Author's Notes
***
Big Hatch, they called him. He'd picked up the nickname in high school, and it was obvious why. He'd been not only the biggest kid on the football team but the biggest kid on the hockey team, too. He had been, in fact, the biggest kid in the school. He'd had a reputation for being a bully, because clearly, in accordance with flawless high school logic, if he was bigger than everyone else he must like to beat up kids smaller than him. Hatch had never beat up anyone in his life. He had just always been simply the biggest kid there. He never tried to explain this. Being thought of as a bully meant that no one messed with him, and it made him dangerous. It made him cool. From his lofty height of six-foot-five, he had graduated, his Cs and Ds forgotten amid his equally tall hopes of a future in sports.
"I'm so sorry, man," were the words of the farewell speech to those hopes. Spoken in the rueful voice of his best friend, the one he'd hung out with listening to metal and watching TV, the one he'd gotten stoned and drunk with, the one he'd "experimented" with. That's how he referred to it, this friend of his. "Experimenting." Or, more specifically, "being drunk and fucking around." And he always laughed afterwards, Hatch's friend.
"Fuck, Hatch, last night was wild! You better not say shit to anyone, I don't need any of that fag shit, I was just fucking drunk." And he laughed. Hatch laughed too, even though he'd never found anything less funny in his life.
The very same friend wasn't laughing as he stood next to the hospital bed, after he'd crashed his piece of shit Ford into a tree in a drunken haze. His friend was fine. Hatch had broken ribs, a concussion, and a ruined right knee. Hatch had been in the passenger seat, his hand reaching ever higher on his friend's thigh when it happened. Hatch blamed himself.
"I am so fucking sorry, man." So sorry, so long, farewell, better luck next time, except of course that there wasn't a next time. Soon afterwards his friend disappeared into the mysterious, unknown world that was college. No scholarships were forthcoming for Big Hatch. Drafts were now out of the question. When his friend had gone, when all his friends had gone, it was strangely quiet. And Hatch didn't try to explain the empty feeling in his gut, because he didn't really understand it. It was just a friend who had moved on, and that was that.
Years later, far away from the Michigan town where he'd been born, Hatch still didn't like it when it was quiet. As he drove his truck, hauling freight from town to town across America's plains, he always had the radio going. Metal, hair bands, country, even bubblegum pop, it didn't matter what, so long as there was a line of noise in the background. Big Hatch was his CB call name now; the name was as much a part of him as his deep, quiet voice and blue eyes that rarely met anyone else's gaze. He wore an old cowboy hat with a faded red ribbon around the brim that he'd picked up in some town or other. It kept the sun and other people out of his eyes.
Hatch was late on this run; he'd run into bad traffic on the highway, and to make up for it he was driving late into the night. He blasted Johnny Cash and tried hard to stay alert, focused on the road. It wasn't being tired that was the problem, really. He was simply restless, in a very specific sort of way. And he resented it.
Every time he paid for sex, he swore it would be the last, and he was always wrong.
It wasn't as though he couldn't get sex for free at the truck stops. Every one of them had a scattering of men who were on the outside fringes of "normal." Shifty eyed, they would separate themselves from the crowd of men who were only after a hot meal and some conversation after a long stretch spent on the road. They'd creep off into the shadows behind the buildings, into the tall grass or small groves of highway-stunted trees. They'd pair off, seemingly at random. It didn't seem to matter with these men; they'd get each other off, mutter a few words, and slink off alone again. Hatch knew. He'd taken part before.
Hatch was uncomfortable with those meetings, though. You never knew when one of the men would be a narc, just waiting to spring the cops on the whole group, or maybe just kick the shit out of you when you were on your knees with your pants down. Both of these things had happened to people Hatch knew. And even if the encounter was mutual in every way, you nonetheless had a pretty good chance of the other person spitting in your face and calling you a fucking fag when it was all over.
There was a level of uncertainty about the whole thing that some guys found exciting. Hatch didn't. He simply wanted company for a short while, and no games. And the best way to get this was to pay for it.
