The Screwdriver - Dirty Martini 2 Read online

  “Yes, ma’am,” Chris said. “Thank you again for having me in your home for Thanksgiving.”

  “The more, the merrier,” she said. A smile fluttered at the corner of her lips. “Your folks aren’t missing you for Thanksgiving?”

  Chris took a steady breath. He wondered if Marty had told them anything about him. “No, ma’am.” He peeled the husk off the first onion and cut it in half. “My dad passed away recently, and my mom and I haven’t spent any holidays together in years.”

  “Oh,” Martha Lincoln said, turning to the stove with a wooden spoon. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  “No need. We hadn’t been close for a long time.”

  She stirred a pot of turkey broth. “Is it too forward to ask why?”

  Yes, Chris thought, but said, “They kicked me out of the house my senior year of high school.”

  Martha stopped stirring. She turned to Chris. “For heaven’s sake, why?”

  Chris blinked. “I’m gay.”

  “So,” Martha said, her fists going to her hips. “That’s…That’s…” Her face reddened with anger. “How…”

  “It’s really okay,” Chris said. Her sudden display of emotion knotted his gut. “I’m fine. It was a so long ago. I’m over it.”

  Martha vehemently shook her head. She rounded the center island quickly, and Chris worried she was going to attack him.

  Which she kinda did. In the form of a hug.

  She squeezed him so hard that he found it difficult to breathe. Viciously, she whispered in his ear. “You’re perfect.” She squeezed even tighter. “Do you hear me? Perfect.”

  A swell of emotion hit Chris, tearing his walls to the ground. He fought the tears as he awkwardly patted Mrs. Lincoln’s back. “Uh, thanks.”

  Paul Lincoln, a tall man, thin like Jay and with that same narrow face, walked in the back door. He scraped his boots on the welcome mat and said, “You’re going to suffocate the boy, Matty.” He took off his ball cap and hung it on a hook. “I’m going to grab a shower before dinner. Chicken coop had a hole in the fence.” He wiped his hands on his coveralls.

  Martha sniffled, patted Chris on the back of the head, and let him go. “Go on then,” she said to her husband.

  His eyes sparkled with goodwill. “Smells good.”

  “Get yourself cleaned up, old man.” She smiled and grabbed herself a tissue to dab at her eyes. She handed Chris one too and said, “Those onions are potent.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You can call me, Matty.”

  Chris looked at Harvey. The good doctor smiled and mouthed the words, “welcome to the family.”

  Chris diced half the first onion then turned to Marty’s mom. “Like this, Matty.”

  She peered over at his finely chopped pile. “That’s exactly right.”

  Marty and Jay came in the kitchen then, and Marty bumped his shoulder against Chris’s. “You doing okay?”

  “Yep,” Chris said, for the first time really glad to be there.

  * * * *

  Thankful

  Marty took Chris upstairs to his old bedroom. Not the sewing room, but the one he’d inherited from Jay. Inside, the room was decorated with sports trophies and posters of Ray Lewis and swimwear models on the wall. His bed still had the black comforter he’d gotten for Christmas his junior year of high school. There was something comforting about coming home to familiar surroundings.

  Chris walked to the closet and opened the door. “Is this where you hid the milk?”

  “That’s a secret.” He fondly remembered the night he’d told Chris about the mysteriously smelly room prank.

  Chris looked up at the football poster. “Raven’s fan?”

  “He was a great linebacker.”

  Chris laughed. “I prefer a tight end.” He winked.

  Marty smiled and shut the door behind him.

  “Are you sure that’s cool?” Chris pointed to the closed door. “I feel like I’ve just started making headway with your mom, and I don’t want to do anything to mess it up.”

  Marty and Chris hadn’t been alone since they’d arrived, which meant they’d barely touched since arriving. Marty had been dying to get Chris by himself all day. He backed the taller man against the wall. “Kiss me,” he said.

  Chris dipped his head, no hesitation, and kissed Marty tenderly.

