AFTER THE STORM

AN ALPHA MM ROMANCE

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DAISY JANE

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 SMEARED INK

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Copyright © 2021 by Daisy Jane
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems,
without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.
Proofreading done by Geeky Girl Author Services.
Cover Design by Smeared Ink.

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 CONTENTS

Acknowledgments
Mark Twain

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue

Maverick and Anna’s Story

Also by Daisy Jane
If you liked this book…

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 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To all the friends in my reading group, Smeared Ink, thank

you. There are so many wonderful Indie authors out there,
telling amazing stories. The fact that you choose my book
each time I release one is a special thing, and I value every
one of you.
To the women who started out as book friends but have
become real friends. Just another wonderful perk of writing
romance, but it’s at the top of the list. I’m so fortunate to
have crossed paths with you all and I consider myself lucky.
To my core “family” and friends. Thanks for listening to
me talk about all the things and supporting me. I love you
all.

Male/male romance is something I’ve enjoyed reading for a

while. I hope you enjoy my first book in that genre, and if
you want some more of Marshall and Dave, they can be
found in my other standalone novel, I’ll Do Anything, also in
the Oakcreek Series.

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“The worst loneliness is to not be comfortable with
yourself.”
- Mark Twain

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PROLOGUE

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INGRAM
“DISPATCH, 1250.”
“1250, go for dispatch.”
“Gull Road. Abandoned motorcycle. Looks like a Harley.”
I narrow my eyes to analyze the bike’s details. There’s a
bronze emblem over the tank and the exhaust is custom,
done dark. “Custom Fatboy. Plate 50LUCC1.”
The radio chirps as the plate is verified. “Five-Zero-Lucy-
Ugly-Charlie-Charlie-One.”
“10-4. Looks like a Broken Wheel member.” A moment
passes as dispatch types.
“Roger that. Registered to Marshall Grant.”
“Thanks, dispatch.” I secure the radio to my chest.
Remnants of rain drip onto my sleeve from the door. I
grip it as my legs swing out, then click it closed. I make my
way up the dirt shoulder towards the abandoned bike. The
cruiser lights flicker against a sea of trees, illuminating
everything in short, fleeting bursts. The rain has stopped,
leaving the night air warm and balmy.
Gull Road connects Oakcreek with neighboring
Lakeside. It sees plenty of traffic. At night, though, the
crowding lets up and it’s pretty quiet.
It’s a mountain road with limited guardrail and lighting,
making it no place for distracted drivers. We don’t get too
many accidents out here because locals know better than
to drive like a fuckhead on Gull. When we do, though,
they’re almost always fatal.
Approaching, I notice the Fatboy is in pristine condition,
standing tall and proud on a kickstand. The keys hang
motionlessly from the ignition, an all-black helmet perched
atop the leather seat.
Clearly, there hasn’t been a fatal accident. And someone
is around here somewhere.
 My hand skates across my chest to my radio. Thumb and
knuckle resting on the sides, I stare out toward the landing.
You’d have to be an Oakcreek local to know about the
landing out there. It would take more than that, though.
You’d have to really grow up here. Spend your
afternoons and weekends as a curious kid, climbing, hiking,
walking, investigating everything.
That’s how I found the overlook, the name I’d given the
landing.
As a lonely and curious thirteen-year-old boy.
In my years in law enforcement, I’ve patrolled this area
more times than I can remember. Not once have I found
any lovers, high school kids or jumpers out here.
Until tonight.
It stormed hard earlier. I’d driven Gull in the rain many
times before but if I had the choice, I’d wait until the rain
stopped.
Can’t imagine doing this road in the rain on a
motorcycle.
I like coming out here after a storm. Steam drifts off the
lake in the distance; the air is pregnant with possibility. My
lungs fill with that possibility and I feel, if only for a private
moment, okay.
As if the weighty repression inside of me isn’t keeping
me tethered to unhappiness. As if one day, somehow, it will
be okay.
I will be okay.
I needed that tonight. To feel that hope. That fucking
dream.
I longed to hear the gravel crunch under my boots. To
feel the wet rocks through my uniform as I slide down the
mountainside to the find overlook. To watch the lake lap at
itself as the once-white clouds fill with gray and descend
down low over the mountaintops, smothering their vibrant
foliage.
It’s somber after the rain; everything is so still.
 I like it.
I didn’t expect to find someone else out here when I
headed this way at the end of my shift.
My hand routinely drifts to my sidearm as I hike down
the slight hill leading to the small landing. I swat back a
few overgrown arms of Oak and call out, giving whoever
another moment of privacy.
There’s no response as I step over a lurch of twisted
roots bubbling up from the earth below me.
Then there’s the moon again. It’s so much brighter from
here without the cottony cover of rain-filled clouds. It gets
my focus for just a second longer before I move my hand
over my chest, grasping at the radio, which chirps out
loudly into the darkness.
I silence it for a moment.
The landing is an intimate-sized space at approximately
six feet long by six feet wide. It isn’t a place to picnic or get
comfortable; rather, a place to stand and observe.
And I do.
The moonlight pours over a large man. He’s well over
six feet tall. He lies flat on his back, knees all the way up
with the toes of his boots hanging off the edge of Earth.
Despite the small space, he seems comfortable on his back,
gazing off into the mercurial sky.
In the limited light, I can see ink covering his forearms.
From there, bulbous biceps and a wall of chest are hidden
under a fitted long-sleeved t-shirt, shoved up to the elbow.
He must hear my boots crunch the gravel below as I shift to
better see him. Surely, he heard the dispatcher check in on
me. Still, he remains unmoving.
I blink a few times, working to bring his features into
focus.
His elbows out, fists stacked under his head, I watch his
chin sluggishly tilt to the sky. The moonlight drops over his
face as the trees move around us in a silent breeze. A
single drop of rain slaps my cheek.
 Dark eyes stare back at me. A silver hoop in one nostril,
the rest of his features are hidden under a dark, neatly
trimmed beard. His hair is messy, but I can’t see where it
ends as his edges fade into the night under the inadequate
moonlight.
“I didn’t know anyone else knew about this place,” I say.
The casual comment seems to hang in the air as the
large man shifts in the shadows, rising to his feet. There is
just a foot between us once he stands.
This man hovers a few inches above me, not counting
the pompadour of dark waves standing another few inches
off his head. The moon hides behind his large frame but
traces out his edges, making him glow.
“Marshall Grant?” I question, outstretching half of a
handshake to him. “Sheriff Ingram.”
He dips his head in a slow nod. “Ingram,” he repeats my
name without confirming his own.
“You okay out here, Grant?” I ask, as the Sheriff.
A breeze moves between us and the light streaks his
face again. His eyes pinch mine in a way that makes my
pulse hammer in my throat. I force down my unexpectedly
rising chest.
His scent hits my nose, and I don’t inhale, but still, I
smell him. The wind, a day of riding with the sun at his
back, traces of soap and cologne, worn leather and
strength.
I swallow thickly as his hand curls around mine. His grip
shudders up my arm and shoulder, swimming into my
chest. Electricity zaps between us as the afterthoughts of
the storm reverberate through the sky.
“I’m good,” he says, our joined hands bobbing before
breaking apart.
“Somebody call about my bike?” The timbre of his voice
is that of a tree falling in the forest, quiet yet thunderous.
Its weight ricochets inside my chest.
 My body tenses inside of itself. My ears grow hot as
raindrops gain momentum against the side of my face.
“No,” I husk, finding my voice falter.
He shifts until he’s at my side, our shoulders touching.
Heat moves around inside me, settling in my tailbone
like flecks of arrant dust, glittering and shining in the sun.
It pricks inside my lower half everywhere; it feels good
everywhere.
I shift my weight on my feet, trying to adjust to the
building pressure. We both stare into the night.
With a few words, I temporarily silence dispatch. After a
never-ending moment, I turn and make my way up the
hillside to the shoulder.
It’s not against the law to be on the landing.
When I make it back up, I’m surprised to see that he’s
followed me. We stand in front of the cruiser, the piercing
white light causing us to angle ourselves as if our
conversation is part of a play on a stage.
“I’ve been coming out here since I was a kid. Great
place to think. Especially after a storm,” he says, raising his
voice to be heard over the passing wind. It’s louder on the
road, and headlights that pass by remind me it’s not private
here.
Nowhere is.
“That’s why I was coming,” I reply, studying the casual
way he stuffs his hands into his jeans, rocking on his feet.
“It’s beautiful after a storm.”
“The only thing beautiful here,” he adds.
Our eyes pull together under the smoky purple sky. My
lower half awakens, the real storm only now settling in.
“Nice to meet you, Sheriff Ingram,” he says with a faint
curl of his lips. He shoves a tattooed hand through his
single wave of dark hair then disappears into the shadows.
Moments later, his bike roars to life.
Back in the cruiser, I stare vacantly out the windshield.
 My thighs flex under the steering wheel, and I cradle my
jaw with my thumb and forefinger, smoothing over the light
stubble. I curl my toes in my boots as my spine relaxes
against the seat.
My eyes close to the image of that man outstretched on
the overlook, the moon pouring over him like soft light on a
fine piece of art. My grip tightens around the steering
wheel and reluctantly but unable to stop myself, the hand
that cradles my jaw slips away….
…to my lap.
“Marshall Grant,” I whisper out in the privacy of my
cruiser, parked out on a desolate road in the middle of the
night.
I say it again and again while I can.
While it’s safe.
I let myself enjoy the way it feels rolling off my tongue. I
appreciate the way my teeth snap together on the last
letter of his name.
I think about his hand gripping mine as I grip myself in
this quick stolen moment in the dark cab of my cruiser.
A moment where I am me.

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 ONE

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INGRAM
“LISTEN,” I say, though it’s voicemail, so it holds no power.
“I’m just…” I trail off, not knowing what there is to say. I’m
a fucking despicable creature. I don’t deserve to be heard. I
know I don’t. My heart forces me to beg, anyway. “Please
fucking call me.” I swallow hard as I end the call.
My heart hammers, and my gut is sour.
I fucking hate myself.
“Sheriff Ingram,” a saccharine voice pierces my brain,
adding a new dull throb inside of me.
I turn to see Gladys Mark, my mother’s long-time ally in
bible study gossip, as well as best friend in all other walks
of life. They’re attached at the hip so much so that I duck
down to peer into her sedan, looking for my mother.
“Oh, she’s not with me today,” she jabs a wrinkled hand
between us. “She and your father are picking out new
wallpaper.”
I scratch at the back of my head. “Wallpaper, huh?” They
still make that?
She smiles broadly. “I’ve got two quarts of ice cream in
the car. I’ll see you at Sunday dinner,” she fusses, pressing
a kiss to my cheek. I smile and nod her off with a wave as
she drives away.
I scrub my cheek. She probably sweats Estee Lauder.
I head back into the bakery, where I’m having breakfast
with my best friend, Anna. I slouch into my seat and drag
the coffee cup to my lips. She reaches across the table,
wrapping her fingers around my wrist.
“No answer?” she asks softly.
I shake my head and make a pass for another chocolate
croissant. When they’re freshly made, so soft and buttery,
they’re the best fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.
 I try not to think of making them with him last year on
his birthday. He wanted to learn something new together. I
bitched and moaned and complained the entire fucking
time. Made us drive two counties away to take a cooking
class at a community college. Even then, I kept my wall up
in public.
I swallow the bile that rises in my throat at the memory.
I’m fucking awful and have been for a long time. I twist my
hand around the back of my neck, leaning over the table.
“God, I’ve been such a fucking asshole,” I breathe out,
the rush of memories weighing on my brow, making my
eyes feel heavy. “For so long.”
Anna folds her arms over her chest. Her ring sparkles
loudly in the sunlight. “So, stop being an asshole, Dave,”
she says flatly.
I don’t want to be an asshole. I really fucking don’t. For
a million reasons, all of them are hard to say aloud, hard to
accept, hard to… everything.
I know the adage. Life is hard. Choose your hard.
But this is why I’m a fucking asshole. Because as much
as I want to choose the right hard, I can’t. Another fatal
flaw of Dave Ingram.
“Dave, stop denying all of it,” she says, her tone merely
a whisper.
“I told you about it,” I counter. “Denial means not
admitting it.”
She cocks her head to the side, lips twisted in
displeasure. “You deny it to the only person that matters.”
She leans forward and smiles softly, sadness pulling at her
eyes. “You.”
I snort and shake my head. “You think it’s me just
repressing some shit, huh?” I snark out, my lip curling as I
hiss out my words. “I’m someone people hold to certain
standards,” I say, clenching my jaw, “to certain values.”
She leans in and lowers her voice to me angrily.
“Values?” she says with a serious type of laugh. “Dave,
don’t even go there.”
Her eyes are solemn, as if we’re discussing her own life.
She’s Marshall’s greatest advocate, through and through.
They’ve become close since meeting not all that long ago.
But I’m going there. Because to her, it’s all so simple.
Dave’s just afraid of the truth.
Fuck that.
I may not like the truth, but I’m not afraid of it. Rather, I
know what the truth means because I’m not living in some
rainbow bubble filled with hearts and stars. I’m a fucking
law enforcement officer, for Christ’s sake. I abide by the
rules of the town because that’s how we all best operate.
Whether it’s what I want or not. It’s how things work best
for the collective.
Small town, God’s country, all that. I was raised in a
private Catholic school, and while the divide in flavors of
Christianity thrives, everyone here is nonetheless a firm
believer, which leaves little room for a homosexual sheriff
to be with the vice president of the local (and highly
progressive) motorcycle repair shop and club.
“Oakcreek isn’t looking for some Brokeback Sheriff,” I
grumble angrily. “They wouldn’t fucking have it, Anna, and
you know it.”
She sits back and her face goes all thoughtful and soft
as if she hadn’t actually considered the career ramifications
for me. Her eyes glitter up at me, misty.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I just, I don’t want to
believe there isn’t a way.”
I nod. “You and me both.” I look up at her, and though
her smile is empathetic, it still makes me feel a bit better.
I won’t tell her, but being able to share my pain over this
with someone means everything. For years, everything had
to be bottled up. Having someone know and just… be there,
adds fuel to the tiny ember inside of me that burns for him
and me, igniting it to a low flame.
 I need that flame, no matter how small, to remind me it
is real. Despite it being in the shadows, it is real. We are
real.
Even if I ruined us, I had the real deal for a few good
years.
“I still think you should go over there,” she says,
plucking a piece of strawberry frosted donut up off her
plate.
I look down at myself; black hoodie sweatshirt, gray
sweatpants, some running shoes. I haven’t shaved in four
days since I’ve been off work, and my hair is a disaster. I
look like shit.
“Not like this,” I shake my head. I’m not vain, but hell, I
don’t want to look the part of a heartbroken fucking
asshole.
She snaps her fingers in front of my face, jerking my
eyes to hers. “Yes, like that. Show him how you feel, Dave.
That’s why you’re in this situation,” she overly mouths the
word, as if it doesn’t quite fit, and she’s forcing it. “You
show him the bad feelings more than the good.”
I partially roll my eyes at her. “What the fuck does that
mean?”
She smirks. “You’re not a very good gay guy if you don’t
get that.”
I roll my eyes again. “Don’t say shit like that. Now tell
me what it means,” I gruff out, knowing I’m fortunate that
Anna sees my heartache. Otherwise, she’d not let me be
this much of an ass to her. I make a mental note to
apologize to her once I’m through this.
“He knows you’re scared of everyone knowing, and you
showed him as much by what you did two weeks ago on
Halloween,” she says, folding her arms over her chest
again. I groan. “But do you show him all the good stuff?”
I open my mouth, and she lifts a finger for me to cease
speaking, so I do.
 “Before you say anything, don’t lie to yourself or me.”
She lowers her voice again before posing a question that
takes my mood from shitty to absolute fucking trash. “Do
you give enough?”
When she asks it so simply, the answer is glaring.
I never gave enough. Not ever.
He always did the giving to be with me. The sacrificing,
the changing, the molding so we could fuse. He always did.
I hate myself for that but even now… I can’t. I just can’t
change.
I just… I can’t let go of him, either.
She lifts a manicured hand in the air, waving over the
high school girl working at the bakery.
The Wilting Daisy is a staple here in Oakcreek. Want to
see your grandma, the sheriff, the guy who taught you
seventh grade PE, and get a bomb loaf of bread and a sugar
cookie shaped in the letter of your first name? This bakery
is a one-stop-shop.
The girl bends at the waist, cheeks growing rosy as she
gives me a shy smile. High school girls are bold these days,
flirting with men in their late twenties this way. It isn’t the
first time I’ve seen that twinkle in their eyes. Thinking
they’re going to fuck the hot sheriff. I nod at her, and Anna
ignores how the girl wraps her fingers around the heart
locket that hangs from her neck. She studies me as she
loads her tray, and I do my best to ignore her, slipping the
leftover donuts into a bag.
“We’ll take half a dozen chocolate croissants and half a
dozen of the classic sugar cookies to go, with a box of black
coffee. The house blend, if you have any left,” Anna smiles,
pulling a bill from her wallet. The girl takes the money and
smiles, accepting the order with a nod. She casts a few
over-the-shoulder looks my way as she retreats behind the
glass cases of pastries.
“Go there now,” she says, pulling the strap of her purse
up her shoulder. “You may not be able to fix everything, but
being sorry is better than nothing.”
I shake my head. “I’ve been trying to apologize for two
fucking weeks,” I grit, feeling my anger bubble up in my
veins. I can’t even fucking apologize because I’m being
ghosted.
Fucking ghosted after five years. I may be an asshole
but ghosting me? I shake my head again. “He’s being
fucking impossible. Not answering his phone.”
She rises from the table and takes the pink box from the
girl, who waves goodbye to me as she fumbles her way
back behind the counter.
“He’s hurt, Dave. You hurt him.” She shoves the box into
my chest as I rise. “Go there now and apologize, in person.
He won’t answer? The solution isn’t to keep calling. Go see
him.”
She doesn’t give me any time to dispute or argue. She
smiles and holds her phone up to her ear. “I’ll call you
tonight,” she says, with a warning in her tone. If I don’t go
see him, then I’ll have two people pissed at me.
I drop another bill on the table, despite Anna’s more
than generous tip, because no one remembers what I drop;
they only remember if I don’t drop it.
I sit behind the wheel of my pickup for several quiet
minutes. I am sorry. I don’t know if I’m sorry about the shit
he wants me to be sorry about but fuck it. I can’t fucking
take this radio silence bullshit he’s pulling. Two weeks is
too goddamn long.
I reach behind the passenger seat, draping my arm over
the back as I peer behind me, reversing onto the road.
Shifting into drive, I head towards his house.
I can’t do another day like this.
I can’t think, I’ve written three tickets in two weeks that
I didn’t even remember to sign, I’ve left my badge on the
hood of the cruiser, and I slept a total of maybe fifty hours
in two weeks. My stomach hurts, my joints ache, and my…
My chest is the worst of all.
 It aches. When I roll to my side, it swells against my
ribs, sending an aftershock of pain throughout. When I
stand on my feet, it hurts enough for me to press my palm
to it, attempting to diffuse the pain.
Sitting, showering, walking, talking. It hurts, it hurts, it
hurts, it hurts.
“No more of this shit,” I grumble as I drift to the curb
near his house. Scooping my baseball hat off the passenger
seat, I tug it down over my unruly hair. Feeding my hands
into my sweatshirt pocket, I take the porch stairs by two
and knock with a tightly closed fist.

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 TWO

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GRANT
“I KNOW this isn’t as good as yesterday’s, but guess what?
Your uncles are assholes, and they ate all the leftovers. So
today we’re having banana muffins.”
My large fingers finally connect with the edge of the
paper liner that holds the muffin. Unwrapping a muffin with
just two curse words shed is my personal best so far.
Max slams his fist through the muffin, splitting it down
the middle. He fists at the broken top, stuffing tiny handfuls
into his open mouth.
“You seem fine with the switch, so I’ll remember that.
Muffins are easier than mini cinnamon waffles, anyway.” I
slide some scrambled eggs from the pan onto his tray, next
to the desecrated muffin.
“Now, sir, your mom says we save the milk for after nap,
so it looks like we’re having,” I pull open the fridge, letting
my sentence hang. Being nine months old, Max lets it slide.
“I guess this,” I say, pulling out the jug of Annie’s organic
apple juice.
I swipe a hand through my beard, studying the contents
of the fridge. I thought I bought extra juice last week?
Then again, I could’ve just thought of needing to buy it.
My head has been a goddamn mess lately. I can’t focus on
anything but Dave. Just thinking his name infuriates me. I
want to drive my goddamn fist through something every
time his number appears on my phone.
Yeah, his phone number. Because after five years, he still
isn’t programmed into my phone. “In case.”
I close the fridge with more force and misdirected anger
than necessary. The fridge has never hurt me. I should take
it easy.
I fill Max’s cup as he pinches bites of scrambled eggs,
bringing them to his face. He whines as they drop to the
tray before making it to his mouth. I stroke his hair and tell
him to keep trying as a fist bangs against my front door.
A snarl moves through my lip. I know that kind of knock.
A standard three-pound, all-knuckle, like that of a sheriff.
I’m fucking angry. I’m fucking tired of his shit.
I push my hand through my hair and tug at the hem of
my flannel. I take a deep breath before opening the front
door.
Like the true fucking prick that he is, even his angst
looks good.
Sweats, hoodie, and a baseball cap that throws a band of
darkness across his eyes—fuck. The feelings knocking
around my chest force me to casually lean into the door
frame. Seeing him after not for two weeks, it’s all the
pleasure of the first time irrevocably fused to the pain of
today.
His head droops forward for a moment and I wonder if
he’s going to make me talk first after coming here. My
knuckles burn as I grip the door frame, pushing myself to
stand.
My eyes move over him, digesting his state. Dave is the
kind of man that runs at six in the morning on Sundays. He
has a standing haircut at the local barbershop every two
weeks. He’s on my porch, jaw blanketed in unkempt
stubble, wearing sweats.
I don’t see him nervous that often. In the beginning, yes.
The man was made of nerves for the first six months we
saw each other. It was all new to him. Me even being in his
world, all of it. And I found his inexperience and hesitance
attractive.
Now his inability to understand why I feel how I fucking
feel just irritates me. I’m not physical in my relationships,
but many times, I’ve wanted to slam Dave against the wall
and hold him there by the throat of his shirt.
His inability to see what’s in front of him enrages me
like nothing or no one else ever has. His hesitance that
used to be attractive is now maddening, causing me to bite
my tongue and clench my jaw.
I’m a traditional dominant male. I make choices, I guide,
I lead, I have control.
Until Sheriff Indecision came into my life.
To have him, I had to relinquish the control I had over
life as I knew it. I traded my idea of traditional power to
have someone. I gave up the high of control for us. Having
him. It didn’t feel like a mistake at the time.
But I don’t have him. I was never going to have him.
I don’t know myself, either. I changed how I functioned
on a core level to be with him. I was willing to do that in
order to have him take steps towards me. He’ll take baby
steps, I told myself. He will get there, I fucking believed.
He won’t let me program his name into my phone, after
five years. He wouldn’t even go to a party with me. I walk
away from the open door, back to the kitchen where Max is
finishing his eggs.
I’m more lost than ever. And he’s standing there, making
my body physically hurt and thrum, confusion blending
with passion to make some new breed of pain.
Blonde and muscular, in some lighting so fucking
beautiful and in others, ruggedly handsome. Right now,
he’s in pain. I see in his eyes, the weighty sadness that
droops over them; he’s miserable.
And I’m so fucking weak. I nod toward the stool on the
other side of the counter.
“I haven’t answered your calls because I have nothing to
say,” I say to him, honestly, as he takes a seat. Reaching
out, he tugs the high chair towards him and begins
stripping another muffin for Max.
“Are your hands clean?” I ask. He rolls his eyes as he
sets the muffin down then crosses past me to the sink. He
washes his hands and dries them before returning to Max
and the muffin.
 I watch as he crumbles the bottom of the muffin into
small pieces before separating them on the tray. For
someone who never had a younger sibling, caregiving
seems natural. He shoves his fingers through Max’s long,
dark hair. He’s the spitting image of his mom, my baby
sister Delilah.
“I didn’t know you’re watching him this week,” he says,
keeping his eyes on Max. He’s smiling softly as he hands
pieces of peach to Max from the tray. I don’t even know if
he’s aware he’s smiling.
“Delilah is having some of the kitchen redone at the deli.
Ry and Thorne are running the End of the Trail until I get
in there.” He nods, and it takes everything in me to not say
as if it’s any of your goddamn business.
Max takes a piece of peach from Dave’s hand and
giggles triumphantly before missing his mouth. The peach
falls to the ground, and Dave rises, going for the paper
towel.
Seeing him move around in my house as if he belongs,
as if he’s comfortable—I can’t do that right now.
I raise my palm outward, and he meets it with his chest.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, both staring off. His chest is
solid under my hand. It rises slowly and I can hear his
uneven breathing.
“You need to go,” I say. Knowing the words are true
doesn’t make them any easier to deliver, especially when
they taste so bitter.
He drops his head. I don’t look, but it’s unavoidable in
my peripheral; his chin is to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is low and tender, and
instead of softening the tightness strapping through my
chest, it adds torque. In five fucking years of having a
relationship, he’s never allowed himself to be vulnerable.
He is now. Great. Fucking great for him.
Now, it’s too late. I didn’t ask him to go down on a
goddamn knee with a ring in the town square. What I asked
for was a fucking molecule of give on his part. Fuck, it
wasn’t even a molecule. A whiff of a goddamn atom. That’s
all I wanted.
I’m a fucking fool for thinking he could do it. Give me a
tiny bit after all this time. I should’ve seen the signs. They
were all there, every day, plain for me to see.
“Good for you,” I say, stepping forward. I can still feel
the heat of his shoulder against mine even after I’ve walked
away.
“Grant,” he attempts to keep me there by uttering my
name in a broken tone.
I know he’s hurting. I see it in his disheveled
appearance and the fact that he came here.
But forgiving him would only bring us both more pain in
the future. What’s the point?
“Just fucking go,” I say, not giving him another look. I
reach under Max’s arms as he holds them up to me. He
knows that after breakfast comes the fun. Crawling around
my house while I do laundry and clean, talking to him like
my own personal therapist.
I tell Delilah she owes the shit outta me for watching my
nephew as much as I do, but truth be told, her deli needing
work has been a blessing in disguise. Watching Max has
been the only escape I’ve had from all of it.
“You’re just going to walk into your bedroom with Max
and go about your fucking day, then?” he gruffs as I’m
halfway through the living space between the kitchen and
hall.
I turn and lower Max to the floor as he squeals and
kicks. He loves dragging himself down the hardwood
hallway. He begins his scoot.
Facing away from him, I still. “I am,” I reply.
“Not even gonna look at me now?” he asks. His pain
pokes up through his somber demeanor, and this time, it
fucking pulls me in.
 This is why I can’t be in the same room with him.
Because as angry as I am, as much as I want to shove him
down the steps and lock the fucking door, I can’t.
Slowly, I turn. He tugs off his baseball cap and pinches
the bill together in his hands. His hair is a fucking mess.
I’ve never, not once, seen him this way.
It should do something to my heart. It should do
something good. But it doesn’t. My fists curl together at my
sides. With the hat gone, I can see dark half-moons resting
under his big blue eyes, and the usual clarity in them is
replaced with blood-shot fatigue.
It’s now that I realize he set a pink box and brown box
on the counter when he came in. I see it behind him. He
follows my gaze to the goodies and then looks back to me, a
small glimmer of hope in his eyes. As if sweets will be this
peace offering that makes me forgive his selfish fucking
ass.
“You went out like that?” I ask, hating my own curiosity.
Sheriff Ingram looks like something you’d find in a
men’s charity calendar. You’d see that sharp jaw, piercing
eyes and say, hell, arrest me. Knowing that he went out like
that is surprising to me.
He looks down at his sweats and up to me before he
nods. “I didn’t want to come over here like this.” His eyes
are troubled and hazy when they come back up to mine.
“I’m sorry, Grant. You know I’m fucking sorry.”
I shake my head, trying to get the apology out of my
space, afraid if I don’t keep moving, it will start to settle in.
“Your truck’s out front. Get out of here. Before someone
sees you.”
It’s a zing. He knows it, and I know it, and like most
zings, it doesn’t feel nearly as good to say as I thought it
would. In fact, its bitter intent seems to sour me even more,
leaving me feeling worse.
I peer down the hallway to see Max sliding his way back
to me, drool glistening on his chin. I smile and my heart
smiles, too. Thank God for this fucking kid.
When I look up, I see that Dave has closed the distance
between us, and my heart zips at his proximity. I’m angry,
and I’m a wall of a man, but I’m fucking weak and pathetic
when it comes to him. I step back, needing distance, and he
steps in again.
“Stay the fuck back, Ingram,” I warn. He steps in again,
and our faces are so close. What must we look like to
others? Two huge men, one six-two and the other six-foot,
face to face, bodies nearly touching. Though that’s the
whole problem, isn’t it? No one can ever see us.
My eyes are pinned so tight on his that I don’t realize
he’s reached out until I feel his calloused hand wrap
around mine. His thumb strokes the top of my hand, and I
don’t hide the sharp inhale his touch causes.
Max is a baby, but I wonder if he’s understood some of
my grumblings over the last two weeks because as my
resolve softens under that single stroke of Dave’s thumb,
Max reaches up, wrapping his arms around one of my
ankles, whining.
It’s what I need to be jolted away from him. From this.
I reach down and scoop my nephew into my arms. His
sticky fingers move over the exposed art that peeks out
from the collar of my shirt. Dave’s eyes flick to the ink on
my collarbone, and he watches Max touch my tattoos for a
moment. He blinks a few times, and I see his chest move
quickly as his eyes come back to mine.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, his tone so low
that it could be a whisper.
“Just go,” I say, shifting Max to my other side. He
strokes his tiny fingers through my beard. If Ingram had
shown up here before today, I would’ve looked a lot like he
does. But because Max loves to grab, I trimmed and shaved
this morning.
He opens his mouth, his gaze moving from Max’s hold
on me back to my eyes. He closes his mouth, shoves a hand
through his unruly hair, and pulls his cap back down. His
eyes are gone from my sight, and after a moment, he’s
gone, too.
I stare at the closed door. I handled that with my brain
for once. As much as my heart fucking hurts, I realize my
heart would be way worse, in the long run, had I given into
him.
I’ve given in too much.
It’s time to move the fuck on.
After folding my laundry, sweeping and mopping my
floors, singing the alphabet a few times (that was for Max’s
benefit) and making a new batch of cinnamon waffles (that
was for Max and my brothers benefit), we lie down for a
nap.
Max grips my arm like his own personal blanket and
dozes off in a matter of minutes. I lie there, on my back,
staring up at the stark white ceiling. Max’s snorts and soft
breaths flank me, and the calm it usually instills on me isn’t
there today.
My chest is tight, and when I let my eyes close,
memories of that night two weeks ago come flooding back.
All we were going to do was go to the town Halloween
party with Anna and Maverick.
That’s it.
We weren’t going to wear fucking matching salt and
pepper costumes; we weren’t going as fucking Ace and
Gary, the ambiguously gay duo.
I didn’t ask him to out himself.
I didn’t ask him to treat me like a partner in public.
We were going as a group. It’s no secret to Oakcreek
that the Sheriff is in good with everyone, even the
progressive Broken Wheel motorcycle club I partially head
up. It wouldn’t have turned anyone’s heads to see the four
of us show up together.
Maverick is a longtime family friend. Anna is his fiancé.
We’re all close.
 I was going to meet Dave at Anna and Maverick’s place
out on the water to have a drink and roll into town
together.
Dave has to go to all this shit because of his job. Truth
be told, I like being involved in the community and
attending all of the events. It’s good for the club to appear
mainstream and visible. Fucking Sons of Anarchy making
people think bikers are bad.
As soon as I pulled up out front, a tight knot formed in
my throat, and heat pricked in my ears.
I fucking knew.
His truck wasn’t there.
Dave Ingram is a man who plays by the rules. Punctual
and polite, he doesn’t arrive late… especially without
warning. Still, I set my helmet on my seat and made my
way up the long driveway. It seemed never-ending that
afternoon. Each step I took brought me closer to the house
and further from what I wanted.
Anna’s face when she pulled open the door.
I can’t forget it.
Lips a thin, sad line. Eyes wide and watery.
I laughed.
Maverick appeared behind her, ushering me in. I went
in, but I don’t know why. There’s nothing they could’ve said
that would’ve mattered. Not really, at least.
Maverick pinched my shoulder as I settled into a chair at
their table. Four glasses sat out, with a pitcher of
margaritas in the middle. Dave pretends to hate
margaritas, but I know he fucking loves them.
The untouched pitcher made me so angry. I don’t think I
can see that murky lime color ever again without acid
rising up my throat.
Everyone is always trying to make him comfortable, but
why? He’s never given us a sign that he’s capable of being
comfortable being him. It was that moment in the kitchen,
watching condensation move down the sides of the glass
pitcher, that I finally accepted what we were.
Keyword: were.
We were. And we could never be more because he would
always be afraid of being himself.
He texted me right then, and I saw Anna and Maverick’s
eyes skate over his number on my phone. I swiped it open,
not trying to hide the screen from them.
I never had to hide anything because he never gave me
anything to hide.
Ingram: I’m sorry. I thought I could, but I can’t.
I snorted at the message. How else should I have
reacted?

I open my eyes and watch M ax ’ s chest rise and fall gently ;

his soft breaths warm on my arm.
He couldn’t show up at a party in the same group as me.
The reality still feels as bad today as it did two weeks ago.
The ridiculousness of my hope that he would have come
around in the last five years causes me to curse quietly into
the room as I stroke my fingers through Max’s hair.
I’m as mad at myself as I am at him.
I should’ve known he’d never be comfortable with
himself, much less with me.

OceanofPDF.com
 THREE

OceanofPDF.com
INGRAM
I CALL ANNA, because I know talking to someone is the only
way to push past the knot in my throat. Without having to
converse, I think I’d sit here and cry.
We’ve known each other since high school, when she
moved in next door to me after her parents died. Despite
going to different schools and her living in New York for
many years, our bond endured. With that said, I never even
told her… about me.
Her fiancé (then boyfriend) accidentally told her,
thinking she knew. How’d he know? He’d seen Marshall
and me out at some property owned by the Broken Wheel
one night.
I clip my seat belt and shift my truck into drive as my
phone rings over the Bluetooth connection.
“How’d it go?” she whispers back, and I check the
digital clock on the dash. Barely eight.
“Did I wake you up?” I ask, hoping the response would
be no. If she says yes, I’ll have to let her go. And then I will
have the breakdown I’ve been holding in for approximately,
oh I don’t know, twelve years.
I may be twenty-eight now, but I’ve known myself since I
was sixteen years old.
The first time I had to take a shower after basketball at
Catholic school. Being an only child raised in a strict
Catholic household, my exposure to anything besides
church and lawn-mowing was limited.
I’d never had a friend sleep-over, and I didn’t go to many
parties, in general. So, a slew of naked guys my age was
surreal.
I threw up that day on my way home from school. Dad
thought I’d practiced too hard, that I needed to go easier
on myself. I nodded and watched the world whip by the
window as I wiped away scared tears.
I didn’t eat dinner that night. I just laid in my bed, on my
side, staring out the window. We didn’t talk about “liberal
agendas” in our house, but the most I’d heard my father
say about being gay was that they were all “soft in the
head” with “immorality issues.”
He would never accept his only child being gay. And
they were all I had.
“No,” she says, cupping a hand to the receiver. “We’re
watching a movie.”
I let out a low, shaky breath.
“Come over,” she says, “and I’m hanging up before you
can say no.” She does just that.

I shake M averick ’ s hand and settle into a seat on the

couch opposite them. Their movie is paused.
I tilt my head to examine the screen. A man in a top hat
and tails swings from something, and his mouth is open in a
frozen cry. It appears to be a musical. I look at Maverick,
who gives me the eyes of a man watching a musical, and I
grin.
“Glad to see you,” he whispers as Anna moves back into
the room with three bottles of water.
“Spill it. And if you want him to get lost, he will,” she
says nonchalantly, nodding to her fiancé.
“Yeah, man, I can get out of here,” he offers, hooking a
thumb over his shoulder.
I know Anna’s going to tell him anyway, so he may as
well stay. The part of me that couldn’t admit this shit in
front of other people got obliterated the night that Marshall
called it off.
 The night I supremely pussied out and fucked up. I knew
it would do this to us, and still, I did it.
And if I had to do it again, I can’t say I’d act any
differently.
“He barely looked at me,” I admit, twisting open my
water.
I take a sip and enjoy the cool rush to my chest that the
water brings. Marshall has always been so fucking good to
me. Communicated enough for two, more times than I’d
like to admit. Loved enough to make up for me when I
didn’t think I could love—he’d done it.
He’d done it all without the words a loved partner needs
to hear, he’d done it with no promise of a sunset together,
and he’d done it for years.
“I know I fucked up bad,” I say, peeling the label from
the water with intense focus. Anything to not get choked
up. I tear it off and feel honesty tear through me, too. “I
was awful. I never once thought of anyone but myself. The
entire time. I took, I took, I took...” I trail off.
Anna takes a pensive breath and shifts, draping her legs
over Maverick’s lap. “You did fuck up, and you have been a
shit. I mean, from what you’ve said, you’ve really not been
a good boyfriend.”
My lips fall flat. “Salt in the wound much?”
“But,” she draws out dramatically. “I still think you can
change. I mean, I don’t know if you can change, but I think
where Marshall is concerned… if you did change, he’d still
have you.” She sits up and reaches for her water. Before it
hits her lips, she adds, “He loves you, Dave.”
I shake my head, not really arguing with that because
though we haven’t spoken those words, I certainly feel
them. At one point, I knew he felt them too.
He’d tell me things, point-blank after sex.
Things like, when we’re old, you’re going to make me
breakfast in bed. That was to make up for the fact that I
always left before we could spend a full night together.
 Or he’d make one-off comments like, when our kids are
graduating, that’s when we’re going to Europe. He’d say
that when he’d have to take a trip with the MC and I
couldn’t sneak along.
He saw us in his future until the end. And I never argued
with his visions.
And I was so weak and pathetic that I never agreed,
either. I never told him just how fucking good it made me
feel to hear him say those things.
And how much I loved him.
Nope, I never said it. After five years.
I was scared. Because in the years I spent with him, time
stood still. I wasn’t counting down or waiting; I wasn’t
hunting or looking or any of that shit. I was living, and I
didn’t feel the years pass. Every day was better than the
last (for the most part) and before I knew it, he’d told me it
had been three years. Then four. And most recently, five.
That’s when he began to itch. Never quite comfortable
anymore.
We’d do the same shit we always did. Work out, have a
long swim, eat, fuck. But he began to detach, growing more
and more distant. Once, we’d gotten into an argument
about him kissing me while we loaded the truck when we
went out of town. He didn’t say much, but the words he did
speak held weight.
“I won’t go out of town forever. I won’t live in a separate
house forever. I want our lives to be one, and I’m tired of
pretending that this isn’t where that’s headed. Because it
is. You know it. I know it. Figure it out, Ingram.”
That wasn’t long before the incident.
Halloween.
The Sheriff’s Office throws one helluva Halloween party
downtown every year. We rope off the streets, shops
operate from the sidewalk, selling carnival-type food and
drinks. Fall is the perfect blend of chilly and comforting,
giving the party a fucking phenomenal setting. Oakcreek
does small-town right.
Anna and Maverick suggested that Marshall and I go
with them. It was a baby step; I know that hearing it now,
that simply showing up together is not that big of a fucking
deal. We weren’t going to wear matching fucking costumes
and jerk each other off all night.
Still, the thought of someone knowing… I could see my
unraveling begin… It freaked me out.
I never showed up that night. Instead, I went to the
party alone.
I was going to give him a sliver of hope after all these
years—just showing up somewhere together.
But I chickened out.
And that was the end of us.
The final straw.
I hate it. But I don’t blame him. I want him back, but I
don’t know what will really be different.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit to Anna and
Maverick.
They stay silent, and their silence unnerves me. When
people have hope, they flood you with it. Even if it’s just a
trace of hope. Silence, though, tells me perhaps they
realize I fucked up too much this time.
I swallow thickly.
Maverick clears his throat. “Can I just like, ask some
questions?”
Anna furrows her brow, but I wave her off. “Fine,” I say,
knowing that if I’m safe with anyone, it’s these two.
They’ve had their own hardships and come through
them, and I trust them both. After all, Maverick had known
about Marshall and me for a while and never told a soul.
The irony is that Marshall’s whole club and family know
about his orientation, but only Maverick and Anna know
about us.
 His club and his family all accept him. They love him.
They want him to have and be what and who he wants.
We aren’t all that lucky.
“Is it the Sheriff thing? I mean, are you like, afraid the
town will roast you and chase you out with pitchforks?”
Anna jerks her legs from his lap and slaps his shoulder.
His hand covers the place where she hit, and he rubs it
with a sour expression on his face.
“Don’t do that,” she chides. “Don’t belittle his fears.”
Maverick opens his mouth in self-defense, but I hold up
a palm to stop her. He’s not wrong. When it’s said back to
me that way, I realize how fucking stupid it sounds.
I nod, and stay honest. “Yeah, I am.” I push out a breath,
hollowing my cheeks. Leaning forward, I slide the water
bottle onto the table. “I’m afraid the community won’t be
okay with it, and I’m fucking pathetic… because it will hurt
me. I can sit here and say it won’t, but it will.”
Maverick nods silently, maybe afraid to say something
else Anna won’t like. But she sits just staring at me, so I
continue.
“I know what you’re going to say. Who cares what they
think? It’s your life,” I say, mimicking the words I’ve heard
Anna say many times before. “I know I shouldn’t but it’s in
my DNA to feel ashamed.”
Maverick shakes his head and lets out a low whistle.
“Fuck, that’s not right, man. You know that?”
I give him an indifferent head shake, and he clarifies.
“Your parents instilling that bullshit hate in you, that’s
not right. And you know it’s not true—right? The fact that
you love men and not women is no reason to be ashamed.”
That last word bounces uncomfortably off his tongue like
hot lava.
“I know,” I say, not meeting his eyes. I’m studying the
ball of paper taken off the water bottle.
We sit in silence, and I appreciate that they give me
that. The heavy conversation is wearing, and they know it.
 Eventually, Maverick speaks again.
“In the time you guys were together—”
I swallow rising acid, still not accepting that we were,
not are.
“Was there discussion about the future for you both?”
He is choosing his words carefully; I can feel the hesitation
in the air. “Together?”
I rake a palm up the back of my head, pushing it through
my messy hair. Shoving my hands into the hoodie pocket at
the center of my belly, I relax against the couch. May as
well be physically comfortable while I dive headfirst into
this uncomfortable emotional shit.
“Well,” I say, trying so fucking desperately to put the
first time we met out of my mind, but I can’t. “The way we
met was completely random.” I turn to Anna. “I was headed
to the overlook after a long rain. To clear my head.”
She nods to show me she’s following. Maverick cocks a
curious brow, and she whispers to him about the place on
Gull Road.
“We’d both been going out there for years. And that
night, we collided.” My pulse jolts at just a whiff of the
memory.
When I first told her the story of how Marshall Grant
and I met, she batted her eyes, practically shooting heart
emoji bullets at me.
Now, though, her expression is much different. Her lips
turn down in a sad satisfaction; the expression women use
when something is both cute and gloomy.
I hate that look.
“We started seeing each other more. At first by chance
and then, intentionally.”
I remember how much I needed our “hangouts” to feel
casual in the beginning. I wanted to be alone together from
the night I met him, but I wasn’t ready.
Try denying yourself your deepest, most primal desire,
the crux of your existence, for your whole life.
 Yeah, I needed time. I had to move slow.
We dated, in my own fucked up, weird way, complete
with all of my self-imposed limitations. Because of said
limitations, we didn’t label it in those early days.
We both knew exactly what we were doing.
We couldn’t show up in public together, but we could
“Oh! You’re here, too!”.
He couldn’t come to my house, ever. The entire Sheriff’s
department knew where I lived.
When I visited him, I never slept over. Ever. It was too
risky.
And I always, always parked a street or two away.
I didn’t allow him to program my number into his phone
for fear of someone realizing.
I told him that I preferred he didn’t share our
relationship with anyone, not even his family.
When we were at community events that required the
Sheriff’s Office to work with the Broken Wheel, we kept our
distance.
I even asked him once not to look at me.
“The first time we spent together alone,” I scratch the
back of my head, remembering how fucking nervous I was
to go to his place that night. “It wasn’t until six months
after we met.”
I knew we’d be alone in private. We’d been alone on the
outlook the week prior, but still, it was technically in public.
This time would be just us, behind closed doors.
He knew I didn’t want his siblings to know about us, so
when he agreed to let me come over, I knew it was the
night. Our first night with real privacy. It was planned
under the guise of me helping him install his dishwasher.
I’m pretty sure Marshall could build an entire motorcycle
with a blindfold on. He and I both knew he didn’t need
help.
I was so fucking nervous on the drive over. My heart was
thundering, there was no other way to describe it. And the
base of my spine was so hot; everything below my belt was
on fire.
Everything I’d been denying myself my whole life was
surfacing.
I’d met someone.
Someone I really fucking liked.
And it was the first time I was going to be physical with
another man.
“Damn,” Maverick says. I meet his eyes. “Six months
with nothing, huh?” He adjusts his body underneath
Anna’s. At some point, she threw her legs back on his lap.
He strokes her shin over her jeans. Jealously and sadness
swirls inside me like a poorly shaken cocktail. Bitter and
sickening. I hate myself for being jealous of them. It isn’t
them. It’s their ease that I crave.
“Yeah,” I say, stacking my ankle over my knee. “We just
kept meeting up ‘accidentally’ at all these places but then, I
don’t know…” I trail off, going back to that memory.
I remember the day in the same way parents recall their
child being born.
The moment you never forget.
We’d been seeing each other at least twice a week, if not
more, as well as talking on the phone in the evenings. God,
a memory within a memory comes crashing back.
The first few times we spoke on the phone were so
fucking awkward and so goddamn exhilarating.
Getting to know him while knowing we were attracted to
one another, knowing he too wanted to act on the insane
electricity that zapped between us when we were together.
It turned my stomach upside down.
And when our calls ended, I just stared off into my
empty house with a smile and a hard-on.
I loved that each time we spoke, he’d say “I am alone
and have privacy”, making sure I knew those two facts.
Making sure I knew that, to him, our conversations were
not casual.
 They were personal and private.
He always made sure I knew how he felt without having
to say the actual words. Hell, if he had it his way, he’d have
said everything he wanted to say from day one. That’s one
fucking part I love about Marshall so much. He reads my
body language, he sees when I’m struggling, he’s got a
pipeline to my innermost thoughts at all times.
He knew I wasn’t capable of doing and saying. So
instead of talking about us, we just did us. Meeting up,
talking, discovering everything we could about one another,
as often as we could.
The night it became real, I knew it was inching up on six
months for us.
I knew that he wanted more, and could find it anywhere
else.
With the ink and the body, the personality and the
values, I knew I’d lose him if I didn’t do something. Shit, I
wanted to do everything. That’s when I invited myself over
to help him.
I regretted it the moment I offered. I even had my finger
on the call button at least five times after, prepared to
cancel.
Going through with this made it all very real.
Not just a dark, hidden, shameful secret inside of me.
If I went to Marshall’s house at eight o’clock at night, I
wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore. The veil of privacy
allowed me to indulge in our newly burning heat.
As soon as that front door shut, I would be able to be
me. The real me. The desire for that was unstoppable. The
flames were finally free.
“I finally asked to come over and he said yes. The family
got lost and I showed up with a bottle of wine,” I recall the
story, still able to see Marshall’s all-encompassing frame
swallowing the doorway when he answered. Neither of us
really even liked wine.
 I brought it because I wanted to make him understand I
knew it was a date. I dressed up, too. I mean, I didn’t wear
sweats or some stupid Sheriff’s department polo.
I dressed for a date.
When he opened the door, my body did this strange
thing. A jolt of heat blazed up my spine and my cock began
to stiffen. With my pulse hammering in my ears and my
mouth suddenly dry, it hit me.
I have serious feelings.
For a man.
I want to be intimate.
With a man.
I’m going to find happiness tonight.
Because of a man.
“Needed to get drunk for the first time?” Maverick asks.
The question sounds crass but he doesn’t mean it that way.
When I look at them, they look like people watching a
documentary. Anna worries her hands with the blanket on
the couch and Maverick kneads her skin mindlessly, their
eyes fixed on me.
They need more of our story.
I shake my head. “We never opened it. Once I was in the
kitchen with him, I don’t know. Small space, big fucking
feelings.”
Anna’s hands are stacked, draped over her heart.
Maverick is still waiting, leaning forward, his chin on
Anna’s shoulder.
“Anyway,” I say, not willing or able to share the intimate
details of that night. Fuck, even in the good years
following, I still held that memory tight. “He knew how my
parents felt. I wasn’t a good communicator but he did know
I wasn’t comfortable being the big gay Sheriff.”
Anna tilts her head and clicks her tongue to the roof of
her mouth. “Dave, no one would treat you differently.”
I match the angle of her head. “Anna, don’t. I deal with
the public on a daily basis. Not everyone is progressive,
just because it’s California. There would be backlash. There
would be hate. I would have a fight.”
“How do you feel now?” Maverick asks, a line of concern
running vertical between his brows.
I shake my head, unable to find a better way to express
my current feelings other than “fucking terrible.” I scrub
my hands over my face and exhale slowly.
“Think you’d feel any shittier fighting for yourself?
Because honestly Dave, I think you took the wrong road. I
think you should fight off the rest of the noise, don’t fight
off Marshall.”
“A shitty detour,” Anna adds. “Because it isn’t over.”
“He won’t even talk to me,” I say with desperation.
“You’re not saying the right things,” Maverick says.
I know that.
I just don’t know how to say them.

OceanofPDF.com
 FOUR

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
“IT’S A BIKE-SPECIFIC EXHAUST,” I grit out, promising myself
it is the last fucking time I’m explaining this.
“I get that,” he says in a tone that tells me getting his
way is far more important than bike performance.
Whatever. He can fuck his bike up all he wants but I don’t
want him getting pulled over for an after-market exhaust
that screams down the streets when he rides.
I know kids like this. Rich mommy and daddy let him
have a bike so he thinks he’s cooler than any other kid his
age. He wants to fly down the streets and make noise and
get attention.
He can do whatever the fuck he wants. But if it isn’t
street legal, he’s not getting it done at End of the Trail. I
don’t need the law in here asking why I’m doing street-
illegal builds after this shit rats me out to save his own ass.
As much as he’s bowing up behind the counter at my
refusal, he would rat me out. The flash of one badge would
do it. I know kids like this.
“Then get it somewhere else,” I say, knocking my fist to
the counter in a kind effort to tell him get the fuck out.
I’d love to feel my fist under his chin but with how I’m
feeling right now, I’d probably punch anything if I had less
self-control.
But I’m in love with a man who demands I have control.
If I’ve never faltered for love, I won’t falter for this punk.
The kid clenches the ball of cash in his fist before giving
me his best angry boy look, then walks out. He really
thought I’d take his money and bike right this fucking
second. Fucking millennials and their sense of total
entitlement. Drop what you’re doing and tend to me!
Thorne comes out of the back, the bell on the door
alerting me of his presence. Despite the fact that we’re all
the size of redwoods, somehow, we’re all fucking quiet.
Thus, the bell on the door. Way too many YouTube-worthy
scares in the last several years. A four-dollar bell off
Amazon hanging from the door dividing the shop and
salesfloor put an end to that.
“Who was that?” he asks, leaning over the distressed
wood desk.
The entry desk on the salesfloor is made with reclaimed
wood giving it that finished but tortured look. Paired with
metal trim, it rests on hairpin legs made from steel rebar.
It’s the perfect piece for End of the Trail, made local by
our family friend and local craftsman/welder, Maverick
Wilde. He helped me give this place the rustic industrial
look I’d imagined.
With high ceilings, Maverick had crafted six-foot bronze
rods that were attached to large metal thatcher-style cages
housing classic Edison bulbs.
The walls are shiplap, painted a calm grey, with the
limited art embellishing the walls being all black and white
photos. A few from the day End of the Trail opened, a few
of the memorable bikes we’d built and a few of me and my
siblings, after we’d lost our parents.
When my uncle opened this place nearly thirty years
ago, a bike shop covered in Baywatch posters and neon
signs made sense.
It’s been under my ownership now for ten years, ever
since my Dad passed away. My uncle thought it would give
me a reason to step up and become a man even though I
had no parents and three younger siblings to raise.
Nothing like adding a business to light more fire
underneath you, huh? While I cursed him for adding that to
my plate all those years ago, now I’m content.
Owning End of the Trail is, aside from my family, the
only thing that keeps me going. Keeping parts organized,
filing purchase orders, crouching on the concrete to stare
into the inner workings of a bike—I love all of it.
 Most of the time I like socializing with clients too. We
don’t call them customers. People who come here rarely
come once. We take care of them through the lifespan of
their bike and in turn, those people become an extension of
our family.
With the exception of the occasional entitled teenager.
“Some fucking kid who wanted an after-market dirt bike
exhaust put on his little road rocket,” I say gruffly, moving
to the door of the shop.
I pull the blue cleaner bottle off the hook near the door,
pumping it onto the glass. Maverick had also made sure
that all hooks, handles and pulls in the shop matched the
exposed galvanized piping under the shelves, giving the
place a rad, engineering vibe.
“They know that shit’s illegal right?” Thorne adds.
I can feel him watching me clean the glass door. When it
comes to keeping the shop tidy, there are watchers and
doers. As the man who took over as parent for his siblings
at age twenty-eight, I’ll give you one hint who the only doer
is.
“But it’s so loud and cool,” I deadpan as I pull the paper
towel down through the mist of ammonia.
I cleaned this door before I left last night. I like shit to
be tidy. There is no real reason outside of laziness that
things shouldn’t have a place and be in their place.
“It’s already clean,” Thorne says, reading my mind.
“It is now,” I say, crumpling the paper towel, tossing it
into the trash.
“So,” Thorne slaps a hand to the back of my neck,
kneading a few times before releasing. “How we doing
today?”
Hawthorne, one of my younger brothers, has followed in
my footsteps in many ways. Despite him being the younger
of my two brothers, I find myself closest with him. He rides,
he’s part of the Broken Wheel motorcycle club and he loves
repairing bikes, just like me.
 Though we’re the closest, I like to think we’re all pretty
close. Same goes for everyone in the Broken Wheel, too.
That means Thorne isn’t asking about how my morning
at the shop has gone. He’s asking how it’s going in my life.
Because I’ve been a miserable prick for three weeks and
two days. But hey, who’s counting?
“Same,” I say, leaving my answer short because jumping
into it all again feels pointless.
“You still ghosting after he showed up at your place last
week?” Thorne asks, fixing himself a cup of mid-morning
coffee. I hold up two fingers, indicating I’ll take a cup.
Caffeine keeps me going.
If it were up to my heart, I’d never leave my bed. But of
course, I keep that shit to myself.
“I’m not ghosting,” I clarify with a bite in my tone. “I’m
done.”
Thorne slides me the first mug and places one under the
dispenser, filling a second.
He looks around the front office/converted showroom
and looks back to me as I take my first sip. “Yeah, and
you’re at peace with that. I can tell because it smells like
Pine Sol had sex with ammonia in this place.” His eyebrows
go up and his jaw ticks before he lifts his mug to cover his
face.
I had maybe been stress cleaning a bit more than
normal.
“It’s always clean in here,” I defend.
He smiles as steam gets trapped in his messy hair, the
cup still hovering at his mouth.
“It is,” I add. It really is.
“I stopped by your house today. Max’s favorite shoes
were there so I grabbed them for Delilah.” He gives me a
look that specifically says, I know your house is spotless,
too.
My lips fall into a line and as my eyes analyze the top of
my coffee.
 “I had Max last week. I deep cleaned when he left,” I
say, knowing that my house looks like Mr. Clean had an
orgy there.
He snorts. We sip coffee for a few moments.
“I’m just saying,” he starts but I raise my palm up to his
face to silence him. But he is a little brother, so instead of
shutting the hell up, he swats my palm away.
“It’s pretty complicated for him,” he says quietly in a
tone that grabs hold of my gaze. Serious and low, he
continues. “Now I’m not saying it’s been easy for you. And
I’m not saying that just because it’s complicated doesn’t
mean he shouldn’t try. All I’m saying is that he’ll never get
there by himself, clearly.”
I set the empty coffee mug down, feeling the caffeine
bring tired parts of my brain to partial life. “I gave him five
fucking years, Thorne. And he was never by himself.”
He nods with a look of careful surrender on his rugged
face. “This isn’t the end.”
I shrug. “I don’t see how it isn’t.”
Like brothers, or just men in general, we leave the
conversation at that and slip out back to start working on
the bike we’re rebuilding.

