Laird's Choice

by Remmy Duchene

  "Babysitting Lee? Brazil, remember?"

  "Oh right. My bad." Laird burst out laughing. "I'll ask Winston."

  Yet, long after Laird was alone again, he stood in the living room looking at their new family photo. It seemed like every other year they had to take a new one.

  Someone new was brought into their family causing the image to change dramatically. This time Xavier stood proudly beside Rajan. Flipping off the light, Laird climbed the stairs, stripped down to his boxers, and went to bed. But sleep was elusive at best. No matter what he did, he just couldn't fall asleep. Finally, he pushed from the bed and walked over to the window. It had begun to rain at some point.

  It was four thirty in the morning and he couldn't seem to fall asleep. He'd tried warm milk, counting sheep, watching tennis—nothing worked. Finally, he gave up and just sat there, staring aimlessly. For the past month and a half he'd found himself with a bad case of insomnia and was easily irritated. His brothers noticed it too—Rajan told him to sleep it off but how could he when he couldn't even get five minutes in. Laird rubbed a hand over his face and looked up just in time to see a streak of lightning flash across the sky. He waited for the boom. When the thunder finally came, it left Laird with a strange, pulsating feeling he reveled in.

  When the rain stopped, it was just in time for the sun to raise its head over the trees behind the large house.

  He waited until the rays warmed his face before taking a deep breath and pushing himself away from the window.

  He was walking to the bathroom when he caught his eyes in the mirror. Stopping, he stared at his half-naked reflection with disgust. He needed a shave. It'd been years since he had that much hair on his face. It was unruly, as if he had been living under a rock for the past few days. Even that thought didn't make him want to lift a razor to his face though. With a groan, he continued to his original destination. Ignoring the urge to cover the mirror, he bent forward, turned on the tap, and cupped his hands

  underneath the water. He splashed water on his face, turned the tap off, stripped off his boxers, and stepped into the shower. By the time he turned the shower on, he had his hair falling against his shoulders and his eyes pressed closed to alleviate the burning.

  The shower did wonders for his body, and soon he

  was in the kitchen, dressed in a pair of jeans and pouring steaming coffee into his favorite mug. Laird flipped on the television on the counter, not because he wanted to watch it, but because the house was just so damn quiet. While the television played, he opened the fridge trying to find something his stomach felt like accepting, but nothing grabbed his attention. He closed the fridge and glanced at the clock. It was barely six in the morning and it was his day off. The ringing telephone caught his attention and, after casting his eyes at the television in time to catch some girl shaking her ass at the camera, he shook his head and answered the phone.

  "Yeah?"

  "Laird? It's Winston."

  Laird glanced up at the sky with an arched brow.

  "Hey. I was talking to Raj about you last night."

  Winston laughed. "You mean that sexy man with the gun let Raj out of his bed? For shame!"

  "Down boy," Laird said with a chuckle. " That sexy man has a gun. What's up?"

  "I wanted to catch you before you got out for the day. I have a friend who's looking to buy a house over here.

  He's got the money but not the patience for this kind of thing. I told him I know the best."

  Laird was intrigued. "A friend? That I know?"

  "Nope. Can you do it?"

  "Well, I was just going to call you to see if I could visit for a small vacation. But taking on this friend of yours means I can't rest for a while."

  "Who says you can't do both? He's staying with me right now and he seems to be crawling out of his skin to get his own place."

  Laird took a breath and ran a hand over his hair. He held the strands against the back of his head before easing off his seat. Walking to the window, Laird rested his shoulder against the cool glass, debating if he wanted to take a working vacation. Finally he shrugged. "I'll do it. I can be in Brydon at some point this week. I'm watching over Anatolis while Sav is in Brazil."

  "You're just making an excuse, you don't have to watch over Anatolis. There are plenty of people who can do that. What the hell is Sav doing in Brazil anyway?"

