by Brandon Witt
IRIS LINLEY’S cat, Horace, had taken up most of the morning. Wesley loved all animals, and cats were no exception. However, this cat, like his owner, was abrasive, making the experience less than enjoyable. Granted, Horace had something in his throat obstructing his breathing, but he’d still managed to leave a deep cut on Wesley’s hand, which he’d have to treat later.
Wesley had lied to Iris Linley. Not a habit he typically engaged in with clients, but he thought it prudent in this case. After he pulled the long silver string of tinsel out of Horace’s throat, Iris’s eyes had narrowed in suspicion. Wesley quickly stuffed it into a biohazard bag and commented that cats eat the darndest things and that yarn and string tended to be a favorite. Luckily there was enough gunk from Horace’s throat stuck to the tinsel that it could have passed for yarn, if he’d moved quickly enough. From Iris’s expression, Wesley doubted his duplicity had been successful. He would have to call Wendy and warn her to expect fallout from her witch fairy costume.
He couldn’t figure out Iris. One moment her expression suggested she found him revolting, but then it would shift, seemingly with effort, and she would smile. Not a pleasant expression on her, either, but preferable. Maybe. She again told Wesley to let her know if someone gave him a hard time while he was in El Do and that she approved of his profession, that working with animals was a better choice for him than working with children. Wesley didn’t even attempt to try to understand, and he couldn’t imagine what she would do if he did report any problems to her. Maybe sic Horace on the offending party. He was halfway tempted to tell her about John Wallace. He’d like to see the calico work his magic on that particular man.
The good thing about Wesley’s time with Horace and his mistress was that for a few hours he couldn’t obsess about the events from a couple of nights ago. It was the first time in two days his brain had focused elsewhere. However, as he and his little yellow Miata were heading out to Cedar County Feed, Horace was forgotten, save for the occasional rub over the already itching parallel lines on his left forearm.
It had all been so fast. On the one hand, Wesley felt like he should have realized it from the beginning. He prided himself on having excellent gaydar. Of course, Todd had always told him that since Wesley always thought everyone was gay, the times he was accurate didn’t really count.
But Travis Bennett? Really? He’d replayed the events on a continuous loop. He would convince himself that he’d made it up or dreamed it. However, the stubble burn over his skin attested differently. That had faded quickly. Maybe it had been a dream too.
Travis Bennett. Gay.
Totally hot, in a Dad-I’d-like-to-fuck kind of way. Sure. Check. Double check.
Massive shoulders, chest, and arms. Check. Oh, yes. Check.
Sexy, manly belly. Check. Wesley could feel its hard pressure on his lower back as Travis shoved into him. Or at least he wanted to.
Travis Bennett. Gay. Gay enough to kiss the breath out of him.
What was that?
Actually the kiss wasn’t what led Wesley to think the father of three was gay or at least something besides a zero on the Kinsey scale. He’d received… kisses, let’s say, from plenty of straight men. Especially over the past two years.
It was the look in Travis’s eyes. He’d held Wesley’s gaze just a moment too long. Wesley had seen inside and realized who stood in front of him. Straight men just didn’t get that look. Not even during kisses. It was a look that couldn’t be mistaken.
But he had to be mistaken. Right?
And so what? Even if he weren’t mistaken. Even if Travis Bennett had signed up to throw out purple confetti and pink shoestrings on the next gay pride float to wander down the middle of Main Street, so what?
He was a father. He was mourning his wife. He was a fortysomething man who lived in a small town. A fortysomething closeted man, apparently. Yeah, sign him up for that mess. Just what he needed after Todd.
Wesley wasn’t here for a hookup, not with John Wallace, Travis Bennett, or anyone else. He was here to be Wesley, to get his life back to being his own. He didn’t need a hookup. Or a relationship.
Relationship? God, his brain loved to screw him over. How did he jump to relationship?
Gay or not. A Kinsey one or six, or not. A hookup or relationship, or not. It didn’t matter. It was beside the point. Travis hadn’t made contact at all since that night—no call, no dropping by the clinic, nothing. Not even Wendy had called, which was strange.