I pop in my E ar P ods as we work , getting lost in a S potify -

recommended playlist. I’m pulling apart the engine case to
locate the stator when Hozier’s “Work Song” floods my
ears. I purposely selected a random playlist to avoid shit
like this.
Shit like emotions tied to specific and now painful
memories.
Like a hormonal seventeen-year-old girl, the song takes
me down memory lane. A street I very much do not fucking
wish to visit.
 Dave and I met one night on the overlook. He’d been
headed that way to take in the view after the rain. I was
doing the same. It’s funny, to both of us, that we’d both
been going there for years but never ran into each other
until that night.
The moonlight over his chest, his fucking perfectly
combed blonde hair and his hand gripping mine—things I’ll
always remember about that night.
After that, we started seeing each other in weird places.
The Wilting Daisy.
As soon as I knew he went there a few times a week for
coffee and community, I found myself craving sweets a few
times a week, too. Though he knew I was a member of the
Broken Wheel, I tried to leave my branded vest on the back
of my bike when I went into the bakery.
I told myself it was to soften my appearance for the
older community members that loved to chat and eat
cheese Danish out front. But the truth was that the town
didn’t view Broken Wheel as threatening.
Rather, we’d always been the motorcycle club that
identified more with a Robin Hood mentality than an
anarchist. Sure, we did some illegal shit here and there but
always, always, we did and do more good than bad. By a
landslide.
I didn’t wear the vest because I thought it would make
him more likely to engage with me.
We passed each other with a nod at least a half dozen
times before I couldn’t take the fucking hammering inside
me anymore.
I asked him about something. I don’t even know what.
I swear to God he seemed eager to talk to me. It was…
fuck, it was cute.
We never spoke of it, but we both began showing up at
the Wilting Daisy at the same times each week. He
mentioned once that he likes to take his dinner out to Gull
Road on the overlook sometimes when he’s had a long day.
Then he began making me aware of when his “long days”
were going to take place.
After a few mentions, I put it together. I showed up with
my own paper bag of dinner and there, six months after we
met, we had our first meal together. Just the two of us.
Nothing happened. Yet, everything changed.
Because even though we didn’t speak it, we both knew
why we were eating cold sandwiches in the dark with our
legs dangling over a ravine.
To be together. Alone.
The song reminds of that first night. Maybe because
years gone by, I still think about it. The first night we finally
had a private place alone. No crowded coffeehouses. Gone
is the leaning over the truck bed at the farmers market,
opposite sides, pretending to just have a quick chat. The
night that changed everything.
And it is tattooed on my brain.
I told him I’d be working on installing my new
dishwasher. Slowly, I’d been remodeling my home. My
parents left it to me in their will, though I’m sure they
didn’t expect me to inherit it so soon. Nonetheless, I had.
And I’d raised my siblings in it for five years at that point.
With the shop thriving and my sanity finally returning
after a tumultuous few years, I slowly started fixing the
place up.
He’d offered to come help.
I knew how to take apart and put back together virtually
anything. I’d been helping my dad and my uncle at End of
the Trail since I was old enough to hold a fucking wrench.
Installing a dishwasher was plug-and-play day one shit.
But when he offered, I told him I’d really like his help.
He asked me what time I was going to install it. I
remember how his mouth stayed slightly agape as he
waited for my response. As if the time I chose for this
particular evening would verify whether or not we were an
actual we.
 “Eight,” I’d said, my voice husky.
And he didn’t say okay nor did he nod and take off,
agreeing to meet. His eyebrows lifted almost so slightly
that an onlooker wouldn’t have noticed. But I noticed.
I always noticed everything Dave said or did. I studied
the lines near his eyes when he laughed, I memorized the
stress that appeared on his forehead when he talked to
annoying citizens. I knew Dave.
“Yeah?” he asked, and fuck, that one tiny word leaving
his lips… it nearly wrecked me. The hope and excitement
throttling the nerves inside of him. It floored me.
I knew what we were doing.
And I knew he knew what we’d been doing.
But it was like he wouldn’t or couldn’t allow himself to
believe it. Until that moment.
“Yeah,” I’d replied. “Eight.”
Orion and Hawthorne were well aware that I’d been
seeing Sheriff Ingram. When I told them he was coming
over and to get lost, they did, taking our younger sister
Delilah with them. Brothers can be assholes, but they can
be cool, too.
Dave was right on time that night. I didn’t let it bother
me that he parked a block away and walked up to the
house. All those years ago, I rationalized that shit. Told
myself it was smart that he did that. You know, gotta see
where this goes before anyone needs to know.
When I pulled open the door, I expected him to be in
uniform, or maybe even sweats or some shit. To act the
part of a friend helping a friend.
At eight o’clock on a Friday night. Yeah, it’s ridiculous
but when you’re hiding, you lie to yourself a lot.
But he was wearing black jeans and a navy-blue button
up, his hair styled in his trademark sexy fucking Sheriff
way. That wasn’t just my attracted assessment, either.
Later in our relationship, I learned from Delilah that the
high school girls called him Sheriff Sexy.
 I could see how nervous he was within the first few
seconds. He outstretched a bottle of wine to me with a
shrug.
“Didn’t know what you bring for dishwasher repair hang
outs,” he said quietly, peering around me into my house. He
wanted in. He wanted to be hidden. With me, at least.
I took the wine but we never drank it. We talked casually
like we always did. Conversation with Dave was always so
goddamn easy.
We talked about everything. I mean, everything except
the one thing that really mattered.
But at the time, it didn’t seem important or pressing. It
felt like bringing it up then would’ve pushed him away. I
wanted to do anything but push him away. Hell, I always
have.
When it came time to install the dishwasher, I put my
phone on the speaker dock and turned Spotify on. Another
random playlist.
Crouched down, Dave on one side of the unit and me on
the other, we began to shimmy it back into place. Work
Song by Hozier came on and it was the first time I’d ever
heard it, or the artist.
I’d never been affected by music. I mean sure, Bob
Seger’s Old Time Rock and Roll made me want to tie a
bandana on my head and thump my chest in honor of
American rock but outside of that, not much else.
Until that night.
I’m jostled from the memory before I get to the good
part.
“Yo, La’s out front with lunch. She told me I gotta eat my
sandwich with Max. She needs to talk to you,” Thorne says
as he pinches one of my EarPods in his fingers. The song
drifts through the tiny speaker and Thorne looks at the
EarPod a moment before holding it to his ear.
“Bro, you’re listening to soft fucking rock while you fix
bikes?”
 My knees pop as I rise to my feet and snatch the ear
phone from his fingers. “What’s she want?” I gruff, ignoring
his commentary.
He shrugs and shifts a tired looking Max on his hip. I
tweak his nose and kiss his forehead, getting a small smile
from his sleepy face.
“Rip it up in small pieces,” I call behind me to Thorne, as
he unrolls a sandwich at the workbench.
“I know, I know, thanks dad,” he calls back, sitting Max
on the bench near the sandwich.
The bell dings. Then another ding as I push through the
front door to the outside of the shop. We’re on a side street
that’s sparse on traffic, so clients can park all up and down
the sidewalk.
Delilah always parks right up front.
She’s sitting on the hood of her car flipping through her
phone when she spots me.
She jumps off and I pull her into a hug, pressing a kiss
to her temple.
“Alright, La, what do you want to talk about?” I ask, not
in the mood to beat around the bush.
She cocks her head to the side, putting her hands on her
hips. She doesn’t even know how much she looks like our
mom when she does that. She was eight when Dad passed,
but even younger when we lost mom.
Her long dark hair is pulled up into that messy tangle
shit that women do. She’s makeup free, giving me a better
view of her unimpressed expression.
“I saw Dave this morning.”
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Great.”
We stand off, both silently glaring at one another. I win, I
guess, because she talks first.
“Not great, Mars,” she says. “Because he looks like he’s
been freebasing coffee grounds to stay alive.”
I snort. Not because it’s funny but because he’s
suffering? Well, he chose this. At any point it could have
been different. I remain silent.
“Marshall, don’t give up on him.” Her voice is much
softer and now she’s standing before me, smoothing her
palm over my tightened bicep. Her fingers connect with the
ink that spells out her son’s name. She smiles softly at the
tattoo then up at me. “You can’t give up.”
Irritation pricks in my veins.
I can’t give up. Right. Because I’m the only one who has
fucking fought for us and he failed me yet again but here I
am, being told I can’t give up. When does he give? When
does he fight? When does he try?
I jerk from her grip, a bit immaturely but I can’t help it.
“You know what Delilah? You’re twenty. You don’t
understand this shit.”
Her face falters and I can see my words stung her a bit.
“I understand that he feels trapped and alone with a dark
secret,” she replies, and my eyes snap to hers. They glisten,
and I know she’s talking about both Dave and her incident
last year.
Delilah got pregnant and was so afraid to tell us that she
hired someone off Craigslist to perform a procedure.
I cringe but only at the fact that I’d whipped rules into
her so hard that she was afraid to break one. And when she
did, she thought I wouldn’t be there.
She’s okay now, getting married this year, and all of us
have Max to appreciate and love. Still, it made me realize I
had to ease up on the father role. Be a friend and brother,
not just a parental figure.
“La, this isn’t the same as that. I don’t want my life to be
a fucking dark secret.”
She nods with a partial smile and gives my arm a
squeeze. We make our way into the shop, both of us
probably fearful that Thorne is incapable of feeding Max.
When we enter through the second door, Thorne is on his
hands and knees picking up pieces of roast beef while Max
tongues the end of a wrench on the floor by his side.
 “Jesus Christ,” I groan, rubbing my palm across my
forehead.
“Oh no, baby,” Delilah chides, yanking Max from the
ground. It takes him a moment, but when he realizes he’s
back with mom and not cruising the shop floor, he cries out.
In defiance, he reaches for me and I take him, loving his
baby smell.
When he was born, I was at the hospital. I held him and
smelled him, and fell in love with him. And when I saw
Dave that night, I was a complete fucking mess. The smell
of new baby really fucks with your head, especially when
you’re ready to be a father.
We finish our lunch together, Orion making an
appearance just in time to slam a free sandwich. And damn
his lucky ass for having an easy-to-say nickname. Max kept
saying Ry in the few minutes he was there. I was jealous. I
fucking love that kid.
After work, I head out to the overlook to clear my head. I
don’t even know if I’m out there to clear my head as much
as I am to fill it if I’m being honest.
Looking over the hilly and familiar horizon, I can think
of him. Because we started here so allowing myself to
drown in him is okay here. At home, at work—I fight it.
Because I need to move on. But here.
He’s here.
We’re here.
The tip of my nose feels the chill of the lazy wind that
rolls over the lake below me. Thorne wasn’t wrong. I was
ghosting. Because even if I was done for good, I hadn’t told
him that. As angry as I am, I still love him.
He deserves better than never knowing.
With my hands on the edge of the overlook, I take it in
one last time. Because if he’s here, I can never come here
again.
I can only drown so many times before I grow too tired
to surface.
OceanofPDF.com
 FIVE

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
MY RIDE HOME IS THERAPEUTIC. The crisp of night cools my
hot blood, and as I approach the end of my street, I have a
plan.
Tell him what I need to say, and move on. Cut him free.
He can never be the man I spend my life with. At one point,
I was hopeful. Fuck, I clung to hope like a child to a
beloved stuffed animal. But like children do with those
things, I grew out of that hope. It no longer brought me
comfort, just reminders that things were more complicated
than hoping and dreaming.
Reality is here and now, and hope is some far-off place
that never comes.
I can’t even remember if I took the keys out of my bike’s
ignition because when my house comes into view, so does
Dave’s truck.
I park my bike, and the helmet is somewhere. On the
seat, maybe on the ground. My heart pounds in my ears as
I stand at the end of the driveway, staring at the empty-
cabbed truck. Dave is here. At my house.
Right out front.
In five years, he’d never done that. At our best, at our
fucking happiest, he always parked at least one street
away.
My resolve needs strengthening because this is a big
fucking deal for him.
His truck out front isn’t enough. It gets to me, but I take
that second outside to remind myself, I need more.
I take a deep breath and pull my hand down my beard.
Briefly I playback the last few days, unable to remember
what I look like. When was the last time I shaved? Had I
been eating regularly? I shoved my fingers through my
dark hair, feeling it fall into its familiar wave. Pinpoints of
heat prickle down my spine as I remember the first time
Dave put his hand through my hair.
Our first truly intimate touch. We’d already touched, but
the way he tenderly smoothed my hair from my face, how
his fingertips grazed my scalp as he did—it was more
intimate than some of the sex I’d had with other men.
I wait for the pounding in my ears to fade away, leaving
me with only the noise of my own shaky breath. He’s never
spent the night, but he has a key. I look back at it all now,
and the Dave Ingram-colored glasses that once soothed the
aching glare of even the reddest of red flags, they’re now
gone.
Now I’m wearing some fucking bifocals; goddamn if I
can’t see. It has all just been a stall. He wanted his cake,
and he wanted to eat it too. I let him. Until I couldn’t.
Still, I can’t.
I open my unlocked front door to see Dave pacing a
wear line into the hardwood. He freezes when I twist the
deadbolt, sealing us into our own world. Our eyes connect.
Delilah wasn’t kidding. He looks like shit.
Still, my body heats in his presence. A wave of need so
powerful washes down on me that it keeps me grounded to
my place in front of the door.
His messy hair—I can almost smell his earth-friendly
shampoo from here. Berries and vinegar, I always fucking
hated that smell, but now, I swear to God I can smell it. My
core goes warm, and goosebumps rise up on my skin.
There are crescents of darkness pooling comfortably
under his eyes as if they’ve taken up a permanent
residence. The memory of a very private moment comes to
mind.
How soft and warm his skin was and the way he turned
his head into the weight of my palm. The first time we’d
had sex.
“I let myself in,” he begins, snapping me from the
beautiful, tortured memories. I can’t stop my heart from
racing at the sight of him, but I can pretend to be
unphased. So, I do.
“I can see that,” I reply.
I fish my wallet from my back pocket and drop it onto
the counter with my keys and phone. The first article of
clothing I take off is my vest, which I drape over a kitchen
chair. His eyes burn into my back as I reach over my head
and tug off my t-shirt.
I’m exhausted. I’ve been out all day. I need a shower. I
also desperately want to seem unaffected by his presence.
Part of me could enjoy the subtle torture he has to endure if
I’m shirtless. Only I know it, but the Sheriff has a thing for
my chest.
“Please, just, please stop and give me a goddamn
minute,” he rasps breathlessly as if he’d used all of his
energy on that one sentence. As if he’s exasperated from
this fucked up limbo we’ve been in for the last three weeks.
To his tone I snort, turning to face him.
My shirt hangs lifelessly from my clenched fist. He
surprises me by closing the distance between us.
First, he parked out front. Now he’s coming to me. To a
normal couple, these things are everyday expectations. But
to us, it feels big.
And that’s the goddamn problem.
“Grant, come on,” he says, practically whispering. And
not for his usual reason—so no one hears us. This time, it
seems like that’s all he can muster.
I won’t deny the twist in my gut seeing him hurting. But
you know what? I’m fucking angry. I tug my hand out of his
grasp only moments after he’s reached for it.
“The way you feel right now? I feel it too.” My eyebrows
lift to my hairline as my pulse hammers in the hollow of my
throat. The empathy I had gets swallowed by the anger as I
close the remaining distance between us.
His gaze moves over my bare chest, across the ink, then
up to my eyes.
 I’ve been checked out a lot in my life. I know the muscle
and ink, the dark hair and dark eyes—it calls to women.
They want a dark, bad boy to show off to their friends. I’d
been checked out by plenty of men, too. Some tried to hide;
others who were comfortably out admired me ostensibly.
None of it heated my skin and made my body thrum the
way it did when Dave admired me.
Thank God I’m so angry because we’re standing so close
that all air and rational thought swarming between us
begins to evaporate. I push through the haze to let him
have it.
Pushing my finger into the swell of his chest, the wall of
muscle softens as he exhales to my touch. His torso heaves
like an exhausted runner, but instead of cardio, it’s fear.
“Marshall,” he whispers, wrapping his hand around my
finger that still pokes him.
My skin pricks hot, and every part of my lower half pulls
together in a mass of tightened need. I’ve always been
Grant. Even though I call him Dave when we’re alone and
Ingram whenever we’re around each other publicly, he’s
never called me by my first name.
It was one of those things I gave him. One of the many
ways I showed how cool I could be. How I didn’t need to
push him. How I was respectful of the fact that he hadn’t
caught up to where I was at yet.
There’s a reason why there’s an expression that goes, a
little too late.
“Don’t fucking do this, Ingram,” I say, enunciating his
surname to show I’m not softened by his efforts.
“I don’t get it, this is what you want, why are you…” he
trails off.
“Why am I not just falling to my knees with glee?” I
deadpan, trying not to focus on the wetness in his eyes. “I
didn’t ask for you to fucking marry me, Ingram. I wanted to
go somewhere in public with you.” The anger and pain of
that night bubbles to the surface, as potent as ever.
 “With Anna and Maverick, no less. And you couldn’t
even do that.”
He shakes his head, which sets the wetness free. I force
myself not to watch it stream down his cheek and get lost
in his unusual stubble. He hasn’t shaved in days, maybe
even longer.
“I know,” he says, reaching for my hand again.
Uncharacteristically, he pulls my hand to his lips and
presses a soft kiss to my knuckles. “I can’t undo it. I can’t
just, you know, be you overnight.” He pulls my forearm to
his chest. His heat moves through me and laps at the wall
I’ve built up, threatening to weaken its airtight foundation.
“But if you let me, I’m gonna try.”
Suddenly, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. He
wants to kiss me.
Well, he’s going to have to do it. I’m fucking sick of
running the entire relationship because he’s scared. Guess
fucking what? Adults are usually scared about something.
Life is hard. You choose your hard.
“Try?” I say, willing God to help me keep up my walls.
It’s been three weeks. I’ve been miserable without this
fucking irritating beautiful asshole. But still, I have to
remind myself that he isn’t there yet. He’s not ready to be
where I’m ready to be.
Like he knows it’s not the right answer, he draws closer
to me. He hugs my arm between our bodies. Moving his lips
over my knuckles again, he looks up, more moisture
escaping his eyes.
“I can’t say I’m ready to go fucking grocery shopping
together or anything, but I’m, I’m working on being there.
Okay? I promise. I wouldn’t fuck with you.” He kisses my
hand again, and I feel my gut get swirly and girly, the way I
internally describe how Dave makes me feel. “You know I
wouldn’t fuck with you, right?” he asks, hunger and pain
straddling his tone.
 I remain silent because I’m afraid that this is working on
me.
His raw demeanor, the desperation that radiates from
his heart, the small gestures I was so ready to deny; it’s all
fucking working. The intensity of my anger has dissipated,
leaving me in a heightened emotional state.
He releases my arm and takes my face in his hands, his
thumb stroking my bottom lip.
“I love you,” he says huskily.
“Before Halloween, I wasn’t looking into the future
because it fucking freaked me out. All the shit ahead, I
never wanted to think about it. But then after Halloween,”
he swallows, his blue eyes tamped down so tight on mine
that I don’t think I can breathe. “I didn’t like what I saw
when I forced myself to look into the future. A future
without you,” he shakes his head, but his eyes don’t leave
mine. “There isn’t one.”
“I don’t want to hide,” I hear myself say while my brain
still processes the generous words he’s spoken. We have
never been the kind of men or the type of couple that says
all the things. I read him; I know him. Now hearing the
crucial words feels vital to my existence. How did I go
without them for five years?
“I know,” he says more eagerly. Both of us feel my walls
coming down. My fingers begin to tingle at the idea of
touching him.
I should wait, clear up more details, but goddamn it, I’ve
missed his stubborn, sexy ass. I wrap my arms around him,
and then he does something else that fucking surprises me.
We aren’t the type that hug and kiss when we’re
hanging out together. That’s all reserved for the bedroom.
And Dave hasn’t proven to be hugely eager to change that,
which I understood.
But in the space between the kitchen and living room, I
hug him, and he presses his cheek to mine before lowering
his lips to my neck. Tenderly, he carves a path of kisses
down the side of my throat before nibbling gently at the top
of my collarbone. I tilt my chin back to allow him more
room.
“I wasn’t moving before, but I am now. Small steps, but
I’m moving. I’m going to get there. For you,” he says
against my skin, his lips making my cock solidify in my
jeans. It’s the first time I’ve been happy to get hard in three
weeks.
“For us,” I say, trailing my fingertips up and down the
hollow of his spine. Somehow, I’ve snaked my hand under
his shirt, but I don’t remember doing that. His tears are fire
against my skin.
He has work to do. I know it. And I know that when the
sun rises tomorrow, with it comes a new set of challenges
that he will struggle with. But he’s trying.
And he’s never done that before.
“I’m sorry,” he utters as his lips scatter wild kisses over
my bare belly. “I’m so fucking sorry, Mars.”
The nickname sounds erotic when he says it. He’s never
said it before. Grant, Grant, Grant. Always my most
masculine, Christian name.
But now, as he falls to his knees in front of me—
something I was sure he’d never do—I see how much he
wants us. It won’t be easy, but the fire inside him has been
lit.
My jaw ticks as I try to fight off the rush of emotion I
feel as Dave tugs at the top of my jeans.
“I need a shower,” I say, stopping him. I walk forward,
his hands staying on me until it’s no longer physically
possible. When I reach the hall opening, I turn my head.
He’s still on his knees, looking like a beautiful wreck.
He rises to his feet.

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 SIX

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INGRAM
THE THING about being afraid all the time is that your
guard becomes part of you. You always have it up, blocking
out reality and blocking reality from the real parts of
yourself.
I’d been doing that for so long.
Growing up in the Catholic church made me feel
incredibly alienated. Every time I’d grapple with my
feelings, I’d go to church and hear how wrong I was for
considering them. There’s a priest out there somewhere in
Oakcreek that heard a lot of confused teenage revelations
when I was young.
The other thing about having your guard up is that when
it finally comes down, you kind of lose your mind a little.
It’s like Amish kids who go through rumspringa; they get
drunk off of opportunities and free will.
The night I went to Marshall’s place to help him fix the
dishwasher was my first night to let the guard down. It
wasn’t a slow come down, easing myself into it. It smashed
at my feet in a trillion pieces the moment his lips pressed to
mine.
We’d pushed the dishwasher back in, and then we were
there, crouched low, faces close. I noticed, too, that his
Adam’s apple moved slowly up and down his ink-laden
throat. I became transfixed with him, lost in the dizzying
feel of his warm skin and the subtle scent of his cologne.
So many fucking times, I imagined that moment before
it happened.
The face was always vague, the man was always
enigmatic, but the sensation—that’s what I fantasized
about. Eyes squeezed shut tight in my childhood bedroom
as a teen, gripping the shower wall with my eyes closed as
a grown man—so many fucking times I thought about it.
 Fuck thought about it. Dreamt of it, drooled over it, even
cried about it.
After I met Marshall, I started to really want it and not
just in the privacy of my mind. Outside my fantasy, in the
flesh.
I didn’t choose to become the Sheriff because it left me
with hardly any time off, but it worked to my advantage
when it came to avoiding dates. I’d tell the women (or the
mothers of said women) that I’d be working late and
couldn’t. Guilt would usually cause me to then actually
work, not wanting to get caught in a lie. It was probably for
the best; you know what they say about idle hands.
At twenty-two, I lost my virginity to a very lonely single
mom in the back of her Honda Pilot after a simple ice-
cream date. She did all the work and then felt so ashamed
of herself after that she disappeared. It was exactly what I
needed. Since then, I have dated a few women here and
there. I did it to please my folks and keep people from
raising a brow when I’d admit it’d been years since I dated.
Marshall is the first man for me, in all ways. I realized
that night next to the dishwasher, and it was such a huge
wave of understanding. One I wanted to drown in.
We crouched uncomfortably, but I doubt either of us felt
it. I was drunk though we hadn’t cracked the wine.
My heart was racing as fast as his chest was moving. My
ears pounded like drums, and a sheen of cold sweat broke
out all over my body. I remember the fire that tore through
my spine as he reached out and draped one calloused hand
over my knee. At that moment, my knee was a direct
connection to my cock.
“I like you, Ingram,” he’d said with that rough and gruff
voice of his. I knew the first night on the overlook that his
voice was the type to stir up my insides and leave them
messy and desperate.
“I like you, too,” I’d heard myself say, my body and heart
needing him so much that my brain went to auto-pilot.
 “You aren’t ready to be in the sun,” he’d said, though it
was almost impossible to hear because his thumb started
smoothing over my knee. I’d never gotten so hard so fast. A
simple touch but the first of its kind. Hell, I was rarely
touched at all. A few hugs from citizens but outside that,
not dating equates to celibacy of sorts.
With my sensibilities quickly dwindling in the presence
of him, I nodded. I remember feeling so fucking starved for
him that I didn’t even fully digest his message. I just
wanted him.
“I don’t mind the shade for a while, but I need the sun,”
he said, the ring in his nose catching the light above. My
gaze moved to it, then around his jaw, which was covered
by a short, dark beard. His dark eyes sparkled as he
watched me take in his beauty.
Then he had curled his fingertips into my solid thigh. His
words rumbled through my core. He waited for my
response, but I couldn’t speak. My tongue was a cinder
block. I just wanted him.
His hand moved up my leg, finally ending on my hip. He
snaked his palm under my button-up. The feeling of his skin
against mine—not just anywhere, either, but in an
unexplored, private place... Fuck me. A roaring ache moved
through my sac, up the stalk of my dick, making words
nearly incomprehensible.
“Say something,” he said in a low, husky tone that
melted my shoulders. Burning moved through my neck and
settled in my cheeks. Sweat formed at my hairline.
“Sun, yeah,” I swallowed, and my disrupted demeanor
put a slight curl in his full, pink lips.
“The shade isn’t forever, right?” His knees moved closer,
and then our bodies were just an inch apart. The world
around us fell away in a massive, silent crash. It was just
us, and his hand moving against my skin, now up my back—
it was everything I always wanted.
“Not forever,” I agreed.
 I meant it, kind of, but truthfully, I would have said
anything at that moment to have him.
I liked Marshall right away, and trust me; there were
plenty of nights where I tried to rail against it. But my
feelings were an overwhelming monster that clawed at the
walls inside of me, trying to escape.
He didn’t respond with words. We rose to our feet
silently.
One single nod, then his thick arms banded around me. I
looked down in disbelief. Marshall Grant was hugging me
in his kitchen. I watched the tattoos on his russet skin move
as a cord of muscle in his tricep flexed, his grip narrowing
to hold me more tightly.
I reacted the way a man would when finally having the
moment he’d been longing for his whole life. “Oh, oh god
yeah,” I sighed.
Melting, I slowly moved my arms around him to match
his embrace. I fucking nearly fainted when my groin grazed
his. Both of us protected by denim; still, I could feel his
hard length smothering mine.
Holy shit.
I said that aloud.
He chuckled into my ear, a noise so fucking sexy and
hearty that it sent goosebumps over my flesh. He moved his
mouth to my neck and kissed my throat. His beard grated
gently against my hot skin, and I held him tighter in
response.
“Have you ever been with a man?” he asked against my
throat before kissing me again, hooking one finger in the
neckline of my shirt. He tugged it down, and my chin fell
back to give him more room. His lips worked along my
clavicle as I attempted to swallow, but functioning outside
of this moment felt impossible. All I could do was throb
with want and need.
“No,” I admitted. “Remember,” I said on a pant, growing
courageous by filtering my fingers through the top of his
hair. “Super Catholic parents.”
He laughed again, his lips moving into a smile against
me. Straightening to make us face to face again, he cupped
my cheek with one of his palms. “I know it’s your first time,
but as a rule, no talking about parents when our dicks are
hard, and this close together.”
We both laughed at that, and my nerves seemed to
soften. Marshall always had a way of depriving my tension
of oxygen that way.
“We’ll go slow,” he told me before sealing his lips over
mine.
Holy shit. That first kiss.
My mind was an explosion of colors and senses,
electricity popping off inside my brain like fucking
fireworks. I pushed my hips into his as he opened the kiss
with his tongue. He let me groan like a fool while we made
out like horny teenagers, my hands moving up his back,
over the wall of muscled shoulders, up through his hair.
I touched him as much as I could while our mouths were
passionately fused. Maybe he’d done this before, but I
hadn’t. Not like this. Much less with the preferred gender.
The intensity of that first night is alive and thriving in
the house again tonight.
I follow behind him towards his room, which sits at the
end of a long hallway.
We have never spent a night together. I’d tried once or
twice, but I woke in the middle of the night, thinking of all
the ways we’d be discovered.
An old neighbor getting out to grab the paper, noticing
my truck.
Maybe my parents would go out for a drive and see it.
What if someone nearby needed help and law
enforcement came out and saw me there.
He never brought it up when he woke without me. He
never pushed. Not until that last year. I knew he needed
more, and I did my very best to ignore and plead ignorance.
Change the subject, distract him, or just put up the shield.
I stand idle in the doorway of the master bedroom and
watch like a voyeur as he tugs at the leather belt running
through his jeans. His eyes stay on mine in a way that
nearly paralyzes me. The base of my skull floods with heat.
After he’s given himself over to me in so many fucking
ways, he’s taking me back.
The fear, the anxiety, all the shit circling around me as I
think about living my life in the open with him—it falls
away.
I know we’re not fixed or solved. But as he steps out of
the jeans that pool at his feet, I know this is my last chance
to do better. If I want him, I have to do better.
His boxers come off next.
Then I’m there salivating at the sight of my man whom
I’ve denied happiness for years. Told hundreds of people I
was single in the years that I was with him. Hell, he’d even
been around at some community events when I’d spouted
off shit like ‘still looking for Mrs. Right’ and other
repugnant and hurtful shit.
He stayed with me.
I have the strongest urge to say the words again. Maybe
it’s like a flood gate. Once it’s opened, you can’t stop the
steady rush of emotions that have been trapped for so long.
“I love you, Marshall,” I say, my voice coming out
unrecognizably low.
He lifts his chin in a small nod. “Shower with me.”
When I drove over here, I was clinging to hope. Hope
that he’d love me enough to give me another chance. I
hadn’t prepared for him to accept me and want to mend
that ache between us with a physical connection. I don’t
know why. Maybe I thought I didn’t deserve it.
I really don’t.
But I should have known my boyfriend better than that. I
know for him, the physical between us is how he ties
himself to hope. Each time we’re physical, he believes more
in his dream of us and it allows him to see our future.
He doesn’t need to ask again.
I take off my clothes quickly, leaving them a tangled
heap on the floor. The water pipe squeals, and the head
sputters before settling into a constant stream. The shower
door clicks open.
Marshall turns his head, giving me just one chocolate
eye over his shoulder. Then he steps inside the stall, and I
lose sight of him behind the static shower door.
I have to show him I want us.
I step inside, my lungs burning from holding my breath.
Exhaling under the stream of water, I reach out for him.
This isn’t like the first time; he’s making me work for him.
I want to work for him. I want him to see that I need
him. I don’t know what happens outside this stall, but I’ll
figure that out then.
I grab the bar of soap off the tray and roll it through my
palms, replacing it when I’m done.
“I want you back, baby,” I tell him, closing the steamy
few feet between us. I move my palms over his
mountainous shoulders then along the column of his neck.
My thumbs hook under his jaw, and I angle our mouths
together.
He moans, and I’m grateful that after all this, he still
wants me in the intense way that I want him. Our foreheads
press together, water streaming down our faces.
“But I want you to know; I still need some time. I’m
going to make it right, I will, but I need time. I hadn’t
thought about what it would look like, not yet.”
“Until I have you in the sun, there’s no us in the shade.”
Panic rises like acid in my throat. I can make it without
sex and blowjobs. I’d done it too many years before him.
But I can’t make it without him. I know that now.
I can do this hard shit without him. I don’t want to.
 “I need you, Mars,” I whisper, reaching down to find his
length standing straight between us, rock hard against his
belly. “I need you through this.”
He groans out, and it reverberates around the small
space. I wrap my hand around him and pump him a few
times, feeling my own cock come alive from the sensation.
Feeling him feels better to me than touching myself. It’s
an erotic endorphin rush that makes my heart ache with
pleasure and my body thrum with need.
“You have me when I have you,” he says. He doesn’t
swat me away, and I don’t give him the chance.

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 SEVEN

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INGRAM
AFTER OUR FIRST kiss the night we installed the
dishwasher, we moved slow. I want to say there was some
romance element, but the truth was, I just couldn’t handle
it.
The reality of having what I jerked off to for years with a
man I was pretty sure I was falling in love with—it proved
too erotic. Behind closed doors, I was literally always five
minutes from coming in my jeans.
He kissed me by the dishwasher, then after, we moved
off our knees (ironically) to his bedroom.
“I top,” he said to me, pushing me into a sitting position
on the edge of the bed. “But for you,” he smiled, that sly,
sexy grin he was known for. “I’m vers.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know what any of that means,” I’d said, feeling
like the worst gay man alive. But until I met him, I didn’t
consider myself gay. What is a fantasy in your head is just
that—a fantasy. Not real.
He threw a thumb into his solid chest. “I fuck,” he said,
the word sending a drop of pre-come to the head of my
cock. “I don’t get fucked.”
“Okay,” I’d said, somewhat confused. We stared at one
another while he waited for me to understand.
Finally, after a few painful moments wherein I’m sure he
thought he’d have to explain homosexual intercourse to me,
I got it.
“I’m not,” I started, “I can’t,” I tried.
He smiled, and it relaxed me into the bed. I loved how
he did that to me.
“I know,” he said, “so until you’re there, I’m vers.”
“Vers,” I repeated awkwardly.
 He smiled again and came towards me, falling back onto
his knees. His hands moving up my thighs stole the air from
my lungs. He folded my shirt back slightly, revealing a
small strip of my flesh.
“I’m going to suck you, and eventually, you’ll fuck me.”
He worked my belt, and when his knuckles brushed my
belly, I fucking came a little. Not a moment I’m hugely
proud of.
I lifted my hips as he tugged my pants and boxer briefs
down my thighs. They stayed banded around my ankles as
his inked fingers wrapped around my very hard, very pink,
very eager dick.
“But eventually, baby,” he said. The affectionate pet
name sounded so natural that it jolted through my
sensibilities, causing my heart to beat a few extra times.
“You’re going to bottom, you’re going to swallow me, and
you’re going to fucking crave it.”
I swallowed, but it came out like a gulp. Like the fucking
amateur that I was.
He chuckled, but only for a moment as he positioned
himself between my spread thighs. I watched his dark eyes
examine my cock. Then he stroked me once, softly.
A halo of fog formed around my brain, the pleasure so
intense I couldn’t fucking think. I just gasped and lifted my
hips a little, mind fucking blown. I knew if I wanted this to
be anything more than a one-pump explosion, I had to warn
him.
Reaching down, I took his hand off my cock sending it to
my belly with a smack. Precome glistened on my skin.
“I, uh,” I chuckled nervously, trying to magic eye the
alpha male between my legs. If I could put him into fuzzy
focus, maybe I could deescalate the urge and have this
actually last. “I’m like, seconds away from blowing so,” I
trailed off, embarrassed.
“Yeah?” he quirked an eyebrow, his tongue sweeping
over his bottom lip.
 “That isn’t exactly helping,” I’d said.
“How about this,” he’d supplied, his thumbs moving up
and down the creases between my groin and thigh. Holy
shit, who knew those were highly erogenous zones? I
pushed his hands off me again. He smirked again.
“How about you let me make you come, and don’t worry
about how long it lasts,” he said, firmly replacing his hands
on my thighs.
I watched the blonde curly hair on my legs move in
between his fingers, and I panted at the erotic sight.
“Goddamn,” I gritted out, my cock leaking freely onto
my belly. “It’s just so fucking intense, being with you.”
He pressed his lips to my inner thigh and kept them
there as I jolted and jerked.
“You’re so fucking sexy, you know that,” he asked
rhetorically. Despite the fact that his lips were moving over
the crown of my cock, we’d never said any of this kind of
stuff before. We knew how we felt, obviously, but until now,
it remained unspoken. “I knew you’d have a perfect cock
under that uniform.”
Heat swirled around my brain. “Badge bunny,” I panted,
running my fingers through that delicious wave in his
messy hair. And the grin he gave me was so sexy that I
remember it to this day, like a photograph. He then lowered
his mouth over my cock until I felt his lips in the short
blonde hair on my groin.
“Oh godddddddd,” I drug out, both in exasperation with
my stamina and pure bliss. The blowjobs I’d had in the past
weren’t memorable. I kind of wondered if I wasn’t that
weird man that didn’t enjoy head.
It was clearly just with the wrong person.
“Jesus, fuck,” I gritted, letting my hands fall from his
hair to his shoulders.
Then he groaned. A sporadic but deep groan that rippled
through my dick like a fucking vibrator. And that was the
first time we were physical.
 When I came in less than a minute when he blew me.

N ow , in the shower , I realize this is another first

together.
I had never showered with him before. I was always
afraid something would happen, and we’d have to run out,
and people would say, ‘why are you both wet?’ and that
would be it.
Fucking ridiculous, I know.
I slip him onto my tongue, blinking up into the falling
water. His beard is trimmed neat, but his hair is long, eyes
dark. His muscles, which usually appear swollen, seem
smaller. He seems smaller. And beat.
My fingers curl into his ass as I work him down my
throat. He drives his big hands through my hair.
My spine curls when I feel his calloused palms skate
down my neck, over my shoulders. I fucking love his hands.
The first time he jerked me off, it was more pathetic than
the blow job.
He let me off the humiliation hook, saying adjusting to
being with a man after wanting to your whole life had to be
overwhelming. I don’t know if it was just that, though.
It was him.
The fucking alpha biker thing made me so hard from the
moment I saw him. Hell, I’d jerked off to him that night in
the cruiser, like a complete fucking creeper.
“Miss me?” he rasps as I skate my palms up the thickest
part of his thighs. I slowly pull away from him, emptying
my throat.
“I’ll make it right,” I promise clearly through the steam.
“Please let me.”
Then I swallowed him up again until my lips were flush
against his body.
 I moved up and down his length, high off the weight of
his hands on me. In his grips again, it’s all I wanted.
“Say it again,” he growls unexpectedly as I twist my lips
around his cock, my mouth working him like a vise. He
likes it fast and tight, this I know by now.
Wrapping one hand around the top of my throat, lifting
my head up, he repeats himself. “Say it again.”
Fuck. Don’t know what Freud would say about an alpha-
male Sheriff getting off to being manhandled, and I don’t
care.
His hand on my neck makes my lower half pull tight,
every fiber of me needing him in entirety.
“I love you,” I say, blindly pumping his cock while our
eyes idle together. He pushes his hands through my hair,
and I take a few breaths unrestricted before falling back
down on his length.
He groans so tenderly as I work his shaft; it’s the most
erotic thing I’ve ever heard. Rough but soft, sexy but pure.
Wrapping my hands around him, I palm at the back of
his thighs to pull him closer. I stifle the urge to choke as his
thick head tickles the back of my throat. He groans as he
makes tiny movements in and out of me. If I died now, I’d
die a happy man.
“Fucking Ingram,” he growls as I move my tongue up
the underside of his steely sex.
“Try,” he says, “you have to fucking try.” He grabs the
sides of my face and holds me still. I blink up at him, mouth
full. He’s hot on my tongue, rigid and pulsing.
“Please,” he says again, still not letting me move. I blink
a few times, processing this raw plea for me to stop fucking
things up. I want to nod, but he releases me, draping those
paws over my shoulders, reminding me I’m doing a job.
I suck his cock hard until his hips jerk up towards me.
He warns me as he filters his fingers through the sides of
my hair. “Fuck, I’m going to come.”
 His release floods my tongue as I feed more of him into
me, as far as he can go. He throbs, and I swallow.
We repeat that a few times.
We’re two man’s-man type of men. We don’t do a lot of
aftercare and cuddling-type shit. Well, I didn’t. Marshall
always did it with so much suave that it felt… masculine
and kind, not sensitive and all that.
After his fearful plea, I know I have many changes to
make. Not just closet-related changes.
I kiss his groin, lingering enough to be tickled by his
shaved dark hair. I cup his sac and roll him in my palm,
tugging it slightly on release. And then I taste him again,
tracing the crown of him with my tongue before sucking
him into my mouth. I move up and down a few more times
as he sighs with content.
When I rise to my feet, I’m a bit lightheaded and go for
the wall when Marshall intercepts. He pulls me into him.
What a sight we are; six-feet and six-foot-two of wet
emotion in a too-small-for-us shower stall. But there’s
cheesily nowhere I’d rather be.
“I’m going to,” I tell him, responding far too long after.
But he knows because he nods as he passes me the soap.
I’m the only one who still needs to wash. He watches me.
“I’m not fucking with you, Ingram,” he says, following
the trail of bubbles down my abs to my groin with his eyes.
“No more shade. I’m not giving you a fucking ultimatum. I
will have reasonable patience going forward, but there will
be an end.”
I nod my head, agreeing, willing to promise a fucking
testicle if it means there’s an us.
“I got it,” I nod, and then we kiss. But I hate that he
called me Ingram.
And I push away the fact that he didn’t say it back.

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHT

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
I’M RELIEVED as I take in the edges of Dave’s body next to
me in my bed. He’s asleep already.
After our shower, I didn’t expect to do much more
talking. Dave had said more in the last hour than he had in
five years. He surprised me, though, when he told me his
plan.

T he white plush cloth was folded in at his waist , and my

eyes fell to the trail of soft blonde hair that ran down his
abs, dissolving under the towel.
I tugged on pajama pants and toweled under my arms,
smoothing it over my torso before tossing it to the basket.
Despite the fact I’d given into him—again—he still
looked so fucking fearful. I hated how his blue eyes almost
looked gray with worry. I could’ve told him that I promise it
would be okay with us, but I didn’t.
I want us to work but I don’t know that we will. That’s
up to him.
The road stretching before him is eventful, and I won’t
make him walk it alone. I won’t make the same mistake
twice, though, either.
This time, I rightfully have a timeline for my hopes. I
thought for sure I’d have to set boundaries and verbalize
down to the event what my expectations were.
But even after I tugged his towel off and moved close to
him, he continued to talk as if he hadn’t noticed that I
started touching his naked body.
“I’m hoping to talk to my parents by Christmas. Dad’s
gotta get through his knee replacement and while he’s
recovering with nowhere to be but his recliner, I’ll talk to
him.”
 His eyes darted between mine, looking for approval or
praise, but I didn’t give him anything. I just grunted and
reached between our muscled, damp bodies and grabbed
him. He inhaled sharply, and his eyes fluttered closed as I
moved the tips of my fingers up the seam of his sac.
I dragged the back of my knuckle up the underside of
his length, making him groan. I swallowed his noises by
kissing him deeply. He cupped my cheek, his thumb
stroking my beard as he did.
Once we started, Dave could never stop. The man had
denied himself for so long, and he’d been a complete drunk
the last five years, needing to binge me in private until he
wasn’t able to think or stand.
But this time, he pressed his hand into my pecs and
moved me back a pace, his lips swollen from our kiss.
“By Christmas,” he’d said again, searching my eyes for
approval.
“If you say Christmas, I will hold you to Christmas,” I
stated, the seriousness of my demeanor coming out harsh.
This time, to protect both of us, I had to be serious.
“And then everyone else, the guys at work,” he’d said as
if he were thinking all of this through for the first time. “I’ll,
uh, I don’t know. Get a couple boxes of sugar cookies from
the Wilting Daisy and tell them and…” he trailed off, his
eyebrows suddenly bunching together.
I stroked my other hand up the hard dip of his tricep, my
other palm freely sliding up and down his length. Pat your
head, rub your belly type of thing, but when it’s with Dave,
my brain figured that shit out.
“You don’t have to announce it when you realize you’re
straight, but you have to make everyone aware when you’re
not,” he says as if he’s also just now realizing the hypocrisy
involved with being gay.
I didn’t want to laugh at him because fuck he’s trying,
he came to me, he’s blooming in front of my eyes. But those
years of self-denial often make him naïve, and that naïveté
makes him fucking adorable.
He didn’t notice my grin because his epiphany was in
full swing.
“That’s bullshit,” he said, then I lowered my lips to his. A
few moments later, we were lying on our sides in the
middle of my bed, facing one another.
“You don’t have to tell everyone,” I replied to his earlier
comment. “But if you do, everyone knows at once, and
there’s no reason left to whisper.”
I reached between us and found him again. I felt myself
grow hard as I slid my curled fist around his cock and
resumed pumping him.
He thought for a moment, hard in my hand, but his mind
still on the issue.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat, “I think I’d prefer a big,
weird group meeting than hushed whispers for a year.”
I leaned across the pillow and placed a kiss at the base
of his throat.
Reaching up, I wrapped my free hand around where I
kissed, squeezing gently. He moaned as he tipped his head
deeper into the pillow. I’ve always loved how my strong
man thrives on me being firm with him. It’s sexy as fuck.
“You missed this, didn’t you?” I rasped, studying the
edge of his features in the limited light.
His head nodded up and down under my grasp as I
kissed the edge of his chin, working my mouth over the
sharp angle of his jaw.
“I missed you,” he said, “all of you.”
His words tonight had filled my bones with lava.
For years I waited for him to say the words. I knew he
loved me in his complex way. But hearing that a G.I. Joe
doppelgänger who spends his days helping people and
keeping them safe really loves me and plans on making us
work… well shit.
That hit differently than I expected.
 My arm wrapped around his back, and I stiffened at the
feel of his hot, hard muscle flexing under my hand. He let
me pull him flush to my chest, and our hearts beat against
each other, his fast.
“You nervous, Ingram?” I asked, my lips curling into a
small smile.
“Excited,” he’d said, sounding like a dog in the summer
sun. Breathless, panting, a new side of Dave I’d never seen.
“You’re different,” I’d admitted. I didn’t want him to feel
self-conscious of the new side he was giving me, but I
wanted him to know I see him. That his changes are
appreciated; they’d given me oxygen.
Part of me wasn’t sure he was capable of it. I’d never
been so pleased to be wrong.
He rolled onto his back, taking his cock from my grasp.
Turning his head, he smiled at me, tender and gentle.
“Come here,” he’d whispered hoarsely.
Using my elbows to bear my weight, I rolled over him,
bringing us nose to nose. He lifted his head enough for our
lips to connect, and we kissed that way for a while.
His mouth searched for safety in me, his tongue making
long, slow sweeps through. He made soft noises but didn’t
move his hips or adjust to find friction. Instead, he lost
himself in our tangled lips, his hands stroking up and down
the muscles in my back.
We’ve had intimate moments, but they’d never been like
this. Largely, they only lasted a few seconds, and then Dave
was moving on, unable to keep himself there long enough
to let it stick.
Tonight, he widened his legs underneath me, giving me
more room to comfortably sink my large frame over him.
Our cocks connected in a slow sizzle as I settled
between his wide-spread legs, both of us groaning at the
contact.
His hands slid over my ass as he hooked his thumbs
under the waistband of my pajamas, tugging them down.
Our kiss broke long enough for me to stare down into his
blue-gray eyes.
“Baby,” he whispered, and it froze me.
Dave uttered pet names and terms of affection only in
the throes of his impending orgasm. Never outside the
bedroom, never outside the moment.
His choice of words kept me suspended in surprise over
him.
He smiled broadly at my shock, reaching up and
tangling his fingers in my hair. “You know I’ve always
wanted to be comfortable calling you that,” he added,
giving my surprise a hearty injection of steroids. My jaw
must’ve fallen open because he chuckled softly, nudging
under my chin with his curled knuckles, removing the
evidence of my shock.
“Yeah?” I asked hoarsely.
“Yeah.” He replied quickly, leaving no room for second-
guessing in my mind. “I’m tired of being afraid.”
I didn’t know what to say because my mind was a
cyclone of new information. I only hoped when the spinning
stopped, something good would be left behind. Something
tangible, beyond hope.
“Do you remember what you said to me that night we
installed the dishwasher?”
I remembered everything about that night, down to the
image of his clothes crumpled in the corner of this very
room. I nodded. “I remember all of that night.”
His tongue slid over his bottom lip. “I fuck, you said.” He
skated his hands up the sides of my body, making my cock
twitch against his. His lips curled in satisfaction as we
throbbed together against his belly.
“I want you to fuck me,” he said calmly but still, it sent
my heart into a state of suspended shock. I told him I’d give
him time for this. It took him over a year to blow me. By
now, we’d done everything but this.
 I’d met plenty of guys who didn’t like anal sex, and those
guys become power tops. I’d always topped, my entire life.
But goddamn, I wanted Dave, but he was like a beaten
animal, scurrying away at the slightest movement. I knew
back then that if we were going to be together, I’d have to
bottom.
The only time I’d been vers and bottomed, to clarify.
I told myself I’d be okay with never being close to him
that way, but I realized as soon as he offered himself to me
that I actually wasn’t okay with it.
Because I knew what it was like to be fucked by him.
What it does to my fucking girly little heart. The
connection, the bond—it makes me high like no drug can.
He was about to feel that after an already heightened
few weeks. It almost seemed like a bad idea.
His fingers kneaded my skin at the base of my tailbone
as he waited for my reply.
I thought about saying not tonight. I considered what it
could do to him to have all that emotional significance
come crashing down. Like getting your bearings in the
ocean only to have another swell rise up behind you,
unexpectedly bringing you to your knees again.
He was weak already. It could’ve been too much and I
didn’t want him to wash away.
Then I thought, no, fuck that. I’d been in this
relationship since the start, holding the damn stakes to the
earth to keep us grounded. It wasn’t always easy. There
were plenty of times where he’d threatened my grip and
our whole existence nearly blew away.
I didn’t say anything; rather I stretched above his head
and grabbed the bottle of lube from the nightstand. It sat
out since the last time we had sex, nearly a month ago.
I think back to that night. Dave had a frustrating few
shifts at work and came by late, sometime past midnight,
just needing to lie next to me for a while. He used his key
and pulled back the covers, sliding under them in his full
uniform.
I can’t tell you what seeing black boots, and a holster
belt on the floor does to my cock. Pavlov’s dog and the bell,
Dave’s discarded gear and me. You get the picture.
He hadn’t asked for it, but I gave myself to him that
night, letting my body be his safe space to fall and let it all
go.
Tonight, I warmed the lube in my palms, rubbing them
together, after pouring a generous amount from the bottle.
On my knees, resting back on my haunches, I watched
Dave’s face as my hand swept between him. His chin jerked
up as my finger moved slowly around his tight sphere of
muscle. Reaching down, he grabbed his swollen, steely
length and began to stroke himself.
With my free hand, I moved him off. “Don’t,” I advised,
not telling him that it’s me who can’t see that. Once I got
inside him, I knew there would be a struggle to last. I
couldn’t watch him touch himself, too. It’d be too fucking
much.
“Give me your wrists,” I commanded, taking control in
the way that he enjoys.
It never stops surprising me to see him so content
handing over control. Sometimes, like when he fucks me,
he’s all control. I have the feeling of his hand pressing
against the small of my back tattooed on my brain.
That’s how he likes it, me against the wall, our pants
banded around our thighs like impatient animals. He’d
drive up into me, pushing against my lower back and
pulling away with his chest so he could see our connection.
He loved watching himself disappear into me.
Now it’s my turn.
He gave me his wrists willingly, which only made my
cock that much harder and heavier. With the hand that
wasn’t working his ass, I pinned his wrists together above
his head. His eyes were open but just barely, his lids so
weighted with pleasure that he looked half drunk, half
asleep.
I took him in, his long, lean torso, lumps of muscle
flexing and moving under tanned skin. Short, curly blonde
hair peppered his chest and abs, turning into a small patch
of pubic hair on his groin. However fucking hot he looked
in uniform, he’s about a thousand times sexier naked.
My cock leaked a little as I surveyed his chiseled
perfection, heady from the knowledge that only I got this
view. Only I got to see Sheriff Dave Ingram naked, legs
spread, thick cock flushed and rigid.
He gasped when I worked two fingers inside of him.
Releasing his wrists, I smoothed my sticky palm through
the blonde hair on his thigh, massaging his quads gently.
“Relax,” I soothed, and his body accepted my suggestion.
With relaxed muscles, I watched him keep his wrists
together above his head as I circled my fingers inside of his
tightness. Pinning his arms with one of mine, I slid my
fingers out of him and gripped myself. Looking down, I
found pre-come pooling at the slit of my head, my dick so
hard I swear it was nearly purple.
“I’ll go slow,” I whispered gruffly.
Then he turned his head and found my gaze through the
faint darkness. His eyes twinkled in the lazy moonlight. The
way his arms looked pinned above his head, corded with
muscle and strength, it was art. His broad shoulders melted
into a torso made of sinew and sin, dripping down to a
manicured groin and thick, long cock. He was art.
I don’t say shit like that normally. Hell, it’s rare when I
pay Dave a compliment that I know will make him uneasy.
But the ground had shifted underneath us, and I no longer
wanted to hold back those things.
“You’re fucking perfect,” I said. He didn’t react to my
compliment; rather, he nodded up at me just once.
“Do it,” he’d practically hissed it. I loved how his throat
strained as he spoke, his head lifting from the pillow.
 My mouth opened, but I didn’t speak. With a firm grip, I
aligned our bodies for connection. My chest tightened in
gratitude for this moment.
To be with him again.
I sealed my private emotion through a kiss, short but
passionate. He made a noise into my open mouth right
before I pulled away. It was a cross between contented sigh
and eager despair.
Neither of us could wait a moment longer.
He tightened at first, wincing ever so slightly as I fed his
tight ass more and more of myself. “Relax, baby,” I said,
leaning on just one elbow. I slanted my mouth over his as
my hand trailed down his side. I gained more access as my
calloused fingers traced circles on his hot skin. My touch
was opening him up and that fucking floored me. In a few
minutes, we were fused.
I pushed up, steadying myself over him on both arms.
“Are you okay?” I asked, trying to find answers in his
dilated pupils.
“Good,” he’d panted. Sweat pricked at his hairline, and
his eyes were glossy with lust. “Keep going,” he’d said
again, his chest hollowing as he spoke. He was out of
breath, and it filled me with pride to be able to be inside of
him this way, despite the discomfort he may have been in
from my size.
Then my worries of his comfort, his hesitancy to give in,
it all seemed to evaporate. The electricity popping and
sparking between us sucked all the problems and concerns
into it like fuel, causing us to burn even hotter.
“I’m going to move now, okay?” I’d asked him, and his
mouth fell open silently as I did. His eyes glittered from
under me, making my chest grow tight.
He’d nodded, licking his lips before I leaned over him
and kissed him as I slowly pulsed my hips between his. His
eyes rolled back into his head, giving me a perfect
opportunity to look down at his cock.
 It was so hard. It actually surprised me. I’ve had a
partner who never got hard while he bottomed, but he
always came like crazy. Because Dave’s never been a
receiver on this end in any form, I think about asking if he’s
ever explored with his prostate, either before or during our
time together. But I thought better of it, unsure of his
commitment.
I’d hoped of course he was committed to us. But coming
out is a beast to be tamed. He may not be ready for that
fight yet. I worried for a few panicked moments and then
rolled my hips again, nudging his prostate.
His eyes seemed to melt closed, and I tightened my grip
on his wrists, which he kept above his head even when I
needed to let them go to use my hand. Good Sheriff.
“That’s the way, keep ‘em up,” I reminded him as I
reached down. The air between our bodies was hot and
moist. When I felt his cock slide into my fist, my sac pulled
tight to my body. Something hot and feral ran up my spine,
before pooling in my groin, achy and warm.
Normally, he’d be talking dirty. Shit, Dave Ingram is one
of the best dirty talkers I’ve met.
I get hard thinking about being in your throat.
Just thinking about licking your neck and fucking you
against my cruiser drives me crazy.
But he was quiet as I rode him gently, taking care to add
more lube at one point. I didn’t ask if he liked it; I knew he
did. I recognized the slope in his shoulders, the softening of
his features as he grew relaxed. Not to mention, his
breathing was growing fast. He panted against my lips as I
kissed him, and I knew I wouldn’t last much longer.
“Fuck, baby,” I’d said, “your sweet ass is so tight I’m
close already.”
Five minutes is not a number I’d like to remember.
He groaned wildly in response to that, his engorged
cock spasming against his belly. I pushed all the way into
him at that point and held myself there. He ground his body
against mine, seeking friction against that hot spot inside
of him. The one my dick was brushing up against.
I let him grind me, ride his orgasm out on me, because
fuck, it was a hot fantasy of mine finally coming true. His
eyes opened, locking on mine for a few intense moments
before succumbing to the weight of orgasmic pleasure and
closing again.
And as I leaned down to kiss him, he groaned, guttural
and raw. My gaze dropped to the darkness between our
bodies. His belly was curled up in tight bunches of muscle,
his chest flexed, and his spine seemed to twist. Ribbons of
come began streaking across his body as he tightened
around me, still trying to move me deeper inside of him.
His first time and he was aching for it to be deep.
“Fucking hell,” I gritted, feeling the familiar tingling at
the base of my spine. “I’m going to come,” I warned. I knew
I wasn’t pulling out. I wanted to know what it felt like to
come inside of him.
My hand firmly pinning his wrists above his head, I
leaned down, letting our chests press together. I kissed him
sloppy and deep as his release grew sticky between us. I
kept my mouth on his as I throbbed inside of him, my dick
pulsing harder and harder each time he tightened himself
around me.
He moaned when I exclaimed, he panted when I praised
his tight ass. My ears grew hot, my brain went fuzzy. It was
perfect.

N ow he lies asleep next to me , his back to my chest . W e

took turns taking quick showers after we fucked, and when
he came back to the room, we argued.
See, he got dressed.
I asked him if he was going to leave and he said yes, he
wasn’t ready to spend the night. Then I said, what about
you promising to move forward and take baby steps? He
said, on my own timeline. Then he kissed me, and it got
carried away, blowjobs were swapped, but still, I’m not
pleased.
He’s not spending the night.
His alarm is set for eleven; then he’s going back to his
place. “Not much longer,” he promised before drifting off.
I believe he’s going to try.
I just want it to be hard enough.

OceanofPDF.com
 NINE

OceanofPDF.com
INGRAM
I HADN’T TRIED to bait and switch and make Marshall
believe I was staying the night.
I’d promised to come out to my parents by Christmas,
I’d finally told him that I loved him and I’d apologized.
It was progress for me. And yet, the moment I stepped
into my clothes, the progress of the evening turned to sand,
slipping between my fingers.
He was fucking pissed. I felt like shit.
We’d argued, and my heart hurt so bad but I didn’t know
what to do. I was in a tug of war with myself.
I didn’t want Marshall to think I’d filled him full of shit
to get him back. I’m not a fucking used car salesman,
making promises just to get what I want.
But I also couldn’t come out like ripping off a Band-Aid
either.
I should’ve told him all of the things that were going on
in my head, but after the night’s burst of tender honesty, I
couldn’t bring myself to say anything else. I wanted to
make good on the promises I’d already delivered instead of
making more.

