Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
Logan
To say I'm ready to leave Kentucky would be an understatement.
Not only did Salem resort to sleeping in the truck last night—forcing me to sleep next to Devon again—but she’s been ignoring me ever since.
All morning through breakfast, during stunt practice with the guys, while filming a promo of their show. Not one word. It's fucking killing me.
But you know who has been talkative, though?
“Jesus, there's some grade-A cowgirl pussy in this place,” Devon says entirely too loudly, eyes scanning the crowd. We’ve been dragged to a local club, and I can’t stress enough how much I’d rather be anywhere else.
His gaze finally lands on the man in the middle of the dance floor, who’s currently straddling a mechanical bull like he’s being paid to do so. “Cowboy ass, too. I'm in heaven.”
I grind down on my molars, ignoring him as I watch Christian clear a path toward the bar. He tugs Arya along, her hand clutching Salem’s, the three of them immediately ordering shots and beers. Tay makes a beeline for the only empty pool table, claiming it for our group.
Huck is the only one to hang back with me. “You okay?” he asks, dark brown eyes on my face.
I don't even have it in me to force a smile. “Yep. All good.”
His brows furrow, unconvinced.
Here's the thing about Huck and me—we've been best buds since we were kids. He was homeschooled until junior high, but our parents attended the same church. There are years—decades—of memories between us, Sunday dinners and holiday parties that stretch way back.
Huckslee pretty much suffered the entire time we've known each other, and I never saw it. Not until it was too late. No, actually, that's not true—I did see it. I just chose to ignore it; I was too busy trying to be the son my father expected me to be. So was he.
So, the fact that he's been able to tell that something's wrong after only five minutes with me? Clearly, he's always been the better friend, while I’m… a selfish piece of shit.
“Well, this ain't the Prospector back home, but it'll do,” Christian says, setting down a round of beers near the pool table. He finds the bucking bronco, eyes lighting up in excitement. “You think Juanita would get one of those?”
“She will if I ask,” Taylor smirks, chalking up the end of his cue as the two joke about their boss at their favorite bar in Salt Lake City.
“Yeah, no shit. She fuckin’ loves you for some reason.”
“Who doesn't?”
I stand to the side and fidget with my wedding band, listening to them chatter.
Always the outsider. Even when Salem and I were actively dating, I never felt like I belonged.
Huck had moved to California for college, and Salem was all I had.
We kept our relationship from my parents, so family gatherings didn't involve her.
She'd just hang out with her friends. It was incredibly lonely.
Voices rise around me, and it takes me longer than I care to admit to realize Taylor and Christian are in a heated debate.
“I doubt you could last ten seconds, pendejo,” Christian snickers, shoving his best friend in the chest.
Tay rises to the challenge. “Motherfuckin’ bet. You're on. Loser has to switch Salem and sleep outside tonight.”
Devon laughs behind me, startling me with his close proximity. “Why don't we pair up into teams? Make this interesting. Winners get the pull-out bed.”
“Fuck yes!” Taylor wraps his arms around Huck’s waist as his boyfriend bends over the pool table. “I get this one.”
Christian follows that up by hauling Arya against his chest, drawing a bubbly giggle from her. “And you're mine, mi reina.”
That leaves…
Me, Salem, and Devon. We all gaze at one another awkwardly until my wife rolls her eyes before spinning away.
“I'm not playing,” she grumbles, taking her beer with her. Before I can even think about following, Devon grabs my arm.
“We're up first,” he says, yanking me toward the mechanical bull while everyone cheers behind us.
“Absolutely not,” I grunt, trying to dig my heels in, but the bastard’s stronger than me. “Devon, no.”
“Logan, yes,” he grins, eyes wild with a familiar wicked energy that punches me right in the gut.
I glance toward the bar, where Salem’s already halfway through her beer and very aggressively ignoring us. There's someone next to her that I can't see through the crowd, but I don't get a chance to figure it out because Devon picks me up and tosses me over the saddle of the bull.
“Come on, little brother,” he pants, practically straddling my lap as he climbs in front of me. “I promise I’ll go easy on you this time.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” My stomach roils, beer foam bubbling in my throat at his words. “Get off me, Devon.”
Fear spikes my heart rate, but another glance toward the pool table tells me that no one is paying attention…
Well, no one except Huck.
Devon chuckles in that condescending way he always does as he motions for the bartender to start the ride. You Make Me Sick by Egypt Central echoes over the speakers. “That's not what you were saying six months ago.”
The bull bucks to life beneath us, jerking hard to the left. My first instinct is to grab onto anything I can—which ends up being Devon’s thighs.
“Shut the hell up,” I grit out. He gives me that classic lazy grin and leans back in the saddle.
I want to spit in his face.
The bull kicks forward, and suddenly he's right there in my lap, hands gripping my shoulders to steady himself.
“Devon,” I hiss, trying to shift back, but there's nowhere to go. His chest is nearly flush with mine and we're locked into this ridiculous ride with way too much eye contact. “This is wrong. Everyone's watching.”
“Watching what, exactly? Just some family bonding with the guy they all think is my nephew.”
“Which is exactly why this is fucking wrong.”
He just laughs, bracing himself with one hand behind him, the other sliding down to grip my knee when the bull bucks again. His fingers curl there tightly, the heat of his skin seeping through thick layers of denim.
