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Jackson got free run of the property as long as he kept it looking lived-in, deterred thieves, and kept things from falling into more disrepair. He had no idea if the owner thought he could renovate it, pass it on to his kids, or have it named a historical landmark, and he didn’t care. It gave him seven rooms (he only used one), plenty of open space for Dog to run, and freedom from the rest of the world when he wasn’t working.
The sun on his face, the wind in his hair, and wide-open spaces day and night? It was heaven on earth, and all he paid a month was the nominal electric bill, and the occasional sewer bill to have the tank pumped. What more could an ex-con ask for?
In the dark, the motel probably looked haunted, barely lit by the quarter moon and sky full of stars, but to Jackson it was home. He kept all the exterior room lights burning on dim bulbs, set on a timer so no one could sneak around in the dark, and he thought it gave the place a slightly less saggy look.
Jackson parked in front of room four. He’d chosen that one because it had the only working TV and VHS player, plus the cleanest bathroom, and he’d quickly become very popular at the county library as one of the few patrons who still checked out VHS movies on a weekly basis. The place didn’t have cable or internet, so it was his only entertainment besides books and the radio that picked up two stations. He did all his necessary internet stuff on the ranch’s Wi-Fi.
Wilson parked beside him and climbed out of the four-door blue sedan slowly, head swiveling, taking in everything. “Why do I feel like I just stepped into the first act of a horror movie that will end with me being stalked by cannibals intent on making me the centerpiece of tomorrow night’s family supper?”
The earnest way he said that made Jackson laugh out loud—something he hadn’t done in a long time. The sound roused familiar barking from inside his room.
“What’s that?” Wilson asked, spinning in the direction of room four, both hands raised in an adorably defensive way.
“It’s Dog. Don’t worry, she won’t bite.”
“You have a dog?”
“Sure. Grab whatever stuff you need for the night and come on in. We can start our one-hour conversation.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Jackson unlocked his door and pushed it open. The sensor he’d installed to turn on a light when the door opened flashed to life. Dog yipped and jumped onto her back paws without bounding outside. “Hey, girl. Go whizz.”
She darted outside, spared one soft bark for Wilson, then headed toward her favorite patch of spotty grass. The old parking lot had been mostly overtaken by grass and weeds, and Jackson tried to vary where he parked so he didn’t leave an obvious spot behind. He had an office-sized water dispenser by the door that he traded bottles for about once a month, because he was home so infrequently. By the time Wilson took a tentative step inside—the poor guy tripped on the doorjamb—with a green duffel bag slung over one arm, Jackson had two plastic cups of water for them.
He whistled and Dog came in, then he shut the door with his foot. Wilson stood in the center of the room, probably trying to figure out which era the dated décor was from, with its diamond-pattern wallpaper, green shag rug that always smelled slightly of old beer, and gaudy gold chandelier in the center of the room. Jackson had added a few small touches, but he was a big fan of minimal living, so the bulk of his personal belongings consisted of clothes, toiletries, and the mouth harp he’d learned to play as a child.
“Here.” Jackson held a cup out to Wilson. Dog sniffed at Wilson’s feet, her shaggy tail wagging.
“Thanks.” Wilson took the cup and sipped, keeping his body angled so he never gave Jackson his back.
Jackson didn’t take a single ounce of offense as he pointed to the room’s pair of chairs, upholstered in some sort of orange-and-brown floral pattern. “Have a seat. You can put your bag anywhere for now.”
He did, dropping the duffel on the floor by his chair. “How did you end up living in a motel? Are you squatting here? The place looks deserted.”
“Not squatting. I’ve got permission from the owner to live here and chase off other potential squatters. Plenty of land for Dog and plenty of sky for me. No city noise or light pollution.”
“No neighbors to hear you murder your victims?”
Jackson burst out laughing for the second time in Wilson’s presence. “Yes, exactly. In the other five rooms, you’ll find the bodies of all the other young men I’ve lured out here for sex, bondage, and asphyxiation.”
Wilson’s eyebrows jumped, but his expression was difficult to decipher. Not scared or shocked. Almost...curious? Jackson didn’t want to scare the kid into running off into the wilderness, but this was their hour of conversation. Might as well get to know Wilson, and maybe see how well Wilson even knew himself.
“So you admit to an ulterior motive in bringing me here,” Wilson said with a surprising touch of flirt in his voice. He sat with one ankle resting on his knee, posture relaxed, as if he’d known Jackson for a lot longer than an hour.
“Well, I was at the Tavern looking to get laid tonight and along came you. A tall, ginger drink of water with all the coordination of a newborn foal. I kind of wanna keep you safe until you can walk, as much as I wanna help you run as soon as possible.”
If Wilson had flinched, angled his posture away from Jackson, or done anything besides lick his lips, Jackson would have backed down. But Wilson did lick his lips, while a new kind of heat flared in his eyes. The kid was definitely into him, and Jackson was definitely into Wilson. He had a kissable mouth and, from what Jackson could see behind those worn jeans, a very fuckable ass.
He was also a potential runaway, possibly coming out of a bad situation, and Jackson wasn’t that guy. “How about you tell me what kinda work you’re lookin’ for?” Jackson said, cutting off the flirting before it went too far. “Maybe we’ve got something like it around here.”
Wilson raised a single auburn eyebrow. “You really want to spend your hour with me talking? Seriously?”
“What?” Alarms rang in Jackson’s head. “Kid, if you’re some kinda rent boy, I wasn’t out shopping for that tonight. You can take your skinny ass right back to the Tavern and find yourself another customer.”
“Huh? Rent boy? I’m not a—Oh, the hour thing.” He chuckled long and low, deeper than his light voice had any right to go, and no that did not ripple across Jackson’s skin like a caress. “So not what I mean, old man.”
“Old man?”
