Eight Seconds

EIGHT SECONDS by

BARRIE ABALARD Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com

Eight Seconds An Amber Quill Press Book This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com http://www.amberheat.com http://www.amber-allure.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2008 by Barrie Abalard ISBN 978-1-60272-374-0 Cover Art © 2008 Trace Edward Zaber Layout and Formatting Provided by: Elemental Alchemy Published in the United States of America

Also by Barrie Abalard Exposed Licked Play Hard Poker Brat Poker Stud Semper Fi Six-Pack Swinging

Dedication To my husband and daughter, who, as always, support me and my writing.

Chapter 1 Wyatt Knott tightened his hold on the leather rigging and breathed. "I'm gonna do it this time, you little bastard." The gate opened. The holy terror of Marchville Rodeo, Riley the gelding, busted out of the chute, warping his back into a C-shape while Wyatt marked out the horse with his blunted spurs. Only pure guts and lots of practice kept both his spurs above Riley's shoulders until the horse's feet first hit the ground. Now it was a matter of staying aboard for eight seconds and letting his spurring technique speak for itself, though he hated that word, spurring. It made people think the horses were getting raked with pointy things that cut, when in reality the spurs were rounded. Eight seconds had never felt so long. Wondering if he'd aggravate any of his old injuries, he prayed hard while keeping his feet above the horse's shoulders. He was aiming for his highest score ever, but Riley, known among barebackers as "The Jackhammer," had other plans. The horse torqued left, then right, then right again, and Wyatt's free hand brushed against his thigh. Damn. Disqualified! All that punishment and nothing to show for it. Wyatt punched his own thigh. The pick-up man scooped him off the horse, timing his rescue perfectly after the whistle blew. Wyatt grasped the man in gratitude and fell into eyes the color of Texas bluebonnets. Thirty-two and older than any other bareback rider on the professional rodeo circuit, no bronc had ever busted him the way Cam Chester hit his heart. **** "Hey, Professor!" Cam heard someone calling him by his nickname, but all he cared about was saving the disqualified rider. That, and drinking in the man's chiseled looks just a little longer. Say, forever. He remembered when he'd ridden broncs, until the injuries and pain had grown intolerable. Those were some times, all right. Lost in thought and in the man's full lips, Cam hugged him tighter until he protested, "Hey, enough." Cam allowed the bronco-buster to slide off the horse. "Tough break on your disqualification. I can't tell you how many times my free hand contacted some part of me by accident. It sucks." The handsome man's eyes widened. "Holy shit, are you Cam Chester?" "In the flesh." "Geez, I thought you were retired." Annoyance flared through Cam. "I'm retired from bareback riding, not rodeo. Buddy, you owe me something for grabbing you off Riley before you got tossed." The barebacker smiled. "Buy you a beer later, Professor?" "Yep," Cam replied as he hustled to pick up another rider who'd lasted the required eight seconds. A few hours later, the humid southeastern Pennsylvania air had taken its toll, and Cam was a wrung-out dishrag. He couldn't wait to clean up and change before he hit the bars--the Philly bars. As a genuine cowboy, he never lacked for companionship when he made the scene on

Saturday nights. He put up the rodeo horse he used, Boogaloo, with a friendly pat, then headed for the showers. Cam stopped in his tracks, remembering the cowboy he'd taken off Riley, the one with the square jaw, football-hero looks, and dark hair shot through with silver--obviously premature gray hair, because his face didn't look a day over thirty. During the past few hours, Cam had learned the guy's name and his rep on the circuit, and he liked what he'd heard. He also knew a tight end when he saw one, and he wasn't talking about football. His cock stiffened at the memory of Wyatt Knott's ass showcased in tight denim. When he hit the bathhouse, the other fellows stopped their banter. Living out of the closet on the rodeo circuit wasn't the easiest life. Most of the cowboys might not like his preferences, but he'd earned enough respect that Cam didn't have to fight too often to prove his manhood. The other men parted like the Red Sea for Moses as he coolly sauntered to his locker. The vast majority found reasons to be somewhere else, drifting away like smoke on a summer's night. None of them liked hanging around whenever Cam got naked. The others liked it even less when he was around and they were naked. While the cowboys exited, Cam heard a few muttered phrases, words that sounded a lot like "ass goblin" and "butt bandit" and the ever-popular "cocksucking freak." He ignored them all while trying not to stare at the man who'd just stepped into view, a very naked Wyatt Knott. His chest seemed built from slabs of muscle, his thighs looked hard and well-defined, and his cock--Jesus, his cock. Flustered, Cam fumbled with his combination lock, saying, "Still want to buy me a beer?" "Buy The Professor a beer? Hell, yes. How's The Fencepost suit you?" The Fencepost, a popular rodeo hangout in the next town north, was a decidedly non-gay-friendly-bar. Cam knew he'd be about as welcome there as Rush Limbaugh at a gay pride parade. He snapped his fingers, as if remembering something. "Damn, I forgot, I'm meeting a friend in the city. Another night?" Wyatt looked around, then stepped closer. His voice fell to a whisper. "Hey, I get that you walk the other side of the street. I do it myself, uh, now and then. In between the girls, I mean." Cam gave him a look before he grabbed his towel to head for the shower, holding it carefully to hide his erection. "Don't shit me, kid. You're not out, and you're pretending you're not gay. I get it." The bathhouse had quieted, but nevertheless Cam chose a far corner of the showers. The lone man standing under the spray hustled out when he noticed Cam had entered. The warm spray needled Cam's face. Sometimes he wished he weren't gay. Just once, he'd like to have a normal friendship with other cowboys without the issue of sex interfering. Cranking the water as hot as he could stand, he began washing himself, wishing he had a private shower stall so he could jerk off. Seeing Wyatt's body had done nothing to ease his horniness, horniness he planned to lose up the ass of some beautiful, twenty-something boy later tonight. A couple of lines about love and sex and need floated through his head while a melody began to form. He stopped rubbing soap on himself, lost in the song taking shape in his head. Summer rodeo, hot nights under the lights, Cowboys in my sights, I'm feeling alright. But I won't give up my heart without a fight.

Eight seconds, and you gotta last it all, Eight seconds, without a fall. Eight seconds, and you hogtied my heart. Not the best thing he'd ever written, but it was a start. Maybe it would earn him another songwriting check, maybe even get residuals because someone recorded it. Every little bit helped his budget. Footsteps splashed behind Cam. "Who's there?" A voice he didn't recognize spoke a hoarse, guttural, "Me." A fruity aroma floated on the air. When he turned to see who it was, the lights exploded, then went out. **** Confused about his feelings, Wyatt was slipping on his boots when he heard the thud in the shower. He called, "Everything all right in there?" When he received no response, he went to look, catching a glimpse of a short, squat figure in black, fleeing. Then he saw his rodeo hero, The Professor, lying unconscious on the shower floor, his blood mixing with the water pooling around his head. With a strangled, "Fuck!" Wyatt rushed into the shower, boots and all, to keep Cam from drowning in the rushing water. Wyatt couldn't help admiring Cam's cut body and oversized cock, even while he was doing his best to revive him. After shutting off the water, he slapped the man's face a few times, muttering, "C'mon, wake up, wake up." Jesus fuck, the guy had better not die on him. He and Death were sworn enemies. "Hey!" he yelled. "Need some help in here!" His voice hollowed back at him in the empty bathhouse, and Cam was still unconscious. Should he leave him to grab his cell and call 911? Or should he stay with the man? Just as Wyatt was about to leave Cam, the man groaned and grabbed his head. "What the fuck?" "Did you fall?" Wyatt asked, his heart pounding harder than it should. Damn, but he couldn't deny the powerful sensations racing through him. Gripping his head with both hands, Cam said, "Don't think so. Someone spoke to me, lights flashed, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up here." He moaned. "Fuck, my head hurts." Wyatt could see blood trickling from a gash. "You need help. I'll call an ambulance." "Don't. The day Cam Chester goes to the hospital for a bump on the head is the day he's become too wussy to work rodeo," the other man grumbled. "I'll be all right. You go on, enjoy your night." "I'm not going anywhere. For one thing, my boots are soaked, and no self-respecting cowboy wears his Nikes with his jeans to a ten-gallon hat bar." Cam smiled. At least, that's what Wyatt thought he was doing, but in truth it looked more like a grimace. "In that case, help me to my locker so I can get dry and decent." Without thinking, Wyatt blurted, "I think you look damned decent right now." When he saw the hope on Cam's face, however, he could have kicked himself, because he had no intention of entering into another affair with a rodeo cowboy. He shouldn't have let on that he found the man

