BROKEN

By Wes Leigh

 

This is a work of fiction intended solely for the entertainment of my readers; any resemblance to any real people or places is purely coincidental. Readers who would like to chat are encouraged to contact me at weston.leigh@protonmail.com.

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Chapter Four

 

I have the strangest day at school, stranger than any I've ever had before.

It starts out with me sitting quietly at my desk. I don't raise my hand to answer questions. I can't. My arms and shoulders are stiff and sore. Mr. Jacoby and Mrs. Greenwich look at me like I have been visited by body-snatchers in the night who replaced my body with a doppelganger. I still know the answers, and I speak up when they call on me, but I'm not eager to hold my hand in the air. It hurts too much!

The other kids whisper about me behind my back. Apparently, I am being more weird than usual, and it doesn't take long for the whole school to begin talking about it. I am standing at my locker, gritting my teeth as I lift a heavy textbook out of my backpack, when I overhear two kids talking around the corner. One tells the other that I threatened to break the legs of the kid who sat next to me on the bus when he didn't move over fast enough to let me sit down. I laugh to myself. That's a good one.

In PE, I can't throw the dodgeball at all. I'm normally incompetent, but today I'm pathetic. Coach calls me over and demands an explanation.

"My brother Carson is teaching me to lift weights," I explain. "We worked on my arms and shoulders last night."

"What did you do?" Coach asks, so I demonstrate each of the routines Carson showed me, although it hurts to move my arms.

Coach asks how much weight I was using, how many repetitions I did, and how long we worked out. I answer all his questions, and he nods approvingly. "Carson knows what he's doing. Listen to him, and he'll get you in shape in no time." And for the rest of the period, Coach excuses me from dodgeball and has me doing light calisthenics instead. To loosen up my sore muscles. When I finish, he sends me to the shower early, so I don't have to endure the stares and jokes from my classmates. The hot water feels amazing!

At lunch, I sit alone at a table in the cafeteria, eating my extra sandwich. Thanks, Momma. Sitting alone isn't itself unusual, but what is abnormal is how no one tries to knock over my milk, kick my chair, or make rude noises behind my back.

Carson shows up when I'm finishing my lunch. "How's it been going, Squirt?" he asks as he slides into his seat across the table from me.

I swallow the delicious bite of pie I'm munching on. "Good."

"Arms feeling better."

Nodding, I say, "Sore but I can move now. Coach had me do calisthenics in PE instead of dodgeball."

Carson smiles and nods. "Nice."

Two more seniors from the football team set their food trays on the table and sit next to me and Carson.

"Heard Carson is teaching you to work out," one says as he opens his milk carton.

I nod, too scared to talk.

The other puts his hand on my neck and squeezes gently. "Gonna get you in shape, little dude!"

I grimace. My neck is still sore.

"Oh. Still hurting?" he asks, moving his hand away.

I smile and say, "A little. But it's getting better."

The first guy nods. "Pain is the price you pay, little brother. It's gonna be worth it."

The bell rings, and I have to go, but I see all the other eight graders staring at me. Their mouths are hanging open in shock because I've been eating with three SENIORS who all play FOOTBALL! They must be thinking, `What the ...! He really did get replaced with a doppelganger in the night!'

I'm thinking, `Thanks, Carson. Best big brother ever!'

͠ ͠ ͠

The rest of the day is a blur. I'm especially eager to get free from the Black Hole We Call School, because tonight Carson is going to help me work on my legs. I admit part of me is scared. I don't want my legs to hurt as bad as my arms did all day today. But my stomach is also churning with excitement, anticipating spending time with my brother and making my legs stronger.

School ends. The bus ride home takes far too long, even with Toby sitting next to me. No naughty games today; just Toby's constant chatterbox conversation all the way home. A few chores to do ... bringing animals in for the night, giving them some food, tossing out grain for the chickens ... then it's off to the barn where Carson tortures my legs for an hour. I love it.

