Pretty Boy Hunting

When the feared locomotive arrives in the small town, Jet waits at the rundown station to discover the truth about the old iron horse that has long been feared by the townspeople.  Coming face to face with a mysterious man dressed all in black, he has a barrage of questions for the lone rider.  The quick tempered man is somewhat amused by Jet’s juvenile inquiries but the inquisition does not deter him from his secret mission.  Jet’s name is not on the list, but the man in black decides that he will be an amusing distraction.  With a little coercion, a friendly dare, and the offer of a train ride to a place he will never forget, the sexy man lures Jet inside.


******


Photographs of handsome men and beautiful women dressed in formal attire were mounted on the walls along with photographs of Dakta.  The photos of Dakta were breathtaking and they captured the man perfectly in everything from formal dress to completely nude.  Some of them showed a great deal of discretion, but others detailed everything.  Arousal showed in every part of him.  The dark brooding eyes were mesmerizing, but it was the body that was a work of art.  Dakta’s chest was broad and thick, tapering down to a well toned torso, nearly perfect, as if sculpted.  The long legs made Jet’s mouth water as he thought of them intertwined with his own.  He returned to the eyes, the intensity so great they appeared to be seeing into him from the photograph.


Dakta walked slowly toward him and placed a hand at the top of his jeans.  Jet jumped in surprise, but no harsh admonishing words were uttered.  “Worthy of an Ansel Adams signature?”


Wishing he had more education in the fine arts, Jet spoke softly, “Sure, why not?”


Dakta laughed and Jet felt like a child.  He had no idea who Ansel Adams was, and he felt small and insignificant next to this seemingly cultured man.


“Do you own this place?”


“No.  This ‘place’ belongs to Miles.”


******


The man known as Miles was as mysterious and brooding as Dakta, though it was difficult to tell the age of the older man.  He reached out to touch the dated print when a door opened like some type of secret passageway.  Curiosity led Jet inside, and the door closed behind him.  The dimly lit room was filled with dusty books and newspapers.  As Jet leafed through them, he noticed that the newspapers had been carefully arranged by date and cross referenced by any mention of Miles.  Jet had no recollection of anyone named Miles in his hometown.  Then he noticed the man’s real name.  Myron Jones was a railroad worker, working in the little town for awhile and then going to other small towns, back and forth like a transient.  Jet vaguely remembered the man’s children in school.  What he remembered of them was that they feared their father’s temper which surprisingly was easygoing when he was drunk but unpredictable when he was attempting sobriety.


Jet was deeply engrossed in his reading when he noticed the shadow of a man standing over him.  He looked up to see Dakta standing behind him with his arms crossed and a stern look on his face.  Jet froze.  He was frightened.


“Get up.”