Chapter 7
Bentley
Two years later
“Hey, Dad,” I say, answering his call.
My apartment reminds me of a husk. It’s empty of laughter, yelling, and any general life. My sisters aren’t slamming the screen porch door as they run in and out of the farmhouse, and my father isn’t running after them to remind my sisters that they weren’t born in a barn.
Though, the youngest actually was, which has always been a running joke between us. Damn, I’m fucking homesick. This is an awful feeling, and I can’t stop sitting on the couch with my legs spread wide as I hunch over in desperate sadness.
It’s too… fucking… quiet. Everyone who would typically be in the apartment building is working, but since I work from home, I’m shit out of luck for any human social noises. I’d gladly listen to the neighbor fuck next door.
At least then, I wouldn’t feel so damn alone.
“How is the city treating you?” Dad asks.
I was so sure that this is something I had to do, but I keep second guessing my decision to move out. It took me two years to finally feel comfortable enough to leave, and my father practically pushed me out the door with the promise that I could come back whenever I wanted.
“It’s… big,” I admit. “Work is fine, and I’m forcing myself to get to know the area. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
“Well, we miss you,” Dad says unrepentantly. God, leave it to him not to hold back. “We expect a visit soon.”
“I just left,” I say, chuckling. It’s as if he knew that I needed to hear his voice.
I’ve always been very codependent with my family, but I always chalked it up to the danger that was present at home.
I made sure that no longer exists, and the police think that the people I killed pissed someone off in the mafia.
My lips twitch in amusement at the idea of a mafia man in the country, but I make sure my voice remains even.
My father doesn’t need to know that I enjoyed killing those people.
“The days are long, kid,” Dad says. “How dangerous is the area you’re living in?”
“Honestly? It’s pretty nice,” I reply. “The real estate agent made sure my apartment came furnished, and I’m close enough to walk everywhere. The city stays up way later than I’m used to. I had ice cream at two in the morning just for the fun of it.”
“Some people would worry their oldest is whoring around and drinking too much in the big city,” Dad snorts. “Not my kid.”
“I may break the law and busk later,” I tease him. “I can’t let my guitar playing skills get rusty.”
I took up playing after the murders. I make up songs of revenge in my head, even while ballads leave my lips. My sisters love it when I play, and I know I’ll end up having to teach them too.
They could do worse for their role models. They’re growing up so fast, and Laura is in college now. I don’t understand how time manages to go by so quickly.
“Please don’t get picked up by the cops,” Dad groans as I grin. “Are you sure you still want to run all of the ranch’s social media from Minnesota?”
“Why not?” I ask. “The beauty of working from home is that I can work anywhere. Besides, you hate replying to emails, Dad.”
“Ugh. I really do,” he sighs. “I’d much rather talk to people face to face. Then again, freezing bull spunk wasn’t really something I thought I’d do either.”
“Dad,” I say, giving up the battle not to laugh at him. “No one calls it spunk in a professional setting.”
“Last time I checked, I was talking to my son, and not my handler,” Dad says. “Ugh, I gotta run. Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”
The call ends before I’m ready, and I drop the phone with a pang in my chest.
While talking to my father helped to ease the loneliness that I’m feeling, it also reminded me of how difficult this move is.
I could call my sisters, but find myself holding back.
They know me too well, and one of them would notice that I’m unhappy in Minnesota and then poke at me.
Crying on a video chat isn’t something I can handle today.
Not only because my sisters would never let me live it down, but they’d inevitably also begin crying. It would be a whole, messy situation.
Looking around, I try to figure out how to change things since going back to Tennessee isn’t an option right now.
Not because I don’t have the money, but because I made a promise to stick it out.
Maybe I need something that’s not as transitional as this shitty apartment.
I may have lied to my father when I was talking up this place.
I have the cash flow to buy a house, and my clients live all over the United States.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath to remind myself that I’m in Pine City for a reason.
What reason? It’s kind of insane, okay? One day, I was feeling frustrated with my life, and my father brought me a map. He told me that I needed to branch out on my own, and then gave me a quarter.
“Son, wherever this falls is where you’re going. Give it a solid year before you decide you hate it, but you need to see more of the world than this tiny town. You’ve done well for yourself, giving ranchers an opportunity to grow through your website design, now it’s your turn,” he said.