Carson must be backing off slightly, because when we finish, my legs aren't quite as wobbly. While I'm taking my shower after the work out, Carson explains what my core muscles are. Stomach and back mostly. He tells me those will be our focus tomorrow, then we'll rest over the weekend and start over again on Monday. He has a whole routine planned out for next week, and I can tell he's excited to show me. I'm excited too, and I tell him, "Thanks, Carson," about a million times.

I even give him a hug when I get out of the shower. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm wet and naked. He hugs me back, strips off his underwear, and slides past me into the shower to take his turn.

I dry off, thinking, `Who knew that being tortured by your brother could be so much fun?'

͠ ͠ ͠

I hate working on my core.

Stomach crunches. Leg lifts. Planks. And something weird called a Turkish Get Up, where Carson has me holding a dumbbell up in the air while I'm lying down, then stand to my feet, holding the dumbbell above my head the entire time. After ten of those, I'm hurting again.

Carson thinks maybe my legs are the strongest muscles in my body, probably because I'm very active helping out around the farm. My arms and my core are the weakest parts, so we'll have to do more to get them in shape. And that means more pain.

I don't complain. I want this. I want to get stronger and look like Carson. But I'm also glad it's the weekend and I get two days off.

͠ ͠ ͠

Carson and I are finishing up in the stalls, mucking them out, late on Saturday morning, when we hear a vehicle pulling up next to the house.

To get to our house, you first drive down a lane that's about a half mile long. Poppa planted alfalfa in the front acreage that runs along the lane, and we harvest the alfalfa to feed the animals, selling any extra we have to other farms to make a little money. Once you travel down the lane past the alfalfa fields, you're at the house. There's a big looping drive that goes all the way around the house, and a huge grassy yard in front and a greenhouse and vegetable and herb gardens in back and trees all around the house. The driveway circles everything, like a big looping road. There are lots of places you can park, but you don't want to park under the trees because of birds. Splat! The looping driveway around the house is extra wide so there's plenty of room to maneuver tractors and harvesters and other massive farm machinery. We park everything over next to the barn where there's a large propane tank for fueling them up. Then you drive past the house to get to more alfalfa fields, or you can go the other direction to get to the grass pastures farther back. The barn itself is huge, with lots of room for storing baled hay and sacks of grain and feed and gear and workout benches for making enormous muscles, haha. Next to the barn are the stables where we keep the animals at night. Past the stables are the pastures where the animals eat during the day. That's pretty much it. Oh, I almost forgot. Just beyond the pastures, the ground begins to slope down toward the river. We own some land down there, next to the river and on the other side of it, so I guess we own part of the river too. The ground is very sandy down there, so it's great for growing melons and cantaloupes, but Poppa wants to try sowing bermuda grass there and see how well it grows with the river flowing next to it.

So ... I was saying that Carson and I are in the stables, mucking out the last stall, when we hear the crunching sound of tires rolling slowly along in the gravel driveway that runs around our house. We peek out and see an old, beat-up pickup coming to a stop. The driver's door opens, and a young guy climbs out. He's dressed in blue jeans and a light blue shirt and a black cowboy hat. He looks around in our direction, and Carson and I duck back inside the stall, laughing. I don't know why we're being so goofy. This is obviously the new guy Poppa hired.

We peek out again and the man is walking up to the front door. The door opens before he gets there, and Momma and Poppa come out. They shake hands and talk for a minute. Momma goes back in the house, and Poppa leads the man toward the barn, pointing out things here and there, headed our way. We hurry up and finish shoveling up the last of the muck. Carson picks up the wheelbarrow and muscles it out of the stall, while I spread fresh straw all around.

"My boys are working in the stables," Poppa says as they come around the corner. "Carson. Truman. I want you to meet Monty McDowell, our hired hand for the summer."

Carson sets the wheelbarrow down and walks around it to shake Monty's outstretched hand. "I'm Carson. Nice to meet you, Mr. McDowell."

