Saturday, April 03, 2010

Vindaloo and the T-bird by Sarah Black

Vindaloo and the T-Bird by Sarah  Black

Read an excerpt

Vindaloo and the T-Bird

by Sarah Black
cover art by Bryan Keller
ISBN: 978-1-59596-690-2
Genre(s): Guilty Pleasures
Theme(s): Gay and Lesbian
Length: Novella

Race made a mistake when he walked away from Vin, the kind of mistake there is no fixing. But when he saw the old T-Bird on the sales lot, he started to wonder. If he could convince Vin to help him, they could bring something beautiful back to life that was nearly damaged beyond repair. And maybe he could repair the heart he broke while they were saving the old T-Bird.
Vindaloo and the T-Bird
Sarah Black
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2010 Sarah Black

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
She was a ramshackle beauty, an old Thunderbird, aquamarine with a white porthole hardtop and a turquoise leather interior. Race wanted her bad. He'd been on his bike, riding home after work, and the little car had been sitting on the corner sales lot, Main and 13th Street. She hadn't been there when he'd ridden in to work that morning.
"This baby has been kept garaged, my friend, only two owners, and she's ready for a body-off restoration. You want to check the numbers on the engine?"
The salesman was talking too fast, and Race was starting to suspect he knew even less about T-Birds, if that was possible, than Race did himself. "Does it run?"
The salesman laughed, tugged up the waistband of his trousers. The buttons on his shirt were straining over a round little potbelly. "You don't buy old T-Birds to drive. Have you ever been on the classic car circuit? Those old boys would wet their pants to see this cherry little car, ready for resto. Only twenty-four thousand, my friend, and that's a steal, and I'm giving you a steal because she just hit the lot an hour ago. You're the first person to check her out." The salesman eyed his bike. "And you look like a man who needs a car."
Race shook his head. "I don't need a car," he said. "I commute on my bike. I just wanted to look, really. These old Thunderbirds, they sure are..." He didn't know what he wanted to say.
The salesman understood him, and dropped some of his huckster. "Yeah," he said, resting a hand gently on the battered top. "They sure are. Everything that came after this was just trying to be as cool as a T-Bird. Listen, if you're really thinking about taking this car home, maybe you better get your mechanic to look it over, talk to you about what it'll take to do a decent restoration."
"That's a good idea," Race said, shaking his hand. "You're right, I don't know anything about cars. But I do know a mechanic."
The salesman slapped him on the shoulder. "You go find your man and bring him out here pronto, my friend. She won't last long."
Race studied the little car again. She had a long bench seat and the biggest, roundest steering wheel he had ever seen. He remembered the night of his high school graduation, his grandfather's '48 Ford pickup, the long bench seat. He had climbed in the truck with Danny Peters, punched in the cigarette lighter on the dashboard and pulled out a couple of smokes. When the lighter popped out, it startled them both, because Race had been staring into tender brown eyes, had been watching the wild rose color flood Danny's cheeks. Since that night he had loved the taste of damp male skin on Ford leather, couldn't get anywhere near an old bench seat without his cock giving a thud in his jeans. "How about I give you five hundred bucks, and you hold it until I get back?"
The salesman looked startled, but he agreed, and after they concluded the deal Race climbed back on his bike and headed home. It was Tuesday, and he thought he might stop in at Yen Ching for some potstickers. He was a regular there, and they took good care of him. Jeffrey, his usual waiter, had a bit of a crush on him. Race appreciated his soft voice and gentle hands, and the admiring glances out of big eyes the color of caramels. But he'd never slept with Jeffrey. He didn't want to ruin a good thing, and he was, after all, a regular. Yen Ching was just a block from his apartment at the old Idaho Building, one of the original buildings in downtown Boise. From his apartment he could bike to work at St. Luke's, hit the bakery, the co-op, the coffee shop, the theater, or Yen Ching for Chinese.
He knew a mechanic, and his mechanic knew Thunderbirds. He had a vivid, uncomfortable flash of memory, Vin walking toward him, pulling his T-shirt over his head, his jeans already unbuttoned, flat brown stomach, smooth brown chest. The T-shirt he tossed on the floor said American Street Machines over the wide silver wings of a Thunderbird.
Shit. What had he just done?
Jeffrey brought him a pot of pale green Jasmine tea, and he sat back in the booth and brooded. He didn't need a car. He didn't even want a car. Especially not one that didn't run, and needed, what had the guy said? An off the body restoration? He lived downtown, with no place to park a car, or even clean one up. And he wasn't a man who was given to sudden crazy impulses.
But he was honest with himself, and he ignored Jeffrey's soft glances and stared at his reflection in the window. Maybe this was about Vin. He'd had a dream a couple of nights ago, so vivid and real he'd awoken with the sheets twisted wet between his thighs, his cock still spurting in his hand. He missed Vin so much some nights that it felt like his heart was weeping in his chest. There was the dream, and then this car appeared as if out of nowhere with those wide, silver wings on the trunk. Thunderbird.
Well, that was all over with. He didn't need that sort of trouble. Vin was, what, twenty-seven? And he was forty. When you were twenty-seven, you wanted to screw anything that moved. He understood that. The difference, he thought, lifting a potsticker to his mouth, was that Vin went down to the baths and screwed anything he wanted. When Race had been twenty-seven, he was studying, working, in the last year of his residency in eye surgery. He hadn't had time to screw around when he was young. And now he didn't have any interest.
He rubbed hard across his eyes. Okay, maybe there was more to it. The picture he really couldn't get out of his head was Vin leaning his long, curvy body up against the cool blue tiles of the sauna, his black hair curling in the damp heat, sticking to the skin of his back. And he had looked over his shoulder at Race, let two strangers put their hands on him, two good-looking guys his own age, let them slide their hands over brown skin Race had touched an hour earlier.
Race had stood up and walked out, and they hadn't seen each other since. And every day he wondered if he had blown the best chance he'd ever had.

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