That didn't mean Hatch wasn't horrified and disgusted with himself for going through with it. When he was horny, he could find ways to justify it. It was safer, quicker, easier, guaranteed. But when it was over, and he was alone again, and it was quiet and dark, the guilt was always there. It gnawed at him with a vague sense of notrightnotrightnotright
As his cock tingled just from its contact with his clothes, Hatch fidgeted and peered into a darkness that seemed to mock him. He turned up the radio, concentrated on the chatter coming through the CB, ran through his mental list of rationalizations and began looking for the next truck stop.
It was windy when he stepped down from the cab, and Hatch put a hand quickly on his hat, stopping it from blowing off into the dark. He shivered in the early spring night, not wearing anything over his flannel shirt and jeans. He looked at the cluster of buildings, thinking as he always did that he'd been there before. There was rarely any originality in the set-up: lines and lines of trucks, huddled together in the night, a building with bathrooms and vending machines, every once in awhile a small diner either in the complex or nearby. Hatch could see in the distance the glowing lights that promised a warm table and a hot meal. But even as he flinched from the cold his cock strained against his pants, reminding him of what he'd stopped for in the first place. He hunched himself down, trying to appear smaller as he approached the restroom building- an old habit. When he seemed shorter than he was, he was less of a threat. He glanced about surreptitiously until he found what he knew would be there.
A few whores stood smoking on the lee side of the building, sheltered from the wind. Cigarette smoke puffed above them briefly before it was caught and snatched away into the night. Women, Hatch saw. Looking about them with dull interest, waiting to be approached and bought. Hatch always inwardly flinched, at least a little, at the thought of what he was doing, but the whores never seemed to mind it. Several stood chatting idly as a customer partook of his purchase up against the wall not far away.
Hatch didn’t see what he was searching for here, and walked past them as unobtrusively as possible. The women saw him but didn't call out price or entreaties. Even hunched down, Big Hatch's size was enough to make people uneasy, especially people who would have no protection from the law if a big man such as himself decided he was in a surly mood.
He stepped around the corner, out of sight of the women and the men cautiously waiting to approach them. Immediately, he had to make a grab for his hat again, as the wind gusted along the black brick of the wall. He peered into the dark, looking for anyone who might happen to be waiting there.
"Nice belt buckle," a voice said, causing Hatch to jump, and almost lose his grip on his hat. The voice chuckled, and then a figure stepped out of the shadows.
It was hard to tell in the light gleaming dully from the fixture on the wall, but Hatch was pretty sure the small, dark man looking up at him was beautiful.
Hatch glanced down. The light was glinting off his belt buckle, making him shine in the darkness. It was vastly oversized, the type you'd see on an ageing cowboy, yet on Hatch it seemed oddly to be just right. Hatch had found it in a small store somewhere along the way, maybe in Texas, or one of the plains states. He couldn't really remember anymore. It was scratched now, with some of the raised twisted metal designs beginning to chip. In the middle of the buckle was a picture, in relief, of two hands clasped together. Hatch had been taken with that more than anything, and instead of the carton of Marlboros he was after, he'd bought the buckle. He nearly always wore it, and had ceased to think about it when he put it on. It was a part of him now, like his name.
"I'm Hatch," he said suddenly, realizing he'd been standing in silence. "They call me Big Hatch."
"I can see that," replied the man, drawing closer. He spoke with an accent that Hatch couldn't identify. European, maybe Russian. Hatch could see that this man from the shadows had olive skin, dark hair and black eyes- almond shaped and currently squinted into a leer. "You are a big boy, yes?"
Hatch sized him up. He was small, Hatch had at least eight inches on him, but his eyes were bold. His smirk told anyone who cared to look that he just didn't give a fuck. Hatch had seen the look before. He was dressed in tight black pants, beneath his open black jacket (some sort of fake leather, it was shiny under the pale lights) was a black mesh shirt. If the man was cold, he didn't show it. He was also young, very young. Hatch felt a flash of guilt that was immediately buried beneath lust when the man ran a finger down his chest. He held his breath as the young man played with his belt buckle.
"What's your name?" Hatch breathed at last.
