Page 22 of Wilder

For a second, all I could do was blink while my brain tried to process the sheer audacity of what the hell I’d just heard.

Up until this point, I’d been pretty privileged in life.

Growing up in a progressive part of Louisiana with a brother who wasn’t afraid to be out and proud before he even fully hit puberty had given Greyson and I plenty of space to come into our own. Forge our own path and explore our identities until we settled on what we felt was right.

We had options—freedom—and a chance to figure ourselves out without fear because Gage had made damn sure of it.

And yeah, maybe it was a little ironic that all three of us had turned out as gay as the day was long. Probably some genetic anomaly. Or some freak roll of the dice that none of us cared to look into.

But at the end of the day, who the fuck cared?

We never had to fight for it, never had to defend it to anyone, let alone ourselves; it had never felt like something to be ashamed of to begin with.

But here Carter was now, shoving his own insecurities into my face while trying to twist something as simple as existing in Wilder’s general proximity into some wild, pathetic little fantasy he’d cooked up in his own head.

And the worst part?

It didn’t even hurt.

It was just fucking stupid.

“Get off me.” I shoved at him, putting more force behind it this time, but his fingers refused to budge.

He held firm, his grip twisting my shirt tighter until it was nearly choking me.

I could feel my pulse hammering against my ribs and had half a mind to just deck him to get this over with. Clearly, that was what he was looking for starting all of this.

Why else would he go out of his way to slam into me like some goddamn battering ram?

The problem was a physical altercation he could twist around, use it as an excuse to paint me as the aggressor. Something he could then take straight to Wilder, black eye and all, and say, ‘see? Look what Torres did’.

And who would Wilder believe?

Me or the guy standing there with a busted face?

I knew how this game worked.

Instead of actually letting my hand follow through with what I desperately wanted it to, I forced myself to stay still. To breathe while heat crawling up my neck from the anger boiling inside of me. If Carter thought for one damn second that I was about to let him get a rise out of me, he had another think coming.

“Bet that’s why you’ve been trying to cozy up to him.” A smirk twisted up his face. “I doubt he even swings that way, Torres. You’re probably barking up the wrong tree. Then again, guys like you never care anyway.”

Oh my god, I was actually going to go to fucking jail.

“Gentlemen. What’s going on here?”

Carter shoved me away from him, forcing me to stumble back and nearly trip over the fallen bucket of ruined pellets. Turning toward the voice, I spotted Sully just a few yards away, carrying a large sack over his shoulder while striding toward us.

His sharp eyes narrowed immediately on Carter, flitting to me only briefly—just long enough to make sure I was still standing—before locking back onto the other man. “Is there a reason you’re both dilly-dallying in here?”

When he swung the sack down off his shoulder, it made a loud ‘thump’ on the ground.

Carter, for all his previous bravado, stood a little straighter while refusing to look at me or Sully. His jaw flexed a few times, the way it always did when he knew he was dangerously close to stepping out of line but holding back for the sake of not being sent packing like he’d been threatened to months ago.

“No,” he finally said.

“Best get moving, then,” Sully replied.

Carter kept his head down as he moved, finishing up hanging the tack he’d brought back with him, each motion a little stiffer than usual, like he was forcing himself to behave and not spin around and grab me again. Grabbing his water bottle and hand warmers, he beelined it for the barn doors, shoving them open just enough to slip outside and slam them shut behind him.