Oil and Water Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  More from BA Tortuga

  About the Author

  By BA Tortuga

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Oil and Water

  By BA Tortuga

  The Wildcatters: Book One

  Oilman Max inherits a passel of trouble when his boss passes away, leaving him a house in England and a heck of a lot of money. He’s thinking London is the worst place on earth… until he meets Morgan.

  Colorful, carefree, and a little crazy, Morgan is just what Max needs, and the two set out on the adventure of a lifetime, chasing pleasure wherever it takes them, learning that together they can make anything fun… and sexy.

  Too bad reality has to set in, and Morgan’s multimillionaire father has a lot to say about what reality looks like. Will their different worlds conspire to separate them like oil and water?

  To my wife, always.

  Chapter One

  THE ONE thing Max could deal with about England was the beer. Sure, it was warm, but it had good flavor. He liked the pubs well enough too. Dark wood and dart boards and shit. Hell, if he kept his mouth shut, the folks were even nice enough. It was when he opened his fat yap and came off like the know-it-all redneck he was that he got in trouble.

  Which was about every day.

  Tonight he was all about the low profile. He’d gone for the tweedy cap instead of the gimme or the cowboy hat, and had even left the ostrich boots at home. He just wanted a nice, quiet drink, to be left alone for a bit, because God only knew, he wasn’t getting that at the stone monstrosity he called home these days. Damn that Morrie anyway for kicking off and making him a man-about-town in a town he knew nothing about.

  Max settled in a corner seat and pulled his cap low, just grooving on the relative silence, even in a crowded, dimly-lit pub. No one was talking near him for a change, and that? He liked.

  There was a ruckus at the door, a quartet of big, burly guys pushing people around and hollering, obviously looking for someone. Funny how assholes were universal.

  Something brightly colored and tinkling—tinkling?—slipped beside him, ducked down in the shadows of the corner.

  Either he was about to be assaulted by a midget clown or somebody quick and skinny had just slid right in between his legs and the wall. Now, he was usually one to get a bit upset about someone invading his space, but he had a feeling he knew who the jerks at the door were looking for, so he just leaned a bit to cover, sipping his beer again, casual-like.

  The four spread through the pub, looking, growling. The presence behind him stayed quiet, pretty quiet. Well, barring the low-level tinkling that came with every shiver and shift.

  Whoever it was back there sounded like Vixen or Blitzen or somebody, and was going to make those guys look at him funny for having a jingly ass in a minute. Max groped back with one hand, finding something, a shoulder maybe, and gripping tight to hold the… whatever still.

  The jingles stopped, the fabric under his hand silky, the body bony and warm.

  There. That was better. Max nodded as he met the eyes of one of the guys, trying not to be obviously sizing them up, but man, they were all fucking big. As in goddamned big. He wasn’t one to shrink from a to-do, even one that wasn’t his, but there was enough muscle there to make him just stretch out his legs and cross them at the ankle and make like a bump on a log.

  He got two or three long looks, but the brute squad finally regrouped and headed out to the street, unhappy and pushing at each other.

  “Dude. I so owe you, man.” A willowy guy unfolded from the corner, a bright belled and laced shirt bloused over the tightest pair of leather pants on God’s earth. “Seriously.”

  Well, now. That was something he’d never expected to see, and the voice? Not a bit upper crust. Sounded like home, only without the hick. “Yeah. It’s not often I let someone slip into my back pocket.”

  “You had the safest-looking pocket here.” Obviously fake blue eyes smiled at him—undershaved, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. “You’re from back home. Cool. I have wicked luck. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “You can.” What the hell. A fellow wayfarer was always welcome, even if the guy was brighter than a parrot. “Might as well.”

  “Fucking A.” Jingles settled beside him, a long black case plopped on the table, one hand held out. “I’m not usually running from gorillas. I appreciate you playing smokescreen. I’m Morgan.”

  “Max.” He shook, looking Morgan over. “Why were you this time?”

  The skin over those high cheekbones went pink. “That would be because one of them popped my ass while I was playing and didn’t appreciate my response. Sort of didn’t appreciate the crowd’s response even more.”