Leif Walker is a wise man. He always seems to have the answers, especially when I don’t have a clue what the question is. I’m simply in a rut.
Standing, I grab my guitar case and decide to take a break from my current surroundings. I need to go outside, stand under the blue sky, and remind myself that there are things in this city that are worth staying for. Staying grounded is the only way I can keep myself from crashing out.
Walking toward the front door, I flick the apartment light off before leaving. Clomping down the stairs in distressed boots, I smirk at the idea that people actually pay to wear footwear that appears worn. Mine are from breaking them in on cattle rides, mucking out stalls, and running a ranch.
Just because I have some design skills, doesn’t mean that I don’t know the meaning of hard work. I’ve been transitioning from helping to run the ranch to running Dad’s socials, emails, and website since I graduated from my masters program.
It reminds me about his bulls, and how it’s been helping to pad our pockets. The day to day activities of ranch life aren’t for the weak willed, and it’s expensive as fuck.
My father’s bulls have good genes, and people in the area have been clambering for a chance to breed their cows with them.
I brought up the idea that he should sell their semen for artificial insemination a couple of years ago, and while Dad thought I was initially touched in the head, I leveraged bull semen on his website. Now, I do the same for other ranchers.
My sisters are in various stages of schooling, and I don’t want them to have to worry about how to pay for it. Besides, who else can say that bull semen paid for their college education?
Smothering a snicker, I stomp outside, my head tilted up toward the sky. It’s mid summer, though not too warm for my usual attire of worn jeans and lightweight Henley shirt. Taking a deep breath, I’m mildly relieved not to smell exhaust and pollution.
It’s not open fields, cow shit, and cornflower blue skies, but it’s still nice.
Choosing a direction to walk in, I turn right outside of my apartment and begin to make a map in my head.
There’s a small Indian restaurant that may be nice for dinner, a dog park for when I miss the pets I left in Tennessee with my family, and a few shops worth checking out.
A breeze ruffles a few blonde tendrils of hair that have escaped my pulled back bun, and I enjoy the feel of it as I carry the weight of my guitar.
One nice thing about a city is that I can lose myself here.
There’s no one stopping me to ask where I’m going, the local girls aren’t throwing themselves at me when they clearly know that I prefer men, and I can walk unmolested.
It also means that when I see a vinyl store, I’m able to gaze inside like a starved puppy without anyone coming out immediately to ask why I’m loitering. As much as I dislike being alone, anonymity has its perks.
There are people walking through the aisles, listening to music with their headphones as they preview before purchasing, and I wonder who the owner of 88 Keys is.
My question is quickly answered as a tall man with messy brown hair lopes onto the sales floor.
He leans over to talk to someone, not a single smile on his lips as he finishes his conversation.
He has a lean body, his short sleeved black shirt showing off his corded muscles that remind me of some type of athlete.
As I continue to stare like a creeper, I decide that he must have been a swimmer at some point.
My mouth waters at all of his tattoos, making me want to lick my way up all that pale skin. My long sleeves cover the ink I have, but mine are more patriotic than the notes covering his body.
“Get a grip, Bentley,” I breathe, forcing myself to move toward the brick facade of the building to hide my very interested dick. Crushing on the grumpy record guy does seem like a better use of my time.
Now, to get his attention. Smirking, I stride in front of the large, almost too clean, picture window and lean to put my guitar case down. I wonder what kind of music he likes…
I may as well play a few different genres to flirt with his ear drums, right?
It’s only fair if I’m wondering if the pulse point in his neck tastes sweet, or whether he’ll whine for me if I suck on it.
Even though he’s tall, this man doesn’t give off alpha vibes to me, despite the ‘fuck off’ purse of his lips.
I desperately want to smell him, because it’s not natural for me to crush this hard on someone.
Swallowing hard, I pull out my guitar and shift my case at an angle so it’s out of the way of any foot traffic.
It will also give the man behind me in his shop a good view of my ass encased in my jeans.
Smirking at my devious plot to get the attention I’m desperately craving, I strum my guitar and begin singing Face Down by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus.
My face tilts back as I begin to belt out the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, letting the sun warm my face as I serenade the street and the grumpy store owner. Even if I piss him off, it’ll be worth getting the chance to speak with him.
Imagining his fierce glare on me, or the way his voice may sound as he yells at me, my cock twitches in interest.
Oh yeah, I think this is going to be a lot of fun.