I turn. Tex stands in the doorway.
He looks like hell. His hair is a mess, his shirt wrinkled. He has a bruise blossoming on his jawline, a mottled purple and yellow stain from where Joey hit him.
“It’s ready,” I say.
He walks over, grabs a mug from the cupboard, and pours his own.
We stand in silence for a moment.
Then, he tilts his head. His ear twitches.
“Is that…?” he trails off.
“Yeah,” I say. “They’re kissing.”
Tex frowns. He takes a sip of his coffee. He stares out the window toward the barn.
“Sounds like more than kissing,” he mutters.
I can smell it now. Even through the window. Her scent is blooming.
It rolls across the yard, thick and sweet. Honeysuckle and rain. It carries the sharp tang of her arousal, mixing with Seth’s woodsmoke smell.
It’s intoxicating. It makes my head spin.
We hear another sound. A sharp intake of breath. A soft, desperate mewl.
My chest tightens. I shake my head.
“She gets louder before… you know,” I say. My voice is rough.
I turn to look at Tex.
He’s rubbing the back of his neck, his face flushed red. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. He looks uncomfortable.
But he doesn’t look angry either.
He looks affected.
“Here,” I say. I hand him the sugar bowl.
“Thanks.” He dumps two spoonfuls into his mug, stirring it with a clinking sound.
I look at the bruise on his face. It looks painful.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
He touches it tentatively. “Nah. Just looks ugly.”
“Joey hits hard,” I say.
Tex snorts. “Yeah. He does.”
Joey and Tex have been best friends since they were in diapers. They learned to ride together. They learned to fight together. They shared everything.
Hearing Tex talk about him now feels like stepping on broken glass.
“I’m surprised you stood up to him,” I say. “You usually let him run his mouth.”