"Hello, Carson. Just call me Monty. No one calls me Mr. McDowell." Monty chuckles as he shakes Carson's hand. Then he turns toward me and he stops chuckling. The smile disappears from his face and a panicked expression replaces it.

Did I do something wrong? I stretch out my hand.

He tosses his head from side to side, as if he's trying to clear out a bad thought, then reaches carefully for my hand. We shake, quickly, and he drops my hand as soon as he can, leaving me once again feeling I've messed up somehow.

Dad notices the awkwardness between us. He glances at me and then Monty, frowns, and says, "Truman will be your helper for the summer. I'd like you to teach him as much as you can about training horses."

Monty swallows convulsively and nods. "Yes, sir."

Dad looks at me. I shrug and say, "I like working with horses, so I'm excited to learn whatever you can teach me." It's kind of like what I said to Mr. Jacoby at the beginning of the year the first day in math class. The other kids thought I was sucking up to Mr. Jacoby when I said it, which is probably true, but it made him smile to hear it. I hope Monty will feel the same and smile at me instead of frowning. I still can't figure out what I've done to upset him.

Monty looks around nervously and asks, "Where are the horses? I guess I should see the animals I'll be working with."

Poppa puts one hand on my shoulder and says, "Why don't you show Monty around? Take him down to the pasture first and let him look over the stock. Then show him the stables and the bunkhouse. When you're finished, bring him to the house. Momma should have lunch ready soon."

"Yes, Poppa," I reply. I lean my rake against the stable wall and start walking toward the back gate. "This way."

Monty turns to Carson and says, "Good to meet you, Carson. I'll enjoy working with all of you."

I guess that includes me, but somehow, I don't think so. I'm starting to feel broken again, and I don't know why.

͠ ͠ ͠

Monty and I are leaning on the fence. Actually, he's leaning. I'm standing on the bottom rail and leaning on the top one. That puts my head at the same height as Monty's. He's tall, a little taller than Carson, but not as muscular, which surprises me a little. I thought a guy who breaks horses would have to be a lot stronger, like Carson maybe, but Monty is tall and almost skinny. He does have muscles, from what I've seen sneaking peeks at his body, but not huge muscles like my brother.

Monty has dark, black hair. And sparkling green eyes. With a name like McDowell, I thought he'd be Scottish with red hair. At least he has the green eyes, so maybe his dad is Scottish and married a French lady or something. Who else has black hair? Oh, maybe it was a Russian. Maybe his dad is a spy like James Bond, and he met a brunette Russian spy lady while he was disabling nuclear warheads and they fell in love and had Monty. You see, I don't read just science fiction. I like spy stories too.

Monty interrupts my daydreaming by saying, "Good confirmation."

I frown in confusion. "Huh?" Yeah, it's not the most intelligent thing I've ever said.

He points at the horses. "Good stock. Does your father bring in outside studs for his mares?"

"Oh, ummm, yeah. Last year, he paid a guy to mate our mares. I mean, uhhh, he paid a guy to bring his horse to mate our mares. The guy didn't do it. His horse did." I know I'm turning bright red and I wish I could shut my mouth and never open it again.

Monty is having a hard time not laughing at me. Finally, he gives up and laughs out loud, shaking his head. He claps me on the shoulder and says, "You're a funny guy, Truman. You know that?"

I'm not trying to be funny, but I am glad about one thing. Whatever I did to upset Monty earlier, he seems better. Maybe we can get along now?

I smile and say, "Thanks." I hope it won't upset him, but now that we seem to be getting along okay, I have to know something, so I ask, "Monty, when we first met ... did I do something wrong?"

He looks at me, possibly scared, perhaps simply nervous. It's hard for me to tell. He looks away almost immediately and says, "No. You didn't do anything."

"Then ... why did you look at me so funny?"

"You noticed that, huh?"

