Pretty Boy

by K. M. Neuhold

  “Uglyfuckersayswhat,” Bryson says, and they both cackle wildly.

  I set my jaw, pulling my shoulders up and clenching my hands tighter around my grocery bags.

  “Hey,” Tommy barks when I don’t respond, and something hits me in the side of the head, bouncing off and leaving me wet and sticky. I look down to see an open can of Coke at my feet, spilling out and soaking the dirt. “We’re fucking talking to you, you ugly bastard.”

  My throat tightens, and my eyes burn with tears that threaten to spill over. I’m weak. Their words shouldn’t hurt me after all this time, but they still do.

  “Why don’t ya tell your mama if she’s lonely, she should give me a call. I bet I fuck better than your daddy did, and I’ll be sure to wrap it so she don’t end up with another ugly fuckin’ kid.” Bryson’s words make my blood boil. Gran always said anger never solved nothing, but I can’t help the feeling that rises up inside me.

  Before I can give it a second thought, I swing my heavy bag of soup at the truck. Even before it connects, horror replaces my rage. My eyes go wide, and it feels like I’m watching in slow motion as the flimsy plastic bag tears open and cans of soup fly at Bryson’s truck. One crashes into the headlight, causing glass to rain down onto the road, another ricochets off the windshield with a sickening crack, a few more simply bounce off the hood, leaving dents and nicks in the paint.

  I’m not usually one for any kind of foul language, but the fuck that falls from my lips feels one hundred percent justified.

  All the humor drains from both their faces as Bryson slams on the brakes, and the truck lurches to a halt. In the blink of an eye, they’re out of the truck, their eyes filled with rage. My heart beats so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t burst right outta my chest. My feet remain rooted on the spot, even though my brain is telling me to turn tail and run.

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it,” I babble as Tommy stalks toward me, Bryson glaring at the damage done to his precious truck.

  “Look what you fuckin’ did, you fuckin’ idiot. Ain’t you got any idea how much this truck cost?”

  “I’ll pay for it,” I promise, even though there’s no way I’ll be able to come up with whatever the cost is to repair the damage. But right is right. I made a mistake, and I’ll pay for it, even if it means giving him every paycheck I earn for the rest of my life.

  “God damn right you’ll pay for it.” Bryson rounds the truck and grabs me by the front of the shirt. I squirm and clench my eyes closed, bracing for the blow I know is about to come. I don’t have many talents, but taking a beating is certainly one. I took enough of ‘em growing up.

  I hear another set of tires, but I don’t hold out any hope that witnesses will stop Bryson from hitting me. No one in this town will so much as slow down. His fist connects with my cheek, sending a jolt of pain through me as my head snaps back.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” A rough voice shouts, and shock makes me open my eyes. Bryson is still right in front of me, his fingers holding tight to the front of my shirt, but just behind him, striding forward with a strength and purpose that’s too attractive considering my current circumstances, is the man from the bar the other night. For a second, I forget to be mad or embarrassed that he tried to give me so much money, and relief rushes through me.

  “Mind your business,” Bryson barks, winding up his fist for another punch. Tommy tries to step in front of the man to block him, but seems to be little more than a speedbump, being shoved easily out of the way before the man catches Bryson’s cocked arm. He releases my shirt, and spins around, using the momentum of the movement to throw a wild punch.

  The stranger dodges it easily, his hand flying out with impressive speed to grab Bryson by the throat. The muscles in his arm bulge, his eyes icy with more rage than I’ve ever seen. It should scare me, but the fact that it’s on my behalf makes me feel kind of warm inside.

  “Keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll fucking kill you,” he says in a steady, unwavering voice that makes me think he really means it. Bryson claws at the hold the man has around his throat. “I’m going to let you go, and you’re not going to say a goddamn word. You’re going to get into your truck and drive away, and you’re never going to so much as look in Sterling’s direction again. Understood?”

  He must loosen his grip on Bryson’s throat, because he starts to sputter and cough and then spits the words “Fuck you.”

