48. Augustus
FORTY-EIGHT
AUGUSTUS
December 24th, 2024
“So, a baby?” Mateo’s tone is teasing, but I can sense the undercurrent of concern. Which is really fucking weird because only a couple months ago, we had agreed to hate each other.
Or rather, I told myself to hate him, because I couldn’t stand the way Stetson looked at him.
But no matter how hard I’ve tried, the bastard has become a friend. He helped us get the lawyers when we were first being questioned about Craig and that entire fucking mess—not that we needed them, because the cops barely batted an eye. But still, it was nice having someone watch our backs. Those same lawyers then helped us get the life insurance paperwork worked out and completed in the right way, and then create the LLC that is Spurrin’ L Horse Rescue—officially killing any remnants of the former Spurrin’ L Ranch, and the horrible memories with it.
He hasn’t asked for repayment—which will be fucking happening, even if it means I have to tie his ass down and shove the bills down his throat. I will not owe anyone. Not even a friend.
And what’s more, is he was here in the weeks following the fire, shirt off, helping us rebuild the barn, the corrals, and the fence in the back corner.
I’ve never had much for friends—my brother made sure I had him, and him alone—but I’m grateful for Mateo and everything he’s done for us. Because, with his help, I’ve been able to take better care of Stetson—been able to give her the life she deserves faster than I would have on my own—and that’s the greatest debt of all.
“Yes,” I grumble, taking another small sip of the whisky-laced cider. I don’t even think I like the taste of whiskey anymore, which is wild. He punches my arm, causing the liquid to slosh, and I growl.
“And? How do you feel, man? That’s pretty quick for?—”
I set my cup down and turn my narrowed gaze to his face. “We’re friends, Mateo, and I owe you more than I feel fucking comfortable with. But do not question my relationship with Stetson, do not question how quick it is unfolding, nothing. You do not know our story.”
Instead of looking afraid, or even pissed, he snorts a laugh and smirks at me. “You really need to chill the fuck out, dude. We are friends, and because of that, I ask about how you’re feeling. Sorry if that’s a little too touchy for you, tough guy, I just care. But, noted. You ask when you need something, though.”
And just like that, my anger dissipates into something resembling guilt and gratitude. And something else I’m not willing to look at too closely.
I really do want to hate him, but fuck. He’s too nice.
“Uh, Gus, the baby hormones are making Stetson crazy and she’s demanding we open presents now,” Dale hiccups from the other room and Mateo and I walk toward them.
Faith—Stetson’s newest stray from Dale’s student banquet deal back in July—sits cross-legged on the floor, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She’s wearing light pink pajamas and a tentative smile. I’m grateful Stetson is getting the girl group she always deserved, even if they do look a bit hodge podge. Dale, in her dark clothes, dark hair, and the dark crimson flush of too much alcohol sits like Faith’s polar opposite on the armrest, next to Stetson. She’s swaying slightly, hanging off Stetson’s neck.
In other words, she’s fucking trashed.
“What’s going on with you two?” The question rolls off my tongue before I consider how it might make me sound like I, too, care about him and what he’s going through. That’s not me.
Mateo halts in the entryway of the living room, still out of earshot of the giggling girls, and then shakes his head. “Ask Dale. We’ve been friends for so long, it’s blurred the lines, even if I know what I want.”
“Which is?”
Why do you care, Gus? When did you become so soft? But still, I want to know. Call it curiosity and nothing else.
Before he can respond, a shriek fills the living room, and Mateo and I both jump, ready to fight off whatever threat is causing such a commotion.
I ignore the fact that we end up back to back like a couple of cowboy besties in an old western. I refuse to be that fucking cliche.
“Gus.” I turn to look at Dale, whose blush pales in comparison to the one now spreading across Faith’s fair cheeks. Dale fans herself, looking anywhere but directly at me.
“What the actual fuck?” I hiss, peeling myself from a fighting stance and stomp toward Stetson, who is clutching something to her chest, a pile of red paper littering the floor around her feet. I guess Dale wasn’t kidding about opening presents.
And then it hits me what present Stetson opened first.
I bark a laugh before snatching the frame from her hands, even as she yelps, trying to hold on to it tighter. “That should teach you to open presents early. You’re such a brat.” I look down at the framed photograph— the photograph —cum all over Stetson’s pretty face and hair, my dick signed into the corner.
Pure fucking gold. I smile wider, proud of myself all over again for this particular piece of art.
And then Mateo clears his throat, snapping me out of my own admiration. “Interesting gift, Gus. But I have to say, isn’t it a little bit… small to frame in only an eight by ten? I would want to think if you were going to have it printed, you would have done something much larger to give the impression that it’s actually impressive.”
