Chapter 3
Casey Joe
Fuck.
My head pounded and every damn bad thing I’d thought about myself over the years raced through my mind with each heartbeat.
It had been a while since I’d spiraled this badly.
Damn birthdays.
Fifty-four wasn’t even some milestone.
Maybe it was a big deal I’d survived to see my birthday.
Between all the shit with Missy, being a shitty father to my boys, losing my brother, having a heart attack, and my house being set on fire, I guessed I should have just counted myself lucky.
Should have celebrated being alive and having my boys in my life.
Instead, I drank too much the other night—treated everyone like shit if I was being honest—and I hadn’t been able to pull myself out of my own ass ever since. As I sat in my yard, wallowing in self-pity, the words of “Somebody Save Me” echoed in my head.
Lifestyle…bad for my health…don’t waste your time on me…shattered hopes and dreams.
More than anything, the song reminded me I wasn’t the best dad I could have been for Henry and Hudson.
I was so damn proud of my boys. They’d done some fuckin’ amazing things.
Kept the family businesses going, supported my damn ass when I couldn’t focus on anything but the pain of betrayal, and helped me recover from Billy’s death.
Then I had to go and have a damn heart attack, and both boys were right there taking care of me.
Hell, Hudson and Lance were letting me live with them while my house was unlivable.
And how did I pay the whole crew back? I got drunk and lost myself in my damn head.
Fuck.
All those therapy sessions seemed like they were helping, but one lousy birthday and I found myself drinking too much and croaking out a depressing song like a fuckin’ hound dog howling at the moon.
Lost cause…somebody save me…
Hell, that was for damn sure.
A flash of red and yellow from the corner of my eye caught my attention.
What the fuck?
I stood up, knocking the camping chair over. “Who the fuck are you, and why the fuck you on my property?” I knew exactly who it was, but that didn’t stop the words shooting from my mouth.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly accurate.
I knew who the man was in that I was aware he was the new owner of the run-down gym in town—the snack, as Hudson had referred to him. However, I hadn’t caught his name the other night after Lance talked to him at the Roadhouse.
And he was running on my property, so I had every right to ask him.
Running in a very form-fitting yellow t-shirt and red shorts that weren’t exactly what I’d describe as booty shorts—the kind Jack would probably wear—but they weren’t as long as basketball shorts.
The man was in great shape. Which made sense if he was the new gym owner.
No one wanted to go to a gym if the guy in charge was some out of shape blob who clearly didn’t take care of himself.
He’d stopped when I yelled at him. After making his way over to me, the guy pulled up his shirt to wipe sweat from his face.
Must have gotten some damn bad beer again because my stomach flip-flopped.
Probably out of jealousy if I was being honest—and I was just buzzed enough to be honest. The guy had an amazing set of abs.
Not completely flat and toned like Jack’s—that kid was too young and pretty for his own good—but definitely more in shape than my own.
Hell, I hadn’t been in good shape since just after high school. I remembered back to when Hudson was first born. There was a picture of me shirtless holding him to my chest with Henry on my shoulders. That was probably the last time I’d taken care with the way I looked.
Ended up busy with being a new dad, way too caught up in all the toxic shit with Missy. Once she and Billy fucked around, and she left, keeping myself in shape was the last thing on my mind.
And now?
I knew I looked like roadkill run over twice for good measure. Any muscles I used to have had taken a hike long ago, and I was too skinny for my frame. Definitely not a looker like this guy probably liked.
The fuck?
First of all, Riggs, why the hell are you assuming he’s even into guys?
Second, why the fuckin’ hell would it matter if you weren’t the type to catch his eye?
Damn skunk-ass beer.
Messing with my head and my stomach.
When he dropped the shirt and held out his hand, I studied him for a moment.
I clocked him as younger than me but not by much.
He was attractive—no way around that—and even if I hadn’t been getting a bit more comfortable with whatever my sexuality might have been, there was no way to ignore the fact this guy was very good looking.
Not that I was saying I’d be into him or anything like that.
I mean, if I was into guys, I’d definitely be into him.
If that was what I was into…he’d be my type…I think.
If I had a type…when it came to guys.
Did I?
Have a type, I mean. In guys.
Or girls.
Probably both.
Could you have a type in one or both?
Not that I was saying this guy was my type.
But I wasn’t not saying that either.
Holy fuckin’ hell.
Fuck.
Double fuck.
Get it the fuck together, Riggs.
The guy cleared his throat, and I realized he was still waiting to shake my hand.
When I took his hand in mine, I gave serious thought to suing my damn cardiologist because I was pretty damn sure he’d put some sort of faulty pacemaker in my chest based on the jolt of electricity zinging through me.
Just like being electrocuted, I found myself holding tighter to the man’s hand, unable to let go as I stared into eyes the most fascinating shade of hazel I’d ever seen.
His hair was a bit lighter than mine, and it didn’t have the same amount of gray filling in around his temples or in his scruff.
But he wore the tiny bit of gray very well.
Damn it all to hell. I needed to stop staring at him.
Even if I was gay or bi or whatever—and I wasn’t saying I was—I was being a damn perv with all the staring.
The guy smirked and cocked his head. “Hi. I’m Bryce Armstrong. I just moved to town.”
I dropped his hand with a grunt. “The gym guy.”
“Ah, my reputation precedes me.” When I didn’t say anything, he huffed out a laugh. “And you are?”
