left the shorts around his thighs.
“Hands on my chest if you want. Don’t block the wheel. Don’t hit the shifter. You ready or not?”
I put both hands on his pecs. Warm. Solid. Heart hammering under the tattoos.
“Can I go?”
Not sweet. Checking.
“Go.”
He turned the Migos album back up until my teeth buzzed and pulled into the lane like the highway had been holding a spot for him.
I unclipped and dropped my head into his lap.
The first taste was sweat and skin and the weed on his fingers when he pushed me down. I took the head and the curve did exactly what I thought it would — fed itself down my throat with almost no fight. I didn’t have to work the angle. He was built for this. For a mouth in a moving truck. I swallowed around him and Locke made a sound I had never heard in twenty-two years of being his brother.
“Fuck yeah. That’s it. Take that shit.”
He dumped a gear and the Defender surged. My stomach dropped. The force shoved my face into him, nose in his crotch, cock buried. I gagged and stayed. He grabbed my hair and held me there while he passed a car like it was parked.
“You feel that? That’s a hundred. You still sucking? Don’t you tap out on me now, Payne. You wanted this.”
I wanted it. The speed made everything bigger. The bass. His breathing. The wet noise in my throat. Cold AC on the back of my neck. His thighs locked under my hands. I came up for air and he shoved me back down, using my mouth the way he’d described some girl doing it. No looking. Just driving. Just taking.
“That’s a real one. That’s a G move. White boy in a black truck with his little brother’s throat on his dick at midnight. You hear this? This the shit. I ain’t slowing down. Don’t you slow down neither.”
On the highway with the volume at twenty he wasn’t the guy who walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He was the one his boys called when a ride and a problem needed handling. Champion. Mean. Laughing at the speedometer. A true G in his own head and, for the next eight miles, in mine too.
I made it sloppy on purpose. Spit ran down his balls onto the shorts. Every pass leaned the truck and pushed him deeper. I choked. He laughed, short and crazy, and flexed his hand in my hair.
“Look at you. Baby brother out here chewing dick like you been waiting your whole life. You have. Don’t lie. I seen how you look at me when I come in from ball. Shirt off. Sweating. I seen it. I just try my best to ignore it, forget it.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Headlights filled the back window. Locke checked the mirror, didn’t flinch, dropped a gear, and left them for dead. The surge drove me down again. Eyes watering. Him getting wetter, saltier, on my tongue. Weed in my nose. His chest pumping under my left hand.
“I’ma use your throat like a toy. That’s what you asked for. That’s what you get. Friends too, you said. You remember that? My boys. You still saying that with my dick in your mouth?”
I couldn’t talk. I tapped his thigh once. Yes.
“Nasty fag. That’s nasty. I love that shit. Keep sucking. We got empty road. Don’t waste it.”
He fucked my face on the dashed lines. Short punches in the left lane. Longer strokes when it opened up. I drooled on him. Jaw burning. I kept going. The curve made it filthy. Every time I came up, the head dragged my tongue and slapped back in.
A semi blew past the other way and the whole truck shook. Locke whooped like he’d scored and shoved me down to the root.
“You better not throw up in my truck. I just detailed this bitch.”
I didn’t. I swallowed around him and he groaned from the chest.
Empty highway. Late. Just us and the matte black eating miles. His voice went hoarse.
“I’m close. You swallow. All of it. I ain’t pulling over so you can spit on the shoulder like a bitch. You eat it like a good faggot. You hear me?”
“Walk it talk it” playing loud. He held my head down. Engine screaming. Flying. I couldn’t breathe and I didn’t want to. His hips lifted against the belt and he came with his head tipped back, yelling into the Migos like the song was about him.
“Fuck yeah — fuck yeah — take it —”
Hot. Thick. A lot. Pulsing straight down my throat while the truck stayed in a straight line at a speed that would’ve buried anybody else in a ditch. I swallowed until he was twitching and swearing and his hand in my hair went from mean to something almost proud.
He let me up.
I stayed down one more second, breathing against his thigh, the taste of him all the way back. His chest was heaving. Sweat at the edge of the fade. Wrecked. Proud.
He didn’t talk until the next exit. Then he tucked himself into the shorts with one hand, kept the other on the wheel, and turned the music down two clicks. Only two.
“Sit up. Belt on. I don’t want a ticket.”
I sat up. Wiped my mouth on my wrist. Clipped in.
We didn’t talk through town. Streetlights slid over the wrap. His profile looked carved. One wrist on the wheel. The 2Pac hoodie in a heap behind the seats. My mouth still full of him. My stomach still doing the highway.
The Defender rolled into the driveway. Engine died. House dark. Mom’s car parked. The garage light kicked on and made the ink on his chest look wet.
Locke sat there with both hands on the wheel, staring at the brick like it might say something back.
“That was the best ride of my life,” he said. Quiet. No performance. “You hear me? Best ride I ever had.”
I remembered a song from Tinashe that I loved “Ride of your life”. I gave him the ride of his life. That’s absolutely insane. I felt powerful.
He looked over. Dark eyes. Still a little crazy from the speed.
“You tell nobody. Not the boys. Not nobody. I got your back. You got mine. That’s the deal.”
“That’s the deal. But you should ask your crew…”
“Don’t be greedy, lil bro. Not sure yet if you can handle the big dogs. Let’s see, let’s see.”
He reached over and squeezed the back of my neck once, hard, the same way he did after a game when I’d done something right by accident. Then he got out shirtless with the hoodie in his fist and the shorts still sitting low.
I sat in the passenger seat until the bass stopped living in my ribs.
Then I followed him inside, the taste of my brother still in my throat, the interstate still in my stomach, already knowing the next time he said get in I was getting in — and that someday, soon I hope, he was going to remember what I said about his friends.
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