  The man’s jaw ticks and his bicep flexes again. “They’re simple instructions,” he says calmly. I glance over at Tommy to see if he’s going to do anything to try to help his friend, but he’s inching toward the truck with wide eyes. Some friend he is. “Let’s try it again. No words, just get your ass in the truck and leave.”

  This time when the man releases Bryson, he does as he’s told, running for the truck. Tommy hops inside, and in a matter of seconds, they’re speeding down the road. I reach up and gingerly touch my cheek, already feeling the start of a bruise swelling.

  “Let me see,” he says, his voice still gravelly, but gentler now. Like the soft way the road crunches under your tires after a rainstorm.

  “I’m fine.” I bend down and start to scoop up my dented cans off the side of the road, doing my best to stack them so I can carry them the rest of the way home without a bag, since the one I had is currently laying in tatters.

  The man kneels down next to me and helps. He doesn’t say a word while we gather the cans, and I’m glad for the chance to collect my thoughts after everything that just happened. I thought he left town the other night, so what’s he still doing here? And as grateful as I am that he scared Bryson off, I have no doubt I’m still going to end up paying for what I did to his truck, one way or the other. I dart a glance at the man as he grabs the last can. My memory didn’t quite do him justice. He’s far more handsome than I remembered. He looks up, and when our eyes meet, my heart beats fast again for an entirely different reason now.

  “Thank you,” I say softly before dipping my head again and scooping all of the soup into my arms, awkwardly getting back to my feet.

  “Where are you going? I can give you a ride,” he offers.

  “It’s not far. I’ll be just fine.”

  “Sterling.” He says my name with a firmness that makes me want to stand up a little straighter. “You’re going to be a good boy and let me take you home.” I feel like I should bristle at the words good boy. It’s a condescending thing to say to a grown man. But the tender way his mouth forms them makes me want to be his good boy, even if I don’t know anything about him. I also know I should keep arguing about the ride, but it’s a statement, a command, that leaves no room for questions, and there’s something oddly comforting about that. I don’t have to make a decision about anything; he’s telling me how it’s going to be. If I get in his car without argument right now, I will be his good boy.

  Tendrils of heat creep along my skin, my cock hardening behind my zipper. What is wrong with me that this man is getting to me so easily? I look up, and he’s still looking directly at me, but it’s not the way other folks look at me. There’s no judgment, no disgust; he’s just looking, waiting for me to tell him yes. So I do.

  As soon as the word leaves my lips, a slow grin spreads over his face, and the heat inside me multiplies by a thousand.

  He leads me over to his car, opening the passenger door and waiting for me to awkwardly climb inside with my arms full of soup. Then, he carefully closes the door behind me.

  “What’s your name?” I ask as soon as he gets in on the other side.

  “Barrett.”

  “Barrett,” I repeat, testing the way it feels. It suits him, and it feels shamefully right on my tongue. Something hot flashes in his eyes, and for a second, it looks like he wants to add something, but he doesn’t.

  “Where are we headed?”

  I give him quick directions to the house, which, as I told him, isn’t far.

  “You wouldn’t really kill him, would you?” I ask
as we drive.

  “Mm,” Barrett grunts before casting a quick glance in my direction and then returning his eyes to the road. “Let’s hope he keeps his hands off of you, then none of us will have to find out.”

  Surprisingly, that answer comforts me.

  He turns onto my street, and insecurity grips me. Something tells me his shiny car with the fancy leather seats and the satellite radio probably cost more than my house. I squirm in my seat, wondering if he’d let me out right here if I asked. He doesn’t need to see the broken shutters or the roof that may just go ahead and cave in any day now. If he thought I needed his money and his pity the other night, I can only imagine what he’ll think if he sees the house.

  “You can stop here,” I say in a hurry.

  He eases his foot off the gas, but doesn’t stop. “Which house is yours.”

  “That one,” I wave vaguely.

