CHAPTER TWO Benedict

T he further away from New York I drove, the more unpopulated the country became. Long desolate stretches of highway bisected the land. With civilization in my rearview mirror, the empty fields ahead frightened me. I'd never been out of the city other than on first-class flights to exotic destinations.

Europe, South America, and the continent of Africa. The best destinations with all the best cities in the world. But never in the middle of my own country. Never the rural areas where the middle class supposedly lived. Not once. Ever .

A roadside sign read, Culbertson Pop. 763 . "No fucking way," I muttered, returning my eyes to the road. Culbertson would be the third small town I'd driven through since exiting from I-90.

A few miles back, while still on I-90 heading west, I'd seen a sign that read Seattle was only nine-hundred miles ahead. I should've kept going. Seattle wasn't Los Angeles, but at least it wasn't some dot-on-the-map shithole named Plentywood.

To begin with, what kind of name was Plentywood? I'd googled the town, and Wikipedia claimed that local folklore had it on record that nearby Plentywood Creek, after which the town was named, came from a search for firewood many years ago.

One day, according to the story, a group of cowboys watched in exasperation as the chuck wagon cook attempted to start a fire using damp buffalo chips, or wet bison shit, as I interpreted the story. Finally, in frustration, Dutch Henry, one of the cowboys, said, "If you'll go two miles up this creek, you'll find plenty wood." Apparently, the name stuck.

The not-so-great news? I was heading there right now. " Plentywood ," I scoffed, admiring my Prada sunglasses in the rearview mirror, while desperately searching for a carwash or detail shop. Like the last two towns, there was neither.

However, I did see a gas station ahead named Skeeter's. There was an old metal sign swinging in the breeze that advertised regular gas for $1.89. No way that could be correct, but I wasn't concerned about gas prices. What I was concerned about was keeping my brand-new Mercedes Benz sedan clean. Especially since I was less than twenty miles from my destination.

I waited next to a pump, thinking an attendant would be out soon. However, after watching six minutes tick away on my car's digital clock, I got out to see what was going on. The station was dead quiet, an old dog asleep on a mat in front of the entrance door.

I stepped carefully toward the door, dodging grease, dirt clods, and the old dog who still hadn't looked up since my arrival. Based on the dog's gray muzzle, the mutt could be dead for all I knew. Before entering, I noticed a youngish guy inside through the window, leaning back in a chair, headphones over his ears, his eyes closed.

He was cute, in a country-bumpkin sort of way. He wore a denim button-down shirt, over jeans, well-worn in all the right places. His hands rested in his lap, cupping a huge bulge. I glanced around, wondering if we were alone.

My mind immediately went to a porn story idea. Upper crust city boy breaks down in a small town, only to be rescued by a country mechanic who seduces him and forces him to suck his dick in the storeroom. Get a grip, Ben.

"Excuse me," I spoke, resting my hands on the countertop that separated us. He didn't move. I watched as his chest moved up and down, his full lips slightly parted as breath slowly came and went. The guy was stunning to look at it. I looked around again, wondering if there was anyone else at the station.

"Ahem," I coughed, pretending to clear my throat.

His hands moved slightly as he continued to hold his prominent bulge. I stared at him, my eyes moving up from what I assumed was a nice-sized cock. His stomach was flat, the denim shirt unbuttoned to nearly his belly button, smooth, tan skin visible underneath. He had a backward-facing baseball cap on his head, and bunches of blond hair sticking out the sides like he needed a haircut.

His square jaw and cleft chin added to his already masculine look. I figured nineteen, maybe twenty years of age, although he could be thirty. Who knew these days? The interior of the station was dead silent, just me staring at him, and him oblivious to my presence. His legs were spread wide. Worn, lace-up, leather boots rested on the concrete floor, propping him up against the wall.

"Jesus," I mumbled, realizing I was drawn to this kid. Of course, there was no way in hell I'd be seen dead with someone like him. Country-club men like me didn't associate with country hicks like him.

I kicked the front of the counter, causing him to nearly fall out of his chair. "Holy fu…" he squealed, kicking his legs straight out to keep his balance. "Where'd you come from?" he asked, removing his headphones.

His sparkling blue eyes caught me off guard. This guy could model. New York talent scouts would shit themselves if they could see what I was looking at. He possessed, naturally, what agencies would kill to discover—or invent with another model.

"I need gas," I stated, locking eyes with him.

He pointed outside, his eyes doing to me what I'd just done to him when he wasn't noticing. "Out there," he said, his deep voice surprising me with its rich texture.

"I know it's out there, but I didn't see the thingy that you stick your credit card in."

"We don't have those," he replied, coming to his feet. I exhaled slowly, gathering my wits, when I noticed he was roughly six feet tall. He pointed to the countertop and one of those contraptions I'd only seen in a picture. A small device that you place your credit card on and zip back and forth over it, making a carbon copy of the bill. "We use this if you don't have cash," he explained. "But we've never had anyone without cash."

