Highland Gaymes

Excerpt From: Highland Gaymes

Shaw Fitzgerald was roused from sleep by his eldest brother, Brannon. “Five more minutes.”

“Take all the time you want. I just thought you’d like to know the games are about to begin.”

Shaw sat straight up and brushed the wayward curls from his face. “We’re in Riverside already?”

Brannon laughed, his deep voice vibrating Shaw’s chest. “We’ve been in Missouri since about two this morning, been parked since about four-thirty.”

Shaw swung his legs over the side of the bunk and jumped down. Someday, he wanted to sleep in a real bed, but for as long as he could remember his family had lived and worked out of one recreational vehicle after another.

“Anyone in the shower?”

“Nope. Ronan’s getting some much deserved sleep and Lachlann and Niall left about thirty minutes ago in search of a grocery store.

Before disappearing into the miniscule bathroom, Shaw turned back to his brother. “Thanks for waking me.”

Brannon waved him off. “I know how much you enjoy watching the competitions, though I guess I’ll never understand it. You’d think after seeing them all your life they’d start to get old.”

Shaw shut the bathroom door. He couldn’t tell Brannon or any of his brothers the real reason he’d become obsessed with watching the men compete. When he’d first realised he was gay, Shaw enjoyed ogling all the men, but recently, he’d set his sights on one in particular. Probably the straightest of the straight, Curt Macaula was the object of Shaw’s nightly fantasies.

He took his morning erection in hand and squeezed. As images of Curt’s six-foot-three-inch frame came to mind, Shaw stroked his cock. He’d always wondered what it would feel like to run his hands over the smooth, shaved skin of Curt’s head.

Just like every morning, it didn’t take long for his seed to rush from the end of his cock to the drain below. He gave himself a quick rinse and turned off the faucet. Stepping out of the shower was a bit like straddling the stool, but it was commonplace for Shaw.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked into the one and only bedroom, and over to the sink. Shaw studied his chin in the mirror. At the age of twenty-one, he still only had a handful of whiskers, he’d be better off plucking them he knew, but he shaved daily nonetheless.

Keeping quiet so as not to wake his sleeping brother, he made his way back into the main room of the RV, hoping he had a clean summer-weight kilt to put on. Instead of the Fitzgerald blue he wore when playing in the band with his brothers, Shaw found his favourite black and tossed it on his bunk along with a black T-shirt.

He glanced out of the window to the thermometer mounted on the side of the RV and whistled. It wasn’t even nine o’clock and already the temperature sat at eighty-eight degrees. Instead of pulling out his black shorts and black knee socks, Shaw opted for a black jockstrap and flip flops.

After dressing, he ran his fingers through his drying curls and grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge along with his binoculars. He was almost out the door before he remembered sunscreen. With a sigh, he set the water down and looped the binocular strap around his neck before slathering himself with the thick lotion. How did I get so lucky as to inherit Mom’s auburn hair and fair skin?

Not for the first time, he wondered why he was so different from his brothers. All four of them were not only much bigger, but dark haired and brown eyed. Standing on stage next to them always left Shaw feeling inadequate. At only five-seven, he was known around the circuit as Baby Boy Fitzgerald. A name he detested.