  “You don’t trust me to know where you live?” he guesses, and I make a non-committal noise. “I wanted to take a look at your cheek, help you get some ice on it before it swells too much.”

  “I been roughed up before. I’ll be fine.”

  He makes a noise that sounds almost like a growl, flexing his fingers around the steering wheel and finally stopping the car. “Let me take you to dinner,” he says in that same firm way he told me that I was gonna let him drive me home. I bristle, sure this is another attempt to heap pity on me. I may not have much, but I do have my pride.

  “I can feed myself just fine.” I open the door and get out, careful not to drop any of my cans. “Thanks for the ride.” I use my hip to close the door behind me.

  Barrett rolls the window down. “I’m going to be here in town for at least a few days; let me give you my number in case you need anything.”

  Boy, he doesn’t know when to give up, does he? “I won’t need anything. I been gettin’ by just fine without charity from you or anyone else.”

  Before he can say anything else, I walk away, making my way behind the houses so he won’t see which one’s mine. My heart sinks a little at the sound of his car finally driving away.

  Barrett

  Sterling wanted to know if I’d really kill that hillbilly prick for touching him, and I think I could if push came to shove. I’m a confident man, a naturally dominant man, but at my core, I’ve always been a caretaker, more of a lover than a fighter. But when I pulled up and saw that fucker with his hands all over Sterling, saw the way he was cowering, not even trying to fight back, I saw red.

  I can still feel his throat under my fingers, and I can’t help but wish I’d squeezed a little harder, just to make sure he fully got the message. The worst part of the whole thing was how unsurprised and resigned Sterling seemed to the whole thing. He’d said it wasn’t the first time he’d been roughed up. How common of an occurrence is it? And how the hell will I be able to put this town or that boy in my rearview mirror knowing how he’s treated here?

  The answer is, I can’t.

  I listen to the sound of ringing, my phone pressed against my ear as I sit down on the creaky bed, taking in the peeling wallpaper and gritty carpet. There’s a mysterious stain on the floor near the bathroom that I can only pray is water damage and not something much more troubling.

  “Bare, hey. You home?” Kiernan, my business partner and best friend asks through the phone.

  “Nope,” I answer, looking around again at the motel room and imagining the look on Kiernan’s face if he could see it. “There’s been a change of plans. I won’t be home for a week or so.”

  “Oh? Was it the meeting with Wilson Laboratories?”

  “No, everything went great at the meeting. I’ll email you the figures, and you can draw up the investment paperwork to send their way.” The two of us grew up together, went to the same boarding schools, summered in the same ritzy places, and came to the same conclusion that the entire thing was bullshit. Which is why after I got my degree in business and Kiernan finished his degree at Harvard Law, we decided to open an investment firm together focused largely on philanthropic endeavors as well as small businesses that aimed to improve quality of life for people. Between the two of us, and Alden, our stock market expert who makes sure our funds stay well in the black, we’ve managed to build a solid force for good in the world.

  “Great. So, what caught you up?”

  I kick off my shoes and get comfortable on the bed, trying to decide how much to tell him. Unfortunately, he knows me well enough that my silence speaks for itself.

  “Who is he?” he asks, his voice dripping with amusement. “Let me guess, some pretty little twink who batted his eyes at you and pressed all your Daddy buttons? He didn’t pickpocket you while you swooned over him like that boy in New York, did he?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.” Although, granted not by much. I can’t imagine Sterling batting his eyelashes and pulling the whole help me, Daddy bit that most boys do as soon as they catch sight of my black card. No, Sterling is guileless, which makes him all the more intriguing.

  “It’s sex; how complicated can it be?” he asks, and I chuckle.

  “I haven’t fucked him.” Not that I didn’t spend my time in Dallas fantasizing about getting back here and bending Sterling over the bar. But after today, I have a new goal: getting him the hell out of Billow.

  Kiernan is quiet for a few seconds on the other end of the line. “Be careful, okay?”

