“1,373 miles,” Colton repeated. “That’s the distance between Hayley’s Peak and Florence.”Jesus.A weak chuckle escaped Hank’s mouth as he shook his head in resignation. And growing gratitude.
“Is this the Nebraskan version of an intervention?” he rasped.
“You better believe it is.” Colton grinned at him. “Five days ‘til Christmas. Plenty of time to get your old ass to Oregon. The truck’s had a full service by a reliable local mechanic.” He winked cheekily. “And Henry’s booked a motel for ya in Idaho. Nothin’ fancy, but there’s a nice diner next to it, apparently. Not as nice as Til’s, but you get my drift.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. Bet that kid’s goin’ out of his right mind by now, wonderin’ what’s keepin’ ya. Why you ain’t in front of him on your knees right now—not in that way, you dirty old man!” Colton laughed, “—begging for him to take ya back.”
“You don’t know that,” Hank mumbled, doubt fighting hope inside his chest, hope slowly winning, a tentative smile blooming on his face, the first rebellious tears falling from his eyes.
“Pretty sure I do,” Colton hummed.
“You’re an idiot.” Hank blinked back the tears fruitlessly, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. “Both of ya. Idiots,” he muttered, unable—and at this point unwilling—to hide the fondness and the gratitude in his voice.
“I know,” Colton smiled stupidly. “Love’ll do that even to the best of us. But I’ll take being an idiot over being lonely any goddamn day of the week. Now, get goin’. Henry’s already texted ya Finn’s address and the motel info. No time like the present.”No time like the present.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Finn
Now
If his sister had radiated authority in their parents’ small kitchen previously, it was nothing against the powerful energy she exuded right now as a dozen expectant girls roughly between the ages of eight and ten stood facing her. They were all wearing some pink or sky-blue variation of a tutu or leotard with matching leggings, hair pinned back into either high or low buns, faces bright and eager to learn anything his sister had to teach.
Finn was sitting on a plastic chair at the end of a row of red chairs lined up against the back wall of the dance studio. Not much had changed since Madam Durand ran theschool, although his sister had redecorated the ghastly salmon-colored walls with a pale calming gray instead. A woman, who’d introduced herself as Pamela, had already offered him a salted caramel and pecan cookie, which he’d politely declined. His stomach was still messed up from the road trip and pent-up nerves over seeing his family again. The last thing he needed was to spew salted caramel and pecan sludge all over the studio’s pristine, varnished floors.
He thought he recognized Pamela from somewhere, probably school, since she was around his age, perhaps a little younger, but it wasn’t until she started ranting about her parents’ ocean-view bed-and-breakfast, theWandering Whale, that Finn connected the dots. He’d always wondered about that name. If a whale actually wandered. But he guessed there was a nice ring to it. Better than theProud Pelican, anyway, which was the name of a small eatery twenty minutes up the coast.
Pamela was Connor Brady’s younger sister. He’d run track with Connor all the way through junior high and high school, and they’d belonged to the same social crowd without being close friends. He’d tried to mentally prepare himself for running into people from his past and he guessed that the talkative Pamela was a good place to start.
“… and that’s when Hayley went all the way to the county finals,” Pamela droned on next to him in her overly cheery anchorwoman voice. “Hayley came in fifth, buteveryoneagreed she was robbed and should’ve come in at least third with that perfectarabesque.”
Hayley. As in Hayley’s Peak. As in Hank.Hank.Finn swallowed and realized that you could probably throw up easily on a near-empty stomach when you were overcome with missing someone like he missed Hank. He missed him terribly. In theI-feel-like-I’ll-never-be-whole-againkind of way. Or in theI-want-to-drink-myself-into-oblivionkind of way, even thoughFinn had never been much of a drinker. And then he felt guilty because how could he feel incomplete when he was finally home? When he was finally surrounded by the people who meant the most to him.
