"My sister!" Jack kept his voice low, threatening, and Riley got the message.
"Off limits, I'll make sure of it."
"Do that, Het-boy, do that."
In a blaze of anger, Jack turned away, pulling off the wool sweater, and shucking the dark pants, grabbing at jeans and his tee. He pulled them on and dragged an old denim jacket over his shoulders.
"Where are you going?" Riley asked softly, and he winced as Jack reached past him to open the door.
"Getting out of here. I'll be in the car. If you wanna come with me, Het-boy, then you get your rich ass downstairs. I'm leaving in ten."
Chapter 18
It didn't take long for Riley to decide. He knew in his heart he owed Jack an apology, and it wasn't just the threat of physical violence that made him see it. For too many years, he'd just switched himself off from all the shit at the dinner table and family events and cut himself off from anything to do with them. Tonight was different. It was apathy that stopped him from saying anything, not a lack of courage on his part. Riley deserved every word that had been thrown at him. He glanced down at what he was wearing, black pants and the silk shirt, and wondered where they were going that meant Jack chose to wear jeans. Quickly he changed into his normal dark jeans and the same worn Cowboys sweatshirt he had made Jack wear earlier that same day at breakfast.
In five minutes he was at the door of the truck, climbing into the passenger side and saying nothing as Jack started off down the drive with barely restrained anger in every sharp movement of his hands. The truck had tinted windows, which was good considering the paparazzi starting to gather at the main gates to the Hayes mansion. It hadn't taken long, just short hours since the announcement in the
Times
, and already the vultures circled, zoom and wide-angle lenses at the ready, waiting to get a view of Riley Hayes and his new husband. Riley saw the flashes, thumbed his cell and sent a quick text to Eden to at least give her a heads up. She normally thrived on all the publicity, but still, her supposedly heterosexual brother married to a
guy
was going to turn the Hayes estate into a three ring circus without a safety net. Riley didn't give a shit about the rest of the family, but Eden and his niece and nephew didn't deserve the stress. Eden would know what to do. Maybe she'd pull Lisa to one side, warn her somehow, and try to push through the alcoholic haze their sister-in-law was permanently in. Maybe she'd even get the nanny involved.
"Where are we going?" Riley finally asked, looking at Jack expectantly. All Jack did was turn up the stereo, the strains of some heavy rock anthem filling the empty space. Riley just turned to look out of the window at the flat Texas land disappearing beside the truck, the steady thrum of tire on blacktop drowned out by the heavy rock vocals.
* * * *
Jack drove with purpose and, inch by inch, the tension inside of him drained away; next to his horses, driving was the one of the only things that relaxed him. But where they were going now was the ultimate antidote to life. It was the same place he'd been going since he was old enough to pass for drinking age, sometimes on his own, sometimes with Josh. He always left with lightness in his heart that belied the financial problems and the worries he held inside for Beth and his mom. Shooters was little more than a roadhouse on a back road, kept alive by locals with knowledge and bikers who had it pinned on some kind of word of mouth biker's map. It was old and worn and felt anonymous and safe to anyone who strayed that way. When they stopped outside, Jack turned off the stereo, crossed his arms on the steering wheel and leaned forward.
"Okay, one question before we go in," he started carefully, not sure how to word this one. He wasn't worrying about Riley's reaction to being asked. He was more worried about his own temper if Riley gave him the wrong answer or Jack saw he was lying.
"Is this what you do?" Riley turned to him, snapping. He seemed tired. "Wait 'til you get men in your truck and then refuse to let them leave until they answer questions?" Jack assumed he was referring to this morning at the D and half smirked.
"This is
your
truck," Jack pointed out and watched as Riley actually huffed his irritation.
"What then?" Riley snapped back. "What else have I done?"
"All I wanna know —jeez— I know what you said, but seriously did you really not invite Lisa up for sex today?" Jack just blurted it out, and then held his breath, the sudden stillness in the car unnerving.
Riley blinked at him, his mouth falling open, and denial so obvious in his face. "Fuck no," he said, frowning, "and if she said I did, then she's just screwing with ya."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Right."
Riley snorted. "Me and Lisa—"
"Whatever."
* * * *
Before Riley could phrase a comeback on Jack's less than witty response, Jack himself was outside the car, keys in his hand and a look of impatience on his face. Riley climbed down more sedately, idly looking at the other occupants of the parking lot. It held mainly bikes, with a few beat-up trucks, and his brand new SUV stood out like a sore thumb, not being helped at all by the R1LEY personalized plates. He cast a final worried glance around him before following Jack to the door, hearing the reassuring click of the central locking as it secured the car.
