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“Now?” It’d take him about forty-five minutes at least to reach Salvation, and it was getting late.
“Why not? Unless youwantto hang around here all night on the off chance youmightget lucky? When you could be onto a sure thing in my cabin.”
Butch grabbed his hat. “Let’s go.”
He stared at his phone. Maybe letting off steam in Teague’s bed would help push all thoughts of Sol Davenport from his head.
Yeah right.
You know, the day is gonna come when Teague’s ass won’t cure all your ills.
Butch hated that quiet little voice at the back of his mind.
It had a nasty habit of being right.
Chapter 11
Friday, August 19, 2022
Butch sat on Teague’s porch, warm light spilling through the window onto the wooden boards. He took a drag on his cigarette, relishing the peace and quiet, the cool night air.
That’s better.
The dark chasm that had swallowed him up no longer held him captive. He’d fucked it into submission, driving it from his mind with every thrust into Teague’s tight ass. It was like he always said—a little fucking was good for what ails ya.
Except this particular form of medicine was proving less and less effective, and he had no clue why that should be. Nothing had changed—
Are you so sure about that?
He took a minute to analyze his situation. Teague was a convenient hole—a term he’d used himself on several occasions—and that suited Butch just fine. Teague hadn’t complained, and why the hell would he? They were both getting what they wanted, right? And added to that was the comfort and safety to be found in routine.
Routine? Or a rut?
Fuck it. Middle of the road was just fine too. Butch was content with his lot.
But what happened when middle of the road wasn’t enough anymore? When the road ahead went on and on, no divergence, just a straight run that seemed to be going nowhere?
Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me tonight?
The cabin door opened and Teague stepped onto the porch. “You still here?” He’d put on jeans and a tee, his feet bare.
Butch let out a snort. “Fuck, that’s blunt. Really feeling the love here.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Teague joined him, sitting on the second Adirondack chair. He gestured to Butch’s cigarette. “You know you’re not supposed to have those.”
“Whatcha gonna do about it, Mr. Foreman?”
Teague sighed. “You got one for me?”
Butch reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, removed the pack, and held it out. “That’s my last one, but you can have it. Got another pack in the bunkhouse.” Then he dug deeper into his jeans pocket and retrieved his lighter.
Teague lit up and took a drag. “Well, isn’t this a goddamn cliché.”
“What—a smoke after fuckin’?” Butch cackled. “No, dude. A cliché would be me putting two cigarettes between my lips, lighting them both, then handing one to you.”
They sat in silence, and that worked. No hearts and flowers shit necessary.
Butch gestured to the ranch. “Something sure lit a fire under Toby’s ass this week. I think there were guys working day and night.” The barn looked a damn sight better.