A few days later , I’ m sitting in the cruiser , staring out at

a bustling parking lot that connects to the town grocery
store, thinking of him.
I always think about him. But since Halloween, my
thoughts have evolved in a way that surprises me.
I did want to spend the night that evening. I have
wanted to spend the night every night since the moment I
met him. I watch a woman struggle with bags that hang
heavily from her forearms as I remember a particularly
hard night.
Bad shift at work. One of the few fatalities on Gull Road.
It’d been raining all week; the roads were slick, and the
foliage lining the asphalt made it worse. When dispatch
told me there was an overturned car at the bottom of the
ravine off Gull, but no driver in sight, I knew.
Years of law enforcement in the same town I grew up in
gave me a second sense, I think. I’d called a few other
cruisers out, but I was first on the scene. I parked on the
dirt shoulder and tugged on my Sheriff’s Department
baseball cap, the only attempt I could make to shield my
eyes from the still-pouring rain.
I saw her right away.
I don’t know how. Her clothes were darkened from
water saturation, and her hair was auburn, nearly blending
with the Red Osier Dogwood she hung from.
A few hours later, the road and the tree lived on as if
nothing had happened. And a thirty-one-year-old woman
named Samantha sat inside of a refrigerated steel box.
I learned my first year that you try hard not to bring
work home. It’s never easy. That night, I showered at my
place, unable to stop seeing her hanging lifelessly, like a
tired leaf. I closed my eyes, and she was there. I toweled off
and put the kettle on the stove, still seeing her. I’d never
needed someone to help me through life… until that night.
Years ago, when Anna moved in with her grandpa next
door to me, I was her confidant. We spent many evenings in
a hammock together, her treating me as her diary. And I
trusted her; I did. But I never told her about any of my
internal battles. I never felt like I needed to.
I drove to Marshall’s that night and used my key. I rarely
used my key because I hardly ever popped in on him. Our
time was typically scheduled, detailed to the event and
time. Because that’s how I kept things separate. Separate,
of course, being a synonym for secret.
 With a knuckle, I tipped my hat off to the floor. I went
straight to his room, unclipped my belt, draping it over my
boots once I kicked them off. I set my side-carry on the
nightstand, and the act of disrobing my gear took all my
remaining energy.
I didn’t know what had changed, but I needed him that
night. I felt like I’d die without the safety of his scent, the
comfort of his presence, and the love found in his embrace.
For the first time in my life, I felt as if I needed not just
someone—him.
He startled awake when I reached over and rested a
hand on his hip. He rolled from one side to the other, facing
me where I laid on my back.
“Dave,” he startled quietly as he woke to me. “Are you
okay?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.
I stared at the ceiling, afraid to find his eyes. The
knowing look I may find in them could break me.
“Bad night,” I managed to say, around the
uncomfortable lump in my throat.
He propped himself up on an elbow and leaned over me,
cupping one side of my face with his strong, calloused
hand. His languid strokes of my cheek started to reroute
my brain, and within a few minutes, he was underneath me,
my untucked uniform shirt pinched between my teeth. My
pants were banded around my thighs, my hands pushing
against the underside of his knees.
I fucked him slowly, savoring the feel of his beard
against my throat as I leaned down and kissed his ear, then
the side of his neck. I hadn’t gone there for that, but he
gave me everything I needed, and after we came, he held
me.
He held me against him, and even when I tried to pull
away, he kept me flush to his body.
Moving his hands around me, he linked his fingers
together behind my back. “No matter what,” he’d said, “I
got you.”
 A nna called , pulling me from the memory that was making
my eyes hot.
“Hey, you, I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days.
Everything okay?” she asked. I picture her shoulder-length
icy blonde hair in her signature wave; her phone pinched to
her shoulder as she types away madly on her laptop. The
woman is always working.
“Okay,” I said, sounding less than believable.
“Did you apologize?” she asked, her tone immediately
curt. She may be my best friend, but she adores Marshall
and the two people that do know about us? They both know
I’m the weak link in our happiness. I love her for loving
Marshall as much as me, rather than just taking my side.
I groan into the phone as I scrub my hand over my face.
“Dave Thomas Ingram, you better have apologized to
that man,” she says in a snarl. I envision her lip curled over
her teeth, foam at the corner of her mouth.
“I did,” I start, giving her pause. “I told him I’d tell Dad
by Christmas. Then,” I say, watching the heavy-bag-
carrying woman slam the trunk closed on her little Corolla,
making the car shake. “I’m going to tell the department.
And that’s that.”
She takes a breath, a confused sounding little noise.
“Why do you sound like someone just pissed in your
overnight oats, then?”
I let out a sigh so full of emotions that I need to take an
extra breath before I respond.
“As soon as I saw him, I promised him the world. I
fucking missed him so much, Anna and I… I couldn’t leave.
I couldn’t be away from him anymore. And I know I fucked
up on Halloween, I panicked, and I’ve had time to deal with
this but, I don’t know,” I said, skating a nervous hand up
the back of my neck. “He agreed to a second chance, as
long as we don’t have to hide anymore, but I have a
timeline.”
Anna begins to speak, but I talk over her, getting the last
bit of important information out. “I didn’t spend the night,
he expected me to, but I just, I wasn’t ready.”
She takes a steadying breath as if dealing with me
requires extra oxygen. “Listen, Dave, I think it’s great that
you apologized and that he took you back, but if you don’t
come through on your promises, I won’t blame the man if
he kicks you to the curb for good.”
“I’m going to,” I defend, but it sounds like I’m trying to
convince myself, not her.
She lowers her voice, and it makes me nervous. “You
know that, right? That if you don’t make good, you know
you’ll lose him forever. This is your last chance.”
I swallow thickly at that, my gut reacting like this is the
first time I’d considered this. But it isn’t.
As soon as I’d promised Marshall to tell my parents by
Christmas, I regretted it. Not because I didn’t want it. I do
want it. I want him, in the sun, forever.
But coming out, for me, is associated equally with loss
as much as gain.
I want him. I just don’t know how I’ll feel if I lose family
and community. Those things are at the foundation of my
existence, ingrained in me as a Sheriff and a lifelong citizen
of Oakcreek.
“I know,” I reply, following the taillights of the little
Toyota Corolla. Out of habit, my free hand keys the plate
into my mounted laptop. “Listen, I gotta go,” I say when I
see that grocery store woman has not one but both brake
lights out.
“Fine,” she sighs, not satisfied with me or the
conversation. Same, girl, same. “You guys wanna come
over for dinner later this week? You know, have a nice night
with friends?”
 I know better than to agree without checking Marshall’s
schedule. “Let me check,” I tell her as I pull out of the
parking lot, flicking my lights on to make tracking down the
teal Corolla quicker. “Text me the details,” I tell her before
saying goodbye.
The car pulls over instantly. First year in this job that
would’ve lowered my blood pressure. But now that I’m
more experienced, I know that following this rule doesn’t
mean the driver will follow any other rules. I’d pulled over
many people who then tried to flee, spit at me, or better
yet, tell me they have a bag of drugs shoved up their butt.
I let dispatch know the plate and my whereabouts, then
I kick out of the cruiser and make my way to the passenger
window.
Bending down to peer in, my hand rests on my side
carry as I tap the window with one finger. The registered
owner is named Andrea Liggett. The woman is already
holding her driver’s license out to me.
“Thanks,” I say, studying the name, “Mrs. Liggett.”
She blushes as I hand the license back to her. She’s
about the same age as my mother, and there’s a very good
likelihood that they know one another. I tip up my baseball
hat as I crouch down, resting my forearms on the rolled-
down window.
“What’s the problem, Sheriff Ingram?” she asks sweetly,
stuffing her license back into a wallet that’s big enough to
rival George Costanza’s. Bloated with cards and
checkbooks, she manages to snap it closed before dropping
it into an overly stuffed, very large purse.
“Brake lights are out,” I say, giving her my standard law
enforcement smile.
“Oh,” she gasps, covering her eyes with her hands
dramatically. “I knew that. I have the bulbs in the glovebox,
and my son-in-law was supposed to change them for me,
but he just got so busy with the kids,” she explains,
beaming, as if I should be impressed by her son-in-law.
 Reaching into the car, I pause my hand in front of the
glovebox. “Here? I can switch them out for you now, save
you a ticket,” I offer.
Her smile broadens. “Oh, Sheriff, thanks so much.”
With a smile and a nod, I pull the tiny bulbs from the
glovebox. They’re wrapped in a handkerchief and have a
small paper folded up with them, showing a diagram on
how to pop the light casing off. I stuff the note in my pocket
and crouch behind her car after double-checking she’d
taken her keys out of the ignition.
No one’s ever tried to run me over… on purpose. But
older ladies and their reflexes, well, they don’t bode well
for men standing around vehicles.
Five minutes later, I’ve discarded of the old bulbs and
walked back to her car. She’s engrossed in her phone, so I
crouch by the passenger door again, giving her a moment
to notice me.
She startles when she does, and I give a soft chuckle.
“You’re good to go, Mrs. Liggett,” I say, popping the
handkerchief back into the glovebox.
With a hand across her chest, she tips her head back
into the seat, smiling. “Thank you so much. You know,” she
says, twisting the keys in the ignition. The little engine
starts up right away. “I have a daughter; she’s about your
age.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me as she not-so-subtle-
y lets her eyes move over my shoulders, down the front of
me, and yep, she looks at my package before coming back
to my eyes.
Raising a single palm, I smile in faux appreciation. Then,
I hear myself say the words unexpectedly.
“I’m in a relationship.”
She turns her head, shaking it knowingly. “I figured, but
I thought I’d take a stab!” She shrugs and makes a ‘can’t
blame me’ expression before shifting the small car into
drive. I back up to the edge of the shoulder and wave her
off.
 Back in the cruiser, I’m about to send Marshall a quick
text about dinner with Anna and Maverick when I freeze,
thumbs hovering over the phone screen.
I know I’ve not been an affectionate partner, not outside
the bedroom, that is. But I need to show him I am
changing.
Dave: Hey honey, Anna just called. Dinner later this
week with her and Mav. Y/N? 823
While I await his response, I scroll through the
undeleted chain of text messages. They go back to the first
message we ever sent. I don’t go that far back, though.
Rather, I read my messages the days leading up to the
Halloween party.
Marshall: 823 Be safe today
Dave: 10-4
Marshall: Downed line on Gull. Be safe out there. 823
Dave: 10-4
Guilt runs cold through my veins, causing my thumbs to
go leaden over the phone. Not only did I force us to resort
to fucking pager code—823 being thinking of you—but then
I’d not shown my appreciation for his continual care and
communication.
I text again.
Dave: I love you, I miss you. I’m looking forward to
seeing you tomorrow night.
I give him a few more minutes as I watch cars hit their
breaks when they spot me. He’s probably busy at the shop,
or watching his nephew. I tell myself it’s not an intentional
ignore on his part and fuck me, even if it is, I know I
deserve it.
I stash my personal phone away and pull out into traffic,
fatigued already, and I still have an entire all-night shift. I
haven’t seen Marshall since the night he took me back.
I’m off for a few days after this shift, and I plan to spend
those with him. We’d been texting, talking on the phone,
FaceTiming for coffee when our mornings aligned.
 It’s been good.
The broken gravel of his voice before I see the sun
infuses me with life. And the two times I got to see him
before bed, it hurt.
It hurt to see him and know the only thing keeping me
from being with him in person is me.
Those weeks after Halloween were dark. I don’t want to
go there again.
But as I flash my lights at a GMC Sierra that rolled right
on a red, I can’t deny my nerves. No one, aside from Anna
and Maverick, knows about us. Marshall’s crew knows he’s
gay, and so do his siblings, so he’s got a leg up on me with
that. But still, they’re close. Thick as fucking thieves, the
Grant family. When they discover he’s lied to them…
because of me… for five fucking years? And that I’m the
reason for it?
I swallow hard at the thought of that. Irritation pricks up
my spine, and I scratch at the back of my neck. They may
accept him, but they’ll hate me.
And I wouldn’t blame them.
The truck finally slows to a halt. My phone rattles beside
me, and I swipe open the text.
Marshall: I love you too, I miss you too, and I’m looking
forward to seeing you tomorrow night, too. Shit, I guess I
could’ve just said ditto, huh? Stay safe out there Ingram.
823
It takes me a moment to exit the cruiser, my ears
pounding, chest aching. I fucking want him. I do.
But I don’t want to ruin our lives.
He’d resent me if his family never looked at him the
same way after lying for me. They’d think he’d chosen me
over them.
I try to find and focus on the clarity I’d felt in my heart a
few nights ago. That crisp decisiveness that I’d felt with my
entire being.
But I struggled to locate it.
OceanofPDF.com
 TEN

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
MAX’S RUBBERY fingers pull at my beard right as I’m
lowering him into his frog-shaped upright chair. He just
watched me workout, and now he’s going to watch me
shave. Delilah had a last-minute situation at the deli
resulting in an emergency hunt for an oven repair person.
That left me with Max since Max’s dad works full-time, too.
Owning the bike shop has gladly made me an impromptu
babysitter.
I have two bikes at my shop right now, with Ry and
Thorne there working on them. Yep, just those two, and I
know them.
There are probably oil-soaked cloths strewn about, Taco
Bell mild sauce packets and balled up burrito wrappers
everywhere. There are probably mug rings and half-empty
glasses on the workbench with dust coating the showroom
floor.
I don’t even have anyone to blame but myself because
I’d raised those shits for the last ten years. Growing up at
home, they had chores. But a home run by a stressed
business owner with two teenage boys and a little girl
meant our house was impossible to keep clean.
End of the Trail has been my place to be tidy as fuck. It’s
my business and I pay them, so they have to obey when I
demand they make it spotless. With me out of the shop for
just a few hours, it’s likely a shit show. It is likely to be
horrifying, and I am legitimately stressed just thinking of
getting down there.
But it was worth the two days I’d taken off.
Dave had days off, and I recognized how imperative it
was that we be off together. He felt the same way, showing
me so by coming straight to my place the morning his all-
night shift ended.
 I’d made him breakfast, then he’d admired me while I
worked out. His open uniform shirt exposed a white t-shirt
underneath, his impressive chest wearing it well.
Unrelated, squatting with a hard-on like a metal rod is not
advised.
After I worked out, I drank a quick protein shake then
we shared a shower. After, he threw on some gray sweats
and a clean white t—clothes he’d brought with him in a
duffle bag.
Clothes he unpacked and put in one of my dresser
drawers.
I noticed a pile of my clothes on the bed and was
confused. He’d tossed me a wink, no smile. The stoic, sexy
Sheriff glance made my insides smolder, and my dick grew
impatient for him.
“That’s your stuff,” he said, nodding to the messy pile of
my shit. “That’s my drawer now. And I’m giving you an
eviction notice; you have one week to vacate another
drawer.”
I smiled. Silent explosions sounded off in my chest at
another bold change from my man. “Or else what, Sheriff?”
I’d asked, cocking a brow. “You gonna arrest me?”
He leaned into my face; his breath smelled like lemons.
He always ate lemon cookies with his coffee. The citrus
scent thickened my cock.
“Nah,” he whispered, lapping at my lips with his tongue.
“I’ll just fuck that hot ass of yours.” He kissed me briefly,
then got into bed.
He got into my bed, at my house.
To go to sleep.
When he had climbed in and asked if I’d be around at
five to wake him, I said yes. My brain tingled at the
immediate change. This is what I’d wanted. This is why I’d
left him, because I’d needed this.
Common but beautiful domesticity.
 Lying together in bed—even if we’re in a fight. Making
food together. Cleaning, or, rather, me cleaning while Dave
watches SportsCenter. Either way, I needed this part.
It’s all I ever wanted; it’s what I’ve been waiting for.
I had an appointment on behalf of the Broken Wheel that
afternoon in Lakeside. But I wanted to be at home to wake
him at five in person.
I called in that day. I took the next two days off, too.
There were so many things I should have said right then.
Important fucking things. Like acknowledging the things he
was doing, creating positive feedback to keep him headed
in the right direction. Instead, I’d promised I’d wake him;
then I’d stood outside the door, dazed.
His truck would be out front all day long.
In broad daylight, for anyone to see.
And he was in my bed, his badge and wallet on my
kitchen countertop. His hat next to them. OAKCREEK
SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT crescentic over a perfectly
sculpted bill.

“O kay , M ax , my boy ,” I say , bringing my mind back to today .

I’m trying to focus on one day at a time so that the stark
changes don’t start to fuck with me.
Dave’s change of heart is everything.
I trust him.
I do…
But.
I worry.
Because he hasn’t hit the inevitable asshole wall. The
one that everyone hits at least a few times in their life. Gay
or not. Because life is a maze, and we’re all just trying to
find the end. The thing that makes us grateful for that big
aura of light at the finish line is that we survived every wall
that jumped out at us along the way. The asshole walls. I hit
plenty of them. My own pop, even when I proved myself to
be a stand-up member of the Broken Wheel, never
supported me.
“A phase you’ll regret going on and on about,” he’d said,
many, many times about my “choice” to be gay. Then when
the fried chicken, cigarettes, and booze claimed his heart,
the Broken Wheel made a drastic turn.
We became a community-driven, charitable, hard-
working group of like-minded progressive guys who
happened also to ride and enjoy motorcycles.
Out with the old and fucking stupid, in with the
respectful and kind.
We did do some harsh dealings, but never ever as bad as
what the town may think. They’d never admit it since we’re
known and liked everywhere, but they enjoy dreaming that
we’re up to no good sometimes. The possibility of seeing a
biker in the shadows, a weapon drawn as he backs to his
getaway hog, which hisses steam into the night. It’s their
wet dreams in some weird way.
But it’s not like that. So their fantasies occasionally
become gossip, to which an end never really comes. But
we’re okay with it. So long as no one is ever fearful of us.
So far, so good.
When I came out, I had the bike club.
Dave has me and maybe some other deputies, but it’s
going to be hard. Sure, we’ll be together and able to go out
and be a real couple in the sun. But I fear that the looks,
the comments, the asshole wall—it may be too much for
him.
But the thoughts that feel like knives being pulled
through my belly is that… this may not all be too much for
him now.
It may never matter when he comes out.
All of it could be too much for him.
Period.
 The front door opens in the distance as I make my third
pass with the razor. “Just cleaning up the edges here, then
we trim,” I say to Max, nodding down towards the silver
barber scissors on the counter. A moment later, Dave’s
gripping the door frame, ducking in to kiss the side of my
throat.
My groin floods with heat, and in my reflection, I see my
nipples have grown hard. Fuck, it feels so good just to feel
good with him. He had few fears in private, but as days go
by, I see those drift away, too.
“Hey, honey,” he says, trying out a new pet name that
sounds like a fucking wet dream to me, with his naturally
deep timbre. He kisses my neck again, this time letting his
tongue taste my salty, sweaty skin.
“You worked out,” he groans into me, making my cock
twitch a little. I have to concentrate a moment, so I don’t
cut myself, and in the mirror I see Dave noticing my tented
sweats.
“I did,” I agree, stifling my smirk to make another
razored pass above my jaw. “How was the store?”
He takes a long pull from my bottle of water that sat
next to Max before he answers. “Fine, I got the shit on the
list.”
“Yeah?” I ask, and he nods, then kisses my shoulder as
he lifts Max from the chair. He’s so good with him. I could
have a calendar with all twelve months featuring Dave
playing with a baby. Seriously. Watching them together
makes me want to cry, then bend him over and fuck him
like crazy, only to turn around and Google adoption after.
But damn, we’re so not anywhere near that.
He shoves his large mitt through his soft, blonde hair.
His eyes are expressive as he recounts his Trader Joe’s trip.
It was his first time. I wanted to go with him, but I need to
get to the shop. And truthfully, I didn’t feel like finding out
if he was ready for a public outing together.
 “Watch him while I shower?” I ask, dipping my razor
into the sink full of hot, foamy water. Old school shaving,
like my dad used to do. It’s how I taught my brothers, too.
My dad was alive to teach them, but he never did.
When I’ve showered and dressed in a pair of black
athletic pants, a gray pullover hoodie, and my black down
North Face vest, I go out into the kitchen.
Dave is hunched over a small cutting board, slicing dried
apricots while Max eats quinoa banana muffins in the high
chair next to him. My chest strains, tightness and heat
flooding through my core, burning my ears. My temples
tingle, and my face goes numb.
The domesticity, the casual tasks being completed in my
home, the way he greets me with love when he enters… it
brings on a rush of emotion so strong, I have to look away.
Clearing my throat, I tangle my hand in Max’s hair,
keeping my back to Dave. My eyes grow misty for a
moment, so I feed the baby bites of his snack until I’m back
to stasis. Maybe I’m going through some baby-fever phase
or some shit, but seeing Dave with Max after all these
incredible changes—it’s doing things to me.
Things I’m scared to really let myself feel because, let’s
face it, I’m scared he can’t do this.
But that’s why there’s a time limit to all this. Christmas.
“You’re making all this already?” I ask, pinching a few
pistachios from a bowl on the counter. He sets the knife
down, scratching at the back of his head, brows pulled
together pensively. His blue eyes narrow on the bags of
goodies littered on the counter.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. Anna said she didn’t think
I could do this, so I’m starting early because I will die
before she’s right.”
I stick out my fist, and he bumps it with his. We’re the
same there. Don’t tell me I can’t because I can. Lotta
people in my life said I couldn’t raise my siblings and run
the Trail, but I did. In comparison, most things seem easy.
 “I gotta go check on the bikes,” I say, unscrewing the lid
to my stainless canteen. With my bottle jammed under the
spout, it fills and I watch Dave’s back flex under his white t-
shirt. He has the buff lean thing going on, and holy shit, it
turns my dick into a horny teen again. I move my hand
through my hair and look to Max for a distraction.
“Last bite, buddy,” I tell him.
After I’d showered, I’d texted Delilah, and the oven
repair is currently going down. I told her I’d take Max to
the shop and she could pick him up there.
“Anna texted while you were in the shower. Six at their
place,” he said, covering his perfectly sliced apricots with a
small piece of plastic wrap. His big hands and meaty
fingers look even more huge manipulating the small bowl.
The hands that drive me crazy when they’re pressed
against my naked skin.
“Okay, I’ll be back in a few hours.”
We kiss. But he reaches behind me and holds the back of
my neck, pulling me in so only I can hear the soft moan he
releases.
My pulse thuds loudly inside my head, and I’m torn by
the equal desire to pin his fine ass to the fridge and cover
his body with passes of my tongue or throw up into the sink
and cry like a baby on the drive to the shop.
“See you tonight,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound as
awkward as it feels coming out.
I scoop up Max and let Dave ruffle his hair and kiss his
forehead. In a matter of moments, I’m on the porch, baby
bag on my shoulder, breathing hard.
I won’t be able to move if I can’t push the thoughts of
Dave changing his mind out of my own head.
“He can do it, can’t he? Can’t he?” I baby talk down to
Max as I clip his car seat into the base in the backseat of
my truck. Can’t ride my Fatboy when I’ve got my little
wingman, so days like today call for taking out the truck.
 The irony is that Dave and I drive the complete opposite
trucks. His is always clean and detailed, inside and out, big
tires and a running board, a generous lift with all black
paint.
My truck is white and sits low, hugging the road, and
roars like a lion as it idles. I’d removed the illegal
modifications as soon as we started dating.
Delilah comes to get Max within an hour of my arrival at
the shop, and to my surprise, the place isn’t as bad as I’d
feared.
The showroom looks like someone has attempted to mop
it, though the corners tell me they did a shitty job. Still, a
man has attempted to clean in this space. I have to give
them credit there.
Without analyzing the shop, I pop my head in and tell
the guys I’m back and to take ten minutes to clean up their
shit. They groan, and I hear a red grease rag slap the
window on the door as it closes. They can bitch and moan
all they want, but they have to clean if they want to get
paid.
Normally I’d pop back in and make sure they were doing
it, but my thoughts are caught on my own shit. As I sweep
and mop the showroom floors, I give myself the ultimate
fucking pep talk.
He’s changing because the time apart after Halloween
made him see that he can’t let fear win.
He wants this, and he’s changing, and you’re over here
doubting the fuck out of him, placing ill wishes on the
future.
When I think of it like that and check my phone to see
he’s texted me a picture of his charcuterie attempt, I
realize I’m being fucking stupid.
He’s changing.
I should just be happy.

OceanofPDF.com
 ELEVEN

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
“LOOKS NICE AS SHIT,” I say, nodding at the metal-legged
dining room table at Anna and Maverick’s place.
“Thanks,” Maverick adds, lifting a beer to his lips. I do
the same, and we drink while we study the table he’s built.
“Where’d you get the wood?” I ask, bending to inspect
the intricate knots in the timber.
He sets his beer on the counter next to the table and
smooths a dirt-stained hand over the surface. “Came from
Lloyd’s house. Saved a few pieces when we renovated,
wanted to make them into something special for Anna.” He
shrugs like it isn’t the most thoughtful and romantic shit.
Lloyd is Anna’s grandfather, who raised her after her
parents died when she was in high school. They,
understandably, shared a special bond. Lloyd had finally
relinquished the last of his independence by selling that
home in order to live in the retirement community with his
wife. With her advanced dementia, she had to be there. And
he had to be with her.
I nudge Mav with my elbow. “You done good, kid.”
He smiles in appreciation of the compliment. I didn’t
raise Maverick, but he spent a lot of time with my kid
brother Orion growing up. He had a shit dad too and had
worked hard on himself for years to become a good man,
unlike his father.
He and his fiancé Anna have a sordid past. Dave had
told me about it a while back, and while it was gnarly and
shocking, you’d never know that chapter existed in their
book. They are couple goals, as much as I hate the
expression.
“How are you guys doing?” he asks, genuine concern
etched on his face. Because, yeah, I’m the jilted partner in
our pairing. Great.
 I look into the kitchen, where Anna is directing Dave to
arrange and rearrange the assortment of crap on the
wooden board. She hovers above him with her phone,
snapping photos only to study them on the screen and
shake her head no. He rolls his eyes and bitches, but
complies with her request to “try it another way.” He sees
me watching and tosses me a wink, which I return.
Unphased by the small and private display of affection,
Mav waits for my response. Blocking Anna and Dave with
my back, I sigh. Maverick knew about Dave and me for a
long time and never told a soul until it slipped to Anna.
Though in his defense, I’d have expected Dave to have told
Anna, too. I know I can trust Maverick.
“This shit doesn’t go to Anna,” I hear myself laying down
the disclaimer before launching into the fear that I told
myself today I’d stop thinking about.
“He’s changing,” I say, the beer almost to my lips. I take
a drink and finish my thought. “But I’m afraid once the
road gets bumpy, he’s going to freak out and…” I trail off
because I don’t want to verbalize the ultimate fear. Then it
will be more than a thought; it will be a real, tangible
concern.
“I got you,” Mav nods along, grasping the subtext. “But
maybe he won’t.”
“Maybe,” I consider aloud, not feeling as hopeful as I
sound. “He’s really fucking trying. He slept over after work.
First time ever.”
Mav’s eyes go wide. “First time? It’s been what, five
years?”
I stuff my hands into my pockets after setting down the
drink.
After a few hours at the shop, I’d gone home for a quick
shower before coming here. Dave was taking his twenty-
minute power nap when I’d stepped out in a towel.
Something about my man in gray sweats. Before the towel
hit the floor, I was between his legs, pulling at the waist of
his pants.
When he finally woke, I’d already sucked him to an
impressive erection. He moaned, shoving his hands through
my hair to feel me while I went down on him. In the past,
he’d run his fingers through my hair a time or two while I
blew him. But he’d never intimately watched until today.
The way all of his fingers kneaded my scalp, too—fuck, it
was night and day.
For much of our time together, I had Dave without really
having him.
I’m starting to feel what having him for real feels like
and… I fucking love it. But I’m terrified. The weight of the
moment finds me like a cinderblock to the chest. I can’t go
back; I know that for sure.
“Goddamn, your mouth was made for me,” he rasped
down to me. I’d looked over the chiseled valley of his torso
and found his gray-blue eyes stealing over me. “Marshall,”
he’d said, lowering his gravelly voice to a whisper.
One hand had fallen to my shoulder, the other to my
cheek. His thumb moved over the top of my beard for a
long moment. My mouth full, I didn’t speak. But my eyes
must’ve given me away with their silent plea.
“Forever,” he said. I closed my eyes and continued
moving my sealed mouth up and down his length. He’d
come without warning, and I’d taken every drop of him.
My attention moves from the heated memory back to
Maverick’s question.
I nod. “Yup. Not one single night. Not even once,” I say,
clucking my tongue, giving my head a tiny shake.
“Damn, man,” Mav empathizes, slapping a broad palm
across my shoulder blades. “Well, he’s trying, and he
wouldn’t try if you weren’t worth it.” Maverick looks back
to Dave and Anna arranging their photo-worthy spread. He
turns to me. “I don’t know him that well, but he doesn’t
seem like a dick.”
 I agree with a silent head nod.
“Has he told his family yet?” Maverick asks, motioning
me to the garage. We slip out the back door. The space is
humid, the air dense with gas fumes and lawn clippings. He
knocks the orange-glowing button on the wall, and the
doors open mechanically. The cool November evening rolls
inside, taking nips at my exposed skin.
I shake my head, hands still in my pockets. On the street
outside the front of Anna and Maverick’s, a car starts up.
We can’t see it, but it backfires, jolting us both
momentarily. We chuckle at our reactions, and when the
silence returns, I answer his question.
“No, not yet.”
Mav nods and takes a drink of his probably warm beer.
“Does he know you told yours?”
The mention of the one and only lie I’ve ever told Dave
makes my skin grow cool, a sheen of sweat forming
everywhere. I pull my fingertips across my forehead,
wiping away the evidence of my nerves.
“Nope,” I say, hating that my gut had me lowering my
voice. But I don’t have to—Dave’s inside with Anna.
Or, I thought he was.
“You told your family about us?” Dave’s voice hits me
like a punch to the balls, stealing my air from my chest with
an iron grip.
Fuck. I turn around, wondering how the hell I didn’t
hear him come outside. Fucking backfiring car, he must’ve
come out then. It’s only been a few moments but he came
out just as I said the only thing I didn’t want him to know.
Neither of us looks to Maverick, but he’s a smart man.
In my peripheral, he ducks inside the house, leaving a
fucking pissed-off Dave and a tired and annoyed me.
“I did,” I admit, working to steady my tone. But the
longer I stare at his shocked and hurt expression, the
angrier I become. “They haven’t said a word.”
 He rolls his neck and his eyes and exhales like he’s
trying not to read me the riot act. Heat pricks at the back
of my neck as irritation free-climbs my spine.
“Do you know that for sure?” he asks in a way that tells
me he doubts it. He’s wrong about that, though. They
wouldn’t do that.
“Orion never even told Maverick,” I reply, hating that
I’m spitting facts for his approval. My judgment should be
good enough. But of course, unless my judgment call is to
hide, it’s not.
He opens his mouth to speak, but his jaw only swings a
few times before closing again. He cradles it with one
hand, his thumb smoothing under his chin. Slowly, he
shakes his head.
“Here, I thought they’d hate me because you were lying
to them, but really, you were just lying to me.”
My fists clench inside my jean’s pockets. I may not have
told him that I told my family about us, that I can own up
to. But to paint me as a fucking lying asshat for wanting to
share my most important relationship with my family? The
family I head, the one that is woven into me as much as my
ink, the one that I have lived and breathed for, for the last
ten years.
My frustrations metamorphose into vivid anger. I take a
few steps, putting us eye to eye. Electrical currents of
bottled and pressure-sealed emotion start to pop off
between us. He narrows his voice to a point, prodding me
suspiciously.
“Who else did you tell?” A snarl runs through his top lip
as his nostrils flare.
“I told Hawthorne, Orion, and Delilah because they are
my family. I don’t keep secrets from the people I love.”
I don’t mean for that comment to backhand him, but the
way he recessed back tells me it did.
I lower my voice, hoping to deescalate the situation
because even though I’m fucking pissed off, two pissed-off
angry dudes aren’t likely to find a solution.
“Listen,” I say, leveling my hand between us. “They
didn’t tell anyone, okay? And I didn’t tell you they knew
because I didn’t want this to happen.”
“This,” he repeats flatly.
“You freaking the fuck out.”
He steps back again.
“Dave, listen, please. I was trying to protect everyone.
I’m the head of the fucking family,” I explain as flutter of
panic begins to flit in my gut. “I can’t lie to them then ask
them to be honest with me. Okay? So I told them, and look,
babe, they haven’t said a word to you or anyone else. Hell,
Ry didn’t even tell his best fucking friend. Delilah’s fiancé
doesn’t even know.”
He glowers at me, his head shaking just enough to be
perceptible. “You lied.”
“You’re scared,” I counter, knowing that if he had his
rational head on his big ass shoulders right now that he’d
see, I had to tell them.
Deep down, he knows they didn’t tell a soul. Oakcreek is
a small town. If they even so much as made a face about
Dave and I, everyone and their great aunt would know.
He knows this.
“You know what,” he starts, shutting his eyes tight as he
pulls at the ends of his soft blonde hair. “I need to—”
I don’t let him finish. Fuck that. He’s not running on a
technicality. I’m so over this fucking rollercoaster.
I reach out and take his wrist, pulling him into my chest.
Wrapping my other arm around his back, I hug him hard.
He fights back. Fucking Ingram. He’s lucky I love the hell
out of his stubborn, irritating ass.
“Baby,” I say, my biceps straining around his shoulders
as I attempt to keep him wrapped tight to me.
Placing his palms over my pecs, he gives me a solid,
Sheriff-type shove and sends me back a few paces. The fog
rolls into the garage from the street, the scene of our
argument looking like something out of a noir snuff film.
I go to him again, but this time his guard is up. He lifts
his arms to block me from wrapping mine around him. I
swat them down and grab at his wrists, which works when I
wrestle my brothers. Dave Ingram is a law enforcement
officer and has been for some years.
The move doesn’t work on him.
He flicks his wrist down, loosening my grip, then turns
away, stalking towards the door to the house. Coming from
behind, I wrap my arms around him. He struggles against
me, ducking down out of my embrace. He succeeds, but by
the time he does, we’ve shoved our way toward a wall.
When he turns to face me, I box him in with my arms.
“Stop,” I pant. Our eyes idle on one another while the
cool night air nips at the back of my exposed neck. Our
chests heave in unison, and I drape one hand across the
base of his throat.
Slowly, I begin to curl my fingers and thumb, applying
more and more pressure. My eyes stay on his until I’m sure
his rage has melted away.
“You can be scared,” I whisper hoarsely, pressing my
forehead to his. My lips brush his in a quick but electrifying
kiss. “But you aren’t running, and you aren’t blaming me.
You fucking got that?”
He studies me. The crisp sapphire of his eyes is replaced
with something more overcast. I remind myself that Dave
has never comfortably been himself around anyone until
me.
I release his throat and cup his shoulders, giving him a
tough squeeze. “You got it?”
He blinks hard a few times, which seems to bring him
back to my question.
He nods his head, and I drop to my forearms against the
wall, caging him more closely this time, and seal my mouth
over his. For a moment he doesn’t move, and the panic in
my gut grows. But then he tilts his chin up, and I feel his
tongue move across the roof of my mouth.
I don’t stifle it. I let out a low, starved sigh, as he sucks
my bottom lip into his mouth. Biting it for a moment, he
releases, reaching down between us. He cups his vast palm
over my thickening cock, and I pull back my face from his,
finding his eyes.
Dave has never touched me in any capacity outside of
the privacy of my home. And now he’s rubbing his knuckles
up the hard stalk of my dick while practically growling into
my mouth.
Oh, in Anna and Maverick’s garage, with the door open,
no less.
“I’m sorry,” he says, as I’m already mentally stuttering
my way through pure shock. “I trust you. That means I
trust them, too.”
He kisses me again, and this time he spreads one hand
up the front of my shirt. The feel of his big, rough hand
against my warm, tight belly makes my lower half seize.
“Fuck, Ingram. We still have to go eat your snack plate.”
I complain, shifting my hard cock with a few moves. Then I
kiss him and melt in his direction as his fingers make
contact with one of my nipples. He grates his fingertips
down the hard nub, gently tugging on my trimmed chest
hair as he does.
“Charcuterie board that cost me two-hundred and
sixteen dollars,” he corrects with a smirk on his full, pink
lips. He flips his hand over again and squeezes my cock just
as Maverick pulls open the back door, peeking his head into
the mellowing darkness.
“Oh,” he says, eyes locked on Dave’s hand, which
fondles me openly. Dave doesn’t take his hand away or
jump back like I always imagined he’d do.
Instead, he waves at Maverick with his other hand…
from under my shirt. It looks like an alien is trying to tear
through my body.
 “Hi,” he says, pressing his big ass palm to the inside
fabric of my long-sleeved t-shirt, stretching it taught. It juts
out between us while his other hand still stays firmly
planted on me. “Is it time to eat?” he asks casually, in his
usual deep, earthy tone. “We’ll be right in.”
Maverick opens his mouth to say something but closes it
and opts for a smile instead. “Okay.”
The door slams closed, and Dave pinches my nipple
again as he seals his lips to mine.
We kiss until we’re breathless, then we both have the
good sense to pull away. Because what can we really do
about it here? Not much. He smooths his hands down his
shirt and pretends to primp his hair. “Am I presentable?” he
asks teasingly.
I like my man light-hearted. It makes me happy.
“Don’t make me look,” I warn, lifting my eyebrows at
him.
I follow him to the door, and before he lets us in, he
spins to face me. His blonde hair is still a bit messy, and
there’s the beginnings of stubble forming on his face. His
lashes, thick and dark, make his bright blue eyes shine.
How did I find a man this gorgeous in Oakcreek?
“Hey,” he whispers, cutting my admiration short. My
eyes move from where they’d fallen on the crotch of his
pants back up to his face. “I want you like that tonight.
Holding me,” he drapes a hand over his throat, “against the
wall.”
“I can make that happen,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Only, I’ll have to face the wall so
you can fuck me.”
Then he turns and goes into the kitchen, leaving me to
bask in the feeling that maybe he can do this.

OceanofPDF.com
 TWELVE

OceanofPDF.com
INGRAM
“HAVE YOU EVER DEEP-FRIED A TURKEY BEFORE?” I ask,
eyeing the contraption from the window. It’s on the lawn in
Marshall’s backyard. He’d told me many times before that
he’d like to host barbecues and cookouts in the future. The
future, of course, being closet-code for when you’re out.
“Babe, I’ve been cooking for my family for years,” he
says as his lips press to the back of my neck.
Reaching around, he helps himself to a palmful of my
hardening dick.
“You didn’t answer the question. I always go hard on
people when they avoid my interrogation,” I reply, rolling
my head to my shoulder to give his rough mouth more
access to my hot skin.
He moves his lips to the column of my neck and sucks
me between his teeth.
“No, I’ve never deep-fried a turkey,” he smiles against
me after starting the groundwork on a hickey. He returns to
the spot, the grate of his coarse beard turning my spine to
fire.
His fingers trace the ridge of my steely length. Fuck, I
want him so bad.
I’ve been nervous about sharing my news with everyone.
Would our dynamic shift once we were out? Then again,
what did I ever really contribute to us before? I mean,
yeah. I was there for him as a friend. I provided things as a
fuck-buddy. But as a partner—I’d always kept my shield up.
He carried us for five years. I’m not such an asshole that
I can’t recognize that.
But I’m trying so fucking hard now.
Even though every fiber of me is terrified.
What if my parents’ reaction is too rough? Though
they’re close-minded, I don’t want to hurt them. What if I’m
not as capable of not listening to small-town bullshit as I
believe I am? What if the career I’d worked at for years all
turns into a concern for the town because everyone hates
me so much? It seems fucking bizarre to be hated for who
you love, but I know how small, religious towns operate.
Then there’s my other worry.
I’d feared the Grant family would dislike me for asking
Marshall to essentially lie to them. Now that he’d shared
that—nope—he actually did tell them, well, I have a new
concern.
Part of me can’t help but wonder—does that make me a
BIGGER asshole than before? Being so goddamn selfish
that I asked my boyfriend to pretend he was single… for
years.
It’s hugely fucked up, and I’m so mad at myself. How
can I expect his family to be okay with how I’ve treated
Marshall when I myself am not even okay with it?
As we discuss our Thanksgiving turkey’s fate, the
complex webs of fear and desire slowly untangle.
I can give fear more of my life, and grow guiltier and
feel shittier, and ultimately, end up alone.
Or I can sac up and be who I am, openly love the man I
love, and know that I’m doing the right thing, no matter
what everyone else says.
Fuck, if not for myself, I owe Marshall the right thing.
When Marshall’s fingers work my belt, I make a silent
promise.
I will not fuck up.
I will not back out.
He is mine.
He is worth it all.
Because even though he’s currently pumping me over
the kitchen sink while my head is rolled back against his
shoulder, I’ve felt the fear in him too.
But I won’t hurt him.
Not this time.
“H ow ’ d surgery go ?” I ask my mother .
She fumbles around in her purse for a bit before pulling
out a small memo pad. Flipping the green front over the
back, she proceeds to read the Cliff’s Notes of dad’s knee
replacement surgery.
Two papercuts later, and it turns out, surgery went as
expected, and Dad will be just fine. Slow recovery, and it’ll
take him a while to be mobile without assistance, but he
will.
My father was just twenty-two when I was born. I can’t
imagine becoming a father at that age. Hell, at that age,
part of me was still just lying to myself about things with
Marshall. It was all new back then, and in my head, I tossed
around the word “experimental” way more than the zero
times I should’ve.
They’d lived a different life, though. Devout to the
Catholic church, never missed a barbeque or extra service;
their lives were about serving God and working the land.
My father is still a farmer though mostly through
delegation for the last ten or so years due to his knee.
After he recovers from this, his plan is to put another
ten years in and retire at sixty, still earlier than the average
career. I look forward to his retirement for reasons he
doesn’t know about.
He and my mother plan to travel, and when they do, I
plan to renovate their home. Not flip the whole thing, but
the Sheriff’s department has helped work on many homes
in the community. We’d even helped Maverick and Anna fix
up Lloyd’s place before they sold it. Dad won’t do it himself.
Updating things to safer, smarter appliances and ridding
the house of lead paint is somehow “vain” so my plan is to
fix it when they’re away.
 Mom will love and appreciate it, and so will Dad, even if
he’s annoyed initially. Then I think about how our
relationship will change. Will we even have a relationship
after I come out? Will I ever have the chance to fix up their
place for them?
Mom dumps a white pharmacy bag onto the counter.
Amber bottles roll around, and she stands each up, label
facing me. Flipping through mom’s memo pad where she’s
written down what each bottle is for, I scan the labels.
On my way over, I’d dropped by the drugstore to pick up
a few things common in every older person’s home. A pill
organizer divided by the day, laxative to offset the post-
surgical medication, and of course, hard candies.
After sorting the pills with mom, I pop into the living
room where dad is fused to his recliner, commercials on the
tv flickering brightly against his closed eyes.
“I gotta get to work, Mom, but tell him I stopped by,” I
say, kissing her temple. She follows me out with a grocery
sack full of food. Despite the fact I should be helping to
take care of them, she always sends me away with
homemade food. This time, lasagna, Caesar salad, peach
turnovers, a canteen of sweet tea, and a loaf of homemade
garlic bread.
She waves me off, and as soon as I’m on the main road, I
call Marshall.
“How’s the old man?” he gruffs into the phone when he
answers.
Classic rock blares in the background, and the deep
rumble of voices is audible, too. He’s at End of the Trail
working. I imagine him crouching next to a bike, grease
and work abundant on his hands. My cock thickens in
appreciation of the image I’m conjuring up.
“He’s uh, good. Mom says he’s good. He was sleeping in
his chair when I was there.”
I come to a four-way stop not far outside the rural
residential area where my parents live. Looking left, then
right, and left again, I roll forward but punch the brake
hard, narrowly avoiding being clipped by a kid riding a
street bike that zips past out of nowhere.
“Fuck,” I shout, forgetting momentarily that I’m on
speakerphone with Marshall.
“What?” he returns with concern in his voice.
My heart doesn’t race, and I don’t grow startled like
most motorists would. Years of law enforcement have
allowed me to control my shock in situations like this. I’m
more annoyed than anything. What if my mom had been the
one at the stop sign? No way she would have been able to
stop for that.
“Some fucking kid just blew through the stop sign,” I
say, annoyance rich in my tone because instead of going
home for a quick bite before heading into work, I have to
follow this fucking asshole. Off duty or not, I have a
responsibility. “On a street bike,” I add, narrowing my eyes
to keep him in focus as I accelerate through the relatively
bumpy country roads.
“That bike wouldn’t happen to be a BMW F 500 R with
red trim now, would it?” Marshall’s voice lifts in question.
Speeding up, the bike grows bigger as I grow nearer.
“Fuck, it is. Shit,” I say, nearly pulling right up next to the
bike. “I haven’t seen one in person. Looks a lot better than
the F 850 GS.”
Since I started dating Marshall, I started reading all his
motorcycle magazines. Found some podcasts to run in the
cruiser while I’m working.
“And is the rider’s helmet orange?” he asks.
Through the window, I hold my badge up, my eyes
darting between the motorcyclist and the road. The rider
spots the badge and gets a faint case of speed wobbles
before pulling off to the weedy shoulder.
“Yeah,” I say a few moments later as I park my truck
behind him. “Why?”
Marshall clicks his tongue. “That fucking shit head.”
 “What?” I ask, reaching for my holstered weapon to clip
to my belt. I tug my Sheriff’s department cap over my head,
grateful I wore it to my haircut this morning.
“He came in here a few weeks ago. Wanting some
aftermarket exhaust that was specific to a different bike. I
wouldn’t fit it to his bike, and he got his little spoiled
panties in a twist, stormed outta here.”
“Is that right?” I ask, switching Marshall off of the
speakerphone to the handset.
“Expected me to do it even though it’s illegal,” Marshall
says, with a groan as tools clank in his background.
I eye the exhaust, noting that it is stock. “He didn’t go
somewhere else for it, but he’s driving like a prick.”
“Get him, babe,” Marshall replies. “Anderson is here for
his bike. I gotta help Thorne get it off the lift. Call me or
text in when you leave there.”
“Will do.”
I slide my phone into my back pocket as the rider
struggles to balance his helmet on the seat of the bike. He’s
young, looks to be around eighteen, and rather than
wearing jeans and boots with long-sleeves, like most devout
riders, he’s wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt.
“Not offering yourself much protection from the sun or
collision,” I say, nodding to his clothes. He pinches his
shirt, looks down at himself briefly then shrugs.
“Got a helmet,” he says.
“That’s good; it’s illegal to ride without it.”
“You gonna get me for blowin’ the stop sign?” the kid
asks, putting one hand on his hip, his head cocked off to the
side in irritation.
I study his bike and then him. He shifts, jutting out his
other hip and gripping it. He huffs out a big breath through
his nose like he doesn’t have time for me or this.
“Could’ve killed yourself if I’d have been a few seconds
earlier,” I say to him. He responds by rolling his eyes.
 “My truck would’ve kept me safe, but helmet or not,
you’d probably be just a skid mark on the asphalt.” I
outstretch my hand. “License?”
Making a noise of teenage annoyance, he pulls a black
wallet from his pocket and slaps the ID down in my palm.
I read his details twice, committing them to memory so I
can run him once I’m at work. I could call dispatch now, but
the kid hasn’t done anything all kids don’t do. He’s driving
like an asshole, it’s not great, but I’m not gonna be a dick.
“Alright, Mason. I’m gonna let you go. But I know you’re
trying to outfit this bike with an illegal exhaust, and I also
know that acting like your untouchable equates to foolish
behavior.” I step towards him, passing him the license.
He wraps his fingers around it, but before I let go, I
command his attention.
“Slow down. Keep wearing that helmet but slow down.”
“I will,” he says with that teenage glum I’m accustomed
to hearing during all teenage engagement.
I get back into my truck and send Marshall a text
message.
Dave: Let him off with a warning. Told him to stop
riding like a dickhead.
Marshall: I’d have given him a ticket.
Dave: Merciless
Marshall: Always. Don’t forget to grab some pies in
town on your way back home.
Dave: Will do. See you tonight.
Thanksgiving is this week, but because I’m working,
Marshall and I are celebrating early. I’m going into the
Department to run a meeting, then I’m heading through
town to pick up some last-minute things. And pies now,
apparently.
Four deputy officers sit at one long table at the front of
the briefing room. I stopped by the Wilting Daisy on my
way in to get the good pies before they sell out. Grabbed
the officers some donuts because law enforcement officers
and pastries are not a stereotype—it’s real.
Discussing the concerns of Oakcreek during
Thanksgiving, our actual work-related meeting is pretty
brief. All of us have been working together for years, and
everything is pretty much second nature by this point.
Eager to get back to Marshall, I leave them to enjoy
their sugar and caffeine before a long day of work, and I
head to my office. After a few hours of paperwork, I’m
gladly on my way out when an officer by the name of
Wilkerson stops me at the door. Fuck, so close.
“Wilkes,” I nod, “what can I do for you?”
He shifts his weight and moves his tongue to the corner
of his mouth as if unsure how to begin.
“I know this isn’t how we do things, and I wouldn’t ask if
I didn’t have the screws to me at home, and—”
I stop him because I want to get home to Mars, and I
can see he’s trying to soften something that needs no
softening. He’s gonna ask a favor of some sort. I’m decent.
I don’t need to be worked for a favor.
“What do you need, Wilkerson?” I interject with a smile,
which I hope relaxes him. He seems nervous.
“Welp, my in-laws came out for Thanksgiving, but I
guess I misunderstood that they’d be having the meal in
the evening. You know, we normally eat around two in the
afternoon and—”
“I’m supposed to be taking Scott’s shift,” I tell him. “But
I’ll hang out a few extra hours. Don’t want you in trouble
with the Mrs.”
I extend half a handshake to him. He accepts and puffs
out a relieved gust of air.
“Thank you, boss,” he says gratefully. Then he says the
words that always make me die a little inside.
“Your parents won’t mind having you a bit later?”
I scratch at my jawline, trying to breathe through my
irritation.
 I can’t be mad at him or anyone else for that matter.
People think I’m the single guy in his mid-twenties with
only his parents to hang out with because that’s who I’ve
made them think I am.
It is my own fault.
“I’m on my way to celebrate today, actually,” I reply
cautiously.
He grins and nods. We wish each other a happy
Thanksgiving and I head back to my truck.
Once I’ve carefully placed the pies on the floorboard, I
start the engine. Staring at the sixties-styled Sheriff’s
Department building, in the privacy of my truck, I respond
to Wilkerson again.
“My boyfriend and I are celebrating tonight at his
house.”
My pulse quickens. I lick my lips.
Hell, that felt good.
I can feel my dick lift from its comfortable spot on my
thigh.
I call Marshall, putting him on the Bluetooth speaker
through the truck. I can’t hold a phone right now; I’d
fucking crush it. As it is, I’m gripping the steering wheel so
fucking hard that my knuckles are throbbing.
He answers in three rings, sounding a little out of
breath.
“Done already?” he pants.
“Mmmhmm,” I practically groan into the phone. I may as
well have said I’m hard and I want you because that’s
exactly how it sounded.
That’s how he took it, too.
“Coming home to me?” he asks, dropping his voice to
that sexy baritone that I usually hear when he’s tucked
between my thighs.
“I want to move in,” I blurt out, surprising us both. But
it's only a temporary shock because hell, I do want to live
with him.
 Go to bed with the one and only person I’ve ever loved.
Wake up with him. And love him every second, in the sun,
and love myself, too.
I’ve made it so hard, but it never had to be. Whoever
ridicules and judges, well, fuck ‘em.
Though I’ve been living in my home for years, it feels
like a hotel. It’s full of all my stuff, photos of a confused me
standing between my parents through the years lining the
walls. My bed is too big. I toss and turn too much. There
are too many coffee mugs, and the house is too cold.
Marshall is my home. His house is our home.
He chokes, and I hear his throat work down a few
swallows of water. My legs part under the steering wheel
as I harden in my jeans.
“Baby?” I ask after he goes quiet for a moment longer
than I’d like.
“My family comes over often,” he says with a tentative
tone that riddles me with pathetic guilt.
“Good,” I reply. “We should get to know each other. It’s
long overdue.”
“You sleep with me tonight; you aren’t sleeping at your
place again.” His voice is raw and velvety, all at once. I’d
slept at Marshall’s after my day shift, but sleeping together
at night like a real couple is a different thing entirely.
“I guess until I get some furniture over there to hold my
clothes, I’ll just have to be naked.”
He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and my lower
half clenches in appreciation. I get a vision of him resting
his big paw on my head as I take him deep in my throat.
That’s the sound he makes when I deep throat him.
It’s this insanely fucking sexy, alpha rumble, and I swear,
if I’d heard it ten years ago when I’d accepted I like men,
the noise would’ve made me fucking jizz in my pants. He
still has that effect on me. Not as sensitive as the
beginning, but still, the intensity and urgency and fire are
all still there.
 At first, I couldn’t tell my attraction for him apart from
the intense high associated with finally being with a
man. Because being with a man had dominated my
thoughts for years.
I’d wake up in sticky sheets from dreaming about
getting a hand job from male classmates.
I’d touched myself to gay pornography, imagining it was
me instead of one of those lucky men who freely indulged
in everything they desired.
I’d stand in the shower just imagining holding the hand
of another man. What his solid grip would feel like with
mine. How his palm would stick to mine.
But once we finally got together, being touched by
another male after volleying between denial and tortured
need for so fucking long?
It was intense. The first few months we were fooling
around were like a heroin trip for me.
I was high on how good it felt to finally explore myself.
To curiously stroke and taste another man’s cock—fuck,
it was something. The first time I saw Marshall orgasm, I
actually came in my pants.
We started slowly; he’d laced our fingers together and
used our fused hands to stroke himself lazily. I’m not even
ashamed that I blew in my jeans like a teenager because
the experience was surreal. Watching another man strain
and spray for me and with me—it was orgasm-inducing.
Not to mention, my boyfriend is a fucking muscled biker
God, a visual orgasm on a Harley.
“Come home and get naked then,” he replies as I pull
into the driveway.
My new permanent parking spot.
“I’m in the driveway,” I say to him. There’s another
moment wherein we both process the weight of the simple
act. I’m parked in the driveway of Marshall’s house, and I
don’t care who sees because we are together. “Be inside in
a minute.”
 Grabbing the pies and my bag, I enter through the front.
Marshall stands several feet back from the door, ink, and
muscle glistening with sweat. His shirt is tucked into the
waist of his gray sweats and hangs down at his side. Dark
hair mussed up, feet bare, he raises one single eyebrow to
me. At his sides, his fingers twitch.
I drop my bag and slide the pies across the kitchen
counter. When I turn to face him, he’s stroking the front of
his sweats, an impressive bulge growing.
“I need a shower,” I admit, but I know he does, too.
“Well,” he says with no inflection. “Let’s go save some
water.”
It’s amazing how fast we can get naked. When you
spend lots of time apart, when you are around each other in
public but have to keep the air of simplicity, the door
closing to privacy is like lighter fluid to a lit match.
Once inside the shower, Marshall cages me against the
tiled wall with his hulking arms. I place a kiss on his
swollen bicep before wrapping my hands around his arms,
hanging onto him. Water fills and drips from his beard,
dropping down between us.
He seals his mouth over mine with a groan that makes
my cock twitch. I push my hips to his, grinding our lengths
together. My moan infuses our open-mouth kiss with more
passion and hunger, causing Marshall to move to my cheek,
then down the column of my neck.
When his rabid mouth meets my collarbone, I move my
hands down the striations of muscle on his sides.
“You moving in, Ingram?” he says against my chest as
his lips move over me. The feeling of his beard on my skin
anywhere instantly turns me to rock.
“Uh-huh,” I say, my voice sounding light.
I feel light.
I feel high when we’re together like this. He brings his
mouth back to mine, and I shove my tongue inside with
reckless abandon. We’re lips and teeth, growls and grunts,
unable to stop mauling one another. In one quick
movement, Marshall spins me around, his calloused mitt
between my shoulder blades, forcing my cheek to the wall.
His lips are at my ear, his beard scraping my shoulder.
My entire body is on fire, so I can’t feel the hot water that
pours down on us. One robust arm reaches around me,
dropping down to my cock.
He wraps his hand around me and starts pumping me in
slow, languid strokes as his other hand travels up and down
the seam of my ass, teasing me.
“Don’t fuck with me anymore, Ingram,” he says. His
words sting me everywhere.
The truth of them is what stings. Knowing I’ve been the
closeted asshole that puts his own fear above love.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my cheek scraping against the wet tile.
“I’m sorry, Marshall. And… I love you.” My eyes burn with
tears, but the shower pours so freely that they are
imperceptible.
Two thick fingers circle my entrance as he pumps me
with a tighter grip, though still moving slow. He shifts
behind me, and I feel his long, heavy sex against my back.
His thumb swipes over the head of my cock; then he pulls
his hand away. Before I can protest, that same thumb is in
my mouth, pushing down against my tongue. The fusion of
my arousal on his skin floods my mouth, and I suck it hard
in response.
He grips me again, and I let my head fall back onto his
shoulder. My eyes are closed as he begins to work the wide
head of his cock inside me.
Stepping apart, I focus on his hands gripping my chest
as he moves his hips slowly behind me. Each thrust gains
me more of his length, and after a minute, he’s fully seated
inside of me, the barbed hair of his groin flush against my
ass.
His large hands knead my pecs and abs before he begins
to pinch and roll my sensitive nipples.
 “I want to go to the OSD Christmas Gala with you,
Ingram,” he grits out, his voice like wet gravel. I keep my
arms up, forearms and palms pressed to the wall. Dropping
my head between my arms, I blink a few times to rid my
eyes of excess water. My focus tightens on Marshall’s hand
moving slowly up my cock, every vein and striation bulging
and aching from him.
The Oakcreek Sheriff’s Department Christmas Gala is a
massive party open to the community held in the town hall.
A huge fucking deal. The Oakcreek Leader actually prints a
fucking photo album of the event and mails it to all
attendees. It’s like a yearbook for the community.
Going together for real—not in a lame, disguised group
—would be a big deal. It would shock people, yeah, but if I
told the people that mattered first, who cares what
everyone else says or thinks. At least then I’d be out there,
and I could really live.
Marshall deserves to live, too.
The last ten years he’d devoted to raising his siblings,
and not once have I ever heard him complain. He runs his
shop and VP’s at the motorcycle club and still has time for
family and community. If anyone deserves the happiness of
a healthy relationship, it’s him.
“I assumed you were,” I assure him through a moan, my
cheek grating against the slick wall.
My fingertips dig at the grout at his hips pump faster.
He lets go of my cock and grips my hips firmly. My head
still down, I blink through the water to see his inked fingers
curling into me. My California-kissed skin is such a contrast
to his art-covered dark flesh. Across his knuckles on his
right hand are the cursive words “Heaven Ain’t Ready.”
Fuck. His rough masculinity is such a fucking turn-on.
Feeling him throb and pulse inside me while I pant out for a
break—it’s heaven. I’ve had heaven in my grips for years,
and I let fear keep me from it.
What a fucking moron.
 “Stop calling me Ingram,” I say, my gaze still fixed on
where his skin grips mine. He doesn’t say anything but
adjusts his angle behind me, then kisses the top of my
shoulder. His rough beard sizzles against me. The water is
growing cold, yet warmth surges inside of me.
He closes in on me from behind, his chest to my back.
His lips move more slowly now. I’m still looking down at his
feet behind mine when I feel him press his hands over
mine, weaving our fingers together against the wall.
It’s a gesture so intimate that my knees go weak for a
moment. Then he’s got an arm around my waist. I
straighten my spine, and he pushes my arm back up
against the wall, replacing his hand over mine.
Now I look up between our connected hands that grab
the wall together.
He fucks me slow, moving himself around once he’s at
his deepest. My gut comes alive, and heat rushes up my
thighs. Things twist and burn inside me, and without my
permission, wild moans fly past my lips.
Noises, grunts, eager breaths.
His lips taste the side of my throat as he whispers faintly
against my skin.
“You’re mine. You hear me? You’re fucking mine, and I
want you all the time, with no rules.”
The spastic pops of heat in my stomach start to focus in,
moving down to my groin. My heavy cock pulses against my
belly as electricity flows through my veins.
“Oh god,” I hear myself saying. God only knows what
else I’ve grunted out in the shower stall. Well, God and
Marshall.
“Fuck, fuck, ohfuck,” I growl in warning. Marshall’s
fingers curl down between mine, still tight to the wall.
“That’s it. You’re going to come from my cock without
even touching yourself. Because you belong to me,” he
growls, biting the back of my ear before lapping at it with
his wide, wet tongue. “And I belong to you, Dave.”
 Darkness rolls through my vision as the pressure inside
of me hits its breaking point. My spine is made of flames,
and my head feels like a thousand pounds. He runs his
fingers through my hair and yanks my head back to his
shoulder.
With his chin pinned to my shoulder, he turns his head
and licks up my neck. My pulse pounds in my ears as I pant
out warnings. He almost always lasts longer than me.
I can’t fucking help it.
He handles me in a way that makes my cock so fucking
hard that sometimes it actually hurts. And now to have him
inside of me—fuck. Has he always felt this when I fuck him?
The emotions are all there, at the surface—and it’s
overwhelming.
But just when I think I’m going to be the guy that
fucking cries during sex (I don’t want to be that guy), my
body shutters, like the lens of a camera, freezing the
moment in time. Everything slows to a stop around us.
My cock thrums and jerks, ribbons of release tearing out
of me up the shower wall, one after another. Marshall
makes the most intimate rumble against my throat, sending
an erotic vibration down my chest. My dick spasms and I
come again before finally, the darkness begins to fade from
my vision and the tight knot in my throat seems to
dissipate.
I tighten my muscles around his cock, and his exhale is
so sexy that I have to pull one of my hands from his to
reach back and touch him. My fingers spread through his
wet hair, and I grip his head tight to my shoulder as he
spreads through me.
He spasms and pulses, coming in long, hot bursts. I stay
like that, with my hand stroking his scalp, his dick keeping
all of his orgasm inside of me.
We’re a mass of muscle, rising and falling to the broken
patterns of our ragged breaths. After a few perfect minutes
of cool water, warm connection, and thoughtful silence, he
hollows me by pulling out.
“Fuck, babe,” he says, smoothing his hands down my
arms to pinch my shoulders and remove me from my spot
melted to the wall.
Our eyes meet.
He reaches for the soap, and I watch his muscles
perform, enjoying it. I feel like since I’ve manned up and
decided to do this shit for real that I’m seeing him for the
first time all over again.
A stirring grows in me as I bite into the inside of my
mouth. When I meet his eyes again, he’s still looking at me.
His lips curl in a small smile before he drops down to his
knees in front of me. Moving his hands around my ankle, he
begins washing me.
We don’t step out of the shower until we’ve washed one
another. The cold water made it impossible for round two,
but the urgency hasn’t faded. Now that freedom is on the
horizon; I cannot get enough.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTEEN

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
OUR THANKSGIVING CELEBRATION feels more like
Christmas.
We may not be surrounded by family and friends, we
may not be celebrating on the actual day, but still, I’m
going full teenage girl with this but… it was magical.
Wait, fucking magical.
I deep-fried a turkey, and Dave made green beans and
roasted potatoes. We ate unhurried, talking, laughing, and
flirting through the whole meal. There was a levity to him
I’d never experienced before. His laughter was untethered,
his smiles were broad, his eyes weren’t filled with fear and
caution.
We ate pumpkin pie with one fork before returning to
our room, where we lazily made out on the bed for nearly
an hour. Even his touch felt different.
He explored me freely, touched me more often, and
seemed like he truly loved being an us. Tugging at the top
of my sweats, running his hands over the swell of my chest,
gripping me through my clothes.
He couldn’t get enough.
He’d been like that before. Insatiable and handsy. But it
was always fleeting as if the daylight reset him, and he
reverted back to unsure, closeted, and uncomfortable.
Now, though, he loved me differently. And goddamn it if
his surge of intimacy and affection didn’t make me fall even
harder.
My fears about Dave being unable to make it through
the asshole wall are slowly draining. I’m not a fool—I still
have a healthy dose of fear that he could pull away from me
once he talks to his parents. When I’d come out to my
parents, my father’s reaction led me to do that very thing. I
stuffed distance and silence between myself and my
boyfriend at the time, effectively killing the relationship.
I get it. Processing big emotions from people you’ve
viewed as leaders your entire life… It's not simple. I just
hope that the Dave that loves me is the Dave that prevails.
Following Thanksgiving, Dave continues to blow me
away in many ways.
On Black Friday, he came down to End of the Trail and
brought lunch for all of us, including Thorne and Ry. They’d
seen him around Oakcreek for years and witnessed our
limited and cool interactions at community events, like the
downtown parade that the Broken Wheel ran. Though they
were always aware of my real relationship with him, they’d
never actually seen us together within our truth.
I’d wondered many times how this moment might go.
I’d envisioned Dave being awkward and silent, and then
I’d seen myself needing to explain how Dave was an only
child or how he isn’t quite comfortable with it all yet, how
his Catholic parents had labeled gay men as deviants. I’d
worried about him meeting my family, for his sake, even
though part of me seriously wondered if it would ever
happen.
He’d walked into the shop after sending me a text saying
he was a few minutes away. He brought four huge bags of
food from our favorite Mexican take-out place. Off-duty, he
wore black athletic pants and a fitted white v-neck t-shirt
that did nothing to keep my dick in check when I laid eyes
on him.
With his black OSD baseball cap flipped backward and a
few days of growth blanketing his jaw, he looked so
blissfully content, and it drove me fucking wild.
He’d never looked that way to me before.
As soon as Thorne and Ry came out from the back,
Thorne whooped with happiness.
Thorne was always the brother to shoot from the hip,
not waiting to sugarcoat or mince words.
 “Oh, thank fuck, I was worried you were going to bring
Thanksgiving leftovers,” he’d said to Dave when eyeing the
logo on the bags.
Dave snorted a laugh before volleying a thumb between
him and me. “You think we have any leftovers? He’s two-
thirty, and I’m two-hundred pounds. The leftovers lasted
one whole day.”
He turned to me and gave me a quick, sexy wink before
pulling Styrofoam clamshell containers from the paper bag.
“Wait a fucking second,” Ry responded quickly, tucking
one of his long dark hairs back into his man-bun. “You
didn’t have to take a shit load of turkey and crap home
from La’s yesterday?”
Then the three of them turned to face me. The moment
was surreal, the men I’d practically raised standing next to
the man I wanted to spend my life with. Casually asking me
why I didn’t bring home leftovers as they begin to tear into
take-out.
“I told La we still had our own leftovers,” I told them.
Dave tipped his head to the side before walking to where I
stood behind the desk in the showroom.
I am comfortable being an openly gay man in front of my
siblings and anyone else. With that said, I nearly fucking
melted into a puddle of denim, leather and surprise when
he not just hugged me the way he would if it were just us
but then kissed my neck as we embraced. He whispered a
husky ‘hello’ in my ear before returning to his food.
And when Thorne and Ry had zero reaction, I realized I
was now the one uncomfortable. Or, rather, needing a
fucking second to process.
I watched the three of them inhale burritos, loaded
nachos, and Diet Pepsi’s while dissecting the football game
we’d watched while Dave was working on Thanksgiving.
They talked about wide-receivers, rushing yards, and all
the things I’d normally love to discuss. I raised my brothers
on a steady diet of sports and fitness, needing to have
somewhere for them to focus their energy. Dave was raised
the same and had confided in me that as a teen, despite
having the natural inkling to love sports, he felt like he had
to take part in those things to convince his father he was a
man’s man.
His father had him convinced that homosexuality was
abnormal and wrong.
And there he was, his hand resting on my thigh as he
told my brothers about the time he went to the Superbowl
as a kid.

