Colby looked tired when he sank onto the couch to pull on his boots. “It’s how I am with anyone who’s in my bed.”
“Oh.” Right. With men, too. At that, unbidden images leaked into his brain. “So like a dom or whatever it’s called?”
He’d watched porn. He wasn’t completely unaware of that subculture.
Colby sniffed and stood. “Let’s go, Keats. It’s getting late. And the only people I discuss my sex life with are those who are part of it. So unless you’re making a pass at me, I suggest you stop talking and get in the damn truck.”
Keats’s jaw snapped together.
Colby smirked as he passed him on his way to the door. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Fuck. Keats ignored the flush of heat that brought to his face and followed him out the door.
Yeah, forget the questions. The sooner he got out of here, the better. Being around Colby Wilkes was a fucking hazard.
—
Colby was in a truly foul mood by the time his truck rolled to a stop in front of the Texas Star Motel—or actually the Texas tar Motel since the fluorescent S had burned out. Two overly made-up women—one with thigh-high boots and the other wearing a spandex dress three sizes too small—were smoking cigarettes under the Vacancy sign, probably taking a break in between johns. On the curb in front of the office, a homeless man was muttering to himself and plucking at his pants.
“This is where you’re staying?” Colby asked, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
Keats pushed his hair behind his ears, his face more drawn than it had been a few moments before. “It’s cheap and they usually aren’t dicks if I’m a day late on paying. Other places would’ve already purged my room.”
“Fuck, Keats, you said you had a place to stay.”
His expression hardened. “I do. It’s here while I’m saving up for something more permanent.”
“You can’t—”
But Keats was already pulling the door handle and climbing out. “Thanks for everything. I’ll stop by tomorrow to talk to Georgia.”
“Kea—”
The door slammed.
Hardheaded bastard. Colby hadn’t had a door shut in his face in a long damn time. He hit the button to roll down the window. He wanted to yell at Keats and demand he get his ass back in the truck. But he stopped himself just short. He knew how that would go. Keats was an adult and had made up his mind. The only comfort was that he believed Keats would keep his word to Georgia.
He watched Keats’s retreating form until something blocked his view. One of the smoking women leaned along his open window, gave him an appraising look, and offered a sure-thing smile. “Ooh, you’re a big one, aren’t ya? Looking for a date, cowboy?”
/> He wanted to bark at her for interfering with his view, but he managed to hold his tongue. No hooker was walking the streets because she wanted to be there. The therapist in him could rewind and see the broken life behind her. So he forced his tone into an easy but clear one. “No thanks, you’re not my type, darlin’.”
She tilted her head then looked back over her shoulder toward where Keats had gone. She turned back and winked. “Oh, I got ya. Wish I could’ve seen that, cowboy. Yowza.”
She gave his window a little tap and strolled back to join her friend. Keats had disappeared from view. Motherfuck.
Colby leaned over the steering wheel, trying to see farther into the lot, but there was no one there. The homeless man was ambling over to Colby’s truck, obviously intent on preaching his crazy-speak to another. Colby wasn’t in the mood. With a frustrated grunt, he put the car into gear and pulled out of the lot. This wasn’t his business. Keats wasn’t his business.
This was just residual angst about feeling responsible for the kid Keats used to be. That was all this was. He’d offered to help and it wasn’t wanted. What more could he do? He pressed a button on his steering wheel, activating his phone, and called a number he’d only programmed tonight.
“Hello?” Georgia said, her voice a little sleep soft.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Looks like it.” The sound of water sloshing filled the background. “But that’s a good thing. I think I dozed off in the tub.”
“The tub? Are you trying to torture me?” he asked, with visions of what he imagined Georgia’s naked body would look like all wet and soapy filling his head. He’d only gotten a glimpse of her tonight.
“You called me,” she reminded him. “You’re trying to torture yourself.”