"What do you want it to be?" the young man countered without missing a beat. A slim finger tapped the buckle. "This is fucking lame."
"Um," Hatch said, stalling for time. He felt shy. "I want your name to be what it is."
"Just call me Jay," the man answered easily, as if it didn't make much difference. "You looking for a good time?"
"Yeah," Hatch said, feeling a lead weight sink in his chest. He hated this part, discussing the price. "Uh..."
"Fifty for a blow," Jay said briskly, looking back up at Hatch's flinching eyes. "A hundred for a fuck, but you gotta wear a rubber. And just twenty for a hand job," he added. His smirk was back in full force. "You call that a special, yes."
Hatch was aghast at the prices as much as how matter-of-factly they were laid out. This was stupid, he thought. He should just go back to his cab, jerk off, and go to sleep. But something about the way the small man's eyes flashed, and the alien accent, had quite taken hold of him. He restrained the urge to reach out and stroke the mesh and instead reached for his wallet. He pulled out five twenties wordlessly.
Jay grinned, and tugged at Hatch's belt buckle. "Come on, big man."
Hatch let himself be led silently into the quiet building. Jay bypassed the men's room and entered the ladies'.
"There is never no one in here," Jay said in response to Hatch's questioning look. They entered the small room, Jay immediately hitting the lights and locking the door behind them. There were two stalls, though only one had a door. A single mirror, too dirty to display a reflection, hung crookedly above a decrepit sink. The tile of the floor was grimy, the walls not much better. It had clearly been a few seasons since anyone had bothered to clean it. Hatch noted this but did not care. It was, largely, no different than any other bathroom he'd fucked in, and besides, he was busy noting in the light that he'd been correct in the dark. The man, Jay, was beautiful.
"Where?" Jay asked, taking the money from Hatch's hand and pocketing it.
"Not the floor," Hatch mumbled, and Jay laughed humorlessly.
"Cannot say I blame you, uh, the wall?"
"'Kay," Hatch replied. His shyness was back, but his cock was hugely swollen and took no notice. He took off his hat, resting it on the dusty sink. Jay did the same with his jacket, and Hatch quivered a little at the sight of his lithe but well-muscled frame. Jay looked at Hatch and Hatch looked at Jay. In the light, he could see that Jay's eyes were lined with smoky pencil, his lashes thick with mascara; again, something Hatch had seen before. But on the other men Hatch had been with, it had looked strange. On Jay it looked exotic. Hatch felt his cock twitch in his pants and he swallowed dryly. He felt as if he should say something, anything, and he cleared his throat.
"Your accent," he finally decided on. "Is it Russian?"
Jay arched an eyebrow, his smirk falling a bit. "Czech."
"Oh," Hatch said after a pause, after his mind had sorted out the confusion of having heard "cheque." "You're a long way from home, huh?"
"I guess," Jay said, and something in his eyes hardened. He pulled the mesh shirt from his body and threw it on top of his jacket, all in one smooth motion. Hatch suppressed a gasp at the sight of his lightly muscled chest and arms and looked down at the floor instead. He ran a hand nervously through the sandy curls that were usually hidden beneath his hat.
"Why did you...?"
"Look, can we just get on with this, yes?" Jay said, his smirk gone and a veil over his expression. "My fucking life story costs extra." He fished a handful of condoms from one of his pockets and threw one to Hatch, who was abashed enough to simply catch it and work on undoing his belt.
Soon Hatch stood ready, his shirt open and his chest bare, his pants and underwear around his ankles, his belt buckle echoing loudly in the silence as it banged against the tile. He carefully unrolled the lubricated condom onto his erection, his breath catching in his throat. He saw Jay watching him from the corner of his eye and he thought he saw the younger man frown, but when Hatch chanced a look, Jay was absorbed in undoing his pants. Jay turned his face to the wall as he let them down, and the sight of his firmly rounded ass made Hatch moan slightly.
"Uh... do you want to face me?" Hatch asked, his voice unsteady. "I'm strong enough to hold you up..."
"No, like this." Jay's voice was steely.
