When you're in deep with a guy it's hard to tell him no -- and Ginger's deeper than he's ever been, with Crash's teeth worrying the soft spot in his neck, making his dick twitch in his jeans. Crash knows where to find him when there's something fucked-up in the air, when there's going to be a shakeup or a good score's coming down the pipeline.The weight of him is square in Ginger's lap, denim on denim -- he moves his hips, really prettily and obscene, and Ginger almost swallows his tongue. He's so hard it practically brings tears to your eyes, it practically hurts, and all lean lanky six feet of Crash pressing down on him makes the heat in his groin spark like a lighter.

"Take me with you down to Abilene. I'll make it worth your while."

"Chief won't like that." They're riding lean and mean, no dead weight, no tagalong kids looking for a good time. Good times are over. "This ain't fucking around, you know that."

In the red light from the neon, Ginger puts up a hand to knead at the nape of his neck. Crash runs his tongue over his teeth. "Chief could use another set of hands. He knows I'm solid. But if you could vouch for me..." His tongue darts out and cuts a track down Ginger's throat, tasting for his pulse.

Ginger swallows his objections, palming two-handed down to the backs of Crash's lean legs -- there's something crazy about him when he's like this, a kind of live-wire energy, and when they break apart for a second Crash's breathing comes in a snarl.

The friction between them sparks as Ginger grinds against him; Crash's long leg slips between his knees and Ginger presses against it long and slow as the chair strains beneath the both of them. He'd love to fuck him raw, but not here, not now -- no time, no place for it, not even here in the mazy parts of the clubhouse where nobody ever goes, and Ginger can't afford --

In close quarters it's impossible to forget he's with another man. Girls have never done too much to light Ginger's fire, but he can perform; he's screwed girls with Crash wiped out next to him, too dope-sick to fuck. Up close he smells like the road, like baked sweat and salt and gasoline. Crash slides to the floor, on his knees. His head drops.

Nobody else gets this kind of treatment. Ginger wants to keep it that way. If the brass found out about this, there'd be hell to pay -- there's no way that wouldn't end with Crash getting passed around or worse, with Ginger getting one hell of a demotion. Nobody else is going to get a piece of this action.

"It's all you, Ginger."

Low and rasping, down between his knees -- Ginger shuts his eyes and lets the electric jab of desire run through him.

"Yeah?"

His mouth is hot and wet against the inside seams of Ginger's jeans. Crash undoes his zipper for him with long, clever fingers; Ginger hefts his dick in his hand, feeling it harden, and he can feel hot breath against the backs of his knuckles. Crash has big haunted eyes with blue shadows and Ginger can feel them on him.

"You know I'm good for it. You know I'd take a bullet for you, Ginger."

Maybe it'd be nice. Practically a goddamn vacation. A weekend ride, some good crystal, staring down a couple Bandidos - and Crash slinking close behind him, thin and hungry and shiny-eyed, always watching. Crazy like a rattlesnake, unsteady.

His mouth is hot and wet, a long and hungry pull. Ginger groans. When Ginger's been good, Crash shows him a couple tricks -- like now, with his teeth, or the way he tosses his head, the way he mouths at his balls or uses his spit-slick hand. Like he loves this shit, like he can't get enough.

Ginger reaches out spasmodically, making a fist in Crash's hair -- he wears it a little long and all swept back, some James Dean shit, not like the other Crusaders with their ragged ponytails and cueball shaves, and seeing him there in the clubhouse with a beer in his hand or some well-worn broad hovering over his shoulder trying to get his attention, Ginger thinks I've had my hands in that hair, pull it and he'll squeal.

"It ain't that easy--"

Crash raises his head, leaving the flushed wet tip of Ginger's cock bobbing absurdly between them as the hand falls away from the crown of his head. His wet scuffed mouth lets the words drop: "I'd let you fuck me."

Halted right on the raw red edge of coming -- Ginger's seeing spots, groaning in annoyance and slipping a hand down to finish himself off, but Crash's head drops down again and he swallows him up in one cruel motion -- no grip, no teeth, just a wet tight punishing plunge.

It demolishes the last of Ginger's resolve. He's gritting his teeth and hissing with stifled pleasure, Crash gripping the tops of his legs tightly and leaning the weight of himself against Ginger's knee.

He comes like glass breaking, sharp and all at once -- and he can watch the little tendons flutter in Crash's sunburned neck when he turns his head to spit.

"I'll tell him." Ginger's voice is hoarse, it sounds strange even to himself. "I'll see what I can do."