Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I shake my head to that too.
“You think you’re too good for the rest of us?” Randy looks my way, and I feel the hair at my nape rise.
“Nope,” I answer simply, unwilling to pay him much attention. It feels like that’s what he’s looking for.
“That’s enough.” Wade’s voice is firm and steady, Randy breaking his ice-blue gaze on me and returning to the game. Everyone listens to Wade around here. They respect him. That’s just the way it works.
I finish eating, grab some clothes, then go shower. I stay in there longer than I need to, and by the time I head back into the bunkhouse, it’s empty.
I look out the window and see the bonfire is already going. Everyone is sitting around, some with a drink in their hands, laughing and talking while Wade plays his harmonica.
My gaze finds Sully and holds. Jesus, the man can wear a pair of blue jeans, the fabric slightly loose but tight enough to show his thick thighs and round ass. I thought I was gonna die the first time I fucked him, thought that if there was a heaven, it was the feel of being inside someone’s ass. I busted my nut too fucking fast, but I made up for it afterward. Don’t matter how much ass I’ve had since, none of it is as good as his.
“Fuck.” I rub a hand over my face. Just boss and employee, just boss and employee. I need to get this shit outta my head.
I try to ignore the twinge inside me, urging me to go out, have a drink with everyone, shoot the shit and play my guitar. Just the thought makes my chest tighten. I’ve done that at other ranches over the years, spent time with the other hands, partied and gotten drunk with them, fucked some of them too, but those ranches weren’t the Sullivan Ranch…and those men weren’t Bishop Sullivan.
Chapter 11
Bishop
I can’t help looking toward the bunkhouse every few minutes, knowing Porter is in there sulking and being antisocial—or just pretending to be to spite me. So imagine my surprise when the door slowly creaks open and Porter steps out, seemingly unsure about the decision.
I’m not the only one stunned by his arrival. Wade’s eyes widen even as his lips keep steady on the harmonica, and some of the others mutter under their breath.
“Well, well, well,” Randy says, already a few brews in. So are Jeb and Bulldog, but they’re only a stone’s throw away from their beds. “Guess you decided to bless us with your presence.”
My gaze shoots to the ranch house, where Pixie is sitting with Mom on the front porch, enjoying the fire from a distance and gazing at the night sky. We all know that Randy needs to get her to bed soon, but he doesn’t seem to be aware of his own shut-off valve, and it makes me nervous. Maybe it would be reasonable to discuss the situation with my mother, since she seems to instinctually know when Pixie needs a diversion.
“You were already blessed back in the bunkhouse,” Porter lobs back. “What? You need my company around the fire too?”
Some of the hands chuckle, but Randy’s jaw tightens. “You know exactly what I mean. Like I said before, you act like you’re too good for us.”
“Knock it off already,” Wade says, narrowing his eyes at Randy.
“Not in front of the boss man,” Bulldog hisses, and Randy stiffens, his eyes darting to me.
I want to say something so that nobody’s on edge around me, but I let it play out, pretending I’m only half listening to the conversation.
Wade returns to playing his harmonica, while Porter moves to the cooler and reaches inside for a beer. He draws out a bottled water as well and heads toward Randy. “Maybe it’s time for a switch. Take it from me, I know all too well.”
Their eyes lock, and it seems as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting for an argument or maybe even a physical altercation. Finally, Randy’s shoulders sag, and he takes the offering, but not before guzzling the rest of his beer and letting out a loud belch.
That turns into a burping contest that continues as Randy unscrews the water cap and Porter finds the only open seat, which is beside me. Guess the men are more aware of my presence than I thought.
“Nice of you to join us,” I say as the men laugh and try to outdo each other.
“Could say the same to you, boss,” he retorts.
I shrug. “Felt like it tonight. Plus, wanna keep my eye on Pixie.”
Porter’s gaze fills with concern as it swings around the space, possibly in an effort to locate her.
I raise a thumb over my shoulder. “She’s with Mom on the porch.”
He visibly relaxes, which surprises me. Maybe he’s taken a liking to the girl as well. Or just knows from experience what it’s like to be around a parent who drinks. That’s probably what his comment to Randy was all about. Remembering his dad sinking further into his addiction, and according to others, his depression, over all the ranch business. Not sure I ever understood all that, and I sure as shit don’t intend to bring our grandfathers up again, so for now, we’ll let sleeping dogs lie.