Blake Hart
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Stranger on the Bus – Part 4
🕑 Added 2025-07-13 16:00:13 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
Max stood barefoot in the kitchen, my flannel wrapped around his waist, a mug of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
He was calling his dad.
I watched from the doorway, arms crossed, still shirtless and nursing a sore back from our second... or third round. The kid could fuck like he had something to prove. Maybe he did.
The call connected.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Max said into the phone. “No, I’m fine. I fell asleep on the bus, missed the stop. I’m out near Salt Ridge.”
Pause. A muffled, irritated growl from the other end. I could imagine it clear as day—rough voice, gruff tone, the kind of man who never said “I love you” without adding “stop being stupid” right after.
“Jesus, Dad, I know I screwed up,” Max snapped. “Can you just pick me up?”
Another pause.
Max’s face dropped a little, and then he sighed. “Fine. I’ll figure it out.”
He hung up and looked over at me, managing a crooked smile. “He said I can take the bus. ‘Builds character.’”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed my keys off the counter.
“Come on. I’ll drive you.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Wait. What about your truck? I thought it was in the shop.”
“It should be done today.”
He smirked. “Huh. You don’t even fix your own truck? I thought you were rugged.”
I shot him a glare. “I own a chainsaw, Max.”
He laughed. Too sweetly for me to say something snarky back.
◆◆◆
The drive was quiet. He fiddled with the radio, playing some indie playlist full of sad vocals and soft synths. I didn’t mind. He leaned his head against the window, eyes closed, humming to himself.
I dropped him off at the edge of town, where the gravel turned into cracked pavement. His dad’s house was two streets over.
He didn’t kiss me goodbye. Didn’t make it weird. Just looked at me for a second like he wanted to say something, then smirked.
“Thanks, lumberjack.”
And then he was gone.
◆◆◆
The house felt empty when I got back. Always did, really, but now it was louder somehow. Every creak of the floor, every soft rattle of the old pipes echoed through the rooms like a reminder.
I thought I liked being alone.
Turns out, maybe I just got too used to it.
He was cocky. A little annoying. Loud in the way kids that age could be.
But damn—it had been nice.
I made coffee. Walked around in my boxers. Opened the windows. Closed them again when the wind kicked up. Spent an hour with the chainsaw, cutting firewood from a downed pine behind the house. Let the roar of the motor eat the silence for a while.
Then I fed the chickens—Olga and Helga, mean little bitches with sharp beaks and way too much attitude. They were the only ones I talked to most days.
That evening, I showered and parked myself on the couch with a shitty movie. Something I'd seen a dozen times before, just noise in the background.
But my thoughts weren’t on the screen.
They were on Max.
The way he moved. The way he looked at me when he was sucking my cock like it was the only thing in the world. The way his tight little ass clenched around me when I fucked him. How loud he got. How goddamn pretty he was when he moaned my name.
My hand found its way under the waistband of my sweats. Just a little. Just to take the edge off.
I stroked slow, breathing heavier as the memories played out like a reel. His mouth. His hands. The way he whispered, “Let me fuck you,” like he knew I’d say yes.
I groaned under my breath, stroking faster, almost there when—
Crunch.
Boots on gravel. I froze, no one came here?
Then—knock knock knock.
That same dumb-ass rhythm from the night before, could it be?
I stood up.
Opened the door.
And there he was.
Max.
Grinning like the little shit he was, his suitcase in tow, blonde hair windswept, eyes bright.
“Hey, Jones,” he said. “Miss me?”
I blinked. “You came back.”
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
Silence stretched between us, thick with things unsaid.
Then he exhaled, eyes flicking away.
“Had a fight with my dad,” he muttered. “Big one. Guess I finally decided to stop pretending I was straight for the sake of his blood pressure.”
I leaned on the doorframe. “He didn’t take it well?”
“He told me to pack my shit and get out. So I did.”
I let that settle. The edge of defiance in his voice, covering the hurt.
Then I asked, “How’d you even get here? I thought you said you were broke.”
Max looked me straight in the eye, totally deadpan.
“I gave the bus driver a handjob.”
Beat.
My jaw dropped slightly. “You what—?”
Then he cracked a grin. “Kidding. Please. I only sleep with fellow passengers, not bus drivers. What do you think I am, some kind of slut?”
I was still speechless.
He smiled wide, clearly proud of himself. “I took his stupid swear jar. Anyway. That seat on your couch still available? Just for the week. I move into my dorm Sunday.”
I stared at him, arms crossed. Tried to look annoyed. Failed.
“I think,” I said, “The couch is occupied by my flannel. But we might have to work something out.”
He tilted his head, teasing. “Oh? Terms and conditions for the bed?”
“Yes, I’ll need… some compensation.”
Max bit his bottom lip.
Then he dropped his suitcase.
Then he dropped to his knees.
Looked up at me with that smug, sinful little smirk. “What did you have in mind?”
