Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (6 page)

He sputtered, “You,” and moaned a prayer of thanks. It should have been one for forgiveness...

Bless me father, I want to sin.

Michael’s mouth was moving, the lips thinned to irritation. Sonny listened but didn’t hear.

Details he’d missed in the faulty glare of floods and smoke-filled air suddenly sharpened in the lens of déjà vu. Wavy thick hair, the color of warm walnut, was streaked with russet and tipped with silver. A widow’s peak accented a high forehead. Brows straight and set into a scowl perpetual and dangerous reminded him of the biker and how easily Michael had defused the situation with finesse. Finesse masking a coiled core of violence, like a slow burn joined at the hip with the rolling boil of a hair-trigger temper.

Below the thin line of lips he’d almost kissed, a deep cleft split the strong jawline, still visible despite the heavy growth of beard.

The image of the man was square and balanced, the muscling pronounced on tree-trunk thighs that had tormented him to the point of begging. But he hadn’t begged. He’d done far worse. He’d apologized, trivializing his own needs and cutting himself off at the knees.

Michael muttered, “I have to go,” but still he held tight, rough palm to bony flesh, the thumbs flicking at Sonny’s waistband. It seemed a nervous gesture rather than sensual exploration.

Sonny peered down into eyes now shadowed in confusion, mirroring his own state of mind. He had no experience for this, no explanation for why he leaned down, cupping the whiskered cheeks, tilting his own head to the side. The whisper of regret overrode good sense—regret he would forever endure if he didn’t, just this once, taste the man jousting with his emotions.

Attraction was one thing. Lust was another. But this... this was on a different level. A level so wrong he had no choice but to pursue it, taste it, scent it, cradle it, worship it... It, that
it
was Michael Brooks.

Granite and satin, dry heat and slick moisture greeted his retreat and advance. Probing and opening, Sonny thrust his tongue into a cavern of resistance, sweeping aside the pain as Michael punished his flesh with sharp nips and lit his nerves in an agonizing reminder of who was stronger.

It was no contest.

Michael’s neck arched up and away, ceding his advantage. Sonny pressed on the man’s windpipe, merciless and relentless. Dropping his arms, Michael submitted to the pursuit, the illusion of passivity just that... an illusion.

A chill bled into the crevasses, oozing in and around the small spaces buffering skin stretched thin. Caving to the warning signs, Sonny eased up, allowing his thumbs to trace a meandering path along the join of bone and throat. Palms flattened, he cradled massive pecs and taut buds, his fingers issuing a final challenge—a vicious pinch, an intake of breath, then release.

Conflicted, he felt the pull of the safety of his cabin and the lure of his bed, wondering if he headed up the incline, would Michael follow and finish what they’d started the previous night? Or would he simply walk away once more, without explanation. Cold, cruel and distant.

Michael said, so softly it might have been Sonny’s imagination, “I have to go.”

The space next to him emptied, but he felt no need to fill it with pursuit or questions. He stood at the fence and watched the aspen quaking in the freshening breeze, appreciating how it soothed and cooled his overheated flesh and whisked away the sounds of retreat, leaving him to mourn for both of them.

****

I
t was too early to check in, but late enough everyone who was going to check out would have already done so, yet still... there was a middle-aged woman in capris and sandals, tugging on the hand of a five or six-year-old, muttering mom words. Threats, the kind that ended up with her counting to ten while the kid learned the wrong lesson.

Sally tended the counter as always. Dolly hovered behind her, bearing hoagies wrapped in white paper from the dive across the road. Comfort food. Dripping with coleslaw on roast beef. The fragrance made Michael’s stomach growl. He’d skipped breakfast.

The contrast between mother and daughter had always been pronounced. Sally was hawk faced with beady eyes and sunken cheek bones, lines etched deep from a lifetime of disapproving. Her daughter had always been doughy and plastic, perpetually infantile and subservient, eyes blank and downcast.

None of that had changed, not the physical bits, the overall impression. You had to stare for some time, watch the girl move around, see how she carried herself. The scurry and avoidance had taken a back seat to something new, something interesting. You normally wouldn’t look at the girl twice, but if you did, there was more to see now. Maybe it was confidence, or maybe it was love.