so fucking hot. Those bluebonnet eyes of his, those sculpted pecs, that goddamned cock like a soft, benevolent snake--Christ! He wanted to offer up his ass right there and then. As if Cam sensed Wyatt pulling back, his smile faded. "I look decent for someone with a busted head, you mean." By the time Cam had dried off and dressed, Wyatt had recovered his grip on his feelings. After changing his own clothing and footwear, the two men left the bathhouse, Cam refusing all offers of help--until he stumbled and sank to his knees. Wyatt grabbed him, keeping the man from going completely to the ground. "That's it. I'm driving you home. Where's your truck?" Cam ground out, "If you take me to the hospital, I'm going to cold-cock you with that security lock I keep on my steering wheel." "Okay, okay. Where is home? Which motel?" Cam regarded him as if he'd suddenly turned alien-green. "I'm not in a motel. I live around here." Wyatt drove, both men quiet except for the occasional directions Cam gave him. As Wyatt pulled into the driveway, he drank in the small frame house, its homey look and restrained landscaping. Just the kind of place he'd like to own some day. Despite Cam's protests, Wyatt shadowed the man while he tottered up the walkway to the front door. Once inside, he guided Cam to his recliner, saying, "I'll be back with some stuff to fix up your head." "Bring me some Vicodin," Cam groaned. "My head hasn't hurt this bad since my last headache." The comment stopped Wyatt's feet. "You headaches are that awful?" "Migraines. One can put me out of commission fast. I keep the triptan stuff around to head one off, but if it doesn't work, only a Vicodin takes away the pain." Wyatt, not sure what to say, tossed off, "Well, that sucks," when he left the room. In the bathroom, he located gauze pads, antibiotic ointment, and the Vicodin. In the kitchen, he found a small tub, which he filled with warm water. Once he had everything assembled next to the recliner, Wyatt used a damp piece of gauze to wipe away the leftover blood. "Seems to be a scalp wound, not very big or deep. That accounts for all the blood--scalp injuries bleed a lot. You need stitches, though." "I'm not going to sit in an ER all night waiting for a few stitches," Cam huffed. Using a fresh piece of gauze, Wyatt dabbed at the injury. "Then there's the fact that you were unconscious for maybe fifteen seconds. Any loss of consciousness means you should see a doctor." "Who are you, the A-M-fucking-A? Ow, damn it." "I used to work as an EMT, before I got the rodeo bug." Wyatt applied some ointment, then tenderly pressed a piece of gauze against the wound while wrapping Cam's head with more gauze to keep the ointment and pad in place. "There, that should keep the wound covered." "Do you have to wrap it so tight? Fucking hurts," Cam grumbled. "Would you rather go to the ER?" Silent for a moment, Cam snapped, "Where's my Vicodin?" "You bitch like a little girl every time you get hurt? How'd you ever survive barebacking?"

Cam pressed his thumb on one closed eye, his index finger on the other, and rubbed. "I know I'm acting like an asshole. Please get me my fucking pill and some water. Then you can leave." "I don't want to leave," Wyatt said. Cam slapped his palms against the recliner's padded arms. "You're crazy to stick around. I'm hated on the circuit because I'm out of the closet and I don't care who knows. You hang with me, you'll get tarred with the same pink brush. Is that what you want?" "No. What I want is you." Wyatt held his breath, hoping. Cam opened one eye. "Even though you don't--what did you say?--walk this side of the street on a regular basis?" Nerve endings crackling from the anticipation rushing through him, Wyatt dropped to his knees before the seated man. Placing a hand on each thigh, he snaked them both toward Cam's crotch, teasing by drawing circles with his fingers as his hands moved. Both Wyatt's hands found Cam's erection, straining against worn denim. He caressed the other man's dick through the fabric, pleased when he heard a breathy moan. "Not tonight, dear, I have a headache," Cam joked as Wyatt inched down the zipper. Nestling his face in the opening, Wyatt breathed in the heady scent of randy male while his hands busied themselves with the belt buckle and button. Once he'd finally undone everything, he slid his hand inside to grip the cock he'd lusted for ever since he'd seen it. "Goddamn," he whispered when he saw the stiff shaft. "Professor, I'm going to teach you a few things tonight." Wyatt chanced a look, hoping for a double shot of those bluebonnet peepers, but Cam's head was thrown back, eyes closed. "What are you going to teach me?" he asked, the question dissolving into a groan when Wyatt's hand pumped him. He didn't have a clue what he was going to teach Cam--it had simply seemed like a fun thing to say--so instead, he filled his mouth with cock and sucked. **** Leaning the back of his head against the recliner made his head throb, but everything else felt so fucking good, Cam didn't give a hoot. The man who'd cared so tenderly for his wound was now sucking him with a force that lifted Cam's hips out of the chair. Trembling with the need for release way too soon, he rested his hands on Wyatt's head. "Not yet," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I want to enjoy it a little longer." Wyatt's response was to pull down his jeans, then lick his balls while teasing his anus with a wet finger. Cam's cock jerked, a rocket ready to blast off, but Wyatt was concentrating his considerable talents on his balls and asshole. A finger inside Cam was stroking the ground-zero spot. Biting his cheek, Cam grasped the top edge of the recliner with both hands to keep from jerking off. Finger still stroking but mouth no longer full of balls, Wyatt asked, "Can I suck your licking stick again? It tastes like candy--hard candy." Cam nodded, thrusting his hips to the rhythm of the relentless finger inside him and the hands caressing his sack. Damn, he was going to come as soon as Wyatt's full lips encased his cock. His hands clawing the top of the recliner, he bucked and--ohmigod, Wyatt's luscious mouth

was sucking him off and Cam was gone, orgasm ripping through him, sensations so intense he wanted to release them with grateful tears, but didn't. Cam Chester hadn't cried since he was six. After the electricity of the moment faded to infrequent pleasure shocks, Cam's entire body slouched in the chair. How long had it been since he'd felt so relaxed? So--safe? Safe was a state he rarely allowed himself to enjoy. Cam's sexual needs were met with strangers in alleys and restrooms, and he couldn't relax at the rodeos, not around men whose attitudes toward him ranged from vague hostility to outright hatred. And yet, with Wyatt Knott, he felt safe, secure, and cared for. What the fuck did that mean? "Wyatt," he said before he lost his nerve, "come sit on my lap, you darling boy." **** Darling boy. How Wyatt hated that phrase. It reminded him of the older man he'd taken up with at nineteen, a man who had showered money and things on him in return for reaming Wyatt's ass once or twice a day. He'd loved it all, the money and the attention and the ass-reaming, too. But he'd never enjoyed it when Mr. Randy, as the man had wanted to be called, asked his "darling boy" to "sit on his lap." Sitting on Mr. Randy's lap usually meant sitting on his dick, but that wasn't what bothered Wyatt--sitting on dicks was one of his favorite things. No, it was the sleazy way the guy had made him feel, as if he were an underaged youth that the older man was taking advantage of. That sort of age-play stuff freaked Wyatt out. He looked Cam in the eye. "Get it up again, and I'll sit on your lap, but please, please don't call me 'darling boy.' It gives me the willies." Cam stared at him, then nodded. "No problem. On either count. Shall I get it up again myself, or do you want to do the honors?" Wyatt relaxed, lounging on the floor, his head propped up on one hand. "I'd love to watch you jerk that big guy off. In fact, I'd like to worship it. Anyone ever tell you that's some hot cock you've got?" "Only every man I fuck." The blatant brag was softened by Cam's winking grin. "How's your head, Professor?" Wyatt watched Cam's hand knead himself into an erection. Hornier than ever, he unzipped his own jeans to stroke himself. "It hurts a lot less than it did, mostly because of your care--and your mouth. Anyone ever tell you that you suck cock better than Satan himself?" "Only every man I suck." Wyatt's hand quickened. He hoped Cam would be ready to fuck soon. A gasp escaped Cam. "I'd better get the lube and condoms." Wyatt sat up, placing a restraining hand on Cam's knee. "With that head injury, you should wait here. Tell me where the stuff is, and I'll get it." Cam told him, and within a minute Wyatt was back. "You ready, I hope?" The injured man reached for the condom, but Wyatt said, "Nuh-uh-uh, this is my treat," before sheathing Cam's beautiful cock with latex. Both of them shucked off their jeans, put a bit of lubrication in the right places, and then Wyatt found himself bent forward, swaying his hips while trying to accommodate the largest cock he'd ever seen. It hurt, mostly because he hadn't stretched himself. He took others up the ass so often, his hole rarely needed preparation, but Cam's cock was extraordinary in size, in shape, in every way.

