The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance

by Scott Hildreth

It was worse than I imagined. Much worse. I couldn’t get my words past the lump in my throat, so I joined him in mourning his father’s loss by crying.

  The officer stepped to Tyson’s side. “It’s your lucky day, Mister Neese.”

  Tyson’s gaze fell to his hands. The muscles in his jaw flexed. “Is that right?”

  Studying the paperwork clipped to his metal clipboard, the officer didn’t bother looking up. “I’m going to let you off with a warning.”

  Tears rolled down Tyson’s cheeks. He glanced at the officer. “For what?”

  The officer, still studying the paperwork, hadn’t noticed Tyson’s state of being.

  “Speeding,” the officer said.

  A vein along the side of Tyson’s neck expanded. He was clearly on the verge of snapping. If he did, there was no way it would end well.

  I needed him to remain calm. I cleared my throat. “Ty-son.”

  His eyes met mine. I raised my index finger and mouthed the word please.

  He exhaled a breath through his nose and looked at the officer. “I appreciate that, officer,” he said through clenched teeth.

  The officer tore the warning ticket from the clipboard and handed a copy to Tyson, along with his license. “Again, it’s not a citation, and there’s no notice to appear.”

  Tyson glared.

  “Have a nice afternoon,” the officer said.

  Tyson didn’t respond. He merely rested his forearms against the top of the car and clenched the wadded warning ticket in his hand. After having just recalled the loss of his father, I could only imagine where his mind was.

  As the officer drove past, my muscles relaxed. It was over. We were free to go on about our business, but I felt I couldn’t move. With tear-filled eyes, I studied Tyson. What I saw was an angry little boy who’d been stripped of his youth. Of his innocence. Of his father.

  Through the course of the tension-filled event that we’d narrowly escaped, I realized something. I didn’t want to lose Tyson.

  I couldn’t lose Tyson.

  “Tyson,” I said.

  Still leaning against the car, he was staring at the ticket he held. His eyes were narrow, and his jaw was tight. He shifted his gaze to meet mine.

  His fierce brown eyes were filled with anger. “Yeah?”

  I wanted to protect him, but a gun wasn’t my weapon of choice. I needed to provide him the warmth of reassurance that I wasn’t going anywhere. That through the thick and the thin, I’d be there at his side, no matter what.

  That he could trust me.

  Saying it was a huge risk, but one I was willing to take. I swallowed heavily, and then offered him a smile.

  “I love you,” I said.

  The angry look he was wearing faded. Sheer content replaced it. Green eyes with amber specks glistened as they held my gaze.

  He exhaled a soft breath. The corners of his mouth curled up. “I love you, too.”

  30

  Tyson

  While Jo and her mother prepared what would be my third home-cooked Sunday meal in as many weeks, I followed John toward a metal building that was positioned behind their home.

  He seemed preoccupied, kicking a small piece of a fallen tree branch as we walked. A lawn tractor sat in front of the remote building’s open doors. The smell of freshly-cut grass lingered in the air. Upon scanning the adjoining field, I realized the acre or so of grass that surrounded the home had just been cut.

  “I love the smell of fresh grass,” I said.

  He lifted his head. “Used to hate it when I was a kid. Grown to like it, though. It smells like progress.”

  Although the city had grown around them, the land his family had spent two generations harvesting vegetables on remained unchanged. I wondered how long John would be able to continue to look after the acreage, and just what would happen to it when he was too old to continue.

  “Is Jarod coming today?” I asked.

  “He always comes,” he replied. “Anybody’s guess when he’ll be here, though. World’s biggest procrastinator, that boy.”

  I chuckled. “Jo says the same thing about him.”

  He looked up from the stick that he’d nearly kicked all the bark from and smiled. “Jo’s the opposite. Always on time, no matter what. Hard to believe they’re brother and sister.”

  He paused at the back corner of the building and put his hands on his hips. A lone oak tree fifty yards in the distance had a large tractor tire hanging from one of its larger branches. The tire was far too big to be a swing.