T he sex that night was insane .

As soon as I got home from work, I tore into him.
I’d nearly mauled the poor man, but the effort he was
making to accept himself, love us, give me what I’d asked—
I’d like to see you date a hot fucking Sheriff and not
sexually devour him in that situation.
He was in the kitchen, a roast chicken and platter of
vegetables resting on the counter, a cold beer in his hand.
Idling between the kitchen and living room, he was waiting
for the potatoes to come off the stove while not depriving
himself of one moment of SportsCenter.
Bare feet, golden hair damp from a shower, athletic
pants low on his hips—I swallowed a groan at the sight.
Taking the beer from him, I set it on the counter and
pushed him to the couch, where I brought him to orgasm in
less than five minutes. His inability to keep it together
when I touched him drove me insane, and from there, we
spent the entire evening in our bedroom.
We touched and talked, fucked and laughed, ate roast
chicken in bed, and watched some prison documentary
when SportsCenter failed us.
It was perfect.
 And I let myself have it and have him, free of the worry
that it may not last. His newfound comfort could be fleeting
—but I stayed in the present: a perfect us.

T he weeks to follow were the same . A near - dream state .

When he worked days, we went to bed and woke up
together. His stupid apple cider-smelling shampoo had
grown to be one of my favorite things to pummel my senses
before opening my eyes in the morning. It meant he was
there. Not just remnants of him on my skin and clothes, like
before.
Actually there.
Every morning we awoke together, I reached for him
and rested my palm on his heart. I kept it there, imaging it
was syncing us.
As the Oakcreek Sheriff’s Department Christmas Gala
approaches, Dave has begun seeing his parents more. His
dad is recovering from knee-replacement surgery and has
been recliner-ridden for the better part of two months.
In an effort to not add pressure, I don’t hit him with the
“did you tell them?” that is a constant in my brain each
time he returns from their place.
Last week, he seemed to lose some of his energy and
excitement. Not for me or us but just, in general.
It could be he’s been working nights. One of his officers
had to discharge his weapon on duty which had created a
mountain of paperwork for him.
It could’ve been life not pertaining to us. Hell, I have
strings of bad days, too.
But his mood worried me, and all the distance I’d put
between me and worry was slowly evaporating. I’d grown
comfortable with his evolution, and as soon as I stopped
being fearful daily, his demeanor changed. Well, shit.
 Now, with the Gala being tomorrow, I’m having some
flashbacks of Halloween. Showing up to Anna and
Maverick’s just knowing he couldn’t do it. It was a very
dark night.
He’s off today, heading to his parents’ house to be there
when the furniture store delivers a new chair for his dad.
The knee replacement recovery is moving slower than
expected, but Dave has always described his father as
stubborn. Hearing that he’d overdone it in the first few
weeks and been set back quite some time made sense.
But a man who thinks he knows better than a medical
doctor doesn’t scream understanding to me.
Delilah walks into the kitchen with Max on her hip, and I
watch as Dave kisses her cheek and takes the baby. His
face softens as he presses his forehead to Max’s, talking to
him gently while he smooths his thumb over the baby’s
chubby little palm.
I have a few loose ends to tie up with one of the bikes at
the Trail, and then I’ve got a few errands to run.
Tonight, I’m planning a nice dinner at home with Dave.
Because today, he’s going down to the Sheriff’s office for
a department meeting, and when it’s over, he’s coming out
to his deputies.
And while the information of your sexual orientation
shouldn’t be a news-docket item, it’s a small town. People
can get their feathers ruffled and keep them that way
forever if you let them.
We’d discussed it.
Rather, Dave’s knee bounced nervously as he talked
through what he was going to say, tossing out several
scenarios on how they’d react. I rubbed his shoulders and
tried to soothe his nerves, but truth be told, I was just as
fucking nervous for him.
Small towns can sadly often equate to small minds. It
wasn’t a stereotype—I’d lived the truth of that statement a
few times throughout my life.
 After I came out, the church left conversion therapy
fliers on my porch for a year. A better parent would’ve
thrown them out or hidden them, but my father taped every
single one to the fridge.
My siblings ripped them down if they got to them first.
When I got to them first, they’d remind me that dad was a
small-minded alcoholic asshole.
Still, having strangers want you to change who you are
at your core does something to your spirit. Hardens it.
“Baby cuddles will help before you go in,” Delilah says,
sidling up at the kitchen counter. Her dark hair, which
mirrors mine, is down in long soft waves. Her v-neck
“Delilah’s Deli” top is stained with work, but it’s a good
thing because her shop is a tremendous success.
I’d helped finance it, so did the Broken Wheel, and she’d
really blown us all away with how hard she worked and
how seriously she took it all. When she became
unexpectedly pregnant last year, I thought for sure
Delilah’s Deli would feel the impact. Rather, she enlisted
our family friend Maverick to help with small repairs, hired
a floor manager and another girl to work the counter.
She did Max’s early morning feedings and then, because
she lived in the apartment above the deli, went downstairs
and started baking bread and bagels.
I thought I’d worked hard to raise my siblings and grow
a business, but Delilah was a wonderful mother and
running a business, and she deserved far more credit than I
did.
She knew that Dave loved Max. Though Dave wasn’t
wholly aware that Delilah knew he was spending time with
Max when he was with me, she knew. I’d told her and she
never once questioned it. If I loved and trusted Dave, then
she did too. Even with her son, she trusted him.
“Yeah,” he said, nuzzling Max’s smiling cheek. He
sucked in a big breath with his nose to Max’s chest. I
cocked a brow at him.
 He shrugged with a fucking sexy, embarrassed smile
that made my chest tighten in appreciation of my man.
“Trying to save up that baby smell,” he admitted. “It’s so
pure.”
Delilah laughed, and I forced a small laugh, all the while
my heart was slamming into my ribs. The idea of Dave with
a baby—our baby—shit. Let’s just say if I had ovaries,
they’d be on fire.
“Good luck today, D,” Delilah said to him, taking a piece
of French toast from the plate on the counter.
Dave said he wasn’t nervous, but all week he’d grown
tense, and this morning he was up an hour before me. He’d
worked out in the garage, mopped the kitchen, taken out
the trash, made French toast, and while waiting for Delilah
to show up, he even washed my bike.
He’d already torn up a few pieces of French toast for
Max since Delilah texted us and told us she was stopping
by. Sliding him into the high chair, he dropped a few berries
down with the bread and started to fill Max’s juice cup. I
had to remind myself that my fucking sister was in the
room with us because watching his domestic side grow—on
top of everything else he’d grown comfortable with—all the
blood in my body slowly moved south.
“Yeah,” he said, leaning against the counter, his long,
muscular legs crossed at the ankle.
He was wearing black jeans and boots, with a long-
sleeved button-up the color of a rainy sky, with a black
fleece vest over the top. His blonde hair was styled into a
perfect coif, much like Ken doll, and his eyes were wide.
Over caffeinated, he claimed. But I knew it was more.
“I’m uh, as ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, skating his
dominant hand up the back of his neck.
I didn’t want to smother him, but I also needed him to
know, one last time before he left, that he had me in his
corner. No matter what happened with work and his
parents (mainly his prick of a father), he had me.
 Delilah stuffed another piece of French toast in her
mouth before drifting out back to field a phone call from
the bank. She and her fiancé were trying to buy a second
location for another deli already. To say I was proud of her
was an understatement. She slid the door shut, and that’s
when I closed in on him.
With him still leaning back against the counter, I pinned
him there. He smoothed his hands up my forearms,
squeezing my biceps. Then he wrapped his arms around my
neck and began kissing me. I hoped it was a kiss born from
love, not a kiss searching for reassurance about his
upcoming choice to publicly declare himself.
He kissed me more passionately, and it subdued my
worries.
This Dave drove me wild. My entire body went
weightless as he hugged me so tenderly, seeking comfort in
me physically. I thought we’d never have this. I’d hoped we
would, but I never held my breath.
I swept my tongue over his slowly, eating up his sighs
and noises. “It’s just us,” I said huskily against his lips, not
wanting to reveal my own anxiety. “No matter what, it’s you
and me. That’s all that matters.”
He nodded, kissing me again before cupping his palms
to my face, bringing our foreheads together.
“I should have done this a long time ago.”
Those nine words floored my pulse. I know that on the
morning of work-coming-out, I should stop worrying. But I
find myself a glutton for the morsels of relief his words
bring. He should’ve done it a long time ago, meaning he’s
going to do it. He’s not backing out.
I studied his eyes and watched the sapphire blue turn to
a muted cornflower, his nerves winning over his smolder.
He chewed at the corner of his mouth, a hesitant and
nervous smile eventually lifting his lips.
“I love you, Dave,” I told him, putting a step of distance
between us. Taking his hands in mine, I linked our fingers
and kissed his palm.
His blue eyes sparkled, but I shot him a wink and left it
at that.
Delilah returned with good news of their loan approval,
and after bagging up French toast for Max to snack on
later, she took off. She kissed Dave on the cheek and
whispered words of encouragement. He walked her out and
also left, sending me a text from the cab of his truck in the
driveway before he pulled away.
Dave: I’m looking forward to having you in my arms in a
tuxedo under the stars tomorrow. I love you.
Marshall: Right back at you, baby. This weekend, it will
all be behind us. We’ll go up to Lakeside and cut down a
Christmas tree then stay in.
He didn’t respond, but I’d hoped my plans gave him
ease.
With the Gala tomorrow and Christmas next week, I had
a lot to do today. After Dave and La left, I worked out and
hit the Trail to finish the paperwork on one of the bikes we
were finally done with after a three-month-long rebuild.
Thorne and Ry were there, working on the other bike
while waiting for another two to come in. We had steady
work at the shop, and normally, I’d be there, wrist deep in
grease. Today, though, I had a personal agenda.
Pick up my tux for the Gala tomorrow. Get a haircut in
town, complete with a close-shave. Run by the butcher and
pick up some good steaks for tonight.
A perfectly grilled steak with a baked potato and
steamed broccolini is Dave’s favorite meal. I planned on
cooking him his favorite meal and spending the entire night
in our room, showing him how much I appreciate all the
lengths he’s taken for me.
After the butcher, I have something else I need to pick
up for tomorrow.
Something that will be in my pocket through the entire
evening.
 Something that I plan to give Dave at the end of the
night when it’s just the two of us. I’m hoping he’ll go to the
overlook with me after the Gala ends.
It would be the perfect setting for what I have in store.

OceanofPDF.com
FOURTEEN

OceanofPDF.com
INGRAM
“WELL, the Mrs. was happy, thanks to you, boss,” Wilkerson
says, approaching me from behind. I take note of the thick,
starched lines pressed into his uniform. My mind is wanting
to focus on shit of little importance, like Wilkerson’s
impressive ironing job or how Davies’ boots are so shiny.
“Glad to hear it,” I say with a nod. He lingers for a
moment before taking a seat at the table directly in front of
me.
I always run these department meetings, whether I’m on
duty or not. My Chief Deputy, Henry Kessler, had run one
meeting on my behalf when I was laid up from an
appendectomy. Outside of that, I take the role of Sheriff
pretty fucking seriously.
It’s why I feel like I’m moments away from vomiting in
the gray plastic wastebasket or running to the bathroom to
empty my bowels.
This isn’t some job that can easily be replaced. This is
my career. The thing I’ve always wanted to do. And I’m
good at it, and I like every single person I work with. Know
how rare that is? Well shit. If you don’t know, it’s rare. Like,
bloody steak rare.
Today’s meeting is one of the monthly mandatory
meetings. Meaning, unless you’re actively on shift, you are
in this room.
Oakcreek has seventeen officers, including myself, and
this room currently houses eleven of them. Five are on
duty, and one is on maternity leave. I accept this
information will trickle down, just like whoever attends the
Gala tomorrow night will be responsible for sharing my
gayness with whoever isn’t there.
And they will. Because small towns do fit the stereotype
in many ways.
 I’m just choosing to focus on Marshall and let go of the
fear associated with people knowing. I’m exhausted from
living a partial life. Who knew being ingenuine was so
tiring?
We move through items on the docket, starting on new
patrol targets due to last month’s report calibration. Maps
are passed out to let officers know where gas lines will be
dug up by the gas company in the next two weeks and we
go over outstanding issues in the town. When we’ve agreed
collectively that we’re on the same page, people begin to
shift.
Hayworth and Davies are looking at something on a
shared phone screen, and Wilkerson is already halfway to
the door. My heart slams into my ribs. Cool sweat forms on
my scalp. I swallow thickly, clearing my throat to rid myself
of the uncomfortable knot.
“One last thing, on a personal note only.”
They all freeze. Wilkerson looks worried and surprised;
Davies drops the phone flat to the table, and I see my other
officers have much of the same demeanor. Because while I
mention my folks sometimes, I’m not the Sheriff who
connects to my officers on a personal level. My personal life
has always been a fucking vault. Their look of shock is
understandable, though it does jack shit to settle the sea of
nerves tumultuously swirling inside me.
“Tomorrow night is the annual Oakcreek Sheriff’s
Department Christmas Gala,” I remind them.
I’m met with more confusion because of fucking course
we went over the event in detail in the meeting. How we’d
work it, what we expected, the extra restrooms, map of the
layout—the same shit we do every year.
“Yeah, boss,” an officer in the back says, tilting his head
up. “Your memory going bad?” he casts me a joking wink,
and it forces me to cough and clear my throat. I hate that
he’ll regret that careless, casual wink after I deliver this
news.
 I laugh awkwardly for a moment before shifting my
weight on my feet. Enough fucking stalling, Ingram, my
insides scream. Okay. Like a Band-Aid.
“I will be attending this year’s Gala with my partner,
Marshall Grant. I’m sure most of you know him. He owns
the End of the Trail motorcycle shop out in the industrial
area in East Oakcreek.”
I try to pace the words, so they don’t fly out in a frantic
rush like I’m nervous and itching to get this over with. It
needs to feel unworried and casual so they know I’m not
uncomfortable. Because I want to not be uncomfortable,
damn it.
“You a silent co-owner of the Trail?” Hernandez, the
officer who winked at me, asks with confusion all over his
poor face.
Are you fucking kidding me? He doesn’t what I mean by
the word partner. Without my permission, my eyes scan the
room, looking for a lifeline.
“Not business partner, dumbass,” another officer chides.
I do my nervous chuckle. Dear God this is
uncomfortable, but it can’t look it. I cannot look it.
Gripping the sides of the podium, I take a steadying,
deep breath. I didn’t want to use the word boyfriend
because it makes me sound less professional and unreliable
in my own mind.
I didn’t foresee that there’d be anyone so obtuse as to
not understand the term “partner.” Fuck, I thought
Oakcreek had limited visions of the world, but I didn’t
anticipate this.
“Partner,” I clarify, “as in, we’ve been in a romantic
relationship for five years.”
Like in cartoons when a beautiful woman walks by, jaws
drop dramatically. Only replace the gorgeous female with
news that their alpha male Sheriff (that is often whistled at
by girls and women alike) is gay.
 And in a serious, long-term relationship with one of the
manliest males in the town. One that rides a motorcycle
and has his nose pierced. A man whose body is comprised
solely of muscle and art. Who owns a motorcycle shop and
nearly runs the Broken Wheel motorcycle club. Yep,
manliest of men. I said it.
Looking at us, we’re the most straight, dominant,
powerful-looking men you could dream up. Not to mention,
we’d never given any of them a single molecule to be
suspicious over.
I try to take their dropped jaws as a sign that I did a
good job being a closeted fool for the last five years.
But now, I wish we could skip to acceptance so they’d
stop looking at me like I just told them I murdered my
fucking family.
The word boyfriend tears through them like a whispered
bullet and after they exchange a few hushed thoughts,
presumably “did you know?” and “I didn’t know,” I clear my
throat again.
“I wanted to share that with all of you before we attend
tomorrow night,” I say, hoping that a handful of them get
the meaning and pass it on.
When I’m met with a few nervous smiles and nods, I
wrap up the meeting.
“Alright then,” I say, “see you on shift tomorrow.”
Shuffling my paperwork until it’s in one unorganized
heap, I stuff it into my bag. I want to run the fuck out of
here and have a panic attack in my truck because fuck, that
felt… stressful. But I have to keep my composure. If I’m not
nervous about everyone knowing I’m gay and in a serious,
committed relationship, why should they be?
Davies, Wilkerson, and Hernandez hover in front of the
podium, keeping a few feet of buffer. Briefly, the thought
that they are no longer comfortable near me, knowing that
I prefer penis to vagina enters my mind, but I shove it
away.
 They’re uncomfortable, I tell myself because it’s a weird
thing I just did. I came out to coworkers who previously
knew nothing about me other than I like cookies and watch
a lot of sports.
It’s a lot.
Wilkerson takes the first step forward, and they follow
suit, joined by Hayworth.
“Boss?” he tries with a surprisingly confident tone. I
expected timid and unsure.
I smile at him with a nod, my standard greeting. “What’s
up Wilkes?”
“Well, I think we just wanted you to know, what you just
told us,” he says, waiting for me to acknowledge that I
know what he’s referencing. Yeah, I just came out for the
first time ever. I’m pretty sure, Wilkes, that I know what
you’re talking about. But I play along.
“About myself and Marshall Grant,” I say proudly, not
wanting an iota of insecurity in my demeanor.
“Yeah,” he agrees quickly. “Well, we’re cool with it.” He
looks to the other men who bob their heads in unison. “I
mean, not that you need our approval or anything but, I
guess,” he stumbles in his proclamation, scratching at the
side of his jaw while he thinks carefully about his words. “I
mean, we just want you to know it doesn’t make a
difference to us. We respect you, boss.”
“Mars fixed my brother’s street bike two years ago. Did
such a good job that my old man even let him work on his
Fatboy last year,” Hernandez adds, stepping up to be
shoulder to shoulder with Wilkerson. “He’s a good dude,”
he says. Then he outstretches his hand; knuckles tucked in.
We bump fists, and he grabs a pastry from the box before
slipping out the back.
Davies shakes my hand, telling me he’s glad he knows. I
force myself to look at my unimportant bag, so my eyes
don’t grow misty in appreciation of his kindness. Then I’m
left with just Wilkerson and Hayworth.
 “Always wondered how you seemed impenetrable to the
badge bunnies,” Hayworth chuckles softly. I grin at that.
“Always say no to badge bunnies, no matter your
orientation,” I say on the tail end of my laughter.
“Shit, ain’t that right,” he agrees, shaking his head with
an experienced pain on his face that I don’t want to know
about.
“Well, my old lady wanted me to invite you to dinner as a
thank you for covering me for Turkey Day. She’d love to
host you both.”
“Ah, now, I know women well enough to know they don’t
like you offering up things without their say-so,” I say,
appreciative of his offer.
But hell, I certainly don’t want to accept, have him tell
his wife the new development and then end up at a dinner
party with a woman who hates me because of who I love.
And he’d never cancel because I’m his boss.
Hayworth grabs another pastry and gives me a fist bump
goodbye. Wilkerson shakes his head once we’re alone.
“No,” he says vehemently. “She’d love to have you both.
I officiated her brother’s wedding to his college boyfriend a
few years back,” he says proudly. It’s meant to make me
more comfortable, and strangely it does.
“Thanks, Wilkerson,” I say, clapping our palms together
in a solidifying shake.

OceanofPDF.com
 FIFTEEN

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
“DAMN, BABE,” Dave says as soon as the back door opens.
He’s coming in through the garage door, and I’m not used
to it. It still gives my chest a little thrilling jolt having him
live here.
I’d finished up all my shit down at the Trail earlier than
I’d expected. I felt motivated today. Not work motivation,
hell, I always had that. I guess it wasn’t a new motivation
as much as it was a newfound energy in me. Tomorrow all
the hiding and secrecy and pretending could be over.
That meant that our real lives could start.
I’ve loved Dave Ingram for five years in the shade, but
now I want to love him in daylight. And I want to marry
him. And I want to be a father with him.
All of that has gone from impossible to tangible. And
that trips me up. Pretty unbelievable.
“It smells good as fuck in he—” the last syllable melts on
his tongue as he comes around the corner and finds me
trying on my tuxedo for tomorrow.
I’d picked it up as my last stop of the day, and now that
dinner was done, I’d decided to see if the thing actually fit.
I’d had plenty of alterations made to accommodate my
expanding frame. The last time I wore this suit, I’d only just
really started lifting.
I turn to see Dave gripping the doorway, his mouth open,
eyes smoldering as they roam over me. His whole off-duty
deputy thing always fucking gets me hard, but seeing him
openly be intoxicated with me is a narcissistic drug I’m
hooked on. No shame.
“I’ve never seen you in a suit,” he says, his voice
adorably dry and low. His Adam’s apple slides below his
collar with a single swallow that heats my skin.
 “It’s a tux,” I reply, turning to face him as I finish the
buttons. “Without the stupid ass bowtie.”
He twirls his finger in the air, indicating for me to turn. I
roll my eyes while cocking my head, but he spins his finger
at me again.
I turn once, and when I’m back to facing the doorframe,
I see him coming at me with a handsome, evil grin on his
face. My favorite kind of smile.
In a moment, his lips are sealed to mine, his palms
gripping my beard as he growls hungrily into the kiss.
“Fuck,” he says amidst the hysterical kissing. “I’m so
fucking hard for you right now,” he says again, biting into
my bottom lip. He grinds his hips against me, but I grab
them, forcing him to still.
“This all from the tux?” I ask with a little chuckle, letting
him walk us to the wall where I spin us around, pinning him
back.
His eyes are hazy, and they stay on my lips as he nods.
“Yeah?” I ask, forcing huskiness in my tone. I want him,
too, because he’s a fucking romance novel cover in the
flesh. But I also don’t want him choosing sex over telling
me shit, either.
“Dave,” I put my hand on his throat and slowly tighten
my grip. His dirty little eyes roll back in his head, so I pinch
his nipple through his shirt. “Hey,” I say. Letting his nipple
go, I cup his rock-hard cock over his jeans, then give it a
squeeze. He lengthens his spine to the wall and opens his
eyes.
“How did it go at work, darling,” I grit out slowly, loving
how wild his pulse feels under my thumb. He smiles lazily
as he thrusts his hips towards me. Our hard cocks connect,
and it electrifies my bones. All of me thrums for him.
And he fucking knows it.
“Wilkerson’s wife’s brother is gay,” he says with a small
shrug. “It went good. They were… good.”
 I exhale from relief. Dave will hit the asshole wall at
some point. I know he will. I still do from time to time. But
I’m so fucking glad that he didn’t hit it as soon as he came
out.
I want to ask him about the update on talking to his
parents, but I don’t. I got a small victory just now. It went
well, and he told me. I had to pull it out of him, but still, we
won. No need to muddy it with stressful questions.
Anyway, he promised me he’d do it by Christmas. And
that is still a week away.
They don’t go to the Gala, so Dave must feel confident
he would get to them himself before the news did. I don’t
concern myself with those details. I leave it up to him.
“Now shut up and let me fuck you,” he says, spinning us
around quickly. Using his foot to hold back my ankle, he
pins my wrist to my back then my cheek connects with the
wall.
He grinds his cock against my ass, and though he’s
wearing jeans and I have on dress pants, I can feel him,
loud and clear.
“You look so fucking good,” he growls into my ear from
behind.
I’m used to this Dave as much as I am the Dave who
wants to be grabbed and fucked.
I bottomed for this Dave for many years.
The one that likes control and domination, likes
watching me spray on my belly while he floods me with
himself. The one who slams his forehead to mine and
breathes heavy and hot against my lips when he comes.
This feral, alpha version of him. One of the many sides of
him I love.
He reaches around me and works at my belt. That’s
when I stop him.
“You can’t fuck me in this suit right now; you realize
that, right?” I say with a laugh, loving his growl of
frustration in return.
 “Babe, I have to wear this tomorrow. Do you really want
me wearing a load-covered tux for the first event that
you’re out at?” I chuckle as I turn under his caged arms to
face him.
He sticks his bottom lip out in a pout, his perfectly
shaped nose in a crinkle.
“Tomorrow night,” I say, kissing him. “You can molest
the hell out of me in this.”
His displeasure turns back to a wicked grin. “I plan to.”
Then, because grown men still have the libido of horny
teenagers, we’re naked in a matter of one minute. Dave
shoves me down over the couch. His hands smooth over my
ass, thumbs spreading me. I feel his tongue over my
backside before I feel his lips. But then he kisses his way
inward until his mouth meets my hole.
With each pass he makes around me, I groan. I used to
get myself ready for him with lube and my fingers, and now
he rims me while he strokes himself like if he doesn’t, he’ll
die.
I fucking love this man.
He adds a finger, then two.
He alternates between the pad of his tongue in languid
strokes and his digits in deep thrusts. After I warn him that
I’m leaking onto the couch, he rises to his feet behind me.
One hard swat across my bare ass has me eagerly rocking
back, desperate for his cock.
He smooths his hand through the split of my ass and
drives the tip of his finger inside of me. From behind, he
reaches around me and pumps my steely dick. Pre-come
pools on the head, which he swipes with his thumb. I hear
him suck it clean after he commands me to get on my back
on the floor.
This is why a good rug pad is important. So my man
doesn’t blow his knees out, stuffing me with his dick.
I obey, and once I’m on my back, I see him lick the rest
of me from his thumb before he falls to his knees. Holding
himself over me on his elbows, he leans down and takes my
mouth with his.
His moans are soft yet rough. When he reaches between
us to stroke our cocks together, I growl into his mouth
because he is so hard and hot, and holy shit, it feels so
fucking good.
He smiles against me, still pumping his big hand up and
down our rigid cocks. We’re slick with arousal. His cock
sizzles against mine.
Now he only pumps me as he pushes himself forward
inside me. My body strains to accept him at first until he
shifts his hips, hitting my p-spot, causing me to spread my
knees further.
In a careful and controlled manner, he continues easing
his erection inside of me. I smooth my palms up his
ribcage, letting out my breath as the sides of my face grow
warm and tingly.
He nudges his blonde hair into my beard, tilting my chin
to the ceiling. His tongue moves up my throat, and I lift my
hips in reaction.
He’s been holding still inside me while he kisses my
neck and sucks the lobe of my ear into his mouth. His warm
tongue roams over my stubbled skin as my cock thrums and
throbs in his grip.
“Fuck me,” I groan against his lips as he comes up for a
kiss.
My eyes are closed, but I feel his full lips curl into a
smile against my mouth.
Then he’s leaning his body on one elbow as to free up a
hand. He roams it over my heaving chest before stopping at
my nipple. Rolling it between his thick fingers, he pulls and
pinches.
“Dave, I’m not fucking kidding,” I grit out. His fingers on
my nipples nearly cause me to go blind; it feels so good.
When he sucks one into his mouth, I tip my head back and
chant to him.
 “Dave, Dave,” I hiss out as his teeth sink into the lotus
flower tattoo that rounds my nipple. “Don’t make me come
like this,” I say, my voice gravelly and desperate. He knows
I want him bad enough that I’ll blow all over myself without
him even having to move.
The only man to work magic like that.
“Alright, alright,” he taunts in a dark, playful voice. Arms
caging me to the ground, he takes my mouth as he saws his
hips between mine. He starts slow, but within a minute,
he’s found a rhythm that makes my spine curl.
I wind my fingers into the shaggy rug, twisting the
threads around my fingers. I fight the urge to shut my eyes.
Looking up into his blues, I admire how even sweaty with
hair in his face, Dave is still sexy as hell.
With one hand, I reach down between us and find my
cock. I begin to stroke myself slowly—an attempt to
alleviate the pressure building deep in my stomach.
Everything feels hot and tight, and it’s a phenomenal
feeling I’m well acquainted with. Then he leans down and
bites into the sweaty skin of my neck.
“Don’t touch yourself,” he says, his tone taking a
commanding turn.
I don’t need my hand, and he knows it. I just wanted to
relieve this slow-burning fucking torture. I want to come.
His eyes idle on mine as he rolls his hips against me,
filling me completely with his length. And then, instead of
hammering away, he pulses his groin against mine. His lips
rest on my cheek as he groans down to me.
“I fucking love making you come.”
My eyes flutter shut as my thoughts go white-hot. I
imagine what it must look like, Dave’s trim and muscled
body fused to mine, his narrowed adonis belt grinding into
my spread thighs. Fuck, just the idea of it makes my sac
flood with the urgent need to release.
“Come for me, baby,” he coaxes, moving his lips through
my beard until they’re on my mouth again. “Show me how
good I feel.”
His tongue sweeps between my lips as he moves his hips
with energy, fucking me in perfectly punctuated strokes.
“Fuuuck,” I draw out, lifting my head to peer down
between us.
I watch his cock disappear inside me before relaxing
against the soft rug again. “Shit,” I groan, feeling the
undeniable ache moving down my body, settling in my
groin. “I’m close.”
He kisses me again then holds his face directly above
mine as his lower half pulls and pushes in sync with mine.
He fills me over and over; the once painful sting of
fullness now feels too fucking good. My face goes numb as
my pulse races; Dave’s erotic coaxes become muffled with
my heartbeat.
His cheek is pressed to mine, his lips grazing the top of
my beard as the pressure inside me releases. His body
stills, and I feel his soft blonde hair tickle my nose as he
looks down between our bodies.
“That’s it,” he urges. “Come all over yourself.”
With his smokey voice in my ear and his hard cock
lodged to my prostate, I succumb. He growls as ribbon
after ribbon of come streaks my belly and chest, one over-
achieving shot making it up to my shoulder.
I’d given prostate orgasms to bottoms, but I’d never
bottomed myself before Dave. Thought of myself as vers
because I wasn’t averse to it. I just never found a man who
I’d really wanted to do that with. Who I wanted to be that
vulnerable for.
And now, when he fucks me in missionary, I find myself
trying not to come immediately. The shit he says to me
when we’re naked together, how his fingers touch me with
the intensity of first-time discovery every single time, the
breadth of his cock—it’s hard to keep composure.
The last of my orgasm dribbles out onto my groin as I
choke out a breath. Then I feel the pulse inside me, the
heat spreading through my lower half. Dave’s forehead
thuds down to mine as his fingers move through the sticky
release that coats my core.
He comes harder as he fans his fingers through the
mess, groaning and throbbing as he releases his own
orgasm inside of me.
I’ve never had a man love me this way. Come from
watching me come. Come harder from touching my come. I
thought his heightened sexual state was due to years of
repression, but as the years bleed together, I know it’s
Dave’s reaction to me. That I drive him wild.
To find a person that feels for you what you feel for
them. Fuck. The sex is—
“That was intense,” he pants, emptying me as he sits up
between my spread legs. He reaches for the towel that lies
dormant on the living room floor. He works gently to clean
me up.
Tossing the towel into the laundry room, he flops down
on his back next to me. Immediately, he fishes around
between us until he finds my hand, then laces our fingers
together.
“We got invited to dinner at Wilkerson’s house,” he says,
bringing our joined hands to his chest. His heart pumps
quickly.
“Yeah?” I croak out, still floating down from the high of
sex with the man I love.
“Mmmhmm,” he says lazily. “Could be fun.”
He wants to go. Holy shit.
I figured we’d start doing stuff with my family, branch
out to the club here and there and trickle out to the
mainstream slowly. But he wants to have a dinner date with
a coworker already. Shit. That… Well, frankly, it surprises
me.
I don’t respond. I guess part of me fears being hopeful
and excited. Even still. I don’t know why.
 He came out to the department. If that isn’t a testament
to us, I don’t know what is. His parents are left to tell, but
work is almost more important. He deals with them daily.
So why the fuck am I lying here, sated but still somewhat
unsure?
“Dinner’s ready,” I say finally. “It’s warming in the oven.
I’m gonna take a shower real quick.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to ask to join me or
rather, just follow me in. Because he sits up in the living
room as I do, but he remains motionless as I pace to the
bathroom in the hall and start the shower.
By the time I’m in and under the water, I know he’s in
the kitchen because the low hum of the range hood goes
off.
The shower is meant to get my head straight.
Everything he’s done has been so we can live together in
the open, which is exactly what I wanted for us.
He’s given me no reason to still wonder, to worry that
he’ll panic, but still, I can’t ignore that fucking ember in my
gut that burns low… what if, what if, what if.
I remind myself for the millionth time in the last thirty
minutes that he came out to the Sheriff’s Department. And
I force myself to swallow that fact, so it sits atop the
questions still haunting me.
We’re going to the fucking Gala tomorrow. Stop
worrying and enjoy the happiness you have. Enjoy the
change. Enjoy your fucking life.
I slip into some gray sweats then towel my hair, deciding
that’s the extent of getting ready for dinner. If it’s just my
man and me tonight, no boxer briefs and no shirt will work
in my favor.
I come out of the hall to see Dave has plated up all the
food I made, poured us water, and opened some beers.
SportsCenter is a low hum in the background, and the
lights in the living room and kitchen are noticeably dim.
He’s shirtless, every striation of muscle on display as he
leans over the counter to turn off the sink.
He washed all the dishes while I showered, just waiting
for me so we could eat together. Could sound dumb, but
shit, the simple stuff means everything these days. Living
together is new, but the care he takes around the house is
another way he shows me his love.
“I would’ve cleaned those up,” I offer, running my hands
around his waist when we meet near the table. I take his
chin with my thumb and forefinger and explore his mouth
in a wide, wet kiss. Our bodies are pressed together, and I
feel his cock twitch against me. The kiss breaks with a roar
of laughter.
“Gotta eat before we get to that,” I say, cupping his
semi-hard cock through his pants. Looking down, I take in
his state and look back up to him.
“These are my sweats,” I say with a smile in my tone.
He shrugs and settles into a chair. “I need to do
laundry.”
Dave and I had done a pretty good job of getting most of
what he needed from his house last week. But he hadn’t
established a routine at this house yet. A lot had been going
on.
“That’s one of the many benefits of being in a same-sex
relationship,” I say, settling in across from him. I drape a
napkin on my lap and pick up my steak knife. “Right?”
He studies my face with his bright eyes before giving me
a single wink. “Right.”
“Why are you giving me that look?” I ask, slicing the
knife through the meat. It goes through easy, soft like
butter. The smell of grilled steak and seasonings makes my
bottom lip tingle. I was hungry before the impromptu sex;
now I’m starving.
He passes me the unlidded horseradish, and I scoop
some out.
 “Just thinking about you in that fucking tux,” he says
before he pushes a piece of tender meat past his lips. He
chews and moans, his eyes fluttering closed to savor the
bite. Men love to eat; that’s no secret. But Dave has always
loved my cooking. Ever since the night of the dishwasher.
It makes me hard to hear him react to my food. I’m filled
with pride and… more.
“Quit making those sounds, Dave, or we won’t be eating
steak for long.”
He freezes mid-bite, and his eyebrows dance up and
down.
“Oh no?” he asks before chewing the meat from the
tines. He swallows, I hear it, and my cock thickens. “And
what else is on the menu?”
My knees spread apart under the table. “How about
this? How about you eat that steak and potato and
broccolini I made you because it’s your favorite meal. Then
after you’re done, you can have your second favorite meal.”
He swallows then loads the tines of his fork with potato,
steak, and broccoli. I watch him munch the ambitious bite,
and I chuckle.
“Eager?” I asked.
He winks. Through a full mouth he says, “always.”

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTEEN

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
“OH SHIT, OH SHIT,” I grumble, blinking the textured white
ceiling into view. Sun drips in through the plantation
shutters, and outside, alive is the stir of the morning
commutes.
My head swirls with darkness and weight as I struggle
to keep my eyes open. My lower half strains up from the
bed, chasing the erotic high that radiates from my dick.
Finally, I raise my head to look down.
The white down comforter bobs between my legs in a
head-shaped lump. I lift it to see a shadowed and naked
Dave between my legs, my hardened cock slipping between
his lips.
I reach down with both hands and fill my grasp with his
hair. Fuck, if living with him is like this, I’m going to be
fucking pissed we didn’t do it sooner.
He’ll have to owe me.
His mouth forms a tight ring around me as he sucks
down my cock. I hit the back of his throat and feel him
work to keep me there. His rough hand cups my sac and
tugs it softly, making my cock swell inside his throat.
“Oh fuck,” I groan, letting my head fall back to the
pillow.
My neck burns. My spine throbs. I can’t do anything but
pull at his silky hair and thrust my hips towards his scruffy
jaw. I ride his face like that, with him between my thighs,
until I can’t take it a moment longer.
“Oh baby, I’m going to come,” I warn, his tongue tracing
the crown of me. Looking at him in uniform, you’d never
know that dominant man of the law could give such
phenomenal blowjobs.
But he does.
 He groans as he deepthroats me, the vibration of his
voice sending me over the edge. I tumble off a cliff into a
deep ravine of orgasmic pleasure.
My entire body tumbles down into darkness as I pulse
and throb, releasing myself into him. He doesn’t swallow
right away, and when he pulls the comforter down to
expose himself after, I think he’s going to get up and spit.
But he holds my eyes, his hand wrapped around his own
cock, and he strokes once as he swallows. His lips fall
apart, and I can see the pink pad of his tongue.
It isn’t the first time he’s swallowed but seeing him do it
—while he touches himself—goddamn. Hot as fuck. I am
one lucky man.
“Good morning to you too,” I say, reaching for him. He
lets me pull him down, and I flip him to his side, spooning
behind him.
“Gala tonight,” he says right away, his tone… a bit
nervous.
I pull him back against my chest and tighten my hold on
him. Kissing the back of his neck then the top of his
shoulder, I do the only thing I know to do.
“I love you, Dave, and it’s okay to be a little freaked. But
it’s going to be fine. Stay the course.”
“Stay the course,” he repeats in a tone that immediately
sends a flare of worry to my brain. I don’t want to irritate
him today. Today is a big deal. I mean, yeah, people who
know me don’t know I’m with Dave, so in a way, it’s coming
out for me of sorts, too. But not the major way that it is for
him.
And I need to remember what that means.
I let one of my hands smooth down his chiseled belly to
find his cock. It rests hard against his core, even when he’s
lying on his side like this. I groan into him as I move my
thumb over the peak, finding it slick. I pump him a few
times. His demeanor softens against me.
 “Then tomorrow morning, I’ll wake you up with a blow
job,” I say, twisting my wrist to add a gentle and torturous
torque on him.
“We workout. We go by the butcher downtown and grab
some steaks. Maybe string the lights on the fence, do some
yard work.” I kiss the back of his ear as I stop pumping
him. I move my hand to the base of his cock and hold him
tight.
He moans out a deep and gratifying noise.
“Normal day. Normal couple living together in our
house,” I say, resuming my slow strokes of his cock through
my fist.
“And then one day, we have rings on. So no asshole out
there needs to wonder if you’re available. So the world
recognizes our commitment. So I can say this ass is
officially mine.”
I grind my hips into his ass and cup his balls.
“You want this ass to be mine, don’t you?” I growl down
into his ear, starting to pump him again.
Edging is torture to Dave. I can take the teasing better
than he can but once I start giving then pulling back like
this, he starts to unravel.
Right on cue, he groans. “Fucking jerk me, Grant, now.”
He calls me Grant when he’s grouchy-horny, with
nothing but coming on his brain. I chuckle, dragging my
beard across his shoulder.
“Let me finish my story, okay?” I swipe my thumb over
his slit and find him to be leaking. A ton.
“Fuck, you’re horny this morning,” I comment,
impressed.
“I’m just thinking about you in that tux,” he says
hoarsely, moving his hips to find friction with my fist. “I’m
honestly worried I’m going to go off in my fucking tux just
looking at you in yours.”
That gets him more pumps, and the bastard knew it
would. But I press on.
 “Once we’re a legal couple, we can have our own
family.”
He falls silent, and I wonder if I’ve gone to a place that
he isn’t ready to go. But he’s so fucking hard in my hand
and leaking like a fucking broken faucet. It may be a lot,
but I’m ready to move forward. He has to know it.
“I want to fuck you every time I see you,” I say, moving
my fist up and down his length a bit quicker. “But once
you’re a hot dad with a ring on your finger,” I exhale at the
back of his ear. He moans through a closed mouth, and I
move my fist even quicker, feeling his body tense pre-
explosion.
“I’ll be glued to your dick, baby; just wait.”
His first shot hits his chest then falls to the sheets. I
stroke him as he comes explosively up his own body, shot
after shot as he groans and moans. His expressive, deep,
genuine orgasms are so fucking hot; I can feel myself grow
hard behind him.
“That’s it,” I tell him, stroking the last bit of it out of
him. “Give it all up.”
When I’m sure he’s done, and his body does the tell-tale
twitch of finality, I move my hand through the sticky blonde
hair on his chest. I kiss the back of his jaw.
“I love your sexy ass. You know that?”
He snorts. “My actual ass or me?”
“I meant you, but I think you know I love both,” I reply,
swatting his bare ass before I get out of bed. I get him a
towel and pull him to his feet as I clean him up. When he
heads to the shower, and I don’t follow, he leans against the
doorway in a slump.
“Not gonna join me?” he says.
I pull the fitted bottom sheet from the mattress. “Gonna
start the laundry and make some breakfast. If I get in that
shower with you, we won’t get anything done today.”
He shoves a solid hand through his aggravated blonde
hair. “True.”
W hen D ave comes into the kitchen in a black button - up
and blue jeans, I give him a raised eyebrow.
“I’ve got some shit to take care of today,” he says as if
reading my questioning gaze. “But I tried on my tux, and I
need to take it in for an adjustment. So,” he lifts his hand,
where a silver ring is looped over his fingers. The garment
bag dangles, unzipped. “Add that to the list of shit I have to
do.”
I nod, plating up an egg-white omelet with his favorite
veggies. The toaster jumps, and I pull out two slices of
wheat bread. He thanks me for the meal before, during,
and after he eats. When he leaves, we kiss. The morning
has been fucking wonderful.
I watch him from the window as he backs his truck from
the garage, the garment bag hanging from the seat hook
behind him. He shoves his hand through his hair as he
waits for the garage door to fully close. It does, and yet he
remains there, pickup idling in front of the closed door.
His gaze is a thousand yards away, his face etched with
so many things. All things I don’t want to see.
Fear. Nerves. Fatigue.
As if I’ve witnessed a murder, I turn my back to the sink
and heave out a deep breath. My head feels light, so I take
my plate and catch a seat at the table.
Too much sex, too little food. I just need to eat and chill
out. Today’s a big day for him, and I love him. It’s normal to
feel nervous. Maybe he just had a private moment of fear.
That’s all it was.
He won’t change his mind.
It would be way too fucking cruel.
“H ey sweetheart , how are you ?” I say to A nna , who pops
into End of the Trail around three in the afternoon.
“Hey Mars,” she says, placing a kiss on my cheek. A
minute later, Maverick comes through the door, his hand on
the back of his neck.
“What’s up?” I nod at him. He leans over the table he
helped craft and turns to a puddle.
“He’s sick,” she says, “so no Gala for us tonight.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” I say to her, knowing how women
love getting dressed up for shit like this. I turn to him and
push a pencil into his reddened cheek. “Get off the desk. I
don’t want to get sick.”
“Real loving,” he groans, peeling himself from the
surface.
“Well, I have Dave’s cufflinks for some reason.” She
fishes her hand into her pocket and produces a pair of
cufflinks, shaped in the traditional six-pointed star familiar
to most Sheriff’s. “I know he’s out at his parents’ house this
afternoon, but I didn’t feel like driving all the way out
there. End of the Trail is closer.” She runs her hand over
Maverick’s back. “We’re heading to the drug store for some
Tylenol,” she says, doting on Mav.
But my thoughts lock up at that moment, realizing what
she’s just said.
Dave’s at his parents’ house this afternoon. I’m
embarrassed not to know where my own boyfriend is at on
his limited days off, so I play along.
“Right, well, thanks. Get that baby home,” I nod to Mav
and throw her a wink.
“Oh, I will. And don’t forget to take some selfies
together tonight and text me,” she says, clapping her hands
together with a little squeal.
“Will do,” I assure her, knowing that there is no way in
hell I’m not getting photos with Dave now.
We’re out, and he’s hot as fuck. We will be taking
photos.
 I don’t want to forget tonight.
After she and Maverick leave, I decide to text him and
channel my disappointment in him not telling me he was
going out to his parents’ today into something positive.
Marshall: Looking forward to tonight. When are we
leaving?
He responds but it takes well over an hour, which does
nothing for the nerves and fears I’ve been trying to digest
for weeks.
Dave: Picking up my tux at six, I’ll dress there, grab you
at 6:30? The thing starts at 7:30, but I’m supposed to be
there early.
Marshall: I’ll be ready at 6:30.
Dave: 823
Marshall: 143
My heart warmed some at his use of pager code, the
numeric form of communication we’d used for years to say
the big stuff without saying the big stuff. He says he’s
thinking of me, and now that I know where he is, I remind
him. 143.
I love you.
He doesn’t text again, but that’s okay.
The rest of the day goes by slow, as I’m painfully
anticipating tonight.
I’m excited. I’m looking forward to seeing Dave in a tux
again. I go to the Gala every year, but I typically wear nice
jeans and a dress shirt, never the full-on tux that many men
wear. Every year I’d attended that we were together, and
we spent the entire night pretending to be strangers, it
upset me. And every year, he made it up to me after,
blowing me in that suit once we were back at my house.
Tonight, we’d finally be able to be together in the town
we both love. The excitement began to overtake the nerves
when I thought of it like that. We can finally be happy and
fuck whoever has problems with it. We’re happy, and we
don’t have to hide.
 I rush through dinner and take a long shower, making
sure my body is perfectly groomed. Women complain they
have to shave their legs. Shit, I don’t shave my legs, but I
have to meticulously trim every part of my body, taking
extra care around my face and dick.
That’s a lot of maintenance. When I’m done, I clean up
the edge of my beard and brush my teeth, leaving my hair
for last.
I style it the way I always do, giving it a smashed
palmful of product. The beard gets a swipe of it, too. After I
get in the tux and put on cologne, I text Anna a selfie from
the bathroom. She writes back three flame emojis and then
the eggplant emoji with the three water drops next to it.
Anna: That’s Dave looking at you.
I smile stupidly at the phone because she doesn’t know
how accurate that really is.
Marshall: Thanks
Anna: Show me Dave
I look at the clock at the top of the screen on my phone.
6:24 pm.
Marshall: He’s picking me up at 6:30. Getting his tux
right now.
Anna sends the eye-roll emoji.
Anna: Nothing like waiting until the last minute. Okay,
well, send me pics when you can. Love you both. Have fun.
Marshall: Same. Hope Mav feels better. Tell him to stop
being a pussy.
Anna: HA. Will do. XO.
I’ve never had to wait for Dave before. When he says
he’s going to be somewhere, he’s there, with time to spare
usually. And we texted not long ago, and he’s not working.
So I know he’s safe and okay.
He also went to see his parents’ and didn’t tell me.
Sweat breaks out across my forehead as I imagine all of
the things that could’ve transpired today.
Hate.
 Hatred from people you love can be a powerful thing to
stand up to. A hard battle to fight. Accepting and loving
someone your whole life only to find out that they can’t do
the same for you.
It can be terrifying.
But I’d be here for him. I’d always shown him that,
hadn’t I? That if anyone got it and would support him the
way partners do that it would be me. He knew we could get
through it together.
Or at least I thought he did.
Or maybe I just wasn’t enough. In the end, the hatred,
the asshole wall, it won the fight. I don’t know. I don’t want
to think that the man I love would lose sight of things in
that way, but as I read the time across my watch—now
7:14pm—I realize that he very well may have.
Just when I thought I was going to either murder
someone or vomit my grilled chicken salad all over the
asphalt, my phone vibed in my pocket, causing my heart to
skitter.
“Fuck,” I said, stumbling with it as my nerves shot off
inside of me like bad fucking fireworks.
Delilah’s name appeared on the screen.
“What’s up?” I croaked, finding it hard to find my voice.
“I thought you were going to that thing tonight with
Dave? The party downtown?” Delilah asked, popping her
gum in a way that grated my frayed nerves. Irritated and
hot, tugging at the neckline of my dress shirt, I snapped at
her.
“The Gala, Delilah. The annual Gala. You know what it
is.” I immediately felt like a prick, but she spoke again
quickly before I could huff out an apology.
“I just saw Dave out front of the Sheriff’s Department.”
The thing about small towns is that they’re actually
small. Everything is next to everything. And with all the
streets connecting, Delilah drives by the Sheriff’s
Department to get to her soon-to-be in-law’s house on the
other side of town. Also known as the East end of that very
same street.
“You taking Max to his grandparents’ house?” I ask,
diverting away from this knowledge that Dave is at work.
Off-duty but at work. Knowing he’s forty-five minutes late
to pick me up for a very fucking important date.
In reality, to us, this is the only date that really matters.
Sharing with work, attending together, it shows he’s
serious.
But now I know he’s seen his father. The faggot-hating
closed-minded man from another era.
But he’s the same man that also showed Dave a loving
hand as a father in many other facets of life. Which hugely
complicates how he digests his feelings for his father. I get
that.
But to choose that complicated relationship over one so
pure and genuine? I just, I can’t understand that.
I can’t be the second choice to fear.
My heart plummets.
And after it falls, the distance is too great to recover
from. The pain of his choice burns through my veins,
scorching my chest, putting fire in my lungs. I breathe out,
I think, a few rough rasps and choked coughs.
“I gotta go,” I say, controlling the roll tide of emotion
that ripples through my voice.
“Huh? Oh. Okay, well, goodnight.” Delilah stumbles
through her goodbye with confusion.
I couldn’t talk a moment longer.
He’s not fucking coming.
I can’t be on the receiving end of this anymore.
I wanted to believe in those goddamn changes. I know
his heart is with mine. But it’s not enough. I need him fully
with me, and I’m so fucking mad for thinking that he was.
I should’ve known.
He didn’t talk to me about how things were going with
his parents. I was trying to be cool. Not fucking hassle him
like perhaps a woman might.
But how did that turn out? He hid it from me, or at least
wanted to.
My mind is spinning, my stomach is sick, so I do the only
thing I know to do when I can’t get my bearings. I hop on
my bike and feel it roar beneath me.
I ride and let the vibrations that seep into me soothe me.
I let it tingle over my body and work to calm my nerves.
I start driving, the world seemingly shifting underneath
me. My grip squeaks against the handlebars of my bike as I
lean into the damp air.
The storm is rolling in. As the first drop spatters against
my helmet, I see Delilah drive past. I shove her and
everything else from my mind as I head toward the one
spot that gives me clarity and peace.
The spot I share with him…
So I can say goodbye to him.

OceanofPDF.com
SEVENTEEN

OceanofPDF.com
INGRAM
I DON’T ENJOY LYING.
In fact, I make a living off knowing when I’m being lied
to. Therefore, I know how shitty it feels when someone tells
a lie to you.
But I consider this lie to be sparing.
I tell Marshall I’m picking up my tux at six, on my way to
get him, but at four o’clock, I’m dressed and ready. I pay
the tailor and thank him for a job well done. Smoothing my
hair in the mirror, I pull out into traffic, headed to the other
side of town.
I told Marshall—I promised him—I’d come out to my
parents by Christmas. But now that I’d come out to the
department, I feel it’s best to tell them sooner than later.
We have the gala tonight. If I show up in a suit, he won’t
take a swing at me.
I nearly get sick at the idea that my own father would
swing at me.
I love him. He taught me how to play ball and find stars
in the telescope and build shit. But I love Marshall, and no
amount of Catholic guilt could keep me from being gay.
Not anymore, at least.
His bigotry and hatred would either become more or
less important than his only child, and we were all about to
find out.