  “Playing what?” He figured the case had an instrument of some sort, but since he’d avoided band like the plague back in the day, he had no idea what.

  “Flute. And don’t give me that ‘oh, flutes are girly’ thing. It takes effort to blow like I do.”

  Max blinked, kinda startled. Surely the guy couldn’t be that blatant. Of course, the way Morgan was dressed, maybe he really was. “I bet. Takes talented lips.”

  “You know it.” Morgan ordered them a round, getting himself a scotch. “So, are you a tourist? You don’t sound like you’ve been here long.”

  “I haven’t. Not exactly touristing. More like… visiting relations.” Yeah. That was the best way to put it, even if it was more like visiting the relations you didn’t ever talk about because they were from Aunt Loudie’s side of the family and hadn’t come down out of the trees yet.

  “Cool. Or, depending on the relations, not.”

  “Yeah.” The new beer was a little fresher than the last, and Max leaned back again, looking at Morgan intently. “What about you?”

  “Oh, I sort of travel. A lot. Venice, LA, Sydney, Cozumel.” Morgan shot him a quick grin. “I stay in one place as long as I can. Then I scramble.”

  “Always one step ahead of the gorillas?” He grinned, thinking of how many other poor slobs had become human shields for this guy. Had to be quite a few.

  “The gorillas. The police. Dad. There was that unfortunate incident with the son of the head of the Turkish police in Istanbul….”

  He had a sudden image of Morgan’s skinny self in a Turkish bath and was surprised at how appealing it was. “I liked Turkey.”

  “Yeah? I liked the underground, but they have some rules.” Morgan gave him a wink. “I do my best with the fewest of those possible.”

  “Well, yeah, but they had some great ore deposits.” Way to kill the conversation, Max. He went back to his beer. Suave.

  “Ore deposits? Oil? Gold? Coal? My pop’s into that gig big-time.”

  “Oil. Some coal. I’ll go with whatever there is, but oil is my specialty.” Yeah. He could find oil no matter where it hid from him. His thick, sweet love.

  “Cool. You know Vic Bowen? He’s my dad.”

  Vic Bowen of Bowen Industries, Bowen Petroleum, Bowen Unlimited. Damn. Just. Damn.

  “Yeah. I know… well, I’ve met him a few times.” Old Vic was out of even his league. The man was a legend.

  “Yeah, me too.” Morgan’s voice was dry as dust. “Once or twice.”

  That surprised a laugh out of him, garnering them a few stares. “Not such a close father-son thing, huh?”

  “Shit, no. I’m like the only kid, you know? Eighty-seven thousand trophy wives and
one finally throws a kid when he’s an old guy. My job is to stay out of trouble and not embarrass the family name.”

  “Oh. Man, I can relate to that.” These days at any rate. He could so relate.

  Morgan leaned closer, gave him a look. “Man, you need to get out. Chill. You look… pinched.”

  “Yeah? Well, it’s been a long few weeks.” More than. Morrie and all…. It weighed on him. The last of the beer went down sour.

  “You dance?”

  Max almost choked. Then he stared. The kid couldn’t have surprised him more if he’d asked if he played polo with decapitated goats, which come to think of it, someone had asked him once. “Uh. Maybe?”

  “Oh, now there was a definite answer.” Morgan threw his head back, laughed. “Shit, man. You don’t have to dance with me. I know lots of places. Just thought you could use a little fun.”

  “Well, I’m not much on….” Max thought about how to say it. “I’m bigger on redneck coordination exercises than I am nightclub dancing.”

  “Oh, cowboy shit.” He got a long once-over. “I can see that. You got a hat and boots and everything?”

  That put his back right up, and Max sat up straight, giving Morgan a look. “I do.”

  “Cool. Never did that—well, got a part in a summer run of Steel Magnolias, but that’s Cajun, not cowboy.”

  The rabbit hole just got bigger and bigger. Max opened his mouth to say something like “You’re an odd duck” and found himself saying, “Let’s get out of here,” instead.

  “Sure, cowboy, I can play.”

