Texas Twin Fiddles and a Steel Guitar

Texas Twin Fiddles and a Steel Guitar A Torquere Press Single Shot by Dallas Coleman Garth came on the radio as he crested another hill, singing about being too damned young to feel this way and Ben found himself nodding along, eyes on the Winnebago in front of him. That was no lie. He'd left Gruene behind a bit ago and was looking on the lights of Austin like a tired deer staring at a set of high beams. Lord, lord. He'd known better than to call Daniel out in front of the band, he had, but that little whore the man'd brought in to sing back-up plumb made Ben mad as a wet hen. Stupid gal wouldn't know a minor chord if it bit her in the ass and screwing the lead singer didn't mean you could sing. Damn it. Now he was left with a throbbing jaw, knuckles red and sore like they'd been boiled and just enough greenbacks to get his Ford to Salado and God knew there wasn't shit in Salado. Hell, the way gas prices were going, he might get stuck in Jarrell. The town was better since the tornado took a good chunk of the old off of it, but it was still just thirty

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miles and twelve goats short of being a level of Hell. Well, he had a twenty, and maybe another hundred in the bank No reason to sweat it. Besides, he had Daniel's Les Paul just sitting back there where Terry'd thrown it as he peeled out. Terry'd always been a good sort, always looked out for him some. That guitar'd get him some and keep his daddy's fiddle out of hock. Man, Daniel’d swallow his fucking teeth when he went looking to play. Fucker. He grinned, feeling his lips pull across his teeth as he saw the capitol building all lit up and shining orange like a pointer toward the gates of Heaven. Sometimes the good Lord let you know when it was time to move on, yes sir. The upper deck was swamped, so he got a chance to just look. He'd played here enough as a kid fresh off the truck – over to Stubbs, the Dog and Duck, once or twice at the Underground. Man, those were good times – beer flowing like water, always a cowboy ready to open his arms at the Rainbow Lounge and take a man on a tour around the floor. Shit, he'd been young. Stupid and green. Ben chuckled, the memories tickling him down deep. They'd all been. Him and Harry and little Frank. Oh man, there was that guy with the mustache and the gold-gold hair… Damn, what had they called that cowboy? Something that made all the little girls hoot. If they'd only known which way those boots pointed. It was sheer whim that had him exiting on 38th and turning around, heading toward the Drag and the little bars on 5th. His sort wouldn't be on 6th, not anymore, but there had to be some cowboys somewhere, looking to make some music. He pulled up under the I-35 bridge, stowed the guitar up under the seat when he knew no one was looking, grabbed his wallet and his fiddle case and went walking. Lord have mercy it was warm for an October, muggy and damp enough that it felt like swimming right through the street. Did fucking cool things to the streetlights, though, made 'em all sparkly and shiny. Course… That could be the knocks he'd taken earlier – God knew for a Louisiana boy, Daniel could throw a punch – but either way, he'd take it. Damned bastard. Ben wandered, boot heels clicking along, tipping his hat and nodding to the groups of folks he passed. It wasn't late enough for the kids to be out – the stadium was still all lit up, the crowd hooting loud enough to almost hear from up on Red River. The ‘horns must have kicked Ohio’s ass. The buskers were setting up – a pair of unwashed acoustic hippies here, dancers with a boom box there. That wasn't what he was searching for, not

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tonight. He wanted lights and smoke; he wanted to play. Maybe needed to a little. The tattoo parlors were just starting to jump and twist, the neon all lit up. The little gals from the sororities were flitting in an out – bellybutton jewels and little butterfly tattoos just letting everybody know that they were tough. Right. Tough. He could hear the laughs from the crowd at Esther’s Follies, hear the mixing of bass and beat from a dozen different clubs, all mingling up together to make something more than noise and less than music. It started feeling a little desperate once he ambled across San Jacinto, a little too much like what he was, a man looking for something he'd left behind for Nashville's call fifteen years ago. It was the twang of a steel guitar that stopped him short, the thicker strings trying to mimic a good fiddle's double-stop and match up with the one they had warming up. There you go. A place to play. Thank you, Jesus. Ben headed over, listening as they jammed, ran through the classics. Was a little like listening to a squeaky-new train running over old track – not used to being where they were, but made to be there. They weren't too terribly young, weren't old-timers, neither. Had some nice timing though, the bass strong and the familiar call of the fiddle something that rang deep in his bones. He waited until they'd spent their load on Rocky Top, then made his way over. "Y'all hunting a second fiddle player?" Pretty green eyes looked up at him from a battered old fiddle, the bow near bent like a cowboy's legs. The streetlights lit up a shock of bright red curls that were so orange that no one'd pay to fake them. "We might could be. You know one?" Lord, lord. Green and hungry and just as skittish as a wild horse. "I might do, yeah." He nodded to the little gal working that steel guitar and making it beg. "You've got a good hand with the steel guitar, girl, but Texas twin fiddles means just that." Then he swung his case out into the light. "Y'all have a gig?" The perfect, man-I-was-a-varsity-first-string guitar player -- and probably singer because wasn't it always like that? – nodded, hat brim just bobbing over quarterback shoulders. "Yeah and I'm not sharing the little bit we get with some dude off a bus with a case. We got bills to pay. Go on now." Green eyes just watched him, looked him up and down and he stood for it, not ashamed even a bit. He wasn't twenty, but he wasn't bad – thick-legged and barrel-chested and strong as a good pony, black hair just showing a hint of pure silver in the beard. He didn't look like a drifter, either. Wouldn't. He worked for what he needed. "Let him play, Mike," Green Eyes said.