I bring the paper in off the bottom step of the porch as I

make my way up. The screen is closed, but the front door is
open. Light drifts across the wood in melting crescents of
yellow, and dust particles bask in it.
 I knock on the doorframe and announce myself as I
usually do.
“Mom, Dad, it’s me.” This time, my voice sounds
different. Flat but loud. I clear my throat as I pad down the
hall, willing normality into my tone.
Dad gives me a nod from his recliner before putting his
eyes back onto the football game that glows from the
television.
“Hi, son,” my mother says, smiling sweetly at me as she
enters the room with a TV tray full of food for my father.
Everything fried, nothing green. I wince as he takes a bite
and washes it down with beer. I’ll save the battle of health
for another day.
“Have fun at that party tonight,” mom says, smoothing
her hand down my lapel before she sinks into her own
matching recliner.
What a pair they are. Her blonde hair matches mine but
sits in a curly heap on her head. I love her, but she isn’t one
to take the lead in their dynamic, so I fear his opinion will
become hers.
That’s on her.
I swallow thickly.
“Yeah, uh, I will. Listen, mom, dad, can you uh, turn off
the game for a minute?”
Dad shifts uncomfortably, a familiar wince on his face.
His knee must still be hurting him. But I don’t ask about it
now because I’m here. I’m fucking doing this.
“Turn the sound off,” dad says to mom.
She points the remote at the tv, pushing button after
button until finally, the sound goes off. He only slightly
turns towards me, mom doing the same. Both of their eyes
move between me and football.
“I’m gay.”
The words fall out, heavy like cement. When they crash
to the floor—and fuck do they ever—my parents’ eyes
bound up to mine, the tv now nothing more than an
afterthought.
“What?” mom says as if I’ve just told her I’m a terrorist.
“No, you and Anna—”
“Anna has always been just a friend,” I correct quickly,
having anticipated that answer.
“No,” mom argues as if her staunch disapproval of the
facts will rewrite my entire past relationship and sexuality.
“Yes,” I say, nod my head. “Just friends.”
Dad blinks. Mom’s mouth wobbles open and closed. My
heart is fucking slamming up against my ribs in such an
aggressive way that I have to take a steadying breath, even
in front of my parents.
I don’t want them to see my nerves, but I think I could
pass out if I don’t take a goddamn second. I push my hands
down my thighs, resting on my knees. The old dining room
chair feels particularly uncomfortable at the moment. Like
it’s made of freshly sharpened knives, poking points of pain
into me from everywhere.
I look at my mother, giving her another opportunity to
speak but her mouth finally closes. I look back to dad.
“So you like to have sex with men, huh?” he says, his
voice so flat and even that it creates a flurry of emotion
inside of me.
Sick that his tone could go so cold so easily.
Angry that he could say such a crass thing to his son.
Sad that he could really see things that way. That who I
love matters more to him than if I’m actually happy.
“Don’t—” my mom starts, her interception soft and easy
to plow through.
“No, I’ll say what I please,” my father continues, his
eyes narrowing on me in disgust. “You use your badge to
get men to do things with you, is that it?”
Whatever sadness I had inside of me evaporated the
moment he spoke those words.
 Whether he said them out of anger or confusion, I really
don’t give a fuck. My job has been and is everything. I’ve
given it my all and kept a very fucking important part of
myself a secret because I thought it was better for the job.
To call my working integrity into question is worse than
calling me a faggot.
“You’re disgusting,” I say, rising from the padded metal
chair. That’s the point I should have turned away. I should
have walked out and never looked back.
Should have got in my truck and went to pick up my
handsome, sexy, motorcycle-riding boyfriend.
But I snapped.
Years of doing things to please him, years of conforming
within a small town’s limitations, years of pretending and
suppressing… I couldn’t do it anymore. Not to Marshall or
myself.
“You can think whatever small-minded bullshit you want
about me being gay; I really, I honestly don’t even know
what to think about that. But still, do it. Think it. Call me a
faggot. But don’t you dare insinuate that I’d use my hard-
earned position in the town to any ends of my own.”
What I want to say is that I have a fucking rough and
tumble boyfriend with a huge dick that loves to suck me
silly that makes me come in my pants half the time just
from the way he fucking talks to me. I don’t need to flash a
badge for anything. I have the best man already.
“Maybe that’s how you got the job,” my father says, and
fuck if it doesn’t hurt. It hurts because I’m so fucking
stupid that I never expected him to do this. Get this dirty,
fight this cruel. A fist would hurt less.
Inside of him somewhere is a man I used to love. But
now I wonder, did that man only exist if his son was
straight? With a gay son, is this the man my father is?
“Maybe when you were under-sheriff you were getting
under the real sheriff.” He locks his fingers together and
rests them on his belly; elbows dug into the arms of his
precious recliner.
A half-smile pulls at my lips. Heat blurs my vision, but I
swallow hard, my voice defying the lump in my throat
attempting to prevent me from speaking.
“I love you Dad,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek to
cause a sting to detract from how desperately my lip begs
to quiver. Don’t fucking cry. Don’t fucking cry. This is not
the man you cry in front of.
I turn to face my mother, who has gone white as a ghost.
Yet, she is silent, and her silence speaks volumes.
“I love you, Mom.”
I push to my feet, and I stop dead in my tracks when I
hear the loud shuddering of a closing recliner footrest.
When I turn, Dad is steadying himself on the back of his
chair.
I got my height from him but now, face to face this way,
he seems so small.
Tiny, really.
“You think Oakcreek wants their Sheriff to be a flamer?”
he lifts his brows like he’s actually concerned about this,
but I see the anger burning in his eyes. My gayness is a
personal affront to him.
I shake my head with a chuckle. “Nobody says flamer,
Dad.”
I’m not even mad. I’m just… tired.
This is what I expected; this is what he delivered. And
yet, stupidly, I held out hope for more. I don’t know why.
You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I just wished that his
trick wasn’t hate.
“I won’t have a gay son,” my father says. He pushes one
finger into my chest, and it nearly makes me laugh. As if I
had a choice, I’d choose him. I don’t have a choice but still,
I wouldn’t choose faking over love.
“You should love me no matter what,” I say, my voice
shaking more than I want it to.
 “I don’t love faggots.”
I step into him, my voice finding strength in my hurt.
Rage adding a healthy dose of steroids to it.
“I’m a faggot, dad. Do you love me?” My eyes are
burning as the sour words fall past my lips. This is why I’ve
waited so long to do this. But the silence lingers between
us; I wish now that I would have done this years ago.
Because harboring fear and hate into your child to
suppress who they’re meant to be is wrong. And he doesn’t
deserve to win.
I shake my head. “I’m sad for you,” I say, an inevitable
tear breaking free. I push the back of my wrist to my cheek
to get rid of the evidence. Mom reaches out and wraps her
fingers around my wrist, opposite hand. I look at her.
“Just, come sit with me for a minute, okay? Okay, son?”
she begs, her blue eyes welling with fresh tears. I look back
to my father, who snorts with disdain and simply sinks back
into his recliner, his eyes back on the tv.
I don’t know why but I follow my mother to the table. I
glance at my phone. Fuck. It’s already six-fifteen. My time
is limited now.
She settles in at the table and offers me nothing, which
I’m grateful for because I just want to leave.
“Give him time,” she says, keeping her volume private.
I don’t need to talk about him, least of all with her. I love
my mom, but she’s a traditional fifties housewife yes-man
through and through.
“What about you?” I ask, leaning back into the chair.
She opens her mouth to speak, but her eyes go wide,
and her mouth falls open. I turn to see my father behind
me, limping his way to the kitchen.
With a fucking shotgun.
Jumping to my feet, I show him my palms, my heart rate
sky-rocketing. He’s emotional and angry, yes, but I also he’s
on a ton of steroids for his knee replacement surgery. He
isn’t himself.
 Or fuck. I don’t know. Is this really him? Have I been
blind my entire life?
Like one domino pushing against the next, my gut
instincts take over, clicking into place in a sequence. I grab
the barrel of the gun and yank it my way, breaking him free
of his grip right at the hand. He’s weak and smaller than
me, so it works instantly.
But it angers him.
And his anger angers me.
“You let a faggot take your gun,” I hear the words come
out of my mouth. I’m using the hateful expression in a
hateful way, and I’m being a person I don’t like. A person
I’ve never been before.
His hate makes me hate, and that’s when I know I can’t
be around it. If he can’t accept me, I simply can’t have him
in my life because I do not want to be this person.
I have way too much going for me.
I hand him back the gun and make my way to the front
door, my mind a heated blur of childhood memories and
sour words from moments ago. Everything feels so
overwhelming and painful, and as I’m pushing the screen
door open, I hear it before I feel it.
The familiar crash of ammunition eating through a wall
sounds off next to me in a flash of light and noise. I whip
back to face him; god only knows what expression my face
holds because I don’t know just how I feel. A storm of
emotions brewing under the surface of my finely pressed
suit.
Shock. Hurt. Anger.
The man who scooped me out of the gravel the first time
I fell on my bike. The man who distracted me with knock-
knock jokes when I got stitches above my eye after said
fall.
That man just fired a shotgun off next to me.
When I think of his potential aim, I make the choice any
Sheriff would make. I pull out my phone and call dispatch.
 I give them my address and tell them that my father has
just shot at me.
I could’ve called Wilkerson or another guy out here, kept
it off the scanner, kept it out of the official documents. I
could have.
But why should I protect him?
I’m not ashamed of who I am, not anymore. And I won’t
give him a free pass because I am scared of the town
knowing that my own family doesn’t support me.
I make my way to my truck and am disappointed to
realize that this is the one time I don’t have a weapon on
me. Headed to the Gala in a suit. Didn’t think I’d need a
holstered registered weapon on my night off.
Within four minutes of the call, two cruisers roll-up.
I shake hands with one of my guys, and without shame,
my chin tipped high, I tell them the truth.
“He didn’t want to hear that I’m gay, and he shot at me.
I want him taken in, and I want all standard protocol. Don’t
spare him or treat him any differently because he’s my
father.”
Hernandez slipped out of the second cruiser and
approached with caution.
“You okay, boss?” he asked, doing something unexpected
by pinching his gloved hand on my shoulder. The touch is
meant to bring me comfort, but it brings a rush of emotion,
so I clear my throat, like every man on the verge of tears.
Forcing huskiness into my voice, I nod. “Yeah, I’m good.
I didn’t expect a balloon and a hug, that’s for fucking sure.”
“You wanna go back down to the station with me? Give
your report there so you can get on your way. I know you’re
late already,” he says, glancing down at the black tactical
watch on his wrist.
“What time is it?” I ask nervously, knowing it’s definitely
later than I want. I hate that tonight has become this. I’m
late for the evening that should be everything.
 No, tonight will still be for us, about us. I’ll tell Mars I
had a run in with my dad, but I’ll leave it there, at least
until tomorrow. He’ll realize I only kept him in the dark
today so that we can focus on the good.
I will not let my father’s hatred for me ruin this for us.
“Yeah,” I reply to Hernandez. “That’d be great, thanks,
man.”
He radios to the officer that is up on the porch, talking
to my mom. I don’t bother waving her off. I watch as
Canter, the other officer, cuffs my father.
That’s as much of this as I want to see. My mind is
racing. Adrenaline doesn’t slow inside me, even though I’m
in my truck, driving to the station. I keep replaying the
boom of the gun. The anger in his eyes in response to me
merely being myself. My mother’s silence.
Before I can even process that I’m driving, I’m at the
station. And somehow, Hernandez has made it there before
me. Did he speed? Was I driving slowly? I take a few deep
breaths behind the wheel before I step out.
“Can we just do it here?” I call to him, motioning to the
front steps.
I don’t want to appear weak in front of my guys, so don’t
tell him how desperate I am to fill my lungs with fresh air.
The expansive skyline and December breeze will be what
keeps me steady until I get to my man.
Marshall.
He probably knew this would go this way. Maybe it’s
why he wanted me to do this part sooner than later. So we
can move on with our lives, rather than having something
dark and ominous bullshit held over our heads.
I give Hernandez a succinct and emotionless run down
of the events that transpired. He nods his head, clucks his
tongue in a silent ‘oh damn’ when the story gets rough. He
pats my shoulder when I’m done and tells me to have a
good night.
 Before I can get back to my pickup, the rain begins.
There’s a big storm headed our way tonight, and I’m
grateful now I voted to have the party inside the city
building downtown. Else, we wouldn’t just be rained out.
Probably be flooded out.
I head towards our house, and as I’m about to call
Marshall and fill him in, my phone rings.
“Dave?” Delilah’s voice comes through the phone,
stretched thin with concern.
“Hey, La, shit, I’m going to pick him up right now, I just
—”
“I just passed him. He’s heading out on Gull. I waved,
but he didn’t,” she trails off, sounding lost for a minute.
“Why aren’t you at the Gala?”
He’s driving out on Gull as the sky twists like a dirty
dishcloth, wringing out heavy drops of water everywhere.
The wind whips hard against my truck, and I know right
then that he shouldn’t be out riding.
He’s out riding. On Gull.
The night we met on the overlook flashes through my
mind like the lens of a camera, burning the image into me.
“It’s not safe to be riding right now,” I say more to
myself than to Delilah, but she’s still on the line.
“I know. Did you guys… have a fight?” her voice is full of
fear, and I feel the weight of all of it slam down on my
shoulders. Peering into my rearview to make sure it’s clear,
I flip around and head towards Gull.
“I gotta go Delilah. I’ll text you later.”
“Okay, drive safe; it’s really getting bad out there.”
With the cadence of my frantic heart, the storm pounds
loudly above me, making the truck vibrate along the wet
roads.
He thinks I didn’t show up for us.
And it’s my fault.
I punch the pedal and accelerate into the swirling chaos
of the storm.
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A CLOUDY MOON hangs low in an amethyst and onyx sky.
Here and there, stars poke through the night. But it’s still
too dark for anyone to be driving out here safely.
Most people in town know that the bend on Gull Road
isn’t to be taken in extreme conditions. Or in pure
darkness.
Tonight, rain pours.
The asphalt bears at least an inch, and it’s sheeting
quick and hard against the windshield of my truck. The
wipers work to no end.
I’ve heard the expression “my mind is spinning.” I never
really thought it was meant to be serious. I figured it was a
hyper-sensitive reaction to being overwhelmed.
But I get it now.
My thoughts ping frantically from one to the next, each
moment a fresh, agonizing concern.
Did he seriously fucking think I’d freaked out? After I’ve
done nothing but prove myself to him for month, could he
really believe I could do that to him?
Again?
But then, yeah. I had done that to him before.
Rebuilding that trust would take time. I may have done
nearly everything I could in the last two months, but I was
making up for five years.
Shit. This is my fault.
I shouldn’t have engaged with my asshole father that
way. Why did I do that? I can’t change him. I don’t even
want to. He should want to change. I should’ve just gone to
meet Mars.
Mars.
Fuck.
 My heart jolts frantically as my brain bounces back to
him.
He’s out here in the fucking rain because I’m an asshole
who can’t get his priorities straight. When I get to him, I
swear to fuck I’m proposing. I don’t have rings, but I don’t
care. Enough of making him insecure with my inaction.
I’m fucking taking action now.
In my ears, the rhythmic drumming of my pulse helps
me steady my breath. I ease off the gas as I grow nearer to
the vast curve in the road.
I can hardly see, what with the blankets of rain. From
memory, years of escaping to the overlook, I can judge my
location by driving.
In the distance, a small circle of light pops and sparks
intermittently amidst the rain. I let off the gas even more,
rolling to a five-mile crawl before stopping.
My hands twisting the wheel, I hoist myself closer to the
windshield, my chest pressing the edge of the dashboard.
My eyes narrow, and suddenly, my body goes cold. My
panicked mind screeches to a momentary halt.
That’s a headlight from a motorcycle.
Not attached to a motorcycle.
Bile and acid scream up my throat as my temples pound.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sky claps. My heart thuds. The world crumbles
beneath my feet.
Instinct kicks in, Sheriff takes over. Veering to the
shoulder, I put on my emergency flashers and slap my
revolving red-blue light to the top of my pickup. I reach for
the flashlight and emergency kit that are stored under my
seat. I’m prepared for everything off-duty, I’ve yet to need
that preparation.
Moments later, I’m running in the middle of Gull Road,
my entire body soaked in under one minute. My dress
shoes and socks slosh with each urgent step I take forward
towards the single light.
 “Marshall!” I scream with every ounce of energy inside
of me. My voice hits a wall of the storm and crashes to the
wet ground with the rain. I barely heard myself.
“Marshall!” I scream again, violently, cupping my hands
to my mouth. The flashlight that is pinched under my
armpit crashes to the ground. Scooping it up I shove it back
under my arm as I make my way to the flickering headlight.
The lumens drain completely as I lift the headlight to my
gaze. I turn it under the hasty light provided by my
flashlight, which now flickers.
This isn’t the headlight from Marshall’s Fatboy. My
thumb traces the grooves as my frenzied mind fills with
millions of thoughts. Where is Marshall? He’s out here.
Delilah said he was out here.
Where the fuck is he? And if this isn’t off his bike, who’s
bike is it from?
Then a vivid memory illuminates behind my eyes. The
kid on the side of the road. The one who’d wanted the
custom, illegal exhaust from Marshall.
Mason. I remember his bike. This is the headlight; I’m
almost certain.
“Mason!” I shout, running along the exposed shoulder,
straight toward the upcoming curve. The rain is merciless;
my own body weight is a million cinderblocks as I run in a
soaked tuxedo.
Marshall is out here. Every fiber of my body feels him
here. A swell of nausea roars in my stomach, and that’s
when my feet, which I can’t see at all in the darkness,
connect with something.
Before I know it, I’m catapulted forward, my shoulder
and head smacking the slick earth beneath me. I slide
forward for what feels like too long, the mud sending me
ten feet away. Planting my palms on the slippery, mud-laden
asphalt, I jump to my feet and turn back. What the fuck did
I just trip on?
 My flashlight is gone, escaping from me when I fell. The
universe gives me a much-needed gift at that moment, as
the ominous sky parts to let the moonshine through. It’s
clouded, distant, and melting. But it’s something.
It’s enough.
I retrace my steps to where I fell, and when I’m just feet
away, I see him.
Mason.
Kneeling over him, I turn him, so his head tilts up,
letting the moonlight expose him to me. A large gash eats
at his hairline, and the side of his face is burned by asphalt.
But when I press my fingers to his throat, I feel life.
“Mason!” I scream down to him to be heard over the
storm. I give his good cheek a slap, the noise of it lost to
the chaos around us. His eyes blink open. “Mason! It’s
Sheriff Ingram. Can you hear me?”
I’ve been in these situations many times. Unfortunately.
This time, it’s a struggle to maintain composure.
Because Marshall is out here. Fire sears its way up my
throat when my mind goes to Mars. Not only is he out here,
but he’s out here because of me.
Focus, Ingram. Do your fucking job. Take a breath.
I rock to my knees next to Mason and fish my hands up
his jacket, then down his legs. “Where are you hurt? Can
you breathe?” I ask, fighting the storm to be heard.
The clouds shift angrily in the sky, temporarily taking my
view of him. I dig into my back pocket for my phone and
don’t stop until it’s ringing. Loudly, against the wind that
whips my back, I shout to dispatch.
“Dispatch, this is Sheriff Ingram. Motorcycle accident on
Gull Road. We need EMTs out here.”
“Where on Gull, Sheriff?”
I swallow hard as Mason’s fingers curl into my tuxedo
jacket, sluggishly tugging at me.
“This guy,” he spits out.
I lean down into him.
 “He tried to help me, but he got hit.” He lifts his chin to
indicate the patch of road behind him, right before the
curve in the road. Right before the overlook.
“He slid down the ravine. I saw it all.”
“At the curve,” I repeat to dispatch, not taking my eyes
off Mason’s face. I slide the phone into my pocket.
“Mason, we can’t wait here, okay? It’s not safe. I’m
going to move you to the truck, on the shoulder.”
The shoulder where I’m parked is only moderately safer,
but this way, he won’t be lying on the ground in the dark in
the rain.
I fish my forearm under his neck and the other under his
knees. I prepare him, we count, and then I’m sloshing
through the storm with him in my arms, headed towards
my truck.
“Help is coming, do not move. Do not try to do anything.
You could have a spinal injury or internal bleeding. Do not
move.” I shout through the chaos of the thundering
overhead. Water slaps against my back and fills the cab
around me as I crawl on the floorboard with my knees,
resting Mason’s body on the bench seat.
“Okay,” he says weakly.
“You’re going to be okay, Mason,” I say, my eyes growing
fuzzy and hot. A bubble of heat clogs my throat, and God, I
feel like I’m having a heart attack. The pain in my chest is
so fucking intense that I lean over him, clutching the seat
above him.
Go find him, Dave. Go fucking find him.
“Mason, the man who got hit—”
When my eyes go to his, I see him watching me. He
can’t realize that the love of my life is the man in the
ravine, but somehow, the kid seems to recognize the
fracture running through me.
“He was on a bike. Parked it back there,” he throws his
chin to the side, indicating that Mars’ bike is probably
somewhere behind me on the shoulder. I didn’t notice it,
but after I saw that headlight, I had tunnel vision.
“Ran up to me; it was pouring, said he’d flag down a
vehicle. First one to pass, he ran out, waved his arms, and
yelled,” he swallows hard, and my stomach rolls over, and
for a moment, I think I’m going to faint. “He jumped back,
but the truck clipped him.”
“Jesus Christ,” the words tumble breathlessly past my
lips.
Rain hits against the roof of the truck like nails on tin.
“Sent him rolling, and he slid down the side.”
I stare at Mason with horror in my eyes, and it takes me
a moment to remember, I’m the Sheriff. I have to bring him
peace and comfort. Instead, I’m ready to vomit on him.
“Okay, that’s good, man, thank you. That’s good.” I stuff
my rolled-up duffel under his head and check his pulse
again. Steady.
“Okay, Mason, I’m going down the ravine to find the man
that got hit. You stay here. When help gets here, you tell
him Sheriff Ingram went down the ravine right over there,
okay?” I say in a rush, my heart now beating so fast that I
have to move, so I have something else to focus on.
Anything but my fear.
“You don’t have a flashlight,” Mason says with a
surprising amount of panic in his voice.
“I know the area, I’ll be fine,” I say, not giving actual
thought to the promise. Because I won’t stop until I find
Marshall, so nothing else matters.
I jump out of the truck and slam the door closed, peeling
off the soaked suit jacket so I can move quicker. Only after I
run across the road do I look back to verify that Marshall’s
bike is there.
My body melts with disappointment when I see the
pristine Fatboy parked perfectly off on the shoulder, the
black helmet perched atop the chrome.
He took his helmet off.
 Elbows pinned to my knees, I’m vomiting in a rush when
I think of Marshall getting hit, sliding down the ravine
without his helmet. Fuck.
Every single moment of importance in my life rushes
behind my eyes.
Marshall kissing me next to the dishwasher that first
night.
The first time I felt his palm skate over my bare chest.
The night we had sex for the first time.
The way he tousled Max’s hair as he slept tucked
comfortably against his thick chest.
His lips moving over my neck as I blink myself into the
new day.
The timbre of his laugh when he watched Tropic
Thunder for the first time.
I drag the back of my wrist over my mouth then
ambitiously slide down the ravine, taking large, unsteadied
steps. Rocks slide beneath the slick-bottomed dress shoes,
gravel and foliage tearing at my palms as I brace myself on
the descent.
I scream his name into the night. Over and over. Water
sheets against my face, burning my eyes.
Stopping every ten feet to scour the mountainside in the
moonlight, I continue down the ravine like that, screaming
into the wind, rain flooding my mouth as I do.
I spit and scream and slide and search.
In the far-off distance, I can hear sirens. Looking back
up at the cliff, I see I’ve slid down about one hundred feet.
Blue and red lights echo off the mountains. Help is coming.
The Red Osier Dogwood, which feels whimsical and
homey in the sunset, now whips angrily in the rain, its deep
red leaves ominously taunting me.
“Marshall!” I try, again, my lungs aflame from the
shouting.
Then a small river rock tumbles down the ravine, a few
feet from me. As if someone shifted and it broke free.
 Like a snare drum, my heart takes over all my senses
with its overbearing beats. Frantically, my head whips
around the area. Another rock tumbles to the lake far
below. I lower myself to a crouch, and the moon catches a
bit of silver about ten feet away from me.
I run to the dark figure, and the moon seems to follow
because as I fall to my knees, all I can see is Marshall’s
face.
The moon glimmers against the ring in his nose. His
swollen eyelids flicker but remain closed.
I push my fingers to the side of his throat.
I move my palms down the column of his neck, digging
fingers into his throat on both sides this time. I wait. I don’t
breathe; I just wait.
Still, nothing.
Instantly, I pinch his nose and seal my mouth over his. I
exhale with everything inside of me, willing to give him all
of my life if it means he keeps his.
I breathe into him, pressing the heels of my palms to his
sternum and bear down. I repeat this process, breathing
into his mouth then trying to get his chest to accept the
help. All the while, I beg.
“Baby, I got you. Okay. You’re okay. Just, just, stay awake
in there, okay,” I shout to him. Then his wide chest rises,
and he coughs in a burst. I turn his head slightly, and blood
trickles from his parted lips.
His hand moves in the brush until it’s at my knee,
fingertips trying to grip me. I lower my face to his and kiss
him, no CPR, only emotion.
“The kid,” he sputters before his head rolls back, and his
body goes still. I move my thumb to his pulse and feel it
working under his skin.
He’s unconscious.
But alive.
Just as I’m about to scoop him up—how the fuck am I
going to get him up the wet ravine? It’s at least one
hundred yards up, and the temporary light the moon gave
me is now gone completely, as more clouds pregnant with
angry storm flood the weighty sky.
At that moment, a small sea of lights appears at the top
of the ravine. I recognize the distinct amber orb of the first-
responder headlamp. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I
unlock it. The entire screen illuminates and I hold it up to
them.
“Down here!” I scream, over and over, waving the phone
until they spot me.
I kneel next to Marshall and lower my mouth to his ear.
“Help is here. You’re going to make it. Stay awake, baby. I
fucking love you. I love you Marshall, do you hear me?”
My fingers weave through the side of his beard as I
place a kiss against his lips.
He’s wearing his tuxedo for the Gala. His right side is
shredded as if he’d been put through a human-sized cheese
grater. Suit gone; his inked arm is pink from friction.
Shoving my fingers through his wavy dark hair, my palm is
coated with sticky, dark blood.
He can’t see me; his eyes are swollen shut, and his head
bears a substantial gash. He groans underneath me as I
skate my palm down the front of his body, feeling for any
other obvious injuries.
“You’re going to be okay,” I repeat, needing to fucking
believe it.
Mud splatters against the side of me as three men in
yellow rubber pants slide to my side, their headlamps
illuminating Marshall. A large gash travels through his
eyebrow, and the one on his head left a dark circle on the
rocks beneath him.
“Let us get him, boss,” I hear from a familiar voice. I
look to the first firefighter. I know him, but that’s not the
voice. I look to the next man, and it’s the same. Then I see
the third responder. Wilkerson.
 I don’t even ask how or why he’s here. Wilkes grips my
shoulder and shouts against the rain in my ear.
“We’ll get him up on a backboard.” He raises his gloved
hand into the air, exposing a large metal hook. “Winch up
there. We’re strapping him in and winching him up. He’ll
be at the hospital in no time.”
“There’s a kid in my truck,” I shout back at Wilkes. He
nods fervently, his gear wobbling on his head.
“We got him.” He ducks his head to study my face, and I
turn mine twice, letting him see me at all angles.
“You hurt? You gotta get back up there. You gotta get to
the hospital, okay?”
“No,” I shake my head. “I’m helping you here.”
He opens his mouth, rain pelting against the side of his
face. His green eyes glisten against the faint moonlight.
Then, he nods.
“Alright, you take his feet.”

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THE MEN who hike up the sleek mountainside with me,
guiding Marshall’s backboard strapped body to the top,
stay on the scene. I advise Wilkes to have them take
Marshall’s bike to our place.
I hold the count to lift Marshall to the stretcher. I climb
in the ambulance and lift the bed in, Wilkes shoving the
other end inside.
“I’ll come find you, boss.” He shouts at me from the
scene outside.
I nod and an EMT I’ve never seen hops into the back,
pulls the doors closed in a rush, and signals the driver to
go.
My world goes from a flood of chaos to relative silence
as the vehicle travels down Gull, away from the overlook.
“How’d you know to come out here?” the EMT asks as
he adjusts the oxygen mask on Marshall’s face. I count his
pulse and tell him before answering the question.
“His sister told me he rode out here. I came out to get
him.”
The EMT doesn’t say anything but starts scrawling
Marshall’s vitals on a clipboard. The guy unbuttons
Marshall’s dress shirt. His russet skin now looks too similar
to the sky, a watercolor of purple and blacks.
Fuck, that’s not a good sign.
I gasp awkwardly and lean back against the seat.
I give my shock approximately five seconds before I lean
back over him, sifting my fingers through his hair to locate
the gash. I demand supplies from the EMT, and he passes
them to me like a nurse to a doctor.
I hold the wound together with as light pressure as I
can, leaning over him the entire drive. At one point, the
EMT asks me why we’re wearing tuxedos. I tell him
because of the Gala, or at least I think I do, but as I hold
Marshall’s head together and stare down at his swollen,
closed eyes, I get lost.
This cannot fucking be it.
This is where we’re supposed to start. Tonight is our
start, not our end.
“This isn’t it,” I say down to him like it’s just the two of
us. “This isn’t how it goes. Tonight is the beginning, not the
end. You hear me, Grant? It’s the beginning so hang the
fuck on.”
And then I gently rest my forehead against his chest,
pulling his hand to mine. I run my thumb over the words on
his knuckles. Heaven Ain’t Ready. I press my lips to each
knuckle, then to each letter, and stay hovered over him,
holding him until the ambulance stops.
The EMT kneads my shoulder when the doors fly open.
“Let’s get him in, okay?” he offers quietly as noises begin to
fill the box we’re in.
Before I know it, Marshall’s gurney is being pulled
inside the hospital by a sea of blue scrubs. I walk after him,
keeping my eyes on his hand, which I draped over his
chest. Heaven Ain’t Ready. I keep my eyes on the words
until he’s behind another set of doors and out of my sight.
A lot of things happen very quickly at this point, but I
feel as if I’m outside of my body as they do.
First, I call Delilah.
“Hey, Dave, you tracked him down?” she chirps
cheerfully after the first ring. She didn’t know why he was
heading out there.
“Delilah,” my voice breaks on the first word.
My bottom lip trembles as I stare down at my black
dress shoes, caked in mud, contrasting against the sterile
white hospital floor.
“What happened?” she replies immediately. I notice now
that her voice isn’t more than a whisper. She knows Gull
Road, and she knew the storm was coming.
 “There was a hit and run.” The words come out in my
law enforcement voice, full of backbone and control.
“Someone hit him when he stopped to help a kid who had
an accident on his bike.”
“Is he alive?” she asks, with surprising strength in her
voice. Delilah may be the youngest of the siblings, but she’s
a mother. No one handles crisis like a fucking mother.
I choke on a sob at the question. I started the day
thinking tonight would be our fresh start. And now I’m
having to tell his sister that I don’t know if he’s going to be
alive by the time she gets down here. My ability to be
strong leaps from a tall bridge.
My voice shakes with my breathing. “He had a pulse
when we arrived, but he never opened his eyes.” Tears
stream down my face.
“Did he say anything? Could he speak?”
I bite my lip to stop it from trembling. I rake a shaky
hand up the back of my head. “He said ‘the kid’ before
going unconscious.”
Delilah sobs now, too, and makes a comment that of
course he’d be worried about the person he was trying to
help before he’d worry about himself.
“Okay, I’ll leave Max with his daddy, and I’ll get the
boys. We’ll be down there in a few.”
My mouth is dry; the words stick. “O-Okay,” I say on a
forced, thick swallow.
“Dave, if he was out on Gull, who found him?”
Marshall’s ripped suit and freshly torn-up arm appear in
my mind. The wine-colored blood that filled my palm. His
abdomen, more bruised flesh than not.
“You said,” I start to say, darkness beginning to float
around my mind. “You said he was turning out onto Gull.”
My vision tunnels, and my head suddenly feels very heavy.
“We have a spot out there.”
“Okay, Dave, take a breath. Okay? Call Anna. Have a
seat. Take a breath. We’ll be there soon.”
 I say okay after I’ve hung up. I’ve seen internal bleeding
in car accident victims. I’ve seen the belly of a man after
we’ve lifted a tree off of him. They’d all looked like that.
Dark. Full of blood.
I don’t think any of them made it.
That’s when darkness closes in on me, and the last thing
I remember is the sound of my face smacking the wooden
armrest of a waiting room chair before hitting the ground.

“J ust let him stay out ,” a rough voice tries to be soft in

the near distance.
I want to open my eyes because the moment I become
conscious, the night floods into my veins.
Marshall.
My body jolts, and finally, my eyelids aren’t too heavy to
lift. I blink a few times, feeling groggy and achy.
Thorne, Ry, Delilah, Anna, and Maverick sit in seafoam
green hospital chairs, and I sit with them, apparently.
Inactivity feels like a mistake, so I’m on my feet, smoothing
my hands through my hair, turning circles.
I spot a desk with a woman sitting behind it, so I go to
her.
“Is there an update on Marshall Grant?” I ask, my
fingertips curling over the partition to her side of the
space. She pinches her eyes on my fingers and then looks
up at me.
“Like I just told your friends, he’s still in surgery. Been
that way for the last two hours.”
Two hours? How fucking long was I out? I just got here a
minute ago.
I turn to barrage the group with questions but bump
chests with Maverick. He pulls me into him in an
unexpected hug. We don’t do this. Anna has been my best
friend for years, yeah, but that’s not what I mean. I’m not
the man that hugs other men.
But when I try to pull away, Maverick holds his arms
tighter. Something about the feeling of security in a
moment where I feel utterly helpless. I don’t know. But I
melt into him, the poor fucking guy. I melt into him and use
his shoulder as a place to rest my chin while I stare off at
the doors they took Mars through.
Anna peels me off of him and takes my hand, weaving
our fingers together. She holds up a duffel bag; it looks like
hers.
“We got you some clothes, honey. I think you should hit
the restrooms, get cleaned up, change your clothes and
come out here and have some coffee and a sandwich.”
I hear what she’s saying. My eyes hold hers. Her short
blonde bob is stick straight, and her face is freshly
scrubbed. She’s in pajamas and slippers, and I look to see
that Maverick is, too.
“He thought I didn’t show up for us tonight, Anna.” I say,
my eyes going between the two of them. They were at their
house, sleeping together, happily. “He thought I changed
my mind, and now, that’s what he thinks, in there,” I say,
waving a finger towards the door. “He thinks I didn’t want
it enough.”
Anna nods her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Her empathy does nothing for my seriously quick-moving
mental fucking breakdown, and thank God Maverick is still
there. He grips me by the bicep, and we walk back to the
chairs.
“Anna, you know, I’d actually like a sparkling water. Do
you think you could get me one, babe?” he says to her.
I don’t look up. My eyes study my muddy shoes. How far
down did I climb? I can’t remember. It all happened so fast.
If he slid down, and it was only fifty feet or so, he could be
okay.
Right?
 Was it more? Was it one hundred feet? Yards? I honestly
can’t remember. When I come up for air, Anna’s gone.
Mavericks’ eyes are focused on me. He leans forward and
grips my knee.
“Dave, man, listen.” He looks back at Marshall’s family
then to me, presumably checking for privacy. “Marshall is
going to wake up. Okay? You can’t be sitting here even
entertaining the idea that he won’t wake up. It’s not good
for you in here,” he taps my temple, “or here,” he taps my
heart.
“Now, whatever happened between you guys tonight, it’s
done.” He slices through the air with his palm. “The EMT
told me you climbed down one-hundred-fifty yards of rough
terrain in the downpour with nearly no light and found him
and gave him CPR. When he wakes up, you guys will work
it out. Okay, don’t focus on that.”
I’m nodding, and his other hand is now pinching the
nerves between my neck and shoulders. “Right now, you
have to be really fucking strong because it may take a
while for him to wake up, and he may not be all better
when he does. So he needs you to get it together right now,
man. And guess what?”
I don’t ask what, but I meet his eyes. “They need you to
be strong, too. Because he is their leader,” he says, nodding
to Thorne, Ry, and Delilah. “Now you’re their leader. Show
them you’re the right man for their brother. Show them
that you can step up.”
I scrub my eyes with the heels of my palms and exhale.
“You’re the fucking Sheriff around these parts,” he says
in a southern drawl, and I give him a smile for bringing
levity to the moment, if only for a second.
He grips my knee in a comforting moment, and I tell him
thank you. When Anna returns, I kiss her cheek, take the
bag, and disappear to change my clothes.
M y reflection is foreign , leaning over the metal sink in
the empty bathroom. My face is scraped, dried blood and
clumps of soil matted in my hair on one side. My fingers
work vertically along the buttons of my dress shirt. The
buttons that are left, at least. I toss it next to the sink and
begin to scrub my face.
I dig around in my bag and notice that Anna has thrown
in a toiletry bag. I stare at the Ziploc bag of various items.
Deodorant.
A razor.
Soap and a washcloth.
Toothbrush.
Advil.
This isn’t just fresh clothes. This is a bag that will allow
me to live in this place indefinitely.
Because that’s how serious this is.
I swallow down the sickness that rises in my throat as
the severity of the situation settles in once again. It hit me
out there, seeing him painted onto the rocks as if he were
part of the landscape.
It hit me again, seeing his injuries in the ambulance.
And now.
I pull my bar of soap from the bag and roll it in my
palms. The basin floods with brown and pink-colored water.
I’m drenching the counter around the sink, trying to scrub
the accident from my hair when the door opens.
“Hi,” Delilah says, her voice a direct reflection of her
state. Broken, shaking, scared.
“Hi,” I say, tipping my head under the tiny steel faucet. I
rinse the rest of the soap and reach for the towel I’d been
using. Thank God for Anna.
“I was just talking to Officer Wilkerson out there,” she
says, slowly walking to my side of the restrooms. “He said
we need to be thanking you.” Her words cause me to freeze
for a moment. And in that brief respite, pain fills my chest.
I move to put on a fresh shirt because the more I move, the
less it hurts.
“He said they wouldn’t have been able to find him
without you. He said you’re the only reason he will survive
this.”
A big fist of emotion clogs my throat, so I cough a little
to dislodge it. My voice comes out so strained I’m sure she
knows I’m walking the edge. But fuck, I can’t be the man I
need to be for him if I’m a scared, regretful mess. I have to
be strong. Mav’s right.
“I think we should thank the doctors, you know, if he…” I
grip the edge of the sink as the sentence dies in the air.
Delilah closes the small distance between us and rests
her head against my shoulder as she holds my wrist in her
hand. “He’s going to make it, Dave. Okay? And whatever
happened between you guys tonight, that doesn’t matter.”
My chin quivers, and my lip trembles, but I suck in a
shuddering breath and force a strong exhale. She moves
her hand up my back and down again, in the comforting
way that only moms know how to do.
“It’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay.” She stops
her hand. “Okay?”
“Okay.” I repeat, wanting to believe it more than
anything.

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EVERY TIME those almond-colored double doors whoosh
open, I’m on my feet, stomach swirling. It’s been four and
half hours. It’s nearly one in the morning, and still, we have
no update on Marshall.
I try to tell myself that it isn’t necessarily a bad thing
that it’s taking so long, but after several other families
filter in and out of the waiting area, I grow very fucking
apprehensive.
Though I don’t know how to gauge my growing anxieties
and fears because each moment feels like the worst. Yet
somehow, as the clock ticks on, I begin to really fucking
freak out.
He thought I’d completely changed my mind because in
the past, I’d done that very fucking thing. And now I may
never get a chance to right shit the way I should’ve years
ago.
I shift in the seat, wincing in faux discomfort at the old
chairs to blame my need to keep moving. Every time a truly
awful thought wanders through the stress and takes a bite
of my brain, I shift. No one says anything, but my continual
fidgeting is probably annoying the fuck out of everyone.
Anna sent Maverick out to the all-night store in
Lakeside. He’s getting some food for everyone and other
things I heard her mention, though words have become
hard to understand.
My brain is so full, and my heart is so heavy, and every
single molecule of me is intensely alert.
Delilah sleeps in a chair; her cheek tucked cozily into
Thorne’s shoulder. Ry is awake, ear pods lodged in his ears.
He hasn’t said much—but then again, no one really has. We
all sit and give one another small, half-smiles and then
return to the quiet.
 Finally, when I’m nearly on the edge of insanity and the
only one awake, those doors open again. The man wearing
turquoise blue medical scrubs moves his eyes around the
room, looking for someone. I step sideways to get into his
view quicker, and hold up a palm as I move towards him.
He tugs down the surgical mask to under his chin and
takes off his tiny cap, shoving it into a pocket.
“Are you the family of Marshall Grant?” he asks, with no
judgment in his expression.
“That’s them, and yeah, I am his family.” I clear my
throat but don’t let my eye contact falter. “He’s my
partner.”
I consider for a moment that maybe partner wasn’t the
best term. After all, I am the Sheriff, and by using that
word, maybe he thinks Mars and I work together? But
when I hold out my hand to shake and tell him my name,
recognition clicks into place behind his eyes.
“Dave Ingram. Sheriff Ingram?” he cocks a brow as he
meets my hand with his.
I nod. “Yep. Marshall is my boyfriend,” I clarify, hating
how it sounds nearly juvenile at our age. But I have to
make sure he knows.
Still, his expression holds no judgment. I exhale and
drape a hand over my chest when his face doesn’t
immediately twist into sadness. It’s a good sign that he
doesn’t look dejected and pained to learn who I am in
relation to Mars.
“He’s alive,” I state breathlessly, hoping to fuck I’m not
wrong.
Typically, I’m not wrong in my immediate character
assessments when it comes to meeting people. Give me a
few minutes, and I usually know what’s what. But with
Marshall flashing through my mind, torn and black, I don’t
know anything anymore.
The man, who’d introduced himself to me as Dr. Lesley,
nods in agreement with my statement, and my body
internally liquifies with relief.
“He’s alive,” he confirms. The man rocks on his shoes
before dropping his hands into the pockets of his white
coat, nodding me to a row of chairs. We sit, and I feel
nothing as those double doors whoosh open once again, a
stressed and exhausted surgeon emerging.
“How should I address you?” Dr. Lesley asks as we settle
towards one another, a distance of one chair between us.
“Dave,” I say, eager to hear about Marshall. “Call me
Dave.”
“Okay, Dave. Well, Marshall came in with some pretty
standard trauma symptoms.”
“Standard?” I ask.
I never stick around, and rarely do we check up on
people we know end in the hospital. When I was the under-
Sheriff years ago, I used to check up. But when the
prognosis was grim more times than not, I began to
understand why most first responders and law enforcement
officers don’t check up on the person they helped.
It can often be depressing.
But now, I wonder what standard trauma is as I watch
the doctor lean forward towards me, putting his elbows to
his knees.
He begins to explain the Marshall has several broken
ribs, which caused some internal bleeding. I hate myself for
doing it, but I need answers, and I fear with my emotional
state, I won’t remember if I don’t ask now.
“Was that why his belly was so dark? Was that blood?” I
interrupt.
The doctor shakes his head vehemently before
delivering a staunch ‘no’.
“Marshall’s a big man, and he has all the injuries to
indicate he,” the doctor takes a breath as he bounces one
palm against the other, creating a skittering effect like a
rock skipping across a lake surface. “Tumbled a fair
amount.”
 My mind flashes to the discolored flesh on Marshall’s
core.
“It was so dark,” I remember aloud, trying to force a
backbone into my voice.
The doctor does this one simple nod that somehow
alleviates all the fear that correlates to that color of skin.
“Just bruising,” he says as if he’s seen that eggplant
color in the flesh enough to make it normal. And I thought
my job could be hard. “Not much we can do for the broken
ribs. Kind of a heal on their own type of thing.”
I nod him on.
“Dave,” he says, using a new tone that immediately
drains the relief from my core. My body tenses. “Marshall
wasn’t wearing a helmet.” His dark eyes flick between
mine, searching for me to understand. My mouth goes dry.
My heart seems to only pound in my ears.
It’s at that moment that I realize being alive isn’t
everything. If his brain was damaged, if he withstood
significant trauma… Dr. Lesley must be a pro at spotting
internal spinning out because he reaches for me, squeezing
my kneecap.
“Listen, we won’t really know where we stand until he
wakes up. We do know there was some craniocerebral
trauma,” he says, tapping his head in case I’m unable to
keep up.
“Traumatic brain injuries can be severe, but they can
also be mild.”
“Okay,” I reply uncomfortably. A single drop of cool
sweat rolls down the hollow of my spine. I shift in the chair.
“We won’t know what we’re dealing with until he wakes
up, okay?”
“He wasn’t deprived of oxygen or anything like that,
right?” I start to run down all the medical things I’ve
absorbed over the years in my line of work.
If the brain is deprived of oxygen for too long, a person
can become brain dead. But Marshall’s heart was always
beating. I kept my fingers on his pulse the entire drive to
the hospital.
The doctor shakes his head. “No, but there was some
blood on the brain. We have to give his body a chance to do
what it’s meant to do. Over the next few days, we hope he
reabsorbs the blood on his own. It happens quite often that
way.”
I swallow, moving straight to the hard question because
I do not function well in the unknown.
“And if he doesn't, you know, reabsorb,” I say, my voice
so quiet that Dr. Lesley leans in.
“Let’s not go there yet, okay? He’s recovering from
surgery now. He had some minor internal bleeding; his
spleen was lacerated in the accident. His left leg is broken
in three places, so we set it for now, but we’ll keep an eye
on it through imaging. The ribs, they heal on their own.”
“Just his spleen?” I ask. “He was in surgery for so long.”
Dr. Lesley chuckles, and the fact that he can laugh at
this moment helps to soften my prickly, fearful exterior.
“We struggled to keep him adequately sedated. The
anesthesiologist dosed for his weight the first time around,
and well,” he shrugs, tipping his glasses up the bridge of
his nose with a knuckle. “He’s a big man,” he says finally.
I nod.
“He’s not awake yet,” Dr. Lesley continues. “With brain
injuries, we really like to see where we’re at when the
patient is awake.”
“What can I expect, roughly?” I ask, hoping for some
landscape so I can begin to navigate through the unknown
terrain. At the very least, understand what it holds.
The doctor shifts, as if he’s hesitant to say anything, to
get my hopes up. It’s that moment of hesitation that yields
a huge shift inside of me.
We just have to wait and see. And I can either be a
fucking stereotypical wreck, or I can be the Sheriff and
take control of this entire situation. Listen to only the
positive while on the back end, preparing for the negative.
Keep everything in order, keep things moving. Take over
and be the man that Marshall needs me to be. The man he’s
always been for me.
“Okay,” I say, “so we wait until he’s awake. Can I see
him?”
Dr. Lesley studies me a moment; his eyes pool with
understanding. “They’re moving him down to a room now.
After that, sure. But,” he volleys his head as he eeks his lips
to the side. “No more than one at a time, okay? With
everything we don’t know, we do know that the best thing
for an accident victim is rest. Lots of it.”
“He’s got two brothers and a sister. All younger.” I
motion around the corner. Smoothing his hands over his
scrub-covered thighs, he rises, so I do the same.
“Lead the way,” he says.
I stand there, listening to his words again while he talks
to everyone else. Maverick has returned, and he’s looped
his arm around Anna’s waist, holding her tight as they
listen intently. Delilah is the voice of Marshall’s family, Ry
and Thorne sticking close behind her. She’s the youngest,
but she’s strong, and her bond with Marshall is undeniable.
Though he’s her older brother, I believe she views him as
much like a father as she viewed her own.
She asks the questions I’ve asked.
Why was he in surgery so long? Did the internal damage
definitely start and end with the spleen? Has he woken up?
Where in his leg were the breaks? How long do ribs take to
heal? Are we sure there is no more bleeding internally?
How long do people usually take to wake up from these
things?
Okay, she asks more questions than I asked. Many more.
It doesn’t feel like we get any more information from Dr.
Lesley, though. He sticks to his original answers.
“The ribs heal on their own, we’ll know about the blood
on his brain after his next scan tomorrow, and we’ll know
his cognitive functions when he wakes up. Yes, the spleen
was the only internal bleeding, the left leg was set, and
we’ll monitor the closed fractures through x-rays in the
upcoming days and weeks. If the fractures don’t heal, he’ll
need surgery.”
He pushes out a breath, but he isn’t annoyed, and I’m
grateful for his bedside manner. He’s used to fielding
poorly structured sentences from scared loved ones. We’re
just a part of his job.
“As I told Sheriff Ingram, he’s getting into a recovery
room downstairs. Once he’s there, I’ll have a nurse come
tell you. One at a time, for now.”
Delilah huffs out a breath and a fresh batch of tears. Ry
wraps an arm around her, and Thorne does the same.
“So he’s okay, for now, he’s okay?” she says, trying to
hold back her sobs. Her shoulders move as the stifled cries
break free, and her brothers hold her tighter.
That’s family. The sight causes a hot tingle behind my
eyes.
“He’s stable. Let’s just keep ourselves focused on that
for now. Once he wakes, he will have a full evaluation, and
we’ll adjust our expectations from there, okay?”
Our heads all move up and down in unison.
Anna has, at some point, taken my hand in hers. Dr.
Lesley gives me a final nod of acknowledgment before he
disappears into the nurse’s station. In unison, we give those
waiting room chairs the weight of our worlds.
Thorne lets out a shaky breath. “That’s um, that’s all
good, right?” he asks, his voice so unsure that his brother
pulls him into a hug.
Delilah leans forward and takes his hand once Ry
releases him. This is when they need me. Right now.
“Yes,” I say, with all the certainty in the world rising up
in my tone. “And when he wakes, we’ll all be there. And
he’s going to be okay.” I place a palm on Thorne’s shoulder
and another on Ry’s. We aren’t close. We haven’t had the
chance to get close yet. Thanks to me.
“I don’t know when he’s going to wake up, but I’m not
leaving. I know Delilah will have to get back to Max at
some point, and La,” I turn to Marshall’s little sister. She
does such a good job of being the woman of their family,
the one who binds and eases them emotionally. But when I
look down into her dark eyes, they waver with all of the
uncertainty that I felt out on Gull Road earlier.
“Don’t go home upset. I don’t want you driving upset. If
you need a ride somewhere, Maverick or Anna will take
you.” I turn to look at the two I’ve offered up as taxis and
don’t even need to give them a begging glance. They nod in
agreement. “Same goes for you, guys,” I say, squeezing
their tight shoulders once before releasing them.
“I want you all to know; I’m not leaving until I leave with
Marshall to go to our house. So, I will be here. If it feels
like too much and you need a breath, I’m here. You can call
or text me at any time. But I’m not stepping on any toes. I
know you’re his family. He’s yours. I just want you to know
I am not leaving.” I pull my phone from my pocket and hold
it up. “Let’s do a mass number swap right now.”
My breath steadies as we input names and numbers,
passing phones in a circle until we’re done. When we all
look up, Thorne outstretches a hand to me. I look at his
hand with a question in my brows.
“You saved him. The EMTs told us what you did. Thank
you,” he says, his voice wavering with emotion. Our palms
connect as I shake his hand, willing the heat behind my
eyes to evaporate. I can’t cry. Not now. I need to be strong
until Marshall is strong.
“And you’re family, too, Dave,” Ry adds with a nod of his
head.
“Thank you,” I grit out.
Thorne and Ry make plans to get down to the Trail and
move appointments around, call clients, and notify them of
what’s happened to Marshall. In order to do that, they need
to get home and get the keys to the shop and some coffee.
They set alarms on their phones to wake them at five am,
refusing to go home until they absolutely have to.
Delilah says nothing, but I know she plans to stay, too.
Because that’s how family shows support when words
aren’t enough. They show up. They stay. They love in any
way they can.
Unlike my father, who, apparently, chooses antiquated
views of love over his own son.
We settle back to our seats, but behind our circle of
family, I spot an exhausted Wilkerson slumped over in one
of the chairs. He must’ve gone home to shower after the
accident. His soaked uniform is now replaced with a
matching black tracksuit, his chestnut-colored hair looking
damp.
I turn to Anna and nod back to Wilkerson. “He was
there. On scene. I’m going to go talk to him.”

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THE SUBTLE JARRING movement of me sitting next to
Wilkerson stirs him from his sleep. He jolts upright,
rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.
“Boss, how is he?” he grunts in a sleepy tone, blinking
his eyes quickly in an effort to wake up.
I give him the run down, repeating everything Dr. Lesley
had told me, making sure to add any and all relevant
details. I don’t do this because I think Wilkerson
particularly needs to know, but I do know that he will be my
relay man. He’ll let the department know about Marshall
when he leaves.
My head drifts to work. Thank God I’d never taken more
than a few days of vacation a year. Marshall and I aren’t
married, so the Family Medical Leave Act won’t apply to
me. Hell, even if we were married, I don’t know if the
state’s definition of family covers same-sex marriages.
I’ll have to use my vacation. And if it takes longer than I
have, then I’ll quit.
Nothing is more important than him.
I shove a hand through my hair, feeling traces of dirt at
the root, despite the sink washing.
I realize I’ve been silent a beat when Wilkerson dips
down, putting his face in front of mine.
“Where’d you go, boss?”
“Work,” I admit. “Just trying to figure some shit out for
the upcoming days. Weeks, maybe.”
Wilkerson plants a solid hand on my shoulder. “Days,
Marshall is a big, strong guy. He’ll be out of here in days,
boss. I know it.”
I nod because his kind words make all my emotions rise
to the surface. They’re extinguished when he brings up my
father.
 “What happened with your pop?” he asks, in a tone so
soft that I almost can’t stand it. This tender side of him
threatens my resolve to stay strong.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, leaning back into the
chair. “He’s traditional; I guess you could say.” I find myself
hating how those words sound floating between us. So
fucking phony.
“He a good guy?” Wilkerson tiptoes around the
relationship, trying to figure it out without stepping on me.
I rake a hand up the back of my neck, thinking about the
question. Pushing out a breath, I respond as honestly as I
can. Tired of lying, defending, protecting.
“I don’t know, honestly. Growing up, I knew where he
stood on homosexuality. But until I learned about myself, I
didn’t think much of his views because he had so many, you
know? He had thoughts on gun control, homelessness,
whether the Yankees had the right starting line up in the
last Series they were in, what cut of the pig tastes the best
on open flames.” I roll my neck to get comfortable. “He was
a pretty normal dad when I was a kid. He worked hard all
day on the farm and taught me how to play sports. Showed
me how to shoot. I had a good life; I can’t say that I didn’t.”
Wilkerson remains silent, waiting for more.
“But as I discovered things about myself, none of his
other beliefs really mattered. It was just that one that stuck
out. It became everything.”
Wilkerson nods me on.
“I knew when I was in high school that I was gay. No
question about it. But I hid it because I felt like I had to.
And lies are a lot like apologies. The more times you do it,
the easier it becomes. One lie rolled into the next, and here
I am, twenty-eight years old just now coming out to my
parents.”
I feel stupid that those words are true. But they are.
“What made you do it?” he asks.
 I contemplate for a moment whether or not I should be
completely honest with someone that works for me. But to
be dishonest about Marshall and I feels bitter on my
tongue. I can’t do it. Not anymore.
“I was supposed to go to the Oakcreek Halloween party
with him. But I got nervous and went without him. We
broke up.” I lace my fingers together over my stomach and
look up at the foam rectangular ceiling panels, darkened
with water stains. “I spent weeks convincing him I could do
better. That I was wrong. Because I was. We’ve been
together for five years, Wilkes. He just wants to live a
normal life. That’s all he ever wanted.”
“So the Gala was to make up for the Halloween party?”
he asks, and I can see he’s putting pieces together in his
mind.
“Yeah. And I told him I’d tell my parents by Christmas. I
figured I’d do it before tonight so that we could just finally
be free from all of it. Only, that clearly didn’t go as
planned.”
Wilkes wrinkles his forehead in confusion. “Why was
Marshall out riding on Gull, then?”
I can’t reveal to him that the overlook on Gull is our
place. That’s something just for us. But I can admit the ugly
truth.
“After Dad pulled the gun on me, my mind just… went. I
couldn’t think of anything but getting him locked up.
Showing him, I’m not afraid of his hate. But by the time I
was done there, it was over an hour after I’d promised
Marshall I’d pick him up.”
Wilkes digests, and his eyes go wide. “He thought you
didn’t show up.”
I give a tiny nod of acknowledgment, so he knows he’s
struck gold with his guess. “Then he got in an accident.”
He blows out a heavy breath. “Damn, boss. That’s one
hell of a night.”
 I laugh a little at that. “The funny part is, it was
supposed to be one hell of a night. Just… not like this.”
“Well,” Wilkerson says, rising to his feet. I rise with him.
“What can I do? What do you need? If you say nothing, I’m
going to park my ass in this chair until you think of
something. Let me help you, Ingram, okay?”
I scratch at the side of my jaw as I study his intense dark
eyes. The lines around them are soft; his shoulders are
sloped. Everything about this man tells me he truly wants
to help.
I’ve shut people out my entire life, scared that if I let
them in that they’d see who I really was. I couldn’t let them
see me.
But now, I’ve never been more ready for the sun.
“My truck,” I say, “I left it on Gull. Keys were in the
ignition still, I think. And Marshall’s bike.” I start, but
Wilkerson puts a palm up between us.
“I drove your pickup to the station, but we’ll get it
moved to the hospital in case you need it. Marshall’s bike is
in the driveway of his place.”
“Before you bring my truck back, can you go by our
place and move his bike into the garage?” I pull up at the
waist of my pants, trying to think through any other key
things I’m forgetting. “I think that’s it for now.”
He slaps the side of my shoulder. “Will do. I’ll come find
you when I’m back, okay?”
“Don’t worry about rushing back. Get some sleep.”
He’s already turned when I deliver those words, but he
stops and turns back to face me. “I’m coming back.”
“Alright,” I say, giving him a nod and a small smile.
Real friendship. Even with Anna, it was another thing I’d
never truly had because I was always hiding. Always
keeping the most crucial part of myself to myself.
Until now.
“Thanks,” I call out to Wilkes as he approaches the
automatic doors. “Thank you for everything.”
 He lifts his arm in a dismissive wave as if his support
needs no gratitude. As I’m about to sink into a chair, a
woman approaches me from behind.
I turn to see Andrea Liggett, the woman whose brake
lights I swapped not too long ago. She’s wearing a powder
pink smock over khaki pants and a white shirt. Her hair is
in a simple bun, and her glasses dangle from a pearled
necklace.
She jumps back a little once my face settles into her
memory.
“Sheriff!” she says, placing her hand over her bosom.
And yes, that’s exactly how I’d describe it, a bosom.
“I didn’t know I was updating you.” She slips the glasses
on and scans the information held private on her clipboard.
Pulling a pen from her bun, she scribbles something then
looks back at me. “Are you Marshall Grant’s partner?”
I nod right away, so there’s no confusion. “I am.”
She rests the clipboard against her chest. Her face
remains motionless for a moment before she takes a small
Hush-Puppied step towards me and uses the back of her
palm for privacy.
“Don’t let anyone tell you there’s anything wrong with
you boys.” She steps back and gives me a wink with one
eye, followed by a melting grin.
“Uh, thanks,” I say awkwardly. It’s then that I realize
this is one of my first “out” experiences. This is incredibly
uncomfortable and somewhat strange, and yet, I have to be
the one to bond with her to show her appreciation for her
understanding. Or else her experience with gay men
becomes sour. It feels as if I represent us all.
Jesus, is this how Marshall feels?
I stick my hand out as I speak. “We may hit some
roadblocks here and there but thank you, Mrs. Liggett.
That’s nice of you to say,” I reply with a small smile.
She takes the bottom of my elbow and holds me close as
we walk. I think she’s going to say some uncomfortable
things about me or homophobia in general, but she
surprises me instead.
“The good coffee isn’t on this floor or in the cafeteria.”
She looks over her shoulder as if she’s guarding a precious
gem. “It’s at the machine on the third floor, near the ICU. I
know what you’re thinking. A machine doesn’t make good
coffee, but I’m telling you, Sheriff, it really does.”
She stops emphatically at a door, and I stop with her. My
eyes move over to the wall that shares space with the door.
There is a large window that curtains me out from
Marshall, who is presumably inside. I point my thumb to
said room.
“Marshall?”
She nods. “No time limit but, remember, he needs rest.
Okay, sweetie?” she says tenderly, patting my arm. I nod,
and she walks away, giving me a moment to breathe before
I enter.
I have no idea what to expect.
I know what shape he was in on the road, in the dark,
then in the poorly lit ambulance. But after surgeries, I don’t
know. I take a breath and imagine myself in the uniform.
My shoulders pull back, and I clear the thickness from my
throat.
Marshall’s head is wrapped for a stereotypical head
injury—white tape around his head, across his forehead,
haphazardly. He literally looks like a soldier in an old-timey
cartoon that just got “boinked” on his head.
He’s asleep, but his eyes are heavy with swelling and
bruising. A butterfly bandage arches his nose. His gown
isn’t fully up on his body, as his chest is so bulky and
strong. His tattoos bleed out from under the white
bandages that wrap his entire injured arm. Somehow, the
other arm appears utterly unscathed.
The starched knitted hospital blanket is up to his waist,
and I don’t dare shift it down to inspect the injuries on his
lower half. If I’ve heard anything tonight, it’s that he needs
rest. I cannot disturb him.
My eyes travel down his unbandaged arm to his hand.
Heaven Ain’t Ready curls over his knuckles. Those words
untouched by the storm.
“Hi,” I say aloud. My voice is low, not because I don’t
want anyone outside to hear but because I don’t want to
wake him.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” I say, drifting to his good side
of the bed. The side with the unscathed arm.
I weave my fingers through his before I can think better
of it. I have to touch him. I need to feel his warm skin
against mine to know that he is okay.
Images of his body on the rocks, the gurgle of his voice,
the desperation in Mason’s eyes as he recounted it… I can’t
fucking shake it. I’m trying to be strong, but I need to know
that he’s okay.
“I love you,” I whisper down to him. My thumb moves
gently over his hand.
With my foot, I drag a chair closer and pull it bedside. I
keep our hands locked, and my thumb tenderly stroking
and fall asleep, my head stuck to the side of the bed.
I will not leave him.