There was not going to be a hookup with a closeted father, nor would there be a relationship.
Relationship, really? My God. Let. It. Go.
Travis Bennett was off-limits. He was nothing but confusion, nothing but pain, nothing but blue balls. Nothing but…. Nothing. Travis Bennett was nothing.
But that kiss. That kiss.
Wesley had never had a kiss like that before. Never. He kept replaying it over and over, each time feeling like he was watching some stupid Disney cartoon. Kisses like that didn’t happen.
He knew. He’d done more than his share of kissing. For the past two decades, he’d done extensive kissing. He’d had every kind of kiss—hot and heavy, romantic, in love, in lust, forced. He’d ordered the sample platter of kisses and had turned it into an all-you-can-eat buffet. He’d had them all.
It seemed there’d been a kiss that had been left off the menu. Maybe it was one that wasn’t supposed to exist.
More like one that didn’t exist. It screwed with your perception and mind, but it was disguised like that mythical kiss. Ah, yes. The deceitful, fooled-you, chewed-on-your-heart-for-a-long-time kiss. He was familiar with that one.
This one had been different.
Kissing Travis Bennett was different.
There’d been just pressure and warmth, a simple connection.
There was also sweetness, something he would never have guessed would reside in Travis Bennett.
There was sadness. That one made sense.
There was desperation. That made sense too. But Wesley had had desperate kisses before. Many times. This was a different kind of desperation. There was something else there with it. He couldn’t name it.
There’d been a promise in that kiss. It made absolutely no sense, so he’d thought that was the lie within it, the deceit of it. But a promise had been there. It had been there. Fuck him, but he knew it. If that kiss really was more than just a messed-up fantasy from too much leftover Halloween candy, then a promise had been there. He wasn’t sure what the kiss promised, but it was something.
Then there were the moments after their lips parted, when their faces were inches apart. Travis’s breath—smelling of caramel and beer—was warm against his skin. Travis’s blue eyes held his gaze, and the man’s rough thumb moved gently under Wesley’s eye, over his cheekbone.
Yeah. Not real.
Not. Real.
Maybe in a Disney cartoon where two dogs find love over extra long spaghetti. Maybe. In real life? No. And if, by chance, if by miraculous, messed-up chance, that actually could be real in this life, it wouldn’t be here. Not in this small town. Not with a father, in a barn.
It wouldn’t be with the man whose wife was buried in the same graveyard as Wesley’s grandparents.
It wouldn’t be in the same town where he’d been called a fag twice in a week.
It wouldn’t be for Wesley Ryan. That wasn’t in his cards, even if it were real.
There was no possible way it was real.
WESLEY PULLED up to Cedar County Feed, impressed by the size of the massive steel structure, and already looking for a reason to turn the Miata around and zoom to safety. Like he needed another reason. Travis Bennett was reason enough.
And, behold, ask and you shall receive. There was his second reason—the beat-up truck parked in front of Cedar County Feed, its left rear tire resting uncomfortably on the sidewalk. He knew that truck, and the sweat that dampened his brow had absolutely nothing to do with kisses, Travis, or puppies sharing spaghetti.
John Wallace.
What were the chances?
Wesley turned the key in the ignition, and the engine purred to life. He shifted out of park before he paused again. No. No way was he going to turn tail and run. Because of what? Some redneck who gave rednecks a bad name? Some closeted asshole who had scared him more than made sense?
He turned off the car, slid out, and shut the door gently. Horace wasn’t the only thing that could drive Travis out of Wesley’s mind. He made it up the sidewalk, past the truck, and took the stairs one slow step at a time. He paused and took a deep breath at the front door.
Drama queen.
Did he really have to wear the plum-colored shirt? Today?
Then he was through the door. The earthy smell of grain washed over him.
Jason Baker looked up from the paper he was reading, his feet propped up on the counter. No one else seemed to be in the store.
Good. He could handle Jason. He actually kinda liked the guy. Crisis averted. He raised his hand in greeting.
