Chapter 14 Kaleb
Kaleb
The locker room smells like sweat, shower gel, and body spray.
It’s quite the potent combination, but a sign that some of the town’s most rugged men have passed through for a workout.
Overhead fluorescents buzz faintly. Most of the guys have already cleared out—Saturday afternoon crowd thinning fast—but Trask and I are still here, peeling off soaked T-shirts and shorts after the kind of workout that leaves your legs shaking and your lungs burning.
I’m normally more of a weights only kinda guy but the occasional high intensity cardio session is a requirement for good health. Or so I’m told by Dr. Moses, the friendly old town doctor.
Anyway…
I drop my gym bag on the bench, strip the rest of the way down. Towel slung low on my hips for the walk to the showers. Trask’s doing the same beside me—broad shoulders, thick arms, the same easy confidence he’s had since we were teenagers spotting each other on bench press.
He glances over, smirking. “You gonna tell me about the friend or what?”
I snort, grabbing my shower kit. “Robbie?”
“Yeah, Robbie.” Trask says his name like he’s tasting it. “Pocket rocket with the attitude. He single?”
I laugh—low, rough—and head toward the showers. “Yeah. Single. And yeah, pocket rocket is about right. He’s got more energy than a toddler on sugar and zero filter. Taron says he’s been single for a while… says guys can’t keep up.”
Trask follows, towel over his shoulder, grin turning wicked. “Sounds like my kind of trouble.”
I shake my head, still laughing. “You’re hopeless.”
“Realistic,” Trask corrects. “Been a minute since I met a boy who could match my bullshit. And he’s friends with your boy? That’s practically fate. Tell me where I’m telling lies here.”
I chuckle. Trask is a class act and a brilliant friend, all told. But he does love to find a boy to flirt with. And something tells me that Robbie might be more than willing to go blow for blow with him in those stakes.
I step under the first open showerhead, twist the knob. Hot water hits like a hammer—perfect after the workout. Steam rises fast. I close my eyes, let it pound against my shoulders, washing away the ache in my quads and the tightness in my traps.
But my mind doesn’t stay on the burn.
It drifts to Taron.
To the way he looked curled against me on the rug, bottle in his mouth, eyes heavy and trusting. To the way he felt under me in his B&B room… soft curves, breathy little moans, calling me Daddy while I drove into him hard and deep until we both shattered.
My cock twitches. Thickens. Fast.
I glance down. Shit. Not now.
But the image won’t leave: him on his knees in front of me, lips stretched around me, eyes glassy and eager. The way he swallowed every inch like he was starving for it. The way he begged when I finally slid inside him… tight, accommodating, perfect.
I groan low in my throat, hand braced on the tile. Water streams down my back, over my ass, down my thighs. I’m half-hard now, heavy and aching. If he were here…
If he were here I’d have him backed against the wall, legs wrapped around my waist, my mouth on his while I fucked him slow and filthy under the spray. His nails digging into my shoulders. His sweet voice gasping “Daddy, please” every time I bottomed out.
Fuck.
I’m fully hard now—thick, throbbing, veins standing out. Water runs over the head, teasing. I grit my teeth. Not the time. Not the place.
Trask’s voice cuts through from the next cubicle over.
“Yo! You gonna tell me more about Robbie or what? Age? Job? Kinks? Gimme something, man!”
I bark a laugh despite myself. “Jesus, Trask. Patience.”
“Come on! I’m dying here. Is he into beards? Muscles? Lumberjacks in general? Specifics!”
I turn my face into the spray, let the water pound my forehead. “You’ll meet him tonight. Woody Hollow. Eight. Stop asking questions and just show up.”
Trask groans dramatically. “You’re killing me. At least tell me if he’s got that same giggle Taron does. That little breathy one? Fuckin’ lethal, man.”
I smile despite the ache between my legs. “Yeah. He’s got it. And he uses it like a weapon.”
“Goddamn. I’m in love already.”
“Slow down, Romeo.”
He laughs. “Can’t help it. Good ones don’t come around often. You know that better than anyone.”
He’s right.
I do know.
Because Taron’s the best one. The only one.
My cock pulses again… insistent, demanding. I turn the water colder. Not all the way—I don’t want to freeze my balls off—but enough to take the edge off. It helps.
I finish rinsing, shut off the spray. Towel off quick, wrap it around my waist. Trask’s already out, drying his hair, still grinning like an idiot.
“You good?” he asks, eyeing me.
“Yeah.” I force a smirk. “Just thinking.”
“About Taron?”
“Always.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Good. Lock that down, man. Boys like him? Once in a lifetime.”
Trask may have a great line in fast talking and bullshit, but he’s right about this. He knows it, and so do I.
Tonight at the tavern, Robbie will be there. Taron will be there. And maybe—maybe—it’s time to stop dancing around it.
Time to tell the boy how it is.
Tell him in no uncertain terms that he’s my Forever.
And I’m his.
Trask and I dress in silence after that. Jeans, fresh T-shirts, boots. As far as Trask is concerned, tonight might be all about fun and flirting with Robbie, but for me it’s something else altogether.
Tonight I’m going to lay it all on the line, you see if I don’t.
The Woody Hollow is packed wall-to-wall tonight—fun, good times, and wholesome smalltown energy in full swing. Every stool at the bar is taken, booths overflowing, laughter and clinking glasses rolling over the jukebox like waves.