The door opened to controlled chaos: noise, talking, music on a jukebox in the corner, a small stage, people of all types standing in groups, couples, or singly, drinking beer. This was what Riley could make out in the half-gloom. The room smelled of smoke, beer and aged wood and had a decidedly Spartan interior that disappeared into the murky obscurity of half-hidden corners where conversations, to Riley's untrained eyes, looked decidedly shady. He unconsciously moved closer to Jack, decided that for all his own six foot four of muscle, experience definitely outweighed brawn on this occasion.
* * * *
They reached the bar, Jack scouting the clientele with a quick glance and ordering beers with a casual flick of his hand and a smile dripping with charm.
With beers in hand, they settled in one of the dark corners, Jack wanting to slide lower in his chair, and do what he did best— people watch. Tonight, however, he had a man sitting opposite him, his partner. Riley looked a little shell-shocked and more than a little uncomfortable, squirming slightly in the wooden seat, nursing the beer and every so often leaning his head back to swallow the cold liquid.
Jack sighed inwardly, wishing he could just relax and enjoy, but all he could do was watch Riley's freaking throat as he swallowed the beer, watch the cold liquid clinging to Riley's lips, watch Riley's tongue as it chased the stray drops— just watch. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortably hardening in his pants as he watched long graceful fingers that had never known manual labor gently slide up and down the bottle, circling the lip and dropping to rest on the table. This was ridiculous. Riley freaking Campbell-Hayes and his stupid freaking hands and his stupid freaking neck. It was enough to break the no sex rule here and now. Not to mention what was under that sweatshirt, a strong chest, tight muscles that flexed and bunched under the silk shirt he'd worn for dinner, and the tightest —yes, really— the tightest ass he'd seen outside of a rodeo.
"So," he began, shifting again to relieve some of the pressure, "two days down, three hundred sixty-three to go."
"Uh huh," Riley offered in reply, which was kind of weak given the opening Jack had thrown out there.
Jack didn't respond, just slid to a more comfortable position and shut himself off from the crap that was his life at the moment, watching a few casual hook-ups, seeing couples disappearing into the shadows. He wondered why he'd thought it was a good idea to bring his
husband
to the place which only three weeks back was
the
place he'd last had anything resembling sex. He didn't see the guy in here tonight, but that wasn't unusual. Visitors came and went, transient travelers who crossed the country for business or pleasure, so Jack didn't expect to see him. He was, however, very aware of the guy at the bar who was staring at Riley. He was tall, dressed in denim, a Stetson low on his head, beer in his hand, and he was definitely staring. Definitely. Staring.
Jack guessed he should have been prepared for this, but it didn't stop the unexpected stab of anger that this man was calculating the chance of success quite so blatantly. Shuffling his chair, he moved closer to Riley, whose expression resembled that of a startled jackrabbit caught in headlights.
* * * *
Unsettled by Jack's glare, Riley glanced behind him, expecting to spot his dad or his brother and seeing no one he recognized. Relief swept through him. At the same time, tension knotted in his gut, and he had an intuition that maybe it was time for one of Jack's PDAs. Conflicting emotions were fighting inside him. A healthy dose of lust, which he couldn't get a handle on, tangled up with embarrassment and shame.
Well, he imagined if he thought about it, he could blame Steve for the lust part. Steve and his stories of hot, sweaty, hard sex with partners in the past, long before his friend had fallen so damn hard for Beth. Stories of being held, of being dominated and pushed by someone of equal size, of explosive orgasms just by being told what to do. Riley had always been intrigued by that, listened intently, even asked questions. He was so used to being careful, to being so huge, so big compared to the many girls he'd slept with or, as he should label it, fucked. They all got off on it, his size, his strength, and his ability to hold them with one hand and take them over the edge. Sometimes though, in some of his kinkier hook-ups outside of the debutante market, some of which involved the exchange of monies, he enjoyed being the one to be pushed around.
And now, here he sat, with Jack moving closer, his eyes focusing on something behind Riley's head, and there was anticipation curling in his groin. His heart was quickening, and his blood racing in his arteries and veins. Jack deliberately placed his beer on the table and leaned in to talk, low and intimate, but Riley beat him to it.
"There isn't anyone here who matters for a show," he protested, even as Jack's hand slid up under the hem of his sweatshirt and touched his skin. Riley couldn't stop a full body shudder, pushing back in his chair.
Jack smiled, his lips close, damn close. "Every husband needs to mark his territory."