Hatch stepped closer. He licked his lips, and reached out a finger. He trailed it lightly down Jay's back, from the nape of his neck to the crack of his ass. Even in the flickering fluorescent light, he could see Jay's skin cringe away from his touch. Hatch's cock brushed against Jay and he had to bite back another moan. He spat on his hand, giving an extra coat to the latex.
Jay whimpered, just slightly, as Hatch pressed into him, and it was enough to make him freeze.
"Are you..." Hatch let out an explosive breath and tried again. "If I'm hurting you, say so."
"You want to hear that?" Jay's teeth were clenched from the sound of it; the tendons stood out in his neck, and the hands pressed against the tile were fists. "Yeah, you'd like it if I said you were hurting me, yes, do you want to hear that? Okay, oh, you are so big, you hurt me. Do it harder!"
That wasn't what he'd meant at all, and Hatch's face flushed with embarrassment, though his chest and neck were flushed with something else entirely. He held Jay's hip firmly in one hand, and not knowing what else to do, rubbed Jay's back with the other, in small circles, as he pushed himself deeper.
Jay was gasping when Hatch was fully inside, and he couldn't help but pause to savor the feeling. Hatch closed his eyes, and pressed his body against Jay's, relishing the warm, sweaty skin against his. He rested his lips against the soft blackness of Jay's hair, and felt his heart pounding wherever the two were connected; chest-to-shoulders, stomach-to-back, down to where Big Hatch's body was inside someone else's. It was a rare feeling for him, and he sighed gently into Jay's hair as he clung to his hips, not wanting it to end.
Eventually Jay wriggled, fidgeted almost, and the instructions coming from Hatch's cock took over. Hatch placed his palms flat against the wall, on either side of Jay's fists, and began to move, achingly slowly. Jay was hot and he was tight, and Hatch shuddered and rippled with pleasure as he moved. It had been a long time since he'd indulged himself this way, and Hatch was determined to make it last as long as possible.
He rested his chin on Jay's shoulder, biting his lip to keep from saying the words he knew the younger man didn't care to hear. He glanced down to the small space between Jay and the wall against which he was bracing himself. Hatch started in surprise, in the middle of a thrust, to see something he hadn't seen with any whore he'd been with yet. Jay was half-hard.
And suddenly a wave of something washed over Big Hatch. It was a curious mix of lust and sadness, and it combined to make him simply feel desperate. He was desperate for release, and at the same time desperate to be gone, away from this place. He was desperate to be away from this man who was hardening from physical stimulation that meant nothing to him on any other level, but the fact that Jay was partly hard seemed to mock him. It seemed to show Big Hatch a small taste of something he didn't really have, and could never really own. It seemed to hint at something larger, something sweeter, that he would never have, no matter how hard he tried or how much money he paid.
With a muffled whimper, Hatch buried his face in Jay's shoulder, and began to thrust more sharply, quickly, to a purpose. Hatch's body tensed and he felt the flowing rush that meant he was so very close. He stroked the silky sides of Jay's body, so unlike anything he'd felt before, and added to his other feelings Hatch felt incredibly surreal. This slim, dark, beautiful man who could have anyone that he wanted, what was he doing here, in this place, in this filthy bathroom on a windy night out by the highway, in the middle of nowhere? What was he doing with someone like... well, someone like Big Hatch, anyway? And he was speaking before he knew what he was going to say.
"Jay..." Hatch gasped. "Why... are you here?"
"Came over... when I was eleven," Jay panted, his breaths being pushed out of him as Hatch pushed himself in. "With my mom... from the Republic. She died... I do what I can."
The accent, Hatch thought. He thought I was asking about the accent. Jay had actually thought enough of Hatch to tell him his family history... well part of it, but part-of was more than Hatch had had from anyone in a long, long time. As much optimism as pleasure rushed through his body as he came, crying out as every muscle deliciously clenched and released.
Hatch heaved a deep, contented sigh, and absently reached up to touch Jay's face. He blinked as his hand was shoved aside. He quickly pulled his softening penis free as he backed away from the quivering young man. Jay sniffed, and Hatch was shocked at what he saw when Jay turned around at last. It wasn't his dick, which was still half hard; it was the way his brow was crinkled, the way the corners of his mouth turned down. He looked utterly different than the cocky young man who'd approached him out in the windy night. In this small, dirty room, he looked frail and sad, and Jay sniffed again.
