Campy (Ballsy Boys Book 4)

by K. M. Neuhold

  “I understand, you can trust me,” he assures me, and I really do. Trust him, that is. If I didn’t, I never would’ve let him know about my mom to begin with.

  “Thank you. And, um, the whole not gay thing…”

  “My lips are sealed, Cam, I promise.”

  “Great. Ready to go in an hour?”

  “No problem.”

  After I finish my coffee, I get dressed in some clothes I won’t mind getting sweaty and then meet Jackson in the living room. He looks hot in a pair of well-fitting jeans, a T-shirt, and that cowboy hat of his he loves so much. The guys are going to take one look at him and cream their pants, and something about that makes me bristle a little.

  “Do I not look okay?” he asks, insecurity creeping into his voice as he looks down at himself.

  “No, you look fine.”

  “Then why are you frowning at me?”

  “I was just thinking that you’re going to have some of the guys wanting to climb you like a tree, looking like a sexy cowboy like that,” I explain, and Jackson smiles and preens a little. “Let’s go before your head gets so big it can’t fit through the door.” I slip on my shoes and wave him toward the door.

  When we arrive, Rebel, Troy, Brewer, and Tank are already there. I introduce them to Jackson, who tips his hat and drawls an appropriate Southern greeting.

  I can practically see the hearts forming in Brewer’s eyes as his mouth falls open. I swear I even see a little bit of drool forming.

  Tank glowers at him, leaning in to whisper something in Brewer’s ear that has him scowling right back and shoving Tank away. I’m not sure I understand those two together, but if it’s working for them, then more power to them.

  “So, where are you from?” Rebel asks Jackson.

  “Texas,” he answers and then launches into an explanation of what he’s doing in LA. A bit of pride swells in my chest, listening to him talk about his show. Maybe it won’t be picked up for a second season, but there’s something so admirable in the fact that he’s out here, so far from home, pursuing his dreams.

  Pixie and Bear show up as we’re starting to haul stuff down the stairs and out to the moving truck. In all honesty, I’m not sure why Pixie came to help because he’s not exactly a “hauling heavy boxes” kind of guy, and it seems Bear agrees because every item Pixie picks up that’s heavier than a pillow is promptly taken from him by Bear.

  “You know, I’m not an invalid, right?” Pixie gripes the fourth time Bear repeats this pattern, taking a box right out of his arms before he can get anywhere near the stairs with it.

  “I don’t think you’re an invalid, but I’m not about to let you fall down the stairs because you’ve decided to pick up a box that weighs almost as much as you do,” Bear argues and Pixie rolls his eyes. Bear looks at him like he’s contemplating bending him over the arm of the couch and spanking him for his attitude.

  “Wow, you could cut the sexual tension in here with a knife,” Jackson rumbles in my ear, watching the exchange just like I am.

  “Sexual tension? No way, Bear is old enough to be Pixie’s dad,” I argue and Jackson shrugs before moving past me with a box in his arms.

  I notice for a few seconds the way his biceps bulge from the weight of the box and heat settles in the pit of my stomach.

  “You planning to stare at your roommate all afternoon or are you going to grab another box?” Rebel teases and I snap my eyes away from Jackson and pick up the nearest box while Rebel grabs one end of a dresser and Brewer takes the other.

  On our way down the stairs, Brewer faints and chaos ensues.

  Jackson

  I’m carrying a box out of the kitchen when I hear Rebel frantically calling out for help. “Somebody, help me!”

  I drop the box on the floor and rush down the stairs to help Rebel hold up the heavy dresser he and Brewer were carrying. Brewer is barely conscious and looks white as a sheet, except for the dark circles under his eyes, that is. He looks like he might be ill or something.

  Tank inches past me and grabs him, lifting him up without breaking a sweat. Rebel and I quickly get the dresser out of the way so Tank can carry Brewer into the living room.

  When we get back upstairs, Tank is tenderly holding him, feeding him some juice. He's got a little more color in his face, but he still doesn't look well.

  “I think he’s dehydrated a little and definitely exhausted. I think we need to call it a day. He needs some sleep,” Tank says when Bear suggests calling a doctor.