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TWENTY-TWO

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
DO you have any fucking clue how miserable it is to be
awake but not able to open your eyes or speak or move?
It’s absolute fucking torture. Seriously. Everybody talks
about you and touches you and prods you and soothes you
but you can’t say a word. You can’t even flick them off when
all you want to do is be left alone.
I’ve only been awake for one hour, but it’s been the
longest, most torturous hour. I just want to be left alone to
process. I mean, I know the outcome but what I don’t know
is…
What the fuck happened? How the fuck did I wind up in
what smells a lot like and sounds very much like the
Oakcreek Valley Hospital?
The nurses are using these super hushed voices as if
they don’t want to wake me. My brain feels like a fried egg.
Moving free-range across a hot skillet, unable to focus on
one thing until I feel completely cooked.
One of the nurses lists all the medications she’s just
given me through my IV, and I don’t recognize any of the
words except “acetaminophen” and “stool softener.” Why in
the fuck are they giving me old men’s digestive meds? And
holy shit, that list of meds was long.
Another thing about being unable to move or speak is
that you become hyper-aware of all the stuff the rest of you
is doing. Like right now, as the nurse’s cold, gloved fingers
press into my forearm and heat rushes up my veins, I
realize my heart is beating uncontrollably fast.
She realizes too because she mentions it, still quietly, to
the other nurse. Fingers are pushed to my pulse; I think
belonging to another woman because they’re less cold, and
then they have a hushed talk.
A moment later...
 “Sweetheart?” a woman’s hushed voice whispers down
at me. “Your heart rate is up. Can you hear me?”
I scream yes. I beat my chest and shout it, even. I can
feel the veins of strain in my neck as I scream, with every
ounce of oxygen in my lungs, fuck yes, I can hear you!
Only, I don’t.
Because my limbs feel like a trillion fucking
cinderblocks, and my eyes just, well, they fucking won’t
open. I command my body to do fucking something, but it
just lies in that bed, my brain a hamster on a wheel.
My heart races faster.
Am I paralyzed? No. No, no. I can’t be paralyzed. My
family needs me mobile to take care of them. How can I run
the shop, help Max, how can I do any of that if I can’t get
the fuck up?
The gloved hand pats my chest. “Okay, hun. We’re going
to give you something for the panic. Okay? A little anti-
anxiety medicine, alright? You just hang tight.”
Hang tight? And what else would I do? Seal roll out of
the bed with no mobility or vision?
I lie there, and another burst of chemicals shoots
through my veins. But this time, just a moment later, a soft
trickle of warmth moves through my muscles. Everything
inside me softens, my muscles releasing their death grip on
tension. My mind puddles a little, too, and before I can
have another worried thought, I find those heavy eyes
coming in handy, and I drift to sleep.

T he next time I’ m awake , I see a faint sliver of light . M y

head is burning, on fucking fire, actually. I try to dodge the
feeling that lingers over my forehead and the bridge of my
nose, but I can’t because I still can’t fucking move. Really,
what the fuck?
 Instead of internal raging, which does nothing but get
me the sleepy time drugs, I focus on the small stream of
light.
Focus, Marshall, I growl at myself.
But the light is shifting focus, blurry then concentrated,
and the more I try to hone in on it, the harder it is to grasp.
Like a piece of dust dancing in the sun, I can’t quite catch
it.
Then there’s voices again. Hushed, still.
Shit. Are they whispering, or is my hearing bad? As soon
as the thought injects itself into my heart with panic, I hear
a jumbled crash of something not far from me.
“Whoops!” comes the voice of an older woman. She
chuckles and then is promptly hushed by the nurse who
stands over me.
“He’s still out,” she says, keeping her tone low and
controlled.
Do nurses always tiptoe around sleeping patients to let
them rest? I haven’t spent a huge amount of time in the
hospital, not since Dad was here years ago, so I’m not sure
the etiquette. And if they think I’m asleep, that definitely
means I’m not in a coma, so thank God for that.
“How long?” comes the voice of the crash-causing
woman.
I hear the distinct tick of a fingernail against a watch
face. I’m telling you. No movement, no vision, your senses
are spidey-like.
“He came in here around two in the morning. Fell asleep
like that. Been out since.”
Two in the morning? I came in here at two in the
morning and fell asleep? No, that can’t be right.
“I’ll bring him a tray of breakfast here in a bit,” the
other voice says again.
And then the familiar whirr of meds climbing through
my limbs, settling in my nervous system, filling me with my
second favorite warm feeling inside of me. The women in
the room hold a quiet conversation, and I find it hard to
eavesdrop, despite the fact I’m right there.
Because as the meds go to work on whatever is
happening with me, I feel fingers.
Mine? I try to wiggle my fingers, but I don’t feel them
moving, and yet, it feels like my hand is moving. I try to
direct the sliver of vision towards my hand, to see what the
fuck, but no, I still can’t make my neck move. Not even a
fraction of an inch.
And then, frustratingly and dreamily, I am asleep again.

I wake periodically as nurses lift and shift me until I’ m

partially nude in a plastic shower chair. A woman who
whistles rinses me with a hand shower, but I’m so fucking
tired I can’t seem to do much more than lift my arms for
her to wash me.
This happens more than a few times, and I keep thinking
that one of these days, I’ll be able to do more. Wash my
own damn armpit or foot. But I never have enough energy.

H ow can a person have zero perception of time while also

being acutely aware of time? The next time I wake, it feels
like I’ve been asleep for fucking days, and yet, who the hell
really knows?
The burning strapping across my face seems to have
subsided. Opening my jaw, everything feels tight, like I’m
wearing a mask of clay or something. I push against the
weight sitting on my eyelids and am able to take in a few
moments of light before darkness swallows me again.
At that moment, I saw a whiteboard on a wall.
Everything written on it was completely blurry, and I can’t
say for sure it was a whiteboard, but the shape, the light
frame, knowing where I’m at, a whiteboard makes sense
for what I saw.
Still, my eyes won’t stay open. All this muscle, and I’m
too weak to keep my eyes open. Pretty fucking lame. My
awakened mind moves back to my hand. Earlier when I was
awake—was that an hour ago or a day ago? I really don’t
know—I tried to move my hand.
Okay, I can’t do much, so I’ll focus on moving my hand.
That’s something.
Slowly, I imagine wiggling my fingers. I don’t feel them
moving, though, so I try again. This time, it feels like they
stir a little but meet resistance. Is my hand wrapped in a
bandage? I don’t know. Then there’s a jostling. My fingers
feel like they swell and grow tight immediately.
I realize that my face has feeling.
Something brushes over my cheek before smoothing
down my beard. My fingers tighten again but then, no,
someone else’s fingers tighten around mine.
That’s what the feeling is that I couldn’t place a moment
earlier.
“Marshall.”
My thudding heart goes into immediate overdrive. In
that familiar timbre that sets my skin on fire, he says my
name again. “Marshall.”
My fingers are pinched between his as he grips my hand
tighter.
“Nurse,” he calls out, the first loud voice I’ve heard in
who knows how long. Everyone has been trying so hard to
stay quiet. It feels good to hear more than a whisper.
“He opened his eyes, and I felt his hand move,” Dave
says, his voice thin with exhaustion. He sounds like that
after working back-to-back night shifts. He’s exhausted,
which means I’ve probably been in here at least a day. No,
I’ve been drug into the shower room a few times. Maybe
three days?
 Why am I here? Before my brain can tear into the big
question, a low hum begins to rumble underneath me. And
then a quiet squealing grabs my breath in a jolt as the bed
floats up, my waist tucking into itself.
It hurts but if this jolts my body into some sort of
medical awareness, I’ll take the pain. I want to know what
the fuck is going on.
Of everything I can’t feel, one thing is unmistakable.
Dave’s rough fingertips stroke down the length of my
forearm. He rubs up and down my arm, the tips tangling in
my arm hair. In a tone that reminds me of a ship balancing
on still waters, he leans over the bed.
“Marshall, baby, it’s me. I don’t know if you can hear me
or what you remember, but there was an accident, and
you’re at the hospital. You’re going to be okay.”
I don’t know if it’s the Sheriff in him or if it’s his ability
to read my mind, but he tells me exactly what I want to
know, threadbare with no details, but it’s a start.
There was an accident.
Another nurse must come in because there’s a new voice
in the room.
“Bad time?” the voice questions.
“Just checking the vitals. No reason for meds now if he
seems comfortable.” The nurse touches her hand to my
wrist, and I can hear the vicious scribbling of her pen
against a paper. “Stirring is normal as a person tries to
wake up from a traumatic brain injury,” the same woman
says.
“It’s a good sign, right? That he’s going to wake up
soon?” Dave asks the woman. I realize now that it isn’t just
fatigue in his voice but pain. The velvety gravel of his tone
now sounds more like broken glass that’s been ground
down into the asphalt. Once sharp, now barely there.
“Yes,” the nurse replies simply.
“I can do that,” Dave says, but I don’t know who or what
about.
 “I know to stay away from the bandages,” he adds.
“Okay,” the second woman says.
“Can you uh, close the door?” Dave asks, his voice
growing louder or closer to me; I can’t decide.
Moments later, the door clicks shut. I try again to open
my eyes or move or, well, anything. This time, though, I feel
more immobile from exhaustion than I do from paralysis.
And Dave didn’t say, ‘you’re going to be paralyzed,’ so I
must not be. Right? Then again, would he tell me if I’m in
this dazed, sleeping, medically defunct state?
Fuck, my whole body feels like it’s spinning as fast as
my head does when I try to figure out just what’s
happening. There was an accident. That’s all I can focus on
as cool air drifts over my toes and up the bottoms of my
feet.
Accident.
Accident.
Making my mind focus right now seems as easy as it is
to simply summit Everest. Sharp glints of light flash behind
my eyes as the word ‘stop’ catches in my throat. A memory,
I think that’s what it is, saturates my awareness. The
memory takes over.
The sound of my ribs giving into the metal grill of the
truck fills my ears. Drowns out all noises. Cracks so
internally loud that my eyes shoot open for a split second
before falling shut again. I can’t see anything for the
second they opened, but I know Dave saw.
But I can’t get to him. I can’t speak to him or reach for
him or contact him, no matter how hard I struggle.
And not because I can’t move or speak.
But because the accident creeps into my peripheral and
pops up, devouring everything else. My arm catches fire as
I remember the asphalt eating through my skin as I slid
across the wet road.
My bike. I remember I was on my bike. Was I hit on my
bike?
 I want to stay in this moment to solve all my problems.
To know what happened. But recalling a molecule of the
jarring events leaves me in a hazy, sleepy state.
Dave runs a cool cloth over the bottom of my foot, and
that’s the last thing I remember before I fall asleep.
Again.

OceanofPDF.com
TWENTY-THREE

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
THE NEXT TIME I wake up, I feel so much differently.
Lighter. A panicked moment wherein I think I’m dead and
leaving my body comes and goes quickly when I’m brought
down to reality by a pair of lips.
Opening my eyes, it takes me a few solid blinks to begin
seeing again. Despite my best efforts, I can’t seem to get
rid of the double vision. The whiteboard is there on the
wall, like I suspected, and hovering slightly above it is
another one. It floats, so I close my eyes to prevent
dizziness from taking over.
The lips dust over mine again, and then I feel my
favorite palm rake over the side of my face, cupping it for a
moment.
“Hey,” Dave says. I don’t open my eyes again for fear of
spinning out, but his lips press against mine again, and
something inside me takes flight. And moments later, a soft
giggle sounds off next to me.
“That made his heart jump,” the voice says. Presumably
a nurse.
“He opened his eyes a lot, and his hands have been
grabbing,” Dave reports to the nurse.
Had I been opening my eyes? I couldn’t remember doing
it at any point except just now. But he’d seen me do it, so I
must’ve.
“I’ll leave you to this again today; that’s what you wrote
as his preference, right?” the nurse asks, and fuck is it ever
annoying not to know what everyone is talking about. I try
again to open my eyes, and it works.
I blink slowly, waiting for shit to align in my brain. When
my eyes focus, I see Dave.
He’s wearing black sweat pants and a gray hoodie. His
golden hair, usually styled to perfection, is product-free,
messy, and long. He shoves a hand through it, pushing it
away from his face. His normally square jaw hides behind a
new but small blonde beard. His fair skin shows his
exhaustion in rings of darkness pooling under his eyes, and
shadows on his face depict hollowed cheeks as if he’s lost
weight.
The last time I saw Dave look rough was when I broke
up with him after Halloween. Now though, he looks so
much worse. Exhausted and gaunt.
The door closes, and that’s when he notices my eyes are
open. His head whips back to the door, but then he looks
back to me without calling the nurse back in.
Taking a seat on the sliver of mattress next to my hip, he
takes one of my hands in both of his. He lowers partially as
he lifts my hand the other part of the way and presses his
lips to my knuckles. His eyes, though, never leave mine.
“The doctors have told me to not overwhelm you in
these small moments that you’re awake,” he says, his voice
growing rockier with each word.
He opens his mouth but closes it again without
speaking. His eyes fill, but he doesn’t blink. He just stares.
His eyes work over my forehead, down the side of my face,
through my beard, to my collarbone then come back up to
my eyes.
“I’ve never been so scared, Marshall,” he whispers. “I
thought my life was over. Because if something happens to
you, my life is over.” He lifts my hand up and holds it to his
scruffy cheek. He kisses my knuckles again before tucking
my hand down by my side again.
My jaw clicks painfully as I struggle to open it. Dave
notices and reaches out to me, settling his thumbs along
the hinges of my jaw. He kneads and massages as I open
and close. We say nothing. He rubs my face and open and
closes my mouth, which leads to enough discomfort to steal
my breath for a minute.
 Tiny tubes lodged into my nose release a cool stream of
air as Dave twists a knob at my bedside. I wheeze a few
more times before my chest feels settled again.
“Try again,” he says in a voice so low I start to wonder if
my hearing is off or damaged at the very least.
Inhaling, I fill my lungs and hold the air there for a
moment, testing what I can do. I’ve never had to ask myself
if I could speak before. But getting winded trying to work
my jaw has me wondering how bad off I am.
“Hi,” I say, my voice so rough and torn up that I actually
laugh a little. Dave’s eyes widen, and a broad smile takes
over his face.
Then his eyes fill again, and goddamnit, why do his
emotions always wreck me.
I can’t lift my hand quite yet; I feel too tired. So instead,
I uncurl my fingers and stretch towards him, using my eyes
to show him. He sees and links our fingers together.
Our fused fingers send a whip of electricity up my arm,
making my heart flare.
“What’s wrong with me?” I choose those four words
carefully, as I can already feel the fatigue of being alert
setting in.
He nods as if he was expecting and preparing for this.
“You have three broken ribs, your left leg has three
closed fractures in the tibia which may or may not heal on
their own, your spleen was punctured, but it’s been
repaired. You have twenty-seven stitches from a decent
gash you took.”
He runs a finger down the back of his arm, starting near
the armpit down to just below the elbow. He clears his
throat just a tiny bit and takes a breath.
“And you have bleeding in your brain. The doctors
believe it will reabsorb, but if not, well, we’ll deal with it
when it comes. You suffered what they call a traumatic
brain injury. You can suffer hearing and vision loss for a
while, as well as short-term memory loss, confusion, night
terrors, and the list goes on.”
My head nods as I process.
“You’re going to be okay. And as much as I want to be in
this moment, just you and I, I have to get the nurse and tell
her you’re awake and talking. Because…” he trails off,
smoothing his strong fingers up my arm. “This is what
we’ve been waiting for. This is the moment that I know
everything is going to be okay. You woke up.”
Now is when a stream of tears pushes through his lashes
and swim down his cheek, getting lost in his new beard. I
know my heart is beating faster at this moment. I don’t
need to look at the monitor.
I want to ask him what happened. I want details of the
accident. Why the fuck was I riding on Gull at night,
anyway?
I know better than that.
But I can’t. Because he’s gone and back with a nurse in
a matter of moments. He explains things to her.
He’s awake, he says, and he said five words, and they
made sense, he explains. His excitement brings me fear.
How bad off was I that he’s nearly floating with delight at
me saying “Hi, what’s wrong with me”?
The nurse asks me just three questions and as she turns
to Dave, I succumb to the overwhelming exhaustion that
apparently now follows speaking five words.

T he next time I open my eyes , I feel completely fucking

different. Night and day.
Only, this version of day still does not include complete
mobility. It does, however, include energy and fucking WAY
more of it than I’ve had in the last howevermany days. Yes,
that’s how I’m counting things now. Without a calendar or
ability to know what the hell is going on, howevermany is
now a unit of measurement for me.
I wake to a pair of familiar hands kneading my scalp.
The last time I felt these fingertips in my hair was under
much better circumstances.
At home, in the shower, naked and hard.
A rumble moves through my chest at the thought. I’ve
been laid up too long. Hurt or not, I’m still a man.
“That feels good,” I grumble out. He stops, immediately
dipping his fucking handsome face right in front of mine.
So close I can smell his intoxicating morning scent of coffee
and musky skin. His morning pre-shower smell works like a
fluffer to my cock. What little blood was recirculating in my
brain starts to reroute.
“You’re awake again,” he says, breathlessly but still in
such a masculine way that the tent in my pants rises up
even more.
“I am,” I say, testing my voice out again. “What
happened?”
I feel strong enough that I think I’ll actually be able to
stay awake for the answer. And then, as he pulls his fingers
through a terry cloth towel and sits next to me on the bed, I
ask another question.
“What day is it?”
“Monday,” he says.
“Fuck,” I groan, “I’ve been in here for three fucking
days?” I remember riding on Friday. “I came in on a Friday,
right?”
Dave does this uncomfortable swallow where his ears
kind of dip and his face grows uneasy. Vertical lines run
through his forehead as he reaches out to finger comb my
hair.
“Baby,” I say. He ceases his movement and sits down
next to me, his weight dipping the small mattress.
“The accident was on a Friday, yes,” he says. “But that
was eighteen days ago. You’ve been in here nearly three
weeks. Well, it will be three weeks on Friday.”
“Dave, do you really think you should be fucking with
me when I’m laid up like this?” I ask, shaking my head. I
want to smirk, but I don’t.
I really don’t because his face stays serious. No tell-tale
curl of the lips when he’s trolling me.
“You were in and out of consciousness the entire time.
We didn’t know how much you were aware of or were able
to remember or, well, anything.” He takes a breath and
rubs the heels of his palms to his eyes before pushing out a
deep breath.
“God, Marshall, I’m so fucking glad to see your eyes and
hear your voice.” Now I know why he was rubbing his eyes.
“I’ve really been in here eighteen days?” I ask, my voice
hoarse. I look over to the vinyl and wood chair next to my
bed. There’s a hospital bedsheet clumped up on it as well
as a balled-up sweatshirt and one bed pillow. “You taking a
nap?” I ask, looking at the makeshift bed.
He nods. “You have been in here since that Friday night.
That’s when the accident happened.” He tilts his head in
the direction of the chair and then looks back to me, not
addressing my second question.
But mention of the accident is all I need. “Tell me about
the accident.”
He rises from the bed, and I don’t like it.
On his feet, he paces next to me, and its dizzying but
somehow, I can’t keep my eyes off of him. His slender
frame and unruly hair. And the beard. God, he looks good in
a beard. Like Charlie Hunnam only better because he’s
mine, and yes, I fucking like Charlie Hunnam and no, it’s
not because of the biker show.
Maybe only a little.
“When’s the last time you were home?” I ask, before he
can even answer the first question I asked.
He stops his pacing and looks at me with zero
expression. “The accident,” he starts, pacing again. “It was
Friday night, the night of the Christmas Gala.”
Oh shit. Christmas. I fucking missed Christmas. It was a
week after the Gala, and if I’ve been in this place three
weeks, I missed fucking Christmas.
“I missed Max’s first Christmas,” I say to him, heat
burning my eyes. My nephew deserves the best life ever,
and I have to be part of that. He’ll never have a cool
grandfather, but I can make up for that. I have to be there
to do that, though. “Fuck,” I say, sounding less choked up
than I feel.
“Baby, can I just tell you what happened?” he says,
sounding all kinds of stressed. That’s my guy, though. He
gets worked up and I help him work it out, and fuck; it’s
rewarding to be with a strong man that accepts help.
“Sorry,” I say, “I just can’t believe I missed Max’s first
Christmas.”
He stops his pacing again and cocks his head to the side,
and gives me a private, tender smile. “You didn’t. We
haven’t celebrated yet. We’re waiting for you.”
My heart feels like it grows a size bigger. My face
tingles, and my eyes burn. “Thank you,” I say, knowing he’s
probably as responsible for the delay as Delilah.
He gives me a soul-scorching wink before continuing.
“I was slated to pick you up at the house—our house—at
6:30,” he says, stopping to face me. “Do you remember
that?”
I mindlessly study the whiteboard on the wall, full of
blue ink directions for my well-being. But I don’t read any
of it. Instead, I search the nooks and crannies of my sore
brain for a memory of that night.
“We were going to go to the Gala together. I told the
Department about you and me a few days before that. Do
you remember?”
I can nearly feel his throat under my palm as his words
come back to me. Wilkerson’s wife’s brother is gay. It went
good. They were… good.
 “Yeah,” I say, “I remember you coming home and…” I lift
my arm and scratch my head. Still not used to my arms
feeling so heavy.
“And you were trying on your tuxedo for the Gala the
next night.”
A rush of memories floods back to me, warming me like
an electric blanket. Pinning Dave to the wall, his mouth
around me, him deep inside of me. His dirty coaxing and
his wild release. Embers ignite under the surface of my
skin, and I get hot everywhere just at the faintest memories
of us.
“Yeah,” I say, curling my lips. “I remember.”
He doesn’t bask in the memories of our wild attraction
from that night. Instead, his face stays solemn, and he
continues. Somewhere inside of me, a sprout of worry
emerges.
“Well, the day of the Gala, I went to see my father. Well,
I went to see my parents. I didn’t tell you about it because,
honestly, I didn’t want it to be a fucking cloud of shit
hovering over our night. But I figured since I’d come out at
work that I should just tell my parents. And I didn’t want
our Christmas to be ruined.”
He stops pacing again and does this sad smirk that
fertilizes that sprout of worry, just slightly.
“Ironic now, but anyway.”
He tugs off the hoodie and tosses it over the bed. He’s
wearing dark jeans and a white v-neck t-shirt. With his new
beard, he looks so different. I feel like I’m crushing on a
stranger, but really, it’s just a different version of my man.
He tugs the shirt down and smooths his fingers through
his hair before continuing. “I was going to pick you up at
6:30. I went to get my tux first, then went to my parents
after, thinking I’d get it over with, get you, and we’d have
the night we were supposed to have on Halloween. The
night I ruined.”
 I swallow, my mouth and throat suddenly so dry.
Glancing up, I notice my heart is working at a quicker beat,
too.
“I think that you think I didn’t show up because I had
doubts about us,” he says, his voice starting to stretch thin,
holes appearing every few words. He stops, his eyes wet.
“But that’s not what happened, Marshall. And it’s my fault
you think that because I did do that to you back in October.
I did. But this time, I fucking swear to you, baby, that
wasn’t it.”
He comes to the side of the bed and links my left hand
through his right. He strokes a thumb over my palm. His
chest rises and falls quickly, and his blue eyes are so wide.
“I should’ve told you the truth. I should have told you
that I was going over there that day, but I just, I really
wanted to make that night special for us. A do-over, you
know? And I never thought he’d fucking pull a shotgun on
me, you know?”
“What?” I rasp out, leaning forward in my bed so fast
and far that Dave literally steps forward and grips my
shoulders, his face right at mine in a moment.
“Are you okay? Your ribs are still healing,” he says,
inspecting my core like he’ll see the soreness.
“He shot at you?” I ask, my head spinning for the
millionth time.
He sits on the edge of my bed, and I’m grateful because
the pacing was winding me up.
“I went there, and I said I’m gay. First, he said, ‘so you
like to have sex with men huh?’ and then he insinuated that
I become a Sheriff so that I could coerce men into being
“faggots” for me.”
My head shakes involuntarily. My mouth hangs open
silently.
“And then he said ‘I won’t have a gay son’ and when I
told him he should love me no matter what, he said ‘I don’t
love faggots.’ And I just, snapped a little. Because this
entire time, I stayed in the closet because of him and
people like him.”
He runs both hands through his hair as I watch the day
unfold in his mind. “I said, I’m a faggot, dad, do you love
me?” He pauses to shake his head, then he laughs a little, a
crazy and detached laugh that makes me hurt for him,
everywhere.
“He pulled a gun on me, and I took it from him. Then
when I went to leave, he grabbed it and fired off.”
As if it just happened, my eyes roll up and down his
body, and he laughs a little in response, probably realizing
how ridiculous it is to be worried now. But I couldn’t worry
then because I didn’t know.
“I would have gone with you,” I say.
“I know, but I didn’t want that for us.” He scratches at
the side of his jaw before meeting my eyes again. Biting at
the corner of his mouth for a minute—god, he’s nervous—
he finally says, “I kind of knew it would go badly. I mean, I
didn’t fucking think he’d shoot at me, but yeah, I didn’t
think it was going to magically be good.”
I nod.
“I was in a state of shock, I think, for the hour after he
pulled the trigger. I just kept following rules so that I could
get him locked up. I called dispatch. I filed a report outside
the Department with Hernandez. Then when everything
was done, and he was in custody, I realized how late it was.
Then Delilah called me and said she saw you riding out on
Gull, despite the fact that the storm had just rolled in.”
He pauses, leans down over me, and presses his lips to
mine. I get lost in the impromptu kiss, and when he pulls
away, it almost hurts.
Unexpectedly, he grabs my face in his hands and tilts his
forehead into mine. “I fucking hate that I left you waiting,
not knowing. I hate that you rode off thinking I didn’t love
you enough.” He kisses me again.
 Then he pulls away and goes to a table nearby, where he
digs through his duffel bag. Finally, he pulls a worn white
envelope out and hands it to me.
“This is a copy of the report. When my dad got arrested.
You can read my statement and the times and everything,”
he says, his hand slightly shaking as he extends it out to
me.
It occurs to me then that he doesn’t expect me to believe
him. He’s giving me proof. Then it occurs to me that the
last eighteen days, he’s been thinking I’m done with him.
That I drove off that night because it was over.
I massage the tips of my fingers into my temple as a
memory of texting Anna comes back to me. “I didn’t think
you were going to show up; I remember that,” I say as it
comes back. “Delilah,” I say suddenly, remembering that
call. “She said she saw you out front of the Department just
talking, and I thought, I thought you saw your dad and then
changed your mind.”
“How’d you know I was at my parents?”
My lips droop into a frown as the memories come back. I
smooth my fingers over the edge of the sheet, swallowing
down all the hurt I felt that day.
“Anna told me. Because you told her.”
“Fuck,” he sighs out. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I
didn’t tell you. I thought I was protecting you, I guess.”
He takes a deep breath and nods to the envelope that
he’s slid between my fingers and thumb. “You gonna read
it?”
I’m a bit seasick from the wave of information washing
over me. I lift the envelope, flip it in my hands, smooth my
fingers over the seal. “Nah,” I reply, dropping it into the
tiny green bag that hangs from the tray near my bed. “I
trust you.”
“I went straight out to Gull when I hung up with Delilah.
I didn’t even know there was an accident. I thought I’d
catch up with you.” He grips the bedrail now, leaning over
me, his eyes studying every scratch on me all at once.
“Mason,” he says, jarring the boy free from a locked
place in my brain. I’d forgotten all about Mason.
And with just that one name, the entire night starts
rushing back to me.

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GRANT
I DON’T JUST REMEMBER the night how it happened.
This time, my brain is on overdrive, weaving Dave’s
actuality of that night with my perception of it, making me
sick.
Seriously.
“Sit me up,” I tell Dave. Using the bed’s remote, he
moves me, so my sore body has less work to do. I grip the
bed rail as I swing my legs over.
“You can’t walk yet, Mars. The nurse said—”
“I know,” I gripe, swatting his hand away as he reaches
out like one would do for a fucking granny. “I just want to
sit the fuck up for a minute, alright?”
“Alright,” he says gently, stuffing his hands into his jeans
pockets. I let out a hum of guilt as I take him in. “I’m sorry
I snapped at you,” I tell him.
Then I take a deep breath and ask him for a minute to
weave it all together. The fabric of that night is now
stitching together at an overwhelming rate.
I did think that he freaked out. The asshole wall. I
thought he hit it and didn’t make it over. And I couldn’t do
it again. The loss of him after Halloween had been so
profound. I couldn’t hang on again just to be dropped
again.
I took off.
Despite the storm I knew was coming, I rode in the rain.
I’d planned to go to our spot. He’d chosen fear over love,
I’d thought, and so I also thought that meant I had to let
him go.
But really, I ran off when he needed me the most.
“Dave,” I say, overwhelmed by the sudden need to rest
the weight of my head into my palm. “I’m dizzy,” I admit. I
really fucking hate that I can’t even sit up for more than a
minute without feeling off.
His large palm flattens down my back as I let him bear
my weight, settling me back. He grips the side of the bed,
leaning over at the waist. His blue eyes are so clear right
now. He blinks lazily, a faint smile on his lips.
“You’re alive, baby,” he whispers in this erotic, smokey
rasp that makes my cock thicken immediately. Fuck, when
he gets affectionate in that low tone, it just wrecks me.
Hospital bed or not, I feel his timbre in my lower half.
I want to apologize—I should never have ridden off like
that. It was a childish, knee-jerk reaction. I should have
known he wasn’t going to choose anything over me.
“I’m sorry—” I start but am interrupted by a stream of
loud family members pushing through the door.
“More than one visitor! Finally!” Delilah cheers,
magnetizing to the side of my bed opposite Dave. She
fishes her fingers through mine as tears spill over her
cheeks.
“I’m so glad you’re okay, Marshall,” she says through
broken sobs, ugly crying into my chest. Thorne rubs her
back once before extending a curled fist to me.
I bump it, then Ry’s. Their eyes are wet, evidence of
their emotions staining their cheeks.
“Glad you woke up,” Thorne says, trying to control his
wavering tone. I give him a wink and another to Ry.
“I was just about to claim the shop,” Ry says with a
gentle smile after swiping his wrist under his nose.
“If I wouldn’t have made it, I would have come back as a
ghost to haunt End of the Trail,” I say to my brothers. In a
wavering ghost voice I add, “clean up your messes,
wooooo.”
They snort with laughter, which helps slow the tears.
Delilah extends a hand over my chest to Dave. He looks
at it curiously before taking it. She rubs his palm with her
other hand as she squeezes him gently.
 “I was hoping you could go grab Max? He’s in the
waiting area with his grandparents. Would you get him,
Dave? He misses you, too,” she adds.
Dave nods immediately. “Of course.” He wiggles his
fingers anxiously at me. “I missed that squishy baby belly
and that smell.”
This is how I know I’m a middle-aged man ready to
settle down. My man talking about needing baby snuggles
threatens to make me hard in front of my entire family.
I wink, and it gives me goosebumps and chills and
butterflies and fucking everything.
When he heads out of the room, my siblings stare at me
as if they’re waiting for me to get the punchline of a joke I
never heard.
“What?” I ask.
“We took your clothes home. The ones they cut off you
the night you came in,” Delilah says, crossing her arms
over her chest. She purses her lips in a way that makes me
feel like I’m in trouble.
“What?” I ask again, growing grouchy.
Thorne stuffs his hand in his jeans pocket and pulls it
out, uncurling his fingers theatrically slow.
“You were going to do this without telling us first?”
Delilah says, pointing to the two gold wedding bands that
sit stacked in Thorne’s palm.
“Not cool, man,” Ry adds with a distasteful shake of his
head.
“I wasn’t going to elope; I was going to propose after the
Gala,” I tell them, lowering my voice in case Dave’s got pep
in his step on the way back from getting Max.
“We get that,” Thorne replies, surprising me with his
hurt expression. I didn’t know they were so invested in my
relationship with Dave. “But you should have told us.”
“Uh,” I say awkwardly, trying to process. “Okay, I’m
sorry?”
 “It’s okay,” Delilah squeals, pressing her palms together
under her chin. “Because now we know, and we can help.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need help.”
She pops a hip and cocks a brow, her long dark hair
falling over her shoulder. “No?”
My mouth seems to go dry. “No,” I answer decidedly.
Thorne winces, and Ry’s eyebrows raise up to his
hairline. “Dude,” one of them says, but I don’t know which
because I’m focused on Delilah.
“What?” I ask, thoroughly confused.
“You know Marshall; I used to think the gayest thing
about you was the fact that you like to have sex with men.
But after the accident, I realized you have a flair for the
dramatics.” She studies her nails as she delivers my
diagnosis as if none of it phases her.
“Very dramatic,” Ry chirps.
“So much drama,” Thorne says.
What the actual fuck? Me? Drama? I press a finger to my
sternum, confusion rippling through my forehead in
vertical lines of strain. “Me?” I ask, confused.
They nod in unison.
“How?” I bark.
“Aside from the fact that you throw a fit if the shop isn’t
spotless, which, by the way, newsflash. It’s a motorcycle
shop, bro. It’s meant to be messy and greasy,” Ry says,
sounding way too fucking confident.
“Newsflash, nowhere needs to be greasy and messy. And
don’t act like it was grease from the bikes. It was grease
from your fast-food-licking fingers,” I say. “And I don’t
throw a fit,” I respond defensively, air quoting the alleged
response.
“And you’re very pissy when you don’t get your way.”
Thorne joins.
“I am not,” I protest.
“You are,” Delilah says in a tone a judge uses to deliver
a verdict. It’s been decided. She’s ruled. “But mostly, Dave
was late to pick you up, and you thought he was breaking
up with you.” She looks up from her nails, finally. “That’s
very dramatic.”
I shake my head, annoyed. “He stood me up in October
for the Halloween party. I thought he was doing it again,” I
say, realizing that, yeah, it does sound fairly dramatic
hearing it back this way.
Fuck, are they right?
“We know. Because Dave has told us everything about
the two of you, from the night you met on the overlook up
until the night of the Gala.”
I swallow thickly, briefly imagining Dave explaining
bottoming and topping to my clueless siblings. Cold sweat
sheens over my skin before I realize that’s not likely to
have been included in their conversations.
“Yeah?” I ask with surprise. Dave had never been
talkative about us. Because he never could be.
They nod again in unison. Ry reties his man bun before
shoving his hands in his jeans, nodding. “The guy is fucking
cool as shit,” he says, looking surprised.
“I know that,” I reply, “because he’s my partner.”
“He hasn’t left the hospital, you know,” Delilah adds.
The guys look at me.
“You mean, he didn’t leave right away,” I clarify because
it’s been nearly three weeks. He has to shower; he has to
work. He can’t be here all the time.
Then they shake their heads in unison.
Delilah leans back, so I can see the bathroom that is
attached to my room. I’m familiar with it, as they’ve rolled
me in it a few times to get a pathetic version of a shower.
Then she points to Ry, who leans to the side, exposing that
same ancient vinyl and wood-laden chair that held a balled-
up sheet and white pillow.
“He’s using his vacation time. He showers in here, and
he sleeps there.” Delilah says.
 “He saved you, you know. Scaled down the side of Gull
in the pitch-black pouring rain until he found you. Stayed
with you until EMTs came and helped get you up, rode in
the ambulance. Only time he wasn’t right next to you was
when you were in surgery and surgical recovery.” Thorne
says thoughtfully.
I smooth my hands through my hair, then down my
beard, knowing the moment I stop moving that the
overwhelming love I have for Dave will take over. He’s lived
in a chair in my room for weeks. Would I have done that?
I’d like to say I would, but he actually did.
“He’s introduced himself as your partner or boyfriend if
someone doesn’t get what partner means.” Ry rolls his eyes
dramatically. “Which has actually happened a few times.”
“Dave is like, too manly for the boyfriend title,” Thorne
thinks aloud. Ry nods in agreement.
“Totally. He’s more like, manfriend.”
My head volleys between them as they debate Dave’s
title.
“Nah,” Thorne says, “because manfriend doesn’t imply
the romantic aspect. It’s not clear enough.”
“True,” Ry replies, stroking the underside of his chin in
thought.
“Anyway,” Delilah interjects with an eye-roll toward our
brothers. “I know you were worried he wouldn’t commit
completely but Mars…” she looks off dreamily. “I’m even in
love with him now.”
Then they really send home their point. “And you drove
off on the most dangerous road in town at night in the
rain,” Thorne says while they narrow their gazes at me
disapprovingly.
“Okay,” I say, chuckling to rid the lump from my throat.
“Your point is made.”
“Not yet,” Delilah waves a finger at me. “We want to be
part of the proposal plan. We want him to know he’s part of
our family.”
 I swallow hard at that. “You know what happened with
his folks?”
Ry rolls his eyes. “We knew before you,” he says.
Delilah softens her tone and squeezes my forearm. “We
love him, Mars.”
“We want him to know he’s part of the family but let the
record show that Delilah is forcing us to do this part,”
Thorne says, looking to Ry for acknowledgment.
“This part,” I say, tipping my head to the rings which
Thorne is currently repocketing. “Wasn’t going to be a big
thing. I was just going to take him to our favorite place and
ask.”
I stare at Delilah, who stares blankly back at me.
Drawing it out, she says, “and then you realized he
saved your life and took care of you for three weeks, and a
plain engagement would no longer be sufficed.”
Ry and Thorne nod up and down emphatically.
“Yes,” I draw out to Delilah, learning I apparently can’t
go the simple route anymore. “Yes, exactly.”
I never thought of myself as the big fucking production
type of guy, but then again, maybe La is right. Maybe I owe
it to him since I pretty much caused this whole damn
nightmare. And it would be good if he knew that my family
is now our family, with or without a ring.
Well, with a ring, though, because I want to propose now
more than ever.
“I just want to be walking and out of here before I do,” I
tell her. “No lame hospital engagements.”
“Okay,” Delilah squeals quietly. “I’m so excited.”
The door pushes open, and in comes Dave, with a happy,
cherry-cheeked Max held to his chest. They smile together,
and my entire body longs for them.
That, I think to myself. I want that.

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GRANT
WHEN THE HOSPITAL staff first got me out of bed, I’d asked
Dave if I could do it alone.
He looked hurt and confused but, in front of a room of
two physical therapists and one nurse, I put it all out there.
I’d always been the one between the two of us that put it
out there, hard or uncomfortable. Now that Dave has
opened himself up to me, it doesn’t feel like being
vulnerable and taking a risk to simply tell him how I feel.
It just feels… normal. Like any normal, healthy
relationship would.
“Hey,” I said, nodding him to where I gripped the side of
the bed. He stalled a moment as if he needed a second to
realize that we aren’t hiding anymore. He does that
sometimes still, his brain needing a quiet moment of
calibration.
Coming to my side, I took his hand and squeezed it. “I
need to do this with my girl Reese, okay?” I pulled our
joined hands to my knee and watched his fingertips fan out
over my pajama pants, ones he’d had Anna bring to me.
“Okay,” he said finally. I tapped my lips. He rolled his
eyes and smirked but bent down and sealed his lips to
mine. I reached up with my bandaged hand and took his
jaw with force, groaning into his lips as I held him there.
He stood up and stepped back, taking his lingering hand
with him.
Reese and her partner stood with their hands draped
over their chests, heart emojis bouncing around in their
eyes. I cocked my head to the side to her. “What?”
She shook her head.
“It’s too much for my single heart. You guys are so cute,
and oh god, I know I should be better than this, but I just
didn’t expect two, like, mega manly guys to be so cute
together.”
Dave’s cheeks redden, and I can see watching him get
comfortable with being out in front of others is going to be
entertaining. His pinkened cheeks and nervous body
language sends a growl from the depths of my belly to my
throat.
“You’re making him shy,” I said to Reese in teasing in my
tone.
“Okay,” Dave chimed in, “I’m going to get coffee and
breakfast for the entire floor. I’ll be back in an hour.” He
waved me off and ducked out. I chuckled to Reese.
They’d been doing x-rays on my leg, and it turns out, for
now, it doesn’t seem like I’ll need surgery. Closed fracture
in the tibia healed with the bed rest I’d had, but still, I’ve
got it in a hard cast and boot for another six weeks anyway.
Allegedly they’d been lifting my limbs every day,
massaging and stretching, and all that shit. Keeping things
moving while I was out.
But now, three days into physical therapy, I’m pretty
sure that was all bullshit.

M y hips burn with each tiny fucking step of my rubbery

sock and bandaged-bottomed-foot against the tile floor.
Speaking of bottoming.
I remember the first time I ever bottomed. I was young,
figuring shit out, trying to understand what I liked and
what was out there. The guy I was with was older, more
experienced, not subtle or slow. He slammed into me so
fucking hard that I didn’t bottom for another year after
that. The burn of accepting him into my body in one push
was fucking traumatic.
I’d take that burning agony compared to this shit.
 Four lazy steps—which are more sliding than actual
steps—and I’m drenched in sweat. Who knew lying in a bed
for two-plus weeks would make you so goddamn sore? Then
again, I suppose the accident is what’s making me sore, as
much as the lying.
The physical therapist, Reese, is this twenty-something
blonde girl with glasses. She’s swapped her normal
ponytail for two braids today. She can’t weigh more than a
buck twenty, and yet here she is, holding tight to the
canvas strap around my waist, cheering me on.
We stop after just a minute, and she smiles cheerfully at
me as I sweat and pant, clawing at the chair rail lining the
hospital wall.
“You are doing so good, Marshall,” she says in this really
high pitch tone that makes my eyeballs vibrate in my skull.
Slowly, I turn my head to face her, the rest of my body
slumped, nearly fusing to the wall.
“Five steps, and I feel like I just PR’d a fucking deadlift,”
I pant out to her as a single drop of sweat rolls through my
hairline, down my forehead. I wipe it from the bridge of my
nose.
“You’re such a big guy; you’ll get it back in no time.”
She stuffs her hand through the canvas belt at my back and
jerks it back, harder than I’d have thought she’d be capable
of. I pop an eyebrow at her.
She smirks delightfully, tossing the end of a honey-
colored braid over her shoulder. “No one expects me to be
strong,” she whispers, shoving the sleeve of her thermal up
to her elbows. “I’m really strong,” she adds before she
jerks the belt again.
My spine straightens to her tug, and then I’m back to
creeping my way down the hallway like a senior fucking
citizen. It takes us an entire hour to make it down the
corridor, but as the physical therapist promises, it does get
a lot easier, quickly.
T he next few days , I do that hall significantly faster every
time. At the end of my first week of being alert and awake
(and actively trying to jump through all of the fucking
hoops to get me the hell out of the hospital), I’m able to
walk up and down that hall without gripping the wall like
an invalid.
It still drenches me in a sweat so heavy I feel like I’ve
just showered, but still, I can do it unassisted. That’s the
first test to getting out of here.
Walk unassisted.
I get a small cheat on that, though, since I’ve got the
lower half of one leg in a cast. I get to use a single crutch
to limp-walk, and it still passes their test.
I flop onto the edge of the seat in my room, no longer
willingly sitting in that damn bed unless they force me.
Elbows to my knees, I drop my head and begin to steady
my breathing post morning walk. This morning, I did four
laps of that fucking hall. They didn’t ask me, I just needed
to move.
I’m so fucking anxious to get out of here, it’s insane.
What’s crazier is this intense, all-consuming, dick-
hardening, heart-pounding obsession I have with my man
now.
Loved him before. Yeah, no denying that.
But lying in a bed gives you time to reflect. After Dave
would read a few chapters in his Louis L’Amour book in the
evenings before dozing off in the uncomfortable chair (he
still will not leave my side), I reflected.
He fucked up at Halloween. Yeah, I didn’t let my hard
cock rewrite history.
But he changed.
He fucked up, saw the cost, and changed. He did all the
things I’d always wanted for us, and then some, really. I
can’t even let myself picture him scaling the side of the
ravine on Gull in a tuxedo looking like a model trying to
hunt for me. It makes me warm with so much love and
pride that my eyes grow moist.
“Okay Mr. Marshall,” today’s nurse says as she saunters
in with a wheelchair. “You have two tests upstairs and if
those come back okay, then you can get discharged
tomorrow.”
I slam my mitts together in celebration. “Fucking hell,
thank god,” I ground out, before wincing. “Sorry, ma’am,” I
tell the nurse, who poses with her hands on her hips,
unimpressed with my colorful language.
“You’re walking and you’re pooping, right?” she calls for
confirmation as her eyes wander up and down my tired
body.
“Yes, ma’am,” I tell her, sitting up a bit taller. I don’t tell
her that those four laps and down the hall made me utterly
exhausted because she doesn’t need to know.
She eyes the wheelchair then looks back to me. “You
gotta do one shower on your own, too. So we know you can
stand and whatnot at home.”
I scratch at my chin thoughtfully. “I’ll do that, but that
kind of doesn’t make sense. I mean, I got someone at home
to help me.”
She pumps hand sanitizer into her palms and rubs
before reaching for the chart at the foot of the bed. She
ignores my comment and scans the paper, flipping one up
for a moment to peer underneath.
“Okay, so do you want to shower before or after we take
you up for the tests?”
I look at my watch. Dave’s running a department
meeting via Zoom on his laptop in a private conference
room here in the hospital. I guess he’s a charming
motherfucker to everyone, not just me. One of the candy-
stripers from the front has snuck him extra towels and
snacks, hooked him up with the conference room, and even
brings him coffee from her favorite kiosk.
I can shower on my own. I mean, I haven’t had to do it
much yet since usually there’s a nurse of some sort
lingering and helping. But after all that movement, I need a
break before I can attempt it. I nod towards the faded blue
wheelchair.
“I’m feeling like passing some tests right about now,” I
tell her, arrogant and playful.
She pats the back of the chair. I use more energy than I
have, jumping up then striding to the chair with all the
casualness in the world. I settle into it comfortably,
shimmying my back against the seat a little to send home
the point that I AM FINE.
My entire body pulses in the wheelchair—and not the
good, Dave-induced pulse. The fatigue pulse.
All of my muscles quake and burn from the amount of
energy I’ve expelled today. And it’s not even noon. But I
grit my teeth together and hold it all inside because I want
to get home, damn it.
When we’re reaching the threshold of the door, the
nurse leans down, patting my shoulder with one hand as
she whispers. “Not wanting to wait for that Ken doll of
yours to come back and help you now, are you?”
“Ken doll,” I snort, shaking my head with a laugh.
She stops short and the wheelchair does, too. “I’m not
wrong,” she says.
On a laugh, with a spark coming alive in my veins at the
thought of him, I agree. “You definitely are not wrong.”
She starts up again, pushing me towards the bank of
elevators not far off from us. We don’t mention Dave again,
but he’s on my mind as I wear a heavy protective vest while
technicians steal images of me.
He’s on my mind again as they repeat images of my leg,
and he’s all I’m dreaming of as I lose myself to the
mechanical whirring of the MRI machine.
 If I wanted to marry him before, I fucking really do now.
And now that Delilah, Thorne, and Ry want to be part of it
so that Dave feels like he truly belongs with us, well, I have
to step up my game.
Initially I’d thought we’d just hit the overlook on a date
or something. No fancy clothes, no cellphone in our space
trying to “capture” the moment. Dave and I weren’t like
that. Or at least I didn’t think we were. Truth be told, I
didn’t know exactly how we’d shake out in the public eye.
We’d never had the chance.
Still, I felt in my core that Dave wouldn’t want a big
show of it. Before Delilah can look up some over-the-top
flash mob shit on YouTube, I know I have to come up with a
plan if I want it to be perfect for us.

B y the time I’ m wheeled back to my room , D ave ’ s meeting is

over and he’s waiting in the chair by my bed. Legs folded at
the ankles, he wears navy blue sweatpants and a gray
hoodie, his sun-kissed hair is messy and styled to the shove
of his large hand. He stares down at a book, the cover sepia
and worn, telling me it’s probably another old Western.
When he hears the click of the foot pedals slipping out
from under me, he jerks up, letting his feet hit the floor.
Sliding the book into his vacated seat, he’s at my side,
offering me his forearm in just a few seconds.
I don’t need it but I take it because I’m starved for
contact with him.
See, being in a hospital makes it hard to do something
with a hard-on. And just because I’m sore and recovering
does not mean that my dick is sore and recovering.
Watching Dave fold his arms over his chest and analyze
the doctors who speak with him regarding my care,
listening to him relay messages to my family members,
studying him as he does paperwork quietly in the corner of
my room. It’s all a big fucking aphrodisiac.
Maybe it’s all the newfound casualty over our
relationship no longer being a secret. Maybe it’s an
appropriate survivor’s response to the person that saved
them. Maybe it’s a newfound passion for enjoying
everything I can since I almost died.
Or maybe it’s because Dave’s been wearing sweats
(sweats to a gay man:negligée on women to straight men)
with messy hair for two weeks being thoughtful and fucking
adorable and it’s ruining my loins.
Seriously.
“How were the scans?” he asks in that smokey rasp that
makes me want to grab his throat and pin him to the
fucking wall with my dick.
Yeah, I think I’m ready to be discharged.
I shrug. “Don’t have the results yet.”
My fingers wander through his blonde hair as I grip his
arm, letting him lead me to the edge of the bed. When I sit,
he stands in front of me, studying me.
“What’s up, Grant?” he huffs, stacking his arms over his
bubbling chest muscles. I watch the sweatshirt tug under
his arm, exposing a few inches of skin on his throat. My
eyes move around the collar of the hoodie until I see the
lump of his Adam’s apple.
My dick pulses between my thighs as I think of how
good it feels to be swallowed in that very throat.
“I’ve got one last thing to do before they let me out of
here tomorrow.” I smooth my palms down my thighs, and
smile up at him.
He lifts a brow, suspicious of me. I show him my palms
in an effort to prove my honesty.
“Seriously,” I tell him. “Look.”
I nod up to the whiteboard where the nurse has written
“take a shower without nursing assistance.”
 “The thing is, I think it’s best if you go in there with me,
you know, just in case.”
His eyes brighten a moment before his brow straightens
to a thin line, his face going a little dejected. My heart falls.
I hate that look on him.
“What?” I ask, immediately.
He rakes a hand up the back of his neck and chuckles,
his signature move when he’s uncomfortable. “I’ve wanted
to help you in there this whole time. You just, you wouldn’t
let me.”
With force, I smack the mattress next to me. “Dave,” I
say, using the same tone I use when I’m wrapping my palm
around his neck and driving him crazy with need.
He sits next to me, his knees spread apart, the signature
careless alpha pose.
I drape one of my large hands over his thigh and rub up
and down slowly.
“I don’t want the man who I have sex with seeing me get
washed by a fifty-year old woman while I expend all my
energy on not passing out.”
His face fills with concern and my heart swells. “See,
you needed me in there,” he says, almost panicked. I glance
down to see his gray hoodie rising and falling quickly. I grip
his thigh with unmistakable force.
“Dave, you’ve been here more for me than I could have
ever dreamt of, okay?”
He swallows and his eyes go far off, though they’re still
searching mine. “I have so much not being there to make
up for,” he says, his voice thin as he softly claims his
admission. “I feel like I need to earn you. Let me earn you.”
My blood goes hot, my skin flaring with heat to the
touch. My heart slams against my ribs as I take in the soft
curve of his full bottom lip. I slowly seal my mouth to his,
eating up his guilt, or at least trying.
He doesn’t need to earn me. He changed for me, not to
mention that small bit about him saving my life.
 But as my cock hardens from our kiss, my dick-lead
ulterior motives shoot up my spine and take control of my
brain.
“You want to help me shower?” I ask, our lips smacking
in rough, messy kisses.
“I want to help you, yes,” he says, some strength coming
back to his tone as my hand moves up his thigh. My pinky
grazes his dick and I think I groan louder than he does,
because he chuckles.
“It’s been a long time,” he whispers before taking a kiss
from my lips.
I clear my throat and lightly brace myself on the arm of
the bed to rise to my feet. While I still can stand. And walk.
My dick is aching.
“Okay, enough of that. Now it’s time for my shower.” I
turn around and tug at the neckline of my t-shirt before it’s
over my head and off. Dave’s eyes are on the door for a
moment, trying to decide if it can even lock. I step
backward toward the large medical shower.
It’s not a place I want to have sex with my man. It’s a
fucking hospital shower.
But it is a place I can get relief.
And have fun in the process. After all, I could use some
fun.