  Marty sagged into Chris’s arms, loving the way his lover’s hands roamed his back, the way his fingers threaded Marty’s hair as he deepened the kiss. His dick was rock hard as it brushed Chris’s thigh.

  Chris pulled back from the kiss, smiling and shaking his head. “So not appropriate for your childhood bedroom in your parent’s home.”

  Marty palmed Chris’s growing bulge. “I’m not the only one turned on.”

  “All I have to do is think about you, hear your voice, whisper your name, and I’m turned on.” He cupped Marty’s cheek. “Don’t you know that?”

  Marty grinned. “You turn me on.” He laced his fingers behind Chris’s neck. “So, tell me something you’ve never told anyone before.” He nipped Chris’s chin with a playful bite. “And nothing lame or it doesn’t count.”

  “Hmm.” Chris rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. After a short couple of seconds, he brought his gaze down to meet Marty’s. “I’ve got it.”

  “Okay,” Marty said. “Don’t leave me hanging. Gimme.”

  “This is something I’ve never told anyone before.” Chris’s expression had grown somber and serious.

  “Is it bad?”

  “You be the judge.”

  “You’re killing me here,” Marty said.

  “I’m in love with you.”

  Marty’s stomach dipped. His hands felt warm, and his heart suddenly felt as if it would beat out of his chest. “You…”

  Chris’s gaze never wavered. “I’m in love with you, Marty.” He reached down and took Marty’s hand. “It’s okay if you’re not ready, or if you don’t feel the same way. I didn’t think I could ever feel this way about anyone. Ever. And so, I just wanted you to know.”

  Marty blinked. “I…” He smiled, his chest on the verge of bursting. He wound his hands into Chris’s hair and sipped a kiss from his lips. “I’m in love with you.”

  “Yeah?” Chris asked. “Really?”

  “God, yes.”

  Chris moved fast, his arms wrapping Marty in a tight embrace. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “For what?”

  “For loving me back.”

  A knock at the door had them startling apart.

  “Marty, are you in there?” Martha Lincoln asked through the closed door.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Dinner is on the table. And turkey waits for no man. Or men, in this case.”

  “Be right there,” he told her.

  Chris stopped him before he got to the door. He took Marty’s hand again.

  Marty gave his palm a squeeze. “Me too,” he told Chris. “Me too.”

  The End

  Preview another book by this author

  Stupid Cupid

  Holiday Hotties Romances, Book 3

  G.R. George

  Chapter 1

  One year earlier

  Eight seconds, Jordan Beck thought. Eight seconds between me and the state finals. He climbed the gate to the chute. Inside, a 1600-pound agitated bull snorted, shaking its massive head. Jordan’s gaze landed on the bull’s large, blunted horns. His heart raced, as it did every time it was his turn to ride. The bull, Cupid’s Arrow, had a reputation for taking down even the most seasoned riders. Between his fast, whiplash-like spins and wildly high kicks, he was a crowd and judge pleaser. In bull riding, both the rider and the bull were scored. A docile bull could be the cause of a low score. Cupid’s Arrow was Jordan’s ticket to the World Championship He touched his chest, reminding himself to breathe. All he had to do was stay on for eight seconds.

  Mike, Jordan’s older brother, pushed the top of Jordan’s cowboy hat down with
enough pressure to secure it to his head. “You got this. You’re the best I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot. Cupid likes to spin to the left, so get ready to adjust. Keep your hat on, kid. Make me proud.”

  There was no mistaking Mike and Jordan were brothers. They both had hair the color of wheat, thick, and cut short on the sides, a little longer on top. They both had hazel eyes, though Jordan’s had more blue in his, and they both had strong jawlines and a slightly crooked nose that rose a little at the tip. The main difference was height and build. Mike was over six-feet tall and lean as a whip. Jordan was five-eleven and built like someone who bailed hay for a living—wide chest, large arms, and narrow at the waist and hips.

  Mike was almost a decade older. Jordan had always looked up to his brother, even following in his rodeo footsteps. Their father had died the year before. It had been Dad’s dream to see one of his sons take the championship.

  “I wish Dad was here.”