  He was right for he'd already tried using that excuse and it was worked out that he could in fact leave for his vacation. The truth was Laird didn't know if he wanted to leave. With his mind searching for new reasons not to go and failing miserably, Laird took a breath. "His son has a soccer championship game over there. They'll be back in a couple of days."

  "All right. I'll let him know."

  "And Winston?"

  "Yeah, boo?"

  "Thanks for this."

  Winston cleared his throat and Laird could hear him speaking to someone before returning to the phone. "You okay, Laird?"

  "I don't know. That's why I needed the time at the ranch."

  "Why didn't you say something? Look, I can find someone else and let you just rest."

  "Nah. It's just one client. I can do it. I just don't know if there is a cure for what I am feeling right now."

  "Well, when you get here we can talk…" Winston trailed off before yelling something muffled to someone.

  "Sorry, Laird. I have to run. Call me before you come?"

  "I will…"

  Chapter Two

  Race wrapped some rope tightly around his wrist

  and elbow, tugging it hard with a gloved hand. He watched the horse running around the corral. He hadn't realized there was a smile on his lips until he shifted his neck to look down at the end of the rope. Inhaling deeply, he pulled the rope off his arm then tied the end so that it couldn't come untangled and chucked it over a post. Bending over, he gripped the handles tied to a bale of hay and walked it into the stalls. He dropped it in Beagle's stall then reached for a fork to spread it. Not so long ago, he wouldn't have wanted to do any of this—he hadn't wanted to work on a ranch. But after being locked up for so long, he'd choose working on a ranch to clear his head over being locked in a cell against his will any day.

  "Excuse me?"

  Race spun around and arched a brow. "Can I help you?"

  "I'm looking for Winston…"

  Race cleared his throat from the triple X show in his head. The man didn't look to be the type to be into ex-cons.

  Rubbing a gloved hand against the back of his neck, he leaned the fork against the wall. Using his index finger, he pushed his Stetson up a bit from his eyes. "You Laird Anatolis?"

  The man tilted his head—a look that caused his

  shoulder-length, curly black hair to fall to the side. He looked even sexier that way. "Yes. And you are?"

  "Race McKade." He suddenly felt as though he was unworthy to stand in the same room as Laird. He grabbed the fork, stabbed the hay again, and shook the fork.

  "Winston went into town to grab some groceries. He'll be back in a few. You need help with your things?"

  Why is it, all I can see is me throwing this man on a bed and just drilling him?

  "Not really. Just show me where I'm sleeping and I'll be fine," Laird replied.

  Race nodded and leaned the fork against the wall

  again. As he walked by Laird, he pulled the gloves from his hands and shoved them into his back pocket. He climbed the steps two at a time and held the front door open for Laird. As Laird stepped by him, Race had to hold his breath. The first whiff of Laird's scent sent Race's body into a tizzy and his heart racing inside his chest.

  He released the door behind him and motioned

  down the hall. "Winston says it's the same room you always sleep in when you come here."

  "Ah, okay."

  "Here we are."

  He moved out of the way, standing on the other side of the door so he didn't have to be near Laird when he walked into the bedroom. "I'll be in the barn. I still hav
e some stuff to do. When Winston comes back I'll let him know you're here."

  "You don't have to do that, Race. I can come out—

  besides I could help you work until he gets back."

  "You're going to help me work? Outside? In the barn?"

  "Yes."

  "You do know you'll have to get your hands dirty right? I mean, you'll have to scoop out horse crap and all that good stuff. Are you sure you're up for that?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Race laughed. "I'm sorry, Mr Anatolis, but you don't look like you've done a hard day's work in your life."

  "No offense, huh? Ass."

  To his shock, Laird stepped back into the room and slammed the door. Race folded his arms over his chest and watched the closed door for a while before shaking his head and walking from the house. "Well, shit." He smirked.

  * * * *

  Laird watched Race from the window, wondering

  what his problem was. He barely knew the man and already Race was offending him. Frowning, Laird took a breath and rested his shoulder against the glass. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the man below him. The moment he first saw Race, Laird felt something dance through him. It was a feeling he hadn't had in a long time—a feeling of overwhelming arousal that threatened to buckle his knees.

