Lucas #2
Photos spilled out first. Loose. Curled at the edges.
I picked them up one by one, my hands suddenly clumsy.
There was me as a baby, red-faced and furious, bundled in a blanket I didn’t recognize.
A couple more from when I was small—five, maybe six—taken with my mom’s old Kodak, the one Dad insisted was still fine long after everyone else had gone digital.
“Jesus,” I muttered at the kid with the riot of unruly curls and huge blue eyes.
Under the photos were letters in envelopes. No stamps. No addresses. Just my name on the front, written in block letters, each one dated.
I stared at the first date too long. I would’ve been two.
“What the hell?” I said because I needed to hear a voice.
There were others, too, one for each year—different handwriting that I recognized.
“Mom.” Writing to her father-in-law. Updating him on my school, my teeth, the things I liked to eat, and the things I was afraid of. The letter opened with, thank you for the check and ended with a blackmail request for more in exchange for news.
Was my grandfather sending her money in exchange for information about me?
I swallowed hard and flicked back to the photos, needing the anchor.
Had he kept them all? How long did the letters run for, after all, she died a few days before my fifteenth birthday.
I didn’t need to check the dates to know there were no letters after that. No photos either.
I didn’t have the fondest memories of Mom—she was stuck with my dad, and I was the kid in the house no one wanted.
Most of their arguments were about me, vicious, nasty fights that I could sometimes recall word for word.
Some kids on the streets told me at least one member of their family looked out for them, at least for some time, but I’d never had that at all.
I sat back, the box open between my knees, the weight of it finally landing.
Whatever story I’d told myself about being unwanted, about blood meaning nothing—this didn’t fit.
Not neatly. Not at all. Although he was my dad’s dad, cut from the same cloth, so even if he’d known all of this, that ended as soon as I came out as queer.
I continued to read the first letter.
I was two. That was how she started most of them after acknowledging the check. An age. A marker. Not a memory.
She didn’t write about who I was becoming. She wrote updates. Bullet points dressed up as concern. I liked lining things up. I hated socks. I climbed where I shouldn’t. Here’s something about the kid, followed by the number at the bottom of the page.
Ten thousand this year. Rent was up. School fees. Medical bills. Always a reason. Always urgency.
My dad appeared only as a justification. She said he was angry, impossible, that she needed help, and my grandfather owed her, because it was all his fault for sending my dad away.
Seems like throwing things out ran in the family.
There was never warmth in my mom. No comfort. No safety. Whatever anger my father carried, she didn’t absorb it or blunt it. She stepped back and let it hit, then faded into the background entirely.
Reading what she’d sent left me numb. I was a bargaining chip. Blackmail. Information for money.
I closed the box and took it to my room, shoving it under the blankets I’d used that first night.
Then, restless, I headed outside, my breath still fogging despite the shoots of spring showing, and caught sight of Gunner.
“Gunner!” I called and saw him stiffen before turning to face me with a wary expression.
“Mr. Barrett?”
“Lucas. I said to call me Lucas.”
He blinked at me. None of them called me by my name; it was Mr. Barrett this and Mr. Barrett that.
“Okay,” Gunner said, although I knew he wouldn’t.
“Where is Jesse today?”
“Not sure,” Gunner lied and winced when I raised an eyebrow and waited him out. “God damn it. Last I saw, he was heading to his office.” He was acting as if handing out the information was akin to betraying Jesse, and I patted his arm in understanding.
“I’m not gonna hurt him,” I said with a grin.
“He’ll hurt me for telling you,” Gunner muttered as he turned away.
I headed straight there, stole coffee from the kitchen because I could, then knocked on Jesse’s door and slipped in before he even had time to say “enter.” He hadn’t spoken yet, and my brain betrayed me—his hands braced on the notebook, scarred and capable; his mouth set in that hard line that softened when he looked up; his eyes sharp and unreadable.
Heat flared low and unwanted, and I had the ridiculous urge to lean in and kiss him, and I hated myself for it.