  A little discussion ensues with people insisting Brewer shouldn't be by himself and Tank assuring them that he won't be, that he'll take care of him. We watch them leave, Brewer asleep in Tank’s arms as he gently lowers him into his car.

  "Is Brewer ill?" I softly ask Cameron, not wanting everybody else to overhear. Maybe he is and this is a known issue I'm not aware of.

  Cameron shakes his head. "No, not that I know." He shoots a worried glance at Tank’s car as they drive off. "He didn't look good, did he?"

  "He's been working a lot," Rebel says. "Maybe I've overscheduled him."

  His boyfriend, Troy—and holy macaroni, those two make for a stunning combination—puts his arm around Rebel's shoulder. "It's not your fault. He's a grown-ass man. If it was too much, he could've said something."

  "Tank will take good care of him," Pixie says. "Did you see how sweet he was with him? Those two are so cute together."

  My mouth pulls up in a smile at his infectious gushing, but Rebel’s face doesn't quite show the same joy. He's worried, but there's something else. Something that looks a heck of a lot like guilt. I file that away as something I may need to ask Cameron about when it's just the two of us.

  It takes us a bit longer to clear out Troy's apartment without Tank and Brewer, but we manage to get the job done. When everything has been carried into Rebel’s place, I'm pretty sure we’re all exhausted. I know I am, and I wipe my face off with a bandana.

  I look sideways when I hear a snicker. "Is that a handkerchief?" Pixie asks.

  "It's a bandana," I say as I tuck it back into my pocket.

  "It's a Stars and Stripes handkerchief," Pixie insists, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

  My face breaks open in a smile. "Oh, that's wrong on so many levels." I pull it back out and unfold it for him. "Honey, that's not the Stars and Stripes. That's the Texas Lone Star, I'll have you know. Big difference. Also, that's a bandana."

  "I stand corrected on the Stars and Stripes, but that's a handkerchief if I've ever seen one. What's the difference between a handkerchief and a bandana anyway?"

  "Bandanas are multi-purpose pieces of brightly colored cloth, perfect for tough cowboys like me. Handkerchiefs are for senior citizens. They’re ironed, white or pastel cottons with hand-embroidered monograms in the corner, like my grandma used to make." I hold up my bandanna and flip it over. "See? No embroidery on this one. That makes it a bandana."

  Pixie is laughing out loud now, holding his right side. "That's the funniest thing ever. I have to admit, it totally goes with the cowboy boots and the hats, though. Aren't you hot as hell?"

  I shrug, then fold my bandana back up and stick it in my back pocket. "Of course I'm hot, but so are you and you’re wearing shorts and…"

  I cock my head to study Pixie’s lithe body and the ridiculously tight jeans shorts he's wearing. I hear something that sounds a heck of a lot like a growl, and I find Bear looking at me, his eyes narrowing.

  Isn't that interesting? There is definitely a possessiveness there that I spotted before as well. Duly noted, not that I have any interest in Pixie. I'll admit, watching that boy get ravished is sheer delight, but other than that, I have no interest in him at all. He's too young for me, too…needy. I don't know what it is he needs, but it’s not me.

  "You like my shorts?" Pixie asks, his tone flirting as he winks at me.

  He has one hand on his hip, his butt sticking out like a magnet. And I do declare, that’s one mighty fine behind that kid’s got. He m
ay not be my type, but I’m not dead, you know?

  "Shorts? Is that what you're calling them? Why yes, I like them just fine. But the point I was trying to make is that you're just as hot in a shirt and shorts as I am in my jeans, boots, and cowboy hat."

  There is a chorus of chuckles around me, and I realize the unintended double entendre of my words. Of course, Pixie jumps on it immediately. "I have to agree. You look definitely hot in that outfit, and the bandanna fits the whole cowboy-hotness you've got going there."

  How can you not laugh at that blatant flirting? I don't know how he does it, but it's innocent and sexy at the same time. It's like you know he does it just for fun, not because he wants you to act on the signals he’s sending out.

  The quick look sideways he gives Bear confirms this for me. This kid knows what he wants, or I should say, who he wants. And I have to admit, even after having just met him, my money is on Pixie. I don't think he'll give up until he has tamed that bear.

