Max snorted softly. Like he’d have noticed if any had. On the rare occasions when he was out somewhere where there were female folk, he ignored them. Max kept his mind on what needed to be done, and he hardly saw anything or anyone not related to that task.
Probably God himself could walk right past Max and he wouldn’t notice.
Well, I’m going to hell for that thought if nothing else. Guess even Daddy’s belt couldn’t whip the sacrilegious thoughts out of me. And I sure don’t want to go thinking about all that shit right now.
Most of his memories regarding his parents and home life were as painful as thinking about Bo hurt, scared and alone.
Max closed his eyes as he chewed the last bite of his sandwich and pictured Bo, his eyes twinkling, something hot and mysterious in their hazel depths, his broad smile and those deep dimples. The Texas sun must have poured on more heat despite it being winter, because Max felt it roll over him like a wave. The muscles in his stomach quivered and the insides of his thighs shook as fantasy Bo laughed, the light tinkling sound shooting from Max’s memories into his bones, making him ache in a way he couldn’t fathom.
“You about ready to get back to work now?”
Max nodded as he opened his eyes, almost resenting Annabelle for chasing off that phantom Bo. Annabelle stood and dusted her hands on her jeans and tipped her head towards his truck. “I didn’t hear it ring, but do you want me to go check anyway?”
MILES TO GO
Bailey Bradford
26
“I’ll do it,” Max said as he stood. His knees popped and his lower back cramped a bit.
He grimaced as he shot Annabelle a bashful look. “It’s hell getting older.”
“Beats the alternative, which is not getting older,” Annabelle pointed out. “And all the plastic surgery and crap like that in the world doesn’t stop someone from getting older. It just makes them look really fucking creepy for the most part. So the way I see it, getting older beats being dead, you know?”
He couldn’t really argue with that. Max checked the phone and didn’t see any missed calls or texts. It occurred to him he might not hear it if it went off while he was working on the fence. “You got your cell phone on you?” he asked as he peered over his shoulder at Annabelle. She nodded. “It okay with you if I text Rory and Chance and tell them to call your number if they hear anything?”
“Of course, like you even have to ask.” Annabelle plucked her phone out of her shirt pocket. “I’ll text them.”
With the matter settled, Max tried to get some of his focus back on work. He wouldn’t be doing anyone any favours if he got careless with the barbed wire. Despite his best attempts, though, Bo remained in his thoughts, his laughing visage almost constantly on Max’s mind.
It took every bit of Max’s willpower to finish the fence and the rest of his work without stopping to call either of his bosses. The need to know what was going on with Bo was pressing down on him. Max told himself it was because Bo was a friend of his—it had nothing to do with the dreams he’d had about the lithe blond man that left him shaken and confused when he woke up.
Those dreams, along with the fantasies Max’s brain seemed determined to create,
always sent his body into a state of arousal and his mind spinning with confusion. He’d never been particularly attracted to anyone, which might seem strange for someone his age, but Max just accepted it as a fact. Having been raised in a violent fundamentalist household, sex was something that was discouraged—except his folks apparently hadn’t got the memo since there’d been eight kids.
MILES TO GO
Bailey Bradford
27
Any normal inquisitiveness a child might have had wasn’t allowed in his house, and since Max had plenty of older brothers to learn from, he’d buried every trace of sexuality as deeply inside himself as possible. More than one of his brothers had been brought before the family for masturbating. His father always made the guilty boy strip then proceeded to beat him sometimes to unconsciousness with his thick leather belt while the rest of the family was forced to watch.
Well, not forced, not all of them, Max admitted to himself. His ma had always ordered the number of strokes, and his oldest brother had frequently cheered and jeered. Sometimes Max thought it was a miracle he was still alive and as sane as he was. And he couldn’t go there, hadn’t ever really been able to and probably never would.
Max stirred the pot of chilli on the stove. The cornbread was done, nice and golden with just that hint of a sweet taste he loved. Hopefully Annabelle would, too.
“Sup’s on,” Max called out, hoping she’d hear him now the shower had stopped.
“Be there in a sec,” came her faint reply. The bathroom door opened minutes later as Max was filling the two bowls with the fragrant chilli. “Oooh, corn bread, too! Tell me it’s the sweet kind…”
Max chuckled despite the tension that had been eating away at him for hours now.
“Yep, it is. Got you a chunk right there at the table.”
“Oh, yum!” Annabelle took her bowl and grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer, thanking him as she did. She pulled out her chair and plopped down. “I haven’t heard from Rory yet.”
Max stirred the chilli in his bowl, wondering if he could even keep it down. What the hell is wrong with me? The swirls in the orange-red stuff seemed particularly fascinating. “Him or Chance’ll call as soon as they’re able. They ain’t thoughtless jackasses.” Which meant that whatever happened to Bo, it must be really, really bad to have kept them from calling.
Or maybe it