Even a grump like me can see it’s a great vibe.
Trask and I are leaning against the high-top near the back, each nursing a pint, watching the chaos unfold over by the dartboard.
And, trust me, it is absolute chaos.
Taron and Robbie are total mayhem.
They’re taking turns throwing—mostly missing, mostly laughing so hard they’re doubled over.
Robbie is in a tiny black top and ripped jeans, his arms swinging like a weapon every time he lines up a shot.
Taron’s in that soft cream sweater again, sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from cider and giggles.
They’re terrible—hilariously terrible—but having the time of their lives, so who am I to complain?
My only worry is that a dart goes so far astray that it ends up hitting the bartender!
Fortunately, I don’t think they’re quite that bad.
Robbie’s last dart thunks into the wall three inches left of the board. Taron howls, nearly spills his drink. Robbie spins around, points at the board like it personally offended him.
“That board is rigged! I swear!” Robbie laughs, shaking his head in mock anger.
Taron’s laughing so hard he’s clutching his stomach. “You threw it like a frisbee!”
Trask takes a long pull from his beer, eyes locked on Robbie. “Those two are trouble.”
“Understatement,” I mutter. “I told you Robbie was quite the boy. Looks like you’re seeing it for yourself now in the flesh.”
He sets his glass down with a decisive clink. “I sure am. Time to put these boys in their place. Show ‘em how Daddies play darts.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure you want to start something with Robbie? He’s got triple-mischief written all over him.”
Trask grins—wide, wicked. “That’s the fun part.”
We push off the table and head over. The boys spot us coming and immediately straighten up, trying and failing to look innocent.
“Well, well,” Trask drawls, crossing his arms. “Looks like amateur hour at the oche.”
Robbie plants his hands on his hips. “Oh yeah? Think you can do better, big guy?”
Taron sidles up to me, slips his hand into mine. “Careful,” I say. “They’re feeling cocky. Let’s play doubles. Littles against the Daddies. Losers buy the next round.”
Robbie’s eyes light up. “You’re on.”
We take our places. Trask goes first—his throw smooth, practiced. Triple twenty. The crowd around the board whoops.
Taron whistles. “Okay, okay. Not bad.”
Robbie steps up, tongue between his teeth, lines up. His dart wobbles—lands in the five. He spins around, fake outrage. “Wind! There was freakin’ wind!”
Trask and I roar with laughter. Although admittedly the double doors did just swing open. Still, Robbie’s excuse is total bull, and the glint in his eyes proves it too.
Taron’s turn. He throws and actually hits a double.
“I did it!” he squeals in delight, hopping from one foot to the other in joy.
I go next. Clean single twenty. Trask follows with another triple.
We’re up comfortably.
But Robbie’s not done…
“Yes!” Robbie trills, happy with his dart but evidently not about to give up without one final move…
On Trask’s final throw—the one that would seal the win—Robbie leans in close and lets out a loud, deliberate cough just as he releases.
The dart sails wide. Buries itself in the cork outside the scoring area.
The small crowd around us erupts in a combination of cheers, groans, and laughter.
Trask spins, eyes narrowed. “You little—”
Robbie hoots with laughter, already backing away. “Oops! Must be allergies!”
Taron grabs his hand, giggling uncontrollably, and they bolt toward the bar like schoolgirls who just pulled off the prank of the century.
Trask stares after them, then turns to me. “He’s dead.”
I laugh deep and genuinely. “Told you. Mischievous as hell.”
Trask shakes his head, but there’s a grin tugging at his mouth. “Lucky he’s cute. That cough was straight-up sabotage. The boy is begging for a paddling.”
“Probably,” I say, still chuckling. “But good luck catching him.”
Trask downs the last of his beer in one go, sets the glass down hard. “Challenge accepted.”
I watch as Trask marches off after them with his long strides and a determined pace. I watch him disappear into the crowd, Robbie’s bright laugh echoing somewhere ahead but nowhere to be seen. Yet.
I stay put. Lean back against the wall near the dartboard. Sip my beer slow.
The tavern noise washes over me… music, voices, clinking glasses, the occasional cheer from the pool table. I’ve been here a thousand times. It’s not like this is new. Far from it, in fact. But…
Tonight it feels different.
Because my boy is here, laughing with his best friend. Teasing. Playing. Fitting into this place—my place—like he’s always belonged.
I picture it: nights like this every week. Him beside me in the booth. Robbie and Trask bickering over darts or pool or whatever trouble they can find. Racer sprawled under the table. Maybe a kid someday—ours—running around with toy darts, begging for quarters.
A future.
Real. Solid. Forever.
My chest tightens. But it’s a good tight. The right kinda tight.
No more waiting.
No more maybe.
The next good opportunity, I’m telling him.
Everything.
That I’m in love with him.
That I want him here, permanently.
That he’s my Forever Little, my partner, my everything.
And whatever he decides—city or woods, fast life or quiet—I’m all in.
I drain the last of my beer, set the glass down.
Across the room, I catch a flash of my boy—red-cheeked, laughing, Robbie dragging him toward the jukebox. He glances back, finds me in the crowd, and smiles.
That smile.
Yeah.
That’s the one.
I push off the wall.
It’s time to go claim my boy.