Chapter 10
John
John sat at the bar with Samuels and Steph at the Hot Dog Palace, classic rock playing in the background as the noise of Friday night filled the hole-in-the-wall dive bar.
“What a fuckin’ week,” Samuels grumbled, signaling the bartender for another round of beers.
“I don’t know who I hate more—Tanya or Sean,” Steph complained, finishing the last dregs of her beer before plopping it angrily down.
“No one cares about her bottom line if she doesn’t care about security.
Max pulled a gun off a homeboy right outside the damned door.
The place is turning into a circus. We need more staff to handle the overflow. ”
John listened with one ear, knowing this was the same old gripes and complaints as before. And lately, he hadn’t been as bothered by the usual stressors at work.
Probably because I’m being pounded into oblivion by a cowboy every Saturday night until the sun comes up for the last two weeks.
And fuck, it was incredible. The best sex of his entire life. Lawson felt like an infection—or an addiction.
The second the hotel door swung closed behind them, they collided like the force of stars merging, passionate, brilliant, and bursting with pure, unfiltered need.
Work had somehow become their foreplay—guarded glances, brief touches, fingers grazing, and lots and lots of praise.
Lawson responded every single time to it, either with a quick inhale of breath, a darkening in his eyes, or even a stumble, which happened today, over his own feet, while leaving the exam room. He liked making Lawson squirm.
Because the reward was Lawson making him squirm in the bedroom. Jumping his bones with punishing, unmet need. And fuck, it was hot.
Lawson’s body seemed constantly full of energy, and John had made the executive decision last Saturday to go back to the gym just to keep up with him. He returned to his old boxing club, his shoulder feeling almost fully back to normal due to Lawson’s magic touch, in more ways than one.
His old coach, Arnold, was excited to see him return, and they immediately went back into training mode.
It felt good—no, better than good, it felt fucking rewarding to hit a heavy bag again.
He’d gone three times this week before work, getting up early to get in some much needed conditioning and training.
But since John hadn’t been working out, other than with Lawson in the bedroom, he was currently sore, which he didn’t mind. Though he’d have to ask Lawson to be a bit more gentle with him tomorrow night.
He stretched his back, feeling the deadlifts he had done at the club creep up on him as he sat on the barstool.
“Sore, old man?” Samuels teased.
“I’m two years older than you, asshole.”
“And I’m ten years older than both of you jackasses,” Steph chided. “But seriously, how’s the shoulder?”
“Better,” John admitted, taking a sip of fresh cold beer. “I went back to my old boxing club this week.”
“Good for you,” Steph said, smiling happily at him, her warm brown eyes holding him. “It’s been a while since you’ve done that.”
He cocked his head to the side, surprised. “You can tell?”
“I see everything, honey. When will you two knuckleheads figure that out?”
He sincerely hoped she didn’t see everything, because he may have let his hands linger a little too long on Lawson’s shoulders when he passed him in the hallway today.
“Well, then you would’ve noticed I wasn’t wearing any boxers last Tuesday, and got laid on Thursday, ‘cause I had a pep in my step,” Samuels said flippantly, eyes on the football game playing on the screen above the bar.
John laughed, and Steph swiped a hand at the back of his head. “Gross.”
“Speaking of pep,” Samuels turned in his stool, dark green eyes riveted on him. “I’ve noticed you’re awfully peppy lately.”
He shrugged, swallowing down a large gulp of beer and hoping to hell his blush wasn’t showing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Steph hummed suspiciously. “We’ve all noticed, John. You’re more patient with Samuels’s bullshit, and even Tanya’s. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say to that woman, ‘I appreciate your feedback and will take it under consideration’.”
Samuels gasped dramatically, “You did not!?”
John rolled his head to the side and sent him a bland smile.
“You traitor!” Samuels exclaimed. “I can’t believe you caved!
” “I did no such thing. Being civil to her a few times a week gets her off my floor and out of my department a hell of a lot faster than challenging her, and also less time with her floating around, critiquing my team or me at every turn, which is not something I care to endure anymore,” John said reasonably.
“Jamie,” Samuels said to the bartender, “Hand me back that beer I just bought him.”
John swiped the beer off the counter, chuckling. His eye caught the front door of the bar as it opened to reveal a striking black cowboy hat, followed by a line of cowboy hats. He turned quickly in his seat and saw Lawson stride in with Ava, Emily, and Reyes at his heels.
