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Chapter One
Jackson Sumner leaned back in the old wooden chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and surveyed the pickings in the dim light of the Blue Tavern, his favorite out-of-the-way watering hole when he had a particular itch to scratch. An itch he used to get scratched by a friend who was now off the market for such things, so he was back to his hunting days. Looking for someone to fuck or to fuck him—he wasn’t too picky tonight.
The Blue Tavern was a long drive from home, about thirty minutes if he sped and forty if he didn’t, but it was worth the time and gas to sit in a small square space full of other gay, bi or gay-curious men who wouldn’t pitch a fit if Jackson flirted. A few butch lesbians wandered the crowd, usually there to hustle some of the newbies at pool, but a lot fewer women came here in general.
Not a lot of people drove to a dive bar in the middle of nowhere, period, unless they were looking for something specific.
Jackson picked up his beer glass and sipped at the warming liquid. Most of the beer here came out of the tap lukewarm, which was almost a badge of pride for the place, but they offered free baskets of over-salted popcorn as long as you kept buying drinks. Great selling strategy since you needed beer to eat the stuff. He rested his jacketed arm on the edge of the small round table, having learned a long time ago to never put his bare skin on those tabletops. The familiar scents of beer, sweat and cigarette smoke filled the air—three things that were oddly comforting as a combination, considering his history.
Not a lot was churning in the waters tonight, though, which sucked. He’d come out for a reason, and while he wasn’t above fucking someone he wasn’t much attracted to, he wasn’t in the mood for that. Sure, it had been a few months since his last fuck buddy had called things off, so he really shouldn’t have still been hung up on the guy, but their arrangement had lasted for four years.
Hard to say goodbye to someone after so long, especially when said fuck buddy had always made Jackson feel seen and present in the sex they were having. But the guy had a boyfriend, and they were living together, and Jackson truly did wish them well. The people in his life were happy and that helped.
Helped on the lonely nights when he thought about walking into the wilderness surrounding the small towns of Claire County and not coming back.
Except Dog kept him firmly at home or at work. She was a mutt who’d wandered up to him one day out of the blue, hadn’t gone away, and she’d never told him her name. So she was Dog, with her beautiful blue eyes and a bit of border collie that came out when she herded the cattle.
She was waiting at home for him right now, so he’d eventually go home to her. Scratch behind her floppy ears and go to sleep—with or without his own itch scratched.
A shadow fell over his table from the right. Jackson looked up at a stocky man with a full, trimmed beard, a red flannel shirt and a cigarette dangling from the same hand that somehow held a beer bottle by the neck. The dexterity was promising, but Jackson wasn’t in the mood for a bear tonight.
“That chair over there looks lonely,” the stranger said with a flirty smile. “Mind if I sit in it?”
Jackson relaxed his expression so his response came out more joking than annoyed. “Not at all, so long as you take it to another table.”
He grunted and moved on. Jackson didn’t watch to see where he went, more interested in a small commotion near the door. The bar was maybe two thousand square feet, including the bar space and closet-sized kitchen that spat out greasy wings and over-cheesed nachos, making it easy to see everything going on. No angry voices, so it wasn’t a fight. The only thing that usually caught so much attention was fresh meat.
And fresh meat it was—or at least Jackson had never seen the guy before. At least as tall as him, a slender guy with curly red hair eased his way through the thin wall of men and took a spot at the short bar in front of Darlin’, the place’s only bartender. Jackson had no idea where Darlin’ got his nickname, but he was sure to correct folks when they spelled or pronounced theg.
The hair intrigued him. Not many gingers lived around here, and even fewer guys sported those sort of long, thick ringlets that seemed more in place on one of Santa’s elves than a guy in the middle of the Texas nowhere. The Blue Tavern was ninety minutes from the nearest big city, so the kid had come a long way for some cowboy thrills. At least he hadn’t walked into Bullhorn’s down in Daisy, or he’d have been laughed right out of the place.
A few guys seemed to try to buy him a drink that the redhead declined. He left the bar with a tall glass of something bubbly and clear, and Jackson got a better look at his face. Definitely young, sokidwas an okay word. The dim light made it hard to tell if he had any freckles to go with that hair, and he seemed a touch uncertain where to go next. The joint had about twenty tables, most of which were empty, plus two pool tables, and one pinball machine in the corner by the bathrooms.
He zeroed in on Jackson, and something about that direct stare sent happy signals right to Jackson’s dick. Jackson didn’t usually go for tall, redheaded twinks, but something about this guy waltzing into the Tavern on a Monday night intrigued him. It was ballsy and bizarre, and Jackson wanted to know more. He tilted his head toward the kid in a slight nod.
The redhead threaded his way to Jackson’s table and plunked down in the seat beside him. “Hey, man.”
“Hey, yourself.” Jackson didn’t see any freckles, but his eyes were a pale shade of something. Sharp nose and cheekbones, definitely cute. He towered over Jackson’s slouched posture, and Jackson had a feeling the kid had a few inches on him anyway. Of height, at least.
“Name’s W-Wilson.”
Of course it was. “Jackson.” Wilson started to take off his fleece-lined flannel jacket. “I wouldn’t do that. They clean the tables about twice a month, and I think the next scheduled time is tomorrow.”
Wilson stared at him, as if unsure whether Jackson was joking or not. He left the jacket on and sipped his drink. “So you from around here?”
As lines went, that was about as lame as humanly possible, but it also made Jackson smile. Wilson was clearly out of his element right now, and there were too many guys lurking around, ready to make a snack out of him, for Jackson to scare the kid away. “No one’s from around here, really. There ain’t a town for ten miles. But if you’re talkin’ about Claire County, then I live here. Not from around here.”
“Right. For the middle of nowhere, the bartender is really good at spotting a fake ID.” A flush spread across his nose and cheeks, as if embarrassed he’d admitted to using one.
Jackson’s gut tightened in a less pleasant way. “Tell me you’re at least eighteen, or you can walk away from this table.”
Wilson scowled. “I’m twenty, thank you. Just figured if I was traveling by myself, being a little older wouldn’t hurt.”
“Traveling alone, huh? On your way to where? I’d say college, but you’re definitely goin’ in the wrong direction for that.”
“No, I’m out looking for work.”
“Doing what?”
