Groaning, Max ignored the throbbing erection tenting his boxers and rolled onto his stomach. The wrinkled sheets felt good against his aching shaft, and if he rubbed a little as he drifted off to sleep, well, that was his body taking over, wasn’t it? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d woke up stuck to the sheets.
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Chapter Three
Max and Annabelle both were waiting on the porch of the bunkhouse two days later when Chance pulled up into the drive. Rory parked behind him, having driven Bo’s SUV.
Max let Annabelle rush down the steps in front of him, not wanting to appear in a hurry to see Bo. He just hoped the need he felt to do so didn’t show in his expression.
“He’s asleep in the back seat,” Chance said as he got out of the truck and gently shut the door. “I almost hate to wake him, he hasn’t been sleeping much. The doctor said he had nightmares most of the night—”
“They know who did this?” Max asked, tamping down the anger beginning to boil in his stomach. As much experience as he’d had with that emotion the past few days, he figured he should be able to control it better.
“No,” Rory said as he walked over. “Police have no clues who the guy is who did this. ”
“Well, they have Bo’s description of the asshole,” Chance corrected. “At least that’s something for them to go on.”
“What does he look like?” Annabelle asked before Max could, which was okay with
him because somehow he’d moved over to the passenger door—and when had he grabbed the door handle? Max peered in the window. He sucked in a breath at all the bruises on Bo—
and that was just the ones he could see on his face and arms. Bo was too still and that glow Max always saw around Bo, that he always imagined when he thought of the man, wasn’t anywhere in sight. It was wrong, more wrong than just about anything Max could think of.
He listened to Chance’s answer while he wondered if Bo would ever recover the aura-like essence that had both fascinated and intimidated Max.
“Big, about six-three Bo guessed. Plain features, blond,” Chance said. “And a real sick bastard to pick on someone Bo’s size and kick his ass like that.”
Max glared at Chance. “That in there? Ain’t no ass-kicking, that’s a beating some chicken-shit motherfucker delivered likely without giving Bo a chance to fight back.” Fired, I am so fired. Max felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head to find Annabelle smiling at him, her eyes shining. Shit, I cussed and cussed in front of a woman! Sure, he’d slipped up before and he really did try not to treat Annabelle any different from the men he worked with, but MILES TO GO
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this time just seemed worse, and his upbringing came slamming back into him. Max opened his mouth to apologise.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Annabelle snapped. “And if my brother and his love toy give you any shit about it, I will handle them. Maybe permanently.” She winked and patted his shoulder before stepping aside so he could open the door.
“Holy—” Shit, Max finished silently, because Bo had looked bad through the tinted window, but without that dark shield? Both eyes were swollen, bags and dark blue and purple bruises surrounding them. Some kind of bandage was strapped over Bo’s nose, setting it or holding it on for all Max knew. The right cheek had a long gash closed with several stitches, and there was another right by his earlobe. His lips were split, the top sporting a few stitches, the bottom painfully huge with a deep cut in the centre. Even Bo’s chin was bruised, and another strip of stitches ran in a diagonal across his chin.
All of it fed Max’s fury, but what really made him want to kill whoever did this with his bare hands, was the bruises and stitched gash on Bo’s throat. Bo had been choked by his attacker, from the front obviously, as Max could clearly make out the blue-black thumbprints left behind on Bo’s skin. The guy must have really been trying to kill Bo; the bruises were so deep, and there was another set right above the first that Max had noticed. Those swollen eyes moved slightly and he realised Bo wasn’t asleep after all. How much of the conversation had Bo heard?
“Come on.” Max gently reached for Bo’s hand, intending to take it and tug slightly. The bruises and gashes—defence wounds? He wondered—stopped him flat. Max glanced back at Annabelle’s gasp and shot her a look that he hoped said ‘Cut that out’. She nodded and Max looked at Chance.
“Where ain’t he hurt?”
“Ah…” Chance looked chastised rather than angry, so Max had hope he hadn’t got
himself fired with his little tantrum. He really needed to get his easy-going persona firmly tacked into place.
A grunt from the truck drew Max’s attention back to Bo. He leaned in and offered his hand to the injured man, unsure if he was awake or not after all. His eyes could have just been moving around while he dreamt—and maybe Bo hadn’t heard any of that conversation then. Max hoped Bo hadn’t heard it, he didn’t need to think about the sick fuck who had beaten him and tossed him out in a field like a bag of trash, especially not right now.
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Max squinted as he tried to figure out whether the injured man was awake or not. Bo’s eyes were so swollen, Max wasn’t certain he’d know if Bo was peering at him or not, although he thought he saw a sliver of hazel under there. “You awake, buddy?”
Bo grabbed Max’s wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. He half-pulled half-pushed himself up as Max held his arm
