Page 21 of Deviant
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
Rhett Thornwood was most definitely hard for me.
RHETT
Fuck this guy.
The door hits the wall behind me as I leave The Bar. I don’t even bother saying anything to my brothers as they watch me storm out. I barely look at anything except for the gravel on the ground until my hand reaches the handle.
And then I remember.
It’s Dawson’s fucking truck, not mine.
Godammit.
I drop my hand and stand there in the parking lot, like an idiot. The music thumps through The Bar’s walls. I can’t go back there.
That’s not a thing I’m capable of doing right now.
Probably has something to do with the raging boner tucked into my waistband.
For a moment, I think I could just start walking down the county line in the dark toward home. Eventually, my brothers would drive home and pick me up. Anything is better than going back through that door and looking at Colton Dawson’s face.
Instead, I lean against the side of the truck and cross my arms.
My outburst was completely warranted. He had no right to put his hands on me like that. I’ve told him twice, as plain as I could, and he still pushed. Still backed me into that wall like my boundary was a suggestion he could talk his way around. Like he knew something I didn’t.
I’m not interested in whatever game he thinks he’s playing. I’m not.
So why the fuck am I still?—
Fuck me. I got hard. I’m actually hard as a fucking rock right now.
I’m pacing without meaning to now. Three steps toward the road. Three steps back.
The bastard caged me in and pressed himself against me like he had every right to. Then he had the audacity to say, in that low, lazy drawl of his,“Straight men don’t get this hard for another man,”like the words were nothing, like they weren’t going to take up permanent residence in my skull.
I stop pacing.
Because that’s the real problem, isn’t it.
I’m still hard.
My body hasn’t gotten the message that this is wrong, that I don’t want this, that I am Rhett Thornwood and I do not?—
Fuck, I’m still hard.
I move to the far side of the truck—the dark side. The side facing the tree line and the empty road. The side where The Bar’s windows don’t reach.
I check the lot in both directions.
Nobody. Just me and the cicadas screaming from the trees and the distant bass line leaking through the walls.
I tell myself I’m just taking a minute. Just cooling down.
I think about Molly.
Her face. The vanilla smell she always wears. The way she looked at the bonfire in that yellow dress, tilting her face upto mine, asking me to kiss her with her eyes. She’s beautiful—I know she’s beautiful. I can see it objectively in the same way you can see that a sunset is beautiful.
