Chapter Two.

“What the hell,” Cliff said again, searching for the nearest highway. “Berkley, what the hell--”

Berkley pushed the grocery bags down to the floor. “Flower Shorts had a knife,” he said, twisting in his seat to see out the rear window. Cliff let him, telling himself to concentrate on the road.

“Flower Shorts?” he said, then remembered the bright floral pattern of Mexican Shirt’s swim trunks. “Jesus,” he muttered.

Berk sat, and even put his seatbelt on. “Yep.” He dug around in the bags at his feet and came up with a box of cookies. He offered them to Cliff.

“Wait a minute,” Cliff said.

Berkley shook the box and waved it under Cliff’s nose. Cliff knocked it aside.

“Said wait, damn it.”

Berkley stared and snapped something bitchy sounding back, but Cliff just glared ahead at the smooth gray pavement that hugged the coast, trying to figure what the hell had just happened. He felt hot inside, like his body was working overtime just to keep up, and his palms itched. Adrenaline rush, he thought.

Not all of his work was honest, though lately he’d tried to keep it that way. He wasn’t twenty-two anymore and running wild causing trouble for trouble’s sake no longer held the same appeal. His first thought had been that the two men were ancient history come to find him, but now that he was out of it he knew better.

His thoughts turned to Berkley, who sulked beside him with one foot on the dashboard. He stared out at the water, still rummaging in that box of cookies. He was a stranger, Cliff realized, though his presence was by now familiar. Why was he still here? What were they doing together?

It had seemed the natural thing to do all those days ago, driving off with Berkley at his side. There was something there, he’d thought, at the very least some amazing chemistry to work off and Cliff had looked forward to that task, but almost a month had passed and still it showed no signs of abating.

He checked the mirrors again and saw the road behind them was empty. He pulled over.

Scrub and brush concealed the pickup from any cars that might pass, and the Pacific Ocean stretched wide and blue before them. They stared for a couple minutes and Cliff tried to organize his thoughts.

“Those men,” he began, “think we have something.”

Berkley said nothing, but he did put the cookies away.

“Six little things,” Cliff elaborated, and looked over.

For one long instant, Berkley’s expression remained blank. Then he frowned and said, “Oh--the cufflinks?”

Cliff slammed his palm against the wheel. “Yes, the cufflinks! The hell did you do, Berk? Those clowns tracked us down half the state, one of them pulled a knife--?”

Berk’s gaze flitted away. He said, “Had a knife.”

Cliff stared at him. “What?”

“I didn’t say he pulled it, but it was there. His shirt rode up and I saw--don’t make that face. Why would he have it if he didn’t mean to use it?”

Cliff pressed the heels of his palms against his eye sockets and tipped his head over the seatback.

The next few moments passed in silence, and then Cliff heard the click of a seatbelt and the shuffle-slide of denim over vinyl. A hand found his chest.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.”

Dropping his hands from his eyes, Cliff stared at the one on his chest, and then at Berkley. Even at that moment, brown eyes had never looked so appealing. “Why did you take those things?” he asked.

Berk shrugged, and gave a small, sly grin. “Got to pull my weight around here.”

Cliff was not sure what to make of that. Berk’s grin wavered and the emotion Cliff could not name flickered again in his eye. It gave way to determination and Berk leaned in for a kiss. He started soft and slow, but when his tongue pushed forward Cliff turned his face away.

“Wait,” he said. “Berkley--”

Berk scoffed. “No one can see us.”

“That’s not--”

“Want me to blow you?”

Berkley pressed the heel of his palm down rough over Cliff’s groin, and Cliff jumped in his seat.

“Christ,” he began, but Berkley kissed him again, forceful, and Cliff relented. He watched Berk expertly pop the buttons of his fly and goddamn if Cliff wasn’t growing stiff already. Berkley swallowed him and Cliff touched his hair and the warm skin over the back of his neck, and after a while, when he was close, Berk straightened to give him another kiss, long and sloppy, while he beat him off.

