North's CYOA 1

I can't believe we're already at the end of Soft Launch! I loved writing Sam and Gray's story, and I'm pretty sure we'll see more of them in the future.

Before we jump into The Lipstick Flip (which is about Howie Cartwright, AKA Cart, from The First Quarto), we're going to take a break and have some fun. Last year, we did a "Choose Your Own Adventure"-type story called "Colt and Ash's Spring Break," and it was a blast. I'm excited to try something similar this year with a CYOA-type story for our very own North McKinney. (Still working on a title 😂)

Every week, you’ll receive a new installment. Patrons at any level will then have the opportunity to vote on what North will do next. Then I’ll write the next section, send it out, and so on.

Without further ado, here's North!

1

It was dark, and between one hill and the next, North McKinney lost the car hauler.

“Fuck me,” he said, and he dropped his foot on the gas.

Tonight’s car was a Ford Fusion, because the GNX was too noticeable. Not that North was expecting anyone to notice. Not that anyone should have been paying attention to one more car on I-70. But Shaw wouldn’t stop cracking jokes about the Vadermobile, so North had rented the Fusion just to shut him up.

And even though the Fusion wasn’t engineered like the GNX, the speedometer began to climb. North switched lanes, passing cars on his right as he cleared the next hill.

Ahead of him, darkness.

No taillights.

Nothing.

What the actual fuck?

He was going ninety. The Fusion sounded like it was whistling, and the full-but-one pack of American Spirits was rattling in the cupholder.

One because he was quitting.

Eventually.

This year.

It was a process.

A very slow fucking process.

When he crested the next hill—

Nothing.

Again.

Like one of those fucking David Copperfield magic tricks, like making the Statue of Liberty vanish. Only it was the redneck Missouri version, and they’d done it with a car hauler instead.

And because the love of his life had perfect fucking timing, at that moment, a call came in over the car’s Bluetooth.

“Busy,” North said when he answered.

“Hi, North.”

There hadn’t been any exits. There hadn’t been any truck stops or weigh stations. Fuck, there was nothing out here except trees and asphalt.

“Remember how we were talking about launching an anti-bullying program for that subreddit about guys who want bigger, um, endowments?”

“Did you hear me when I said, ‘Busy’?”

“Well, yes, but I thought maybe that was in more of an ontological sense.”

Ahead, North spotted an emergency crossover. “It wasn’t.”

“But it might have been.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“But you can see how I might have assumed—”

“Shaw, for the love of God, what?”

Braking. The Fusion shaking. A hot-metal smell, and the ping of loose rocks against the undercarriage, and then tires slewing as he took the turn a little too fast. Because this wasn’t the Vadermobile.

God fucking damn it, now Shaw had it in his head.

“Well, I was thinking, what if we called it ‘More than a Shaft’?"

“Sure,” North said. His headlights flashed on the sign that said EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY. He checked right—more empty highway—and pulled out.

“Like the old Dressbarn thing, ‘More than a size.’ Which would actually be perfect, but I don’t know if we can use it, because what if they copyrighted it? Trademarked it? Which one would it be, North? A copyright or a trademark?”

“Uh huh.”

“But I think mine works too because men are more than just a shaft.”

“Hmm.”

“Even if that shaft has, like, a weird bump, or it looks kind of like a cigar, or it has a really sharp bend in the middle.”

North made a sound he hoped would suggest he was still listening.

“Like, sometimes it looks like it might even be ninety degrees.”

“Sounds good. I’m kind of dealing with something here.”

A heartbeat.

“Did you lose him?”

North pressed the button to end the call.

There was even less traffic in the other direction. That was good, because North was scanning the sides of the highway, trying to figure out where the hauler might have pulled off. But he didn’t see anything—no security lights, no parking lots, no businesses, no exits, nothing.

He gave it three miles and flipped around at the next emergency crossover. Instead of pulling out onto the highway again, though, he made himself sit for a moment.

Where the fuck had he gone?

Logic. Using his fucking brain instead of running around trying to grab his ass with both hands. He’d seen the hauler less than—a quick check of the clock on the display—ten minutes ago.

Anybody could disappear in ten minutes.

He squashed the thought, took out a cig—full-but-two now—and opened the Fusion’s door. The put-put of the engine was louder, and the cold air made the hairs on his arms stand up. The smells of spring. And what he was starting to think was a bad blower motor.

Roll a spark, one good drag, blow the smoke out—up and away, because of course there was a deposit on the rental.

A little less tightness behind his eyes.

A little less of that feeling like he wanted to scratch off his skin.

And then he said under his breath, “Fuck me,” and took out his phone.

He pinched and zoomed on the Maps app until he saw it: a rest area a mile and a half west of where he was sitting. And when he tapped on it, the Maps app informed him the rest area was permanently closed.

He took two more deep puffs, butted out the cig, and tucked it into the pack to finish later. After he found this motherfucker.