He glanced up. “I’m busy,” he said and closed a big notebook on the desk.
He stared at me in that way all the men working here had when they were all stoic and channeling cowboy.
“Can you tell me about the day my grandfather died?”
He was confused. “You know what happened.”
“I’ve seen reports, and I know my grandfather was in some kind of barn fire, got out, and had a heart attack. What was he doing in the fire?” I waited, but Jesse seemed to be having trouble swallowing. “I mean, you said something about your dad, so was it an electrical thing, or…”
“Walter went in to save the horses and rescue Miguel, who was in there sleeping with a sick horse. Docs said it was too much strain on Walter’s heart.”
Oh no. Poor sweet Miguel was in there helping horses and could have been hurt? “And Miguel was okay?”
Jesse’s eyes widened. “He was good, the horses were good.”
“Where were you?”
He swallowed again. “At a breeding conference with Gunner. Why? You gonna say I didn’t do enough, or blame me for Walter dying?”
“What? No,” I said quickly. “It was a random fire. He left you part of the ranch. That says something. I just—” I broke off, heat creeping up my neck. “He meant something to you, and I hope you didn’t have to see him pass. That’s all.”
Jesse stood. “Yes, we were close,” he said, voice rough.
“He was better than a father to me.” He grabbed his Stetson and shoved it on too hard, shoulders stiffening as if he were bracing for a hit.
His breath was short, controlled, and he took one step away from me, as if proximity itself was a risk.
“If that’s all.” Then, he eased past me, but I was blocking the exit.
We were too close, and his hand grazed mine as he maneuvered around me, just a brush of calloused fingers against my knuckles. His little finger snagged mine for the briefest second, and the contact sent a jolt through me, like a live wire sparking over skin.
My breath hitched.
“Jesse…”
The word slipped out before I could stop it, low and rough, my voice barely more than a murmur.
I didn’t even realize I’d moved until I felt the shift in my weight, my body rising onto my toes as if pulled by some invisible force.
My pulse hammered in my throat, my skin tight, too aware of the heat radiating off him.
Jesse paused—just for a heartbeat—but it was enough. Then he turned.
“What?”
“I’m so sorry, about what I said, I didn’t mean it to come out that way. What happened between us was perfect, and I panicked and… I’m sorry.”
“I know you are,” he said.
“Do you forgive me?”
His brown eyes locked onto mine, dark and intense, the weariness in them giving way to something hotter, something hungrier. I saw the moment he decided, the way his jaw tightened slightly, his scruff shadowing the sharp line of it. He leaned in, and I—fuck, I let him. I wanted him to.
“I don’t know why you make me feel like this,” he said.
The kiss was not what I expected.
There was no softness, no hesitation—just the fierce, urgent press of his mouth to mine, his lips parting immediately, demanding. His hand shot up, fingers curling into the lapel of my jacket.
I groaned into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his tongue as he pushed past my lips.
He tasted like bitter coffee, and my hands found his waist, my fingers digging into the hard muscle there, pulling him closer until our bodies crashed together.
The ridge of his cock, thick and already half-hard, pressed against my thigh, and I rolled my hips into him without thinking, chasing the friction, the promise of it.
God, I wanted to slow down. I didn’t want to fuck it up this time.
I wanted to cradle his face in my hands, to trace the rough edge of his jaw with my thumbs, to savor the way his stubble would scrape my palms. I wanted to memorize the shape of his lips, the way his breath hitched when I bit down just right.
But Jesse didn’t let me.
His kiss was relentless, all-consuming, filled with a desperation that stole my breath.
His free hand slid up my chest, fingers splaying over my collarbone before tangling in my hair, gripping tight enough to sting.
The pain only made me harder, my cock aching in the confines of my slacks.
I rocked into him again, my hips moving in a slow, desperate grind, and he answered with a rough sound, low in his throat, almost a growl.
“Fuck,” he said, gripping my jacket. “You—fuck—”