Cam groaned. "Think I might be able to slide all the way inside you soon? Your tight little ass is driving me insane. I need to pound you hard." "Doing my best. It hurts a bit." Wyatt wiggled his hips, taking another inch of Cam's cock. "Sorry to be an insensitive asshole," Cam said. "I know it must hurt. It's just that you're so tight and hot and I'm dying to fuck you." "Right now, I wish my own asshole was a little less sensitive." Wyatt pushed, willing his muscles to relax faster, and was rewarded with lessened discomfort as the big man shoved his way in. Within a moment or two, it was done, and he breathed, "Fuck me, stud." Wyatt gave himself up to the pleasures of cock, gasping every time Cam slammed it home. He was stretched to the limit, and knew he'd be tender tomorrow, but the powerful sensations of taking Cam so deeply thrilled both mind and body. What a fucking head trip to be impaled by this man, the man Wyatt had done his best to emulate on the barebacking rodeo circuit--Wyatt's hero, for lack of a better term. What could be better than having your ass fucked by the man you practically worshipped? Not that he'd ever, ever reveal his heart in that way to Cam "The Professor" Chester. Gripping his own cock, Wyatt had pulled barely ten times when he started to come. Meeting each inward stroke of Cam's with equal force, he fucked and came and yelled and fucked and came and yelled, his entire body trembling, glittery feelings flashing through his veins like platinum. Sweat dripped in his eyes. He used a forearm to wipe his brow, gamely riding Cam, who still hadn't come. Wyatt put a little spin into his pelvic thrust, a little English, as ball players liked to say, and that did the trick--Cam screamed like a maniac while pounding Wyatt's ass with his pile-driver cock. He sat, fully sat this time, on Cam's lap, the softening dick inside him. Leaning back, he melded himself to Cam's solid chest. Wyatt's hands reached behind him to caress the man's face, and he was rewarded with an energetic nuzzle before Cam nipped his neck. Wyatt jerked at the sting. "Hey, no hickeys. Never really cared for them." "You are so tasty, I could bite you all over. But in a nice way," Cam breathed into his ear. "A sexy way. Or don't you like biting in general?" "A few sharp nips in the right places can send me to the moon. I just don't like marks, because of the bathhouse." Wyatt sighed with pleasure, still not believing he'd just fucked and sucked his hero. "Damn, that was the most fun I've had in a while. Only problem is, my ass will be on a bucking horse again in less than twenty-four hours." Cam's fingers traced patterns on his forearms. Wyatt shivered. This man could arouse him while touching his arms, for God's sake. "Maybe you should walk this side of the street more often," Cam said, and Wyatt melted. **** Feelings were hitting Cam like a fully-loaded train. As he stroked Wyatt's arm, he yearned for his heart to stop murmuring, this is more than a one-night stand, because it couldn't be. He never did anything but one-night stands. He stirred. His head began throbbing again, reminding him that he had a stranger in his lap and in his house. What the hell were they going to do the rest of the night? Talk? Sleep? And where would they sleep--together? Not likely. Cam never slept with anyone--he hated sharing a bed, the way he'd had to do

when he was young. He and his brother had been forced to sleep together because there had been only two beds in their poor household, one for their parents, and one for them. Rich, three years older than him, had always stolen all the covers. Shivering in his thin pajamas, Cam had been left literally out in the cold. "Uh, we need to figure out a way to get you back to your motel room," he said. To Cam's dismay, Wyatt snuggled closer. "Can't I sleep here tonight?" "Only if you want to sleep on the couch." The other man stilled, and Cam braced himself for a possible scene. That was the problem with having sex--sometimes, scenes were inevitable. "You'd really make me sleep on the couch?" Wyatt's voice was filled with petulance and hurt. Cam would have to explain. He hated to explain. Doing so opened the door to argument, and the matter wasn't up for discussion as far as he was concerned. "Look. I owe you, I know that. You took good care of me, drove me home, tended to my head. Then we had incredible sex. That all adds up to my owing you... something. But I don't like to sleep with anyone else. I mean that literally. I never share my bed. Ever. It's not personal, it's just me." Wyatt slipped off his lap to disappear down the hallway. Cam heard a door close, then running water. Time to get dressed and drive the cutie-pie bareback rider to wherever he was staying. If only Cam's fucking head would stop hurting. Standing up, he wavered a bit. He'd never taken the Vicodin, which was good news for driving, but bad news for leaving the pain behind. In the kitchen, he ran water into a tumbler. Back in the living room, he popped three pills in his mouth before washing them down. Then, he sank into the recliner, closing his eyes and willing both the pain--and Wyatt--to vanish conveniently. "Hey." A finger prodded his chest. Cam opened one eye halfway. "What?" "I want to go back to my motel." A pout covered Wyatt's face, ruining the beauty of his chocolate-colored eyes and dark hair threaded with silver. "Just took my pain pills. Can't drive now. Get whatever you want and curl up on the couch. On second thought, go ahead and take my bed. I'll sleep here." Pushing the recliner fully back, Cam crossed his arms and legs, thinking he felt the first bit of easing in his level of pain. "No, thanks." The curt reply was followed by the front door's slam. Cam groaned, "Ah, Christ." He'd probably created a new enemy in his work world, and that fact didn't suit him at all.

Chapter 2 Wyatt turned up his collar with one hand and stuck out his thumb with the other while walking backward. Earlier in the evening, it had felt like a steam bath outside. Now, a chill was in the air, and the three A.M. dampness was cold and unpleasant instead of refreshing. The few cars that passed him didn't stop, so he resigned himself to a long, long walk back to the motel. It couldn't be more than five miles, and he did have his Nikes on, so things could be worse. It could be raining. With that, drops splatted on his cheeks. He kicked gravel. "Shit." Lights. Looked like a pickup was approaching. Wyatt put on his best smile and thumbed for all he was worth. When the truck pulled off the road a little ways beyond him, he ran to hop in, but when he opened the door, he noticed who was driving. "I'll wait for the next ride," Wyatt said, slamming the door. With that, Cam piled out of the cab. "I'm not going to have your walking back on my conscience. Now get in the goddamned truck. I'll drive you to your motel." "And I'm not going to have your wreck on mine. You said you took your pain pills. You'll end up a DUI or worse. Go back home." They stared at each other until Cam snapped, "If I'm going back home, it won't be alone. Now park your cute little ass in the truck." "Yes, sir," Wyatt replied, amused despite himself. "And you can sleep with me. But absolutely no cuddling, spooning, or taking all the covers. You got that?" Cam shook his finger at him. Wyatt's grin took up permanent residence. "Whatever you say, boss." **** Cam's eyelids fluttered a moment before he sat up, panic in his gut. He'd let Wyatt sleep over last night, something he hadn't allowed a sex partner to do in years. Hell, he didn't even take his partners home, most of the time. And his Visa card had the motel bills to prove it--when he couldn't find a private alley, that is. His head ached as he recalled the entire night. The bad parts had been pretty bad, but the good parts had been fantastic. All in all, he'd spent one of the most enjoyable evenings ever, if you could be said to enjoy anything that happened after you were knocked out. Wyatt's side of the bed was empty, and Cam smelled coffee and toast. The late morning sun was bright and lit the corners of his room. Smiling despite the hammering in the back of his head, he sauntered naked to the kitchen, hoping Wyatt would enjoy a little morning glory. If Cam let a guy stay overnight, the least the other guy could do was have sex one more time. No Wyatt in the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, living room, or any other room in the small house. Disappointment washed through Cam like water through a gulley, even though he knew he had no right to be disappointed. He'd invited Wyatt to stay over grudgingly, forbidding any cuddling in bed. The man had done exactly what Cam had ordered him to--he'd slept without so much as brushing a toe against Cam, and left without a word.

