Page 3 of Deviant
Dad gives me a firm nod of approval.
I should feel gratified. Instead, I feel like a horse that’s been broken so well it forgot it ever wanted to run.
Soon, breakfast wraps up. Dad and Uncle Luke head out to start the day’s work, as Grandpa retires to his armchair and the newspaper. Dawson slips back to the barn, no doubt to check on that foal again, and Cash meanders off. He promised to help Luke later, but knowing him, he’ll squeeze in a nap first.
I help Mom clear the table, stacking plates while she hums. As I reach for the last dish, Mom touches my shoulder lightly, a small gesture that carries love in it. “Thank you, baby.”
“No problem,” I say, and for a second, I allow myself to lean into her touch, to soak in that warmth. In moments like this—with her simple, unquestioning affection—I can almost believe the life I’m living is exactly the one I want.
But the moment passes, and Mom grabs her purse and keys, reminding me she’s off to run errands in town. So I head out the back door, ready to throw myself into the work waiting for me.
I spend the rest of the morning out on the ranch—oiling a squeaky barn door, and riding out with Dad along the east pasture to check on a limping heifer.
Work keeps me busy. More importantly, it keeps my thoughts in line.
Whenever my mind drifts—toward how forced things felt with Molly last night, or how easily Cash navigates the dating scene, or how freely Dawson loves those horses—I redirect it to the task at hand. Sweat and strain drown out any stirring of doubt or longing.
Stay busy, stay in control. It’s the only way I know to stay safe from myself.
By midday, I’m back near the barn, checking the water troughs in the paddock. My shirt clings to me, damp with sweat and dust. I pause by the fence to catch my breath and take a long drink from my water bottle. The cicadas have begun their droning chorus in the heat, and distant cattle low lazily from the far field.
By evening, the heat breaks just enough to breathe, and we gather on the porch like always—me, Cash, and Dawson—with cold beers pulled from the cooler, condensation slick, and welcome under my fingers. The sky is bruising a deep purple over the pastures, and fireflies are starting their reckless flicker in the grass.
Cash sprawls out in the old rocker, legs kicked wide, bottle dangling loose between his fingers. “So, big brother, how’d you manage to look like you were kissin’ a corpse last night with Molly? Girl’s sweet as pie, and you’re out there posin’ like it’s a damn chore.”
Dawson snorts from his spot on the steps, swigging deep, eyes glinting amusement. “Leave him be, Cash. Not everyone’s gotta hump anything that moves.”
Cash laughs. “At least I get laid. You oughta try it, Daws—all that horse lovin’ bottled up. Bet your dick would explode if it ever entered a pussy.” He turns to me. “Come on, Rhett. Spill. You savin’ it for Jesus, or just scared your dick’ll fall off if you use it? She at least blow you yet?”
Heat crawls my neck as I lean against the rail, knuckles whitening around the glass in my hand. The beer bites bitter going down. “Shut your mouth,” I mutter.
“Hit a nerve? Truth hurts, huh? Everyone sees it, man. You’re wound so tight, one wrong touch and you’ll fall apart.”
Dawson tries to stop him. “Cash?—”
But Cash barrels on, voice mocking. “What’s the real issue, Rhett? Too good for pussy? Or just can’t get it up for the girls Cedarbrook shoves at you?”
Fury blinds me, vision tunneling red, muscles coiling violent. I step forward, beer bottle slamming against the rail, hard. “Say it again,” I snarl.
Cash rises slowly, grin feral, meeting me inch for inch. “Seriously, Rhett. Molly’s hot. Half the town’s jealous, and here you are, actin’ like bein’ with her’s a death sentence. Loosen the fuck up.”
Dawson stands fast, hand on my arm—firm, grounding. “Enough. Both of you.”
The screen door slams open like a gunshot. Mom steps out, eyes narrowing sharp on the standoff. “Boys, I swear, if y’all are fixin’ to fight on my porch again ...”
Cash deflates theatrically, sinking back, but his smirk lingers like poison. I force even breaths, step back, then grip the rail until splinters bite into my palm, blood hot under skin.
Mom plants her hands on her hips. “Remember, there’s the yearly summer bonfire tomorrow night. Half the towns comin’—drunk, nosy, and camera-happy. Best. Behavior. Smiles, no brawls, no scandals. We’re Thornwoods. Act like it.”
Cash mocks salute. “Yes, ma’am. Golden boy’ll lead the prayer.”
COLTON
Ihate small towns.
Everyone romanticizes it—the community, the roots, the way people look out for each other. That’s the postcard version. The real version is a place that decides who you are at fourteen and never lets you update the file.
The Cedarbrook city limit sign looms ahead of me like a death sentence. A noose waiting for the right moment to tighten around my neck every single summer. The constant reminder that I will always have to fight to get away from this place and the people who give sideways glances and whisper behind others’ backs.
