In a future where outposts swelter beneath a nuclear sun and run-gunners patrol dusty wastelands to protect against winged creatures known as devlars, Trin is the mech at the waystation in Arens. He has a thing for the gunners: rough men with strong hands and hard bodies, who roll through his garage like the hot desert wind. Gerrick’s the best gunner around, a quick draw with a deadly aim and a penchant for sharing his pallet with young men. He has a roving eye and roaming hands, and has left a string of broken hearts in his wake. Having heard the tales of Gerrick's bravery and seen the man in action for himself, Trin has fallen in love with the man he believes Gerrick to be, and he’s sure he can change the gunner’s mind if given the chance. Gerrick’s all he wants out of this blasted world, and he tells anyone who will listen. Then Gerrick rides through Arens. He’s heard the rumors of what Trin will do for a gunner who only mentions his name. What he wants to know is, what will Trin do for him?

Trin

“Go on,” the gunner prompts. “It’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”


Trin’s fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt in his haste to undo them. Watching him, Gerrick sinks to the pallet and scoots back until he leans against the wall. There’s a jar of petroleum jelly close enough beside Trin’s bed to be embarrassing, but Gerrick says nothing as he unscrews the lid and scoops out a generous gelatinous dollop. Then he crosses his right ankle over his left knee and begins to slather his erection with the petroleum. Darkness pools in the space between his legs where his hand works, so inviting. Trin wants to dip his fingers into those shadows to see what he can find in their depths. His shirt slips off his shoulders almost negligently as his hands start to unbutton his jeans on their own.


Chapter 8