But the half-pot of coffee still looked hot, so Cam set about scrambling eggs for breakfast. After his meal, he showered. He had to get to the rodeo by early afternoon, and it was already nearly noon. Before he left, however, he jotted down more words to the song his mind had begun last night, and the bare bones of a melody. He wished he had time to do more, but he'd be late if he didn't leave right then. An hour and a half later, he was in the rodeo's offices, waiting to speak with the guy who ran the whole shebang, Shep Walton. Cam had every intention of pursuing the matter of getting whacked on the head in the showers the night before. Walton, with a huge gut hanging over his belt and a cheap cigar clenched between his teeth, waved Cam into his office. "What's up, Professor?" He removed his hat so Walton could see his head. "This is what's up--a big lump on my noggin. Someone walloped me last night in the showers. Unfortunately, I didn't see who it was before the lights went out." Walton stilled. "Anyone else see what happened?" "I don't think so. You know I have a way of clearing out the bathhouse when I want to wash up." Cam's smile held no humor. "I don't know how long I might have been lying there if Wyatt hadn't found me." "Wyatt Knott, you mean." Maybe he shouldn't have referred to Wyatt in such a familiar fashion. "Yeah, Knott the barebacker, that's who I mean." Walton doodled on a piece of paper. "What do you want to do about it?" "Do? Are you kidding? I want to have whoever did it arrested." "And how do you propose we start investigating? You said yourself that the bathhouse only had you and Knott in it, and that you didn't see who it was. How do you know it wasn't Knott?" Something inside told Cam to hold back a little about not recognizing the voice. "My attacker didn't sound like Knott." Annie, Walton's wife and known behind her back as "Grannie Annie" for her perpetual, old-lady frown, bustled in with some papers for Shep to sign. When she bent over the desk, her polyester knit top rose, revealing a roll of fat that slopped over the waist of her way-too-tight jeans. Snapping some gum completed the unpleasant picture. The glance she spared Cam would have frozen a bowl of hot Brunswick stew. Man, was he glad he didn't have to come home to a sourpuss like that. After she'd fragranced the air with her mint gum and shut the door behind her, Walton spoke again. "Professor, I just don't know how I can help. You're welcome to call the police, of course, and we'll cooperate fully with any investigation. But I don't think you've got a snowball's chance, son. I wish it were different." The man stood, and Cam knew he was being dismissed. "But if you remember anything at all, or locate a witness, don't tell anyone else before you come tell me straight away, y'hear?" Cam took the limp-fish hand Walton offered and pumped it once. "You bet," he said without enthusiasm. Fuck, he thought outside Walton's office. I should just forget about it. That, and never shower in the bathhouse again without protection--or a witness.

**** Wyatt eyed Riley, the bareback bronco from hell. He'd drawn The Jackhammer two nights in a row, so he wasn't eager to climb aboard. For one thing, his ass hurt from Cam's big dick. For another thing, he'd ended up disqualified last night on the damned horse. He wanted a barebacking win so bad, he'd endure any pain, any humiliation to achieve it. The sun, a sullen orange ball, glared through the trees. Those seated in the stands looked hot and limp from the high humidity. The Philadelphia area was a fucking swamp. Only New Orleans was hotter and more humid than this place. Cam chose that moment to walk by. Their gazes met, and the other man doffed his hat, a sneaky grin crinkling the skin around his eyes. "Which side are you on tonight, Knott?" Wyatt frowned, not understanding at first. "Side. Of the street. Like you said last night." The connection between sexual preference and "side of the street" clicked in Wyatt's mind. "The same side I was on last night." Cam leaned on a nearby post. "I'm glad to hear it, being rather partial myself to that side." "You gonna rescue me out there tonight? If I need rescuing, that is?" Wyatt wanted to bat his eyelashes at the other man, Scarlett O'Hara style. Cam chuckled. "You'll need rescuing, all right. How long you been riding?" Wyatt glanced around to see if they had an audience. "We're just talking rodeo," Cam said. Wyatt took a deep breath. "I started out as an EMT--" "And you must have been a damn fine one, judging by how you fixed up my head last night," Cam interrupted. "I was, yes. But I'd always loved horses and cowboys, and I grew up in Wyoming, so I guess it was in my blood." "On a ranch?" "Nah. My dad was a schoolteacher, and my mom had a little sewing business on the side, in Cheyenne." Wyatt stopped talking, deciding not to go into his parents' deadly accident when he was ten. He thought about how his Nana, the woman who'd finished raising him, needed every penny he sent her. Not that he would tell Cam. "When I turned twenty-five, I decided I wanted to ride bareback. I took lessons for a couple of years, then headed out on the circuit. I've yet to catch any big wins, but I'm not doing too shabby--I earn enough to pay my bills." And help my Nana. "Well, most of the time." Cam laughed. "You must make enough. You don't look like you miss too many meals." "Try not to. Eating's a lot of fun." Unable to resist temptation, Wyatt shot Cam a soulful look, hoping the man heard the extra emphasis he'd put on the word, "eating." Cam responded with a slight shake of his head and a muttered, "Not here, not now." Relaxing against a neighboring fence post, Wyatt hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. "So, Professor, I know how you got your nickname, but I don't know why you stopped barebacking." Cam licked his lips. "You only think you know how I got my nick. What did you hear?" "That you schooled all the young 'uns. Helped them out when they were fresh and green.

And that you spanked 'em pretty bad when it was time to compete--you won just about every major prize a barebacker can." "Yeah, I did all that. But the biggest reason people started calling me The Professor was because I like to read." "Read?" "Good God, boy, yes, read. You can read, can't you? I was never without my book when it was downtime. That's the real reason I got the name." "Huh." Wyatt's respect for the man, already considerable, nudged a little higher. "What did you read?" "Mostly novels, though I enjoyed--still enjoy--reading histories of the old West and the occasional biography. Now, as to your original question, I quit bronco-busting because I've got more surgical pins in me than I've got bones. You name it, I broke it, sometimes more 'n once. But I love rodeo, so I moved into riding pick-up rather than give it up entirely. The barebacking world needs a man like me who can save the asses of all the young men who think they can ride--like you do." Cam's words edged into taunt, and Wyatt felt as stung as if Cam had raked a razor across the back of his hand. "You do a good job of plucking us riders off the horses, but don't ever think you're saving me. I'm a better rider than you give me credit for." Cam touched his hat and walked away, his last words echoing in Wyatt's burning ears. "Oh, you're a championship rider, all right, if we're not talking horses." **** Cam wiped his face with a bandanna while sitting on Boogaloo, the steamy July air feeling as solid as a wet woolen blanket. He'd picked up three men already when he realized that, like last night, he'd be Wyatt's pick-up man. His stomach tightened, tossing his thoughts back to their wild time, and the feel of the other man bouncing on his lap. Damn, but Wyatt's ass had been tight and hot... The sound of the chute opening snapped Cam back to the present. He watched Wyatt carefully, critically, one professional studying another. Damned if he wasn't half-bad, especially considering he'd started riding at an age when most barebackers were retired. If the guy could stay on the full eight seconds and not disqualify himself, he might win. His spurring technique was top-notch. Cam automatically counted the seconds in his head, and when the whistle blew, he was in place, grabbing Wyatt off Riley. "I'll bet you score at least in the seventies," Cam said in the man's ear. The world tilted at a crazy angle as Boogaloo reared, then bucked. Cam stuck to the saddle, but lost his grip on Wyatt. Another pick-up man rushed to scoop him up while Cam fought to control Boogaloo. Normally the horse was rock-steady and as close to bombproof as a rodeo steed got, so Cam had no idea why he'd spooked. He hoped Boogaloo wasn't hurt. When Cam slipped from the saddle, the rodeo halted while he checked his steed. Anger flooded his veins when he located the small dart lodged in the horse's left haunch. Someone had deliberately shot Boogaloo with a dart, probably in order to unseat Cam--and perhaps hurt Wyatt, too. Cam had lost his grip on the barebacker when Riley had rampaged around the ring, sharp hooves flying.

