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“But she didn’t.”

“No. In fact, she noticed that I was a wreck and that I studiously avoided her house. Or maybe my mom told Rhona she was worried about me. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I dropped the ball at practice and ended up on the bench at a game for the first time ever. I was just…scared out of my mind, trying to figure out my exit strategy. My dad was going to kick me out, and possibly beat the shit out of me. I had no idea where I’d go or what I’d do. Fear rocked me to the core and ate me alive.” I clenched my jaw at the ugly memory. “Then one day, Rhona caught me in the driveway after school, looked me straight in the eye, and said, ‘I will never ever say a word. You’re safe with me. I promise.’ Or something like that. I believed her. And suddenly…I could breathe again.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.” I scraped the label of my beer bottle with my thumbnail and continued. “Coop and I both had girlfriends soon after. We pretended nothing had happened between us and went back to being best buddies…platonically, only. Fast forward a few years, he married a nice girl he met in college, I married my high school sweetheart. We both had two kids, both got divorced, and then…only then did we come out.”

“And now he’s married to Silas.”

“And happier than ever. Life is funny.”

He furrowed his brow. “No offense, but I don’t like your story. My anxiety is through the fucking roof right now.”

I barked a laugh. “Sorry. I know. Teenage angst at maximum volume isn’t fun. I think it’s why I’m so paranoid about fucking things up with Rhys and Gretch.”

“Seriously, man, what are you worried about? Your kids are awesome.”

“It’s not them, it’s me. It’s where I come from, my history, the prejudices that I bring home with me every day. Look, it’s not like my dad was a bad guy or a terrible father. He wasn’t. But he was so sure he had all the answers and he hated to admit he was wrong. In retrospect, I doubt that he’d have kicked me out. He’s not cruel. The shame would be there, though—always clinging to me. Sometimes I can still feel it, and I don’t want that for my kids.” I inhaled deeply. “The thing is…I can tell them how much I love them and that they can trust me with anything, but I don’t set a good example.”

“Oh, c’mon. What are you talking about?”

“Look at us now, Waylon. You parked on another street and I’m glad you wore black and that my neighbors are older and probably wouldn’t notice you sneaking in. I’m glad we were relatively quiet when you fucked my brains out just in case the sound carried from my garage. I’m thinking it would be nice to have you spend the night, yet I’m equally worried about morning-after logistics. I like the idea of everyone knowing we’re friends—including my kids—but I’m afraid they’ll get the wrong idea…which happens to be the right idea. And all this noise in my head seems so unfair. I spent most of this week thinking about you—wishing I could have…this.” I scoffed derisively. “And I’m fucking forty-six. How is that a good example?”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh with yourself? It’s okay not to want the whole fucking town in on your business. You’re the chief of police, but you’re still entitled to some privacy.”

I sucked in a deep breath. “Maybe, but I prefer your story. I’d rather hear about lumberjacks and plaid-shirt-wearing truckers with bushy beards and huge dicks screwing each other senseless. I’m still trying to visualize the guy with the Clydesdale cock.”

It was a clumsy topic change, but he got the message.

Waylon tilted his chin in silent acquiescence, then grinned, fast and feral. “I don’t blame you one little bit. I wish I’d taken dick pics. It was like…” He held his palms twelve inches apart. “No. Bigger. More like this.”

“Oh, yeah?” I snickered, gathering our empty plates as I stood.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, man.” He kept up a running dialogue about all things cock while we cleaned the kitchen. Length, girth, cut, uncut, ball size, pube maintenance, and a guy he’d been with once who’d pierced his slit. Waylon regaled me with a wildly exaggerated tale of a hand job gone wrong involving a wool sweater catching the edge of the piercing.

“Ouch.”

“More like ‘Ahhhhhhh!’ ” He braced my hand on the counter and convulsed as if he’d been electrocuted.

It was an absolutely filthy conversation with no rhyme or reason, and it wasn’t particularly funny, but I howled like a hyena anyway.

I wasn’t used to meandering silly discussions of the sexual variety. Everything silly in my life was courtesy of my kids and Tate the wonder dog. Everything else was serious.

Waylon was a breath of fresh air. He knew the score, and I got the impression he was relieved to know I wasn’t looking for anything more than a little diversion from reality. This didn’t have to be awkward. We could make it work.

CHAPTER 22

WAYLON

Somehow, I accidentally spent the weekend with Reg. No one noticed, not even us. I sneaked out of his bed in the wee hours of Saturday morning, crashed for two hours at my place, then woke to a text wondering if I’d be interested in going for a hike.

I met Reg (and Tate) on the trail, both of us dressed in matching joggers and black pullovers. We greeted each other with lazy smiles as if we hadn’t been glued together with sweat and cum mere hours beforehand. He told me he had water, energy bars, and dog treats in his backpack. I shared some sunscreen and followed him into the forest.

We met a few fellow hikers along the way, but most of the time, we were blissfully alone. We trekked the narrow pathways under canopies of gold and burnt orange, and talked about bear sightings, the cooler weather, nightmare camping trips, and the time he’d splurged on a Florida holiday with his family and everyone had gotten sick.

“Food poisoning. Oh, my God, it was hell. I couldn’t wait to go home,” Reg griped.

We looped south toward the lake and let Tate play in the water. We took turns throwing a ball for him and made it into a contest. Whoever could throw the farthest had to buy lunch, drinks, or pay up with a BJ. And not just any BJ…it had to be the best ever. Which led to a discussion on fellatio techniques. I wasn’t picky, but I strongly believed the balls should never be ignored. Reg agreed and Tate chose the moment to race to us, drop his ball, and shake his fur, showering us with lake water. We laughed as if it were the funniest thing ever.