  I studied it, puzzled by what purpose it served. “What in the heck’s that for?”

  “Peace of mind,” he responded. “This is where I do my thinkin’.”

  A large steel horse trough placed thirty feet or so from the tree puzzled me. I studied it for a moment, and then looked at John. “Do you have horses?”

  “Never cared much for ‘em,” he responded. “One of the SOBs stepped on my foot when I was a kid. Mashed it all to hell. They’re too big and too unpredictable for my likes.”

  He sent the stick sailing with a swift kick of his right foot and stepped to the edge of the watering trough. Much to my surprise, it was filled with sun-faded footballs. He picked one up and looked at it.

  “That store that sells everything for a dollar right off Stacy Road sells these things, cheap. They’re not a buck, but they’re damned affordable. I buy fifty of ‘em every three years or so. Sun makes ‘em all wappy-jawed after a few years. SOB’s don’t fly straight after that. Not bad for four bucks a piece, I suppose.”

  He raised his arm, hesitated, and then threw the football toward the tire that hung from the tree’s branch.

  Like a guided arrow, the ball flew through the tire’s opening without so much as touching the surrounding rubber. When it rolled to a stop in the distance, I looked at John.

  “Still have quite an arm on you, Sir.”

  “Come out here every chance I get. Keeps my head straight.” He reached for another ball and then looked at me. “Ever miss the sport?”

  I’d spent eighteen years trying to forget entirely that football existed. Sharing my story with Jo was allowing me to heal, but I still grew extremely frustrated when thinking about the sport.

  “Not so much. No.”

  His gaze fell to his feet. After a moment, he looked up. “I’m not asking you to talk about it, but I feel like I need to say something. Hard for me not to, knowin’ what I know now.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. I shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Jo told us about what happened to your father. Goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. I’m sorry, Son. I truly am.”

  I sighed. “It’s been eighteen years. I’ll never forget it, but it doesn’t eat on me like it used to.”

  He raised the ball over his right shoulder. “My father wasn’t murdered, but I lost him when I was a youngster. I still feel like I was robbed of what I was entitled to.” He threw a perfect spiral toward the tire. Like the first, it flew right through the center. “Ain’t a day go by that I don’t miss spendin’ time with that man.”

  He picked up a ball and handed it to me. Before I could resist, I was holding it.

  I hadn’t held a football since the day of my father’s death. Although I would have expected it to feel awkward, it didn’t. I hoisted its weight, squeezed it, and grinned. “Feels pretty good for four bucks.”

  He nodded toward my hand. “You gonna squeeze that thing like a titty, or are you gonna throw it?”

  I doubted I could match John’s accuracy and stammered to make an excuse not to throw the ball. “I haven’t had a football in my hand since the day my father died.”

  He picked up another ball. “You said the day I met you that your father loved the sport.”

  “He did.”

  “Did you make him proud? When you played, that is.”

  My father told me every day how proud he was of me and my abilities. “Very much so,” I replied.

  “Do you
believe in God?” he asked.

  “It’s hard to explain,” I said. “So, I’ll just say yes.”

  “Suppose your father’s up there somewhere looking down on you right now?”

  I didn’t have to think about it. “I do.”

  “Suppose he’d be proud of you if a sixty-six-year-old man showed you up out here? Out-threw you?”

  I hoisted the ball, took aim, and threw it. No differently than John’s, it flew right through the center of the tire. Although accomplishing the task would have been meaningless to most, I swelled with pride at what I’d done.

  John looked at me and grinned. “Feels good, don’t it?”

  I nodded. “It does.”

  He picked up a ball, squeezed it, and then took aim. With the ball hoisted behind his right shoulder, he paused. “Jo told her mother that you two have messed around and fallen in love.”

  I coughed out a lungful of surprise. “We uhhm. Yes, Sir. We admitted that to each other a few weeks ago. Thirteen days, to be exact.”