Wyatt clapped him on the shoulder. "You okay? What happened?" Cam plucked the dart from the horse's hide before leading him out of the ring so the rodeo could continue. "Someone shot Boogaloo with this. Get Doc--the dart might have delivered poison or drugs." The rodeo's vet on call, Dr. Shanley, took possession of the dart, then drew blood from the horse, while Cam soothed Boogaloo as best he could. The horse tossed his head around, but otherwise seemed none the worse for the experience. "He doesn't look like was shot up with anything, but it's possible the dart delivered a slow-acting substance. I'll get his blood and the dart tested." The vet stroked the horse's neck. "I don't suppose you noticed anything happening in the stands?" Cam's tone was dry. "I was a little busy, Doc, picking up a barebacker. I wasn't out for a Sunday trail ride." The vet met Cam's gaze for a moment before he flicked his eyes in Wyatt's direction. "We both know you might have been a little distracted by the rider you picked up." Cam let his expression go stony. "What're you saying?" Shanley picked up his medical bag. "Everyone knows about you two." "I don't have any idea what you're talking about." The vet snorted much like Boogaloo did when he was fed up with the rider on his back. "Yeah, and I'm doing your granny nightly. Cam, I don't give a shit what you do on your own time or who you do it with, but not everyone is as open-minded. Ever consider that dart was meant to get you thrown and stomped on?" Shanley gave him a look, then a nod. "I heard someone busted your noggin last night. Better be careful, son." Rodeo owner Shep Walton hurried over, his jaws working either a tobacco chew or a full mouth of gum. His skinny, bandy legs didn't look strong enough to support his enormous gut. Before Shep reached earshot, Cam said, "Doc, didja hear that Walton suffers from Dunlap Disease?" Shanley shook his head. "What the fuck's that?" "His gut's done lapped over his belt." The vet barked a laugh. "I got to remember that one." Walton, sides heaving from the strenuous walk, gasped out, "Everything okay?" "Except for some asshole that shot my horse with a dart, yeah, everything's okay." "How d'you know that?" Shanley held up the dart, cracking his gum in time with Walton like it was a fucking contest. "I doubt it fell outta the space shuttle, Shep. I plan to get it tested." Walton nodded. "Do your job, Doc. That's what I pay you for." After the vet walked away, Wyatt, who'd been quiet until that moment, said, "What're you gonna do about this, Walton? Cam and me could've gotten hurt bad." The man directed a gimlet eye at Wyatt. "What I hear is that you two's habits could get you hurt bad." Walton's glare roused protective feelings in Cam. "Shep, you do something about this, or I swear, I'm gonna call in the national organization. Someone shot my horse with a dart. Who knows, maybe the dart was meant for Knott here, or maybe for me. In any case, it ain't no

coincidence, seeing as how it happened just one day after someone bashed me on the head." "Whaddaya suggest I do, frisk everyone in the audience as they leave?" "Do something, or you'll live to regret it." Walton jerked his thumb backward. "I've had enough of your paranoid crap, Professor. You're fired. Get the fuck outta here before I have you arrested for trespassing." **** Wyatt swallowed the golf ball in his throat and found his voice. "If you're firing The Professor, I'm calling National, too. Cam's the best pick-up man you've got." Walton looked about as friendly as a stepped-on diamondback rattler. "That so. Your ride scored a seventy-six, the top so far. You're only two riders away from winning. But I'm sure I could find some reason to disqualify you, Knott." To Wyatt, Cam said under his breath, "Don't be stupid," before stalking off. While Wyatt watched The Professor's denim-clad buns retreat, panic grew in his chest. His first big win was close at hand--did he really want to screw it up? But how would he live with himself if he backed down, just for a win? Not just any win, but a big, big win that his career needed—as did his Nana, who needed the money for prescriptions and food. And was Walton blowing smoke, or did everyone really know about last night? If so, who had found out, and how? Wyatt would bet his sore ass that Cam wouldn't have breathed a word to anyone. Hell, no one was friends with the man, and bragging about a hot night of man-on-man action probably would get Cam's neck broken. Walton had to be bullshitting. "You can't disqualify me just because you own the rodeo. And what's this shit about habits? Everyone knows I screw ladies. Women, I mean. In fact, there's usually a line of 'em eager to do the honors." Wyatt felt sick about denying his true nature, but coming out at this particular moment wouldn't do anyone any good. He told himself his denial wasn't for the win--it was to make sure that the dart incident was properly investigated. Shep's smile was more of a leer. "Glad to hear it, boy. Those rodeo groupies can really ride a man, can't they? Celebrate your win tonight with a nice piece of ass." "I haven't won yet." The crowd cheered, and Walton clapped him on the back. "Unless I'm wrong, Knott, you just did. And I'm rarely wrong when it comes to my rodeo." "Just make sure you look into the whole dart thing." "Yeah, yeah, of course we will. Doc Shanley'll write his report, and we'll go from there." Unable to contain himself any longer, Wyatt trotted his victory lap around the corral, waving and grinning while people roared their approval. His huge win meant a cushion of cash in his bank account, a steak dinner, and the best sex he could find. **** Cam poured himself another three fingers of Canadian Club Classic 12. There was a reason his dad had drunk CC--best blended whiskey in the world, damn straight. He tossed it back like it was a soft drink, not a hard one, welcoming the burn that seared his throat. Earlier tonight, he hadn't left the rodeo right away. Cam had lingered long enough to hear

that Wyatt won, then had driven home to get shit-faced. He was happy for the young man--not only had Wyatt won, but he'd apparently taken his advice and didn't blow the win over Cam's firing. So why did he feel like his best friend had crapped on him? Because you know Wyatt probably frenched Walton's ass to keep his win--and keep his private life private. Could Cam really blame him? Why would any rodeo rat want the kind of shit he took--the hostility, the curses, the flattened tires on his truck, the crack on his head? He picked up the whiskey, started to pour, then shrugged and drank straight from the bottle. No one was there to see, or care. He stared at the bottle, wondering why he wasn't dead drunk by now. All he wanted was to pass out and wake up with a monster hangover. Well, he could do without the hangover, but the passing out part would be good. He didn't want to feel any pain. Besides, it wasn't like he had a job to get up for tomorrow But Cam's body, used to the abuse he put it through, wasn't cooperating. He felt sober as a dry-county judge despite the liquor he'd poured down his throat. Settling back in his chair, he put his hat over his face and waited for the high to hit him. All that happened was that his mind wouldn't let him be. Wyatt, Wyatt, Wyatt, it droned, that's who you want. Even if he is a rodeo Benedict Arnold. "Fuck." The hat sailed across the room as Cam gave up on trying to feel drunk. He would get in the truck and hit a few gay bars, except he'd had so much to drink, he was bound to fail any DUI test, no matter how sober he felt. Why was it that, when you really wanted to get hammered, it never happened? He could count on one hand the number of times he'd really needed his emotional pain killed, and every damned time his body had sabotaged him, the alcohol doing little to ease his anguish. It wasn't fucking fair, goddamn it. When you drank whiskey, you should get drunk. Anything else was unnatural. But he knew he wasn't alone with the problem. He'd read on a couple of blogs that others occasionally had the same problem of setting out to get drunk without much success. Clueless and unhappily clear-headed, he sat up. Maybe if Cam put his mind on trying to remember more about last night's attack, he might manage something productive and not mope. He settled in to think. All he really had to go on was the voice. It had been low-pitched and hoarse, like someone with a bad cold. Or like someone trying to disguise his voice. Maybe Cam knew his attacker after all. He replayed what he could remember of the one syllable in his mind. Maybe the knock on the head had him confused, but he'd swear it hadn't been someone's natural voice. This line of thought wasn't getting him anywhere. How could he figure something out from one "me"? Maybe he should make a list of enemies. He laughed briefly. Most everyone at the Marchville Rodeo wanted nothing to do with him. Big help that was. Still, did any of them hate him enough to attack him? Muttered curses and keying his truck and letting air out of his tires was one thing. Bashing his head in and risking killing him took a whole 'nother level of hatred. Or insanity.

Could it have been someone he'd blown off in a bar? Someone whose lover Cam had fucked one drunken night? Someone whose brother he'd fucked? Hitting someone on the head made sense if the anger was personal--revenge or jealousy, maybe. Unfortunately, the possibility enlarged the pool of suspects from people he knew to people he didn't. Great, just fucking great. Frustrated and bored, he rose from the chair, heading for his computer. In his virtual jukebox, he chose a favorite album by Chris LeDoux, "Rodeo Songs Old & New," before opening Firefox. In the past, he'd thought about working on the gay rodeo circuit. The Liberty Gay Rodeo Association was Philly's contribution, and Philly was his home base these days. He could also travel and work all the other gay rodeos through the International Gay Rodeo Association. He probably wouldn't make as much money as on the PRCA, the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, but then again, he wouldn't get bashed on the head. At least, not for his sexuality. Deep into his thoughts and singing along with LeDoux on "Re-Ride," Cam didn't hear the doorbell at first. When he finally did, he frowned. "Just a minute." Through the peephole in the front door, Wyatt's mug was a welcome sight, whether Cam wanted to admit it to himself or not. He threw the door wide. Wyatt turned to wave off his cab before he entered the house. "You won?" Cam said with his back to Wyatt. "Yeah." Cam turned, raising an eyebrow. "Thought your nose looked a little brown." "What good would it have done anyone if I joined your quixotic quest and tangled with Walton? I deserved the win and I got it," Wyatt said hotly. Cam's response was an amused, "I see you've read as far as the Qs in the dictionary. It's been years since I've heard anyone use 'quixotic.'" Wyatt said nothing in response, so Cam decided to go for it. "You come here tonight to get your ass fucked five ways to Sunday? 'Cause I wouldn't mind obliging you at all." Wyatt, still quiet, walked past, staring at the computer screen. "There's gay rodeo around here? Well, damn, that's a kick in the pants. You plan to work there, Cam?" "I figure I might get enough work by traveling on the gay rodeo circuit to supplement my meager income." "You have another income besides rodeo?" "I write songs."

