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 eat with the guys rather than heading straight for the shower. Jeb starts rambling about some woman in town, Bella, and how he’s been trying to get her to go out with him. “She’ll let me fuck her, but she won’t let me take her on a date. What the hell is that shit?”
“I can tell you it don’t sound like somethin’ you should be complaining about,” Bulldog counters. “Pussy with no obligation.”
“Jesus Christ.” Wade rubs a hand over his face. “Do you know the first damn thing about being appropriate?”
“Why the fuck I gotta be appropriate in here with you guys?” Bulldog argues. “Ask Porter. He’d agree. You want ass with or without obligation?”
I shrug. “Don’t bring me into your shit. You’re in this alone.”
“How do you know he wants ass at all? Maybe he’s a bottom,” Otis adds.
“What the fuck is a bottom?” Bulldog asks, and then the light goes on in his head. “Ooh, so you’re saying Porter takes the dick and don’t give it. Well, hell. I can’t see that happening. You can hardly get the guy to talk, much less loosen up enough to take a cock.”
The guys all laugh as I wonder how in the fuck we got here, where in the hell this conversation is coming from, and why it makes me feel an unexpected twitch in my chest.
“My dick or ass aren’t going anywhere near any of you, so I don’t know why you’re so worried about how I fuck.”
Of course it’s Bulldog who speaks first. “Well, I wasn’t until Otis got me thinking about it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groan, dropping my head back.
“What? I never talked to anyone about gay sex before. I got questions.”
Big Jimmy swats Bulldog on the back of his head for me.
“Don’t ask me. Ask Otis. He seems to know a lot.” I stand up and take my dish to the sink. We all clean up after ourselves around here, so I wash the bowl, then ignore Bulldog throwing questions at me, grab my clothes, and head for the shower.
It wasn’t like this at any of the other ranches I’ve been at. I don’t keep my sexuality a secret, but we also weren’t talking over dinner about what a bottom is and what sex is like with two guys. I’ll never tell them this, but I appreciate that they don’t make a big deal out of it, that they talk about my sex life the same way they would about Bulldog’s or anyone else’s.
Still, I’m thankful the conversation is over by the time I get out. They’re all playing cards at the table, Jeb looking over his shoulder to ask, “Wanna be dealt in?”
“Nah, I’m heading to Buck’s.” I hope no one asks if they can go as I grab my guitar. Contrary to what some people think, I don’t get off on being an asshole. I just need space. It’s how I’m built.
“Be good.” Bulldog pumps his brows at me, and Big Jimmy swats the back of his head again. “Goddamn it. Why you always gotta do that to me?”
“Why you always gotta deserve it?” Big Jimmy counters, and the two of them start arguing.
I take that as my cue to get the hell outta there.
It’s not that I’m looking, but it’s impossible not to notice Sully’s truck still isn’t there. What the fuck is he doing? Not that it matters. After all these years, I don’t know why he’s still playing games with my thoughts like this.
The air smells like fall as I climb into my truck. The roads are dark on the way into Laurel Springs. Hardly any vehicles even pass me for most of the drive on the long country road. The stars light up the sky, billions of dots of light so damn pretty, they steal my breath.
“Look, Porter. Right there. It’s a shooting star,” Sully says.
“Missed it,” I lie, holding back my awe at the light darting through the black night.
“Fuck.” I try to shake that thought. This is definitely a good night for going out. I need it, need to fucking clear my head of my and Sully’s past that’s filling it up again.
Buck’s is fairly busy when I walk in. There’s a guy onstage, playing his guitar and a harmonica attached to it. A few people are sitting at the long bar with beers in front of them, some pepper the tables around the edges, with bar foods and drinks, and others are dancing not too far from the stage.
I head straight to the counter, and as I approach, the bartender looks up, his face familiar.
“Holy shit. Porter Dixon? I heard you were back in town. How ya doin’, man?”
Winston went to high school with us. He’s a year or two younger than me and Sully. I wasn’t friends with him, partly because I wasn’t friends with anyone, but he’s looking at me now like we had been.