  He threw the ball. As expected, it went through the center of the tire. As it rolled to a stop, he folded his forearms across his chest. “She’s always been different, that girl. Scared of her own shadow. I never understood why, but she was. Her mother thought we did something wrong. Held her too much, didn’t hold her enough, kept her on the bottle too long, too much time in the crib, something. Personally, I always wondered if it was a fear of rejection, or something like that. Suppose I’ll never know. I do know this.”

  He reached into the trough. With is arm hanging at his side and the ball gripped firmly in his hand, he continued. “Men and women these days are different than they were when I was young. They’re too quick to get pregnant, get married and get divorced. Being in a relationship’s no different than being married. Succeeding requires one to be understanding, forgiving, and, above all, open-minded. Saying ‘I love you’ is easy, but there’s a big responsibility that comes with those three words, and it’s damned tough to live up to.”

  I swallowed heavily. “I don’t think I’ll have any problems, Sir. Living up to her expectations, that is.”

  He faced me. “Mind if I ask you why you think that?”

  “Can I be honest?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Wouldn’t expect you to be otherwise.”

  “After losing my father, I walked away from football. I didn’t break my ankle. I wrapped it, made my own plaster cast, and told everyone I’d broken it in the wreck. I couldn’t think about playing the game without my father in the stands watching me. He was in the stands during practice, and he was in the stands during every game. I didn’t have to look, I knew he was there.”

  Thinking of my father spending so much time sitting on the hard bleachers brought a smile to my face. “It was our sport. After my mother left, it brought us together. Without him sitting up there watching me from the stands, I had no desire to continue. I gave up on something I truly loved, and I’ve spent every day since regretting it. I’ve spent eighteen years running from the truth and wondering what could have been. I’m not going to make the same mistake again.”

  I met his gaze. “Walking away from something I love, that is.”

  He threw the football toward nothing in particular. It tumbled to a stop in the distance. “What could have been?” He shook his head and looked away. “You remind me of myself, Son. All of this.” He waved his hand toward the trough and then the tree. “This is me wondering what could have been. There’s nothing wrong with wondering. But, when I walk away from this little spot, I forget about what could have been. During the walk back to the house, I always thank the good Lord for what I have.”

  The sound of a distant bell ringing captured my attention. John glanced toward the house. “Sounds like Jackie’s ready for dinner.”

  The sound resembled what I’d heard from many of the churches I’d driven past during my Sunday drives throughout the state. It was a sound that was impossible to escape.

  “That’s an impressive bell,” I said.

  He waved his hand toward the western sky. “I could hear that SOB from the far end of the fields when I was a kid. There’s no better reminder of having been graced with another week’s blessings than the sound of the Sunday evening dinner bell ringing.”

  He draped his arm over my shoulder. We faced the house. As we walked, I gave thanks for Jo, her parents, and for my willingness to change. When we reached the driveway, I felt a strange sense of guilt.

  I hesitated and gestured toward my car.

  “I’ll be right in,” I said. “I need to grab something.”

  He turned toward the door. “Don’t be long. If she rang that bell, you can bet it’s ready to eat.”

  “I’ll be right in.”

  After he disappeared into the house, I lifted my chin and gazed toward the cloudless sky.

  I’m sorry I gave up on football, I just…I couldn’t imagine playing without you. I hope you understand.

  I lowered my head, took a few steps toward the door, and paused.

  I promise you I’ll never give up on something I love again.

  31

  Jo

  While waiting for Tyson to get ready, I enjoyed looking at the pictures of him that were on the display in the den. Imagining his father’s pride was easy. All one had to do was take a quick look around the room.

  I glanced at the many bronze medals that were in the lighted glass case and wondered what they were for. Some had footballs on them, while others did not. In studying them, I realized a portion of them were sitting on top of one of his yearbooks.

  I wanted to look in it but didn’t dare open the case without his permission.

  I paced the room for a few minutes. Curiosity got the best of me. I went the bathroom door and knocked.