“I hate this,” I growl, trying to think of anything else besides the pressure Dev's putting on my crotch.
“Yeah?” His grin widens. “Then why aren't you looking away?”
Because I can’t. Because his face is inches from mine, eyes locked, pupils blown. He looks fucking wrecked. He’s either drunk, high—or both.
“You’re not even trying to stay on,” I accuse, clutching the saddle horn like my life depends on it.
Dev licks his lips, wetting his piercing so that it glitters under the neon lights. “Oh, I am. Just not on the bull.”
“What is wrong with you?”
The machine jerks again, shoving his hand farther up my leg. My breath catches. Yet again, I try and fail to squirm out of his grip—but it doesn’t work. There’s a sharp wrench forward, and Devon’s palm slides right up my—
I freeze as best as I can on a bucking machine, watching in horror as Devon’s eyes drop down to my lap. To his hand covering my hard-on. I know he can feel it. There's no hiding my shame from him.
The worst part is I don’t move his hand.
I should, but I don’t even attempt it.
Not when it feels too fucking good when he squeezes subtly. Not when Salem is across the room pretending like I don’t exist. And not when Devon leans in again, his nose brushing mine. “I can take care of this for you. Just say the word.”
“You’re disgusting,” I spit, finally ripping my gaze away.
“And you're not telling me to stop.”
The bull finally winds down, slowing into a lazy circle. My thighs ache. My pulse pounds.
We’re still for a moment too long—me, trapped between the saddle and Devon, his chest practically pressed against mine, his hand still on my dick.
I can’t breathe. And I hate how much I don’t want him to let go.
Finally, the operator kills the engine. “Time’s up! Next!”
Devon doesn’t move right away. Neither do I.
He slowly slides his hand from my crotch, but I refuse to meet his dark stare. “You gonna pretend like this never happened, too?”
I don't answer because I have no fucking clue what to say.
Slipping from beneath him, I fall to my knees in the inflatable ring, unable to stand.
My head’s fucking swimming. Everything’s too loud.
Music and voices crash back into my ears like Dev had me trapped in a bubble.
The lights seem ten times brighter, and I squeeze my eyes against them.
It hurts. My skin is too hot. Too tight, too much.
Christian whistles, shouting something I don't catch. I’m too busy clambering to my feet and blindly shoving my way through the crowd. Salem’s still near the bar, but the only thing I see is a glimmer of red hair and a shiny belt buckle.
Before I know it, I find myself falling to my knees in a grimy bathroom stall, puking everything out of my system: beer, food, Salem, Devon, the shame.
So much fucking shame.
Tears prick my eyes from the burning bile and when the nausea finally subsides, I wonder briefly what would happen if I just…
left. What if I wandered out into the Kentucky night and disappeared?
It’s not like anyone out there would notice my absence.
They sure as shit didn't notice what the fuck just happened right in front of them.
What Devon did to me. I'd probably be doing everyone a favor.
“Loge, you in here?”
Okay, maybe one person would notice.
I flush the toilet before wiping my mouth, still feeling nauseous and dizzy. Straightening my clothes, I open the stall door to find Huckslee standing on the other side, concern etched on his features.
“Sorry,” I rasp, aiming for the sink. Buzzing from the fluorescent lights makes my ears itch. “Motion sickness from the bull. I feel better now.”
My best friend is quiet for a long moment, watching me wash my hands.
“Right. The bull.” There's a catch in his voice that has me glancing up into the mirror, looking at him in order to avoid my own reflection.
Narrowed eyes stare back at me, his jaw tight as he crosses his arms over his broad chest. “You think I'm stupid?”
“What?” I frown, snatching a paper towel to dry my hands. “No.”
“Then why did you just lie to me?”
Heaving a heavy sigh, I shove open the bathroom door. “I don't know, Huck. It's what we do.”
“Bullshit.” He grips my arm and tugs me to a quiet corner of the club.
When he lets me go, I keep my eyes down, aiming them at his sneakers.
“Look, I know we have a shitty track record with the truth, but that's behind us now.
Something is going on, and I'm begging you to talk to me. You don't seem good.”
I don't feel good. I'm not good.
But the words get stuck in my throat, and I stare at his pleading expression, unsure of what to say—terrified to reveal the truth.
Please forgive me, dear God.
A husky, full-bodied laugh catches my attention.
I find the source in the center of the dance floor—where my wife is currently riding the mechanical bull with fucking Harper the cowboy behind her.
He’s gripping her waist and nuzzling her neck, making her smile—giving her something she clearly doesn't want from me.
My knees tremble and I slump against the wall, suddenly too tired to stand. The way she looks back at him makes me physically flinch, a hole tearing wide inside my chest so violently that I’m surprised there’s no blood dripping from my ribs.
But that's what love is, isn't it? One metaphorical blow after another, leaving our marks behind. Every interaction with her takes a piece from me. How long will it be until I have nothing left?
“Logan.” Huck’s soft voice pierces through the thumping music but when I look up, I don’t see him. I don't really see anything. “Talk to me, man. Tell me what's wrong. I can't help you fix it if you don't tell me.”
All I can do is huff a weak laugh and walk away.
What I did is beyond repair. It's beyond redemption.
I am shattered glass and there's no fixing what I've become.