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"What? Jeremy, dude." Those green eyes rolled, met the singer's dead on and Ben knew, all of the sudden, whose band this was, who took the money come the end of the night. Just like that, the single just faded right back. "I said just let him play, now. I want to hear." The other girl – this one a big ol' gal in flannel with hair cropped all short – picked up her bass and grinned. "Pull it out, cowboy, and show what all you got." Green eyes nodded, slid down his body like an oiled pig down a chute. "That's it. Pull it out. Share." He nodded his thanks and put his case down, pulling out his oldest and best ever, tuning up with a twang of the strings. That was a sound he was born to, felt it balls to bones. He didn’t screw around none, just bent to it, letting that wood box sing and fill the alleyway, music pushing away the shit and stink and filth of big towns and people and buildings. He answered their Rocky Top with Turkey in the Straw and Little Brown Jug before sliding warm and happy into Waltz across Texas. They joined in with him on the second chorus, that second fiddle meeting him and making the alleyway ring with it, bringing the shit that was right in and making him smile sweet as a Sunday pie supper. Yeah. Yeah, that’s right y’all. Just like that. Weren’t nothing on Earth like it, when the music sat pretty. The final chords echoed some and a smattering of applause came from the folks gathered out on the street to watch. He lowered the fiddle, met green eyes with a nod. “There you go.” “Hell, yes. Damn, man. You want in? We make $100 apiece tonight, plus a meal and beer.” The singer slung his guitar behind his back and Ben reckoned they were fixin’ to have themselves a right pretty little face-off, eye-to-eye like banty roosters sharing a coop, when the pretty singer backed down, nodded. “You’re damn good, man. I’m Mike Hardy. That’s Jeremy Lee and his baby sister, Jenny. That bull dyke with the bass is Faith.” That got a round of laughter, Faith flipping Jeremy off. “We call ourselves the Holes in the Floor band.” Oh, hell yes. He chuckled and held out one hand to shake. “Ben Clark. Pleased.” Jeremy gave him another one of them long ole looks, then the green eyes went wide. “Ben Clark. You play with the Louisiana Runners, don’t you?”

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“Did.” Until, oh… about three hours ago. Stupid fucking Daniel and his cock always looking for a willing place to bury itself. Slut. “Damn. I’ve seen y’all play. You were the best part of that band; you and that little Mexican guy…” “Indian, but yeah. Sammy’s a good’un.” Wasn’t half bad in bed either, nice long hands, hair like what he reckoned raw silk felt like, mouth like a high-priced whore. Too bad the man’d been called home to Arizona on family business. They might have been able to take the Runners away from Dan and then he wouldn’t be the odd man out. Hell, they’d talked more than once about seeing if they couldn’t get Dan to be the odd man in between. Ben sort of rolled his shoulders, pushing the shit away. Right now the important bit was a hundred bucks in his jeans and a cold Bud to wrap his lips around. The rest was details. Fucking details. “Y’all got a playlist? Anything I need to know or should I wing it.” Jeremy chuckled, pointed chin a challenge. “Just follow me, cowboy. I’ll lead.” “For a bit, I reckon. I don’t tend towards taking the backseat.” “You’ll learn.” Jeremy winked, grinned like a damn monkey and Ben couldn’t help hooting. “You keep thinking that, son, and I’ll keep humoring your ass by nodding.” Had to like people with a sense of humor, a way of laughing. Jeremy just cackled and nodded at him. “Works for me, cowboy. C’mon y’all. Let’s go make some of these folks thirsty.” Now that was the best offer he’d heard all fucking day. *** The first set was a little rough, all of them finding their spots together, but Ben didn’t mind too much. The club wasn’t crowded yet and a little rough was still better than shitty which was all too possible in these little dives. He’d commandeered himself a stool, leaning in to play with his fellow fiddle player, bows shifting and sliding in time. His sweet girl had a richer voice than the kid’s fiddle, the age and mileage giving her a hint of smoke and whiskey. It worked though, the sound scraping away the bright innocence and the lisp of that bent bow.

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They worked through some standards and a little bit of the newer stuff and he hung back some, learning, listening, finding himself a spot in a machine that wasn’t broken. By the end of the set, he was settled, knew where he fit and nodded over to the kid. “Beer break?” “Hell, yeah. Lights make me thirsty.” As Mike went to make the rounds, shaking hands and letting the girls squeak and pet the guy’s muscles, the rest of them found a table in the back, Faith sitting beside a slim little Latina with eyes as big as saucers. “Y’all sounded good.” She nodded to him, held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Anna. I’m the band’s manager.” Faith chuckled, nodded as they shook. “Manager. Cook of the best tortillas in Texas. Sweetest kisses on Earth.” Ben hooted. “Lord, you’re not a little biased, lady, are you?” Matching pairs of green eyes looked over at him, both Jenny and Jeremy laughing hard. Anna grinned, dark cheeks going a sweet apple pink. “Lady? My Faith. Oh, you must be new.” “Not new so much as recent come to Austin. I’ve been playing a bit and thought I’d see if there was a place I could play, make some friends, make enough to get on up the road a piece.” “He played for the Louisiana Runners, Anna. You know, the bluegrass band?” Anna nodded. “I do. I saw y’all at Gruene Hall with my softball team three weekends ago when the guys were playing in Dallas. No offense, but that little girl singer? Sucks wind. She sounds like Allison Krause on helium.” He just nodded away. “No shit. She’s blowing the man, though, so that means those of us who gave a shit about the music suffer.” It ached deep when he stroked his bruised jaw. Sucked to think it and he ought not be admitting it to strangers, either. He was just still so fucking pissed, knowing that they worked so hard and it didn’t matter because some big-boobed hussy stole Dan’s heart. Bitch. “Yeah, there’s no accounting for taste, is there?” Faith leaned over, kissed Anna’s kiss. “That’s why I’m blowing the manager. No professional rivalry.”

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Anna tossed her hair, chuckling. “I thought it was because I owned my house and don’t make you work two full time jobs supporting me.” “That’s a bonus, baby. A nice big bonus.” They all cracked up, Jenny clapping as they kissed. “Fucking lesbo dykes.” The words cut right across the table, the applause, the laughter. Ben looked up to see two skinhead assholes standing there in brand new jeans and goatroper hats, both looking like the dumbass trailer trash bastards they probably were. Jeremy arched an eyebrow, eased back from the table a little. “Y’all got a problem? This table’s taken.” “You bet your ass we got us a problem. I want to watch two cunts suck face? One of ‘em ought to be worth looking at.” “Well, then. There’s an easy solution. Y’all head to another table and look somewhere else. This table is taken.” Jeremy didn’t sound pissed or anything, just calm as clear water, all about easy. Faith and Anna, though? Not so calm. Anna’s lips were tight as a nun’s thighs and Ben saw Faith’s fist clench, heavy gold nugget ring on her left index finger just shining. Man, that could leave a mark. “Fuck you, man. We come in here for cold beer and good music, not to watch some fat chick feeling up Taco Buena there.” One square hand landed on the table with a thud. “I think y’all best just get your asses up and get on out of here.” Oh, fuck this. “Go get your beers, boys. We’ve got another two sets here. We’re not hunting trouble.” He’d already been in one fucking fight today. Ben wasn’t sure if two would make things better or worse. The one guy nodded, rolling his eyes. “C’mon Trey. Let’s hasta. I want to finish my Coors.” “Fuck that. These bitches fucking offend me.” The Trey guy reached out, fingers tangling in Jenny’s red hair, tugging a little, making her cry out, pull up out of her chair a little. “This one? Though? Not bad. Tell you what, she comes to sit on my lap? I’ll forget I saw what I saw.” Oh, good Lord and butter.