"Yeah. I thought I upset you somehow."

He shakes his head quickly. "No. Nothing you did. Just, ummm, you reminded me of someone I knew a long time ago, and I was a little confused for a second."

"Who was it?"

Monty looks at me, this time with the saddest face I've ever seen. He tries to smile, but I can see it's a real struggle. "Can we talk about something else?" he asks.

"Sure." I don't want him to be sad or upset or angry at me. "What do you want to talk about?"

He looks back at the horses and is silent for a minute. Then he grins and asks, "Are you named after an uncle or something?"

"Oh, uhhh, no. I don't think so."

He frowns. "Truman's an unusual name. Don't think I've ever met anyone named Truman. Thought maybe you had an uncle or grandfather you were named after."

I shrug. "Momma and Poppa never told me why they decided on Truman."

"Maybe they just liked the president."

I think for a second, then realize he's talking about Harry S. Truman. He might be right. I'll have to ask my parents sometime, but now that I think about it, I'm glad they didn't name me Harry. I'd hate that. The kids would be saying crap like, `Harry isn't very hairy.' Ugh.

"Where'd you get your name?" I ask.

"Monty?"

"Yeah."

"Well," he explains, "It's just a nickname."

"Short for Montgomery?"

He frowns and asks, "What makes you say that?"

Uh oh. I hope I haven't messed up again. I stutter and reply, "Well, uhhh, Monty is usually short for Montgomery, and your last name is McDowell, so if your family came from Ireland or Scotland, Montgomery would be a popular name."

He thinks about that for a bit and smiles. "You're a smart kid, aren't you, Truman?"

I shrug and say nothing, so he continues. "No, it's not short for Montgomery. It's short for Montana. And before you ask, no, my name isn't Montana either. That's where I'm from, and I've always gone by Monty or Montana. I'm not telling you what my real name is." He grins, almost challenging me.

I take the bait. "What's your real name?"

"Didn't I just say I'm not telling you?" he asks, but I can tell he isn't mad. He's teasing me now.

I squint and say, "My middle name is Nathaniel. It makes me sound like a rich, stuck-up snob, so I never use it. How bad can your name be?"

He smirks and replies, "Bad. Very bad."

I punch his arm playfully. "Tell me."

He groans and grabs his shoulder, pretending I've hurt him. "Alright, just stop beating me up." He pauses dramatically and says, "Tristan. I was named after my great-uncle Tristan."

"So? What's wrong with Tristan."

"Nothing, I guess. Except sometimes girls are called Tristan. The other guys gave me a hard time about it, so it was easier to tell everyone my name is Montana. No one messes with a guy named Montana." He smiles at me, and I notice his eyes seem to sparkle even brighter when he smiles. Monty is very handsome.

"We'd better head back," I say. "Momma probably has lunch waiting for us. I'll finish showing you around the place after we eat."

͠ ͠ ͠

Monty is amazed by the good cooking. Momma giggles every time he compliments her on the food, especially her fresh, homemade bread. He says it's the best bread west of the Mississippi. He's right. Actually, the best in the Milky Way Galaxy, but I don't correct him. We're getting along a lot better now, and I don't want to mess it up.

After lunch, I show him around the house first, starting in the big front room with the fireplace, two couches, and Poppa's recliner that no one else is allowed to sit in, with the small table next to it where he keeps his pipe and the tobacco that smells so sweet when he smokes it. Next, I point out Momma's and Poppa's bedroom, just off the front room, but we don't go in there. Then we head up the stairs leading to our bedrooms and bathroom. I don't take him in Mattie's room, `cause I don't want to be slaughtered, but I do take him in my room. He looks around and nods, like it's what he'd expect for a teenage kid like me. I take him to the window and show him the greenhouse and garden down below and the honeysuckle vines climbing up next to my window. He takes a deep breath and smiles.

"I bet these smell great in the Summer when there's a fresh breeze blowing through your window."

