"You wanted me to let you know as soon as I found the Godfreys' runaways," the yummy-sounding man said. I told myself not to whip around to see if the face and body matched the sexy voice. Even if it did, it didn't matter because I was here for business… well, family business.
Oh yeah, and Wyoming wasn't exactly rife with gay men, closeted or otherwise.
"Thank you, son," Uncle Curtis said. "Bert will be so pleased. They've had a rough year, what with Eleanor's medical bills, so I know they need their entire herd to make ends meet. Appreciate you finding them so fast, son."
I barely heard the man tell my uncle it wasn't a problem because I was so caught up in the way he said "son." It had sounded just like when he called me son. Ridiculously, it felt like someone had stabbed me in the heart, and those same stupid tears that had threatened to fall earlier were back.
As I started to turn around to confront the man, silently, of course, Uncle Curtis said, "Brooks, do you—"
In the two seconds it took for Uncle Curtis to say those words, I did several things all at once…
I recognized the man standing before me.
I stared at him in disbelief.
I let the rage inside of me boil over.
And then I whispered his name in stunned confusion even as I launched my body at him and let my fists fly.
Chapter 2
Xavier
One second I was standing there talking to Uncle Curtis, the next second I was on my back and my jaw was screaming in pain. I swore I'd heard my name whispered in the moments before the heavy weight slammed into me, but I couldn't be sure. Either way, my instincts kicked in and before the next punch could hit its target, I lifted my legs and wrapped them around my opponent’s lower body and twisted us so I was the one on top. I heard the man beneath me let out a groan when his back hit the hard ground.
The old me probably would have just returned the blows I'd been given and added a few more for good measure, but I hadn't been that man in a very long time. I knew better than to fuck around when it came to my survival. I had the scars to prove it.
So I hit the guy just once, enough to daze him, and then my hands went around his throat. I wouldn't give him the time to stick a shiv in my gut. And if he had some friends with him, I'd be ready for them too. I didn't even look at the man's face as I held him down and applied pressure to cut off his airway. I knew the guards would be on me before I could actually kill him, and that was just fine. It was more about sending a message than anything else. I’d learned that the first week in this place.
I was dimly aware of someone saying my name, which was unusual in itself, because the prison guards usually had some kind of nickname for you, or they just called you by your number. Maybe in the rarest of cases, they'd address you by your first name, but they had to like you a lot for that. And the guards at the Wyoming State Penitentiary sure as shit didn't like me enough to call me anything other than Torch.
"Xavier, please," I heard someone frantically call. I knew that voice. And it definitely didn't belong to any guard.
Reality slammed into me like a freight train as Curtis Sterling called my name again. The dark, stained walls of my prison cell disappeared, replaced by the smell of dust, horse, leather, and manure.
"Xavier," Curtis said and then I felt a hand cautiously settle on my shoulder. "Let him go, son," Curtis added firmly. It was the same voice I'd often heard him using on a frightened horse. His tone held that unique mix of understanding, patience, and desire for trust.
The him in question came into focus and I forced myself to lessen my grip on his throat. My body was shaking from the adrenaline rush of having to defend myself, but I made myself take deep breaths as I took in the man beneath me. His face was red from exertion, but his lips had a little bit of a blue tint to them. I quickly released my hold on him entirely but kept my hands pressed against his collarbone on each side of his neck to keep him from coming after me again.
The man gagged and coughed as he struggled to pull in one breath after another. His hands, which had been wrapped around my wrists, went to his throat as if trying to protect it from another attack. His short golden-brown hair was coated in dust and his blue eyes were bright with tears, probably from his struggle to draw in enough oxygen to keep himself from passing out. I hated the guilt I felt that I’d been the cause of those tears, but I forced the emotion away. This man had come at me. I’d done nothing to provoke the attack. Just like when I’d been in prison.