After his Latino connection had dropped him off in Eugene, seeing him off with a string oftitisandsee ya, guapos—he’d declined to have them drive him all the way to Florence—he’d spent five nights in a mundane motel called theLuck Outgathering up the courage to jump on the bus to Florence. He’d taken one look at the grimy pool and decided that the less time he spent at theLuck Outwould probably benefit his overall health in the long run. Contrary to the name of the motel, he didn’t feel thatlucky.
During his pre-the-wayward-son-returns time in Eugene, he’d gone to the Oregon Air and Space Museum twice, to the cinema once, watching a rerun of some depressing Bergman movie—probably theAutumn Sonatabecause that was by far the most dismal of all of Bergman’s movies—and visited a gay-friendly bar that he’d frequented previously whenever the itch struck, and he wasn’t seeing anyone.
He’d only just finished ordering a beer when the first potential suitor of the night had slid onto the vacant barstool next to him, desperation combating but fast outshining enthusiasm in his blue eyes. After the first few minutes of formal introductions and exchanged pleasantries, hi-my-name-is-Richard-but-only-on-Grindr-and-only-after-10 p.m.had made a bold attempt to woo Finn with his unsubtle suggestion to visit the adjoining men’s room.
And it wasn’t because Finn hadn’t been aching to lose himself in anything that could offer him a few minutes of oblivion and a reprieve from thinking of what lay ahead of him and what he’d left behind. No, that wasn’t what had kept him from following Richard down the dimly lit magenta-colored hallway and intothe men’s room. No, it was the certainty that he would probably crumble and cry pathetically even before the palm of Richard’s hand met with his limp dick. Because as perfectly anonymous and forgettable as Richard was, he wasn’t Hank. He wasn’t.
Go figure that Finn could go from the age of seventeen when he’d lost his virginity to the age of twenty-eight and fuck pretty much anything with a pulse, only to be ruined by a Nebraskan mechanic with a stomach so soft that you just wanted to melt against it. With eyes so gentle and spilling over with longing that you just wanted to drown in them. With a voice so deep and a presence so unassuming that a mere word from Hank’s lips or a casual touch of his hand could make you feel instantly at peace with yourself and the world.
With a mumbled ‘No thanks, I’m good,’ Finn had settled his bill and made a beeline for the exit, the sad excuse for a winter night outside reminding him he wasnotin Nebraska. He wasnotin Hank’s bed, wrapped in Hank’s bear hold, slowly being carried away to a deep, dreamless sleep to the sound of his favorite Nebraskan murmuring an endless row ofgood boysagainst his damp neck. Mapping out his skin with sloppy kisses, Hank would chuckle in his distinct, comforting bass whenever Finn would squirm beneath him, whining ‘Yes, right there, Daddyyyy,’ eventually causing Hank to lose his ever-loving shit and eat his own cum from Finn’s used asshole, mumbling unintelligible praises against the gaping, well-fucked entrance.
‘What are you doing?’ Finn had laughed, the ticklish sensation of Hank’s beard against his oversensitive skin exquisitely tortuous.
‘Just tellin’ my favorite place on earth what a good job it did, swallowin’ my cock,’ Hank had hummed, offering Finn’s hole another languid lick.
‘You said cock, Hank!’ Finn had gasped in mock horror. ‘I think I’m rubbing off on you.’
‘Yeah, I’m afraid you are.’ And then those seven silly words had spilled from Finn’s lips just as easily as his impatientgood morning, Hank,or his drowsygoodnight.
‘Guess that means you better keep me.’While Finn had cringed quietly into his fist, Hank had mumbled something distorted against his right ass cheek, but Finn had thought he recognized the wordwishalthough he couldn’t be sure it hadn’t just been wishful thinking. Once Hank had resurfaced from between Finn’s ass cheeks, he would lick Hank’s beard clean, sucking at each gray strand, eagerly swallowing down every last drop of excess cum, no drop going to waste.
‘Look at you, my hungry little beast of burden,’ Hank had groaned. ‘Doing such a damn fine job at cleaning Daddy up.’ Yeah, by the end, Hank had owned the fucking title that Finn had bestowed upon him, claiming thatgood boyin return.
