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Sol didn’t move, didn’t break eye contact, his lips parted.
Butch took a deep breath. “For the second time, I’mnotLiam. And I think we’re a good fit. No—agreatfit. So why don’t you think about what it is you’re throwing away.” He let go of Sol’s hands and stood.
“Butch, I—”
He let out another sigh, and it was as if a cloak of fatigue covered him.
“Like I said, I heard the bare bones of what happened to you from Toby. I came here in the hope of hearing it from you, because… communication, right? I needed to see if you could tell me, if you still trust me enough to share with me—that everything you said about communication wasn’t just bullshit.”
Sol’s heart quaked, but the words wouldn’t come.
Butch looked him in the eye. “When you decide to be as open with me as I was with you, you know where to find me.” He paused to draw breath. “Because I think you need to tell someone. After all we’ve been through, I’d hoped that person—” He swallowed. “Thatsubmissive…would be me. So here are my last thoughts, for what they’re worth. I’m here for you just like you were there for me, but I need to see that we’re not gonna run into this… communication breakdown again, no matter how much it hurts. And like I said, you know where to find me. I’m not going anywhere.” He touched Sol’s face, his fingers so gentle that Sol had to fight the urge to weep, and bent down to kiss him, not on the lips but on the forehead. Then he straightened, walked toward the door, opened it, and left the office.
Shit, that hurt.
Why the fuck aren’t you walking out there and telling him to come back?
That counselor barb had found its target.How does the saying go? Physician, heal thyself? I told Toby, Alli, and my parents, didn’t I? And I felt better.
Except part of him knew that wasn’t true.
Besides, if Butch already knows what happened, why the hell is it so important to hear it again, but from my lips?It had to be more than just communication, reestablishing trust…
Then it came to him. That kiss…
Butch had recognized he wasn’t going to get resolution right then, so he’d done the first thing he could think of—a kiss full of promise, a pointer to set Sol on his own path of self-discovery and healing.
He’s trying to get me to talk through my pain.
That new knowledge only served to heighten the worth of the man who’d just walked out of that door—and the path Sol had to follow if he was going to keep Butch in his life.
Chapter 53
Friday, October 14
Salvation
If Butch had to describe how he felt, the closest he could come to it was being thrown off a horse in the middle of nowhere, without a phone to call for backup, no gun either, and with a pack of wolves nipping at his heels.
Talk about being up shit creek without a paddle.
He’d been home for almost two weeks, and not a day went by when he didn’t check his phone at regular intervals, hoping for a text, an email—hell, even one single goddamn emoji—to be confronted with nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
Toby and the boss hadn’t asked how the meet-up with Sol had gone, and that was probably because they knew the answer—it had to be written all over his face, in every trudging step he took, in the slump of his shoulders, and in the fact that talking about anything to anyone had become a chore.
They weren’t the only ones not asking questions. His fellow ranch hands were treating him as though he were made of glass. Even Zeeb hadn’t fired his mouth off like he always did, and that was enough to convince Butch the trumpet had sounded for the Second Coming, and he’d slept through it.
Why the fuck did I go there? Did I really think I could get Sol to change his mind?
Maybe not, but he’dhoped, that was for damn sure.
He’d walked out of that club and along the streets, not really seeing anything, until he’d found a bar. With a beer and a whiskey chaser in front of him, he’d gotten his phone out and booked himself on the next flight out of San Francisco, which had been five-fifteen the following morning, with a stop in Denver. He’d downed the beer and the whiskey, then bought another round. After the third beer he came to his senses and left the bar in search of food, moving on autopilot. He’d tried to sleep at the airport, curled up on a row of three seats, but his brain wouldn’t shut down.
After seven hours of travel, he landed in Bozeman early Sunday afternoon, and caught the shuttle. Teague picked him up, and either Toby or the boss must’ve said something because he didn’t ask a goddamn thing, for which Butch was profoundly grateful.