Cliff sat slack and panting for a moment before cleaning himself with an old shirt he used for oil checks, and Berk resumed his seat on the passenger side. Cliff watched him, trying to catch his eye, but Berk’s gaze remained fixed out the window. Finally, awkwardly, Cliff said, “Hey,” and touched his shoulder. It felt stiff under his hand. “Hey. Can I--?”

Berk shook him off. “I’m okay,” he said. “Are we going back?”

Mystified, Cliff shook his head. “I don’t think so. Probably not a good idea.” His concern over the cufflinks had eased to the background. Now he felt only dazed.

They sat in silence for several moments while Berkley stared out the window and Cliff tried to think if he’d done something wrong. He decided Berkley was the one who had come onto him and if he had any regrets Cliff wasn’t about to take the blame for them.

“Fine,” he muttered, and cranked the engine. He thought maybe they should head east, but his dreams of sun and sand hadn’t yet been fulfilled. “Maybe Pismo Beach,” he thought aloud, guiding the truck back onto the road. “Should be quiet.”

They made the drive in a couple of hours and Berk waited outside with the truck, kicking pebbles as Cliff booked them a room for the night. It was too cold to swim but not to walk, so they went down to the shore together.

Berkley ditched his shoes, leaving them hidden under the bottom step of an old stairwell, and walked ahead. Cliff meandered behind, appreciating the dim roar of the ocean and how it flashed under the setting sun. He admired also how the wind blew at Berkley’s hair, and how the seat of his pants pulled tight over his ass each time he bent to retrieve something from the sand.

He caught up and asked, “What are you doing?”

Berk looked startled, as if Cliff had interrupted some deep line of thought, but showed him. Several shells lay in his cupped palms, white, black, and pearl. Before Cliff knew what to say Berkley tossed them aside and clapped the sand from his hands. “Just bored, I guess,” he said, and resumed his walk.

Cliff kept pace, feeling somehow guilty, as if he’d horned in on something private. He felt that way around Berkley a lot, he realized. “We could go,” he said. “Do something else if you’re bored.”

“Nah.” Berk pushed his hands into his pockets and walked with his head down. His hair hid his gaze but Cliff glimpsed a tight little frown.

“Come on,” he said, with a small tug on Berk’s arm. “Let’s head back. Been walking a while.”

Berkley turned with him, wordless, walking now on wet, packed sand and leaving little dips in his wake for the ocean to fill.

Back at the room they ate sandwiches and, after, Berk disappeared into the bathroom to shower. Cliff kicked his boots off and rested on the bed, lying in his clothes atop the blankets and flipping through the channels on the small television set. Time passed and just as he considered checking on Berk, the bathroom door opened.

“Good shower?” Cliff asked, thinking about that afternoon and how good Berkley had tasted. Like Cliff’s sweat and come, but still wholly Berk, like that was how he always tasted. Like Cliff was supposed to be there, inside him.

Berk shrugged, muttering in reply. He dug through one of the bags and pulled a pair of shorts out, but as he stood, caught Cliff’s eye. He stopped.

Cliff was not ashamed, and he did not look away. Berkley unknotted the towel around his waist and Cliff sat up, pulling his shirt up over his head and dropping it to the floor. Berk crawled onto bed and over Cliff, straddling him, half hard already. His ass settled over the bulge in Cliff’s jeans and Cliff pushed his hips up, seeking pressure.

The TV glowed and flashed, jingles giving way to the somber tones of local newscasters. Cliff let it all fall into the background as he touched Berkley’s arms and shoulders, running his palms up and down to soothe the gooseflesh. Berkley explored his chest like he hadn’t seen it before, tracing the hard lines and sharp curves with both hands, staring down with a deep furrow in his brow.

“Fascist dictator Benito Mussolini once said, ‘Fascism is not an article for export.’ Neither, it seems, is his jewelry. Three pairs of Il Duce’s cufflinks were stolen Monday morning in transit to San Jose’s Museum of Jewelry. The cufflinks, on loan from the Benito Mussolini Museum in Salo, Italy, were meant to be part of a temporary exhibit in San Jose…”

Cliff paused, Berkley’s lower lip still caught between his teeth. He opened his eyes to find Berk staring down, their faces so close Cliff could see the light flecks in Berkley’s irises, and the bottomless black of his pupils.