The two women stared at him like he’d just risen from the dead. They weren’t far wrong. Sally greeted him with, “Mr. Brooks,” mindful of the customer whose eyes naturally sought out what the other two women were looking at. She grimaced, mid-count, expression dulling into shock. Sally pressed the keys into the woman’s hand, wished her a good stay. The spiel was rote and well-rehearsed. Sally never took her eyes off him.

Michael wondered if he was bleeding instead of just dripping a puddle of water on the linoleum. He nodded at the woman in capris, said, “Ma’am,” and stepped aside so she could exit, dragging the kid behind her.

They all waited a heartbeat or two until the door soughed shut.

Sally said, “What happened to you?”

He held up the scissors. “I need a haircut.”

“Do we look like a fucking salon to you?”

Dolly chirruped, “Let me, Ma. I done it before.” She set the hoagies down on the counter, leaving a greasy spot on the fake wood.

Michael said, “I’ll pay.”

“Don’t need yore money, boy. Just need to know what’s up with you.”

“Ma, let me.”

“No.” She pointed to Michael and barked, “In there,” and motioned for him to go to the back office. To Dolly she said, “You, sit here. You know what to do.”

He dutifully walked into the cubicle and pulled a folding chair out from behind the desk, sat down and perched the scissors on his lap.

“Boy, you ever think about wearing swim trunks? You ain’t leaving much to the imagination.”

Michael blushed, the heat shooting to the roots of the tangled mop he desperately needed trimmed. After driving nearly thirty miles on autopilot, not allowing himself to cogitate on how he’d lost his mind that morning, the trailer had hit him like a bad cramp. The countdown to his meeting with his boss, and whoever was so important they had to ruin everyone’s weekend, loomed like a ticking bomb.

Sally picked up the scissors, asked, “You bring a comb or am I supposed to provide that too?”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He pulled a hairbrush from the pocket of his still soaked fleece pants.

“Why’d you jump in the pool, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Snip snip.

“I didn’t.”

She looked out the window. “Ain’t raining.”
Snip. Yank.

“Ow. It was Fox Creek.” To her
uh-huh
, he said, “Got stung.”
Liar, liar...

“Did you now.”
Snip.
“Some say cold’s good for that. You had swelling, right?”

“Um.”

She came around front, giving him stink eye, the tips of the scissors running a line down his neck to the notch at the base of his throat. “Bet that hurt like a sonofabitch.” He nodded, acknowledging the imprint Sonny had left on his neck. He was relieved she couldn’t see where ragged nails had split his skin, twisting his nipple, and rendering him nearly mad with lust.

He assumed his cheerful face, the one that usually sent women and small children running for the hills. “Yeah, but it’s good now. I took care of it.”

“I’m sure you did.” Sally brushed at his shoulders, moving fringes of hair onto the floor. “You want me to shave that?” A finger flipped at the unkempt condition of his face.

“Thought I’d keep it.” If he was heading into the mountains, he’d let it grow out anyway. No sense fussing at this point in time.

Patting his shoulder, Sally said, “Ain’t perfect but it’s better ’n it was.” He dug in his pants pocket for his soaked wallet, but she stayed his hand. “Keep it, boy. You already gave an old lady her thrill for the day.” She pointed to a door at the rear of the office. “You go on out that way. I don’t need for you scandalizing good Christian folks with your considerable assets.”

He thanked the woman again, promising to help her with some maintenance work once he was back in Laramie. She countered with, “Sure as hell hope he’s worth it, Michael.”

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck
. Dolly must have put two and two together and blabbed to her mother.

With a grim smile, he said, “Jury’s still out on that one, Sal.”

He was late. Traffic had been a bitch as the entire population of Laramie emptied into the fairgrounds for the last of the Frontier Days festivities.

Apologizing to Paul, he sat down in the conference room and idly flipped the folder open, scanning the research proposal, then glanced at the spread of topographic maps littering the table.

“Where is everybody?”

Paul grimaced. “The local rags are having a photo op in the media room. We got us a State Senator and both congressmen from D.C.”