  Race's long dark hair, deep green eyes, and sculpted muscles were enough to make his mouth water. The edge of a tattoo showed from beneath the folded-up sleeve of Race's shirt. But those were just a few of the things—the one attribute that tickled Laird in some dangerously hot ways was the fact Race hadn't shaved in a couple of days.

  The facial hair did it for Laird in some good ways.

  I'm sorry, Mr Anatolis, but you don't look like you've done a hard day's work in your life.

  "I'll show him who hasn't done a hard day's work in his life," Laird muttered. A beep caught his attention, reminding him his cell phone was dying. Running a hand through his hair, he walked away from the window and rummaged through the side pocket of his bag. Pulling out his cell and the charger, he plugged the phone in. He then pulled his suit from his bag and hung it up. He wasn't sure why Rajan had insisted he bring a suit to begin with.

  Brushing his hand over it to get rid of a few wrinkles, Laird finished unpacking his suitcase then shoved it beneath the bed. He wanted to be around Race again to see if he could figure the man out. But he was mad at the other man, and if he went out there, the jerk would no doubt think Laird would apologize. Instead he glanced at his watch, flopped to the bed, crossed his ankles, and folded his arms behind his head.

  Race peeled his shirt from his body followed quickly by his pants. Soon all the sexy cowboy was wearing was that beautiful, perfectly built Stetson. Laird licked his lips, watching Race walk away from him. His rounded ass cheeks danced in beautiful rhythm, calling to Laird, daring him to look away. At the other side of the room, Race braced both arms against the wall and arched his back, sticking his ass out. Laird eased from the bed and, in a trance, walked to him. Bracing one palm against Race's lower back, Laird used his free hand to caress over one cheek. He allowed his hand to skim Race's ass until he could slide a finger between the tight cheeks and brush Race's hole. The cowboy whispered Laird's name.

  Withdrawing his finger, Laird sucked it until it was wet then found the hole again. This time, he slid the finger in, deep and hard.

  A loud knocking caused Laird to jerk upright with a gasp. He looked down at the slight twitching in the front of his pants. His cock was throbbing almost painfully. He groaned and looked at his watch. He'd fallen asleep.

  Clearing his throat he shifted so that his cock wasn't noticeable. "Come in?"

  The door opened and Winston stuck his head into

  the room. "Knock, knock!"

  "Hey." Laird climbed off the bed to hug his friend then sat again. "You into picking up strays now?"

  Winston arched a brow. "What?"

  "Your little farm hand."

  "Farm hand? I don't have enough livestock for that."

  "The man outside tending to the horses isn't your farm hand?"

  "Oh, you mean Race? Nothing like that. I've known Race since I was a kid. He was just out of town for a while.

  Besides, he loves being out there with the horses."

  "I see…"

  "Oh boy. When you take on that tone of voice something happened. What did you do?"

  "Why do you assume I did something?"

  Winston took a breath before turning to face Laird.

  Laird couldn't stand the look in Winston eyes, so he shook his head and got up from where he was sitting to look out the window once more. Race wasn't there anymore and somehow that disappointed him. Turning to look at Winston, Laird released some air. "Nothing. He's just kind of full of himself."

  "Race? He doesn't have an egotistic bone in his body. But then again, I don't want to have sex with him."

  "I don't wanna have sex with Race McKade!

  Besides the fact that he seems like a total tool—I just met him."

  "I didn't say you did. You assumed I meant you."

  "Who else were you referring to?"

  Winston shrugged. "I don't know. I was simply making a statement. I never called any names. But you're going to tell me you haven't thought about it?"

  "I'm not going to dignify that with an answer."

  Laird wanted to yell when Winston smirked at him

  and eased from the bed. "You two have to get along anyways. Race is the one I want you to help find a house."

  "Really? He looks like an oily hobo!"