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Ben saw Jeremy come out of that chair like a bull out of the gate, launching himself into the fray before Ben could even get all the way up out of his chair. Goddamn. He didn’t even need to get in the middle of it, just keep Trey’s little buddy from lending a helping hand. Lord, that little banty rooster of a boy Jeremy knew his shit, whaling on the cowboy like an Irish prizefighter denied his whiskey. Lord, lord, lord. The cowboy never had so much as a chance, Mike and Faith coming in on either side, clotheslining the man and keeping it quiet like you had to do, when you wanted to come back for another gig. Reminded him of a little dive in Georgia when him and Dan’d just been the two of them and they’d gone down together in a mass of shitkickers, both of them flailing around and fighting it with all they had. Dan’d ended up in the county lockup after beaning some guy with the business end of the guitar case and he’d had to hock an amp to make bail. Been damned fun though. It could be, when you were young and dumb. Trey went down with a grunt, chin hitting the edge of the table just before the man’s knees hit the floor. They could all hear the click-clack as those teeth came together, even Jeremy wincing. Anna just patted Jenny’s hand, smiling a cold little smile that sort of went against the wide eyes and the flushed cheeks. Trey’s friend shook his head, hands up as Jeremy turned toward him. “Look. I ain’t. I mean, I don’t. I mean. Shit. I’ll just take him out of here, okay?” Ben nodded over, managing to keep his smile hidden, knowing that he could look fierce, black eyebrows all drawn in together. “I reckon that’s safest. You’d best hustle, son. We didn’t come begging trouble.” “No. No. Sorry, guys. C’mon Trey, man. Let’s go. Come on.” Mike’s hand landed on Jenny’s thin shoulder, rubbing and stroking for a second before Jeremy moved in, brushing it off. Mike and Jenny shared an amused look, the girl’s smile just barely there, quiet and fond. Man, there was trouble brewing there, when big brother saw that the barn gate was open and that filly’d done run. “You okay, Anna? Baby?” Faith settled too, finishing off her beer with a swig and a swallow, thick throat working. Lord, he did love himself a bunch of musicians. Like his momma’s daily soaps, but with more cussing and more comfortable clothes. “You hurt your hands playing prize-fighter, son?” His bottle was empty and he’d need to get a Coke to sip through the next set. Warm beer was worse than drinking horse piss.

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“Nah. I’m good.” Jeremy cracked his knuckles. “Sorry ‘bout that. Folks here are usually decent.” “Shit, no need apologizing. I came up working Alabama and Georgia, not to mention the Piney Woods. I know from fighting.” He showed a pretty long scar on the inside of his arm, all covered in a winged snake tattoo. “Got this in a bar fight outside of Tawakoni. Some drunk bastards thought that being ugly and bored was the worst thing in the world. I strongly disagreed.” Jenny chuckled, shook her head. “Nice ink. Where’d you get it done?” “Fort Worth. Nemo’s. I been to River City here, though. They’re good folks.” He’d gotten the scorpion on his thigh done there, the cross inked into the small of his back. Good stuff. Strong. “Yeah? Over off Neches? I’m thinking about…” Jeremy snorted, gave Jenny a look. “Momma’d pluck you bald, girl. Ladies don’t do that shit.” “Right. Ladies.” Jenny laughed, tossed her head, curls bouncing. “Come on, boys. There’s enough assholes in here to dance now. Hank’s gonna want us to earn our pennies.” “Slavedriver.” Mike headed back toward the stage, the crowd starting to make noise as they wandered up, started to get all put together and loose again. He perched on his stool, idly playing along with the music from the jukebox, Alan Jackson morphing into George Strait before they went quiet and Mike looked back at Jeremy, eyebrow arched. “My Baby Thinks She’s a Train.” That bow slid over the strings and they were off, swinging like Granny’s porch swing on a Sunday afternoon. *** Lord have mercy, he was lathered up like a Kentucky horse and more than a little toasted, the owner of the club happy with what they’d offered. Ben leaned back in his chair, boot heel caught in one rung, and drained another longneck. It felt good to play with new folks, to not have all the shit and politics that guys who’d been playing together a long time had. The Holes weren’t a bad group, for all that they were young. Mike had one hell of a voice on him and the girls just squealed and bounced. Jeremy plopped down beside him with a grin, handing over some bills. “Thanks for sitting in, man. You know your shit.”

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“Been playing a long time, son.” He pocketed the bills and nodded. “Felt good to play, though. Sometimes you lose that in the business.” One bright red eyebrow went up. “You not with the Runners anymore then?” Ben shrugged, tilted his chin so Jeremy could see the bruise that was finally showing, dark and ugly. “I mighta made myself a touch unwelcome.” “Ow. Man. You took that and you’re still smiling? I’m impressed.” The beer bottle was lifted in salute, those too-damned-pretty-for-daytime-TV eyes sparkling. “Well, a man’s gotta do, you know.” He clinked the bottom of his Coors against Jeremy’s and then drank it down. “Well, I reckon I’d better find myself a spot to sleep it off before I head north. I’m thinking I can find something in Shreveport to do, the casinos and shit, you know?” “Fuck, what does Louisiana know about Texas twin fiddles?” Jeremy chuckled. “I ain’t got much, but I got a little apartment over off Mopac. You can crash there. The sofa’s comfy enough.” “Yeah? You don’t mind?” Christ knew he could use a quiet night. “You can buy me breakfast in the morning.” If he didn’t know better, that was a wink. “That’s a fair deal, sure. I’ll even spring for good coffee.” “Can you give me a ride home? Jenny’s car’s in the shop and she lives up in Cedar Park. I can ride with you and I’ll just borrow her my Nissan for tonight.” Jeremy smiled and nodded over at Jenny, who nodded, offered over a bright blinding smile. “Ah, someone’s wrapped around her little finger…” Ben could afford to tease; he had Haley and Maria himself and God knew whenever they called crying, he jumped. Jeremy blushed dark, nodded. “She’s my baby sister. I promised Momma I’d watch out for her. She’s a student at UT. Nursing. Real smart.” “Not wanting to pick and play forever?” That got him a chuckle and a shake of those red curls. “Not Jenny. She’s just playing because she likes the music and it’s better than McDonalds.” “You know it. What about you? You staying out of McDonalds?” “Oh, hell no. I started playing when I was four. Can’t remember not wanting to play, to hear, to have folks listen. Me and Mike? Were in high school band together. Trumpet and sax, believe it or not.”

