“Amazing!” Emily beamed proudly. “I always wanted a cowboy hat!”
Steph signaled Jamie, the bartender, for another round of beers. “We need to get a table with these cowfolk, ‘cause I need to hear all about line dancing.”
An hour later, Reyes, Ava, and Emily were thoroughly bombed, getting louder and more chaotic as Samuels continued to reload pitcher after pitcher of beer. Steph, too, was getting a little red in the cheeks and giggling more easily. The only sober people at the table were John and Lawson, who were both intentionally drinking their beers slowly, knowing exactly what kind of fun they wanted to have when the rest stumbled out of the bar and called for their rides home.
It took everything not to look at Lawson, who had intentionally picked the chair right next to his but hadn’t looked at him the entire fucking evening since walking into the bar. John’s palm itched beneath the table as he smoothed them over his jeans, his patience for the drunken frolic wearing thin, especially being this close to temptation and not being able to do a damned thing about it.
It also proved that Lawson had more restraint than he did, and this bothered the hell out of him because he sat there perfectly relaxed, his lips slipping over the rim of his beer, causing excess blood to shoot to John’s cock.
Christ, what was wrong with him? He was acting like a schoolboy with his crush sitting next to him. Wyatt, on the other hand, was the epitome of unbothered, sitting next to him for the last few hours. And it bothered him.
Had he met someone line dancing? Because according to Ava, every short-shorts-wearing cowgirl in the bar had gawked, flirted, or worse, had the audacity to rub against Lawson on the dance floor.
Was Lawson already getting bored with their hotel rendezvous?
Bored withhim?
A nervous insecurity unlike anything he’d felt before slid into his stomach, making a nest of his insides, and his shoulders began to tense. In the last few weeks, John had learned that his shoulders were a sign of his stress, and he needed to be mindful of relaxing them after a long, grueling shift.
John sat back in his seat attempting to relax, but it was no use. Images assailed him of Lawson on the dance floor with booty-shorts-wearing cowgirls, or worse, another cowboy just like him, young and hot, grinding into his crotch—taking what was his.
Shit.
Lawson is not mine.
He’s not, John. Stop acting like a jealous boyfriend.
John swiped a hand over the back of his neck, wondering if he should just get drunk and call it a night. Anything would be better than stewing in this self-induced misery.
He felt Lawson’s subtle shift beside him and glanced in his direction. Lawson’s jaw was clenched tight, his hat low on his eyes. His black boot slowly crept out, widening his legs, as his heel touched John’s beneath the table.
Sudden relief flooded his lungs, all from a simple touch, and he could breathe again. John reached for his beer and took a long gulp from the glass. Jesus, this was bad. He shouldn’t be reacting this strongly to Lawson. Maybe he should end it now before it becomes any more complicated.
He’d already proven to Lawson he was broken. That he had trauma from his job that had built up in his body like an overflowing lake, until finally the dam had burst and driven him into a full-on collapse after shower sex. It was something that he still felt immensely ashamed about, and the young cowboy seemed careful not to bring it up again.
Lawson was better off far, far away from him. He should be doing things like this—out with friends, line dancing, having flings, having fun.
He felt another touch, a knee brushing against his beneath the table, and he resisted the urge to close his eyes and savor the reassuring feel of Lawson.
This was so fucking wrong.
John, unable to stand the self-loathing and pity anymore, abruptly got to his feet and headed over to the bar to close out. He knew he was running away, but he also knew he couldn’t stay.
His phone dinged in his back pocket, and he withdrew it with his wallet.
It was Lawson, aka Sally. He fought the temptation to glance over his shoulder at him and opened the message instead:
You’re upset.
Jamie took his card, and he typed back a quick reply.
I’m fine.
I do love it when you say that.
He sighed, and Jamie handed him the bill. He signed it, paying for tonight’s fun, knowing Samuels and Steph were always good at footing the bill next time. His phone vibrated again. He checked it.
Are you leaving?
