Chapter Seven #3
A white-haired man stood in the center of the gathering. The platform he’d perched himself on elevated him above everyone else. He lifted a bullhorn to his mouth and said, “Sinners repent. Salvation can be yours if you—”
Kieran slammed a mental door shut, blocking out the rest. He halted and turned to head back toward the truck and smacked into someone on the sidewalk. Thankfully, it was only Rueben.
He gripped Kieran’s biceps long enough to steady him, then dropped his hands. Rueben’s gaze shifted to the protesters, and his lips curled into a sneer. “Christ, those people need to get a life.”
“Who are they?” Kieran asked.
“Some outfit called Salvation Anew. They basically hate anyone who doesn’t look or love like them.”
Kieran snorted. “Makes us enemy number one.”
Rueben shifted his gaze back to Kieran and winked. “Some of us are a double whammy.”
“I think I’ll head on back to the truck,” Kieran said. “These killjoys have put me off shopping or sightseeing.”
“I’m with you,” Rueben said, pivoting to face the same direction as Kieran. “Find any good bargains?”
“I did. Thanks for telling me about the shop.”
“Us sinners need to stick together,” Rueben teased.
He had little to say during their walk back to the truck, which Kieran found unsettling.
Rueben always had something to say, and the quiet felt uncomfortable and solely for his benefit.
The guy had made Kieran feel welcome, and he wanted Rueben to be himself.
“So which of you makes the stiffest poker competition?” Kieran asked.
Rueben grinned and glanced over at him as he navigated the road out of town. “Piqued your curiosity, huh?”
“Maybe a little,” Kieran said.
“I suck at poker, but I’m not in it to win. I just play for fun.”
Kieran found his honesty refreshing. “And the others?”
“Ivan and Dylan are pretty laid-back but more competitive than me,” Rueben replied.
Kieran tried to picture what laid-back looked like on Ivan, but he couldn’t get there.
Dylan was so reserved that Kieran wanted to check his pulse to make sure he was still kicking.
“Tyler and Owen are cutthroat. They’ll either hate you or respect you if you beat them. ”
Kieran found that curious—two vastly different reactions to the same outcome. “What triggers the Jekyll and Hyde reactions?”
Rueben guffawed at the reference. “It’s in the delivery. They respect someone who beats them with skill, but they don’t appreciate showboating.”
No one liked that. “Good to know.”
“Because you plan to join us?” Rueben asked, a hint of pleading in his voice.
Kieran chuckled, “I’m thinking about it.” It surprised him to realize it was the truth, then he gave himself a mental shake. He needed to get his priorities straight with Harry and Cash both away from the ranch. “What made you interested in blacksmithing?” Kieran asked, changing the subject.
“I see what you did there, but I’ll let it go,” Rueben replied before filling the rest of the drive with conversation about his ironworking.
His passion came through on the subject, and Kieran was envious.
He’d always felt aimless and uncertain. What must it be like to wake up with a purpose each morning?
Even his artwork had been more of a hobby.
He didn’t get very far in his pondering before they arrived back at the ranch.
Once more, the sheer beauty of the property struck Kieran.
He spotted Finley in the paddock with a few horses when Rueben parked the car.
His blond hair shone like a beacon in the sunshine, and Kieran had never wanted to go to the light more than he did right then.
Rueben snickered when he pushed his door open, and Kieran knew he’d caught him ogling Finley.
“See you tonight, Kier,” Rueben said as he walked toward his cabin.
Kier? No one had ever shortened his name.
It was Kieran or some expletive. When he climbed out of the truck, he felt Finley’s eyes on him.
The desire to look back and offer a simple wave was strong, so he kept walking.
He tossed his clothes from the thrift store into the center of his soiled bedding, then bundled it all up and headed to the laundry room attached to the general store.
He brought his paperback, sketchpad, a charcoal pencil from the art kit, and the deck of cards.
Kieran wasn’t sure how many machines there were, and he couldn’t stand idle hands.
Luckily, there were several washers and dryers, so he could use two machines at once and finish quickly.
Ninety minutes later, he’d read a quarter of the book and played several rounds of solitaire.
The notebook and pencil remained untouched.
He hadn’t sketched in so long and doubted his ability.
And worse, despite the amazing scenery everywhere around him, Kieran was only interested in drawing one subject, and he couldn’t allow it.
Drawing a person felt as intimate to him as sex, and the last thing he could afford to do was obsess over perfectly capturing Finley’s incredible bone structure.
But damn, the man was made to be sketched and appreciated.
As if Kieran had conjured him out of thin air, Finley walked into the laundry room with an overflowing basket of dirty clothes. He stiffened in the doorway and looked unsure if he should come in or not.
“Want me to come back?”
“No,” Kieran replied truthfully. The ranch was Finley’s home, and he didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. “There’s plenty of room.”
Finley carried his burden to the washing machines and set it down with a thud.
A light blue jockstrap fell off the top of the pile and landed on the floor.
Kieran’s fingers itched to pick up his pencil and sketch Finley laid out wearing nothing but the skimpy scrap of fabric.
Christ, that bubble butt framed by pale blue strips of fabric…
That wasn’t all he was itching to do. The urge to pick up the jockstrap and sniff it nearly bowled him over.
What the hell was wrong with him? Sure, he’d deprived himself of sexual stimulation and relief, but he was worried about himself.
“Oh god,” Finley groaned as he leaned over to pick the jockstrap up off the concrete floor.
Kieran imagined him saying those words while beneath him in bed.
“I do or say the most embarrassing things when you’re around.
” Finley quickly turned his back on him to load the washer, allowing Kieran to adjust his crotch.
The buzzer on his dryers went off, and Kieran launched out of his seat like a rocket.
Christ, he had no chill. Kieran took the clothes from one dryer and added them to the one with the sheets, then wadded everything up again.
Would Finley want to know why he was washing his sheets already?
Would Kieran answer honestly if he asked?
“Want to borrow my basket?” Finley asked.
Kieran tucked his bundle of clean clothes under one arm and said, “I got it, but thanks. See you later.”
“Wait!”
He jerked and spun around, nearly colliding with Finley, who held the stuff he’d left on the table. “Oh, yeah,” he said, accepting the neatly stacked bundle. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” Finley didn’t look quite certain what to do with his hands and tucked them into his front pockets. “Did anyone tell you about poker night?”
“Rueben did.”
“Well, I hope you join us.”
Us? Rueben had said Finley didn’t play. What had changed? “Yeah? You any good?” Was this what happened when a person basically quit talking for nearly two years? He’d never been a great communicator, but this was ridiculous. “At poker,” he added lamely.
Finley’s eyebrows arched toward his hairline, and an impish smile curved his full lips. “Damn good.” The heat shimmering in his gaze said he was definitely not referring to poker.
A persistent voice insisted he should stay the course and search Cash’s house. It started loud but reduced to a barely audible whisper as Kieran’s blood ran south and his mind flirted with the gutter. “Guess you’ll have to show me what you got.”
“Guess I will.”
“See you at seven,” Kieran tossed out after he left the laundry room. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Then he recalled the heat in Finley’s gaze and that skimpy blue jockstrap on the ground. He wouldn’t take it back even if he could. He’d search the house another time.