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“Whatever. What do you do?”
“This and that. I have quite a variety of skills, depending on the situation.” As true of his job as his skills in the bedroom. As a rustler out at Woods Ranch, Jackson did all sorts of chores, from mucking stalls and grooming the horses, to riding the lines and herding the cattle from one grazing pasture to another. As a man? He could probably show this kid a thing or twelve.
Wilson’s dark red eyebrows raised. “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
“Gotta be around here.” Jackson took a long drink from his warm beer. “Now, what kind of work is a pretty boy like you lookin’ for out here in the sticks? Ain’t got much need for modeling or car salesmen.”
“You assume a lot about me.”
“Prove me wrong, then.” Jackson crossed his arms, enjoying the conversation now that he’d gotten the kid’s temper up a bit. “You drove out of your way to get here, but you’re underage, so it wasn’t for a quiet drink, and no one comes here for a quiet drink, anyway. They come for one of two reasons.”
“Which are?”
“Get drunk and sleep it off in the backroom because Darlin’ has taken your car keys away from you.” He tilted his head and smirked. “Or get drunk and go home with a guy you wanna fuck your brains out.” When the blush across Wilson’s nose and cheeks darkened, Jackson continued. “Since you already admitted you’re traveling around lookin’ for work, and there’s no motel within forty miles, you’re lookin’ for someplace to crash for the night that isn’t your car.”
“So what if I am looking for a place to crash? I’ve done it before.”
Something in the way Wilson’s eyes flickered said that was a lie. “Besides, you don’t know me. I can defend myself, and how do you know I don’t have a gun under my jacket?”
“Because if you did, you wouldn’t have just told me.” Jackson abhorred guns, and the only reason he owned one was because he lived in an isolated spot away from the main roads. He’d only ever fired it to scare away an errant coyote, but strangers occasionally crept around the property. He saw the signs when he got home.
Wilson’s mouth flopped open in an amusing, almost endearing way as he sought for a response. He was pretty cute when flustered, and while Jackson’s dick was still interested, he didn’t want to take advantage of someone who was trying so hard to appear tough but was pretty obviously clueless about a lot of things. Had he dropped fully formed from childhood into adulthood? A sheltered kid wandering unsupervised into a bar full of adults was a recipe for disaster.
A little concerned, Jackson sat up straighter and angled closer to him. “Look, are you in some kinda trouble? You a runaway?”
Wilson’s steady gaze dropped to his lap.
Crap. “I’m not judging you, kid. Most of us in here got a story, and a lot of them ain’t nothin’ you’d want to hear around the family dinner table. But tricking out for a bed ain’t safe, no matter how old or experienced you are.”
“I just...” Wilson fiddled with his glass of what was either Sprite or club soda. “I needed to get out of my hometown. To find something else. Somewhere else.”
“Trust me, I get that more than you know.” Jackson’s own past would probably scare the kid into going back home, but he didn’t know Wilson’s story. He might have legitimate reasons for running away, and it wasn’t Jackson’s job to question those reasons. Not without hearing more. “Don’t take this as a come-on, because it ain’t, but you wanna get out of here?”
He startled. “I thought you just said—”
“Not for sex, kid.” Even if Wilson did push a lot of his buttons, Jackson needed to know more first. Wilson seemed both smart and clueless. “I can give you a safe place for the night in exchange for one hour of conversation. Honest conversation.”
Wilson gazed at him, his intelligence shining in those pale eyes that seemed as curious as they were wary. “Does this hour start now or later?”
Jackson grinned. “It starts when we get back to my place.”
“Okay then.”
“Great. Just one question first.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you really have a gun? Because I don’t like them.”
Wilson shook his head. “No, I don’t have a gun. You were right about me bluffing.”
“Cool.” Jackson drained the last of his beer and set the glass on the sticky table. “Then let’s get outta here.”
The kid followed Jackson in his own car, which gave him plenty of time to change his mind and drive away—especially when Jackson pulled off the main road to Weston and onto Diamondback Road. More a dusty, formerly paved track than a road now, it had a dead-end warning sign about a quarter-mile down. It had once been a through-road to a small town north, but about ten years ago a freak thunderstorm washed out a bridge no one had bothered to rebuild. The little town had a busier way in from another direction, and it had died out a few years back anyway.
Even after the dead-end sign, Wilson followed him.
Jackson had lucked into his digs and he knew it. They passed the remnants of a service station whose gas prices hadn’t come up from seventy-two cents a gallon, and beyond that was the old Diamondback Motel. Six rooms, plus the office. The old neon sign had long ago been stripped, as had the vintage Coke machine by the office door. The property owner was adamant about not selling—Jackson had never asked why—but was tired of vandals and thieves picking over the place, so he’d enlisted Jackson’s help.
