Page 9 of Deviant
Colt takes her hand, but his eyes never leave mine. “Lucky guy.”
“We’re very happy,” Molly says, squeezing my arm.
“I’m sure you are.” Colt takes a drink, his gaze dragging over me. “Rhett always did like to do what he was supposed to.”
Cash clears his throat, clearly sensing the tension, but he’s grinning like this is entertainment. “So, Colt, you sticking around all summer? Or you gonna bail like last time?”
“Nah, I’m here for the long haul. Like you said, good for my degree—I’ll get hands-on work experience. Learn from the best.” His eyes cut to me. “Right, Rhett?”
Before I can tell him to fuck off, Dawson appears at my elbow, oblivious to the tension. “Hey, Colt! Good to see you, man.”
The shift in Colt is immediate and jarring. His smile becomes genuine, his posture relaxing, like someone flipped a switch. “Dawson, how’s that colt doing? Still giving you hell?”
Dawson laughs. “Growing like a weed. You should come and see him. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s got personality.”
“Runs in the family,” Colt says, and Dawson grins like it’s a compliment.
They fall into easy conversation about horses—feed schedules, training techniques, and some foal Dawson’s been working with. Cash jumps in with some story about Dawson getting kicked last month, complete with a dramatic reenactment.
I stand there, feeling like an outsider in my own life, watching my brothers laugh with him like he’s one of them. Like there isn’t history. Like senior year never happened. Like he didn’t say those things to me that I’ve spent five years trying to forget.
Molly chatters with some girls who’ve wandered over, pulled into their orbit, and I’m left standing there with a beer I don’t want, watching Colt fit seamlessly into my family like he belongs here.
LikeI’mthe one who doesn’t fit.
“Yo, Rhett,” Cash says, nudging me with his elbow hard enough to slosh my beer. “You good? You’re being weird.”
“I’m fine. Just gonna get another beer.”
I escape toward the coolers before anyone can follow.
The night air is lighter away from the fire, and I take a moment to breathe—to let my shoulders drop, to stop performing for five goddamn seconds.
I grab a beer from the cooler, the ice-cold water numbing my fingers, and press the bottle against my forehead, trying to clear my head. Trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me, and why Colton Dawson showing up has me this rattled.
“Running away?”
The voice comes from behind me, and I know who it is before I turn around.
Colt is standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, that infuriating smirk still in place. The firelight catches in his dark hair, throwing shadows across his face.
“Just getting a drink,” I say flatly.
“Right.” He steps closer, and I can smell him—tobacco and whiskey. “You look good, Thornwood.”
“Look, I don’t know what you think, but I’m straight. So, whatever game you’re playing?—”
“Relax.” Colt cuts me off with a laugh, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Jesus Christ, Thornwood. I said you look good, not that I want to fuck you. Calm the fuck down.”
Heat floods my face—anger, embarrassment, something else I don’t want to name. “I’m just saying?—”
“You’re just saying you’re straight. Got it. Loud and clear.” His smile sharpens into something mocking. “Don’t worry, Golden Boy. You’re not my type anyway.”
The dismissal stings, but allows me to unclench my jaw a tad.
“See you at the ranch.” He turns and walks away, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and hands shaking.
What the fuck was that?