  “Come on in.”

  I opened the door a few inches. Tyson stood in front of the mirror, shaving.

  “Can I look at what’s inside the glass case? I’ll put it right back where it goes.”

  He smiled. “Sure.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” He shaved a swath along the side of his face. “I’ll be ready in ten more minutes.”

  “I’ll be in the den, drooling over your pictures.”

  He blew me a kiss. “Okay.”

  I closed the door and walked into the den. After carefully opening the door to the case, I picked up the yearbook from his junior year, the last year he played football.

  PLANO SENIOR HIGH 1998-1999

  I opened the cover and flipped through the pages. After finding the index, I was pleased to see that Tyson was pictured on sixteen pages.

  I went from picture to picture, feeling as if I’d been given an opportunity to take a glimpse into Tyson’s life long before I knew him. His hair was longer, he looked younger, and he was much smaller. Even so, he was undeniably Tyson.

  I wondered if he knew me during high school if we would have fallen in love. After remembering that we were six years apart in age, I decided it must have been fate that kept us apart until the time was right.

  After looking at all sixteen pictures more than once, I flipped through the pages, searching for Shawn. After finding his class photo and learning his name, I looked through his photos as well.

  I laughed knowing he now wore the exact same haircut he wore in school. As I went to close the book, it fell open to a page that was filled with personal notes that had been written to Tyson. Despite my desire to read them, I closed the book.

  I carried it back to the case and leaned down to put it on the shelf. Curiosity tickled at my ability to resist. Eventually, I decided to read one page of notes, just to learn a little more about the man I loved.

  I read the first passage that caught my attention.

  TJ,

  Congrats on the yardage, bro. Go Wildcats! Seniors next year, and I can’t friggin’ wait. Maybe you can get Garber to wrap those DSLs around your Johnson this summer. If you do, I want to hear all about it.r />
  Class of ‘00 Rocks!

  Binter

  I knew what DSLs were, but I had no idea who Garber was. In wondering what Tyson’s junior year sweetheart looked like, I went to the index and looked up the name ‘Garber’.

  Suzette Garber 21, 34, 47, 68, 101, 119, 121, 145, 161, 190, 211, 217, 232, 255

  She was nearly as popular as Tyson. I eagerly flipped to page twenty-one, just to see what she looked like.

  Upon opening the book to that page, my mouth fell open.

  My twin sister was looking back at me.

  Dressed in dark slacks, a white button-down blouse, and what looked like a two-inch pair of heels, she was wearing glasses that could have very well been a pair of my own. Her hair was even cut like mine.

  Shocked, I flipped to the next page, and then the next. Upon getting to page two hundred and fifty-five, I learned that she wasn’t a student, she was the librarian.

  Then, like a punch to the stomach, Shawn’s words from the night in the Mexican restaurant came back to me.

  “Librarian. You’re the naughty librarian.”

  I felt dirty. Used. Cheap. I tossed the yearbook on the couch, stood, and stomped to the bathroom.

  Without knocking, I pushed the door open. Wrapped in a towel, and in the middle of rubbing lotion on his arms, Tyson looked up.

  I cocked my hip and glared. “Do you want to tell me who Garber is?”

  His Adam’s apple rose, and then fell. “Huh?”

  “Garber,” I snarled. “The librarian. Binter wanted you to let him know if she sucked your dick with her ‘DSLs’ during summer break. Remember?”

  “Jo, it’s coincidental,” he stammered. “She was just the librarian. I didn’t—”

  “Save it,” I snapped back. “It’s far from coincidental. Remember when Shawn said, ‘you’re the naughty librarian’? Well, I do. That was right before I wrapped my DSLs around your cock the first time. Why don’t you call Binter and tell him about that?”

  I slammed the door.

  With tear-filled eyes, I stomped to my car. While Tyson stood at the front door wrapped in a towel, my DSLs and I backed out of his driveway for what I was sure would be the last time.