Dirty Talk

Two

Jackson's heart drops to his ass. He quickly backs away, the hand he'd touched the man with squeezing into a tight fist.

"Shit," he spits, "sorry."

How does he explain what he's just done? He can't.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

They're going to beat the shit out of him, to a pulp and leave him for dead. That's what'll happen. The whole world will know that Jackson is—

"No problem," says the man, slightly unnerved and chuckling, "nearly made me shit myself—but uh, no problem at all."

Jackson laughs, but it's merely a shaky huff of air and the biggest, fakest, most nerve-racked smile in the world.

Did he just say no problem?

No problem?

Jackson practically just fondled his goodies, touched him the way no man ever should. Sure, it was just the torso, but he's surprised he hasn't been sucker-punched right in the stomach yet.

And it's no problem?

Jackson's hands are still trembling, fingers digging into his palm. He wouldn't be shocked to look down and find his hands a bloody mess. He cautiously takes a glance at the man.

If he had a penny for every time he met someone hotter than Dennis Weaver, someone would be handing him that shiny little coin right now.

Of course, he's hot.

Despite the grease on his cheekbones, the cuts and scrapes on his broad shoulders, or the purple bags hidden beneath his bottom lashes, he's surely a sight for the weary-eyed.

Jackson blinks a few times, rubbing the back of his neck. Those strands of hair have already begun to fall again, he tucks them away. "Fuck, man. I didn't—"

"Guessing I'm not the one you were tryin' to touch up on?"

His body stiffens.

"Jackson?"

Dennis.

Jackson's eyes dart to that voice like his life depends on it.

And then there's Dennis, in all his glory with that face that carries the wind out of Jackson's lungs. It steals it from him, and he could always take another breath, but sometimes he waits, hoping that the euphoric burning of his lungs will take him deeper into this little play he's got in his head.

"Hey," Jackson says softly.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" Dennis begins walking closer, those two ebony black eyes piercing into Jackson.

And suddenly, that play in his head shrivels up and dies.

Jackson knows he's still angry, hell, he can see it in his eyes, the way Dennis talks like he's never been so fed up.

Jackson flicks his gaze to the unnamed man, who's still watching them, by the way. Jackson's tongue is suddenly dry.

"I.." He tries to say something, anything, but it all gets jumbled in that stupid head of his. "I'm.."

Fuck. If he says he's here to see him, it would be the most obvious thing in the world. This guy could easily connect the dots. He can't risk it.

"Jesus, Jack," Dennis mutters with so much disappointment and disgust, it nearly tears Jackson apart.

Dennis takes Jackson tightly by the arm, pulling him away and into a small room inside the shop. He shuts the door and pulls down the window shade.