  Cameron has been watching this all with amusement. "You hitting on my roommate, Pixie?" he asks good-naturedly.

  Pixie steps closer, then pets my biceps with one hand, batting his eyelashes at me. God, the kid is perfect. "Why, yes I am. You never told us he was this delicious. Maybe you wanted to keep him for yourself?"

  I almost blurt out how ridiculous that suggestion is, but then I remember all these guys think Cameron is gay. It sobers me up quickly. Doesn't it bother him, to pretend and lie to these guys who are his friends? I'm not judging him, because I do understand he had little choice. And I can't help but admire the lengths he's willing to go to take care of his mom. But to live a constant lie, man, that would be so hard for me.

  "Now that you've seen him, can you blame me?" Cameron asks, and I wonder if I'm the only one who notices that his flirty smile never reaches his eyes.

  18

  Campy

  I’m not sure why I agreed to go out with Jackson again to be his wingman after last time was so weird. But when Jackson said one of his costars suggested a bar for him to check out tonight and asked me if I’d come with, I couldn’t find it in me to tell him no. And I suppose I’d rather make sure if he goes home with someone they’re not a creep. Even if the thought of him going home with someone makes that hot feeling rise in my stomach every time it occurs to me.

  “About ready?” Jackson asks, tapping at my bedroom door.

  “Almost,” I call back, pulling my pants up and checking myself in the mirror. Once I’m satisfied that I’m not a complete mess, I yank my door open to find Jackson waiting for me in the hallway.

  Jackson’s eyes dart over me, and I swear I can almost feel them like a caress. “I’m hoping this bar is pretty casual like the other one we went to?” I ask, feeling momentarily self-conscious about my T-shirt and jeans.

  “You look…” he starts, cutting himself off with a totally fake cough as his cheeks pink. I’ll certainly take that compliment.

  “So do you,” I smile, biting my lip and holding back the urge to reach out and smooth down the front of his shirt, not because it’s wrinkled but because I want an excuse to put my hands on him for a few seconds. I can’t even begin to unpack that insane hankering, so instead, I turn around to grab my phone off my dresser and then make a shooing motion to get Jackson moving. “Let’s get going before all the good ass is taken.”

  He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but snaps it closed again, leaving me wondering what it was going to be.

  He opted for his favorite cowboy boots and I smile even wider at the sight of him. I hope like hell LA doesn’t get to him and steal the country boy side of him from the world. I hope no matter how big of a star he becomes, he’ll still wear cowboy boots to the bar.

  This bar is a lot louder than Redd’s was, but still not as bad as Bottoms Up. The first thing I notice when we walk in is the makeshift dance floor in the back corner where dozens of men are dancing to music playing from an old jukebox. There are certainly more guys here to choose from, and I can’t decide if I’m happy about that for Jackson or not.

  “What’s the game plan? Should we get drinks and find somewhere to sit?” I ask, leaning close to Jackson so he can hear me over the noise and breathing deeply when the scent of his spicy body wash tickles my nose.

  “Would you be opposed to dancin’ for a few minutes?” he asks, his eyes fixed on the small sea of writhing, grinding bodies.

  “You want to dance?” I repeat, a nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach at the thought of pressing my body against his.

  That shy look I’ve come to find adorable seeps into Jackson’s eyes, and even in the dim light of the bar I can tell he’s blushing a little again.

  “It’s just…I don’t know how. I can line dance with the best of ‘em, but that…” He tilts his head in the direction of the mating ritual we call dancing. “I don’t know how to do that. I need to learn, right?”

  “Yeah, you do,” I agree. “But, to be honest, I’ve never danced like that with another man so I’m not sure how good of a teacher I’ll be.”

  “Maybe we can figure it out together?” he presses. “I’d much rather look like a fool in front of you than some stranger.” And then he busts out the crooked smile I can’t say no to.

  “Okay, yeah, let’s do it.” Grabbing his hand, I tug him toward the dance floor.