“Together, both museums are offering a one thousand dollar reward for information leading to the recovery of all six cufflinks, pictured here…”

If he peeked under Berkley’s arm, Cliff could see them. He pushed Berkley aside and sat up.

“No,” he said. “Oh, no, no, no--”

“Well, that’s kind of a coincidence,” said Berk.

Cliff stared at him, and pointed at the television, which had moved on to display a commercial for incontinent seniors. “You,” he said.

Berkley wore a tight, happy little smile, one Cliff immediately resented.

“You fucked me,” he said.

“What?” Berk frowned, and pushed himself up on his elbows. “Look, I don’t have them anymore. They’re out of our hands, don’t worry--”

“Shut up.” Cliff clapped his hands over his ears. “Just shut the fuck up while I figure this out. And put some goddamn clothes on.”

Berkley sat up, but did not move from his perch on the bed. He stared at Cliff, and for the first time since they’d left the Driscoll’s vineyard up north, he looked unsure. Distressed. The part of Cliff that was not angry was glad.

“No wonder they were so careful around you,” Cliff said, flipping through the channels, searching for another news program. “Driscoll said a few things that made me wonder, but I thought--hey, what’s this yuppie know about anything? Should have listened.”

Stolen in transit, he thought, on the way to the museum. So Halwell had something to do with that. Maybe Panama and Mexican Shirt, too. Either way they weren’t going to be put off easily, no matter how many grocery bags thrown their way.

Behind him, Berkley spoke slowly, his voice wooden. “Listened to what?”

“To Driscoll,” Cliff snapped, speaking over his shoulder. Nothing but commercials, even on the second pass. “Goddamn it,” he muttered to himself, and then, louder, “Said you have sticky fingers, and you’re a manipulative son of a bitch. Well, that’s what I goddamn get for thinking with my dick.” Cliff had more to say but a pillow slammed into the back of his head with enough force that he staggered for balance. He leapt to his feet with an indignant roar and found Berkley hopping around the room with one foot stuck in the knee of his jeans, spitting like a cat.

“Asshole,” he said. “You’re an asshole. It was a mistake, okay? Not like I knew they were--were--damn it--” His foot popped out and he yanked the jeans up his hips. Snatching a t-shirt out of a bag, he continued, “Fusa--Fusillini’s or whoever.”

His head reappeared through the collar of his T-shirt, one he’d picked up at a Goodwill during a brief stop in Palo Alto. His face was red with anger and his eyes narrowed with a deep scowl. “So fuck you and your stupid judgmental bullshit. You’re just like everyone else. You think you should have known! I should have known. Freak.”

“Hey,” Cliff snapped.

“Shut up,” Berk sneered. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair.”

As he stormed past, Cliff grabbed his arm. “Now hold on just a minute--”

Berkley jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

Cliff grabbed for him again, about to demand Berkley tell him where he was going, but didn’t get the chance. A fist slammed into his jaw and he staggered back. He recovered fast, bouncing forward, and dodged a second blow. “Wait, I said--”

Berk turned tail and Cliff used the opportunity to catch his elbows and pull him back. Their legs caught and they went down together.

The thin motel carpet did little to cushion their impact, and Cliff landed hard on his back with Berk sprawled over him. They lay stunned for all of a second before the struggle began anew.

“Wait,” Cliff said again, pleading now. He locked his arms tight around the body on top of him, pinning Berk’s arms to his sides. Hot breaths washed quick over his face and neck and Berkley’s tight, grinding squirms were beginning to have an effect on him. “Just wait,” he shouted. “Berkley, wait--”

Berkley gritted his teeth together and a harsh sound like frustration escaped. His body thrummed with energy even as he went still, body rigid as he glared hotly down.