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He stared at Jeremy’s lips. “You played saxophone.”

“How do you know?”

“Embouchure.” He’d been a band geek himself, once upon a time.

“You played… flute?”

He hooted, swatted the kid’s arm playfully. “Tuba.”

”Tuba?” Jeremy damn near swallowed his tongue, laughing right out loud. “Oh, God.

You’re all lean and slick and shit. You don’t seem like one of those big kids in the red

uniforms.”

“Black.”

“Huh?”

“I went to Round Rock, right down here. We wore black.”

“Plano for me. Red, big ugly fucking hats. Hot jackets.”

Ben nodded. “Roach stompers.”

“Oh, hell yes. I thought cowboy boots were uncomfortable, but those evil things…”

“Listen to you. You’re a disgrace to your uniform. Hell, you might as well say that jeans

are uncomfortable, Stetsons hot and too big.” He winked, tipped his hat back, tapping

Jeremy’s calf with the toe of his boot.

“I know, I know… I’m one of those hippie, no good, weirdo fiddle players who prefer

combat boots.”

“And you expect me to spend a night with you? Heretic.” Oh. Oh, man. That came out a

little backasswards, but the kid just laughed and he laughed along. Fuck a duck, he’d best

watch himself. He was too fucking tired to get into a bitchfest with some kid who didn’t

swing his way.

‘Sides, he still knew guys up toward Dallas. Guys who knew all about comforting and

touching and didn’t give a damn about strings.

“Well, I promise to not let any of my scary hippie germs infect you. I’ll even give you

clean sheets and a pillowcase.”

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“Can’t ask for more than that. Come on, hippie fiddler. I’m parked under 5th. Give Jenny your keys.” He stood up, gathered his empties and took them over to the bar. Rule number eighteen – don’t make the bartender clean up after you after hours if you want another gig. Bartender nodded to him, grinned. “Thanks, man.”

“Anytime. Professional courtesy, yeah?”

He waited by the door, amusing himself by watching Jeremy walk, bend to talk to Jenny,

stretch.

What? A man could watch.

Thank God it was cold outside so any uncomfortable evidence went down nice and easy.

The weirdos were starting to fade into the shadows. Clusters of giggling students heading

up Congress, the horse patrol wandering. It worked out, because it didn’t take an act of God to pull out onto the access road and head over to MLK. “Man, Players is still rocking. I remember they had the best hamburgers.” “Yeah, still do. Greasy. Pointless. Cheap.”

“Well, there’s so many good things in life that are like that. Burgers. Chips. Pizza.”

“One night stands.” Jeremy looked over, smiling like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Oh, now listen to you. Man, I don’t think greasy is a thing I want to hear about my one

night stands. Hell, cheap either. Pointless? Okay, but sort of… Hell, I don’t know.”

“One night stand-y?”

“Yeah, I reckon.” He shrugged. He sorta liked to think of them as easy and quick and sort

of a mutual minute of feel-good.

“You have to do that a lot on the road, I guess.” Jeremy stretched out, one long leg

exposing jeans with a series of tiny holes along the seams.

“I guess. I more have folks I know in different towns. Places to stay that isn’t the RV,

isn’t a hotel.” Hell, it wasn’t like he fucked like a bunny anymore. Shit, he just wanted a

real bed and a warm body beside him.

“Pretty little port in a storm?” That pointed chin tilted, eyes twinkling. “I can see that.

The girls would love you.”

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“You think?” He quirked his lips. He hadn’t taken a girl to the sheets since that amazing little blond and her twin brother made him an offer in Baton Rouge. Damn. That woman could do shit with her mouth that could frighten fish. “Maybe. ‘Course, maybe I’m thinking that you aren’t looking for pretty.” The words were a bald-faced challenge, Jeremy's pointed chin lifted and stubborn. “Could be. Pretty’s overrated lots of times. Specially when you’re hunting something stronger.” Maler. “Stronger?” Jeremy turned toward him. “You know, there’s a lot to be said for not having to beat around the bush, man.” “This is true.” He nodded, let the smile that wanted out curl up the corners of his lips. “’Course doing’s better than talking any day.” “Yeah, but doing in a moving truck is an accident waiting to happen.” “Good thing we’re damn near to Mopac, then.” He merged easily, traffic still too fucking busy at two a.m. “Your apartment place got a hot tub?” Jeremy nodded. “It does. Nice and hot. Bubbly.” “Clean?” “You know it.” “Cool. I reckon we could both use a nice long soak.” A nice long soak and a little bit of exploring and possibly some good, serious touching. Hell, the thing was private enough and the heat could be turned down, fucking in a hot tub was like magic. Like lighting up and getting off all at once. “Yeah, I could manage that. Haven’t fought like I did today in months. Most folks let us be anymore. Live and let live, especially around here.” He nodded, still surprised how easy it was to get hooked up around Austin. “Yeah, sometimes it’s like this place is… Shit, I got know, out of time, out of reality or something. Reckon that’s why so many folks come and then fight so fucking hard to stay.” “Well, when you’re home, you know it.” Well, now, he wasn’t sure he could give that a nod, really. Home was where the band was, where the bus was, where you knew the playlist and no one stole your pillow from your bunk.