“The owner of the land you’re runnin’ on without permission.” I crossed my arms over my chest. Bryce was thick and fit, but my shoulders were just as wide, even if I wasn’t in tip-top shape.
“I see the rumors of you being prickly as a cactus are true.” Bryce’s pretty hazel eyes twinkled.
“I ain’t…wait just a fuckin’ minute, who said that?”
Bryce just laughed. “No worries, I’m good with pricks.”
“Fuck off,” I growled, not liking the way it seemed like he was laughing at me, but kinda loving the fact he pushed back a little. And was the comment meant to relay something he wanted me to know about him?
Did it matter?
Why would I care if he was good with pricks?
What the hell did that even mean?
Did he mean pricks like…
Hell. No.
I wasn’t letting my head go there.
Bryce grinned and used his shirt to wipe his face again.
“All joking aside—and I was, you know? Just joking? It’s nice to meet you, Mr.?
” When I didn’t answer with anything more than a scowl, his grin grew bigger.
“I’m going with Mr. Riggs because I’ve gathered enough around town to know you’re a Riggs. ”
I sighed. “Fuckin’ dumbass small towns.” I finally held my hand back out. “Casey Joe Riggs.” I only shook his hand a second time out of politeness. It had nothing to do with wanting to see if I’d been planted with some sort of janky pacemaker.
But there it was, that low-level thrum of electricity through my veins when our bodies connected.
His hand was big and warm, slightly damp from perspiration, and a sudden flash of something triggered in my brain.
It wasn’t even a full-on thought or image, just a vague recollection of a… dream? Maybe?—and then it was gone.
Definitely needed to talk to my damn cardiologist. Whatever they did to me in the hospital was affecting my damn head too. Probably have to sue for malpractice or some shit like that.
“Nice to meet you, Casey Joe,” Bryce said. His tone sounded like he might be teasing, but those eyes locked on mine came across as serious as could be.
“I’ve been known to go by Casey, Case, and CJ at times too, so you can pretty much call me whatever and I’ll come.” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to grab them and yank them back.
But then Bryce cocked a brow, and I kinda loved the way his nostrils flared.
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
I was not going there.
Look, I’d been working with a therapist. We’d maybe talked a bit about sexuality—I had two queer sons, so that made sense.
We’d maybe talked a bit about my sexuality and how it had been something I maybe questioned a long time ago.
And we’d possibly talked about the fact sexuality and sexual attraction was fluid, so it would be perfectly fine if my location on the sexuality spectrum had moved either one way or another over the years.
We might have even talked about the fact labels weren’t something everyone needed—while others found labels helpful and a way to feel like they had a bit of control—and the fact some people chose one perfect label, some opted for multiple labels that worked for them, some didn’t want a label, and some found no one label fit them.
Maybe we talked about all of that.
But none of that talk meant anything.
It didn’t mean I was attracted to men.
And so what if it did? What if I was?
Attracted to men, I mean.
It didn’t mean I wanted a label.
Or needed a label.
And if I did, none of it meant I’d found a good one.
It definitely didn’t mean I felt the need to come out about anything regarding my sexuality.
But if and when I did feel that need, it would be okay.
Look, I hadn’t been completely celibate since Missy left me.
It wasn’t like I was hooking up left and right, but I hadn’t been in a thirty-some-year dry spell.
Had any of those trysts spawned into something more?
No.
Had I found myself set on fire for any of the women I’d spent a night or two with here and there over the years?
Again, no.
Had I even dared to allow myself to think about the possibility of something sexual with a man?
Hell to the no.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly true.
I’d allowed myself to think about it. I hadn’t allowed myself to act on those thoughts.
I forced my attention back to the man in front of me.
The man who was still holding my hand.
Who was still grinning at me.
“Fuck off,” I said. “You know what I mean. You can call me whatever. I answer to pretty much anything.”
“Good to know,” Bryce answered as he let go of my hand and nodded toward my phone as it repeated “Somebody Save Me.” “You good? That’s kinda a depressing song.”
“Don’t I fuckin’ know it,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’m sure you’ve heard stories around town about what a shit-fuck dad I’ve been to my boys.”
Bryce looked genuinely surprised. “No, not at all.”
I snorted and patted my shirt pocket for a cigarette.
Fuck.
The down times were when I hated the fact I’d quit smoking.
Reaching into my front jeans pocket, I grabbed a damn Dum Dum sucker and tore the wrapper off.
“Quit smoking?” Bryce asked.
The sugary candy gave just enough of a rush, and having something to do with my mouth and hand eased the nicotine craving.
Not by much, but enough I could grit my way through the desire for a long drag.
“Yeah, bunch of fuckin’ shit if you ask me, but my doctor was all blah, blah, blah you gotta get healthier or you might not survive the next heart attack.
” I spoke around the tiny globe of sugar.
“What the fuck ever.” Honestly, I truly was worried about not surviving another heart attack, but talking logically about my health wasn’t something I did well in the midst of a nicotine craving.
Holding the sucker stick just like I would have a cigarette, I took it from between my lips and flicked at the end of the cardboard. “What did you hear about me?”
I refused to beg the guy to tell me good shit, but the words of the song rang so true in my head—so full of regret and hating myself for all I missed out on—I couldn’t help but wonder just what he’d been told about fuckin’ Casey Joe Riggs.