Suspicion niggled at the base of Michael’s spine. “This proposal’s not worth that kind of fuss. This study will amount to nothing but pocket change to execute.” He locked eyes with his boss. “You want to tell me what this is about?”

“Wish I could, son. What I’m hoping is you’ll find out before the shit really hits the fan.”

Shuffling and a bark of laughter alerted them their visitors were returning. Michael stood and prepared to greet the politicians.

Paul announced each one as he came through the door. “Senator Sam Limon. Representative Art McCarthy. And you already know Dan Fishburn.”

Michael shook hands, dispensed the pleased to meet you sirs, and was about to sit down when Paul said, “And last but not least, Seamus Rydell, the architect of the study that will hopefully change some minds...”

Michael’s heart stopped, simply stopped. Reflexively he rubbed at the raw spots on his throat where surprisingly powerful thumbs had nearly crushed his larynx.

In the background Paul droned, “...and this here is Michael Brooks, our most experienced Warden who is also functioning as our backup habitat and access specialist in this district.”

With a nod that encompassed everyone in the room, Sonny took a seat across from Michael and opened the folder in front of him.

Michael had been joking when he’d told Sally the jury was still out. Forty-five minutes ago he’d been convinced he’d never lay eyes on Sonny again. He wanted those forty-five minutes back, he wanted the last two days back.

He wasn’t getting them. He was getting his wet dream instead.

Fucking hell, Houston, I’ve got a problem...

Game Plans

––––––––

I
t didn’t take a genius to figure out Michael Brooks ran on a short fuse. There’d been surprise, dismay, and embarrassment flickering in the man’s eyes for a nanosecond each. He nodded at Sonny, a sharp tilt of the head that resulted in wavy tendrils flopping onto his high forehead.

Beads of sweat coated that forehead. If they’d been alone, Sonny would have licked it dry. Licking and nibbling, his thumb penetrating lips sewn shut with anger or desire. It was hard to tell which. Both probably, though Sonny reminded himself to put a lid on wishful thinking. The kind of shoulda woulda that had left him panting and alone in his cabin, wondering what the hell had just happened.

What he wanted, craved, desired... Hellfire and damnation, he was poised to have a tantrum if he didn’t get to explore the man’s mouth, to feel him clamp down on meaty flesh, sucking and biting, maybe even drawing blood.

Sonny tasted that coppery sting, smelled it from the back of his own throat.
Dammit, ow.
He’d bitten his bottom lip. That’s what he got for losing his shit in the porn show that had unreeled behind his eyes. He needed to get a grip, and it’d better be on something other than the surly bastard who’d left him at the starting gate. Twice.

What was that saying, three times and out?

Or was it in, in tight, hot, rocking it, grunting with every thrust, grooving on the coyote howls of dominance, punishing him for walking away. The asshole would hurt like hell and come crawling back, again and again and again. Licking his boots and begging.

“Isn’t that right, Dr. Rydell?” The voice carried one of those disembodied, sign on the dotted line, we’ve got this covered lawyer tones. Limon.

Sonny licked his lips and tapped on the sheet of paper in front of him. “Sir, I think that about covers it.” He had no clue what he agreed to, but it seemed to satisfy the talking heads arrayed to his left and right. Directly in front, though,
that
was the problem he needed to get sorted. In the nearest men’s room or the alley behind the building.

Limon stood, followed by the state representatives. “We’ll take our leave now, gentlemen.” The senator flashed his winning smile. “The good folks over at the rodeo grounds have a little special something planned for this afternoon. Mustn’t be late for that.”

Great, photo op and voter schmoozing won over substance every time. Sonny had no doubt the national media were already swarming the fairgrounds, anxious to dispense sound bites extolling environmental stewardship and best practices.

Smoke and mirrors.

Michael’s boss pushed his chair back, prepared to see the politicians out. Limon said, “Don’t bother, we know our way out. And I’m sure you have a lot to talk about. Devil’s in those details, right Paul?”

Avoiding looking at either Michael or his boss, Sonny’s eyes followed the retreating forms as they exited the conference room. He’d gotten used to swimming with the sharks. You knew where you stood. You grew comfortable with an expendable body count in a war with such a nebulous endgame that the term collateral damage was part and parcel of the contract, inked in blood under the
sign here
line.