  The way that ass moved in those tighter-than-skin pants? Max believed it.

  He stood, made sure he was settled up, and grabbed Morgan before he wandered out, just to make sure the big guys weren’t waiting out there. Then he led the way… somewhere. He wasn’t sure where to go.

  Morgan seemed to know tons of people, mostly young and brightly decorated: club kids, buskers, random groups. “Gotta love this town, huh? So alive.”

  This? Was a bad idea. He liked a lot of what he saw in London, but a city was a city. “I should go on home.”

  “Oh. Okay. Sorry.” Morgan nodded, stepped back. “Thanks for letting me hide back there. It was cool. Let me call my car? Frank’s close; he’ll see you home.”

  “I…. Yeah. Okay.” He grinned wryly, trying to let the guy know it wasn’t him. “Sorry. I’m just a little punchy. And you’ve got to have better things to do than be around a drag like me.”

  “A drag? Nah. I know I’m just….” Morgan raised one shoulder in a little shrug, and then a cell phone appeared. Suddenly the young, casual guy was gone, replaced with this crisp, sure man. “Frank. I have a guest I want picked up at Tottenham Court Road, right by the tube station. Take him anywhere he wants to go. Yes, Frank. I’m aware Moses is going to shit. Tell him if he was better security, I wouldn’t avoid him so easily.”

  Then boom, the jester was back. “Look for a big black car, big black man, answers to Frank.”

  “Wait. You’re leaving?” What the hell was wrong with him? Poor guy probably thought he was a nutball with hot and cold running neuroses.

  “Well, you see, Frank? Works for Moses, who works for Dad, who I’m sort of avoiding a little.”

  “Oh.” Maybe that beer was stronger than he thought, because he was just too damned fuzzy to sort that out. “Well, call off the dogs, then, man, and let me call my place. You can come back with me.”

  “I wish I could.” Morgan laughed, took his hand, tugged him away from the corner. “Where’s your place?”

  “Uh.” He laughed a little, heading down the street with Morgan holding his hand, and wasn’t that the weirdest thing in a night of weirdness? It was also nice. “Marylebone. Just above Mayfair.” It was a swank neighborhood, with bunches of old Georgian houses.

  “Pretty.” They moved fairly quick, keeping to the crowds, the act feeling illicit, strangely exciting. “How do you want to go?”

  “Well, the tube stops running soon, yeah? Let’s grab a cab.” That way he didn’t have to call his car either, because, damn, he hated the microscope.

  “Sure. Maybe we’ll get a good cabbie. One day? I met one who could sing all the Beach Boys’ playlist.”

  That made him laugh. “Well, now, that’s not so impressive. If I met one here who could sing all of the old Hank tunes….” There wasn’t a cab in sight, so Max pulled out his own cell and hit the number of the cab company. He’d programmed it in. Asking for a pickup several blocks from where they’d called Morgan’s driver, he kept walking, just sort of studying his strange companion.

  Thin and lean, in perpetual motion, Morgan seemed young at first glance, but there were lines beside those eyes, one or two silver strands in the dark hair.

  The man couldn’t be much younger than him, maybe not younger at all than Max’s own thirty-some-odd years. Certainly not the kid that he’d called him. They waited for the cab, Max only then realizing they still held hands. “How old are you?”

  “Hmm? Thirty-three, at least for another few weeks. How old are you?”

  Damn. “Thirty… two?” He’d have to look for sure, but he thought that was right.

  Morgan chuckled, eyes lit up again. “When’s your birthday? I bet… I bet you’re a January baby.”

  “Why do you say that?” So yeah, his birthday was January 18. So what?

  “Because you seem like a goat. Me? I’m a twin, through and through.”

  “A goat?” The cab pulled up, and they piled in. He still couldn’t get used to the whole front and back thing, and the wrong side of the road thing. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or bitch. “As in you see me chewing tin cans?”

  “As in Capricorn—the goat with the fish tail. Business-smart, stable, stubborn, ambitious. Good teeth, prone to stress-related disorders.”