"Are you crying?" Hatch shifted slightly back toward Jay. His belt buckle clanged dully against the dirty tile floor, the scratched and chipped image of the clasped hands scraping through the muck.
"Fuck you, I don't cry," Jay glared. Soft, shining black streaks of mascara trailed limply from eyes that were angry and wet.
"But you are," Hatch said, a trace of wonder in his voice. He couldn’t understand what had brought on such a change in the young man. He reached out and touched Jay, his fingertip barely brushing one of the dark trails.
Jay flung up his arm, knocking Hatch's hand away from his face. "Go," he said harshly. "You got what you want from me, what you paid for, yes, now go away from me."
Hatch felt as if he'd been slapped, the same sort of sharp pain followed by numbness. He slowly pulled off the condom, leaving a dark fingerprint of wet mascara on the latex, and threw it in the wastebasket in the corner. He pulled his pants up, doing the button and then the zipper, but leaving the belt buckle hanging loose. He picked up his hat, and he hesitated. "If I hurt you..."
"GO!" Jay said. He avoided Hatch's eyes, adjusting his pants over his half-hard cock. He swiped at the black streaks on his face angrily. "Just, just go, okay?"
Hatch nodded, resignation filling him more fully than any pleasure had. He'd hurt him. Jay hadn't meant to tell him anything about his history. It had been a mistake. Hell, it was probably a lie, something he thought Hatch wanted to hear, something to get him off quicker and get it all over with faster.
"Thank you." Hatch cringed inside as he spoke. What a horribly inadequate statement. It couldn't begin to express how much the moment's peace had meant to Hatch. And it was pointless to say anything anyway, because tonight meant nothing to Jay but the hundred dollars he'd been given.
Jay didn't respond, nor did he look up. Hatch turned and walked toward the door.
"Jiri," a soft, accented voice floated from behind him. Hatch stopped, holding his breath. "That's my name."
Hatch wanted to turn around, wanted to say something, wanted to hug this man named Jiri and take him out for coffee and a hot meal and see that he had a warm bed to sleep in where he wouldn't have to worry about being thrown out into the windy night to look for more tricks. All that feel-good Lifetime movie shit and it was a great idea and would make him a wonderful person and rack up big points in heaven so that when he got to the Pearly Gates Saint Peter would say "Hey there, Big Hatch isn't it? Says here in the books that you tried to save an Unfortunate, didn't work of course, you can't save people from the life they choose, but kudos for the effort, welcome home buddy!" It might even make up for what he'd bought and paid for tonight, but Hatch didn't move.
He was suddenly very, very tired. He was tired of handing over money to stand in a dirty bathroom, thanking a stranger for a moment that was somehow meant to be more than that. He was tired of the same truck stop over and over and over again, no matter how far he drove or which direction he went. He was tired of the trucks, tired of the road, tired of the dark and tired of seeking within it something that simply was not there, and would never appear in a welcome flash of light. Most of all, he was too tired to spend the night in this place.
And so he clenched his fist, crushing the brim of his hat in the process, opened the door, and left.
As the diesel engine roared its way into the higher gears, Hatch stared into the blackness of the night. The radio was silent. The CB was silent. Only the engine and the hum of the tires on the road could be heard, and his own slow, deep breathing. The yellow blocks of paint dividing the lanes of the highway streaked out of nothingness, leaping into sight and flaring brightly in the beams of the truck, before disappearing just as quickly beneath the wheels, to be seen again not by him, but by whoever would come next. Sometimes they blurred into a single unbroken line, if one went fast enough and squinted just the right way, but it was just an illusion. Slow down, and the lines would break off into lonely pieces, just as they had always been.
Hatch did not slow down. He set his speed at sixty five miles per hour and drove east, chasing the dawn.
"Derian," he said suddenly to the quiet, darkened cab. "My name is Derian."
***