Jason did not. He craned around in the opposite direction, looking back into what appeared to be a storeroom. Towers of stacked feedbags arranged on wooden pallets could be seen through the doorway. After he turned around, Jason put the paper down on the countertop, popped off his chair, and hurried toward Wesley in a tiptoed shuffle. “Hi, Wesley. Listen, now’s not a good time. Why don’t you come back in a couple hours? Maybe we can bring the pet food to ya. Will that work?”
Wesley looked past Jason, trying to see whatever it was Jason was trying to hide. It couldn’t be that bad; Jason had been lounging, eating a burger. Dumb question. John Wallace. “Ah, sure, Jason. No problem. Just give me a call when—”
Too late.
“It’s not gonna do a damn bit of good if you give me more of the same shit.” Wesley knew the loud voice before the pockmarked face turned the corner from the back room. “You’re all saying the same shit. You’re in cahoots, and don’t think I don’t know it. You got some scheme to get my land. You and that faggot-ass vet. I don’t know why you got it in your craw to—”
John Wallace’s voice broke off as he saw Jason and Wesley in the doorway.
“You!” John lurched toward them, barely missing the corner of the counter in his haste.
The potbellied, skeletal man elicited the same primal fear in Wesley that he had the night of the storm. He looked like a zombie. Like he wouldn’t stop until he’d eaten Wesley’s face off. This time no new anger-filled voice rose to Wesley’s defense. His fists didn’t clench. He didn’t see red. He just wanted to run.
“Who the fuck you think you are, calling the animal control on me?” He was less than ten feet away. “I know it was you, cocksucker.”
There was a massive red blur rushing from the back room. Travis wasn’t going to get there in time.
John’s hands were thrust out in front of him, fingers curved like claws, ready to wrap around Wesley’s throat. “I’m gonna teach you to fuck with my family.”
Then a body stood between them, and less than a heartbeat later, John Wallace lay sprawled on the concrete floor.
It was a moment before Wesley realized the man in front of him was Jason—his left fist clenched at his side, the right one just pulling back from colliding with John’s face.
John started to push off the floor, strings of expletives filling the room. Jason took another step forward, a leg raised like he was ready to kick. “Don’t you get up off that floor, Wallace.”
“Fuck you. I’m gonna sue you for assault.” Despite his venom, he stayed where he was, ass and elbows on the ground. He looked up to where Travis now stood behind him. “And you. I’ll fucking take this shit store from you. First for getting in cahoots to steal my land, and then for taking part in having me beat up.” He flinched as Jason’s shadow moved over him.
“Jason! Enough!” Travis’s voice was a bullhorn, stopping Jason and silencing John’s rant. “Get up, Wallace.”
John glared at him but didn’t move.
“Get up.”
John twisted, looking like an overturned insect trying to right itself. “I’ll make sure to put in my report that you didn’t even offer to help me stand. Just stood there while your thug and his boyfriend assaulted me.”
Jason laughed. A genuine laugh from the sound of it, but not masking his anger. “Boyfriend? Now you got me and the good doc here bumping uglies? What you been thinking about? Missy not giving ya what you need? Too much of a woman for ya?”
“Jason! Shut up!”
Jason glanced up sharply at Travis, looking like a wounded puppy.
John Wallace glared at the two of them, first Travis, then Jason, then Travis again. “I’ll ruin you, Bennett. Mark my words.” He turned toward Wesley, and Jason sidestepped, blocking him. John didn’t spare him a look. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m not gonna damage your little cocksucker.” His watery eyes locked on Wesley, and his rotting teeth showed through his snarl. “Not yet. But I will. I’ll ruin this shop, but you? I’ll do more than ruin your fucking vet clinic. You’ll pay for what you did. You’ll pay.”
“Get the fuck out.” Travis grabbed John by the back of his collar, partly lifted him off the ground, and shoved him out the door, almost hard enough to send the man careening down the stairs. “Shoulda kicked you out years ago. You’re nothing but trash. Show yourself again around here, and there’ll be nothing left of you to make a report.” Then, as an afterthought he added, “And that also goes for showing up at the clinic.”
