21. Easton

Chapter 21

Easton

The sound of a key turning in the dead bolt had Easton shooting straight up in bed and fear piercing his soul. How he'd heard the lock was anyone's guess. He slept like the dead.

"Roy…," he began but stopped, realizing he was alone in bed. He smoothed his palm over the sheet beside him and found it cool. Had it all been a dream? Had last night never happened?

A sharp pain fired from left to right in his head. Surely, he wasn't hungover. He didn't recall having that much to drink and certainly not enough to cause a blackout.

Think. Think.

But did he want to think about it? Because there was a lot to unpack if he opened that Pandora's suitcase. It was reminiscent of an old Katy Perry song. He'd kissed a boy and liked it.

Oh, snap, crackle, and pop! What did I do?

Fantasizing about it was one thing. Engaging in it was quite another.

A tangle of emotions rippled through him as reality began to take root. He'd hooked up with Royal—his fucking best friend. How did that even happen? Well, he knew how. But why had it happened? He knew that answer too. Hell in a handbasket, what the fuck was his problem? Who in his right mind hopped in the sack with his ride-or-die, especially when that ride-or-die was the hottest ticket on the circuit? Had he hit his head again? Was this the aftermath of his concussion?

Naw, he couldn't wimp out that way. He hadn't been drunk. He didn't have a TBI. He'd known full well what he was doing. He'd wanted Royal. And holy catnip! From the current boner between his thighs just from thinking about the previous night, he wanted him again. Unlike Katy, Easton had more than liked it. He'd relished it.

But wait. Why was he Kirking out now? He'd known last night what the implications of hooking up with Royal were—had known, been warned against, and chosen not to listen. In fact, he'd been the one who had instigated… initiated… insisted. He couldn't very well cry foul now. Well, he could, but it would make him a first-class hypocrite. It had been what he wanted. Besides, when had he begun seriously second-guessing his decisions? That was a dangerous flaw for a bull rider. Hell no! One made a decision and stuck to it. There was no time for wishy-washy back-and-forth. That would get a person killed—or worse.

Okay.

He needed to get his wits about him. Last night hadn't been a dream. He was sure of it now, because not only was the memory amazing, but he also smelled like sex. But Royal wasn't in his bed, and from the coolness of the sheets, he'd probably been gone for some time.

Someone was coming inside the camper. No. They had already entered, and there was a ruckus. He heard footsteps and people talking.

"Dad-blasted idiots!" the voice boomed.

Marcel . He'd returned.

"You'd think they'd know better."

Upton .

"Those self-righteous nincompoops are so concerned with making their point that common sense evades them. Seat belts on motorcycles are more rational."

Easton swung his legs over the side of the bed and hoisted on a pair of boxers. Peering around his privacy curtain, he called down the hallway, "What's going on?"

"What're you still doing in bed?" Marcel responded.

Marcel always expected everyone up with the sun, and usually Easton was. However, Royal had worn him out last night. "I don't have to be anywhere until seven thirty," Easton grunted, pulling on a T-shirt and standing up.

"I meant," Marcel continued, "why weren't you helping put out the fire?"

"Fire?" Easton's features contorted. "What fire?"

"The stock—" Marcel slapped his hands on his hips, narrowed his eyes, and raised his brow in the way he always did when he was about to lay into Easton. "Boy, what in tarnation did you get up to last night?"

"Um, nothing. I was tired."

"Tired my blooming bunion! You been in my rum again?"

"Fine," Easton huffed. "I may have had a drop or two. Now, are you going to tell me about this fire or not?"

"Watch your sass, boy. You're not too old for me to bend you over my knee yet."

"Yes, sir. Sorry."

"'Em blasted protesting fools broke into the stock pens. Call themselves going to free the animals—at least that's the story they're telling."

"Instead, they knocked over a of table chemicals that splashed into a portable propane forge that hadn't fully cooled." Upton brought his hands together and then quickly spread them in a rounding motion. "And kaplow ! It sounded like a cannon. We heard it as we were pulling in. Couldn't hardly see anything, though, because of all the smoke. People were running around like crazy trying to get the livestock out. We saw Royal and figured you were somewhere running amuck in the mayhem."

"Royal was there?"

Why didn't he wake me?

Upton cocked his head. "You mean you didn't hear anything?"

Easton shook his head. "Nothing. Was anyone hurt?"

Marcel grunted. "A couple of the idiots who broke in were taken to the local ER for smoke inhalation."

"Serves them right," Upton added.

