The rented Jeep Wrangler sputtered and died as Ben was approaching the base of the Vallecito Mountains northeast of Durango, Colorado, and, with a muttered "Shit," he guided the vehicle over to the side of the road. There wasn't any secret why the old Wrangler had died. It was out of gas. Ben had rented the car for the summer from a used car dealer down in Durango as soon as he'd arrived here. It had taken a while to figure out that the gas gauge was misleading. He'd fought with that all summer. Today, he'd been coming down from his uncle's place in the mountains to fill the Wrangler up, but he'd made a wrong turn, spent an hour getting back onto a road he recognized, and the gas hadn't held out.
With another curse, he grabbed the gas can from the floor in front of him, got out of the car, and, looking up at the hot sun and cursing that he'd come away just in jeans and boots and no shirt, he started the trudge down the mountain. He had no idea how far he'd have to walk on the side of the dusty road before he got to a gas station. He'd been filling up in Durango when he could and from his uncle's tank up on the mountain property most of the time, but he'd found out that morning that his uncle's tank was tapped out and wouldn't be refilled for a couple of more days.
Although well under six foot, Ben was built solid. He was in his second year in the football program at Penn State and had been sent out to his uncle Will's remote place in the Vallecito Mountains for the summer to toughen himself up more, trim down a little, and help Will with the renovations of the A-frame hanging on the side of a mountain slope that Will had bought. That done, he'd gone on to put in a fence around a horse paddock. By late July he'd accomplished his mission. He was deeply tanned, with blond highlights coaxed out of his hair by the sun. Through hard work, as planned, his torso had been cut to perfection, and his thigh and arm muscles were bulging. He'd run nearly every day, clocked by his uncle, and had cut several seconds off his mile. Having gained muscle and weight while trimming off excess fat and running time, he'd return to Penn State as a perfect scat back—fast, agile, and with a low center of gravity. The house renovations were done and the fence finished and half painted.
He'd be leaving to go back East in two weeks, and it couldn't be quick enough for Ben. The summer workout had been great and his goals met, and the dry summer climate of southwest Colorado and the perpetual sunshine and semiarid scenery of the San Juan mountains had been invigorating. But the isolation of the mountains and the company just being him and Uncle Will day in and day out had been frustrating. Ben had needs and in State College an older man, a rich Penn State alumni who owned a string of car dealerships, took care of Ben's needs—both financial and sexual. Here there was only Uncle Will, who Ben wasn't sure about in the sexual department. Will was quite presentable, but he was Ben's uncle. So he was taboo, serving more as a source of frustration than a help in Ben's summer of doing without.
Ben was keyed up and more than ready to get back into the grove and into Chas Engleston's bed in State College.
It was these thoughts of sexual frustration and ticking off the days until he had a man who could get him off that were droning through Ben's mind as he walked in the heat down the dusty edge of the road in the direction of Durango, more than twenty miles to the southwest, with little promise of a gas station before that. At least Ben couldn't remember having seen one when he'd driven down to Durango before.
Ben was brought out of his reverie by a beat-up old blue and rust Ford pickup passing him from behind and pulling over on the shoulder ahead of him, kicking up rocks and dust.
When Ben reached the passenger door of the truck, it opened, and the man at the wheel straightened back up in the seat and turned his face toward the passenger door. He was dark skinned; bare-chested, like Ben; chiseled-bodied, with straight, black hair cascading down to his shoulder blades; and worn faded cut-off jeans, dusty construction boots, and a black leather necklace, with a turquoise-studded amulet dangling between two bulging pectoral muscles. He was tattooed, the most prominent one being the wings of an eagle stretching across his upper chest. He was probably pushing forty but not too hard. The squint lines in his face reflected many hours working outside in the sun. He had a slightly Asian cast to his face, and his smile was guarded.
"You stranded?" he asked as Ben came up to the open door, scrunched down, and looked into the interior of the truck, which was in a lot better condition than the bodywork was.
"Ran out of gas," Ben answered, raising the gas can to back up his claim.
"That your Wrangler back there?"
"My rented pile of shit, yes," Ben answered. "The gas gauge lies."
The man laughed. "Climb in. I'll take you to a gas station. None close by, though. Put the can behind the seat."
"Thanks," Ben answered, slid into the passenger seat after depositing the gas can and closed the passenger door. "Thanks, man. Hot out there."
"Yep. Not a day to be walking out of the mountains without a shirt."
"No, that wasn't smart of me," Ben said.
"Maybe it was. It got you a ride," the man said. "You're one good-looking, cut dude. My name's Ed." He rushed in getting the name in, as if, once having given a signal, he gave Ben an excuse to ignore it if he wished and concentrate just on the name exchange. Ben caught the signal and didn't want to ignore it. He was sexually charged, and the man was sexy and gorgeous. There was an aspect of mystery about him—and danger. Ben had seen some Native Americans around this summer, and this guy could easily be one.
"I'm Ben. Just here for the summer, working for my uncle up in the Vallecito Mountains. Would you have stopped for me if you didn't think I looked good?"
The man turned his face to Ben and gave him a steady look. Ben returned the look. They were beginning to reach a mutual understanding of interests.
"No, probably not," the man admitted. He flashed a smile at Ben but then turned his attention back to the road, waiting for the next gambit, if there was going to be one.
Ben had been here before, done this before. "Nice country around here, but a little dull. I've been here all summer and haven't seen much action yet."
"Been down to Durango? That's about all the place there is for action around here. What sort of action were you looking for?"
"Well, clubs, bars. The sort of place a guy would go to be with other guys." There, Ben thought, it was out. It was up to this hunk to pick that up or not. After a short period of silence, he added, "But am I assuming badly? Did I say something that upsets you?"
"No, you asked just the right question . . . Ben. There's Colorow's down in Durango. That's a men's club. Just men. A hookup bar. I can vouch for that."
"Colorow's? What sort of name is that?"
"That's where the name of the state—Colorado—comes from. Colorow was a famous Ute chieftain. The name got corrupted into Colorado."
"A Ute chieftain? Is that what you are? Are you Ute? My uncle says there are a couple of big Ute reservations around here."
"Yes, I'm Ute," Ed answered. "The Southern Ute Indian Reservation covers most the territory south of here down to the border of New Mexico. I come from there. But I work on a ranch on the border of the reservation southeast of Durango."
"I've never been with a Native American before," Ben said.
"You mean you haven't been in bed with one before—a Native American man?"
"Yeah, I mean I've never been laid by one before." Might as well get the top-bottom issue sorted out, Ben thought.
"We have dicks just like every other man," Ed said. "In fact maybe bigger than most." Then he gave a dry laugh. He didn't follow that up immediately, as if maybe he'd gone too far—that maybe Ben wasn't signaling as clearly as Ed hoped he was and would ask him to stop the truck and would get out. But Ben didn't do that.