OceanofPDF.com
TWENTY-SIX

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INGRAM
I WONDER if straight couples still get excited seeing one
another naked after six years together. I wonder if other
gay men keep that fiery spark between them after so much
time has passed.
I wonder because, if anything, I’m more attracted to
Marshall now than I was five years ago.
It’s not just a comfort thing. Sure, having familiarity
with someone takes time and with that time comes comfort,
and comfort is good. Right, I agree.
But that’s not why things are better now than they were
then.
The newness, the excitement of exploring my sexuality,
exploring another man’s body, feeling another man orgasm,
seeing him explode in front of me. Being able to rake my
fingers through his sweat and come and let my body enjoy
the sensations.
It was powerful at the start. So many long-anticipated,
hungered-after emotions finally coming to fruition. Such a
crazy time in my life.
But newness wears off, especially when you go at it like
fucking bunnies. Or whatever other animal loves to fool
around. That first year I’d gotten more blowjobs and given
more handjobs than all of my other years combined.
Even when I knew exactly how to touch Marshall to get
him hard, the perfect way to curl my fingers to make him
explode, how to fill him with my cock at just the right angle
to make his prostate burn—still, it felt so fucking exciting.
Marshall is the type of man that turns everyone on.
His body gives away his incredible discipline and
commitment, and his family is a key demonstrator of his
love and devotion. Also, he looks like some heady fusion of
rock star and fitness king. Swollen and striated muscle
covered in smooth russet skin, ornamented with art in the
form of ink. Neat but sexy as fuck beard and his nose ring.
The night the moonlight caught that ring when we met, my
entire body took notice of him. He’s so goddamn sexy.
Straight men would get hard for him.
That’s why it’s more intense and exciting between us.
Because of him. Plain and simple. He makes it so fucking
easy to be eager and excited when he loves me so
effortlessly and fucks me so ruthlessly.
When I top, the experience is nearly out of body.
Hearing those raw groans come from a man like him
caused by me? It’s fucking intense.
The first few times I’d topped him, I’d lasted a
humiliating one minute. But somehow, that made him want
me more. I only have slightly more stamina now. If he looks
back at me, if I touch his cock—anything, and I’m done. He
just, he feels so fucking good to me.
“Dave,” he snaps me from my fantasy of him to see, oh
shit. He’s completely naked; the shower is running. I point
at the orange foam flip flop on his very large foot.
“Nice.”
He wiggles the foot wearing the flop. “I’m not getting
athlete’s foot in this fucking place.”
My eyes move up his body. He stands just partially under
the adjustable head, his bandaged arm sticking out. “Come
put the plastic over my arm,” he says, nodding towards the
counter. There is a large sheet of plastic and a black band
to keep it up.
I cross the bathroom and grab the items, but Marshall
halts me with a look.
“Should probably take your sweatshirt off. You don’t
want to get wet while you wrap my arm.”
His lips roll once, but otherwise; his face remains
serious. I set down the supplies and yank my hoodie and t-
shirt over my head, tossing them to the counter where
various medical supplies are strewn about.
 “Mmmm.” A rough grumble vibrates in his throat as his
eyes take in my chest, which is a little fuzzier than I
normally keep it. But I’ve been here for three weeks, so
now I have a beard and a fuzzy chest. Can’t help it.
“I’ve missed that fucking body, Sheriff.” He dips his head
back, and the water streams down into his dark hair,
causing it to slip down over his face. Streams of water slide
down his neck, over his clavicle, and through the valley of
chest muscle.
“Same,” I say, my mouth going dry. I force a swallow and
slide the bag up his arm, tying it off with an appropriate
tightness. I slip a finger through, check if it will hold, and
give him a nod.
“You’re good,” I tell him, poking holes in the end of the
bag for his fingers.
He lowers his arm, letting his hand rest at the band of
my sweats. His thumb skims my bare hip. My cock jolts,
eager to be pleased. I haven’t had an orgasm since that
day. I’m pretty sure at this point; if Marshall just made
intense eye contact with me, I’d shoot off in my pants.
“Hey,” I say in a low, warning tone. But I don’t mean it.
Because my hip radiates electricity under his touch, and my
balls tighten with appreciation for it. I fucking want
whatever crazy plan he has up his non-existent sleeve.
As long as it’s safe for him.
He reaches down into my sweats and finds my
thickening dick. Wrapping his partially wrapped hand
around my cock, he jerks me out of my pants. I groan as the
base of my skull grows heavy, as if it is being filled with hot
sand.
“Marshall,” I say aimlessly.
He uses my cock as a leash and gently tugs me to him.
With his other arm, he slightly redirects the water so now it
rains down on just his back. Looking down between our
bodies as he wraps his hand around the base of my neck,
palm cupping my collarbone, I can’t help but moan. And
he’s not even touching my dick anymore.
His hot, steely cock brushes up against mine as he tugs
me closer to him by my throat. The heads of our pinkened,
engorged cocks smear together, a thread of precome
fanning out between them.
“Fuck, fuck, Marshall, I—” I pant, tilting my head back
because I physically cannot watch it and feel it. And we
both know I’m not going to opt to no longer feel it.
Reaching between us, he wraps his fist around our
cocks. Slowly, he pumps us in his hand.
I curse. I groan. My cock leaks freely and easily on his
fourth stroke.
His fingers curl into the column of my neck as a wet
rumble breaks past his lips. “You feel so good, Dave,” he
growls to me in a low, throaty timbre that sends a jolt of
urgency through my sac.
“Goddamn it!” I growl through clenched teeth. That
familiar jolt of need moves up my thighs and settles into my
groin, surging to my cock. “I’m gonna fucking come,” I
warn, I complain, I rasp.
He holds my throat tighter and moves his other hand
down. The head of my cock makes contact with the barbed
hair on his belly. The contact sizzles with eroticism and
passion. Marshall strokes our cocks again, slower but with
a tighter grip.
“Fuck!” I groan as my cock flexes, pumping and
throbbing its release against Marshall’s tight belly. Vision
blurry, I look down to see ribbons of white streaking him,
falling down to our joined cocks, across his hand.
“Oh shit,” he groans before tilting our cocks back
towards him. He adds to the sea of white, coming in hot
jets across his belly and up his chest. He thrusts his hips a
bit and pumps us again as he rides the rest of his orgasm.
Watching him come, smelling him in the air—it fucking
makes me hard again.
 But we don’t have time, and holy shit, I can’t believe we
did that.
I swallow hard as I smooth my fingers through our come
on his belly. “I like that,” I say in a gravelly tone.
“Next time we do it on you then,” he replies with a smile
in his voice. He takes the showerhead to my hand and
carefully rinses it. I duck out of the stall and pull on my
shirt and hoodie again.
I watch Marshall lather and rinse himself, and I find
myself adjusting my cock in my sweats. God, that was so
fucking hot. We’d frotted before, of course, most gay men
do from time to time. But that particular time felt insanely
fucking hot.
I step out of the bathroom to give him room to towel off.
A few minutes later, he emerges in the fresh set of sweats
I’d set out for him. Black pants and a black hoodie. My cock
weeps a little at the sight. He shoves an inked hand
through his damp hair before finger-combing his beard.
“Oh,” he says, pointing with one finger to me playfully.
“You’ve been out here the whole time?”
I look to the doorway where the nurse stands, a hand on
her hip and a knowing purse to her lips.
“I am going to pretend that Mr. Sheriff’s pants are not
wet on the bottom and that you showered alone,” she says,
and my face floods with heat at the idea we were almost
just caught. It was hot, but I have to remember, I am the
fucking Sheriff.
I swallow with panic as Marshall flashes her a handsome
smile. “I did all the work,” he says, winking.
My eyes flare, but then I quickly narrow them as to not
be suspicious. Mental note: punish him for this later.
Preferably in the bedroom.
T hree hours later , I’ ve officially completed all my
paperwork for the week. See, I’m not technically on
vacation. I’m still running things part-time, but they’re
paying me my normal salary. I like reading, but I needed
somewhere else to put my mind the last few weeks other
than reading and thinking is he going to wake up. So, I
worked.
I slip my files into the bag at my feet and turn to
Marshall. He’s still reading a mountaineering book when
there’s a knock at the door. The doctor comes in, and in the
world’s briefest meeting, we’re told Marshall is indeed
good to go.
The blood on his brain had reabsorbed, which we’d all
suspected since Marshall had been speaking and
processing like normal. Not to mention, all of the memories
of that night had come back to him.
The leg would have to be monitored, but that would be
followed up on with a primary care physician when his hard
cast came off.
The ribs would be tender; he would still need to take it
easy.
His arm was healing nicely, though he’d need new ink
over those fresh scars.
Tomorrow, he was a free man that still needed lots of
rest. But still, this stint of our lives would be behind us. My
pulse sky-rocketed with excitement at the idea. We shook
hands with the doctor, who was rushing to reach another
patient, it seemed.
We shared a wicked and pleasure-filled grin for just a
minute after the doctor left. Because then, there is a light
knock at the partially closed door.
Marshall’s gaze moves to the door, and mine follows. It
opens, and there is my mother.
My pulse skitters to a halt, and the coffee I just drank
seems to spin like a wash cycle in my stomach.
 “Mom,” I say, shocked and confused. Marshall rises up
from the edge of the bed where he is sitting. He moves to
my side, standing next to me.
I could say I’m shocked, but I don’t think that’s the right
word. Shocked would be when the Raiders pull a win out
against… well, anyone. Shocked is how the audience would
describe Steve Harvey reading the wrong name at the Miss
America pageant. (Okay, watching Miss America could be
the gayest thing I do).
Right now, though, my surprise is nothing short of huge.
Because my mom is my dad’s crony, she follows him blindly
and always has. When you’re in his fold and on his team,
following him seems easy and right.
I’d followed him for years as a child. Believing he knew
it all. Thinking he was the smartest man alive.
I’d stopped drinking the Kool-Aid when I realized that I
was gay. Because before I knew I was gay, I knew for sure
what my dad thought of “that lifestyle.” But my mom, she
gave up college and a career to be his faithful wife. Staying
home to do the books for the business, cooking him his
every meal, sitting next to him in the pew every week.
There had been times in the past that I knew she didn’t
wholly agree with his bullshit. Times when her silence felt
strangled; when her curled lips visibly held back an
opinion. But to her, love was always agreeing. Her
complacency in being opinion-less only really started to
hurt me when I needed her a few weeks ago.
If there’s ever a time to break out of the mold and go
against the grain; if there’s a reason to sacrifice a sliver of
your comfort, shouldn't that reason be your child?
Not to her. Clearly. Supporting and loving your only
child still comes second to being stuck up my father’s ass.
So, her appearance in my partner's hospital room, the
day before he gets discharged, is… jarring. For a moment, I
wonder if my father is dead because that’s how unlikely it
is for her to be here.
 Then again, I’m sure if he was killed or died, I’d hear
about it. After all, I’ve been living in the town’s only
hospital for weeks. And I am the Sheriff. It would’ve come
to my attention, probably faster than she herself could
deliver the news.
Within a moment, I decide he’s alive, and that isn’t the
reason for her visit.
“Mrs. Liggett told me I could find you here,” she says
nervously, her manicured nails fingering the purse strap
that rests over her shoulder. Her blonde hair is in her
signature low-bun, and she’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans
with her rainboots pulled on over. Out of instinct, I can’t
help but ask.
“Where’s your coat, mom?”
Her eyes go to Marshall. Her lips twitch as if her first
reaction was to smile, but she holds back. She looks back at
me.
“I want to talk to you, son. Can we go somewhere and
talk?” Her blue eyes, the ones that match mine, grow hazy
with heat as she looks back to Marshall. This time, she
gives him a small, awkward smile.
Marshall lifts a large hand up in a motionless wave. I
watch her eyes travel from his knuckles down to his wrist
and forearm, reading and studying the ink in a few quick
passes.
“Hello, Mrs. Ingram,” Mars says from his position,
standing right behind me.
Pride swells in my chest. Such a subtle way of saying,
I’m here for you.
I look around the pale blue room. “This is our room for
twelve more hours. We can talk here. It’s more private than
anywhere else.”
She tugs at the purse strap as if the wind is blowing, and
she’s determined not to let go. Her gaze moves nervously
between Marshall and me. She doesn’t want to talk in front
of him. But she lost the ability to have these choices when
she took my father’s side.
“Okay,” she says, forcing a smile as she treads slowly to
the chair. Thankfully I fold up the blanket and stack it on
my pillow every morning, or else she’d be sitting in my
bed.
Marshall sits on the edge of his bed, and my first instinct
is to sit next to him. But I decide to stay on my feet.
He clears his throat gently. He doesn’t speak to her, nor
does he even talk to me as if she’s there. Turning, his dark
eyes are soft and warm.
“I can take some laps or get some coffee,” he offers in a
gentle tone. “But I want to be where you need me to be,”
he says, making his intentions clear to both myself and my
mom.
What I love most about it is that he isn’t behaving any
certain way to give off any illusions of relationship
perfection to my mother. This is how Marshall always is.
The only difference is now I see it; now I value it; now I
appreciate it.
“Stay,” I reply to him, unable to stop myself from tossing
him a wink of appreciation. He folds his hands together and
gives me a wink, too. I turn my body to face mom.
She’s sitting in the chair, forcing herself back against
the worn vinyl padding, finally letting her purse drop to the
floor.
“Dave,” she starts, her voice already thinning with
strain. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a tattered
tissue. She doesn’t look like she’s been crying, yet her
tissue tells a different story. She closes her hand around it,
dragging it under her nose for a minute before she inhales,
steadying her shoulders.
Her familiar blue eyes look up to mine.
“I’m so sorry, son,” she says with a trembling voice that
tells me tears aren’t far off. Yet, her emotion does nothing
to chip away at my resigned exterior.
 She chose him over me. I’m not a parent. I’ll never be a
mother. But I know one thing, you choose your kid. You
support your kid.
I don’t make it easy. I’m angry at myself for how I
treated Marshall the last few years, so I channel that anger
to her. It’s not fair of me, but I am mad at her too. And once
the rage starts to flow, it’s so hard to stop.
“What are you sorry for? Specifically?” I ask, folding my
arms over one another. I lean back until my shoulder blade
connects with the wall, and I relax against it. Surprisingly,
my body feels calm.
I’m surprised to find she doesn’t look away from me, or
when she does, her gaze goes to Marshall’s, not to the floor
or walls or her shoes. She keeps her eyes connected to us
as she struggles to come up with a response.
“I’m sorry that your father reacted that way and--”
I don’t let her finish that thought. I hold a palm out, my
arm arrow straight.
“Stop,” I demand. “You don’t apologize for him.” I
smooth my tongue over the tops of my teeth, my jaw ticking
angrily. “So, if you’re here just to say you’re sorry for him,
then you can go.”
The words fall out of my mouth, popping and smashing
against the floor like ice cubes. They scatter, and her head
moves back and forth, mouth open in a silent protest. But
her eyes don’t leave mine.
After a moment, she regroups.
“I’m sorry I didn’t,” she starts before she stops and
pushes a lungful of air out, her cheeks hollowing as she
does. “I’m sorry,” she starts again, with more spine in her
tone. “I should have taken control of the situation that
night. I know I should have. It’s just, I was so surprised,
and then I don’t know,” she admits, “it all happened so
fast.”
“He pulled the trigger of a shotgun that was aimed at
my back,” I remind her. Marshall, from my peripheral
vision, winces and grumbles painfully.
She sobs freely now, not trying to cover her face and
bury her tears in her hands. Her head hangs for a moment
before she lifts it up, her bottom lip trembling.
“I know that. I know,” she says with a nod. “I’m so sorry,
Dave. I love you, I love you no matter what, son, and I want
you to know that.”
“You love me no matter what?” I question, still holding
my stance against the wall. “Despite my huge, immoral flaw
of loving men?”
She shakes her head staunchly and slices through the
air with her hand, still clutching her tissue. “No, Dave,
that’s not what I meant. I mean,” she huffs, not growing
frustrated but clearly having a hard time under my
intensity.
I really think she thought I’d make this easy. That the
simple act of her showing up down here would be all it
would take to soften my hardened edges. That I’d embrace
her and tell her, with a chuckle, how I understood that my
father is complicated, how he needs time, how this and
that.
The truth of it is that he isn’t complicated. He’s simple.
His mind is simple. And that’s the problem.
“You have to understand that what you’ve known for
years we’re only just now hearing of, Dave,” she says, with
so much pleading in her tone that I almost go to her and
run a soothing palm across her shoulders.
Almost.
But then I feel the particles of drywall and stucco
blowing against my arm. I remember the chaos of the
moment, realizing what had happened. Seeing the smoke
drift lazily to the ceiling, unaware that it existed because a
father tried to kill his son.
“Did he want to kill me?” I ask, receiving a confusing
look from my mom.
 But she doesn't even give it a beat. “Of course not, Dave.
He was angry and wanted to make a point, I guess.”
“And what point would that be?” I ask, with so much
strangled condescension in my tone that I am a little
aggravated at myself for not being able to control my
emotions more. This should be an emotionless conversation
because they don’t deserve more of me in any way.
She doesn’t respond to that, but she continues, her eyes
settled on Marshall’s this time. I don’t look at him to see his
expression; I just study her as if she were a test subject.
“I want you both to know,” she starts, giving Marshall a
twitch of her lips before turning back to me. “I’m sorry that
I didn’t react the way that I should have. I’m sorry. I know
what it took for you to come to us, and I want you to know I
am going to work every single day to earn back your love.”
“Mom,” I reply instinctively. No matter how angry I am,
how hurt I am, I won’t be the man who lets his own mother
hang and twist when it comes to feeling loved.
I know what it’s like not to feel loved by a person who
should innately and intrinsically love you no matter what. I
don’t want her to share that pain, as angry as I am. Do you
see me, God? I’m in Heaven, rising above. Again.
“I do love you, Mom.”
She breaks down at my words, and that’s when Marshall
rises, then takes a seat on the edge of the window next to
mom. He places a hand over her shoulder, and it sags with
comfort. I watch her pat her hand to the top of his.
And just like that, the first time she’s ever met my man,
he’s comforting her, even though the tumultuous
circumstances. There’s that hot swelling in my chest again,
reminding me how much I fucking love him.
“Mrs. Ingram,” Marshall starts, using a voice so gentle
that I barely hear it. She lifts her head, and as she begins
to rear back to bring him into view, he settles into a low
crouch next to her.
 He only winces a little as he keeps his casted leg
straight out in front of him. In the pistol squat position, he
rests his hands on the armrest of the chair.
“Would you like to come to our house and have dinner?”
I didn’t expect that.
But I love him for it.
For his ability to see that even though she hurt me, I
love her, and therefore, how she feels matters. Anyone
could stand behind me with his chest puffed out and be
mad with me. But to stand next to me and get his hands in
the mix, working to help make things better while still
supporting me?
Shit.
An unexpected rush of emotion slams into me, and I
quickly distract it away by adjusting my hoodie and shaking
out my shoulders. My mom’s misty blue eyes look up at me,
and her bottom lips trembles.
“Do you want that?” she asks me, but not before she
places her hand back on top of Marshall’s, leaving it there.
They’ve never met, and yet, somehow it feels like they’re
comfortable with one another.
I look at him, his dark eyes wide as he gives the tiniest
of nods, egging me on, knowing what’s good for us when I
clearly can’t focus. With his reassurance, I agree.
“I do,” I say. “We haven’t had our Christmas yet since we
were here, but maybe when we get settled at home and
Marshall is up to it, we can celebrate.” I swallow. “We’d
love to have you there.”
Tears slide down her soft skin, and she blots them away
with her wrinkled tissue.
“Your house,” she says like the words are light on her
tongue and drift away easily. She smiles, another tear
breaking free. “You live together?” she asks gently, her
gaze moving between the two of us. Her hand is still
covering Marshall’s.
Flipping his palm over, he closes his hand around hers.
 “We live together, yes.” I watch as he soothes her with a
simple pass of his thumb over the thick of her knuckles.
“We’re no different than any other couple, Mrs. Ingram.”
She opens her mouth as if to argue that she knew that
but closes it quickly, giving him a small, sheepish smile.
“Dinner would be great,” she says. “Thank you.”

OceanofPDF.com
TWENTY-SEVEN

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
WHEN DAVE SLAMS the passenger door of the pickup truck,
I watch him through the windshield as he stalks around the
front.
His blue eyes turn to grey when he’s hungry like this.
His thick fingers drag over the contoured ridge of the hood.
I can nearly feel those same dirty fingers pushing inside of
me from memory. I let out a private groan to honor that
delicious memory before he gets inside.
The truck that is.
His eyes swirling, he leans over and rests his hand on
my thigh.
“Shit, babe. With only one handjob in three weeks, this
feels like third base.”
He snorts a laugh then starts up the truck. When he
takes his hand away to throw the truck into reverse, I flip
up the center console.
“Want me to ride bitch, baby?” I send a wink with the
smokey words.
He groans, his knuckles white as he grips the steering
wheel.
Scooting to the middle seat, I drape my arm around the
back of his headrest. My fingers curl down around the side
of his neck. I stroke up and down his throat, barely
brushing his skin.
“Fuck. Grant,” he groans, his voice husky.
I look down to his lap and see him hardening under his
gray sweats. Gray sweats. Fuck. I lick my lips and press a
chaste kiss to the bottom of his ear. Leaning over, I drag my
fingers through the wiry blonde hair over his jaw.
“You look good with this beard,” I tell him, pressing a
kiss on his neck. My other hand still barely strokes the hot
skin of his throat.
 “Fucking get back on your side,” he growls, a ripple of
laughter moving past his lips. He flips up the shifter, and
the blinker clicks on. I widen my fingers on his thigh as I
rub down his leg, my body now curling into his.
I don’t kiss his cheek or neck again. Rather, I press my
face to the crook of his neck and suck in a slow, heady
lungful of his scent. Musky and masculine, the smell of
detergent and comfort. It’s fucking everything. I groan into
the privacy of his neck.
“We’re almost home,” he says, his voice low and dark,
like he wants me to grab his throat and kick his feet apart.
“Good,” I say, sliding my casted leg over on the
floorboard. Cabs of trucks aren’t good for a leg in a cast
while trying to get some. Not good at all.
“Baby,” he purrs. Releasing one hand from the steering
wheel, he fishes his fingers between mine as he moves my
hand off his thigh. “I kind of need to not have a hard-on
within the next minute or so.”
I pull my face from his neck, nearly high from the
warmth of his skin, the smell of him. It’s been so fucking
long since we’ve connected physically. I need him.
Badly.
I blink a few times, trying to sober myself. But it’s
impossible because I’m so drunk off him. My Ken doll with
a beard and a heart of fucking gold. The man that slept at
my side in a chair for weeks. Who risked his own life to
save mine.
He interrupts my thoughts. “Anna knew I’d fucking ruin
it.” He shakes his head angrily at himself before squeezing
my hand.
“The Broken Wheel and the Sheriff’s Department are
having a welcome home barbeque for you at the house. It’s
uh, it’s a surprise.” He ping-pongs his eyes between me and
the road, giving me a nervous smile that makes me laugh.
“Yeah?” I cock a brow, a wave of heavy appreciation
washing over me. He’s got to be as exhausted as I am,
having slept in a chair for weeks. Hell, at least I had IV
Tylenol and a bed. “And who planned that?”
He has a guilty grin, and my heart pumps fast in
reaction. “It was either let everyone come over and
overwhelm the shit out of you at once, or have two or three
people come by each day for weeks,” he says, with a
pensive expression that tells me he’s really put thought into
this.
“I figured we’d get it over with today so there’s no pop-
ins or stop-bys after,” he says, turning his head to face me
as we roll up to an empty four-way stop. We’re just down
the street from our place.
He wiggles an eyebrow.
“I like the way you think, Dave.”
He winks, and I scoot back to my side of the truck,
hesitant to let his hand go. “And thank you,” I add gruffly as
he accelerates through the intersection. “For everything
before and well, everything after the storm.” Our eyes meet
across the cab. “I see you, baby. You hear me? I see you.
And I love you.”
His eyes linger on mine for a hot second before he faces
the road again, taking us closer to our house. “Stop cutting
onions in here,” he grits out, and I chuckle at how easily we
can move between the heavy and light, always comfortably,
always safely.
“And I guess I love you too,” he sighs with a roll of his
eyes, which makes me laugh again.

T he street is lined with cars . E veryone from my

motorcycle club, the Broken Wheel, has turned up, as made
evident by the row of shiny bikes that line the curb. There
are many Sheriff’s Department vehicles made clear by the
thin blue line stickers on their rear windshields. I don’t
distinguish between the two types. Rather, I just see that a
lot of people who care about both of us have shown up here
today for me. But for us, too.
I’m sure everyone knew by now that the Sheriff’s father
shot at him when he came out. That can’t be a fun thing to
walk around with. And I don’t know how, but I know I’ll
help Dave get right with that. With what happened.
But for now, I’m just amazed.
Much of my life has been separate from Dave’s until
now. And everyone coming together not just to meet but
celebrate. As if our friends are helping us unify our lives or
some shit.
It gives me the warm and fuzzies, I’ll admit.

T he welcome home barbecue is great . B ut I realize just

how right the doctors were about rest when two hours in, I
get hit by a freight train of exhaustion. Dave’s had his eyes
on me like a hawk the entire two hours, and even though
he’s just across the house from me, it’s the furthest we’ve
been apart in weeks. Even if I wasn’t aware of it the entire
time.
When he sees me leaning over the kitchen counter and
downing a glass of water, he’s at my side, running his palm
up my back.
“You look pale. Where’s your crutch?” He answers his
own question, pulling it off the wall where I was letting it
rest. “Okay, lie down. You don’t need to fucking overdo it,”
he says in a commanding tone that would make me hard if I
weren’t so fucking wiped.
I study his lips. I imagine them around my cock.
Kissing his cheek, I tuck the crutch under my arm. “I’m
going to rest, so by the time you’ve got everyone out of
here, I’ll have some energy back.”
 “We’ll see,” he says, reaching around me to the bag of
prescriptions on the counter. He rolls the bag and stuffs it
down into the pocket of my sweats.
“You know which ones to take tonight, right?” he asks,
refilling my water and handing it to me.
“Yes, I am a grown man after all,” I say, catching his
wrist with my free hand as he attempts to pass by me.
“Kiss me, and I’ll go lay down.”
He doesn’t hesitate, and the lack of hesitation is such a
fucking aphrodisiac. He shoves his fingers through my
beard and clamps his lips to mine. Hell, he even groans into
the kiss a little. I pull back, turned on, still a bit surprised,
and a lot impressed.
“You,” I say, not knowing what other words to say.
He shoves a hand through his messy hair, and a strand
falls over his forehead. He huffs, shoving it back. “Give me
thirty,” he says, dancing his eyebrows at me for the second
time in the day.
I look at the clock on the oven.
“I’m holding you to that. Or, my dick is.”
With that, I hobble off to our bedroom, stopping only
fifty times to say thank you and goodbye to all of our
friends.
Delilah catches me when I’m near the end of the hall,
bouncing Max on her hip. I had him most of the night. I
fucking missed him. Missed his little fingers tugging at my
nose ring and playing in my beard.
“Reward that man,” she whispers, “He lives and
breathes for you, Mars, you know that, right?”
I grow heady with lust at her words.
“I know it, La. I know.”
We hug, and she kisses my cheek. I hug and kiss Max,
and they go. When I disappear into our bedroom, I fall back
onto the bed. I really do feel high off our relationship. What
used to cause me stress is now gone, replaced with a
connection so deep I can’t help but tingle and smile and
beam.
I try to keep my eyes open, to force myself to stay awake
for him.
But the weight of the day falls to my eyelids, so I close
them for just a brief minute.

“O h god , oh god , oh fuck ,” I wake groaning out from the

most intense pleasure zipping through me. Blinking, it
takes me a moment to realize that the warmth across my
face is the rising sun. And that phenomenal feeling taking
place down South?
“Oh baby, how did you know? That feels so fucking
good,” I tell Dave, who is positioned at the end of the bed,
standing. His foot is on the bed, my foot is on his knee, and
he’s using the handle of a spatula inside my cast, itching
my leg.
He barks out a laugh before moving to the back of my
calf, shimmying the tool to itch me everywhere. I groan
then rise to my elbows.
“I know your game, babe. You’re trying to get on my
good side because you didn’t fucking wake me up last night
after everyone left.”
I’ve wanted him so damn bad lately; it’s all I can think
about. Fucking him, yes, of course. But I’m thinking of the
way he wiggled his fingers, and his eyes turned to hearts
when he was going to get to see Max again.
I’m thinking of how easily we made it through something
really fucking hard. How much I can’t wait to have a ring
on his finger so the world knows that he is mine.
Damn, what was in that last IV at the hospital?
Antibiotics with a carrier of possessiveness? Because I am
finding myself feeling possessive of him. Not wanting
anyone to doubt who he belongs to. Women or men. Maybe
it’s not the accident or his changed behavior. Maybe it’s my
age?
If men can have baby fever, I have it.
Not baby fever, really, but rather family fever.
Owning the End of the Trail is great. Being in the
Broken Wheel is great.
He lowers my casted leg to the bed. Grabbing his shirt
at the back of the neck, he yanks it over his head, dropping
it to the floor. Crawling over me, he cages me to the
mattress with his strong, tanned arms. I groan as I move
my hands up his arms, starting at his wrists. I end when my
palms are flat on his shoulders. His skin is damp with sweat
and cool to the touch.
“Did you just workout?” I ask, sleep thick in my voice.
Goddamn, I hate being tired so much.
He tosses his head back to get his damp hair to stay in
place. His blue eyes twinkle over me. That’s when I notice
his clean, sharp jaw. The sunlight pours over the side of his
face, and I take a mental image of his beautiful silhouette.
“You shaved your beard.”
He does a negative pushup, lowering himself onto me
until his bare chest is pressed to my clothed one. His sticky
lips press to mine for a moment. “Yes, I did just workout
and yes, I shaved this morning.”
“Why?” I ask, moving my palms up the column of his
neck to work my fingers through his wet hair.
He smiles sheepishly and moves his head around to find
my hands. He loves it when I rub his head.
“Why, Dave?” I push.
He rolls off me and pops up to his feet, sporting a nice
tent through his athletic shorts.
He scratches at his newly shaved face then smooths his
palm over the bare skin along his jaw. “Max cried when he
saw me. I had to do like, four songs and get my shiny badge
out, so he knew it was me.” He puffs out his chest as he
toes off his trainers. “It made me sad.”
Hot sand spreads through my chest, and there it is. That
possessive urge to let the world know this man who shaves
his face to please a baby is mine. All mine.
“Dave,” I say, pushing all the way up in the bed. I’m a bit
dizzy as I make it to the edge of the bed but then again, I
passed out before six in the evening and slept til…
whatever time it is now. I’m just dehydrated, I’m sure.
I reach for the canteen on the nightstand and toss it
back, all in a few long swallows. When I set the bottle
down, Dave’s eyes are filled with heat, and his athletic
shorts and socks sit in a heap on the floor.
He fists himself, and my heart begins to race. My mouth
goes dry, but I force another swallow. Because it feels
normal to swallow while I look at his hard, perfect cock.
“Good water?” he asks, his fist pumping at a leisurely
pace.
I groan. “Mmmm.” It says enough.
“Why don’t you come shower with me?” he suggests. I
watch his squat-defined ass disappear behind the bathroom
door.
Eying the pills on the nightstand, I pop one of each,
knowing it’s important not to miss my morning dose. After
a swallow, I follow after him.
By the time I wrap my cast in plastic and join him in the
shower, he’s already gotten himself clean. Using the
detachable head, he washes me, taking care to avoid my
leg, even wrapped.
He’s washing my hair, and I have an eyeful of his
swollen bicep flexing and twitching right in front of me. It’s
hard not to lean forward and bite into him. And while he
may have shaved his beard, he has yet to trim his chest.
I’m used to Dave really fitting that Ken doll mold, body
manicured perfectly all the fucking time. But the blonde
curls spanning his chest turn me on just as much. Like if he
let himself go, he’d be a wild creature of the earth, muscle
and hair, and tanned skin. Rugged and sexy.
“That night,” he says, just loud enough to hear over the
spray of water hitting the shower wall. “In the ambulance, I
lifted your shirt.”
He rinses my hair. His fingers and the hot water make
my scalp tingle. Fuzziness bleeds into the corners of my
vision, but I think it’s euphoria. All of this—him, the shower,
being home—it feels fucking good.
“Your belly was black,” he says. His chin is tipped up as
he takes care to rinse away all the shampoo on my head. I
watch him swallow thickly. “I thought you were bleeding
out.”
I look down at my yellowed core, the discolored skin not
the only trace of the accident still marking me. My arm
isn’t casted, but it’s bandaged pretty good. And my leg is in
a cast. And I’m still fucking exhausted. I hate that I’ve just
slept over twelve hour,s and I’m already feeling tired from
standing in the shower with my boyfriend for ten minutes.
I lift my head and suck in a lungful of air, breathing out
slowly. The water hides my labored breathing, and then
Dave seals his mouth to mine.
His lips make my entire face tingle, and my brain wires
short circuit from the instant euphoria. Then his hands are
firm on my hips, spinning me to the cool shower wall. I rest
my cheek there, gladly.
He moves my good foot apart with his, then presses his
chest to my back. His thick, throbbing cock is pressed to
my ass, rock hard and hot. God, it feels so hot against me; I
reach down and grip myself when I feel it.
One stroke in, and he swats my hand away. In my ear, he
rumbles, “I’ll make you come.” My cock flexes in praise of
his shift in demeanor. I love demanding Dave, and so does
my cock.
He pushes two of his thick fingers onto the pad of my
tongue, and I suck them hard. My mouth salivates for him
as he grinds his dick against me from behind.
“That’s right, suck them good,” he growls before his
hand leaves my mouth and wanders down the split of my
ass. He spreads me expertly, his fingers circling my hole.
Slowly, he eases two fingers inside me, pushing through
the first ring of muscle that always resists initially.
“Fuck,” I groan, looking down to see my cock weeping
generously over his fingers, the head nearly dark red. “Do
it, baby,” I rasp, my head growing light as my cock grows
heavy. Pleasure zips up my spine and explodes in my brain
as I feel his thick head breach me.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he groans, sliding into me deeper as
I move my ass back against him, wanting all of him, hard
and fast.
The urge to come overtakes me quicker than I’d like, but
it’s been so long, and his hands smoothing up my spine
while he fucks me is making it impossible to stave it off. I
need to come. Hard.
With his noises and coaxes—oh fuck, you’re so hard with
me inside of you, fuck, I missed this ass, god, I can’t wait
for you to fuck me—I’m done for.
“Fuck, I’m going to come,” I groan, curling my fingertips
into the grout to keep myself up against the wall. He pumps
hard behind me, the sound of his body slamming against
mine the last thing I hear before my hearing and vision go
fuzzy.
I come so fucking hard, my cock pulsing and twitching
as Dave’s heavy hand tugs and pumps me. His thumb
strokes the last of my arousal from the tip before he moves
both hands up my back.
“Goddamn, that was intense,” he sighs. I think he sighs.
Because the orgasm, the steam, the meds—it all kind of
caught up with me and… the big guy went down.
And not in a good way.

OceanofPDF.com
TWENTY-EIGHT

OceanofPDF.com
INGRAM
WHEN HE RAISES HIS HEAD, he looks around at the tiled seat
in the shower that he’s sitting on. His casted calf is out of
the open shower, the rest of his body inside but not under
the spray. The water barely trickles, and when he’s fully
aware and alert, he realizes what happened.
“I took my meds before I got in,” he says to explain.
“And hadn’t eaten in hours, and yeah, I’m okay.”
Turning the water off, I grab two towels from the bar
along the wall. I don't hand one to him. Rather, I step back
inside the shower and brace my arms under his. Counting
to three, I raise him up and steady him against the slippery
wall as I move the towel along his wet edges.
“You got me up onto the seat,” he says.
“I should have known it was too much. And the shower?”
I say, tucking the towel into itself at his waist. My fingers
linger on the cut lines of his hips.
“Just light-headed. Don’t go feeling bad. I needed that
fuck more than I needed the sleep last night.”
At that, I chuckle because we both know it’s not really
true, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t at least feel that way a
little, too.
“Let’s get some breakfast in you, and get you back in
bed.” I extend my hand to him, and he takes it. The faded
ink on his knuckles shifts as he wraps his hand around
mine.
“Thank you, darling,” he deadpans as he steps out of the
shower.
We make it to our room, where I pull some clean athletic
pants out of the dresser and toss them to him.
“Briefs?” he questions, unwrapping his towel like a
magician revealing the final act. And my eyes go to his
heavy, soft cock and thick balls. He’s got a bit more body
hair on him now, like me, but it only makes him sexier and
more rugged.
I always thought of intimacy as tender kisses in low light
followed by whispered admissions of love and lust. But I
know now that intimacy is so much more.
Being vulnerable to be naked and soft in daylight, to be
weak when you feel broken, to expose your shattered bits
for another person to see. It’s so much more than sexual
intimacy.
I step into my own pair of athletic pants and shimmy
into a white t-shirt.
“If you’re just resting today, you don’t need them.” I
wiggle my eyebrows at him. “Easy access for me.”
He snorts and angles himself at the edge of the bed,
looping the pants over his cast before tugging them up. He
rolls the pants to keep the cast on his calf exposed, then
stands to tug them up his to hips.
“Hey,” he says, and I find his gaze in the mirror
reflection behind me. I’m combing my hair as he takes a
few steps towards me but keeps space between us.
“I’m sorry about that night. And I’m sorry you had to see
me that way.” His tough biker voice is all but gone, leaving
an empathetic and loving man in his place.
“I know what it’s like to see someone you love hurting
and unwell, and I hope that no one in our family ever has to
go through that again.”
I think of his mother and what he must’ve gone through
as a young man when she passed. I know his father wasn’t
a bad guy, but he drank himself into an early grave, which
leads me to believe Marshall was probably running that
house before he claims he was.
He watched both of his parents go, and though I’m upset
and angered by my father, I cannot imagine seeing him
pass. After my mom, no less.
My heart flops a bit when I consider his words. Our
family. I know he means Delilah and her fiance, Max,
Thorne, and Ry. Hell, he probably even considers Maverick
and Anna to be our family too. I know I do.
I knew it the night I drove out on Gull. The night of the
accident. I knew I wanted him forever. I knew I wanted a
family. Then the chaos of survival took priority over dreams
and wants. Now that we’re on the other side and Mars is
okay, I feel ready to think about the future.
I turn to face him, but neither of us move. We keep a few
feet between us, and he breathes heavily and slowly. Time
slows, the sunlight and the birds chirping get swallowed by
the silence swallowing us.
“I hope so, too,” I agree with his sentiment, finding it
tough to find the right words. Marshall is a man of few
words, and the ones he chooses are always eloquent and
fitting. I feel like the Pete Campbell to his Don Draper.
Instead of trying to sound good, I go for honest.
“I want your family to be my family, and I feel like we’re
headed that way.”
A lazy smile curls his lips, and he closes the distance
between us but still keeps his hands to himself.
“But I also want our own family.”
His chocolate eyes flit between mine. My heart hammers
in the hollow of my throat. He’s mentioned this to me
before, I know he wants it, yet I find myself having the
nerves of a man proposing.
“I thought I had a good father. And you, well, your Dad
had some issues.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” he chuckles, reaching out for
me finally. His fingertips smooth up my forearms until his
hands cup my shoulders. I was holding him like this not
long ago.
“Maybe everyone fucks up their kids a little. But I would
love a child unconditionally. You know?” My nerves come to
the surface when I can’t read his dark eyes. His palms still
atop my shoulders, as his eyes move between mine,
examining me.
 “I think you’d do the same. I know you’d do the same. I
mean, hell, you’re really already a father. You’re a leader to
the MC and at the Trail.”
When I take my eyes off of the bathroom door, which I’d
been studying with intensity, and meet his eyes, they’re
soft. Big and filled with a smile, he blinks.
“You got baby fever, Dave?” he asks, his voice all
morning rasp and sex appeal. He wraps a large hand
around my neck and pulls me into him, pressing our
foreheads together. “We will have our own family. I promise
you. Okay?”
I nod, and he takes my lips, sealing his mouth to mine
with a moan. Our tongues twist as he filters his fingers
through the back of my hair.
I press a hand to his pecs and shove lightly, our lips
smacking as the seal of our kiss is interrupted.
“Breakfast,” I say, reaching behind me to grab the shirt
I’d meant to toss him earlier. He groans as he threads his
head and arms through the shirt. Marshall in casual
athletic clothes is nearly as aphroditic as him stark naked,
holding himself.
“Pretty sure fooling around is what made you faint.”
“I didn’t faint,” he scoffs, pressing an inked hand into his
sternum. “I passed out. Women faint. Men pass out in a
very manly way.”
“Mmmhmm,” I say, sliding my tactical watch onto my
wrist. A few swipes of deodorant, which I toss to Marshall
to use next, and I’m in the kitchen making breakfast.

I’ m overwhelmed with the desire to start our lives now . A s

if the last five years and the accident were the slap in the
face I needed to wake the fuck up and live. Though I
already know I want to marry this man; I have exactly zero
plans set in place.
 And as I dice veggies for Marshall’s omelet, I come to
the very fast realization that I have no idea how to plan
something romantic. The last romantic thing I’d planned
was for us to go to the Gala together and that ended with
Marshall in the hospital and my father in handcuffs. So.
As I wait for him to get off the phone with his sister, who
called as I started cooking, I text Anna.
Dave: Are you busy for lunch today?
Anna: If I say no, do I look lazy?
Dave: Yes. But say no anyway. I need to see you.
I snort at those five words. My dad would love to hear
me saying those words to Anna. I love that I can say them
comfortably, too. That her fiancé doesn’t have to think I’m a
shady fuck trying to weasel my way into her pants. Because
I’m out now.
Anna: Oh lord, Dave.
I roll my eyes at her response. I know my life has been a
bit dramatic lately.
Dave: It’s a GOOD thing, not bad. But thanks for the
vote of confidence.
She responds with a yellow-faced shrugging emoji.
Dave: Call me in a few, ask me to lunch. I need Mars to
hear you ask.
Anna: Dave Thomas Ingram, if you rope me into lying to
that sweet man against my will, I will seriously castrate
you.
My lips curl into a small smile at her response. Knowing
that your people love each other, that’s something
powerful. I may want my father not to be a prick, but the
fact of the matter is that he is. But Anna is not. Anna is
sweet and kind and generous, and all things good.
And she’s in my life, and I’m in hers. And she loves my
man.
Dave: I love you; do you know that?
Dave: This is good. Call me in 5.
Anna: ILYT.
 I slid my phone in my pocket just as Marshall wobbles
his way across the house. He refuses to use the single
crutch, and I roll my eyes at his stubbornness.
“You know, you could just use the crutch,” I say, tossing
the chopped veggies into a heated skillet.
He waves a hand dismissively through the air as he
settles in at the counter. “Fuck that,” he grits, “then it will
just take me longer to be back to full strength. Gotta
muscle through it,” he says, raising one arm up to flex his
bicep. “I’m tough.” He winks.
I pretend it doesn’t make my ass tingle and my cock
harden a little.
I open my mouth to argue away the awareness my body
has for him, but my phone rings. A few minutes early, I
think to myself, but beggars can’t be choosers. Under the
guise of needing both hands to flip the omelet (I do not, I
am a fucking legendary omelet chef), I put the phone on
speaker and slide it across the counter.
“Good morning,” she sings, and I grin at how easily our
plan begins to fall into place. Her voice is upbeat and
unsuspecting. I love this woman.
“Good morning,” Marshall calls across the counter. I
pour him a huge mug of black coffee, and I give the omelet
its final moment in the pan.
“How you feeling, Mars?” she asks, her voice still
twinged with sleep. “Did we wear you out yesterday?”
My eyes flick to Marshall’s to see if he’s going to tell her
it was all okay. He tilts his head and rests it in his palm.
“Ahh, I basically went unconscious for twelve hours, so
yeah, after our Christmas celebration, I think I need to take
it easy for a while.” He sips the mug of coffee. “Get my
energy back.”
“I’m sorry, I worried it would be too much for you,” she
sighs, her voice now fragile with guilt.
“He’s fiiine,” I grit out, playfully, making him smile. I
wave a hand through the air, which she can’t see, but he
appreciates with a laugh. “He’s totally fine. If anything,
he’s had too much attention,” I say, my voice thick with
laughter.
She laughs, too, but then doesn’t waste any time. “Dave,
can you meet me for lunch today? I need to talk.”
Marshall lifts his brows, a look of worry playing on his
face. He strokes his beard and leans in, getting closer to
the receiver. “I may have a busted leg, but I can still beat
Maverick’s ass if I need to,” he whispers.
She snorts. “I’ll keep that in mind but no, not a problem
with Mav. Just… stuff with my grandpa.”
Shit, she’s good. The woman could win an Emmy with
those skills.
Lloyd has been living in an assisted living facility with
her grandma for a while now. The house was remodeled
and sold—hell, Hernandez and the other guys helped me
over there. His living situation is a legitimate concern in
her life, as she is slowly taking over managing their
finances.
Marshall still looks concerned. “Hope Lloyd’s okay,
Anna,” he says before resting back onto the stool. I flip his
omelet onto the plate and slide it to him.
“Thanks, babe,” she says to my boyfriend. “So, noon?”
“Sounds good. Wilting Daisy’s?”
“See you then.”

M arshall is none the wiser when I drop him at D elilah ’ s

for lunch later that day. He figured if I was having lunch at
the Wilting Daisy, he’d stop off at his sister’s sandwich
shop. I told him I’d pick him back up in an hour.
Anna’s blonde bob is up in a small ponytail, and she’s
wearing jeans and a hoodie, her outfit complete with black
winter boots. Jeans and boots, the California girl’s uniform
to a barely cold winter. I kiss her cheek, and we settle at a
table in the back after I say hello to a handful of usuals.
I’ve fielded a ton of questions through text and calls.
None of which bore any hate or ill-will.
All were questions of concern.
When will you be back at work? How is your partner
doing? Saw your dad in the paper, sorry to hear he’s
struggling.
I wondered if I’d get comments. It may be 2021, but
some people are so behind the times.
Instead, they all cared. They all wanted me back.
Wanted Marshall healed. Wanted my world to be okay
again.
Each question of my well-being or Marshall’s health hit
me like fate. Proving I’m supposed to be this man. The man
who loves and lives in the sunshine.
“Okay,” Anna says, flipping her sunglasses on top of her
head. “I’m nervous right now, Dave. Because I love you, but
your track record has been spotty.”
I feign hurt, clutching my invisible pearls. “I’ll have you
know that I’ve done nothing but turn my shit around for
months.”
She tilts her head with a giggle. “True, but Halloween
was so sketchy that I still have PTSD from it.”
My smile fades at the truth in her statement. Halloween.
When I didn’t show up for us. I swallow thickly, and she
reaches out to say oops, and I’m sorry. But I shake my
head.
“You’re right. I fucked up on Halloween, and I’ve been
working every day to make up for that.”
Her head bobbles in agreement, but I keep going.
“That’s why I need your help. I want to propose. He’s been
ready for this next step for over a year, now’s the time.” I
slip a finger under the band of my watch and loop around
my wrist casually. “Then, after we have a year of marriage
under our belts, we can adopt.”
 Then I dare to meet her eyes, done with the phoniest of
casual behavior. This is big shit, especially for the guy that
lived in the closet his entire life.
Her eyes fill with warmth and love, so I cock my head to
the side, warning her not to get emotional.
She holds her palms up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” she
whisper-squeals in a way that only women can do. “Give me
a moment to process.”
I do, and at that moment, the waitress comes by. We
order food and coffee, and I get Marshall’s favorite pastry
to-go.
I tell her the only things relevant.
The overlook is our spot. And I don’t want it to be a big
fucking deal.
She is quiet for just a few minutes before her brilliant
mind has hatched a plan. We begin to eat, she talks, and
I’m silent as I listen to her simple yet perfect plan.
The plan, however, involves a certain cupid-obsessed
non-holiday that takes place two weeks into February. At
the end of the second week of January, that makes it an
entire month away.
I can play it cool for a month. Easy peasy.

W hen A nna and I are done with our lunch , she says she
wants to pop by Delilah’s and talk to her. The two of them
became close when Anna was there for Delilah last year.
Prior to that, she only really knew her from Maverick and
the deli, but in La’s time of need, Anna came through, even
if it cost her some heartache.
That’s the kind of woman she is, and those are the kind
of people I intend to surround myself with moving forward.
Even if that means I won’t be around my father.
 I pull open the door for Anna, and she drifts in. As I’m
about to follow her, I hear a voice coming up the sidewalk
behind me.
“Sheriff Ingram,” the familiar voice shrieks, so I turn to
face it.
Mrs. Liggett. She entirely surprised me with her
undying support and unconditional love when Marshall was
in the hospital. She was, for all intents and purposes, just a
stranger to me at that point. Yet she treated me as if I were
her own, sneaking me supplies and bringing me coffee.
“Mrs. Liggett,” I say softly, letting the glass door slowly
shut. And then I hug her. I don’t think I’ve ever hugged a
citizen before, but I do. I hug her, and she hugs me back,
and when we separate, I do something else I’ve never done
with a citizen.
I tell a serious, personal truth.
“I think it’s fate you’re here because I want to tell to tell
you that the compassion and love you showed me when my
partner was in the hospital was everything,” I say,
surprised by the emotion that takes over her face. She
brings a wrinkled hand to the corner of her eye, wiping
moisture.
“It was just coffee, sweetheart,” she says, and the term
of endearment pangs inside of me. This stranger has shown
me more softness and sunshine than my own parents.
“It was everything. It was acceptance and help and
support and I want you to know that I appreciate what you
did and how you treated me probably more than you will
ever know.”
She smiles broadly and lifts her chest with pride. I hug
her again. She lowers her voice to a whisper as she leans in
to me, clutching the strap of her purse on her shoulder.
“We don’t have to be strangers. You boys always have me if
you need me.”
I know Mrs. Liggett has two daughters of her own,
grown and married. She doesn’t need ad-hoc grown
children. But the fact that I can feel the sincerity in her
offer is everything.
“Thank you,” I reply.
We say goodbye, and I make it into Delilah’s Deli. Anna
and Delilah are tucked away in a booth, holding a private
conversation. When I start towards them, Anna holds her
hand out to stop me.
“Complete vagina, period, and ovaries talk right now.
You don’t want any of this,” she warns, her eyes wide. I
grimace, because gay or not, men don’t want to hear about
that stuff. I hold my hands up and take a few steps back
playfully like I’m walking out of a hostage situation.
“Fine, fine, where’s Mars?”
Delilah nods to the back of the shop, where the kitchen
hides. “Alley out back.”
When I push through the heavy back door and step out
onto the asphalt, I see him.
He’s leaning back against the chain link fence across
from the door, his good leg bent, knee up. His casted leg is
down, and his chin is tilted up to heaven. Sun pours over
his face, his dark eyes shaded by his aviators. The natural
light accentuates all the striations and dips of his strong
arms, which are exposed in a plain t-shirt. Dark hair pokes
up from the neckline of said t-shirt, and I swallow hard at
the sight of his thick knuckles curled around the thin metal
of the fence.
He’s fucking beautiful. And somehow, he stuck with me.
In a split second, I grow hot and impatient, wanting to
pin him to the fence and demand that he marry me. But I
came here to make a plan, and we did. I can’t let my
fluttery fucking heart divert from the plan.
I cross the alley and weave my fingers through the chain
link, on top of his. This close, I can see his eyes are closed
under the shades. He groans when I press myself into him,
making my legs go wide around his. His raised knee grazes
my crotch.
 “You ready to go home?” I ask, moving my lips up his
neck. My tongue darts out, and I taste his musky, sexy skin.
It’s irresistible.
“Yep,” he says, turning his face to find my lips with his.
We kiss, the sun pouring down on both of us, warming me
from the inside out.
Or maybe that’s him.

OceanofPDF.com
TWENTY-NINE

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
AROUND THE THIRD week in January, my ribs start to feel
normal. Fucking finally. Feeling like you’ve done a full day
of hip-hops abs every day was getting really old.
Not being able to work was getting old too. Even though
my cast is on for three more weeks, my arm has healed,
and I’m free of bandages. I’m heading back to End of the
Trail to get back to work.
Dave went back to work too.
As much as I love watching him put on his sexy as sin
uniform in the morning, the uniform is also a continual
reminder of how dangerous his job is.
Sure, Oakcreek is a small town with little excitement.
But look, just last month some asshole pulled a dick move
and drove the most dangerous road at night in the rain, and
Dave had to rescue him.
They both almost died.
See what I mean?
I take my stresses out on the punching bag in the
garage, though, because my man is the fucking law of our
town. That’s not changing. So, I need to get comfortable
with it.

T oday I’ m heading to the shop later than normal since I’ m

watching Max for a couple of hours this morning.
At least, that’s what I told Dave when he headed out on
shift.
I watched him click the garage door closed and back out
of the driveway, his arm draped across the passenger seat
as he did. Fucking hot. Women are right about that. A man
backing out is some weird alpha thing that makes us want
to fuck. I get it now.
Briefly, I remember the day he left and didn’t just back
out. The day he stopped, and his face was full of fear and
concern. That Dave is long gone.
And it’s time to plan how I’m going to get the new Dave
to be my forever Dave.
Delilah walks in the front door unannounced, which is
how she usually comes in when just one of us is home.
She’s never voiced it, but I think she’s legit concerned to
walk in without knocking when we’re both home. As she
should be.
No one wants to see their father figure balls deep, so it’s
probably better that she sticks to the doorbell.
“I felt like a complete creepy asshole parking down the
street then sliding down into my seat when Dave drove by,”
she says, her eyes all wide and dramatic. I pass her a mug
of coffee with milk and two packets of Sweet’n’Low, just the
way she likes it.
“Did he see you?” I ask, shifting to see my blurred
reflection in the microwave glass. I shove both hands
through my hair, all of it falling back into its permanent
single wave. I fill my canteen and take a seat across from
my younger sister, listening as I do.
“I don’t know because I was crouched, but he didn’t text
me and ask if it was me or anything, so I think we’re good.”
“Good,” I say, wrapping my hands around the jug of
water on the counter. It’s just my sister; we’ve been
through a lot of hard shit. She isn’t why I am nervous.
“You ready?” she smiles with a Cheshire cat grin,
rubbing her palms together.
My chest warms. “Yeah, I am.”
Before we can plan a decent proposal, Delilah requests
that I trust her.
“You know I do, La,” I say, honestly. Because ever since
she got into trouble last year when she became pregnant, I
promised her that I’d be there for her no matter what,
judgment-free.
“Okay, you tell me what you want and what you don’t
want.”
I stare at her because how the hell am I supposed to
know what I want from a proposal? Men don’t think about
this shit. At least, I don’t. I want Dave Ingram with a
wedding band; that’s what I know. She reads my deadpan.
“Okay, like, do you want everyone to witness it? Well,
not everyone but us, your family.” She pauses, her eyes
darting down to her mug. A moment passes before her nose
crinkles. Biting into her bottom lip, she’s uneasy when she
starts again. “I know Dave won’t have anyone there for him
but...” she pauses again, her tone testing what I’m willing
to share.
“You think his parents will ever realize they’re stupid?”
I can’t help it. I know it’s a sensitive topic, but I laugh at
the wording she chose. Because we aren’t waiting for them
to accept us. We’re people in love; we don’t have to fight to
be accepted. We simply are, and if people don’t like it, fuck
‘em.
“I don’t know,” I admit on the tail end of laughter.
She has a pensive look before her face wilts a little, and
I know what’s coming. Ever the father to my sister, I meet
her around the counter and drape an arm over her
shoulder.
“Hey, La, he’ll be okay. Okay? If they don’t realize what
they’re doing or what they’ve done, I have him. Okay?” I
drop a kiss to the top of her head, and my heart thumps
harder as my little sister wipes a tear away at the thought
of my man losing his family.
“He knows we love him, right?” she asks as I go back to
my side of the counter and finish my water.
I smile at her, broad and soft. “Of course. But you guys
can always tell him.”
 She nods, as if it’s not even a question, adamantly. “Of
course, we will.” Then her hands go back to her face,
clasped under her nose. “Oh, Marshall, I am so happy and
excited for you.”
She pulls a notepad from her purse, and we get to work.

“O kay , so … do you guys have a spot ? A song ? A special

something between the two of you, like a memory or
something?”
I smirk a little, but brace myself because I know my
answer will make her do the highest pitched of squeals.
“We have all of those things,” I admit, before pressing
the metal canteen to my lips for a drink and to hide my own
very pleased smile.
“Marshall Grant, how cute are you!” she sighs dreamily,
slapping her palms to the counter. “Shit, I don’t even have
that with my man.”
I lower the bottle and screw on the lid. “You have Max
together,” I counter.
“You guys want kids? I mean, I know you want a family.
God, Mars, you’re like, made to be a father.” She sips her
coffee again then shakes her head, frustrated. “I don’t
know why I put mascara on. I should have known planning
a proposal was going to make me all teary.”
She blots at the corners of her eyes with a tissue that
came from her purse. “You know you’re the best brother,
but you know you’re…” she stalls in an attempt to steady
her voice as she works against the tremble that threatens
her strong exterior. “You’ve been a father to me my whole
life. More than Daddy ever was, from what I can remember
at least.”
“I raised you well, clearly,” I boast playfully in an effort
to dodge the heavy emotional pull that comes from her
confession.
 I know my siblings love me. I love them. I don’t need to
be thanked for doing what any older, loving sibling would
do when left with a lacking parent. I took over. I had to.
There wasn’t a choice.
“But thank you,” I give her the words to acknowledge
hers, then place my hand over hers for a moment.
“Now, we have a place, but I swear to God if you go
making a big deal about it, I’m never going to let you help
with the wedding.” I give her my most stern look.
She blinks away the emotional moment from a second
ago and does another squeal, which earns fingers to my
eardrums.
“Where?” she asks, playfully lowering her voice.
I clear my throat and try not to go back to that night we
met. The glint of the moon off his gold badge pinned
proudly to his broad chest. The way his blonde hair was
combed so neatly, how he kept his shoulders so squared.
My entire body tingled with awareness meeting him that
night. As if my body knew, he is for you. He is going to be
part of you.
“Kind of ironic, but it’s this small landing on Gull Road.
Near where I had my accident,” I admit, busying myself
with cleaning up breakfast to avoid being magnetized back
to that terrible night. “The overlook,” I add, giving the
place a name.
“I know it,” she says, “I mean, I know exactly what
you’re talking about. I’ve never been out there, but every
time I take that turn, I think of how beautiful that spot
would be for a photo op of the lake. But I’ve never been
brave enough to check it out.”
“Well, we met there, and it’s a spot that we both
frequented before we even met.” I clear my throat. “It’s a
dangerous place, but it’s our place.”
She swings her head back and forth as if she’s trying to
imagine the location better. “It’s still rainy season, too,” she
thinks aloud. But as if a light bulb has flashed over her
head, she grabs her pen and begins scribbling.
A minute or so later, she passes me the paper, and I read
it.
I look up at her. “Beautiful. It’s perfect.”
She smiles with satisfaction. “It really is.”

A fter D elilah orders me a suit custom to the dimensions

I’d received from the tailor in town, she leaves. It’s
sheeting rain out when I make it into the shop. Still, I’d
have ridden my motorcycle there if I could because I have
no reason to fear riding in the rain.
I hadn’t got hit while on my bike. That night, I’d simply
tried to remedy a bad situation by creating another one. In
hindsight, I should’ve just called the ambulance and
waited.
But, for personal reasons, ahem, I don’t like waiting.
When I drive up to the Trail, I do a double-take when the
exterior door opens the same time I stroll through.
Expecting to see a usual client, I’m surprised at the face I
recognize as it comes through the door.
I thought of him a lot in the last few weeks, but all the
information Dave could get was crumbs. Now, though, as
my eyes travel his cast-laden arm and the yellow, faded
bruises over his face, I know the outcome.
He is okay.
“Mason,” I say, closing the distance between us slowly.
We aren’t friends of any kind. Hell, the first time the kid
came into the shop back in October, I nearly decapitated
him with my impatience.
He’d wanted a custom exhaust put onto his bike. The rig
would’ve been easy to do, but it would’ve been illegal. And
more than that, it wouldn’t have instilled anything in him
about bikes and the way they operate.
 If I’d have done it, he’d have torn through a series of
customizations he’d no doubt seen on YouTube or social
media. And then I’d be in a loop of altering a bike that
didn’t deserve such customizations, that devalued the ride
itself. Mason would then think it’s okay to add whatever
fucking part to whatever ride, and then he’d become the
dude in town fucking with bikes, making them illegal, ugly,
and unsafe.
He outstretches his good hand to me, and I shake. I am
happy to see him, to know that he’s okay. The kid was in
trouble that night on Gull. I didn’t even know how much,
but I knew it wasn’t good.
Seeing him alive, albeit bruised and broken a bit,
strangely feels like reuniting with an old friend. Relief
eases the tension in my shoulders as I notice, up close, he
is almost completely healed.
“Glad to see you’re okay, man,” I admit to the kid, who
looks to me with pride.
“You, too,” he says quietly. “You guys saved me, you
know.”
I rake a hand up the back of my neck and pull at the
ends of my still-damp hair. Unsure how to respond to that, I
go with easy and honest.
“Sheriff Ingram saved us both, so if you came here with
a big speech, you should reroute to the Sheriff’s
Department and tell him.”
It’s as if he knows the exact story of what went down
that night. Like he can see it more clearly than me. He
doesn’t look surprised, nor does he falter in his conviction
to thank me.
“No, you both did. So, thank you. Thank you for
stopping, and I am sorry I’m the cause of your injuries,” he
says, sounding almost like he’d rehearsed that or
something. It sounded too steady.
My expression must be a tell because he chuckles a little
before readjusting his casted arm in the white sling around
his neck. “My mom said I needed to say it just like that.”
Remembering all the times I’d forced Ry and Mav to
apologize to our neighbors for drunkenly lighting off
fireworks in the middle of the night, I chuckle a little. They
always knew they’d fucked up but still, I never trusted
them enough to deliver the proper apology. I force-fed them
lines, just like Mason is regurgitating to me now.
“Alright, well, you take the part of that apology that’s
meant for me and give it to Sheriff Ingram, too.”
He nods me off, telling me in his body language that he
knows and he will. Typical teenager—has an eye-roll for
specific emotions.
“I also wanted to ask you for a chance,” he starts.
His courage falters for a moment, so he repositions
himself against the front desk. His sling is so crisp and
white; he must’ve only just recently been released. I want
to ask him about his injuries and the bike he had that night,
but I don’t.
“A chance?” I question instead. Why delve into that
night? We’re okay, and it’s behind us. Plus, I don’t really
feel like going on a wicked rollercoaster ride, and after
making huge plans this morning, I don’t think my stomach
can take the twists.
“To be your apprentice. To work here and learn how to
work on motorcycles correctly.”
I lift an eyebrow at him, surprised. I didn’t peg this kid
for someone who wanted to learn the trade. I pegged him
for a spoiled little assjacket who needed attention from
girls and thought a loud bike was the way.
“You wanna learn how to build bikes?” I ask, an ounce of
surprise coloring my otherwise poker-faced tone.
“I do,” he responds quickly. “I graduated last year. My
folks want me to go to college, but I don’t know; I just can’t
see myself doing anything other than working with my
hands.”
 I get that, boy do I ever get that. My mother desperately
wanted me to go to college. I did. And I also spent a lot of
money on a degree that I’m certain I don’t need. Not to
mention, I did it on nights and weekends while running the
Trail, riding with the Wheel, and raising my siblings like
they were my own kids.
“There are a lot of jobs where you can work with your
hands,” I tell him. “Have you considered construction?
Landscape? Electrician?” I toss out a few options that I
myself considered. I love building things. Seeing how raw
materials can be spun into actual dreams.
He shakes his head. “Motorcycles. I’m only interested in
motorcycles.”
I lean against the desk across from him, needing to take
some of my weight off my core, walking around as a big guy
catches up with you when your ribs are sore, and your leg
is recovering.
“You know, kid, apprenticeships don’t pay.”
His eyes go wide with excited possibility when he
realizes my words are breaching an offer. But he controls
them, swallowing hard as he does.
“I live with my parents,” he says, and then a moment
later, he looks embarrassed. “I don’t need the money. Not
yet.”
I don’t ask a lot about his family or personal life. I can’t
decide if I want to take Mason on right now. Not to mention
the fact that despite my name being on the deed to this
place, my brothers ought to have a say. Hell, they
practically ran this place when I was down and out. It’s as
much theirs as mine. Messy or not.
“How about this, how about you leave me your contact
information. Give me some time to think it through, alright,
Mason?
Smiling, he agrees and takes a black pen from the cup
on the desk. Scrawling his information over an oil
brochure, he slides it to me.
 I look down but don’t pick it up.
“Give me a few days, alright?”
He nods, outstretches his hand for a goodbye shake,
then he’s gone.
I know I need to dive into this kid and find out his story
before I hire him. I also know that while I’d need to ask Ry
and Thorne first, they’d jump on it. They’d have a minion to
order around. I can just hear them forcing the kid to bring
tools that are just out of reach of them.
And maybe Mason needs to put his energy and focus
somewhere else.
I remember when I knew I was gay. I lost myself in bike
repairs, reading manuals, flipping through trade
magazines, absorbing the craft as much as I could. Getting
lost in the trade was my way of surviving when I’d felt most
alone.
I don’t know Mason, but maybe he’s feeling down and
lost and alone right now. You’d have to be feeling some
variant of that to be driving on Gull Road in the pouring
rain at night.
I shoot Dave a quick text to tell him Mason stopped by
and asked to work for me.
Marshall: Guess who just came by the Trail? Mason.
Wants to apprentice for me.
Though he’s on duty, and I don’t know if he is in a place
to respond, he does. Pretty quick, too. First comes a selfie.
Dave’s golden hair is combed neatly, his jaw clean-
shaven. The radio clipped to his chest is visible, as well at
the top of the badge. His aviators are on, and I can see his
long, sturdy arm holding the phone in the reflection of his
glasses.
Fuck me. He looks good. So good that I nearly feel like
fucking pinching myself.
Before I can swoon fully, he follows up the image with a
text.
Dave: Can’t leave my badge bunny starving
 Then as I’m grinning at my phone like a fool, he texts
again.
Dave: What do your brothers think of bringing Mason
on?
The swoon intensifies at the simplicity of his last
message. How well he knows me, knows that I’d, of course,
ask my brothers before making any changes. Because
that’s what real families do. They make sure everyone is
always on the same page comfortably.
I type out a quick text while I still have him, knowing his
time to text on duty is limited.
Marshall: Gotta talk to them about it still.
Then I scroll up, hold my large thumb down against the
screen over his picture, and save it to my camera roll. After
a few more swipes, the photo that rests behind all my
bubbles of apps is set to his selfie.
Maybe I am just a dirty badge bunny; I think as I stare at
his photo and feel myself growing stiff.
I guess I’m okay with that. As long as the only gold on
my man isn’t his badge.

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THE LAST FEW weeks have been fucking bliss. I thoroughly
enjoy being back at work, despite the fact that it meant less
time with my man. Still, work is normal, and returning to
normalcy is now… exciting.
Marshall continues to recover, and somehow, the fucking
guy convinced the doctor to take his cast off a week early.
The freedom of having his leg back is the reason we choose
to finally host a belated Christmas celebration… on
Valentine’s Day.
And today is that day.
February 14 th. I’ve kept my secret plans to myself for
nearly a month, and now that the day is here, I feel like an
overfilled water balloon, ready to burst.