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Explained sorta why he was still a touch jangly, right on the edges of his nerves, like he’d pissed on an electric fence a day or two ago, balls still lit up. “Pull off here and then head west over the overpass. I’m in the little complex there with the magnolias on the sign.” He passed by the Luby’s and some liquor store that hadn’t been there the last time he’d been, pulling into a tiny, older complex with a big assed gate. “Nice.” ”Yeah. I like it. Code’s 1432.” They pulled in and just sat there for a second, listening to Toby Keith sing something from before he got all politicky and shit. Jeremy leaned back against the passenger door and smiled. “You want to come in and have a beer? Go straight for the hot tub? Make out in the truck?” “You’re sure of what you want, aren’t you?” He got a nod, a grin. Those pretty eyes dropped a little, though. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know a little about you, man. I, uh. Know some of your friends from college. Jason Scott ring a bell? Jack Avery?” Well, he’d be hornswoggled. “You play with them?” Hell, Jason was one hell of a piano player and Jackie’d always been willing and able to carry a tune. “Used to. Jack got killed in a motorcycle accident two years ago and Jason moved up north to stay with his sister. Good folks. Followed the Runners pretty close.” Jeremy shrugged, face shadowed. “So it wasn’t near the risk it coulda been, you know?” “Oh.” Damn. And also yeah. Jack’d been a good guy. Shame really, last time he’d seen them both they were looking good, trying to buy a boat and shit. Jack hadn’t even started to grey yet, not like him and Jason, with their dark hair. They’d had a beer at the Oasis and watched the sun go down over the lake and heckled the piece of shit rock band on stage. Christ, that must’ve been six, seven years ago. “You want to come on in, cowboy?” He hated to hear that worried sound, so Ben nodded, smiled. “Shit, yeah. You promised a hot tub soak. I’m so there. Just a little shocked, to hear about Jack. Funny, ain’t it? How you lose track of folks from the road?” They got out and Ben grabbed his little suitcase with his shaving kit and shit in it, along with his fiddle case and followed Jeremy to a little red door and into a little white apartment that looked like every other little white apartment on Earth.

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The place wasn’t scary, just the messy that came from living alone and not being worried too much about clutter. Jeremy opened the little fridge and tossed over a Shiner, taking one for himself. “Bathroom’s first door. Bedroom’s the second. You need to borrow a pair of shorts?” “Nah, I got a pair.” Well, truth be told they weren’t even his, Dan’d left them drying on a balcony at a hotel in Houston and Ben’d grabbed them. Served the little fucker right too, for ruining his nice white pair with a fucking can of Big Red. Dickhead. “Cool. You can take the bathroom. I got to dig mine out of the chest of drawers.” “Man, you own furniture? You sure you’re a fiddle player?” Jeremy laughed, pulled off his shirt and whacked him in the shoulder with it. “Shit, no. I’m borrowing from my granny until I’m successful enough to live out of my suitcase like you, cowboy.” “Oh, ho! Look at the smartass talk!” Ben hooted, grabbed the shirt and twisted it, getting ready to pop Jeremy good and hard across that tight little ass. He got one shot in before Jeremy pushed right close, too close to whap, giving him an armful of man just daring him to take advantage of it. Felt damn good too, lean and horny, fingers wrapped around his upper arms. Easy wasn’t it? To lean on in and take that pretty little mouth, tongue pushing right on in and spreading those lips wide so he could taste. Damn. Kissing wasn’t his strong suit, never had been, but he’d done enough to keep a man wanting another and another. He’d always heard life was one part natural born talent and the rest just practice. It didn’t hurt a single bit to be having a duet with a natural, either. Jeremy was just working it, tongue sliding against his, tempting him in and then pushing back to challenge a little. It was enough to make him ache, to make him lose his breath and rumble right into Jeremy’s mouth, hips rocking, rubbing them together in the best sort of dancing. Jeremy’s hand slid down his arm, petting and stroking as it went before circling his wrist and drawing his hand in and around, pressing his fingers against that needy cock pushing against tissue paper denim. Oh, pretty. He wrenched his head back, panting, fingers playing that long shaft. They stood and panting, forehead to forehead, looking at each other. “Damn, son. You can kiss.”

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“Yeah? Well. You. Your hands. I mean. Christ, cowboy, I’d never wanted to be a fiddle in my life before tonight. You know how… Oh. Oh, right there. Right fucking there, Ben.” His eyes wrinkled with his grin – loved that feeling, the need to grin and not be able to hold it in. “Right there? Right like that?” He worked the base, fingers nudging those balls over and over and over, pushing and petting through the jeans. His pinkie finger found a little hole, started working into it as soon as it found real live skin. “Yeah. Yeah, Ben. I… Fuck. You wanna? I mean, before the hot tub? I’ve been aching since the second set.” “Fightin’ll do that. Makes a man need to prove something.” He walked them back a little, getting Jeremy up against the wall so his free hand could tangle in those curls. “Yeah. Seeing your ass in those jeans, thighs all bunched up, belly like a fucking washboard? Didn’t hurt.” Jeremy set to working his buckle open, his fly, the long flat of hand pressing against him and bringing him to his toes. “Smart fingers.” He chuckled, caught Jeremy’s lips in another kiss, their teeth sort of clicking together, the sound sharp and right. Damn. Damn, he was wanting a little bit of that. It had been too fucking long since he’d felt that, the flush and shudder of sudden heat – like walking outside after a day in the a/c. It was enough to send a man off-balance and weak-kneed, balls wrinkling up as his cock throbbed. “Oh, yeah. You like that.” Well, no shit. A dead man’d get off on that, fingers wrapping around his prick and pumping like he was the next big thing. He nodded, catching Jeremy’s bottom lip with his teeth and tugging the kid back into a kiss. Less fucking talking, more fucking… well. Yeah. Good thing thinking wasn’t on the menu here. Jeremy’s thumb slid all the way up along his cock, pushing on the vein there, making him buck. Oh, that felt. Yeah. Right there. He didn’t get the words out; his tongue was too fucking busy, but his groan must have let the man know, because the touch came again and again, working the thin skin until it damn near ached, burned a little. “Fuck. Fuck, man. I. That. Damn.” Jeremy laughed, hooted. “Yeah. You feel fine. Been a while, huh?”

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“Few days. Don’t stop.” Smartass kid. He’d have to kick that skinny little ass, at least after he’d fucked it through a mattress. Sofa. Floor. Wall. Whatever, he was fucking easy. “Not gonna.” Those eyes were lit up like Houston’s skyline, making him feel all eat up. Damn. They found themselves a rhythm, a sweet three-step with a hint of syncopation in the upstroke, the bow hands working long and smooth, sweeping up cocks and down spines, those fret hands laying down the law on a nape, a shoulder, a hip. Ben hummed with it, no more able to keep quiet than still, heart going like a jackrabbit’s hind leg on a prairie. “Won’t be long now.” Reckoned it was only fair to give warning. Jeremy didn’t push the issue, though. Hell, no. The little shit backed off, squeezing the base of his prick ‘til he liked to growl. “Easy. We got time. I ain’t in the fourth quarter yet.” It was all he could do to breathe in through his nose, feeling the little hairs on his mustache shift and tug with the inhalation. He wasn’t in the mood to play games, lord knew, least not after the day he’d had. He was in even less a mood to go to sleep in his truck, humping his own hands and wiping clean on tissue. “Okay. Okay. You got my attention.” Jeremy’s hand slipped down, cupped his balls and held without squeezing. “Shit. I just… I just want to take my time a little. I’m not young as all that; I can appreciate a night with a guy like you.” Well, shit. Didn’t he just feel like a low-down dog hunting for eggs to suck? He didn’t mean to put a look of shame in those eyes. Man, wouldn’t Dan rib him now. Finally getting some from somebody wanted it bad as him and he was mucking it up. “No. No, you’re right. I just get used to being on a schedule.” That earned him a rich deep laugh, Jeremy relaxing against him, easing. “No schedules in this, man. We can play a full set and then do an encore.”