"No, no," Marcel replied, shaking his head. "We don't wish ill on anyone no matter how stupid they are. They belong to someone too. It just beats all that they claim we abuse the animals, while they're the ones who dang near killed every last one of them. And I'll tell you something else," Marcel said, wagging his finger. "They sure weren't reading us for filth when we were dragging their sorry butts out of harm's way. But I don't expect people like that to stay grateful for long. They'll figure some way to twist it and have it be our fault."

"How would that even be possible?" Easton asked.

"You'd be surprised how people like that can perverse-engineer facts. They've years of practice of standing on false morals and rewriting narratives. It reminds me of my first wife. She was like that. We never had an argument that she didn't play victim . And she never apologized for anything." Marcel shook his head. "No, she'd just turn on the tears, and everyone would feel sorry for her. Then they'd come after me for being the bad guy. Granted, I made my share of mistakes during the marriage, and I can own up to that. But I was far less guilty than I'm credited."

Easton resisted the urge to exchange glances with his cousin—who likely was thinking the same thing—and studied his uncle instead. Although Easton had been in grammar school at that time, he recalled thinking something wasn't quite right with his ex-aunt. She'd given off a doleful energy, even on the happiest of occasions—perpetually pouty and forlorn and rarely smiling. He'd frequently wondered why, but it wasn't something any of the family ever discussed—at least not in front of the kids. He'd often pondered if her mood was the culprit of the split but had never asked. However, since Marcel had brought it up, Easton didn't see the harm in asking now.

"Is that why the two of you divorced?"

"Mainly." Marcel nodded. "It was four days before Christmas. I'd been doing some roping at a lot of small-town events to scrounge up some extra cash for the holidays. Quentin wanted an expensive gaming system, and Zoe had asked for a new bike. I get home, and there's this new fancy-schmancy couch sitting in my living room."

"How could you tell?" Upton remarked. "I remember all your furniture being covered in plastic. Even the floor had those vinyl runners."

Easton nodded in agreement.

"She had peculiar ways, that's for sure. It should have been my first clue."

Intrigued, Easton asked, "So, what happened with the Christmas gifts?"

"The money I'd left with her, she'd blown on this overpriced hunk of stuffed fabric. She'd bought Quentin some dollar-store magic kit and Zoe a cheap rag doll. Well, I blew my top. I mean, there I was, breaking my back, and she was out blowing every dime I made. The kids hear us from the other room arguing and run in. Next thing I know, Quentin—he couldn't have been more than eight—is hitting at my legs screaming to stop being mean to his mother."

"Wow." Easton couldn't imagine ever striking his uncle.

"I wish I could say I was a better man, but I'm not, and I wasn't. I yanked his little tail up right fast. Ain't no kid going to tell me how to run my house. Her brother lived next door, and he comes crashing in, talking about take my hands off his sister when I hadn't touched one single hair on her head. And I snapped right then and there. I thought to myself, ‘I don't have to take this.' So, I walked out."

A wave of shock washed over Easton, not only because he'd never heard this story before but also because he'd never known Marcel to walk away from anything. It wasn't in their family's blood to quit.

"So, you just washed your hands of them?" Easton asked hesitantly. "I mean, I get why you wouldn't have anything to do with Noreen, but Quentin and Zoe?"

Marcel shrugged. "That wasn't my doing."

"Quentin said you never tried to contact him after the divorce," Upton interjected.

"That's true. At first, I was hurt and didn't want to. Later, when I came to my senses, I asked, but Noreen said no."

"Couldn't you have asked the courts for visitation?" Easton prodded.

"What good would that have done? I had no legal rights."

"What do you mean? Fathers have rights," Easton persisted.

"If I was their father, yes."

Easton's jaw dropped. " Quoi? "

"Quentin was a little over two and Zoe barely six months when Noreen and I met. I raised them as my own. But each time she and I would get into it, or I'd get onto the kids about something, she'd throw it in my face how I wasn't their real dad. Plus, she was teaching them not to respect me. Quentin running up on me like that was only the beginning."

"D-D-Do they know?" Upton stuttered, his face pale.

"I doubt she's said anything to them—all the more for her to play the victim of me having abandoned her than owning the fact she hooked up with a strung-out meth head who was forcing her to turn tricks and is now serving thirty to life for an armed robbery and second-degree murder."

Blinking hard, Easton attempted to collect himself. "Shut your mouth! What you say?"

"You boys are both old enough now to know and appreciate the truth. But sometimes things don't get said because there's no reason to say them. I could have taken that secret to my grave, and who would it have hurt? And I suspect them hating me is a lot less worse than them knowing who their real kin is."

"So…." Easton scratched his chin. "You're saying secrets are okay?"

"What I'm saying is, sometimes it's nobody's business."

"Huh." Easton nodded.