How'd he know I like to keep my window open at night?

I nod and take him downstairs and out to the barn. I show him where we store everything. He notices the weight bench and asks if Carson works out.

"Actually. I do. Carson is helping me to build my muscles."

He looks at me kind of funny and says, "That's good. Working with the horses will do that too. You should be plenty strong at the end of the summer."

Hey, maybe Monty and Carson can both help me with my muscles. Two big brothers making me huge and strong. That would be great!

Monty has already seen the stables and pastures, so there's only one more place to show him. The bunkhouse. It's off to one side, separate from the main house. It's sparkling clean because Momma and Mattie gave it a fresh scrubbing just last week. There are four beds, two on each side, and a shower and toilet in the back.

Monty looks around and grins. "I guess I get my choice of beds," he says.

I point to one on the right. "I wouldn't use that one. It squeaks when you roll over."

"Oh? How do you know that?" he asks.

"Carson and I slept out here a few times. Just for fun. He chose that bed, and it was squeaking really loud until he finally stopped moving around." Suddenly, I realize why the bed was probably squeaking that night, and I turn bright red.

Monty presses his lips together and tries not to laugh. "I'll remember that," he says, tossing his hat on a bed on the left. Turning to me, he asks, "You wanna help me get my stuff out of my truck?"

I nod, walking quickly toward the door. I wish I could ask Carson if he was doing what I think he was doing that night when the bed was squeaking so loud, but it would be way too embarrassing. I rush out of the bunkhouse and trot over to Monty's pickup, hoping the chunkiness in my jeans goes down quickly. With my body pressed against the truck, I look in the back and see a couple of duffle bags and a few boxes, taped shut. I grab a box and try to lift it out, groaning. It's heavy.

Monty places a hand on my shoulder. "Hold up, big man. I'll get that." He lifts the box out, and even for him, it's a strain.

"Why is it so heavy?" I ask.

"Books, mostly."

"You like to read?"

"Sure do."

"What kind of books," I ask.

He shrugs. "I'll show you in a minute." He points at one of the duffle bags. "I think you can handle that. It's mostly clothes."

I can. The duffle bag isn't as heavy as the sacks of grain I have to lift during morning feedings. I lift it by the strap and swing it around to my back, then follow Monty to the bunkhouse.

He sets the box on the floor next the bed. I toss the duffle bag on top of the bed. We head out for another load.

This time, I grab a box. It isn't as big as the first one, so I think I can manage it. I can, barely. My arms are straining, but I want to impress Monty. I don't know why, exactly, but I want him to like me. To really like me. He grabs the last duffle bag and a small case from the cab of the pickup.

He leads the way back to the bunkhouse, and I think to myself that he must have strong legs. His jeans are tight, and I can see the way his calves and thighs stretch out the fabric. His legs aren't as big as Carsons, but they're a lot bigger than mine.

We're not talking about squeaking beds, but it happens again. My dick starts to get hard. I don't know why. It happens at strange times, and it could be because the box I'm carrying is rubbing against it. I can't seem to control my own cock these days, so I'll just to have to wait for it to go down.

We walk into the bunkhouse and Monty tosses everything he's carrying onto an empty bed, then turns toward me and reaches out to take the box from me. Oh, crap. I can't let him see my boner. I hold onto the box a little tighter. Monty gets a puzzled look on his face, slides his hand underneath the box, as if he's trying to help me out. Maybe he thinks it's too heavy and I'm starting to drop it? His fingers brush against my boner. SHIT! His eyes get a little wider. He mumbles, "Here. Ummm, I'll take this." Now he's blushing. He takes the box from me, turns around, and sets it down on the floor next to the other box.

I cover my boner with my hands and sit down as fast as I can on the squeaky bed.

This is just fantastic. I want Monty to like me. I want to make a good impression. And instead, I'm shoving my boner into his hand. Perfect!

 

The end of BROKEN, Chapter Four