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“And why would I wanna do that?”
Christ, does he think I’m gay or something?
Butch tossed Matt his phone, and Matt lurched off the couch and through the door that led to the bunkhouse kitchen. Butch propped his feet up on the coffee table strewn with magazines, gloves, used mugs, hats, and the odd pizza box.
Guess I’d better clear this shit up.He didn’t want Teague gunning for him. The bunkhousewashis area, right?
Matt’s words rang in his head.
Livingston again.Two mentions in the last five days. It was almost as if something was determined to remind him of his past.
Butch hadn’t been there for about five years, not since that one time when Teague had shown up. But before that, he’d been a regular visitor. Not that there’d been a pattern to his visits—he’d gone there whenever the urge took him, and sometimes that meant it could’ve been two, three months since the last time.
Before Livingston, however, there had been visits to Billings. Race Prettyman had found himself a place there, and that had been a two-hour drive from Salvation. From July to October after they’d first met, Butch had headed over there to shoot some pool in Race’s basement, eat pizza and drink beer, and talk for hours about anything they goddamn pleased. He’d loved those little breaks, driving there every two to three weeks. Race was easygoing and fun to be around.
He’d also been a good-looking dude, and Butch had lost count of the number of times errant thoughts strayed into his head, thoughts of Race bringing guys back to his place, not to shoot pool, not to talk, but to get busy doing other… things. He’d tried to push such thoughts from his mind, butLord, they were persistent.
It was none of his damn business.
And as for why he never imagined Race getting down and dirty with a woman—the guy was bi, after all—Butch didn’t care to delve too deeply into that.
Only thing was, part of him had yearned to know more, and when that inner voice piped up with its habitualStop thinking about thiswarning, Butch shoved it way down deep.
Except it never stayed there for long.
Throughout those four months, Race had remained the perfect gentleman, so Butch guessed he’d lied when he’d said Butch was his type.
If that was so, he’d have done something, wouldn’t he? Made a move or something?
Then he’d given himself a mental shake.
But I don’twanthim to make a move, so why do I keep thinking about this?
Yeah, he already knew the answer tothatquestion.
Then came the day when he’d finally gotten up enough nerve to cross the line.
November, 1992
“Gonna put the eight-ball in that corner pocket,” Race told him, half of him lying on the pool table, lining up his cue for the long shot.
Butch wasn’t thinking about pool—he was staring at Race’s ass.
His tight, denim-encased ass.
And you’d better quit that, right fuckingnow, because he could turn around at any second and catch—
“What exactly is it about my behind that has you so captivated?” Race’s eyes glittered.
Well fuck.
Butch jerked his head in the opposite direction, staring at a poster Race had stuck on the wall. “That new?”
Race snorted. “It was there the last time you visited. Now, can we get back to why I caught you getting an eyeful of my ass? Not that this is the first time.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Butch mumbled.
Race’s eyebrows shot up. “Mm-hmm.”