  “Me, too,” said Mike. “But you need to focus on the ride.”

  Jordan had given up any semblance of a personal life for the circuit. Most of the riders had groupies in every city, but Jordan had known since he was twelve that he was gay. Growing up in rural Texas, he learned quickly that revelations of that magnitude were better kept private. He hadn’t even told Mike, but he’d promised himself that if he won the state and made it to World’s, he would come out. He was tired of hiding, tired of denying who he was to the people he loved, but most of all, he was tired of being lonely.

  “Hey, J.” Mike tilted his head to the side. “You ready?”

  “No worries. I’m set.” Jordan inhaled the sweet smell of hay, the musky tang of animal sweat, and the ripe scent of manure. The odors centered him, helped him focus on this moment. A life-changer, if all went well.

  He handed his brother the rosin covered braid of his bull rope. Underneath, the bell jangled as the bull kicked his back feet. He pulled his leather glove on tight, checked the strap on his safety vest, made sure his chaps weren’t loose and wiggled his spurs. Check, check, and check. He finished by putting in his mouthpiece.

  He took a couple of deep breaths. He wasn’t scared. On the contrary, he couldn’t wait to get on that bull, but less adrenaline meant fewer mistakes. He reached across to the chute gate, holding tightly with his left hand, his right on opposite wall. When he was secure on both sides, he set his booted foot on the animals back. The bull bucked and threw his hindquarters against the chute.

  Running the glove up and down the braid, he heated the rosin until it was tacky. Next, he put his hand out, and Michael gave him slack. He warmed the handle the same way, shook down his bell, rolled the rope over, and then positioned his gloved hand back into the handle. Once the bull rope was tight, Jordan took the braid and wrapped it around his hand to secure his grip.

  Eight seconds.

  He kept his boots forward, keeping his spurs off the bull. The show should happen in the arena, not the chute. After a few more adjustments, he slid up on the bull and gave the nod.

  The gate flew open. Cupid’s Arrow shot out, twisting sideways and bucking hard. Seven seconds. Jordan kept his knees tight, correcting his balance with every kick and spin. Six seconds. He kept his free hand up, fighting to keep his hips over the center of the bull. Five seconds. He jabbed in with his spurs. The bull reacted with a quick change of direction while kicking his back legs out. Jordan nearly lost his balance. Four seconds. Another quick and violent spin to the left, like Mike had warned, jolted him. Still, he held on. Three seconds. Four hard and high bucks put Jordan and the bull nearly vertical, and Jordan’s back slammed into the animal’s hindquarters. He squeezed his legs tighter, never easing his grip on the handle. Two seconds. Stay on, he told himself. Just stay on. One second. Cupid’s Arrow suddenly sunfished, leaping from the ground and throwing all four of his feet to the right as he twisted.

  A horn blew.

  I did it!

  The bull landed hard and tossed Jordan over his side.

  Shit. The bull rope hung up, and he couldn’t get his hand out of the handle. Panic fluttered. He felt like a rag doll, as the bull threw him around. He could hear shouts, but not much more over the clanging of the bell and the deafening roar of his pulse in his ears.

  He could feel his arm tearing from the socket. Pain struck like a lightning bolt. Then the handle came loose. Jordan had a moment to thanked God for releasing him.

  “Get that bull under control!” he heard Michael shout. “Jordan. Jordan!”

  A sharp blow snapped his head back.

  His temples throbbed as he tried to focus. He blinked, rubbing at his gritty eyelids with his left hand. Still, his vision remained blurry.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. He couldn’t see light or shapes. Nothing but darkness.

  “What?” his brother asked. “Talk to me.”

  “I can’t see, Mike.” Jordan turned his head left then right. His world was pitch black. “I’m blind.”

  Chapter 2

  Present day

  The bar crowd cheered when “Love Stinks” blared from the speakers. The Anti-Valentine’s Day party at the Buck-n-Wild Bar had turned up every single and ready to mingle cowboy and cowgirl west of San Antonio. There was a large wooden floor for line dancing, saddles for barstools, large booths covered in faux cowhide, and a mechanical bull center stage. Applause was replaced by “yee-haws” and appreciative whistles.