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“Hell, yeah.” Lips hot as vinyl car seats in August brushed his collarbone, teasing and tasting, making him just shudder. He felt that pretty mouth widen in a smile, the lips parting, tongue leaving little spots of flame. “Shit. You got a bed, man? Somewhere we can stretch out?” “You know it.” Jeremy murmured the words around his nipple, the touch of breath making it draw up nice and tight before the wee bit of flesh got sucked in, damn near tugged off his chest. Oh. Oh, fuck. That wasn’t going to help in the not coming, taking his time thing. Ben’s head snapped back, hips pushing into Jeremy’s body and making some pretty firm demands. His hands got into those worn jeans, pushing right on in and getting a double handful of ass. Hell, yeah. That’s what he liked, firm and lean, muscles strong enough to give a good fight, to squeeze around a man’s prick and make it good. Jeremy’s felt damn good, too. Not too hard, like some; or flabby like others. Reminded him a lot of Dan’s, except Jeremy wasn’t shit faced and neither was he and so maybe he wasn’t remembering right and god damn it why was he fucking thinking? He pushed a little, jostling them both, Jeremy’s teeth slipping and catching his nipple good and hard and. Oh. Okay. Yeah. He was right there. Ben tugged and pulled until Jeremy was rubbing up against him, face turned up for a kiss and he couldn’t be bothered to think of somebody else because those were some pretty damn eyes and they were looking right at him. Jeremy got the kiss that he begged for, got that one and more, Ben just humping the kid up against the wall, to hell with waiting and long and shit. Long could come later, after they lost an edge apiece. He got those jeans tugged down, got their cocks lined up and started stroking, two short, staccato notes followed by a long tug. Waltzing. Hell, yeah. Jeremy’s fingers heard it, too, moving in time, strumming him. The orgasm started in the join of his shoulders and neck, sliding down his back like the touch of a good man working a steel guitar before vibrating in his balls. He moaned for it, toes curling in his boots, the texture on the wall scraping his knuckles. “Fuck, yeah.” Jeremy shot before he did, sort of surprising him, caught up as he was in the pull and tug of his own, the sparkle and burn and ache that braided themselves on into raw pleasure.

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“Yeah. Yeah, son. Give it up.” Made him feel like a stud, having Jeremy give it up, all hot and wet and male against the hollow of his belly. It wasn’t a stroke or two before his own heat joined up, made them both sticky and wet and panting for it. Goddamn. They sort of panted a little, Ben’s forehead on the wall, Jeremy melted and cuddling in like a tired pup. “You still want to head down to the hot tub or you wanna get some shut eye?” “Mmm… Both sound good, but not having to haul our butts back after soaking sounds better.” He could damn near hear the gears working in Jeremy’s head as the kid thought. “I got a good-sized tub. We could get under the hot water a minute. Then crash.” “Works for me.” He got them moving, just a little slower than half-time, swaying and bumping against each other on the way to the bathroom. They didn’t even bother turning on the lights, just stumbled over to the tub and pulled the curtain – that was either tropical fish or possibly cactus, it was hard as hell to tell in this light. Water was good and hot, though, warming him balls to bones. Ben leaned against the tile, shivering a bit as his body warmed it up and Jeremy’s body warmed him up. Felt plumb nice, the sweet little ass curled into him, cheek on one of his shoulders, Jeremy's curls all dark and heavy with the water. There was something about being just a little tipsy, a little punch-drunk in the dark, the steam billowing around and someone soft and willing in your arms. Made it a little hard to breathe, a little gaspy around the edges. Made it sorta like a dream, sorta like it was okay to half-close his eyes and daydream, fingers sliding over smooth skin. He’d take it, for now. Jeremy started humming, something deep and rich and vaguely familiar, like the mixture of Rocky Top and something gospel and bone-deep familiar. He started following along, the fall of the water and the splash on the tiles adding a counterpoint and sounding sweet as all get out. Their hands started following along with their voices, long sweeps like they were bowing deep, making each other ring out. Oh, hell yes. Ben rested, sore jaw on Jeremy’s shoulder, eyes closed as he let everything pour over him. He liked how Jeremy’s hip curved some, liked the slow line to the dimple in the small of Jeremy’s back. Liked the way teasing that little spot made Jeremy’s melody hiccup and falter, slow into something sensual. Jeremy stared sliding, slipping down his body so slow that, at first, it felt like an accident and Ben reached out to help. Those pretty eyes just smiled, though. “No. No, I want to. Let me.” All the way down, those lips battled with the water for heat and softness. Ben stretched, leaned back a little harder as the tiny hairs on his belly were tugged and pulled, stinging just enough to draw this whole thing out of dreaming and into wanting.