Chapter 3 Cam's answer flummoxed Wyatt, who felt he had to say something. "Well, damn, you are a multi-talented son of a bitch, aren't you?" "I've sold a few songs. The royalties pay for groceries and some good times in the city now and then." "How'd you get started doing that?" "My bachelor's is in music and history, and my post-degree certificate's in songwriting. Got more education than the average rodeo rat. Simply another reason why some folks call me The Professor." Wyatt thought a moment. The guy was older than he looked, if he'd taken the time for four years of college and a damned certificate, whatever that was, on top of it. "I've been a fan of yours for years, but I never read that you went to college." "I keep on the down-lo. Some people get funny ideas if they know you have any education. And God knows my... preferences... give 'em enough in the way of funny ideas." Cam's hands on his hips drew Wyatt's eyes to the package encased in denim. Older than he'd thought or not, the man was chili-pepper hot, with his sculpted chest, narrow hips, and tight, tight butt. A rugged jawline and those Texas-bluebonnet eyes of his didn't hurt, either. Much as he liked to receive dick, Wyatt hoped he'd get his chance to fuck Cam's sweet ass some day. The notion surprised him. He never thought about the next time with a man, just the right here and now. Wyatt drew closer, his hand reaching out for Cam's crotch, whose cock swelled under his touch. "I think your preferences are fine. Would you prefer my mouth or my asshole, good buddy?" Cam pulled him close, and the touch of his body, even clothed, had Wyatt dizzy with lust. "I'd prefer something more than a quickie, if all the booze I've drunk will let my cock cooperate. How do you feel about getting tied up?" "Hey, one of a cowboy's best friends is his lariat." Cam took his hand, leading him to the bedroom. Wyatt's other hand unzipped his fly so he could touch himself. He couldn't keep from rubbing his dick any longer. Cam spoke again. "I don't mean literally tie you up. Using rope isn't safe. However, I do have these marvelous hook-and-loop fastened cuffs that will hold you in place, but they'll release you quickly if there's trouble." "Bring it on, big guy," Wyatt drawled, still pumping his cock with his right hand. In the bedroom, Cam stripped him, but didn't touch his erection until Cam had him on his back spread-eagled, wrists and ankles taut in the cuffs attached to the bedposts. Wyatt couldn't help jerking when his lover trailed fingers down his torso, detouring around his cock. "You have to touch me soon," Wyatt moaned, "or I'm going to die." Cam said nothing, again trailing fingers from Wyatt's wrists to his toes without so much as brushing his cock. His balls tightened. Damn, he might come without Cam ever stroking his fuck-stick once--wouldn't that be a kick.

When the man straddled his legs, his mouth a bare inch away, Wyatt struggled. Cam's not touching him drove him out of his mind, and the hot breath he sensed on his cock reminded him just how close Cam's wet, willing mouth was. "Oh, Christ," Wyatt groaned. "Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck. I don't know how long I can hold off." "Oh, you'll hold off as long as I tell you to. Otherwise, I have a little whip that'll do a number on you. You have been whipped before, haven't you?" "Just my ass," Wyatt gasped out while he watched Cam. The man's lips were at most an eighth of an inch from his cock's head. "Maybe we'll explore that later," Cam replied, moving his straddle up Wyatt's torso without ever touching his hot hardness. Bending forward so he was on his hands and knees, Cam's cock bumped Wyatt's lips. He opened wide so his lover could fuck his mouth, sucking harder than he ever had in his life. He wanted Cam to come like a nuclear missile, because if Cam did, Wyatt was going to come, too, he was certain, despite not being stroked. Cam screwed his mouth with deliberate, slow movements, his only comment a moaned, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, it's so good. Suck me harder." Jaws aching from Cam's enormous dick, Wyatt sucked as hard as he could despite the pain. Cam's fucking grew more frenzied until he abruptly pulled out, the suction of Wyatt's mouth making a small, popping sound. Cam moved to the foot of the bed, pulling the cuffs open, saying between quick pants, "You ever been fucked while you're on your back?" In response, Wyatt lifted his legs until his knees touched his shoulders. Cam grasped his butt and lifted his hips with one hand while the other began finger-fucking. And he still hadn't touched Wyatt's cock. My balls must be bright blue by now. Wyatt futilely hauled at the wrist cuffs, begging, "Touch my fucking cock, you bastard." Cam's response was to sheathe and lube himself, then penetrate Wyatt. Cam had positioned himself so that he was hovering over Wyatt, supported by his arms. He slipped in and out without touching Wyatt where he ached to be touched. Writhing as much as he could while restrained, he choked out, "Jesus Christ, man, a little mercy! I'm about to explode." "So explode," Cam panted, fucking harder and faster. "I can't unless I'm touched." Wyatt felt like pouting, but, in his torment, was too busy biting his lower lip to stick it out. "God almighty!" Cam yelled, a pile driver between his legs that was reaming Wyatt's asshole. It hurt like hell, but he was so close to coming, Wyatt didn't give two shits about the pain. Cam withdrew. Wyatt hoped he'd leave his ankles unbound, so he could use his own thighs to rub his dick, but the man fastened him even more tightly than before. Disappearing briefly, Cam returned with two washcloths, which he used to wipe the two of them. The wet, warm cloth soothed his butt hole, but did nothing to ease his desperate desire to come. "You're mean," he groaned to Cam. "Oh, am I? Just for that, I'm not going to touch your cock for at least another five minutes."

"Have a heart," Wyatt said, but Cam's mouth on his cock cut off any further reply. The suction was so intense, Wyatt could have sworn it was a machine and not a man. His body jerked one way, then another, as Cam made it impossible for him not to come. His own goddamned nuclear missile was exploding, and he fought the restraints even more, powerless before the strong sucking and deep-throating that caused heat to shoot through his veins and pleasure so extreme, it stopped his breath. Wyatt figured he'd come at least thirty seconds straight. When he could finally suck air again, he managed to say, "Fucking incredible." "I'm glad you approve." Cam chuckled a moment before saying, "You gonna be okay if I leave you tied up a little longer?" His muscles were stiffening from his body's violent movements, but Wyatt nodded, still huffing and puffing. "Whatever you want." Cam trailed fingers across his stomach. "Whatever, huh? Would you consider joining me on the gay rodeo circuit?" Wyatt blinked at the unexpected question. "What?" Cam's fingers teased his balls and hardening cock. "Think about it. We wouldn't have narrow-minded cowboys calling us cocksucking freaks. We could fuck every night. We might even make friends on the circuit. I don't know about you, but I miss having friends." Wyatt raised his head. "Okay, untie me now." "Let's fuck again first." Wyatt could see Cam's right hand stroking his own cock while his left was working on Wyatt's. "Untie me." "Oh, come on. You can fuck my ass if you want--and I don't allow many men to do that. I'll get a condom." Struggling hard enough that fresh raw places chafed his wrists and ankles, Wyatt ground out, "Let me go. Now." "Jesus, all right, I will. What put a bee up that cute butt of yours?" Wyatt waited until Cam had released all the bonds before speaking. "Look, it's not like I don't love it when you fuck and suck me. You're hot, even if you are pushing forty." Cam squinted, his mouth in a firm line. "I ought to whip your butt for that, you little bastard. I'm not a day over thirty-six." After finding all his clothing, Wyatt started dressing. "Whatever. Last night, you didn't want me sleeping in your fucking bed, and now you want me to drop my career and travel a second-rate circuit with you? Hello? Did I miss something here?" Jerking on his own jeans, Cam responded with a snarl in his voice. "Why the fuck do you call it a second-rate circuit? Just because it's gay? You must really love that closet, Christ almighty." "It's not the closet! And the circuit's not second-rate because it's the gay circuit. It's second-rate because the prize money isn't anywhere near the level I need. I don't have a side income like you do from songs. And I have someone depending on me, which you don't." Cam grabbed Wyatt, biting his earlobe between sentences while unzipping his just-zipped denims. "We can travel together. I have enough to pay both our expenses on the road. I can even rent out or sell this house and pay for everything, so any prizes you win are all yours to do with as you please. Come with me, Wy. Even your name wants you to go."