  When we reach the group, a few men move aside a little to give us space along the edge to join in. Turning to Jackson with an unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty and shyness, I’m not exactly sure how to start. It’s true I’ve never danced this way with a man, but I’ve never danced with a woman either. I danced with some girls at homecoming and prom, but nothing like this and not since I was eighteen. It’s not like I’ve had a lot of time for clubbing. Sure, I go to Bottoms Up with the guys, but that’s a work outing, not leisure.

  The song on the jukebox changes to “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and Jackson’s expression goes from nervous to eager as he grabs me and drags me to him, spinning me in the process so my back presses against his front.

  “I love this song,” he whispers near my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. His hips press to my ass and his arms wrap around my middle as he starts to move in time to the beat. Having nowhere else to put my hands, I reach them up and loop them around Jackson’s neck, behind me. And, surprisingly, the position feels right. Sexual as hell, but right all the same. It’s probably how comfortable I feel with him.

  Jackson’s hot breath cascades down the back of my neck as we both fall into a comfortable rhythm.

  “I thought you hadn’t danced like this before,” I say accusingly, leaning further back into him.

  “It feels more natural than I expected,” he answers, his voice taking on a slightly gruff edge. “It feels kind of like…fucking,” he admits, almost too quietly for me to hear over the music, and another shiver rocks me.

  Have I ever heard Jackson say something so dirty before? Was that even all that dirty or did it just seem that way because I can feel his cock growing hard against the curve of my ass as we move? And why is it so hard to breathe all of a sudden?

  “You must be good at fucking then,” I blurt out and Jackson’s laugh rumbles against my back, his arms tightening slightly around me.

  “I’m not sure of that, but I’ll certainly take the compliment.”

  “Hey, I would know,” I point out and he laughs again.

  The song ends too soon and when his arms loosen, we stumble apart awkwardly. I feel awkward, anyway. Jackson simply smiles at me with an air of casual confidence.

  “You clearly don’t need more practice than that. How about drinks?”

  “Drinks, right, yeah.” He makes an after you gesture.

  My legs feel a little shaky as I walk away from the dance floor, and a coolness seems to surround me now that Jackson’s large body isn’t pressed up against me. Jesus, I need to get it together and stop acting so weird. I’m here to help him find a date, not muse about the way his muscled
arms make me feel oddly safe when they’re wrapped around me.

  I order two beers while Jackson snags a table for us. But, by the time the bartender hands me our drinks, Jackson isn’t alone at the table anymore. A couple of guys have taken it upon themselves to fill two of the chairs, leaving the fourth one free for me.

  You’re here to be Jackson’s wingman. Now, stop being fucking weird and do what you promised. With a deep breath, I paste on a fake smile and saunter over to the table with our drinks in hand.

  “Cameron, meet Mike and Baxter,” Jackson gestures at the two men and I don’t bother to try to figure out who’s who.

  “Hey guys, can I get you two something to drink?” I offer as soon as I reach them and set Jackson’s beer down in front of him.

  “Wow, what a gentleman,” the blond man praises. He’s cute in a pretty, femme kind of way. He sort of reminds me of Pixie and I immediately know he’s not Jackson’s type. Although, what did Jackson say last time? Something about if you feel a spark, type doesn’t matter so much. I glance at the other guy and assess him as well. He’s pretty average looking, but there’s something sweet and alluring about his smile. It’s a boy-next-door kind of smile.

  “How about a round of lemon drops?” boy-next-door suggests and his friend nods eagerly in agreement.

  “Coming right up,” I agree, returning to the bar. While I wait for the round of drinks, I watch Jackson with Mike and Baxter and my stomach sours at the way he’s laughing. Is he flirting? It doesn’t look the same as the way he acted around whoever that old Texan dude was at the bar the other day, but it’s hard to tell.

  Returning to the table a second time with a round of shots, I have the urge to do something crazy like plant myself in Jackson’s lap. Instead, I pass out the shots and make sure my fake smile stays in place.

  Jackson

  Dancing with Cameron was heaven and hell at the same time. I was hard as a rock, my cock pressed against him, and there’s no way he didn’t notice. You couldn’t have put a sheet of paper between us, we were that pressed together, so yeah, he knows I had a raging hard-on. But he didn’t protest. He didn’t walk away. My plan clearly worked.