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“Kid, you okay?” Jackson elbowed him in the ribs. “This is good news.”
“Huh?” He must have spaced out, because Hugo and Brand were gone and Michael was heading toward his pickup, leaving Wyatt alone on the porch with Jackson. “What?”
“What what? You had this weird look on your face just now. You okay?”
“Sorry, I got lost in the past. Unhappy stuff.”
“You always get maudlin over good news?”
Wyatt stared at him.
“Weepy and emotional,” Jackson said. “Maudlin.”
“Oh. Not really. I guess I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot today. I’m really glad Wayne got through everything just fine. Honest.”
Jackson nodded and glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure they were alone. “It’s gotta be a mind fuck, huh? Being glad for someone else’s dad bein’ okay when you’re out here lookin’ for yours?”
“A little. But I honestly don’t resent Brand having a good relationship with his father. Michael, either. It’s just how the chips landed, you know?” And for all his swirling confusion about his Maybe Daddy, Wyatt truly didn’t resent Brand for being close to Wayne. He was a little jealous maybe but not resentful.
“Why don’t you go home and relax? I’d say have a beer to unwind but you’re underage.”
Wyatt tried on a flirty smile. “You could always buy me one.”
“I could also stick my finger in my truck’s cigarette lighter, but I ain’t doing that, either. Get some rest and I’ll see you Thursday.”
They both had tomorrow off, and Wyatt didn’t like the idea of a whole day passing between his Jackson times. “What if I said I’d be at the Tavern tonight around eight thirty looking for a drink of Tall, Dark and Handsome?”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Good night, Wyatt.”
He stared at Jackson’s ass as he strode to his truck and got in, unsure if Jackson had taken the bait or not. While Wyatt’s neck and shoulders were sore from all the manual labor, and he didn’t really feel like driving all the way out to the Tavern, Jackson was more likely to seek him out there than if Wyatt said he was going to the Roost for a burger. Jackson didn’t strike him as the type to back down from a challenge or hide if he was interested in someone, but the Tavern was a much better hunting ground for a dude interested in another dude.
Wyatt hadn’t forgotten the story of Brand and Hugo’s two-in-one-night bar brawls at the Roost thanks to a couple of drunk locals, and he wasn’t looking to re-create the experience. Wyatt had never been in a fight in his life, and he’d probably get his ass kicked. Jackson, on the other hand, would make anyone who came at him cry.
“Good night,” Wyatt said to Jackson’s departing truck. And if Jackson did take the bait, he hoped it would end up being agreatnight.
Jackson was an idiot. A surefire fool with no common sense, because if he had any common sense, he would have stayed at home. Stayed home and avoided any and all temptation. Instead, he let his dick lead him into his truck and across the county to the Blue Tavern. Right onto a barstool with a beer in hand and a bowl of stale pretzels within reach.
He’d shown up at eight fifteen. At eight twenty-five, he fully intended to eat a few more pretzels, drain his beer bottle, and leave. This was stupid. He had more self-respect than to sit around and pant after a boy half his age—even if everything about Wyatt made his body sing and demand and want.
At eight twenty-nine, according to the clock above the bar, Wyatt strode into the Tavern. No coat, just tight jeans and a too-tight black button-up shirt that made his hair gleam like fire in the dim bar light. He didn’t pause or look around—he sauntered straight to the bar, leaned forward on his elbows, and waited his turn to order. The bartender gave him something clear and fizzy from the soda gun so probably club soda.
Wyatt sipped his drink, seeming not to notice anyone else around him, not even the two guys who sidled up close and tried to chat with him. They didn’t stay long. Jackson watched Wyatt, occasionally sipping his own beer, curious what this game was. Wyatt had practically solicited him earlier and now he was playing hard to get by ignoring Jackson completely?
Maybe that was the game. Maybe he wanted to be flirted with and picked up like a stranger might, taken somewhere and ravished, but he didn’t have the stones to go with an actual stranger. Or he simply wanted Jackson and no one else. It had been a long time since Jackson had been anyone special to another guy. More than a hand to scratch an itch like he’d been for Brand.
The idea intrigued him as much as it terrified him. He was forty fucking years old. He should be able to do this. Whatever this was.
A third man tried his hand at picking up Wyatt. This guy was closer to Wyatt’s age with slicked-back brown hair and a full beard. Wyatt gave a few one-word answers Jackson didn’t catch, because he wasn’t good at reading lips, before leaning into the stranger’s personal space far enough to make Jackson sit up straighter. Wyatt ran his finger around the rim of his soda glass in a subtle, flirty way.
Jackson grunted, uncertain if Wyatt was deliberately baiting him or if he was actually interested in this guy. Had someone else stolen his attention from Jackson already?
Fuck that.
Irritated now, Jackson gulped the dregs of his semiflat beer, stopped himself from physically slamming the bottle down on the bar, and stood. His intention was to walk to the door, grab his coat, and leave empty-handed. What he actually did was walk over to Wyatt’s stool and put his hand on the back of Wyatt’s neck. Wyatt sat up straighter but didn’t turn around.
The stranger looked up at Jackson and frowned. “Can we help you, pal?”
“He ain’t goin’ home with you tonight,” Jackson said.