Cliff stared too, and then his hold became an embrace, a violent one. He crushed Berkley’s mouth to his own and it was a moment in coming but Berkley kissed him, too, rough and biting. Warm hands found Cliff’s face, fingers digging hard into cheek and jaw, and Cliff found Berk’s ass through denim. “Jesus,” he muttered, breathing deep through his nose. That scent, he thought wildly. That scent touched something in him, roused some part of himself more animal than man.

He was frantic, forcing his hands down between their bodies to open his jeans. Berk got the idea and pushed up, straddling him at the waist and tearing at the buttons of his fly.

Spots of color stood high on Berkley’s cheeks and when his dick sprang free he uttered a tight moan of relief. Cliff pulled him down again and they rubbed fitfully against each other, stiff cocks trapped and sliding, already wet.

This, Cliff distantly thought, was what he’d missed in the car, this fury. He clutched Berkley even more tightly and worked his hand down between them. He found Berk’s cock and gave it a squeeze. It was thick in his palm, burning, and at his touch the mouth fused to his own tore suddenly away. Berk’s eyes clenched tight and he bit off a short groan, spurting warm and wet over Cliff’s stomach. His muscles were tight through his release and, after, slackened.

Cliff got Berkley onto his back and stared down between their bodies, pumping his dick quick and steady until his balls drew tight and he moaned soft. It would have been embarrassing if Berk hadn’t blown just as quick, or if Cliff weren’t so damned desperate for it. He shut his eyes when it hit him.

He rode it out, spacing for a minute while he rubbed the head of his cock in the mess he’d made, stroking himself slow as he softened. He sought Berkley’s mouth again and kissed it thoroughly, wanting to leave his mark there as well. He felt stunned, empty inside but it was good, like peace, and he wanted Berk to feel the same.

He murmured something against Berkley’s skin and slowly rose, ignoring the way his bones creaked when he stood. The animal part of him lingered there at the surface of his thoughts and he listened to it. So close to the change, the man part reasoned, it was no wonder, but Cliff gave that part of himself little consideration. He stripped off the rest of their clothing and urged Berkley to bed.

Berk went. That blank look was not there, his anger was gone, and for once he let Cliff guide them. The bed frame creaked and its sheets whispered as they moved, and Cliff pressed him into the mattress with his body, exploring the unshaven line of jaw, touching face and chest and legs. For some reason he remembered the night when Berkley had been hurt, when he’d found him in the woods with his leg torn.

An urgency had filled Cliff then, and he’d not given half a thought for Luke Driscoll, also hurt, or Grady Summers, missing. No, he’d taken Berkley and disappeared with him, and even after finding help he’d stayed near.

They necked and grasped each other and after a time Cliff felt Berkley harden once more. He rocked his hips slow until Berkley hissed in response, and his kisses grew fevered. Cliff’s cock thickened too but he took his time, tasting Berk’s need and still rocking slow.

At last, Cliff crawled down and took him with his mouth, using his strength to force the body beneath his to be still. He wet his fingers and teased Berkley, and loosened him, and before long felt that hot pulse in his mouth.

He rose to kneeling then and pulled Berk’s legs over his thighs, pushing slowly in, listening to sharp breaths and quiet sighs. He leaned forward, knuckling the mattress with Berk’s knees squeezing his sides, and Cliff fucked slow but hard, like punishment, and Berkley took it.

After, Cliff lay spent and silent, listening to Berkley’s even, sleeping breaths. He felt spooked in a way, like he’d glimpsed something new to the world, something raw and shapeless that no one else could know about. Chemistry, he thought idly, beginning to slip away. Some chemistry.

As he fell into sleep he saw Berkley with his mind’s eye. Memories mostly, and some things that were made up. He saw him at the bar in Hayward drinking cheap brandy that tasted better with every pour, and at the beach collecting shells. Cliff decided they would return to Santa Monica in the morning. A grand was nothing to sneeze at, after all, and if they found the cufflinks before Halwell, before their change, that was money they’d have earned together. Honest money, in its own way.