  "Yes. That oily hobo is a multi-millionaire. Do this, Laird, please? For me? He's a good man and he's been through some stuff no one should have to in their lives. I just want to see him settled, happy, maybe with a good man?"

  Laird wanted to cry. Still, he swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "All right. I'll help him. But the good man you're going to have to look for elsewhere."

  "Are you sure?"

  Glancing out the window, Laird nodded. "I'm not his type."

  Chapter Three

  The days slipped by slowly. Race spent his days

  with the animals and trying to get a look at Laird Anatolis.

  Each time their eyes met though, he saw something flash through the man's gaze just before he looked away, muttered under his breath, and walked away. Race could only guess Laird was damming him to hell each time.

  Finally Winston cornered him in the kitchen.

  "You! Stand still," Winston ordered. "What did you do?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Damn it, Race!"

  Race leaned against the counter and stared, wide-

  eyed, at Winston. He wanted to laugh but knew Winston would only rip his hair out. Clearing his throat, Race licked his lips and took a sip from the bottle he was drinking from.

  "Winston, really."

  "You have to behave!" Winston warned.

  "Or what? You'll spank me? Look, he's just being a big city, spoiled brat. I didn't do anything to him."

  Winston sighed and walked to the fridge. "Just, behave, all right? He's my friend and since having your back I don't have many of those left over. Please."

  Race held up both hands in surrender and shook his head, failing to hold in his laughter. "I'm sorry!" Race managed through his mirth.

  Winston groaned and walked from the room with

  his water.

  "I'm sorry!" Race hollered but Winston didn't stop.

  Race turned to the window then and stared out into the dark. He found himself wondering about Laird: how he tasted, how he felt pressed into a wall being taken from behind—had he eaten? Why did he care if the twerp couldn't even take a joke? Taking a breath he gripped the counter and reached out the window. He pulled the panes inward until there was a slight snapping sound of it latching, and then threw the small bolts into place. He pulled the blinds down and turned to stare at the pots on the stove. Trying to be good, he shared som
e of the dinner that was still warm on the stove and carried the plate, a fork, and a bottle of orange juice down the hall and knocked.

  "It's open," Laird called.

  Just the sound of his voice left Race trembling. He stopped for a moment to gather himself. The last thing he wanted to do was walk in there with his cock tenting the front of his pants. Sticking the bottle of juice beneath his arm, he opened the door and walked in. Removing the bottle, he stood in the shadow of the door watching Laird, standing by the window. Laird's long, dark hair was finger-raked backward and his shirt tightened dangerously around his arms as they were folded over his chest. Race took a breath and held it before pushing it out his mouth.

  "You haven't eaten anything," Race spoke, like a nervous teenager. "I brought you some dinner."

  Laird didn't move.

  "Are you hungry?" Race asked.

  Laird glanced back then and a smile tugged at his lips. The only bad thing was the moment that sign of sunshine arrived, it was gone like smoke on the wind. Race walked closer until he could smell the heat radiating from Laird's body. When Laird took the plate, Race felt fire tracing from the spot where their fingers grazed each other.

  "Why are you doing this?" Laird asked.

  "Because you haven't eaten." It wasn't all a lie. But Race wasn't about to tell him that he was secretly hoping when he opened the door Laird would be naked and turned on. "Just say thank you."

  Laird smiled again before sitting on the chair by the bed. "Thank you…"

  "See? That wasn't so hard."

  "What kind of house are you looking for? Do you want a ranch? Does it have to be in Brydon?"

  "I love the peace Brydon gives. But there are certain things I'd like to leave behind here."

  "Some things? Like what?"

  Race cleared his throat. For some reason he just

  couldn't have Laird look at him as anything less than what he wanted to be. He couldn't tell Laird about his conviction—wrongful or not. Laird was a society type—

  Race hung his head and took a breath. "It's a long story; one I don't really want to get into right now."

  "All right. You don't have to tell me. You barely know me. But before you feel too down on yourself let me tell you one thing."