Absolutely and utterly fucking wrecked.
Lawson is sitting at the dining table, having joined the twenty-some Darling Ranch workers and family members here for lunch, something he’s only able to do during the summertime when he’s not at the school. He’s eating. Simply eating.
But I can’t stop staring at him.
His words haven’t left my head. Not in the week-plus since he asked me to fuck him. Words. Images. Scenarios I’ve tried desperately not to entertain in the past many decades of our friendship. They’re all seeping past my defenses now because of a single conversation.
There’s always been a lack of boundaries between me and Lawson. And it’s never bothered me, nor have I ever read into it. Lawson was never interested in me inthatway. Nor interested in anyone, really. Not until college when he started dating a little. Then he met Laura, and that was it.
Anything thatmight have beenstayed in a box I knew better than to ever open. Not if I wanted to keep my friendship with Lawson intact. The box was easily forgotten, as fictitious as Neverland, a childish whimsy I never let see the light of day.
But he’s cracked it open.
And I cannot, for the life of me, get it to shut again.
Lawson brings his water glass to his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drinks. I imagine my lips there, pressed to soft skin and coarse stubble, his throat working as he writhes beneath me, struggling to maintain his composure. What would it be like to push him to the brink? Would he beg? Moan? Gasp for more?
I quickly avert my gaze, looking down at my plate as my pulse rushes. I know better than to wonder about—want—things too dangerous to chase after.
Lawson doesn’t wantme. He wants dick. There’s a big fucking difference.
Butgoddamn it all, he asked formydick.
I’m so fucked.
I banish thoughts of Lawson to the far recesses of my mind as I finish lunch, avoiding his eye and hastening out the door as soon as I can do so. The sun is out, although morning rain dampened the earth, and the air is still muggy with it. I plop my hat on my head, heading toward the stables, determination lengthening my strides.
There’s only a couple hours left in my day, but I resaddle Clover and head out to the far fields with a few of the other ranchers. We’re shifting the cattle this week, moving them to fresh, grazable land. Calves are prevalent in the herds, most having been born during the spring calving season. Just like their adult counterparts, the calves are a mix of black and black-and-white. The solid black is a mark of the Angus breedkept here, whereas the white comes from the Holstein line. The cross-bred cattle can be either coloration, identifiable if you know what to look for. Although most folks probably just seecow.
The ground is soft underneath Clover’s hooves, but it doesn’t hamper the horse. Me and Colleen, another rancher who’s been here for years, are at the back end of a herd, guiding the lot to a new pasture, when I notice a plastic bag looped around the neck of a calf.
I give a whistle to alert Colleen. She nods, noting the situation and changing course to guide him my way. As soon as the little bugger is close enough, I send a rope flying, lassoing him around the neck. The calf panics for all of a second, but then he’s bound tight, and I quickly drop down off Clover to meet him.
“It’s all right,” I assure the calf in a low, soft tone. I make quick work of tearing the bag off from around his neck before letting him loose. He gets to his feet and sprints away, catching up to the rest of the herd, a couple of the others giving him a cursory sniff as he passes.
“Muddy suits you,” Colleen calls, a grin on her face.
I look down at my dampened, dirty knees as I rise to my feet. “That why you sent him my way?”
Colleen laughs, which confirms my suspicions.
Getting back in the saddle, I cant my head toward the last of the lingering herd. “C’mon. Let’s get this lot settled. My day’s about done.”
She doesn’t argue, and we herd the rest of the cattle through the open gates to the pasture next to this one. Colleen stays out in the fields when I head in, her shift having started later than my own. Truth be told, I don’t much mind the muck that’s a part of this lifestyle. There’s no way around gettingdirty at times, and I wouldn’t trade being outdoors through any weather for the alternative of being stuck inside with only a window to remind me of what I’m missing.
It’s one way Lawson and I have always differed. Our sexuality is another. Or so I thought.
But now Lawson is questioning. And he turned to me, his closest friend, to help him figure it out.
I stand by my decision, even if the saddened expression on Lawson’s face when I said no won’t leave my mind. Nor the image of him flat on his back, mouth parted and words falling from his lips, a possibility I never dared to imagine could be real.
It’s a bad idea. The absolute worst.
And I wish,God,I wish he’d never spoken the words in the first place. Because to Lawson, no matter our history and our inevitable future, it’d only be sex. An answer to a question. A means to an end.
I don’t think it could ever be that for me.
Some things we hide away for fear of understanding them. I hid that box away for a reason. And I never thought much about it in the years after it was buried.