Lawson glanced toward the bar, and their eyes collided with the same force as one of their fantastic, knee-melting kisses, and John’s heart nearly stopped.
Fuck, this kid is ruining me.
Lawson was the epitome of a cowboy tonight, wearing almost the same outfit from the truck commercial, all black, down to his boots, except the outfit looked worn and molded to his figure like a second skin.
And he had the inexplicable urge to slowly strip him with his teeth.
He’d have him keep the hat on, though. Maybe the boots, too.
He flushed at the thought, and Lawson’s eyes darkened hungrily over him, licking his thick lower lip before strolling casually to the bar, the others behind him, laughing and clicking their boots.
They, on the other hand, looked like something out of the play Oklahoma.
John would’ve laughed if the blood hadn’t been roaring in his ears as his cowboy approached.
His cowboy.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Stop, John. He’s not yours. He’s a fling.
It’s not gonna last. It’s not supposed to last.
It was only Friday night, and they had agreed to Saturdays only. But Jesus, Lawson looked good enough to drag into the dirty bar bathroom and…
He cleared his throat, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck and attempting to duck away from Lawson’s scrutinizing gaze.
“Well, fuck me sideways, you guys just come from a rodeo? Do they even have rodeos in LA?” Samuels asked loudly, getting to his feet and clamping a hand on Lawson’s shoulder. “Dude, you need to stop putting the rest of us to shame. It’s starting to hurt my feelings.”
Lawson chuckled, and Reyes tilted his fancy, very clean white cowboy hat up at Samuels. “Lawson took us line dancing.”
John snorted a laugh into his bottle of beer.
Lawson shot him a hard look, a playful smile creeping up on his lips. “What? We can’t go line dancing?”
“No, sorry,” he said, quickly. “You guys know you look, well…”
“Amazing!” Emily beamed proudly. “I always wanted a cowboy hat!”
Steph signaled Jamie, the bartender, for another round of beers. “We need to get a table with these cowfolk, ‘cause I need to hear all about line dancing.”
An hour later, Reyes, Ava, and Emily were thoroughly bombed, getting louder and more chaotic as Samuels continued to reload pitcher after pitcher of beer.
Steph, too, was getting a little red in the cheeks and giggling more easily.
The only sober people at the table were John and Lawson, who were both intentionally drinking their beers slowly, knowing exactly what kind of fun they wanted to have when the rest stumbled out of the bar and called for their rides home.
It took everything not to look at Lawson, who had intentionally picked the chair right next to his but hadn’t looked at him the entire fucking evening since walking into the bar.
John’s palm itched beneath the table as he smoothed them over his jeans, his patience for the drunken frolic wearing thin, especially being this close to temptation and not being able to do a damned thing about it.
It also proved that Lawson had more restraint than he did, and this bothered the hell out of him because he sat there perfectly relaxed, his lips slipping over the rim of his beer, causing excess blood to shoot to John’s cock.
Christ, what was wrong with him? He was acting like a schoolboy with his crush sitting next to him. Wyatt, on the other hand, was the epitome of unbothered, sitting next to him for the last few hours. And it bothered him.
Had he met someone line dancing? Because according to Ava, every short-shorts-wearing cowgirl in the bar had gawked, flirted, or worse, had the audacity to rub against Lawson on the dance floor.
Was Lawson already getting bored with their hotel rendezvous?
Bored with him?
A nervous insecurity unlike anything he’d felt before slid into his stomach, making a nest of his insides, and his shoulders began to tense.
In the last few weeks, John had learned that his shoulders were a sign of his stress, and he needed to be mindful of relaxing them after a long, grueling shift.
John sat back in his seat attempting to relax, but it was no use. Images assailed him of Lawson on the dance floor with booty-shorts-wearing cowgirls, or worse, another cowboy just like him, young and hot, grinding into his crotch—taking what was his.
Shit.
Lawson is not mine.
He’s not, John. Stop acting like a jealous boyfriend.
John swiped a hand over the back of his neck, wondering if he should just get drunk and call it a night. Anything would be better than stewing in this self-induced misery.
He felt Lawson’s subtle shift beside him and glanced in his direction. Lawson’s jaw was clenched tight, his hat low on his eyes. His black boot slowly crept out, widening his legs, as his heel touched John’s beneath the table.