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As he drove down the winding dirt road, away from the lumber yard, Michael tried to remind himself that he was angry with Trevor.
He should’ve been thinking about all the shit Trevor had put him through in the last couple of weeks; how he’d nearly shot him and had left him to die in Ludendorff. He should’ve been wondering why he’d shown up to save Lamar from the Ballas but had been noticeably absent when Franklin had shown up at the meat-packing plant. He should’ve been thinking about all the time he’d spent cooped up in the trailer in Sandy Shores.
Reality was, though, he was thinking about Trevor and that damned pump-action shotgun. He was fucking hard, and it was fucking distracting.
It was more than the way his biceps and forearms bulged or his back muscles flexed when he loaded a shot, though that was the sight he couldn’t get out of his mind right then. It was the attitude; the cocksure asshole that he was, storming past the point where Michael would’ve been huddled behind cover if he hadn’t been up on the hill. It was the way he’d run up on a few guys, firing shots at close range, and how natural the blood and gore drenching his grimy white t-shirt had seemed to him. It was all the taunts and the goading, laughing as he mowed through the waves of thugs. It was how his kill count almost always doubled Michael's or Franklin’s.
But that’s what Trevor was: a messed up, violent guy. He was the guy who lived for pleasure, and he found some degree of it in everything he did, or else it wasn’t worth doing. Working with him was interesting on the most basic level—exciting and intoxicating on every level after that. Michael got such a fucking rush from being there when Trevor ran in, guns blazing. It was like watching some warped action movie fantasy unfold in front of him, made real and tangible and right there.
And Michael knew Trevor got off on all the shit he pulled, off all the violence. They’d fucked in the backseat of enough getaway cars back in North Yankton for Michael to know that.
It was fucked up, but they were fucked up people with fucked up lives and needs.
As he drove, Michael pictured Trevor in his truck, driving back to LS and stroking his own cock, looking for that kind of release that only came in the euphoria that followed something as tense as a shootout. His dick throbbed at the thought, and he moved a hand away from the steering wheel, his knuckles stiff from how tightly he’d been holding it. He palmed himself over his jeans, stroking up with heavy pressure, and he let out a shuddered moan. His grip on the wheel faltered and the car swerved a little. He was going to die a fiery explosion up in the Chiliad Mountain State Wilderness if he wasn’t careful. He moved his hand back to the wheel, replacing his tight grip. It was another couple of miles back to Rockford Hills from where he was; if driving off the road didn’t kill him before then, the blue balls might.
When he reached the Great Ocean Highway, he pulled over at the first shoulder he saw. He cut the primary engine and flicked on the hazards, scrabbling at the button of his jeans with his other hand.
He undid his pants and pushed the band of his boxers down, wrapping his fingers around his dick and pulling it free. He rubbed his palm over the tip, slicking his precum around the head. He bit back a groan and moved his hand down his shaft, pressing his thumb into the vein on the underside as he went. He began pumping himself, twisting his hand with each stroke, and he lifted his hips, shifting forward in the seat for more leverage. He remembered the sound of Trevor’s own groans, burned as they were into his memory. He thought about Trevor doing the same as him, maybe a mile or two ahead, pumping his cock like he’d done with the shotgun. It wasn’t dignified at all, and if Michael had a little more self-awareness, maybe he’d be ashamed, but like Trevor, this was about taking his pleasure where and how he wanted it. It wasn’t about what was right or wrong or normal, or anything else.
Michael came quickly, already well worked up, and he gave his dick a few slow, long strokes through the last of his orgasm. He let his head fall back against the headrest and let out a deep exhale, punctuated with a muttered ‘Jesus Christ.’ He wiped his palm on his cumstained shirt, and set off again towards Los Santos, subconsciously scanning each shoulder he passed for the red Bodhi.