  “He’s a tiny little thing, couldn’t hurt me if he tried.” I absently smooth the wrinkles on the comforter.

  “You know what I’m talking about.” His voice is stern, and I almost laugh again at his attempt to use his Daddy voice on me.

  “I’ll be fine,” I assure him. “And, hopefully, I’ll be home within a week.” If I can convince Sterling to come with me.

  “All right, well, have fun and let me know when you’re back in the city.”

  “Will do. Talk to you later, man.”

  We hang up, and I decide a shower is in order. Stripping out of my clothes, I head for the bathroom, trying my best not to wonder how often this place gets a thorough cleaning, because I’m certain I wouldn’t like the answer. Instead, I focus on Sterling. More specifically, how I can prove to him that I’m not trying to give him charity. It’s an interesting problem, because all of my instincts are screaming at me to shower him with fancy dinners and whatever else his heart might desire. Hell, I’m not even sure he’s interested in men. I need to get to know him before I get myself all twisted up trying to woo him.

  But, how am I supposed to get to know him when he so stubbornly seems to want nothing to do with me? The bar he works at is probably a good place to start. He can’t run away while he’s working a shift, which means I’m about to become a new regular.

  I grin, stepping under the hot shower spray, pleased with my plan of action. I’m going to find out as much as I can about the sweet, insecure boy who refuses to take anything from me, and then I’m going to find a way to give him the things he deserves, even if it turns out he’s not interested in me.

  I think back to the heat in his eyes when I told him to be a good boy, and my whole body buzzes at the memory. I’d bet my vast fortune that he’s not only interested, but that some part of him is dying to be a good boy for the right Daddy; he just doesn’t know it yet.

  Chapter‌ ‌3‌

  Sterling

  I’m ashamed to say that I think about Barrett while I make myself a sandwich and get ready for work. I think about the dangerous look in his eyes when he grabbed Bryson by the throat, starkly contrasted by the softness in them when he looked at me. It’s silly, but it made me feel sorta…special, I guess.

  Butterflies dance in my stomach until I sternly tell myself to quit. A guy can get himself hurt getting all caught up in a fantasy like that. Of course Barrett doesn’t think I’m special. I’m not special. Heck, I’d settle for ordinary if I could.

  I avoid looking into the bathroom mirror while I brush my teeth and run a comb thro
ugh my hair, and then shuffle down the hall to my room to get dressed for work. I can hear my mama rustling about in her room when I pass it. Hearing her settles some of my worries. Sometimes I get to thinking terrible things might happen to her, but it doesn’t feel like I can do nothing to stop them. All I can do is keep a roof over her head and hope for the best.

  I keep an eye out for Bryson or Tommy as I walk to Billow’s Tavern, relief filling me when I reach the bar without any trouble.

  “Evenin’ Sterling,” Miss Maggie greets me when I step inside. She’s owned the tavern since before I was born. Her husband owned it before that, until he died under what some people say were very mysterious circumstances. Now, I’m not saying Miss Maggie killed him, but that is what a lotta folks ‘round here think. She’s always been kind to me though, so as far as I’m concerned, either it was an accident or she musta had a darn good reason to do it.

  “Evenin’ Miss Maggie,” I reply with a brief smile, slipping behind the bar and grabbing the broom that’s propped against the wall so I can get a good sweep in before regulars start coming in.

  “Oh, darlin’, your face is a bit swollen. Did something happen?” she asks, catching me under the chin and studying my cheek. I ease back and turn my face away.

  “Just a little trouble, that’s all.”

  “It wasn’t that damned Bryson again, was it?” she huffs indignantly, and a smile tugs on my lips. Her concern makes me feel nice, warm, but not at all hot and fluttery like Barrett’s concern did.

  “It don’t matter,” I say softly. “I’ll be fine.”

  She grumbles something about Bryson needing a swift kick in the rear, and I smile again, and then get to work with my sweeping. After a while, Miss Maggie leaves for the night, and the regulars start filling their stools.