The rest area was almost invisible from the highway. Thick brush grew along the side of the road, screening it from passersby, and although the turnoff was still there, barriers were lined up across it. At night, driving fast, they were just more concrete—a gleam under headlights, and then gone a second later. You wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary unless you knew it was there.

North slowed as he approached the turnoff. Now that he was looking for it, he could see that the barrier only partially blocked the road—it would have been a tight squeeze for the hauler, but not impossible. He pulled around the barrier and started down the weed-choked road beyond. His hand hovered next to the switch, and after a moment, he killed the headlights. It took him another moment of indecision before he humped what remained of the cub, tucked the Fusion behind more of that thick brush, and cut the engine.

He sat there, letting his eyes adjust.

He asked himself if this idea was as stupid as it seemed.

Probably.

When he got out of the car, the night had gotten colder, and the wind was in his hair. He pulled on a hoodie that he kept for situations like this and pulled up the hood. Black hoodie. Dark jeans. He wasn’t in a fucking ghillie suit, but it was the best he could do.

He picked his way through the tall grass toward the rest area. Everything seemed to make too much noise: the swish of the grass, twigs snapping underfoot, the way his clothing rasped when he caught his elbow on some sort of bush. He listened for voices, the sound of an engine, anything human. All he could hear was the wind.

And then he stepped around another bush, and there it was: a stretch of cracked blacktop, the silhouettes of buildings, and the hauler. The back of the hauler was open, and a car was parked on the hauler’s loading ramp. More cars were spread out across parking lot, as though they’d been quickly unloaded and left wherever was convenient. The cab of the hauler was dark. The rest area buildings were dark.

Had he pulled off to sleep?

That didn’t make any sense; there were plenty of places a driver could sleep a lot more safely.

What about getting his dick sucked?

Well, that seemed a little more likely, but—here? Not just the fact that the place was abandoned and creepy as fuck, but it was also the exact geographic asshole of nowhere. Maybe guys who were into bad shit. Shit they didn’t want to get caught doing.

But even if that were the case, why unload the cars?

Answer: because you were doing some shady shit of your own.

North was trying to figure out what that might be when a shadow broke away from the other side of the parking lot and sprinted toward the hauler. The darkness was too deep to make out the details, but North thought it had to be a man: the shape, the size. Without missing a beat, the man jumped onto hauler’s loading ramp and yanked open the door of the car.

The ’63 Impala.

The one that belonged to North’s client.

“Oh fuck no,” North said and started across the lot.

He didn’t run. Running was for people who couldn’t plan their own fucking lives well enough so that they didn’t have to run. Running was for all those assholes in Forest Park. Like you couldn’t get plenty of good cardio exercise living a normal life: working on your car, doing yardwork, fucking your boyfriend’s brains out.

The man on the hauler was halfway inside the car. The dome light was on, but it was too weak to show North anything. Was he looking for something? Or was he putting something in the car that wasn’t supposed to be there?

North thought he’d ask him. Nicely.

He reached the hauler about twenty seconds before the man weaseled out of the car and dropped to the ground. He landed in a crouch and started to straighten.

And that was when North put a knee in his back.

Breath exploded out of the man’s lungs. He staggered forward, and North followed, twisting the man’s jacket for a better grip, jamming him against the ramp.

Or, that was how it was supposed to go.

Because as the man staggered, and North—understandably, automatically—leaned forward so that he wouldn’t lose his grip on the jacket, an elbow flew back toward his head.

He saw it coming, but not soon enough. He pulled back, and that saved him from having his block knocked off, but the elbow still connected with enough force to make North’s vision fill with sparks. The man pivoted, breaking North’s hold, and kicked. It should have taken North right in the nuggets, but North was already moving in, barreling into the other man—not quite a tackle, and not quite a bear hug, but enough force and momentum to carry both of them to the ground.

They rolled twice.

The man got a jab in under North’s ribs.

North wheezed, caught the man by the ear, and tried to rip it off.

That time, the man screamed.

But he got free. And they rolled again.

The man reared back, trying to disengage. North clawed at the man’s shirt, trying to keep hold of him.

And then the man said—in a familiar voice that was half-fury and half-shock—“North?”

North’s vision was still tunneled. But something about the shape of the man. Something about the voice—

“Are you fucking kidding me?” North asked.

And Luka Meer, St. Louis’s other gay private investigator, said, “Hey, buddy.” He rubbed the side of his head. “You really got me with the ear thing.”

“What the fuck are you—”

A door crashed open, and a man’s voice carried clearly on the night air. “—heard something.”

“Well,” Luka said. “Darn.”

“Pull up your fucking drawers and get off me,” North snapped. “They’re coming.”

“This way,” Luka said, tipping his head in the direction he’d come from.

“No,” North growled. “This way.”

North and Luka need to hide! Does North go with Luka? Or does Luka go with North? Patrons will decide tomorrow!