"I've never pumped gas before," I admitted.

Stud puppy looked outside at my car and then back to me. " You? Nooo," he dared. "You're joshin', mister." I had a suspicion he spoke like a hick because he assumed I saw him that way. He was correct. I did.

"I'm not…" I almost repeated his word, but it got stuck on my tongue. "I'm not joking," I said. "And I need a carwash too."

"And you need a carwash too," he repeated, smiling at me, his perfect teeth glinting with his amusement. "Maybe some of that Grey Poupon while I'm at it?"

His intelligent humor surprised me. I'd already filed him in my local hick file, but he wasn't some dumb-witted country boy after all. "Funny," I commented.

"City boys are a cute bunch," he said. "And you must be their leader."

His wit pissed me off more than I cared to admit. I'd spent five minutes sizing him up and attaching judgmental labels to him that he now was obliterating. "I'm serious," I stated.

"I know you are," he responded.

"So?" I asked, nervously looking between him and my car.

"So, am I gonna fill your fancy ride up with some fuel? Is that what you're wondering?" he asked. He grinned and continued studying me. He wasn't threatening in his action but more good-humoredly ribbing me. "Don't wanna get those expensive clothes dirty?" he asked. "Trust me, your Hugo Boss shirt will come clean when your maid washes it for you."

I looked down at my stylish silk shirt. " Versace ," I corrected. "The slacks are Boss , though."

"Is that fact?" he asked, coming around the counter and gesturing toward the exit. He stood next to me while he waited for me to open the door. I'd seen him as a boy a minute ago, but he was a tall hunk of a man, and I couldn't deny that I was attracted to him. A feeling I hadn't felt about a guy in a hot minute.

I hurried out, walking in front of him. "You'll fill the car for me?"

"I will," he answered. "But I won't wash it."

"And why not?"

He surveyed the area around the pumps, cupping his eyes and pretending to look in the distance. "Don't see no signs advertising a carwash," he stated. "Maybe the Mercedes dealership in the next town will give you a complimentary wash. I hear they do that when you buy one of these quarter-million-dollar AMG models."

"One-forty," I corrected. "It was a hundred and forty. Can you direct me to the dealership, then?"

"Check your receipt, city boy. More like two-hundred-thousand, minimum." He lifted the pump handle and opened the gas cap on my car, grinning at me. "You actually bought that shit?" I stared at him in confusion. "That was a joke. The part about there being a dealership," he added.

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"You ever been to Montana, Slick?"

"My name is Ben Hawthorne, not Slick," I protested. He damn near dropped the gas pump, his eyes doubling in size, but he quickly composed himself. "I was hoping there was a Mercedes dealership in Plentywood," I added.

"There's barely a thousand folks in Plentywood. And you think they'd build a Mercedes dealership there?"

"Well, yes. I need one, so they should."

"You get what you want most times, Slick?" he asked.

"It's Ben, and yeah, most times. And what's your name?" I asked. "Maybe I'll call and report you for your awful customer service."

He pointed at the sign on the building. The one next to the Shell emblem. "See that name there? The one that reads Skeeter's ? Well, that's me, Charlie ‘ Skeeter ' Brewster. How about I go inside and wait for your call?"

I looked from the sign, and then to him, and then back to the sign again. " You're Skeeter?" I asked, turning back and studying him closer. "Yeah, okay. I get that," I said, nodding. "I can see that. The name fits you for sure."

"It does, does it? I look like a Skeeter to you?"

"Yes," I answered. "You look exactly like that sort of name."

He placed the gas pump back in its slot and closed my gas cap. "Go ahead," he said. "Tell me what sorta guy has that sorta name."

"This is ridiculous," I stated, staring at the handsome stranger, hating that he was so damn good-looking. "You're just… well… you know."

"I'm just what?"

"Well, you're rural. You're a man out in the… you know… the rural areas of places."

"As opposed to?" he asked, leaning back against my car. "Go ahead. Once you pull that foot outta your mouth, tell me what type of man I am."

"Never mind," I said. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"Oh, don't you worry your pretty little face about me. I'm a big boy," he said. "But it's my gramma that isn't gonna like your ways of puttin' labels on folks."

"Your grandmother?"

"Gramma!" he corrected. "That's what we rural folk call our grandmothers in these parts."

"I didn't see your gramma inside," I stuttered, feeling like I'd overstepped. "And I apologize if I've come off as snooty."

"You don't come off as snooty, Doc Hawthorne. You are snooty."

I felt my face flushing. He not only thought of me as snooty, but somehow, he knew my last name. "How do you know my last name?"

"When you get up to Plentywood, and the fancy Hawthorne House Mansion that you also happen to own, you're gonna meet an old lady. That old lady is gonna eat you for lunch, Mr. Fancy Pants. And when you meet that woman, my gramma, be sure to tell her that her grandson Charlie said hello."