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His cock starting filling, started lifting and jerking like it was flagging Jeremy’s mouth down. They both saw it, both laughed. Fuck a duck, there was nothing as silly looking as a randy cowboy and how silly-looking could be sexy too? He was sure he didn’t know. Jeremy spent a good long time nuzzling his dark pubes, licking the water drops off, tugging a little, teasing the hell out of his prick with that pointed chin. Damn, but it felt nice. Felt hot, too. He’d sure take it over a sack of wet mice. By the time that sweet mouth started sliding down his cock, tongue soft as silk on the underside, he was damn near whimpering. The kid had focus, talent, and a mouth like a French whore. Ben’s balls drew up and Jeremy’s fingers wrapped around them, stroking them down, keeping him right there on the edge as his cock pushed in and out, rocking into Jeremy’s throat like it was meant to be there. He hadn’t been deep-throated in years. Not since that post-release party in Houston. Daniel had been something else, stretched out over a long sofa, a pair of twins – boy and girl, goddamn, hadn’t they been right pretty? – draped over the man like Korean stoles. He’d been balls deep in this audio engineer’s mouth, fingers tangled in the dark hair, cock pushed as far as it could go and deeper, eyes watching the far side of the room, watching Daniel’s hips, rocking up, fucking whatever hole those two gave him. Moaning. Damn. Ben shook his head, forced his eyes open and looked down at the dark, wet curls bobbing, bouncing, working him like nothing going and yeah. Yeah, that was what he needed to do. Watch. See. ”Damn. Damn, that feels… Uhn.” Jeremy’s fingers found a hot spot under his balls, pressing and rubbing him, getting his legs to part a little further. “Fuck.” Jeremy nodded, one finger moving back a little farther, tapping his hole. Everything in him went tight, stiff, heart just pounding furiously. He felt his hole shudder, shift, moving against Jeremy’s finger. He felt Jeremy’s smile, felt the way the suction increased right before that finger pushed deep, pierced him, stretched him just enough to tease. “Oh, fuck. More.” In and out, that touch just teased, just barely moved enough to drive him to distraction, not enough to sink into, but to much to ignore. God damn. “Jeremy. Damn. I. Fuck.” Jeremy pulled back, so suddenly it made his head swim, made his cock pop up and slap the shit out of his belly. “What the fuck?” “Turn around.”

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“Huh?” This was not the fucking time to stop. Nowhere near. “Turn around, jackass.” Jeremy’s hands were on his hips, moving him, turning him to face the tile. “I don’t think…” “No one said shit about thinking.” The kid laughed, spread his cheeks, then that tongue slid across his hole and, oh. Oh, sweet Christ. Oh, don’t fucking stop. Ben just put his head down against his arms, thighs spread so wide they burned, hips canted like a bitch in heat. Jeremy went to town on him like he was a fucking smorgasbord, licking and lapping, tongue pushing against his hole. So fucking intimate, so close and fuck. Fuck, the top of his head was going to fucking pop off. One of those fine hands wrapped around his prick, gave him something beside the tile to push against, to work against. Ben could feel Jeremy, working that long prick, arm rubbing and rubbing against his leg, both of them moving together. Sounds started pouring out of him, raw and rough as a water-logged fiddle, just ringing out and echoing. His balls went tight as stones, shaft throbbing and then that slick palm caught the head of his prick, twisting just so and it was all over but the crying. “Goddamn!” He shot hard, entire body jerking with it, caught like a piece of hay in a dust devil. His fucking knees were shaking, just pure Jell-o as Jeremy’s spunk sprayed against his calf. His forehead rolled on the tile and he figured it was time to move, once he started worrying about whether it was clean or not. They managed to stumble out before the water went ice cold, which was good given they were both wandering, a little lost, a little worn out, a little drunk. A little undone. He got thrown a towel as Jeremy brushed his teeth and pissed. Then Jeremy pushed him toward the bed, the rumpled comforter soft and warm and smelling of laundry detergent. Jeremy flopped down beside him, blinking over a second. “You need an alarm for the morning?” “Fuck no.” He’d wake up at ten thirty. On the dot. Always did, still drunk or not. “’kay.” Jeremy slapped at a cheap-assed clock radio for a second, then settled, one hand on his belly. “This cool?” “Works for me, man. You snore?”

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“Don’t think so. You?”

“Nope. Band woulda killed me already. We’ve fired guys for less.” He grinned,

remembering that guy him and Dan did fire. It hadn’t just been the snoring, but the

snoring hadn’t helped.

Not at all.

Jeremy chuckled, “Man, it’s a tough fucking business when a man gets booted for

snoring.”

“You got no idea, kid.” None at all.

“Yeah. I think that’s okay, though.” Jeremy settled in deeper, sighed. “For now, anyway.”

Ben found himself grinning, nodding. Yeah. It probably was okay for the kid. For now.

Jeremy was altogether too settled to live the gypsy life. Hell, the man had furniture. Still,

he could play.

And fuck.

Made for one hell of a nice evening, though.

Ben stretched, breathing in time with Jeremy, eyes still trying to focus on the random

patterns on the ceiling long after he’d started dreaming.

***

It was dueling banjos that woke him up from a dream of riding roller coasters, up and

down with his arms in the air, his cell phone ringing away in his Wranglers. Shit. Shit. He

stumbled across the floor, following the sound, just trying to wake up.

He was used to waking up in strange places, in unfamiliar rooms, but the warm body

beside him threw him for a bit of a loop, made his eyes roll, his heart pound. Goddamn.

Come on. Come on. Move. Up. Answer the fucking phone and you can figure out where

the fuck you are later.

He thumbed the phone open, growled out a ‘whut’ before the voice mail picked up.

“You sorry son of a bitch. Do you really think you can walk out on my happy ass and

take my guitar? I don’t fucking think so. You tell me where the fuck you are so that I can

kill you.”

Huh. Dan. Damn. “What time is it?”

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“What? Did I wake you up? Fucker. I hope you were sleeping good. Bastard. Where are you?” He squinted, frowning around for his watch. Oh, fuck him. Seven fucking thirty. Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick. “At a friend’s. Why the fuck do you care?” “Don’t start that shit with me. I know you didn’t hock my Les Paul and I know how much money you had in your pocket. I know you had to stop in Austin and I’m heading down I-35 near Airport. Where. Are. You?” Man sounded pissed. Ben rocked his jaw back and forth a little, listening to it creak and grind. It was a little sore, that was for sure. Not bad, though. Not bad at all. “Little apartment complex off Mopac and Far West.” “Which one? I’ll get directions.” “Uh…” He blinked, frowned, trying like fuck to remember. Something with flowers. Something. Something… “Magnolia Arms.” “That’s a stupid fucking name for an apartment.” “I doubt they give a shit about your opinion, jackass.” Ben rubbed the back of his neck, looking around at the random crap spread here and there. CDs, DVDs, books, fiddles. Fiddles. Oh, right. Jimmy. No. Jerry. No. Jeremy. Jeremy Somebody or Other with the red curls and the great mouth and the sweet little sister with the steel guitar. Right. Damn. Man, it was early. “You meet my happy opinionated ass outside, you hear me? I will find your truck and I will bang on every goddamned door until I find you, do you understand?” The words trailed off into a smattering of bullshit patois and crap that came straight from Daniel’s momma. Cajuns did pissed off so much better than everyone else. “Yeah. Yeah, I hear you.” He hung the phone up and went hunting the bathroom, keeping it quiet as he could. He got himself all dressed and out the door, fiddle in hand before Jeremy even moved, the sweet little thing snoring loud, curled up around a pillow. Down the rickety stairs and then he lit himself a cigarette, sitting on the tailgate and enjoying the early Sunday sun on his face, even if it was a little bit cool. Fuck, there were a shitload of grackles, swooping and calling, making him grin, wish he had a little bit of something to toss out to them. Didn’t take too terribly long before he heard a diesel engine tooling around. Damn. Dan must’ve borrowed Terry’s truck, thing needed new