Thoroughly bemused, Riley spluttered when Jack bit gently on his lower lip before soothing the pressure with a touch of his tongue. Noise receded, worry receded, thoughts just vanished, and the beer bottle in his hand slid through damp fingers and clattered to the table. All that was left in his world was Jack and the fire in his blood. Far too soon he pulled away, leaving Riley anchorless.
* * * *
Jack watched out of the corner of his eye as the man at the bar turned his back. He smiled inwardly, relaxing back in his chair. He could make a career of these PDAs, especially considering how Riley freaked.
Chapter 19
"Beth, wake up, babe. Beth."
They'd fallen asleep on the sofa, Beth curled into him like a cat and his arms curved round her protectively. As the sun pushed its way through the half turned blinds, Steve knew he had to move them to somewhere more comfortable, if only to save her back, which he knew had to be aching. Half asleep, she stretched against him, leaning up to entwine her hands around his neck, pushing against his warmth and sighing.
"M'up," she murmured, wincing and stretching again. Steve wondered how much more he could take of this stretching half-purring kitten in his lap, wanting nothing more than to scoop her up and carry her to his bed. He wanted to kiss her, from her dark hair to the freckles on her face to the gentle roundness of her belly where her child was growing. He wanted so much. He just didn't know how to begin to ask.
They stumble-hugged into the kitchen, settling at the table for breakfast.
"I hope I can keep this breakfast down," Beth said miserably as she poked at the cereal Steve had placed in front of her. She'd said morning sickness hadn't been so bad, and at twenty weeks, it was in the past now, but the anxiety from last night was probably still churning inside her. He worried.
"Can I ask you a question Beth?"
"Uh huh."
"You said last night Jack knew. Did he guess? Was he cool with it?"
Beth closed her eyes and rubbed at them with small fists.
"He was devastated, Steve. He cried. He sat next to me, and he cried." Steve grasped at one of the fists, pulling it away from her face. "It was awful. I hurt him so much."
"Maybe we should have told him? You shouldn't have had to tell him alone."
"I didn't have to tell him; he knew. Somehow he knew. I didn't ask him how. I probably should."
They sat in silence, eating cereal and lost in thoughts. Finally Steve stood, rinsing bowls and idly skimming through yesterday's mail and the newspaper. In among the papers and the envelopes, one article on the inside pages of yesterday's paper caught his eye, and the world fell from beneath his feet.
Son of a bitch.
* * * *
Jeff hated these clandestine meetings. He cursed his little brother for forcing him into this position.
"Just the Campbell family. No one hurts my brother. Well, not much anyway."
* * * *
"Mr Murray is here," his secretary announced even as Steve pushed into Riley's office. His face was carefully blank, and his eyes full of something Riley couldn't define. He scrambled to stand, then he rounded the desk. A pissed Steve was something that worried him. It took a lot to get his friend upset, and in the far reaches of his mind, Riley knew why Steve was here.
"Steve—" he began, holding his hands up to placate his only real friend, wanting to say "I'm sorry" but unable to speak the words before Steve's clenched fist connected with his cheekbone and sent him staggering back against his desk. He ducked, but the next punch connected with his temple, and he felt a sudden dizziness as his head snapped back. Steve was looming over him, pushing him back on the desk, his hands wrapped in Riley's shirt as he shook him.
"What the fuck have you done, Riley?"
"Steve—" Another blow connected with his chin, and Riley had nowhere else to go. Summoning every bit of strength, he pushed back at Steve. It was like trying to move a brick wall. Finally he managed to get a handle on it, moving away from Steve, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead, and his hands out in front of him again.
Steve was breathing hard, a hand unconsciously over his heart, and Riley winced at the sight. He'd never meant for this to happen.
"What did you do, Riley?" Steve repeated, his voice controlled now. "I told you about Elizabeth Campbell in confidence, as my best friend. You know what she means to me. And you do what? You use it to get Campbell into bed with you? What the fuck?"
"Steve, I'm sorry. It's not what you think."
No, not just into bed. Not at all. Just to get what is rightfully mine…
"Not what I think? Are you telling me you didn't somehow use what I told you about Beth against her own brother?"
What could Riley say? It was exactly what he
had
done. He was standing in front of his best friend, the only one who looked through the Hayes name and saw a man capable of more. Now, that man was destroying the friendship as easily as snapping a pencil. No. He had destroyed it himself. Final. Sudden.
Steve began backing from the room, his hand blindly finding the handle behind him.
Are those tears in his eyes?
"You bastard!"
"Steve. Wait. Talk to me," Riley was pleading. "Let me explain."
"No," Steve said simply, and he slipped from the room, leaving Riley bleeding and guilt-ridden in the map room.
How could they ever get back from this?