Powerless against the man's pumping hand, Wyatt rolled his hips. Cam's fingers were doing stuff so good, it was probably illegal. "What?" Cam smiled. "Wy Knott, that's what." Wyatt stared, then shook his head. "What, you never heard anyone joke about your name?" Cam asked. With great reluctance, he removed Cam's hand and zipped up. "I'm not going to be your gigolo. I have my fucking pride. And I have someone--" "--depending on you. Yeah, you said that." Cam snorted like a bull. "Who is this mysterious person? You got a butt bandit back home you're sending flowers and candy to?" When Wyatt heard the last thing Cam said, he slammed out of the house, punching numbers into his cell phone for a cab. **** This is what happens when you open your heart. Cam wanted to smash something to bits. If it weren't after one in the morning and likely to disturb his neighbors, he'd use his chain saw to terrorize some logs. Never mind it was summer and he wouldn't need his fireplace for months. Raking his hands through his hair, he grimaced. He'd been a fool to think that a young hottie like Wyatt would want to hang with an old guy like himself, and a fool to believe that Wyatt wanted to escape the closet he'd shut himself up in. The young man had no guts, and Cam didn't want anything to do with a lying, pretending-he's-not-gay coward. He searched for the whiskey bottle, lifting it to slug some, when he remembered something new about the night before. He'd heard that funny, fake-guttural voice, but he'd also smelled something fruity. Gum. He'd smelled fruit-flavored gum. "Well, that really narrows it down," he muttered. Lots of men on the circuit chewed gum or tobacco. Cam had never seen the attraction of either, but he'd sure smelled one or the other on a lot of peoples' breaths. He headed for the door, grabbing his keys on the way. He'd drive to the nearest Wawa and buy every kind of fruity gum there was. Maybe you'll see Wyatt. You could offer him a ride. Cam slammed the truck's transmission into drive. Wyatt had made his feelings clear, so Cam wasn't going to run after the man like some pussy little girl. No fucking way. Still, he kept an eye peeled for Wyatt on his way to the convenience store, but the young man must have caught a ride. At the store, he searched the entire gum display, coming up with a dozen fruitlike flavors. The bored, sleepy-looking clerk said, "Fourteen thirty-seven." He tried the first variety before he started the truck's engine, chewing it thoughtfully. Nope, not the right smell. By the time he'd gotten back home, he'd tried three kinds with no luck. It took chewing seven more while standing in his living room before he felt sure he'd found the right gum: MegaChoo Tutti-Fruitti. To be certain, he chewed the rest of the gum varieties, then another

piece of MegaChoo. Yup, MegaChoo Tutti-Fruitti was it, or he'd eat his hat. So what? Lots of people chew that flavor. Disheartened, Cam realized he wasn't much closer to figuring things out. Heading again for his computer, he decided he'd play with the pitching tools on his music software. The program could electronically alter pitches and came with sample voice files loaded, too. It hit him that both the Waltons chewed gum nearly constantly. He began listening to all the female voices on file until he found one that sounded familiar, one that sounded like Grannie Annie Walton. She chewed a lot of gum and was a nasty bitch, but would she really knock him out? He shrugged, diddling with the controls, until he'd created a fake-sounding low pitch that was gruff and guttural. It was a decent match for the voice he'd heard before his lights went out. But he still couldn't be sure, so he listened to the male voices until he found one that sounded like Shep. He altered the pitch and tone until it, too, resembled the voice he'd heard. Shep. Annie. Which one? Or maybe he was wrong and it was neither? Back to square one. Maybe he should forget about all of it and work on his song, "Eight Seconds." Getting fired meant he needed the money now. An hour later, Cam had roughed out a complete melody, but the gum thing and the voice thing picked at his mind. Thoughts of sleep were a bad joke, so Cam took his cell phone and punched in the number of Wyatt's motel. Once he was connected to his room, he listened to it ring. And ring. "The guest you are trying to reach is not answering. Please leave a message at the tone." Cam opened his mouth, then changed his mind and disconnected. Wyatt obviously wasn't in the room. Probably off letting someone else fuck his ass. He played with the music software and voice files some more, but he still didn't find another voice that sounded as familiar as the Shep and Annie ones. Three-forty-three. Cam scrubbed his face with his hands. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't find Wyatt, and he couldn't even manage to get drunk. Nothing left to do but try his luck with the police. **** An aching head and a stiff dick. The stiff dick was a daily thing, the aching head, not, despite the bodily punishment a barebacker always suffered from. Wyatt sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his brow. Why'd he have to tie one on after he left Cam's place? Because I acted like an asshole and couldn't stand myself. He looked around the room at all the empty cans. He'd found a place still open that sold beer--and pizza. Pennsylvania's liquor laws made no sense to him--pizza parlors sold beer, state liquor stores didn't. Not to mention the state stores closed by nine or ten at night. So he'd pounded back twelve brewskis, then passed out on the bed. Looking around the room, he noticed the flashing light on the phone. Maybe Cam had called

him. The thought cheered him. But when he accessed the message, there was a moment of silence, then a click. If only he hadn't been so drunk he would have heard the phone and been able to talk to Cam--or whoever it was that called. One thing was for sure--he felt pretty fucking stupid for not telling Cam about his Nana. He'd been raised to keep his mouth shut when it came to family and what they needed--no Knott had ever taken a dime of charity--but he should have told Cam. Cam was more than just a man he'd fucked. He'd been more of a friend to Wyatt than Wyatt had been to him. No one else had ever offered to pay his way on the circuit. And that impressed him, even while it made him feel a little uncomfortable. He really didn't want to feel that he was getting paid for companionship and sex. Still, Cam had never suggested that. No, it was his Knott family hard-headedness at fault. If it could be called a fault never to take a penny he hadn't earned honestly. Staggering to the shower, Wyatt winced at the needle-like sting of the hot spray. After ten minutes of washing under the hot water finished by one minute of bitingly-cold spray, he felt awake and his head didn't hurt quite so much. While drying off, he thought about what he and Cam had done the night before. He couldn't help stroking off before he dressed and headed to the IHOP next door for breakfast. Forty-five minutes later, full of pancakes and coffee and the three ibuprofen the waitress had been kind enough to give him, he set out in a taxi. This time, he'd tell Cam the truth--about his Nana and her needs, about himself and his needs, and about where he and Cam might go from here. Wyatt felt an attachment to the man he'd never known with any other guy. In the past, he'd thought he was in love once or twice, only to dance away from any serious commitment when the man--or woman--had tired of games and fun. But Cam not only got him off like gangbusters, he also filled Wyatt's heart with sweetness. And that feeling was something no one else had ever given him. Cam was right--he'd been closeted a long time. Maybe he should join Cam on the gay rodeo circuit, and maybe the man would help him pay Nana's bills. The woman had accepted Wyatt as he was after his parents' deaths, had loved and disciplined him through a stormy adolescence, and had hinted recently that she would love him regardless of his sexual orientation. Pretty green landscape and hazy sunshine surrounded Wyatt, but he didn't notice any of it, lost in thought. Nana had known the truth about him, even when he hadn't wanted to see it staring back at him in the mirrors of a hundred gay bars. "Hey, we're here," the driver said, startling Wyatt. "How much?" he asked. "Nineteen-fifty," the cabbie said. Mustering his courage, Wyatt walked to the front door while the taxi drove off. When he knocked, the door slipped open. He wondered why Cam would leave his door unlocked. Pushing it wider, he stepped inside. "Hello? Cam? It's Wyatt. Did you know you left your front door open?" A sunbeam peeking between a shade and a window sill threw a gleam in Wyatt's eyes as he moved to the living room. The distinctive sound of a revolver being cocked stilled his steps. Shep Walton pushed the shiny barrel against his temple. Too late, Wyatt noticed Cam on the

