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“Dude, a job is a job. You can be pickier after you graduate.”
“I guess. Anyway, I gotta go. I’ll text you later or something.”
“Yeah, okay. Later.”
The call was as normal as it was bizarre. They usually texted each other more than they spoke on the phone, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something with Jared was off. Maybe it was stress over paying for college, maybe not. Either way, there wasn’t anything Wyatt could do about it tonight, and he had the whole day off tomorrow.
He stuck his earbuds back in, turned on some music, and hoped he would dream about a certain rugged cowboy and his sexy scowl.
Chapter Eight
Jackson hadn’t minded his schedule being rearranged so he’d be working the same days as Wyatt, since he had to train the kid, but he also wasn’t used to having two days in a row off. An actual weekend to himself. Brand had done that to give Wyatt a break from the strenuous training. Jackson wasn’t sure what to do with all his free time. By the end of the day Saturday, he was bored and antsy and pretty horny. Jerking off to porn hadn’t helped much, and it was really hard to find redheads on free sites.
So he took his chances and went back to Blue Tavern Saturday night. The bar was packed for nine o’clock, music blared over the speakers, and a dozen or so guys were dancing in one corner of the room. Okay, so the dancing was basically grinding and clothes-on simulations of sex, but it was action that rarely happened during the week and way more interesting to observe than people standing around chatting.
“Don’t usually see you here three times in a week,” Darlin’ said as he poured the draft Jackson ordered. “You on the hunt, sugar?”
“A little bit but I guess I’m picky,” Jackson replied. “Hard to find new faces when the pool is so small.”
“Don’t I know it. Start a tab?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
All the tables were being used, so Jackson took his beer and stood near the dance floor, admiring the goods on display in all their variety. A flash of auburn hair caught his attention, and he straightened. Tall, lean, and when the redhead turned in his direction, very definitely Wyatt. He wore skintight jeans and a black T-shirt, and danced in a way that was an all-too-familiar simulation of sex.
Irritation rippled across Jackson’s skin, and his knuckles cried uncle from the grip he had on his beer glass. He glared at Wyatt, angry at himself for caring who Wyatt danced with, and so jealous of Wyatt’s dance partner his head wanted to erupt in flames. Wyatt shouldn’t be dancing with a guy in green flannel who was so much older, and especially not in such a suggestive way. He should be safely tucked under Jackson’s arm where he belonged, sipping cola and being a lot more careful about who he let get close to him. To run their hands over his hips and rub against his taut ass.
Jackson swallowed back a growl and washed that down with several gulps of beer. Wyatt’s behavior wasn’t his to police but the kid was, well, a kid. And there were a lot of eyeballs on him older than Jackson’s. Eyeballs he did not trust, and it wasn’t because Jackson was attracted to Wyatt. Not at all. He just didn’t want to show up for work on Monday and have an exhausted student to try to teach.
Yeah, that was it.
The music changed to another techno dance track, and in that brief space between leaving the old beat and finding the new, Wyatt looked up. Right at Jackson. His eyes widened briefly, before going half-lidded in a flirty, sensual way that put Jackson on red alert. The little shit couldn’t have known Jackson would show up tonight, but he acted as if he had. As if he’d anticipated and planned accordingly.
Jackson held his gaze while Wyatt continued to dance, ready to capture those eyes every time Wyatt opened and closed his or spun around, showing Wyatt he was paying attention to everything happening. And, he hoped, telegraphing his displeasure with the way Wyatt was conducting himself. Or maybe not so much the “how” as the “who” because the who wasn’t Jackson.
Another older guy moved in on Wyatt and Flannel Guy, making a sandwich of Wyatt that blocked their eye contact, and this time Jackson did growl. No one was nearby and the music was too loud for anyone to hear him, but it still grated on his nerves that he’d made the noise at all. Aggravated by his instinctive reactions, Jackson drained his beer, then went to the bar and ordered another. Darlin’ gave him a curious look, as if he’d been observing Jackson, then slid the draft to him.
Jackson drank half before he returned to his spot on the wall. Only now, Wyatt and the two guys weren’t dancing. He looked around the crowded bar, seeking that familiar head of sun-fire curls. Nowhere. And that worried him. He put his beer down on the nearest table and wove his way toward the bathrooms. The alcove leading there had a dark corner people used to make out, but Wyatt wasn’t in that corner. He checked the dude’s room, but no dice.
Wyatt wasn’t his friend, brother or kid, and Jackson had no real reason to take care of him, but he couldn’t shake the instinct that something wasn’t quite right. He headed back to the bar and asked Darlin’ if he’d seen a tall skinny redhead.
“Yeah, saw him leaving a minute ago or so,” Darlin’ replied. “With Bernie and another guy I’ve seen, but don’t know his name. The redhead a friend of yours?”
“Coworker, and young. Young and stupid.” Jackson thrust a twenty at Darlin’, which was more than enough to cover two beers and a tip, then charged outside Blue Tavern.
The parking lot was only lit by the few exterior lights on the side of the building. Jackson squinted into the gloom, eyes adjusting to the dimness faster than his ears did to the faint music now muffled by the bar’s walls. His instinct to protect Wyatt battled with his desire to keep his distance from others. If the kid wanted to get tag-teamed by two older bears, that was his business. But Jackson needed to be sure.
He’d been unsure too many times, been taken advantage of as a young, desperate gay man with no good instincts of his own, and he didn’t want that for Wyatt. He didn’t want someone else to have those same regrets.
The Tavern had once been the main office of an old quarry that saw brisk business for about five years two decades ago, and the building butted up against a pile of rock, stone, and sand. Jackson went around the back of the wood building and spotted three figures. One seemed to be struggling against the firm holds of the other two, and the instant Jackson spotted flaming red hair, he charged.
He knocked Flannel Guy onto his ass with a solid body-check. Flannel Guy yelled the moment he crashed but Jackson turned his attention to the other guy smashing himself against Wyatt. He grabbed Guy Two by the shirt collar and sent him sailing into Flannel Guy, the pair of them rolling across the gravel, cussing and trying to figure out what was happening. Jackson towered over them, breath puffing in faint clouds of vapor in the cold air, arms straight by his sides.
“Who the fuck’re you?” Guy Two snarled as he tried to get off Flannel Guy in a somewhat dignified manner and failed.
“Go away,” Jackson said. “Both of you.”
“Back off, I’m fine.” Wyatt yanked on Jackson’s left arm. The action left Wyatt off balance, though, and he started to stumble backward. Jackson grabbed him before he fell over. “Okay, not quite fine.”