T o celebrate C hristmas on V alentine ’ s D ay , we decide to

have a huge early dinner and cook everything ourselves.
It’s hard when you have two women in your life that don’t
like giving up control. But we stave off Delilah and Anna,
telling them if they have to bring something, bring wine.
Together, for hours, we cook, listening to Hozier on
Spotify through our Alexa. I never thought of myself as
someone domestic, who’d enjoy cooking and mopping and
changing sheets. I never thought I’d yearn to hold a baby in
my arms or feel like I couldn’t live unless I’d woken up to
the love of my life.
Yet, here I am. Thankful every second of the day that
Marshall got sick of my shit at Halloween. Had he not done
that, who knows what bullshit misery I’d have us living in.
This is living. This is freedom.
 “Cupid’s birthday,” he says aloud about the day,
unrolling a russet potato from a piece of darkened tin foil.
“Is it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “If Christmas is Jesus’s birthday, Valentine’s
must be Cupid’s birthday.”
I rest my hip against the counter and cross my arms
over my chest. “Hey,” I ask him, curious. “You ever
celebrate Valentine’s Day with another man?”
He turns to me and cocks an eyebrow. In dark jeans with
bare feet and only a tiny apron tied over his bursting chest,
my heart skitters. I’d say I got hard but to be honest; I feel
like I’m always at least kind of hard around Marshall.
“Define celebrate,” he says, sliding another tray of
wrapped potatoes into the oven. He sets the timer and
turns back to the counter, where he chops chives.
A slither of jealousy runs up my spine. Marshall is older
than me. He’s been out a long time. He’s had other
relationships. Before he can answer, I hit him with another
question.
“Does it bother you that you’re the only man I’ve been
with?”
He looks genuinely confused as he rakes a paw down his
dark, neatly trimmed beard. His nose ring picks up the
light from overhead, and my eyes go to it. Then to the art
on his neck.
I keep on, not letting him answer.
“When I realized that I was watching the men in porn
and not paying attention to the women at all, it fucking
scared me. You know? To be the thing that your father
hates. Pretty much the only thing, really.” I sip my
sparkling water. “I was so scared to be gay that I never
thought about what I wanted in a partner or what my type
was, you know?”
He sets the knife atop the cutting board and rolls his
hands through the bottom of the apron, leaning back
against the counter across from me. He’s giving me his full
attention. My heart beats a little faster at his dark, intense
gaze.
“That night on the overlook, though. When I saw you
lying in the moonlight, at the very spot that I’d been to so
many times,” I shake my head, almost having to stifle a
laugh of happiness at how wild it all is in hindsight.
“I don’t know how life works. I don’t know if there’s a
higher power or if fate is real, but I think back now, and
well, how could it not be fate? I knew as soon as I saw you,
I knew you were going to be part of me somehow.”
“Dave,” he croons my first name, closing the distance
between us. He loops his arms around my waist, pulling our
hips together. “I may have celebrated Valentine’s Day with
other men, and I may have had relationships before you,
but I never loved anyone until you.”
He seals his mouth to mine, and we kiss, leisurely
moving our tongues together, our breaths synchronized to
the grinding of our hips.
“We have an hour and a half before everyone gets here,”
he rasps in that smokey drawl that makes it hard to think.
“You wanna fuck me before we celebrate Jesus and Cupid’s
birthdays?”
I answer him by snagging my fingers under his belt,
unlatching it with ease from muscle memory. When my
hands are on him, my body knows what to do. It’s instinct.
“Nope,” I say, tasting his mouth again. My hands tug
free the knot at the back of the apron, and I lift it off of
him. His broad chest is covered in short dark hair and
tattoos, and I can’t help but fantasize a little as I take him
in. He never gets old.
“I want you to fuck me. And those years that you let me
top while I was adjusting to—”
He shakes his head and cups my cock through my jeans,
stilting my ability to speak.
“Dave,” he growls, making my name a fucking
aphrodisiac. “I bottomed for you because I wanted you. I
wanted that closeness with you. There’s no debt between
us, okay?”
I must look unsure.
“How about this?” he says when he notices my face is
still stuck. I feel like I owe this man so much. I need a
lifetime to repay him for his patience and love.
“How about I take you in there and fuck you hard, but
then you fuck me hard, too, huh?” he strokes a heavy hand
over the ridge of my stiff cock. “Flip fuck, how’s that
sound?”
I nod, letting my eyes flutter closed as his finger traces
the crown of my dick through the denim.
“I love the way you touch me,” I admit, like it even
needed to be said.
“Love it naked in our bedroom,” he smiles against my
lips, tugging at the loop of my jeans to get me headed in
the right direction.
We’re good at stripping down, and Marshall takes our
jeans and drapes them over the chair in the corner of the
room to keep them nice.
Completely naked and utterly hard, we stand before
each other. His full lips curl into a smile under his beard,
and it makes me smile.
“First time flip fucking,” he growls, reaching for my hip.
“Never flip fucked with anyone. Especially not someone my
size.”
“First for me, too. Finally,” I laugh, “a first for us both.”
He reaches down, wrapping his palm around our cocks.
He strokes us from root to tip, slowly. “Love was our first
together, Dave.”
We begin moving together like waves lapping at each
other; we know what to do without words. I end up on my
stomach against the mattress, Marshall behind me. He tugs
my hips up, bringing my ass into the air.
I never knew I could be comfortable in these vulnerable
situations, but discomfort is the furthest thing from my
mind as he snakes his fingers up the split of my ass.
“Fuck,” I groan out.
He spreads me and traces my hole before I hear the
click of a lube bottle. Slowly, he works a finger inside of me,
the first ring of muscle tightening around him.
“Oh shit,” I pant, pressing my head down into the
comforter. “Shit, Mars,” I groan as he curls one finger
inside of me.
The thing about being an asshole and refusing to bottom
for years is that it was limiting to our pleasure. I could’ve
been having my prostate prodded and pleased for years by
now. What a fucking stupid waste.
He adds more lube, and he adds another finger, working
them in and out of me gently. He curls the tips of his
fingers inside of me, brushing against my prostate with a
light intensity that threatens to make me blow.
The noises that come from where he’s stationed behind
my ass drive me insane. Wild groans and broken breaths.
It’s so fucking hot hearing him unravel from just being
inside me… with his hand.
“Fuck me already,” I beg, reaching down to stroke
myself. I need friction; I need touch. I need to fucking come
because this man is playing with my prostate and my plans
for this evening—it’s driving me insane.
“You ready?” he asks, sensitivity lacing his burly tone.
He double-checks, and I love him for it. The first few
times I took him, it was an adjustment. Like me, Marshall is
well-endowed so bottoming for him isn’t a straight pump in.
It takes some adjusting.
“Fuck, baby, just please fuck me.”
I feel his hands first.
They grip my hips as he shifts me closer to him. Then
it’s just one hand, positioned at my lower back, kneading
against me. The head of his cock swipes up my ass, and my
heart leaps when he breaches my entrance.
 Pushing through the first ring of tight muscle, his
fingers curl into my back. He lets loose a feral groan.
Sinking further inside, he really lets my ears and senses
have it.
“Fuck babe, you feel so good. You make me feel so
good.” That gravelly admission has me reaching down,
holding myself up on one hand so I can stroke with the
other.
I think he’s going to bat my hands away like he does, but
instead, he weaves his heavy hand over the top of mine,
twining our fingers together. Using our joined hands, we
stroke me together.
His groans, his length filling me with a delicious
burning, his calloused palm assaulting mine—it’s all I
need.
“I’m too close,” I admit, moving our hand to the base of
my cock. We squeeze, staving off the pulsing orgasm that
jolts down my spine.
As if I need to say no more, he pulls out and lies down
across the mattress on his back. He raises his knees to his
chest and spreads his thick thighs.
When I reach down with a palm of lube, my fingers hit
something metallic. A slow, sexy grin spreads across his
face. I look down to see what my fingers are touching,
“I’m warmed up for you,” he smiles lazily from the
pillows, his arms outstretched comfortably.
I tug at the metal disc clogging his hole and toss it to the
mattress. While he’s open and ready, I slide into him, loving
how he tightens around me as I do.
“That’s fucking hot,” I admit as I watch my length
disappear, our bodies fuse.
He groans with pleasure as I pull out and enter him
again, this time with more force. Reaching down, he grips
his balls and tugs them, moaning my praise as he does.
“Fuck, you feel too good. I’m too close.”
 Taking a page from his book, I snag one of his hands
from the mattress and seal it to mine. Slowly, I move our
hands to his cock.
My hips roll downward, my cock tunneling into him at
the perfect angle to torture and tease his p-spot. I should
know by now.
Our hands work up and down his sticky, hot length as I
move faster, obeying his commands.
“Fuck me harder,” he says, his neck straining, his head
back. I can tell he’s teetering, right on the edge. I plan to
push him over so hard and then fucking parachute down on
top of him.
With his eyes closed, he slides his free hand down his
pecs. I watch the words Heaven Ain’t Ready move in a blur
as he reaches for his own nipple. Pinching it hard, he pants,
stopping our joined hand on his dick.
“Gonna come,” he groans in this masculine, rough biker
tone that makes me leak under normal circumstances. But
while buried deep in him?
“Oh fuck, god, you’re so fucking gorgeous,” I
compliment him on a shaky breath as a zing of electricity
shoots through my veins. So close, oh god, I am right there.
Then he lets a feral growl free, his head back, ours
hands now cupping his balls. I watch the thick stalk of his
dick twitch and pulse before he spurts hot and heavy across
his chest and belly.
I thrust my cock into him one more time, and then I take
the plunge and join him. I come so hard that my vision goes
dark, and my ears are filled with tingles and pops.
Deep inside of my man, I give him my orgasm, over and
over, and he groans with pleasure in reaction. When I’m
spent and empty, I reach for a towel from the foot of the
bed and stuff it down between his asscheeks.
He tucks a muscled bicep under his head like a pillow
and blinks at me with hazy eyes.
 “You made me explode,” he says. I look down to the sea
of semen that muddles the ink on his body, and I smile.
“That was fucking hot,” I agree.
“Shower?” he proposes.
I agree, but before I allow him to get out of bed, I lean
down and let my tongue swerve through the come on his
torso.
“Goddamn it, Sheriff. Why are you so fucking
irresistible?”
I smile as I lick the last of him from my lips. “Is it me, or
are you just a shameless badge bunny?”
And then we do the other thing that two men often do.
He sits up and loops an arm around my neck. Laughing, I
shove my hand into his chest as we rise to our feet,
wrestling our way to the shower. After I pin him to the wall
in my secret “you know you’re about to be arrested” move I
usually only use at work, we shower.
When we get out and get dressed, it is only thirty
minutes before our belated Christmas celebration with our
family.
And just a few hours before I propose.

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GRANT
I DON’T MAKE a nervous beeline for Delilah when she comes
into the house with her fiancé and Max. Nope, instead, I
play it super cool, as if I’m not itching to iron out the
details one last time.
I do, however, stare her down with laser focus until she
feels my gaze on her. Her dark eyes tell me sentences with
just a look. Chill, be cool, we’ll talk later.
It’s a risk proposing to Dave on the overlook. Someone
could be out there. It could be raining. I could get out there
and have some fucking PTSD flashback from the accident.
But the gesture is worth the risk.
It’s not the only risk I’m taking tonight. The other risk,
which could, in actuality, be the greater of the two, is
currently standing at the front door. In her hands is a large
casserole dish covered in foil. At the door in front of her is
Dave.
I didn’t tell him I invited his mother. Because I knew
there was a chance that even though she agreed, she may
not come. I couldn’t hurt him like that again. But equally, I
couldn’t risk her ruining our holiday, either. We’d waited
months for Christmas; hell our family had too.
She seemed nearly offended when I’d brusquely laid out
the words for her.
“If you have love in your heart for your son and his life,
we want you there.” I chose my words carefully, ones that
would be positive but also illustrate how unwelcome hate is
in our home.
“I love my son very much,” she retorted before taking a
large gulp of air. “Thank you. I will be there.”
That was a week ago, so when she rang the bell after my
entire family and Anna and Maverick had arrived, Dave was
surprised. So was I, really. I truly thought she might back
out.
They share a hushed conversation wherein Dave pulls
his mother to his chest in a deep, long hug after he’d set
the casserole down near him. I couldn’t see his face but
pressed to his tricep, I saw hers. Cheeks wet with tears,
eyes squeezed shut, she looked deliriously happy.
The relief that took over my body at that moment was so
surreal; I grew dizzy from it.
But then I was needed to cut the turkey with the electric
carving knife, one of the only items remaining from our
childhood. It was Dad’s, but he was usually too lit to carve
or too lit to remember to even buy a fucking turkey. So it’s
my carving knife now, and I vow to the knife that it will see
action at least twice a year.
Anna and Maverick spend a fair amount of time with
Dave’s mom in the living room, but I see Ingrid’s eyes drift
over my way many times. Is she trying to figure out how it
works with us? That’s what most people do. They want to
know who the woman of the relationship is, then most want
to know who tops.
It’s insane if you think of it. Would you ever approach a
straight couple and ask how they fuck? No. But being
homosexual is a free pass to the world to say or do
anything as if your own moral compass can withstand it all
because you’re gay.
I get it, though. They just want to understand so they
can be okay with it. It’s hard to explain to older folks that
there isn’t a man and woman role in our dynamic, that
we’re just men in love. Maybe I’m wrong, anyway. Maybe
she’s just trying to make sure I’m good enough for her son.
That I could understand.
D inner is one of the best meals I’ ve ever had .
The turkey is a bit dry, the stuffing is even drier, the
mashed potatoes have a few too many lumps, and the
pumpkin pie split down the middle as it cooled.
But the food isn’t why it’s the best meal.
It’s the company.
Thorne brings his girlfriend, Demi, Ry shows up alone
but dotes on Max more than I’ve ever seen him, Delilah and
her fiancé are all snuggles and smooches. Anna and
Maverick seem to thoroughly enjoy visiting with everyone.
Even Dave’s mom laughs and smiles the whole night, at one
point holding a deep and private conversation with Ry.
Once pie is served, and mugs are full of coffee, I take a
seat next to my man for the first time all day. We’d been
socializing carelessly with the people we love and hadn’t
even sat next to one another for dinner. He’d shot me winks
across the room, and I’d sent him a few texts
inconspicuously.
Now, though, we’re sitting side by side, my thigh
pressed against his. Under the table, I drape my hand on
his leg intimately. But he links our hands and lifts them up,
setting them atop the table.
Ingrid’s eyes move to our fused fingers. She smiles softly
before her eyes move between mine and Dave’s.
“Marshall,” she starts, and Dave turns in his chair just
slightly, but enough for his body to be open to me. Like he’s
privy to whatever his mother is about to say, and he wants
to see my response.
The nerves for the impending proposal start to take
flight in my gut, but I manage to swallow them down, along
with a huge bite of homemade pumpkin pie.
I set the fork down and blot my mouth with the cloth
napkin at my side. My other hand stays melded to Dave’s.
“I just want you to know that I am glad you recovered
from the accident you had. Dave has told me so much about
you tonight.” Her blue eyes fill with regret and sadness, but
she pushes on. I see Dave in her at that moment.
“I hope you’d like to get to know me better because I
certainly want to know you.”
I smile at her and steal a glance at my man, who’s
watching me intently. His brilliant eyes are full of heat and
passion, pinning me to my seat. His hand holds mine
tighter.
“I’d love that,” I say, meaning it. The words ‘what about
Mr. Ingram?’ are on my tongue, but they’re too heavy to
speak.
I don’t have to, anyway.
“I’m staying at the Inn for a few days while the um,
while the wall is repaired at home.”
The wall. I’m confused, but only momentarily when I
realize she’s referring to the shotgun-sized hole her
husband made that night. It’s been weeks; I’m surprised it
hasn’t been fixed by now. I look at her, a bit confused.
“I didn’t bail him out,” she continues, “that night. I left
him there until the next day. We had a conversation that we
should have had years ago.”
She reaches out and pats our joined hands, leaving hers
on top. To an outsider, it looks like we’re all about to throw
our hands in the air and morph into Power Rangers with
this weird hand pile. But I know it’s one of many steps
towards a healthy family.
I’m not really sure what to say because… good. He
should’ve stayed in there. And had I been there that night,
I’d probably be in prison because I know how I’d react to a
man showing so little love to his own son.
“We’re separated because I refuse to turn my back on
you both.”
My head spins a little at her words. It’s a heavy
admission, and yet, neither of them seem emotional or
phased whatsoever.
 “And you’re staying at the Inn?” I ask, realizing that it
probably has little to do with the drywall.
“I am,” she says proudly, and that makes Dave perk up a
bit, too. “But I have a friend at church whose husband
passed a few years back. Gladys Mark, I thought maybe I’d
stay with her.” She grins. “I never got to do the whole
roommate thing. I got married so young.”
“That’s a powerful commitment to your acceptance,” I
say, and again, Dave’s fingers hold my hand a bit tighter.
“I cannot undo my complacency from that night. I’ll
always be mad at myself for that. For making you doubt my
love,” she says, tearfully, facing Dave. He breaks our hands
apart to take hers.
“No more apologizing. No more dwelling. Tonight is a
new start, okay?” he nods, getting her to nod in agreement
through tears. “Tonight marks a brand-new life for us all.”
She smiles at him with so much love that it nearly gets
me. But when Delilah flashes me her come talk to me eyes
from the kitchen, I remember what’s to come.
“Weekly lunch, you and me. How’s that sound, Mrs.
Ingram?” I ask.
She nods like I’ve just told her I’m giving her a weekly
stipend of a million dollars. “Oh Marshall, that would be so
lovely,” she says, clasping her hand to her actual pearls.
“What a sweet and loving man you must be to let me off the
hook for my poor behavior.”
“There’s no hook. There is understanding and there is
not. You’re the first one, not the latter, so we have no
issues.”
She stares at me before she nods. Dave pushes her plate
of pie in front of her. “Now, let’s eat.”
Because I’m an animal and also had no idea I was
supposed to wait, I push my empty plate in front of me.
“Enjoy the pie,” I say to them both, excusing myself to
the kitchen where Delilah is lingering, waiting for me.
“O kay , so the suit is in the closet , and I had some help but
it’s all set up.”
I glance around the room, realizing that Anna and
Maverick are missing. I like that they’re helping, because
they’re so important to him.
“Does Dave know they left?” I ask, my heart starting to
beat just a bit faster as the moment grows nearer.
She looks a bit confused for a moment. “Oh. Uh, yeah. I
think Anna said something about a headache.”
I don’t press her on the look because my nerves are
growing by the moment. She yanks her phone from her
pocket, directs my body to face the room, and shows me
the screen discreetly.
The small overlook is lined with wick-less electric
candles. Not as dreamy perhaps as real candles, but also,
I’m not trying to have my engagement start a fucking forest
fire. Fake candles or not, the overlook glows angelically in
the fading sunlight. It’s absolutely beautiful.
And it’s not raining.
“Candles are lighting the path down there, too,” she
whispers, stuffing the phone away before I’m ready to give
it up.
“Now, you have to get changed.”
I forgot. Her plan included me in a suit.
“How do I explain wearing a fucking suit and taking him
to Gull? He will fucking know, Delilah,” I say, sounding
more like a high school girl planning a prom proposal than
a grown man asking his lover to be his husband. I can’t
diffuse my tone, though. The moment is so close. Finally.
She tilts her head, unimpressed. “You really think I
haven’t thought of that?” she snaps back. “You’re going to
leave here to get more whipped cream, which I absolutely
need more of,” she winks, letting me know her whipped
cream request is just a cover.
“The suit will be in my car. You can change at the
overlook once you get there. While you’re ‘getting whipped
cream,’ I’m going to ask Dave to take a drive to get Max to
sleep.” She smiles broadly. “I drank wine, so I can’t do it.”
I volley my head, watching it all play out in my mind. I
guess it will work. It seems too simple, but after all, that’s
what I asked for. Simple with no frills.
“When?”
A beautiful smile fans her face. “Now.”

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“WHAT’S he think I’m doing?” I ask Anna, whose voice is
coming out via speakerphone. My cell is tossed onto the
bed while I change into my suit. The last time we were
dressed up, we were supposed to have a magical night. But
we all know how that turned out.
That was one of my only requests about the proposal. I
want to be wearing a suit, and I want it on the overlook.
Anna’s shown me a photo of her and Maverick’s
handiwork. The overlook and the path leading to it truly
made my eyes grow warm.
Flameless candles are creating an intoxicating glow. The
burgundy and deep emerald of the leaves forever caught in
a windy sway. The sky’s edge fusing with the water in the
distance. Beautiful and perfect. And so much like the night
we met.
“Taking a drive to help get Max down,” she says quickly,
almost too quickly.
“How are you going to lure him to me?” I ask, buttoning
the top of the slacks. I shake my legs and dip my arms into
the suit coat. Standing in front of the mirror, my chest
squeezes. Not at my appearance but at the moment.
I’m going to propose to the man I love.
I take a seat on the foot of the bed, my head getting
woozy. He won’t say no, but still, I’m nervous. Maybe it’s
being on Gull after the storm; maybe it’s just how you’re
meant to feel when asking someone to give their life to you.
I don’t know.
“Okay, one, don’t use words like lure because they’re
totally predatorial,” she quips, and it makes me smile. And
the smile helps to diffuse my nerves.
Softly, she says. “You calming down some?” Damn, she
knows me so well.
 “Sort of. Now, tell me how you’re getting him to me.”
“He just left to get the whipped cream, then we’re going
to tell him that I got a flat on Gull. Since he’ll already be
out, I’ll call him to pick me up.”
I run my hand down my jaw, processing. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?!” she scoffs with a wild laugh. Hell, she
sounds just as excited about this as I am. “It’s great. It will
work. Trust me.”
“Alright,” I say, trusting her implicitly. “I’m ready. When
do I leave?”
“Now,” she says, “leave now.”

W hen I step out of the bedroom , my nerves thrive on the

quiet house. Everyone is on the patio, enjoying the winter
chill with their coffee and the rest of the pie. Maverick has
circled back, and is the only person inside. Standing with
one forearm up against the doorframe in the garage, he
smiles at me.
“I’ll let them know,” he says, nodding towards where
Marshall’s family is huddled with my mom on the porch. I
can’t even believe my mom has stayed the whole time;
much less is completely comfortable with my man’s family.
She’s trying; she left my father for me. I shouldn’t have
doubted her love. But people forget that actions have to
match words. She said she loved me my whole life. The
moment I needed to feel her love and not hear it, it wasn’t
there.
But I forgive her. Because I know how short life is. How
quick it can all end.
She’s changing her world for me, and that’s the greatest
action a mother can take. The best form of apology comes
from actionable changes rather than empty words.
 “Will you hang out with my mom?” I ask awkwardly,
wanting to make sure she stays comfortable here. “I want
them all to be here when we come back.”
“When you come back engaged,” he clarifies with a
smile.
“When we come back engaged.” Shit, does that sound
good.
“Yeah, I’ll look out for her. You can trust me.” He says
that, but he doesn’t have to. Because I know I can. I know
that I am safe in the house I’m in, with the people who are
around me.
I slap the side of his shoulder and tug him into a hug. He
wishes me luck, I tap my pocket to make sure the paper is
there, and it is. I hope I don’t need the speech I’ve written,
but I’ve never been in love until him. I’ve never proposed
either. I don’t know how nervous I’ll be.

T he drive out to G ull R oad is completely silent . I don ’ t

turn on the radio, I don’t distract myself with listening to
the dispatchers, and I don’t even let my mind wander. I stay
focused on breathing normally, especially as the green
street sign comes into play and my heart starts to race.
Breathe in and out, calm and steady.
When I reach Gull, I park on a large shoulder far down
from the bend in the road. It’s the only legal and safe spot
to park, so I park there. Lifting the center console, I take
out the box I’ve hidden there for a few weeks.
I didn’t know what kind of ring Marshall would want, so
instead of buying real bands, I bought us silicone bands.
They’re hugely popular, I learned from Anna, for people
who are active and work with their hands. This way, I can
give him a ring, but he can pick what he really wants.
 Because I want the band to be more than a symbol of
marriage, I want it to reflect him, too.
I stash the bands in my pocket, opposite the sheet of
folded paper, and hop out of the truck.
The night feels pregnant with positive energy. The wind
only slightly tumbles in the trees, the sound of the leaves
crashing together is a gentle dance that works magic on my
nerves. I take a breath full of the crisp, clean post-rain air,
loving how it refreshes me.
It’s the perfect night for this.
My heart isn’t racing. Racing would imply that it’s
speeding quickly. No, my heart is doing something brand
new right now. It feels more like a shooting star, rocketing
itself through my ears down to the base of my throat, then
under my ribs.
It’s all I can hear. The wicked thudding of my excited
and hopeful heart.
Still no rain, I take a note as I cross the darkening road.
Carefully, I step onto the small foot paralleling the road. It’s
funny, when I started coming out here all those years ago,
there wasn’t a trail. I thought that over time, as the trail
formed to my footsteps, I was the sole creator. I mean, I
went out there fairly often, so it made sense.
Now I know, though, that Marshall took that same path
to the overlook, too. Sure, it was the safest way to travel
down the side of the ravine. But the fact that we each chose
that path felt metaphoric.
The pullout where I’ve parked is a quarter-mile back
from the bend in the road. I keep my head down as I chug
along the wide shoulder. I practice the words I’ve practiced
in my mind a few times. A few times being code for a
hundred fucking times.
I have to make it right for reasons beyond a “cute”
engagement story, as Anna put it. I have to make it right
because I, singularly, am the reason it was strained
between us. And the times that it wasn’t strained and
things felt good; they weren’t, because we were hiding.
I have to make up for that.
For how much he loved me and how he knew how to love
me. Knew he couldn’t smother me and change me, knew
that I’m a fucking stubborn asshole that had to be walked
around like eggshells.
If the roles were reversed, I don’t know if I’d have been
as patient as him. I want to say that I would. Maybe it’s his
age; he has a handful or more of years on me. I want to pin
it on that, so there’s another reason… not that I was just a
really shitty boyfriend who put fear before everything.
I look up to see steam lifting from the asphalt, slowly
melting into the night sky. A small bush crowds onto the
shoulder ahead. This territory is argued over often. Neither
the city of Oakcreek or the rural town of Lakeside wanted
to stake their claim. A dangerous road between the two
towns, it was often made worse with litter and, in this case,
overgrown greenery.
Glancing behind me to make sure it’s safe to cross, I
think of Mason’s headlight in the road that night. Rolling
around like my own personal magic eight ball,
unbeknownst to me. It alerted me to trouble that night, but
it lit the way to my own stupidity. That’s how dumb I was. I
was needing a fucking lamp to see it.
The lights I see now aren’t from a detached and dying
headlight.
Candles. What looks to be like literally hundreds of
perfectly smooth cylinders bearing an orange glow at their
core. Rows staggered and stacked against more candles,
light the side of the ravine down to the overlook.
Jesus Christ. I have to stop, and it takes me a moment to
realize, I’m clutching my chest. I’m breathing hard. My
heart is rocketing, making my body tremble.
It’s beautiful.
 Anna captured the life this place holds beautifully. And
no family members in the background. No cameras. Just
the overlook and us, the wondrous and vast night sky above
us, reminding us that we are limitless and we are forever.
My vision is a bit hazy for a moment, realizing how lucky
I am.
I take a few glances around to remember this moment.
Remember this walk down the side of the ravine, how it
glowed and made me glow from the inside out.
I shake my head and kind of laugh out loud at my own
nervous thoughts.
He’s not going to say no. It’s not that. I think it’s
emotion from knowing a few months ago; this was
something I almost lost.
Lifting my chin, preparing to make the best of the rest of
our years, I’m met with a glowing sea leading me down
across the side of the mountain. The overlook is still not
visible as I start to side-step my way down, and I keep my
eyes on my feet the entire way.
I always did. It’s the safest way, learned that in the
academy. When you live in a small town with lots of
foothills, a lot of training takes place in those hills. Keep
your eyes on your feet and a hand on the earth.
I did that until I’d arrived, using just my fingertips to
boost myself up the final step of hardpan.
With the moon at his back, the swollen edges and
melting curves of his solid physique are illuminated. He
lifts his face, and the light from the sky melts over him,
kissing his lips, filtering over his chest.
He smiles, and my heart stops for a minute. It’s hard to
breathe, and my vision goes hot at the edges for a good,
long moment. I focus on him again, fighting the delirious
haze that comes from that same smile that steals my
breath.
It takes me a moment to gain my footing, on the ground
beneath me and the world in front of me. My eyes tear
across him, searching his body for evidence of something. I
don’t know what. How is he here?
The thudding of my heart in my ears makes it hard to
think. Hard to talk. I force myself to focus.
Marshall is here, on the overlook and… he’s wearing a
suit.
I’m wearing a suit because I’m here to propose.
Why is he… “Why are you wearing a suit?” I ask with a
torn and desperate tone that makes his sexy smile falter, if
just for a moment.
But I don’t let him answer. I reach out and loop my arms
around him. He meets my thought and does the same.
His body is warm against me, his heart as frantic as
mine. I press my nose into his neck and grow heady at the
smell. I could smell him after he worked out for an hour,
after he worked a day at the Trail, I love the scent of him
no matter what, because it stirs something inside of me.
Always.
“You’re here,” I say, the back of his head tickling my
nose. Being in his arms out here, on this perfect night, now
this feels like the new metaphor. The best of all metaphors.
“You’re here, too,” he grins back at me as we put space
between us; some, but not much.
His dark eyes flicker under the moon’s low light. My
heart flickers, too.
“I, um, I have a speech,” I offer nervously, then I pull my
brows together because why am I suddenly so nervous?
My eyes trip down the mountain of his body, glowing like
a fucking erotic bodybuilder. Maybe I’m nervous because
he’s way fucking hot, and I’ve been dicking him around,
and holy shit, I’m spinning out.
Marshall’s palms come down over my shoulders, pinning
me to the spot. My breathing is rapid, and if this were a call
I were on, I’d tell the person, relax. Calm yourself down by
taking a breath.
 So that’s what I do. I take a slow breath, filling my lungs
with the crisp February night. His thumbs apply a perfect
pressure.
“You are spinning out aren’t you?” he rasps on a small
laugh. Even now, proposing, I’m fucking it up, and he’s
laughing, making it easy for me. Giving me room to love in
my own, dysfunction, need-to-work-the-kinks-out way.
I lick my lips and take his face in my hands, the scrape
of his beard to my palms sending a jolt through my groin. I
have a very real flash of that beard grating the soft flesh of
my inner thighs. Blood surges to my cock, but still, my
heart beats so quickly that my mind is there, with my heart.
“Can’t kiss your way out of this babe,” he grits. Then he
does what he always does. What feels so good and fuck, if it
doesn’t make me putty every goddamn time.
He takes a hand from my shoulder and wraps it around
the base of my neck. His hand is so broad, it sits heavily
against my collarbone, the tips of his fingers press hard
into my throat. My pulse fights the weight of him, and
somehow, it steadies my frantic heart. It softens the
prickling awareness inside me.
It’s like the paper bag to a panic attack. The bucket of
water to a burning flame. He’s the cure to my everything.
I place my hand on his and bring it down to our sides,
linking just the ends of our fingers.
“I came here to ask you if you’ll marry me. I came here
with a speech, but now I just want to say…” I stop and take
a breath because my head is fucking spinning. My wrists
throb from my frantic pulse. “I want to marry you and
spend the rest of my life being the man that I should have
been this entire time. I want to ask you the huge favor of
forgetting so that we can rewrite a story, a better story, one
where I’m not a fucking asshole.”
He laughs heartily, and it settles the panic that had
begun to rise as I verbally spewed my disorganized
thoughts.
 “Okay, you’re only an asshole for thinking you were an
asshole that whole time.” He places a reassuring hand on
my hip, underneath my suit jacket. I feel his warmth from
his thumb on my belly. My bones hum, and my skin burns
hot for him.
“You were coming out. And I know you don’t like to
classify or label or,” he shakes his head softly with a calm
smile on his lips. “You don’t like to talk about being gay.
That’s fine now that you’ve accepted that you are. You don’t
have to repent for the process. That’s not how it works.”
He presses his lips to mine so softly it feels like a
breeze, a memory of a kiss. It sends a thrill down my spine.
“I’m sorry, though, you know? I just want to show you
that I am.”
He shakes his head. “Think of the past as the popular
tracks on the album. They’re good, but they’re not as good
as the deep tracks, right?” He winks. I harden. “We’re
getting into the deep tracks now, Dave. You and me.”
Then he lowers to a knee in front of me and produces a
wedding band.
Gold. Smooth, no bevels or modifications. Plain, flat,
shiny gold.
I fucking love that ring.
“I’m proposing too. Will you be my husband, Dave
Ingram?”
I swallow to prevent having to lick my fucking lips. My
dick is pulsing in my suit. This is all a fucking dream, right?
Then he winks, and when he rises, I can feel the weight of
the band on my finger. It’s all a blur.
“I was going to ask you to marry me,” I hear myself say
as he pulls me to him. “I want to marry you, yes. Yes,” I say,
sounding sort of frantic. But yes. I can’t wait another
goddamn minute to make my intentions very fucking clear.
“I want you to be my husband. I want you to wear a ring.
I want people to know I am yours.” His proposal is much
better than mine.
 I swallow, my lips sticking together as I exhale. “I love
you. I will marry you, yes.” He rises.
Our mouths come together in a crash, flashes of light
popping off in the night around us.
Lightening. It feels symbolic. A shattering, a thundering,
a rebirth of us.
The air is moist, and our kiss has to end. When we pull
apart, we’re both breathing so hard. “Let’s get up there,”
he says loudly, over the increasing rain. It happens fast like
that out here.
We make our way up the ravine quickly, taking
advantage of the remaining light, not yet to be taken by
clouds. Once on the road, he nodded towards around the
curve where he’d parked.
“I’m here, but come with me, and I’ll drive you back; it’s
safest for us both that way.”
It made sense and my mind was racing anyway. I had a
ring on my finger. Marshall shoves a hand through mine as
we walk. That’s when it hits me.
“Do you have a ring?”
He smiles, his lips curling perfectly under the shadow of
his sexy beard.
“I do. I have a ring.” We stop right then and there, and I
watch him tug in his pocket and produce a band identical
to the one he put on my finger. Our eyes idle together as he
shoves the band over his finger, ours now identical.
There is so much there, sizzling like ice on a hot skillet
between us, popping and sparking. I feel it, and so does he.
He cups my cheek and takes my mouth, our tongues
connecting in a frenzied kiss.
“Mmm,” he moans against my lips as he leads me to the
SUV. He opens the door, and I buckle up while he comes
around the front. Once safely inside, we head further down
the road to a pullout where it’s safe to flip around.
“Did you know I was coming out here?” I ask, replaying
it all in my mind already, not wanting to forget the moment.
Needing to relive with it all still so hot in my veins.
“I didn’t, but I figured it out once I saw you climbing
down the ravine in a suit.” He smiles and kisses my
knuckles, our hands united over the middle seat. We’re too
fucking cute, and I don’t care.
My whole body is alive and aware of Marshall Grant in
the same way that it is aware of oxygen. I will fucking die
without it.
“We have a house full of family at home, but when they
leave,” I let out a low whistle and shake my head
generously. “I’m going to destroy you, my dear.” I give him
a most delicious grin. “Starting by letting my tongue
become acquainted with your ass.”
He groans something so low and raw it’s like honey
dripping down asphalt, rough, sweet, and sticky. “God,
Dave,” he growls, flicking the blinker up. We turn around.
“You’re like, affecting me right now,” he explains, trying to
control his unsteady, broken concrete voice. I lick my lips.
“That’s what you do to me, you know,” I say, looking at
the whipping road flickering ahead of me. “You do that to
me.” I don’t know what else to say.
He squeezes our joined hands again and says, “I know.”
We arrive at our house, share a kiss and the exchange I
love you’s before entering.
Two hours of celebrating and learning of Anna and
Delilah’s teamwork to design a co-engagement scenario
later, we are alone.
And that’s when the real celebration begins.

S ix weeks after we ’ d gotten engaged , life was so fucking

good. We hadn’t planned much of a wedding yet, but we
promised Anna and Delilah dibs, with the only stipulation
being that we don’t have some stupid internet fad or trendy
anything. It had to feel us. And we weren’t in a rush.
Currently, they are still discussing locations. We hadn’t
ruled out anything. The world is our oyster. That’s how it
feels, at least.
I’m awake; I always wake first. My shifts are more
routine right now. I’ve chosen that. It’s the first time I’ve
done that in my entire career. But I want to have some
stability before I put nights and distance between us.
I want us to come first.
Work understands. Also, I am the boss, and I offer these
same schedule changes to any of them for these reasons.
Fair is fair.
He shifts next to me, the warm curve of his solid hip
brushing against my morning erection. It feels good. His
skin against mine always feels good. And I’m lucky to feel it
often, as we’ve committed to sleeping in the nude.
I’m a lucky fucking guy. Even my badge bunny thinks so.
I drape a hand over his hip and tug him back into me,
my cock settling nicely between the split of his ass. He
groans, a wet, warm noise that awakens a stirring inside
my gut. My groin pulls tight as my morning erection grows
into something more.
I jerk him back, the head of my cock pressing against
him, not pushing in. I spit, as much as I can muster, and
watch it turn to lubrication as I slide the thick head of my
cock through his opening. He tightens against me but
accepts it with a tantalizing moan. With my chest flush to
his back, I feed him just a bit more of me.
A bit more of me, and he grows comfortable, his ass
relaxing around my hard cock. I take a breath and feel the
hammering of my pulse in my sac. The sound of his moans
in the morning means we’ve had another morning to wake
up together.
I realize how fortunate I am to see the sunrise and set
with him in my life.
 I snake my arm underneath him, so I can hold him. I do,
with my palm flat over his pec, nipple at my fingertips.
Skating my lips down the back of his neck, I let his hip go
so I can reach around him with my other arm, gripping his
cock.
He’s hard and hot in my hand, evidence of his arousal
leaking down the stalk of him. I pump slowly, loving how
tight I’m holding him, how deep I am inside of him as I
force my hips to move.
We don’t talk dirty this morning.
He doesn’t tell me to fuck him harder, and I don’t urge
him to come for me. With my tongue at his hairline, my
broken breaths at his ear, our hearts finding the same
frantic cadence—we just make love.
My bare body fuses with his. He lets his chin drift to his
shoulder, his messy morning hair falling over his eyes. I
pump his length as I thrust inside of him, building our
orgasms in beautiful synchronicity.
I press my cheek to his shoulder and enjoy the sizzle of
our skin as the pulling in my groin grows undeniable. When
I push all the way inside of him, I release his cock long
enough to drape his leg over mine, spreading him apart
further.
Catching a glimpse of us connected, I squeeze my eyes
closed and take him in my hand again. His grunts gain
momentum; our breathing too. My hand grips his chest so
tight that he covers mine with his. His other hand, which
was fed through his wild hair, goes back behind him, to my
ass.
He pulls me tight as I thrust hard, and when he curls his
spine and drops his head back, I know he’s going to come. I
press my lips tight to the back of his neck and taste his
warm, sweet sweat as I still, my body exploding into
euphoria inside of him. I come hard as he twitches and
flexes in my palm. We pump our hips forward in unison one
last time, and he lets a rough groan free.
 His orgasm is intense, and I stroke him through all of it.
I love feeling his warm release sticky between my fingers,
and after his breathing has settled, I gently pull myself
from him.
The bed seems to shake as we breathe heavily. The
remnants of our orgasms trickle between us everywhere.
But still, I hold his back to my chest, my softening cock
sticky against his ass.
“Good morning,” I whisper, my own voice sagging with
sleep and sex exhaustion.
He lifts the hand I have on his chest and presses his
mouth to my palm. The kiss makes my whole arm tingle. A
lazy smile curls my sated lips.
“Good morning,” he rasps back, weaving our fingers
together before placing my hand over his heart. It’s
steadying but still beating quicker than normal.
“What’s going on at the Trail today?”
He grumbles as he moves his large body back against
mine, his way of telling me he isn’t ready to get up yet.
We’re sticky and sweaty, and the room smells like orgasmic
bliss. I get why he wants to stay this way a bit longer.
“Mason is starting his first from-scratch build,” he says
after a moment.
After Mason came by the shop that day, Marshall spoke
with his brothers. They had Mason over for dinner when
the Trail closed and asked him all the questions. Not
because the job is FBI level serious, but rather, Marshall is
slow to hire and quick to fire. The guys he has working at
the Trail that aren’t family still become family, and that’s
what he’s looking for.
Because that’s my man. Full of love and understanding,
looking to share that with others.
“Long day?” I ask, knowing how much time he’s been
putting in with the kid.
He stretches, his muscles growing taut against my
relaxed body. “Yeah,” he says on a yawn. “Probably be
there until eight, at least. He’s got class before that.”
Marshall is footing the bill for Mason to attend trade
school in Lakeside. He’s willing to teach him the actual
trade, but he wanted the kid to have some schooling, too.
In case he ever wants a career that doesn’t include the
Trail.
Though under Marshall’s guidance and with Thorne and
Ry’s accepting personalities, I can’t see that happening.
I roll off the bed, but I bring him with me. He weaves a
hand through the side of my hair and the other falls to the
small of my back. After a slow, tender kiss, he squeezes my
ass.
“I’m off at 5. I’ll bring dinner by the Trail.”
Now any time I’m not working, and he is, I find myself
hanging around the shop. In six weeks, I’ve laid a solid
foundation in my relationships with Ry and Thorne.
Delilah’s been easy, and her bond with Anna has
contributed to that.
Marshall kept his word and has had lunch with my
mother once a week for the last six weeks. We have Sunday
dinner, all of us, including Mav and Anna. We don’t speak of
my father because there’s not much to say.
I have, however, begun to see a psychiatrist in town. Dr.
Longo. I see him twice a month, so I’ve only seen him a few
times, but I’m finding comfort in the growing ease I have in
discussing my father. I’m not waiting for him to come
around, and I’m certainly not holding my breath for an
apology. Rather, I’m moving on; Dr. Longo gives me tools to
do that, and my entire family is there for support.
“That sounds good. A little dessert before dinner,” he
wiggles his eyebrows before taking a bite of my bottom lip,
kissing me hard. He saunters into the bathroom for a
shower.
I look down at the gold band on my finger, then at my
belly, sticky and glistening from our morning sex.
I no longer have to look for moments where I am me.
And that is everything.

OceanofPDF.com
 EPILOGUE

OceanofPDF.com
 TWO YEARS LATER

OceanofPDF.com
GRANT
I TILT my tired head back, discovering comfort in the
cushions. With my legs outstretched, resting on the coffee
table, I stack them at the ankle. My brain is the kind of
exhausted that makes every part of you exhausted, too.
Even though I haven’t lifted a weight in two fucking
months, my entire body seems to teeter on collapse.
Dave comes out of the bedroom, his hot cop hair
disheveled and messy from the long hours he put in last
night. With the heel of his palm to his eye, he scrubs away
the sleep.
He looks around the house, stopping when he spots me.
His blue eyes are always grayer when he first wakes. His
bare chest retains imprints of our sheets, telling me that
when he finally slept last night, he slept like the dead.
We pretty much always sleep like the dead these days,
when we have the chance.
He lets his intoxicating hand wander down the notches
of muscle on his core, ending with a scratch to his
collarbone. A slow grin plays at his full, pink lips, and that
smile sends a swish of energy through me.
“Good morning,” he says in that inebriating tone that
makes my whole body aware that I am his.
He pads to the couch and dips down for morning kisses.
He used to always kiss me first.
Now, he kisses her. He smooths his fingers through her
fuzzy hair over the kiss, then seals his mouth to mine.
My hand smooths circles over her tiny back as Dave
keeps his hand on her, too. He sits next to me carefully, now
stroking her tiny arm. Her fingers are curled into my tank
top as she snores against me.
“How was the night?” Dave whispers, his head tilted
dreamily as his large hand moves over her soft, perfect
skin.
I yawn and blink away the emotion that always hits
when Dave loves on our baby. “Long,” I sigh. “But
wonderful.”
He places another kiss on my lips before whispering me
promises of coffee, blowjobs, and naps. A perfect Saturday.
As he whispers the plans to attend Wilkerson’s family
barbecue later that afternoon, I glance at the monitor that
rests by my feet. Motion and lights, a loud thud followed
with frantic footsteps.
I cut Dave off mid-sentence.
“She’s up.”
Immediately, he falls to a crouch, widening his arms with
a sweet smile taking up his entire face. The footsteps grow
louder, and then thick dark curls fly by, landing with a
thunk in his arms. He wraps his arms around her, her tired
little voice so fucking sweet against his chest.
“Good morning, Daddy,” our other daughter says to my
husband.
Our other daughter. Yeah, you read that right. We have
two.
Husband, yep. We didn’t waste any time there, either.
Less than six months after we became engaged, we were
married. Anna and Delilah knew we had no reason to wait.
They planned the perfect ceremony for us.
We had it at Oakcreek’s lilac farm because a church
didn’t feel fitting to us. The overlook was too small, so a
field of purple flowers that remind us of the sky the night
we met? It felt pretty close to fucking perfect.
Less than fifty people in attendance, we ate local
barbecue and drank craft beer made in town. We played
our favorite music and danced as the moon shifted through
the sky, eventually bringing us evening. When our family
and friends said goodbye, and it was just the two of us, we
drove to the overlook and laid on our backs. Still in suits,
we watched the moon settle below the skyline before we
left.
The opportunity to adopt an 11-month-old girl fell into
our laps much sooner than we’d expected. We’d submitted
tests, legal documents, paperwork; you name it, we’d given
it to the local adoption agency. At the one-year mark, we
braced ourselves for a long journey to parenthood.
Then Dave’s phone rang one night. Literally, the middle
of the fucking night.
There was a baby. A girl. We didn’t know that she was
just shy of one. They told us her mother is expecting
another child and that they are looking for foster-to-adopt
parents for both, including the unborn.
He hung up with the woman, promising to call her back
in a few minutes.
That’s how they do it. They make you sign your life
away, put every aspect of yourself on display, force you to
wait, then call you up, giving you a moment’s notice that
your life is changing.
He told me there’s a baby and another sibling on the
way.
“Yes,” I’d said, and I’d said it so fast that it made me
dizzy. Or maybe our dreams falling into place made me
heady. Either way, I had to sit down.
Dave took my hand and pressed an understanding kiss
to my knuckles.
“They want to bring her tonight.”
It wasn’t ever a choice. She was ours. We knew it.
Delilah showed up in the middle of the night with some
essentials that belonged to Max as a baby, and it was good
enough to get us through the first few days.
Here we are, one year later, and both of these girls?
They’re ours. Marshall Grant and Dave Ingram are their
legal fathers.
“Good morning, baby girl,” he says, stroking the back of
her wild hair as he rises to his feet. She’s clamped onto
him, moving her tiny fingers over his cheek lovingly, in that
wholesome way that children do.
It makes my heart swell every fucking time. Seeing them
together, seeing Dave with both our girls, sometimes it
throws a knot in my chest. Lodges a lump in my throat.
Makes my heart swell from a potent cocktail of love and
pride.
“Do you remember what today is?” he whispers to her as
they spin large, Cinderella-like circles around the living
room. She giggles and shakes her head.
“No!” she squeals, both of her squishy hands now on his
face. And he stops, whispering to her that it’s pool day.
Because Wilkerson has a pool.
She gets excited and pats his cheeks in reaction, and I
watch as he presses his lips to hers. She smacks as they
kiss, and all six feet two inches of me melts into those
couch cushions, more than just a little.
We trade-off with Evie, the baby. Dave takes a week of
Evie-nights, then I take a week. It helps us cycle through
sleep. And for the last two weeks, the girl has given us
ONE extra hour of sleep. The best part? That hour
coincides with her sister, Lexie’s, asleep time.
Which means we have one hour every single night where
both girls are asleep.
It doesn’t matter how tired we are. We take each other
whenever we can, and god, it’s more intense than it’s ever
been.
The front door pushes open, and grocery bags swing in
before the person.
“Mom?” Dave calls through the kitchen, having just
looked out the front window. Then I see Ingrid waddle
through the door, heavy bags hanging from her wrists. She
does a pronounced ‘shh’ with her fingers to her lips, and I
smile.
With the bags in Dave’s possession, she pumps sanitizer
into her palms, wiggling her fingers at her granddaughter
excitedly.
Lexie’s already in her high chair, but Ingrid lifts her out.
She peppers her cheeks with kisses and coos, a sea of I
love yous and you’re so prettys swirling around. My eyes
flick to Dave. His lips dip in heart-warming delight.
He and his mother have a strong bond now. Seeing her
with the girls feels like seeing my own mother with them. I
imagine it’s how Delilah feels when she sees me with Max
or his little brother Vince.
It seems natural to take on roles that aren’t quite what
we set out for. It’s normal and accepted; at the end of the
day, we are family.
Evie snorts against me, lifting her head. Her dark hair is
sweaty against her forehead. She blinks a few times, her
little head wobbling unsteadily the way two-month-olds do.
“I’m giving you guys the morning off. Go do something
fun, and I’ll have everyone napped and dressed for the
barbeque later.” She tears apart the homemade flax
cinnamon apple waffle (sorry baby girl, Daddy Dave is a
health nut) and fills a bottle with milk.
Lexie smacks her hands to the tray. “Gwamma!” she
cheers, missing her mouth on the first several attempts.
Finally, she connects and goes quiet as she chews.
“Mars, gimme the baby and go get a shower,” she
whispers, doing her signature, I’m going to snatch that
baby from you finger wiggle. I look to Dave, whose eyes are
wide.
“Could we just stay here and sleep?” he asks, following
after his mom. She takes Evie from me and cradles her to
her chest. Moments later, she’s all wrapped up in a sling,
Ingrid’s arms free again.
“Is that a Solly Baby?” Dave asks, narrowing his gaze to
inspect the label.
“Yes, son,” she sighs, knowing that if it isn’t off Dave’s
approved list of items, it’s not happening. Thankfully, this
has been Dave vetted and approved.
 She turns back to Lexie and continues to tear up pieces
of breakfast, feeding her as she sings songs about eating.
Her voice is gentle, and her energy is calm. One hand rubs
at Evie’s back as the other holds food for Lexie. The girls
are safe and well-loved with their Grandma Ingrid that I
know for sure.
Rising, I reach for the stroller that is standing collapsed
near the closet. I click it open and lock the infant carrier to
the top.
“Hey, mom,” I say to Ingrid, who I also call mom because
hell, she pretty much is. There are times I think Dave gets
on her nerves more than I do. “Take the girls to the park
while we’re getting cleaned up? Then we’ll head out. An
hour or so?”
Dave flushes, and Ingrid rolls her eyes, waving a
dismissive hand in the air.
“Oh Dave, relax, your husband wants alone time with
you.” She puts a hand on her hip and tilts her gaze to me, a
smile on her face. “Remember, I was young once.”
“You’re still young,” I counter the obligatory comment.
And anyway, Dave’s mom is young. They started early.
“Well, either way, young or old, I’m here to be with my
girls this morning. If you want me to take them to the park
for an hour or so, I will. You know, so you can dust and play
scrabble.”
“Oh Jesus,” Dave sighs, cupping his face with his palm.
“Marshall,” mom says to him slowly. “When you’re in
front of me, he’s Marshall. You can call him Jesus on your
own time.”
I snort loudly, and Ingrid grins. I give her a few slow
claps, too, because that was good, and it got him. Have I
mentioned Ingrid and I are a good team at embarrassing
Dave? Yeah, it’s kind of how we’ve bonded.
He can be shy and uncomfortable now. I’ll make it up to
him once the girls are at the park.
W e help I ngrid finish feeding the girls , and the three of
us get them dressed. How it takes three adults to get two
tiny humans ready is beyond me, but by the time Ingrid is
out the door with the stroller, I really do feel like a nap.
But when I see Dave stepping out of his athletic pants, I
remember what the park is really code for.
“Wanna play scrabble?” I ask, grinning.
He shakes his head. “I’m too tired to pretend to be
annoyed. Take your pants off.”
Did I also mention how fucking hot fatherhood has made
Dave in the bedroom? It’s some sick and sweet mix of early
Dave, eager and always ready to blow and new Dave,
willing to do the dirtiest things with no asking.
After I shower, Dave does. We agree it’s best to take
them separate for obvious reasons. Six minutes later, we’re
damp and standing at the foot of our bed.
“Get on your stomach.” He tells me; he doesn’t ask.
Then it all happens fast. A heated blur of hard cocks and
jerking movements, wet tongues colliding, fingers fanning
over hot flesh.
First, he buries his handsome face in the split of my ass,
letting his tongue work me open. Around then in, in then
around, lapping, kissing, sucking. I groan into the pillow,
my mind a black starless sky as he tastes me. When my
hips lift from the bed, and my body thrums with the need to
release, he flips me to my back.
His eyes are wild, and I don’t know what to expect.
He swallows hard. “Put your legs down,” he says,
bumping each of my kneecaps with his closed fists. My legs
fall flat.
He mumbles appreciative noises as he leans over me,
holding himself up on one strong arm. Then with his other
hand, he presses his hard, pink cock against mine.
 I want to say fuck yeah, rub that beautiful cock on me.
But I also know that at some point, his mother could
come back. Instead, I groan and moan and bite my fucking
lip and enjoy.
I enjoy him as he straddles my thighs with his knees,
and finally after he strokes us together for a while, he
lowers himself onto my length.
I love the noise he makes as he sinks onto my cock. It’s a
cross between acceptance of pain and explosions of
pleasure.
He tightens around me as he lifts himself, starting the
journey in finding the perfect angle, the right momentum.
After a few seconds, I know he does because I lose sight of
his blue eyes, his eyelids flickering closed.
He braces himself on my thighs, which causes his hard
cock to jut out angrily over my belly. Looming, like a rocket
that threatens to launch.
I like rockets.
I reach for him and find myself needing a break when I
wrap my hand around his long, thick cock.
“Mmm,” the erotic vibrations of his praise move through
my chest, making me fucking hot everywhere.
I dig my hands into his hips, met by hard muscle and
warm skin. I shove him down on my cock as he attempts to
raise up, and his head tips forward on a groan.
The added pressure when I’m hitting his prostate is
what sets him over. It’s only been a few minutes, but as I
tug him down harder on me, I know he’s there.
Hell, so I am.
A few more movements, and we come together, slow and
steady. He rides me until I’m spent, and when he lies down
next to me, I roll into his chest. His fingers work through
my hair as we pant, my hand playing at the sticky mess on
my body. His sticky mess.
Still breathing heavily, he rolls on his side, so I do the
same. We stare at one another in the low light of our
bedroom, the curtains closed.
“Think we have time to do that again?”
I look at my invisible watch. “Definitely.”
We fit in another round, spend our morning checking out
bikes at a new shop up in Lakeside, then spend the
afternoon with the girls and our friends at the Wilkerson’s
house. When we get the girls down and have that golden
one hour together that evening, we put on Hozier and
dance in the low light of the kitchen.
“Say it,” he whispers against me, our feet barely
moving. His chest is solid against mine. His hands are
linked behind my back and mine his.
I say it, letting myself enjoy the way it feels rolling off
my tongue. “I’m your husband.”
Two years of marriage, and he still gets hard hearing it.
I reach down and enjoy his reaction, whispering it to him
again. And after a quickie, we do dishes and pay bills. I
take out the trash, and he sets out the girls’ clothes for
tomorrow.
It’s domestic bliss.
It’s all I ever wanted with the only man I’ve ever loved.

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 MAVERICK AND ANNA’S STORY

Do you want more of Maverick and Anna’s story?

They have a full-length standalone titled I’ll Do Anything

and it’s available in KU!

—>I’ll Do Anything US
—>I’ll Do Anything UK
—>I’ll Do Anything CA
—>I’ll Do Anything AU

The story is a soft femdom, second-chance, bully-to-lover’s

romance with triggers of self-harm and, of course, bullying.

Enjoy a teaser below:

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Prologue

Anna / 10 Years Ago

“You better read it.”

He never touches me but his tight jaw and angry words
hit hard enough. I nod, looking down at my shoes.
“Don’t nod your fucking head at me,” he snarls, stepping
in closer, so close that I can barely breathe. The warmth
coursing through me threatens to strangle all the air from
my lungs.
He is using the wintergreen mouthwash again. He has
two, wintergreen and cinnamon. Things I’ve grown to
know.
A customer had rolled her window down to speak with
me. She popped a stick of cinnamon gum into her mouth as
she did. The scent burned my senses and made me want to
wretch. I was on the way to the bathroom to be sick when
he appeared.
When my eyes don’t follow my back, that’s when he
finds me.
Unsuspecting and weak.
The faces around us don’t linger on our interaction.
Maybe my body language and expression aren’t panicked
enough to alert anyone. Maybe I’m not really
afraid… that thought is one I have and am confused by
often.
“I let it slide when you didn’t answer me about being
away from your station.” He closes the remaining distance
between us. “Answer me now, or you know what I’ll do,” he
finishes.
“I’m going to the bathroom.”
 He presses a letter into my palm and pushes my hand
up, trapping it against my chest. “You know what? That can
wait,” he smirks, taking a step back. From my peripheral, I
can see the darkness of his shape in front of me, sizing me
up. “Read it now.”
“I can’t. I have to use the restroom. I have to get back to
work.”
His jaw works silently as my blues find his greens
through the unrelenting mist. How can a guy so bad also be
so beautiful?
On the outside, at least.
“Read it now,” he commands, stepping in to me, caging
me against the employee lockers.
I lift my chin only slightly, but enough for my face to be
lost in the shadow of him. To his darkness.
My hands tremble and the paper shakes as I unfold it
once, then twice.
“Out loud you little fucking bitch,” he whispers to my
ear so lightly that his tone seems to sit on top of my skin,
burning me before it slowly seeps into me, hurting me. His
poisonous words infect me, infiltrating my brain and my
heart.
My mouth is sandy and hot when I start to read.
“You are nothing. And yet you walk around like you’re
everything. I want to wrap my fingers around your throat
and feel your heart panic under my grasp. Make you feel
something, you fucking zombie. Everyone hates you; you
are nothing.”
A single tear rolls down my cheek and as fast as I can, I
wipe it away. I learned long ago that the tears make it
worse.
But there are some days that I can’t fight it anymore.
Slowly I refold the letter and tuck it into my pocket.
He never asks me why I keep the letters he writes me. A
normal person probably wouldn’t. Maybe it’s part of the
reason he hates me, because I do things normal people
wouldn’t do.
My naturally blonde hair has been box dyed to jet black,
mood rings and stamped metal cover my fingers and
instead of wearing shorts that my ass look like it’s trying to
be swallowed, I wear pants.
When people my age are passing around a bottle of
Goldschlagger in an orchard while listening to “hits” on
FM, I’m at my favorite coffee house with my laptop and
headphones. Reading, studying—whatever I’m doing, I’m
always alone.
And he reminds me of those facts whenever he can.

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 ALSO BY DAISY JANE

I’ll Do Anything / a bully to lovers gentle femdom romance

Hot Girl Summer / a taboo summer romance standalone
Unexpected / book one, a taboo age gap duet
Consumed / book two, a taboo age gap duet
The Corner House / a group sex standalone
My Best Friend’s Dad / a single-sided OTT slow burn age gap romance
Waiting for Coach / an age gap teacher student romance
His Young Maid / book one, age gap romance
Maid for Marriage / book two, marriage romance
Maid a Mama / book three, unexpected pregnancy
Pleasing the Pastor / first time age gap romance

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 IF YOU LIKED THIS BOOK…

Please consider leaving a review on Amazon! Don’t forget

to recommend this story to your naughty reader friends!

Want more delicious stories? Updates to your favorite

characters from past stories? Sign up for Daisy’s newsletter
to stay up to date with her new stories, updates, free book
opportunities and more:

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