He didn’t wait for a response, just turned back into the feedstore and slammed the door.
The three men just stared at one another, Travis’s back against the door, Wesley and Jason breathing heavily only a few feet away.
It was Wesley who finally broke the silence. “I’m sorry I froze. I didn’t know what to do.” There was that shame again. It was new to him. Just another fag who didn’t know what to do when a bully showed up.
Travis straightened, moving away from the door. He faced Wesley angrily. “Don’t you dare apologize for that asshole. I was serious. I should have thrown him out years ago. All he’s ever done is bitch and complain and try to get stuff for free.”
“Did you really turn him in to animal control?” Jason squinted at Wesley skeptically.
So much for the possibility of having a friend in Jason, and for having whatever it was with Travis. As much as they might hate John Wallace, he was one of them. Wesley sighed in resignation. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Wesley answered Jason’s question, but looked at Travis. “He called me out there the other day to check out his cattle. The conditions were horrid, and the animals all but completely neglected. And a bad case of foot rot was starting up.” He paused, not really sure he wanted to know the answer. He wouldn’t be able to look at Travis Bennett the same way if he’d seen the condition of the cattle and not done anything. “Have you been out there?”
Travis shook his head. “No. I haven’t, but I told him myself that what he described was foot rot.”
Wesley let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. That was good. He looked between the two men. “I didn’t know I’d get him mad at you all. Of course, I didn’t even know you owned this place, but still.”
Travis closed the distance between them and grabbed Wesley by the shoulders. For an instant, he thought Travis was going to kiss him. “I said, don’t apologize. I’d have turned him in myself if I’d have realized. Quit fucking apologizing because of that little bitch.”
As suddenly as he’d grabbed him, Travis let go, quickly taking a step back.
From the corner of his eye, Wesley noticed a confused expression pass over Jason’s face. He wiped it away when he realized Wesley was looking at him, and his charming, carefree grin returned. “Besides, this is all gonna work out great. Knowing that bastard, he’s gonna go all over town telling everybody I’m the fag that’s doing the vet.”
Travis stared over at his frie
nd. “How’s that good for you?”
Impossibly Jason’s smile widened, and he winked. “Give me a chance to make the rounds again. Tell those girls they gotta do what they can to turn me back.”
Wesley couldn’t suppress a laugh, and his nerves lessened somewhat. Maybe he hadn’t just ruined things after all.
“I swear, Jason Baker. You are one retarded son of a bitch.” Travis grinned. “And Caleb already told ya to quit saying fag.”
Jason shrugged. “Yeah. Well, he also said to quit saying retarded.”
“I ALMOST feel like I fit in here, riding in this big truck. Maybe I should think about trading in my Miata.”
Travis glanced at Wesley from across the cab, then focused again on the road, turning left from Main Street onto Highway 54, which cut through the heart of town. “As long as you’re wearing that shade of purple, I don’t think it will matter what you drive, and if the look on your face means anything, I don’t see that happening. You looked like you were offering up one of your children to be sacrificed.”
“Yeah, probably not gonna happen. I’m not a truck kinda guy. Though riding in one is kinda fun.” Wesley smoothed out his shirt and glanced over his shoulder, taking in the huge backseat and the extended truck bed. The shifting of his body caused Dunkyn to snort in annoyance and adjust his position between the two men. “You’ve almost got a limo here.”
“Right, me in a limo.” He patted the dash of the F-350. “With three kids, Wendy, and two dogs, it was either this or a van. And I’m not driving a van. Plus, it technically belongs to Cedar County Feed, so it’s all a tax write-off.”
The silence was abrupt and awkward, and it arrived about every ninety seconds. Considering the drive from the feedstore to the vet clinic was about ten minutes, there shouldn’t have been many of them, but they seemed to keep coming. They made Wesley nervous. They made him want to ask things—things about kisses, wives and families, and more kisses. Stuff he shouldn’t ask. “So, uhm, have you named her?”
Travis spared him a brief, quizzical glance. “Who?”
