Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“I don’t have a fucking main piece. How can I have a side piece.” Tate’s skin tightened, feeling stretched over his bones. He fought the urge to squirm under the three nosy gazes directed his way.
“No?” Daryl’s eyes glittered with evil excitement. “What about that one in Tulsa you been going to see? She got you all pussy-whipped? That why you’re never here?”
“Yeah, you ditching us for city pussy?” Randy asked as he reached around Whitney for a hotdog. He shoved a stick down the center, then held it over the fire.
Fire-roasted hotdogs with a strong flavor of lighter fluid are the trailer park specialty.
“Nah, that’s done.” He motioned for Randy to hand him a hotdog. It didn’t get stupider than giving up his cover story. All he had to do was confirm he’d started seeing this mystery woman in Tulsa more. They’d tease him for a few minutes, then get bored and move on to dumber topics.
But the lie lodged in his throat. It wasn’t lying in particular he had a problem with—he’d been doing that since his teen years—but denying Liam in that way, pretending he was someone he wasn’t, Tate couldn’t make his mouth say the words. The dick he’d swallowed last night sure as hell didn’t belong to some woman in Tulsa. It belonged to the gorgeous, compassionate, accepting, and sexy-as-fuck man Tate couldn’t stop thinking about.
Liam was on his mind twenty-four hours a day. The first thing he thought of when his eyes popped open and the last thing he thought of before they closed again—alone in his bed. They hadn’t gone on another date, Tate’s fault, and they hadn’t spent an entire night together. Again, Tate’s fault. But they did have pizza one night in Liam’s apartment and coffee the next morning in the same place. Tate had just gone home to sleep in his own shitty bed in between.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Whitney said. “Are you okay?”
“Done? So, what, this shit is you pouting or something?” Randy asked, waving a hand in Tate’s direction.
Whitney smacked the side of her husband’s thigh. “Randy, you’re so insensitive. He’s hurting.”
“Nah, I’m good. Just been a busy week.” He avoided meeting anyone’s gaze. Thank God he had the hotdog to focus on, or he’d be staring at his feet like a liar would.
Narrowing his eyes, Randy shook his head. “I ain’t buying it. Something’s up.”
“I bet I know.” Daryl pulled a charred dog from the fire with a smirk.
Tate’s stomach turned over, and his skin prickled like icy needles were jabbing him all over. Was this it? Had Daryl seen his car parked behind the studio where Liam promised no one would discover it? Had Tate let something slip that should have stayed locked up in his mind?
He gripped the end of his skewer so hard it pierced his palm, but he barely felt the discomfort. Every ounce of his focus zeroed in on Daryl.
“What?” Randy asked. “Spit it the fuck out.”
“He’s working on starting his own tiling company. Am I right?”
Oh, thank fuck. Relief pummeled him, leaving him feeling weak and wobbly. “That’s it,” he croaked. His hand shook so hard that the hot dog looked like it was vibrating on the end of his stick. Christ, he needed to get his shit together.
“This again?” Randy rolled his eyes. “You got a good job. Why can’t you just be satisfied with it? Nothing’s ever good enough for you.”
“It’s called ambition, Rand, and it’s usually considered a good thing.”
Randy grunted as Whitney chuckled. “He’s not wrong, babe,” she said.
“Oh, come on, what the fuck does he know about owning a business? Jack and shit, that’s what.”
“I’m not an idiot.” Tate pulled his dog from the fire and shoved it in the bun. “I can fucking learn,” he said before taking a giant bite.
“Why now? Why you gotta change everything now? Shit’s good.” Randy tore into his hot dog with all the manners of a boar.
Shit’s good. Yeah, for the married straight man who’d never had to hide his whole damn identity.
“Leave it, Randy,” Whitney said. “Why you all over him tonight?”
“It’s that guy,” Daryl cut in with his mouth full of chips.
“What guy?”
“This one.” Daryl lifted his hand and let his wrist droop forward. “He’s about our age and owns a business. Tate got ideas in his head from working on his studio.”
“The fag?” Randy gaped at him. “He’s the one that’s got your head all fucked up?”
You have no idea.
His nerves were already scratched raw from the fear of Daryl outing him. Having to listen to the man he was obsessed with described in a derogatory way was the last fucking straw. “Why do you two assholes gotta fucking describe him that way? You could call him the studio owner, our client… hell, you could call him that guy. What the hell does who he likes to fuck have to do with anything? It’s twenty-fucking-twenty-four. Why can’t you two cavemen just let people be who the hell they are? Live and let live.”