other side of the room, trussed to a chair with duct tape. His body sagged against the restraints as if he were drunk. "Cam!" burst from Wyatt's lips. Walton pistol-whipped his cheek hard enough to knock him down. "Shut up. Go stand next to your faggot lover." He gestured with the small, short-barreled gun. Stumbling to his feet, Wyatt staggered toward Cam, his cheek torn and bleeding. He didn't have a fucking clue what to do next. "How d'ya like my gun? Smith and Wesson 63, takes cheap .22 caliber ammo. You have any idea what a .22 can do to your brain? Turns it to mush as it bounces around inside your skull, that's what." "Nice gun, but it's for pussies. Do you carry it because it's bigger than your dick?" Wyatt couldn't help flinching when the bullet whistled by, inches from his left ear. "Killing you both is going to be such a pleasure." Walton cocked the revolver again. "Why?" It was the only thing Wyatt could think of to ask. Getting Shep talking would buy him some time, maybe even distract him long enough for Wyatt to rush him. "Why is shooting you both a pleasure? Because Annie and I run a respectable family rodeo. Fucking swishy ass-gobblers don't have any place in something as all-American as rodeo. You and Cam'll make nice fertilizer for next year's veggie patch, I'll bet." "What did you do to Cam?" Wyatt was desperate to buy more time. His face hurt like a motherfucker, and he was having trouble focusing. Walton shrugged. "I gave him a little shot, that's all. Calmed him right down." "Doc's in on this?" "Hell, no. That man's more liberal than a San Francisco queer. I asked him for a couple of tranquilizer doses to quiet a horse. I've given the horses shots before, so Shanley didn't ask, just gave me the syringes. I squirted out most of the drug, figuring I shouldn't use more than about a fifth of the dose. Wouldn't be no fun at all killing either of you that way. No, I want you both to suffer a little first." "So you're killing us because we're gay?" Walton shifted as if the question made him uncomfortable. "Gay's one thing. Being uppity about it's another. I've had complaints." "Why not just fire us?" "I fired Cam. I can't fire you--you're a competitor, not an employee. Besides, are you really a fag? You said last night you weren't." Cam groaned, stirring, and Walton's eyes shifted to him. Wyatt moved his right hand to his back pocket, where he had a Leatherman stored. Experience told him that people flinched when you threw something at them. His best chance--and Cam's--was to throw the Leatherman multi-tool at Walton's face and charge the man. If he bent and weaved, he'd be a harder target to hit. Walton had at least fifty pounds on him, but all of it was fat. Wyatt's fingers closed around the tool as Walton swung his attention back to him. "We've talked enough. Time for you to start suffering. But first I gotta disable you." Walton aimed the gun at his left knee. Now or never.

Throwing the Leatherman straight at Walton's head, Wyatt jigged right before coming in low at top speed, aiming for the man's midsection. The gun fired, and a burning blaze sliced his left upper arm. The pain was staggering, but he forced himself to move through it, the way he rode through pain on the broncos. His right forearm in front of him and his right shoulder angled, Wyatt crashed into Walton, hoping like hell he could knock the big man down. He tucked his head a little and raised his right knee, which glanced off Walton's groin. Not a solid hit, but the man moaned and collapsed. Out of the corner of his eye, Wyatt could see blood pouring from his arm and the gun flying across the room. He had to get that gun. Delivering a kick to Walton's side, he dove for the revolver and came up with it. He didn't know how he was going to call 911 and hold the gun on Walton with only one good arm, but he had to try. Grimacing in agony, he pulled out his cell phone and used his thumb to call, keeping the gun aimed at Walton's midsection. Once he'd relayed the info, he stuck the phone back in his pocket without hanging up. The 911 operator had wanted him to keep talking, but he couldn't divide his attention, not with Walton in pain and furious. "You son of a bitch, did you think I came to this party with only one weapon?" Walton snarled, shoving his hand in one pocket. Wyatt had no choice. He fired, aiming for his shoulder and hoping he wouldn't miss--or kill--the bastard. His aim was a little off, but he still managed to shoot Walton through the forearm. The man screamed and forgot all about whatever he had in his pocket. "Wyatt? Wha..." Cam was regaining consciousness. Risking a couple of steps back so he could see the man with his peripheral vision, Wyatt said, "Hang on, help is coming. I can't risk taking my eyes off Walton, so removing the tape is out of the question." "You've been shot!" Cam cried. "Don't remind me." A lightheaded Wyatt prayed he wouldn't pass out before the police arrived. He refocused his aim on Walton's middle, the easiest target to hit, keenly aware he had only three bullets left. "You're no coward," Cam whispered, wonder in his voice. The comment stung Wyatt. "You thought I was a coward?" "Yeah. For not coming out of the closet." Sirens were closing in on the house when Wyatt said, "Well, I think that closet's pretty much shot to hell now."

Epilogue Ten days later Wyatt sat back on Cam's bed, enjoying the September-like sunshine and breeze coming through the window. He watched Cam pack things in boxes. "Where are we headed first?" "San Francisco. Hey, just because you've only got one good arm doesn't mean you don't have to help." Cam threw a folded towel at Wyatt, who ducked. "You can do the light stuff. When's that arm of yours going to be better?" "Another week or so and I should be able to use it more. Just a flesh wound, as they say in the cop TV shows." Wyatt rubbed his bandaged arm while studying Cam. "You sure you're okay with storing your stuff and selling your house?" "Traveling would suit me right now. And, before you ask"--Cam held up his hand when he saw the other man's open mouth--"I'm fine with supporting you--and your Nana--for a while. Reba McEntire wants to record 'Eight Seconds,' so that'll mean some reasonably fat royalties--and maybe even more big-name stars interested in my songs. In the meantime, I can pick up rodeo jobs and keep composing." Wyatt brooded for a moment. "Can we go see Nana when my arm's healed? I don't want her to know I was shot." With a grin, Cam reached over to tousle Wyatt's hair. "We can do whatever the hell you like. We're only going to San Francisco first to participate in the Bay Area Gay Rodeo. Want to skip it and head home instead?" Shaking his head, Wyatt sighed while he packed bed linens. "I'm not ready for that. I'm still kind of shaken up over Walton. Hard to believe the asshole and his wife belong to an anti-gay hate group." Cam stopped packing. "I can't say I expected it, but I wasn't totally surprised by it, either. Thank God the police dropped all charges against you and we're both free to leave the area. And now we know one of them knocked me on the head, too, though we don't know which one. They've lawyered up." Picking at a stray fiber in his arm's sling, Wyatt thought about how close the two of them had come to dying. "Why didn't the police do anything about your head-cracking?" Cam shrugged. "Because I didn't have any hard evidence, just guesses. I was pretty low when I came back to the house at dawn." "And found Shep waiting for you, who told you he'd found out who had hit you." "That son of a bitch was fast with the dope-filled needle, that was for sure." Cam reached out to smooth Wyatt's injured cheek. "You feeling all right?" Wyatt stepped into his arms. "Better all the time. Just be gentle with me." Cam kissed his lover softly, his tongue tickling Wyatt's lower lip, one hand sliding to the man's crotch. "Spending time in San Francisco will be good for us both," he murmured before he unzipped his lover's jeans and knelt before him.

Barrie Abalard Barrie has worked as a radio personality, technical writer, taxi driver, bank clerk, and ad copy writer, but she's always come back to her first love, fiction writing. For eleven years, she has written for various spanking-oriented e-publishers. Her credits include the sale of over thirty short stories, several novellas, and two short novels to DisciplineAndDesire.com, for whom she writes as "Belle," and over thirty-five short stories and two short novels to CF Publications, for whom she writes as "Miss Lee." Barrie is married with a grown child and lives in one of the Middle Atlantic states, along with two persnickety cats. You can learn more about Barrie by visiting her website: http://barrieabalard.com **** Don't miss Swinging, by Barrie Abalard, available at AmberAllure.com! It's 1975--do you know what your sexual preference is? Kirk Bauer, a leading man compared to John Wayne with Robert Redford's looks, attends a Hollywood "swingers" party with his girlfriend. There, they meet up with Kirk's buddy Troy Camden and his girlfriend, Holly Lane. Kirk's lust, however, takes an unexpected turn when he watches Holly perform sexual acts on Troy. Does he really want a man to perform similar acts on him? And more importantly, does he really want to do that to his friend? Troy, an up-and-coming leading man, has almost as much experience with men as with women, but he hasn't allowed himself to fall for any man since he was twenty--that is, not until he and Kirk get down-and-dirty in one of the pool cabanas at the party. For Troy, sex with a guy has never felt so right. But can he keep his heart out of it? Kirk struggles with his sexuality--and his feelings--almost as much as Troy tries to keep from falling for Kirk. One weekend at Kirk's ranch, however, the two finally admit their love for each other, only to have their affair outed three weeks later in the gossip rags. With their careers in Hollywood possibly over, the two take bold action. But will it be enough to reclaim their lives and their hearts?

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