14. Jude
Jude
“Taylor’s gay.”
The hammer slips from Roman’s hand, falling nearly ten feet before landing a few inches away. He slowly turns his head down at me. “What?”
“I said—“
“Never mind. I heard you.” He gives me a glare that could easily slash tires. “How the hell do you know that?”
I smile. His eyes narrow. “Call it intuition.”
Roman climbs down the ladder so fast I almost take a step back. Almost. His boots hit the ground. Jesus, he’s pissed. He steps right up to my face, the muscles in his jaw visibly flexing. “Did you fuck him?”
The question catches me off guard, and then I realize why he’s asking. A laugh escapes me. “No.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I said no. Damn.”
“Then how do you know?” he fires back.
“Because he saw me naked,” I reply. “And I saw how he reacted to it.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Roman’s expression turns midnight immediately. Anger rolls off him in waves so intense that it forces me to take a step back. “Easy,” I murmur, raising both hands. “I didn’t sleep with him. He saw me running the other night.”
Awareness dawns on Roman’s face, but a tense silence still stretches between us. Finally, his shoulders relax. I assume the interrogation is over, but then he grumbles, “You want to sleep with him.”
“No point in denying that.” Roman knows me well enough. I’d promised not to mess with his straight step-nephew. Taylor’s not straight.
My honesty doesn’t impress him one bit. His features harden again. “Leave him the fuck alone. Find another plaything.”
The words hit harder than they should. Roman turns back to the ladder. “Maybe I need more than a plaything this time,” I say.
His boot freezes on the first rung, then he turns around. I expect anger. Instead, I see concern. He studies me for a long beat, forcing me to ask, “What?”
“What you need is professional help.”
A chuckle flies out. It’s dry and hollow. He doesn’t laugh with me. “You’re still running naked at night.”
“So?”
Roman stares as if I just pushed an old man off the curb. “That’s not normal, Jude.”
“Come on. It’s just a couple of laps to get the blood flowing. I’m not going to stand out there and freeze to death.”
“Go back to therapy,” he replies. “Streaking in the cold, fucking everything with a dick... it’s that unresolved trauma.”
A gut-punch sensation lands in my stomach, and for a few seconds, I can’t breathe. Of all the things he has said, this one finds the wound. Something cold and uncomfortable seeps into my bones. “I don’t need help.”
“You do.”
His expression softens, which pisses me off. I spent years having people stare at me as if I were a broken object. It’s why I left Colorado. It’s why I felt at home here.
But Roman is just like the assholes who wanted to fix me.
“I don’t need you analyzing me.”
“That’s not what I’m doing—“
“Really?” I step closer. “Then stop acting so damn self-righteous. Stop being a hypocrite.”
Roman’s jaw tightens. Discomfort settles on his face. In his eyes is the guilt he has been trying to hide for a few days. I’m tired of pretending not to notice. “I’ve seen the way you look at him,” I murmur. “You want him, too.”
His throat bounces from a hard swallow, but he says nothing. I shake my head, then turn away. A few steps later, I stop as a final thought forces its way out. “And I’m not the only one with unresolved issues,” I remind him.
Understanding spreads across his face, and then he whips around and climbs the ladder.
The conversation replays in my head as I head back to the barn, resuming my work.
Roman is dead wrong. I don’t need help. I’m completely healed from what happened.
Having sex proves I’m no longer scarred by what happened to me.
Grinding my teeth, I reach for the hoof nippers. Roman thinks Taylor is another obsession, another pretty face to chase until I get bored. Maybe that’s what it looks like. Hell, that’s how it has always worked. Someone catches my eye, I flirt and pursue until I get what I want. Then I move on.
Simple, easy, and safe.
Taylor isn’t safe.
He’s not just another gorgeous body. I like hanging with him, unlike the other guys I’ve been attracted to.
Our conversation comes easily. Plus, he reminds me of myself around his age.
I can relate to the internal battle he’s dealing with.
I recognize the fear in his eyes. Like my sixteen-year-old self, he’s still figuring out whether to go with his heart or his head.
Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to him.
And for the first time, I don’t get an urge to run away.