  Mike Beck took great pains to describe everything to his brother Jordan, from the wagon wheel chandeliers to the tables with beer barrel bases. It did nothing to raise Jordan’s appreciation. He heard the noise, he felt when people shoved against him, and he could smell the beer, whiskey, and bad aftershave that permeated the place.

  He was still getting used to his blindness.

  The ride the year before, the one that should have made his career, had taken everything from Jordan—not just his eyesight. Traumatic brain injury. He’d had to be watched twenty-four seven for the first several months, and the physical therapy crew had made him wear a stupid helmet. Strangely, there were a few occasions where he would see things—things that shouldn’t exist. The visions appeared to him like glowing shapes of creatures, large and small. Some shapes were almost human-like. Once, a physical therapist named Tom looked like a giant eight-foot blob of blue to Jordan. The doctor said he’d heard of similar ghostings with some TBI patients, and that it might or might not go away, but it wasn’t, as he’d hoped, an indication he’d get his sight back.

  “How did you talk me into this?” Jordan asked. Hanging out at a bar on Valentine’s Day was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d never told his brother he was gay. There’d been no reason to discuss it, especially not in the past year. It wasn’t as if he could go out and find someone. Dating was a struggle for him as a sighted man but as a blind man? Impossible.

  “Come on,” Mike shouted over the music. “You’re twenty-three years old. That’s too young to be a hermit. Besides, I see some ladies checking us out.”

  He wished his brother would quit trying to push the “finding a girl” agenda on him. He wondered what Mike would think if he asked him to scope out some of the men. Jordan smiled at the thought. “You’re not going to take no for an answer are you?”

  “Nope,” Mike said. “Let me get in a dance or two, and then we’ll go.”

  “You see someone you’re interested in?”

  “Not yet, but I’m hopeful.” He paused. “Maybe I’ll find someone nice for you too.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” Jordan said.

  “You’re blind, J. Not dead.”

  He felt Mike’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m off to find a dance partner. You okay here?”

  Jordan patted the bar in front of him until he touched cold, wet glass then wrapped his fingers around the fresh mug of draft beer. He took a slow pull from the edge and said, “Yep. Got it handled.”

  The noise and movement around him overwhelmed his senses. He pivoted his stool to
face toward the hoots and hollers coming from the dance floor as more than a dozen boots stomped in unison to “Achy Breaky Heart.” He was tapping his toe to the music when he first saw the ghost—a tall, golden, diaphanous creature made of sparkles. Jordan dropped the mug in his hand, beer spilling on his pants and the glass shattering on the hardwood floors. The waitress nearly knocked him off the stool trying to clean up around him, and when he searched the darkness again, disappointingly, the ghost had disappeared.

  *

  “Oh, Thomas,” Harmony said when as they strolled into the Buck-n-Wild. They crossed the bar until they found an open booth on the far side. “This place is charming.”

  “I told you,” Thomas said. “Now, let’s find you a cowboy.”

  Harmony Jackson was his current client. A sweet woman who had the worst taste in men. She wanted to be in love so desperately that she’d managed to date every deadbeat between El Paso and Dallas. Thomas, who had a syndicated advice column, occasionally took on clients for two reasons—they could pay his steep fee or they were deeply and desperately in need of his help. Harmony fell into the desperate need category. Her yearning desire to be loved, torridly and passionately, called to him on a pathological level.

  “Do you really think I’ll find someone here?” She rose up on her toes, her smile giddy.

  Thomas scanned the room, reading the men and women who pretended to celebrate being single on the one day a year no one wanted to be alone. He could feel the same kind of longing from several men, and one in particular, whose need for love matched Harmony’s. He was handsome, tall, and had a kind face. Also, he could move his hips.

  Thomas pointed to the dance floor. “That one there. I think you two would hit it off. Why don’t you go join in the line?”

  “Will you go out there with me?”

  “You don’t want the young man to think you’re on a date.” He nodded toward the dance floor. “Now go on out there before the song ends.”