I snarl, and turn on him, ready to throw a punch if he’s within arm’s length— how dare he mock my artwork in that way —when Stetson screeches and stomps her foot.
“Augustus Dobbs, if you break my picture, I will never forgive you!”
“You guys are into some really weird shit. You look like a stalker in that?—”
I peek at Dale over my shoulder, and her jaw hangs unhinged, her eyes like giant, glossy marbles in their sockets. I was never sure if Stetson shared that particular detail with Dale, but based on the hamster’s working overtime in her booze-slogged brain, I’m assuming not.
Stetson snatches the picture, and Mateo just chuckles, sinking into the couch opposite in the room. Faith’s eyes ping between Dale and Stetson, and I almost feel bad for her. I, too, hate being on the outside of their jokes.
“Dale, you’re drooling,” Stetson snaps, and then slumps back into her chair with a huff. Dale stands up, scurrying to the kitchen—to fill up her glass, no doubt. But she’ll find no more alcohol; I saw Mateo dump what was left down the drain, not that I called him out on it.
I didn’t want it, and Dale certainly doesn’t need it.
“Merry Christmas, everyone!” Mateo calls, and then takes another sip from his cup, Dale’s screech following shortly after.
It is a merry Christmas, indeed.
I roll over and extend my hand toward Stetson, only to be met with cold sheets. Cold —I bolt up, blinking rapidly into the darkness. It’s quiet in our room, not even the air rustling, a chill filling the darkness and settling over my skin.
I’m well and truly alone. Where the fuck is Stetson?
I silently climb out of our bed, careful to not allow the springs to creak or the boards beneath my feet to groan. How many times have I come in here, silently, and watched Stetson sleep, or defile her in the most delicious ways?
But this time is different. She’s gone, and I’m the one not sure what happened or where she could be. Would someone have taken her?
I’m a light sleeper—I would have heard someone else come into our room. But I didn’t hear her leave, so maybe that isn’t true.
My heart races frantically against my ribs, the thrumming filling my ears like a drum. It’s so loud, I nearly miss the quiet ping of a phone, but I see the screen light up, filling the inky darkness with a pale blue haze.
On quiet feet, I race to it, picking it up, already fearing the worst. Is this a ransom message or something? My heart lodges in my throat when I see Stetson’s name flashing on the screen, a video message attached.
With slightly trembling fingers, I open the video first, half expecting to see her gagged and tied up, crying for her life.
What I don’t expect is to see her pussy, glistening with cum, and her fingers roughly pushing into it. Her moan tears through the darkness, and if I was a better man, I might worry that one of the guests downstairs could hear. But I don’t fucking care.
Let them hear her scream for me.
She pants, and then props herself up, her free hand pulling and tweaking at her nipple. She spits onto her fingers, then traces them around her impossibly hard nipple and toward her navel, and lower still, swapping her hands so that her spit-covered fingers now circle her clit.
“Are you hard for me, Daddy?” Her voice is husky and strained—she’s clearly already close, and I’m incapable of peeling my eyes away from the masterpiece unfolding before me.
“Yes,” I mumble, and then remember this is a recording, not a live call.
“How do you feel about the fact that I don’t need you to come? I’m a big girl and can do it—” She fucks her fingers hard, her head tipping back. “All. By. My. Self.” Her hands pick up pace and sloppy noises mingle with her moans.
It’s nearly enough to make me come in my boxers, but her words keep me from falling. She’s testing me, teasing me, proving that, even though she has chosen me, she doesn’t need me.
And that just won’t fucking do.
She’s mine, that pussy is mine , and apparently, she needs a reminder.
I’ve gotten too soft, too loving, too gentle with her . And she wants the monster to come back out to play.
“Message received, Little Filly.” The words leave my lips, strangled and hoarse, as I watch her fuck her fingers until she is coming apart around them, her cum leaking between her ass and the ground beneath her. She’s so beautiful like this.
But will be even more so with my belt mark across her ass, and my teeth marks on her neck.
She looks back at the camera a final time, her skin glistening with sweat, and smirks. And then ends the video without another word.
I open the text, already sliding jeans on, forgoing socks and a shirt, as I head for the door.
STETSON: Catch me if you can, Monster. xoxo
This incredible woman has the power to destroy me, break me, change me into whatever version she wants or needs. I would do or be anything for her—I’d give up every piece of my soul, my body, my identity, to make her happy.
But she wants my monsters. She wants the parts that are far too dark, too depraved to share with the world. She wants me, all of me, and in a world where the fucked-up always win, I’m fucking glad I never decided to become the good guy.
It’s a good day to be a villain.