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rings in a serious way. Served the man right, though, buying from a Baton Rouge lot. They all knew better. Dan pulled in beside him, turned off the engine of the Dodge and just sat there a second, staring out at the same long, endless row of roofs he saw - black, then gray, then dull green, the gray again. Ben finished his smoke, the dull burn familiar and good, clearing his head and waking his ass right up. When he flicked the butt away, the diesel’s door opened, Daniel’s snakeskin boots hitting the ground, clicking like a set of maracas. “I ought to kick your ass.” “You tried yesterday. Did a shit job.” He rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath. He needed coffee. “You got one hell of a bruise. I didn’t do that bad.” The man looked tired, real tired, mouth drawn out to a straight line. Still, those eyes were the finest fucking thing he’d ever seen, the solid frame a right pretty place to hang that tight t-shirt. “You’re gonna get wrinkles, you keep frowning like that.” He almost grinned when the look relaxed. Almost. Vain bastard. “You shouldn’t have took my guitar, Ben. That was cold.” A pack of Camels was offered over and he took one, reaching over to light Dan’s smoke, the flame reflecting in the pale blue eyes. . “Yeah, I know. I was pissed. I wouldn’t’ve really sold it.” Not really. That was Dan’s baby. He remembered when they’d seen it in this old pawn shop in bumfuck desert Arizona, this old Tahona Indian bargaining like he was the fucking Devil himself. “Never figured you would. Figured you’d head down to 6th street and find a place to play.” Ben had the good graces to blush, nod. “Yeah. Well…” Asshole. “I made her go. Last night.” The words were bald-faced, resigned. Solid. Plopped right down there between them like a steaming cow patty that he couldn’t ignore. “Yeah?” Dan nodded, leaning against his truck. “Yeah. After I cooled down.” He let one leg go to swinging, back and forth, over and over, the toe of his boot just brushing Dan’s heel, cowhide meeting snake and pulling away like God intended. Cooled down, huh? Meant the slow asshole'd thought on it. “She couldn’t sing, man.”

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“She couldn’t do a lot of shit, Benny. She was sort of a skank.”

“Sort of.” He couldn’t stop the laugh, not even a little.

“A man gets lonely, Benny.”

Oh, bullshit.

“Someone like you, Dan, only gets lonely ‘cause he wants to. You got folks.” Folks that

wanted. Folks that needed. Folks right fucking there.

Folks right fucking here.

“Yeah. Yeah.” He got a long look, Dan’s eyes searching his face. “I know, Benny. I do

know. I wouldn’t give for you. I can’t do without you.”

“And you never let me get too far.” Bastard. One day. One day he’d not answer the phone

and he’d be done. Pure-D gone. One day.

“Like a horse on a lead. Can’t play without my lead fiddle. Never could.”

“Yeah?” A horse, huh? He reckoned that was better than being called a dog. At least

marginally better. The smile he got eased the sting; the hand on his arm rubbed it away

like the ache was nothing but chalk.

“Not even for a skanky broad who warmed my bunk up.” They shared a grin, slow and

knowing, Dan’s eyes dancing a little in that way that meant mischief, trouble.

He shook his head, grinning back. Asshole. “So…”

Dan nodded, stretching up and up, showing off that belly, those lean hips. “Yeah. So.

You got to tell somebody special goodbye or something before I take you for coffee? We

got to talk over the play list, over the schedule.”

“Coffee sounds good.” He hopped down, went to get Dan’s guitar. He spared a look for

the apartment door, for a guy sleeping behind. Ben reckoned Jeremy’d rather have the sleep than the goodbye. He reckoned most anyone would. Goodbyes were only cool in songs, and then mostly only for the ladies. “I think he’ll understand.” Dan took the case, slid it into the diesel. “Must be a musician.” “Aren’t they all? Fiddle player. Sister plays steel guitar. They got a right fine sound. Lead

singer’s sort of on the pretty but marginal side.”

“Yeah? Cool. One day we’ll need another opening band.”

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He nodded, blinked a little as Dan opened his truck door. Fuck, the man smelled good. Really good. Old Spice and soap and leather and sunshine and a hint of chiles. “Let’s stop up at Kerbey Lane for breakfast and get some of them big-assed pancakes. Terry’s waiting for his truck. Him and the guys are going to meet us in Arlington. Sammy too, his family shit’s all done. He sounded real excited to get back.” “Yeah?” He did enjoy that man, with those quiet ways and strong laugh, the way there didn’t need to be secrets. Enjoyed the idea of a four hour ride with Dan singing along with his radio too. Enjoyed that a lot. “Yeah.” Daniel nodded. “Come on, man. I need coffee. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night. Moon was too full.” “Okay.” He hopped up into the cab, started the ignition, not fighting his grin. Alan Jackson’s voice filled the cab, low and sweet, one of the old songs, the good ones that came all full up with memories and regrets and shit. He sighed a little, lit another cigarette as that fucked-up engine of Terry’s roared to life. There was no fool like an old fool. His eyes hit the little red door again, the kid sleeping tight right behind, curled on the bed. Well, except maybe a new fool in the making. Either way, it was all the same. He pulled out of the parking lot behind Dan, sunlight in his eyes, making him squint until they turned toward the north, heading toward the highway overpass, morning just as sharp and sweet as nothing but October mornings in the Texas Hill Country could be. Clear skies, bright weather – the good Lord always showed the way. Must be time to move on.

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Texas Twin Fiddles and a Steel Guitar Copyright © 2005 by Dallas Coleman All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, PO Box 4351, Grand Junction, CO 81502. Printed in the United States of America.

Torquere Press: Single Shot electronic edition / January 2006

Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 4351, Grand Junction,

CO 81502.

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