  “Oh.” Right. “So you’re, uh….” Twins. What the hell was that? He wasn’t good at that horoscope shit.

  “Gemini.” Morgan winked. “Charming enough to be two.”

  “Oh, right.” He grinned, letting Morgan’s good humor ease him. Wasn’t like him to get all twisted up about things. Maybe it was the Gemini in Morgan that had unsettled him. Of course he’d been kinda skittish before the corporate shark surfaced. Maybe it was the sorta odd attraction to a fella who was so not his type.

  Morgan chuckled and stuck his tongue—his tongue with a steel bar pierced through it, good Lord—out. “Try for more enthusiasm now.”

  He’d never seen one of those up close and personal, and Max found himself squinting at Morgan’s mouth. “Why did you do that?”

  “Do what? Stick my tongue out?”

  “No. Get it pierced.” His cheeks heated up. It was a dumb-assed thing to ask, but it was out now, and he really did want to know.

  “I was dating a guy in Las Vegas who thought it would be hot. He watched me get it done and gagged.”

  “Not exactly what he fantasized about, huh?” Oddly enough? Max thought it was hot too.

  “Nope. It’s pretty cool, though. There’s this thing I have? It vibrates. Extremely entertaining, although the noise is a little like a jackhammer in your head.” The cabbie gave Morgan a look, but Morgan didn’t seem the least bit concerned.

  “Vibrates?” Well, now. That came out loud as anything, getting him an even more disapproving look from the front seat. He was acting like the worst kind of redneck spaz. And that wasn’t really like him at all. He laughed out loud, the sound more natural than anything that had come out of his mouth in an hour. “That sounds like it might be a bit too fancy, and a little frightening, if you stuck it in the wrong place.”

  “Oh, I’m more worried about swallowing it. I mean, that? Would be too weird, having your stomach vibrate.”

  “No shit.” They pulled up in front of his place, or at least he thought it was his place. They all sort of looked the same. “So you want to come on in?”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind.” Morgan slipped out of the cab, jingling all the
way. “I could use a glass of water in the worst way.”

  “Nope. Don’t mind a bit.” In fact he didn’t want to let this one get away without a little more… what? A little more time? He led the way in, the house dark and quiet that late, the various folks around during the day not awake. In fact they made it to his wing without being accosted.

  The place seemed larger inside than it did out, long and narrow back from the street, rising several stories. He’d taken the simplest set of rooms he could find, but they still had fancy chaises and velvet drapes and shit.

  “Wow. It’s like a movie set, huh?” Morgan looked around, setting the flute and a small backpack on an end table. “What does your house look like?”

  “My house back in the States? It’s more hunting lodge chic, I guess, though I don’t have the dead animals. I have live ones… outside, I mean.” He nodded toward a couch. “Let me get you water. Anything to eat?”

  “Yeah? What kind? Of animals, not food, although that’s cool too, if you’re hungry.” Morgan settled in, cross-legged.

  Oh. Flexible.

  He got a bottle of water out of his mini fridge, grabbing some fruit and stuff too, and a beer for himself. Oh, cheese. Yeah, and some of that sausage. “Horses. Dogs. Cats. I couldn’t bring my dogs. The quarantine laws here suck.”

  “Horses? Really? Cool! What kind of dogs? Can I take my shoes off?”

  “Sure.” He sat across from Morgan, tugged at the laces of his boots. Hell, cowboy boots were so much easier. “Mostly mutts. Morrie said I should go for purebreds, but I’m a mutt myself.”

  “Mutt? Who’s Morrie?” Morgan yanked his shoes off, then put the belled anklets and belt into them.

  “Yeah. I’m not exactly high-class. And Morrie is the guy who left me this place. He was a good guy for a hoity-toity.” Morrie’d been a great guy, the owner of the first ocean rig he’d ever worked on. Made him foreman. Gave him a shot at the good work.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess he died?”

  “Yeah. Just about six months ago. He had cancer. He was like… eighty-five. He’d had a good life.” Max nibbled, smiling at the memory of the reading of Morrie’s will. Man, there’d been some folks mad as wet hens.