1. Dallas

Dallas

I drag my ass out of bed and grumble all the way to the bathroom before taking care of business and heading back into my room, grabbing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and pulling them on, then covering my dirty blond hair with a blue baseball cap.

I look into the mirror above my dresser and decide that's good enough.

First day of my senior year of high school. Yay me.

I try like hell to push away the nerves and anxiety about what it'll be like walking the halls of Big Bend High School again. The summer was just too damn short.

The summer is always too damn short. I kept busy most of the summer though, working for an old farmer who didn't talk much at all and wasn't interested in gossip. Which, to be honest, is rare as hell in a town like Big Bend.

There's not much around here. Oilfields, cows, and football. That's all we have. So gossip is huge. When something juicy happens, like the school's football coach getting fired because he was accused of having an affair with a student—a male student—yeah, that's been the talk of the town.

It didn't matter that nothing had ever happened between Chance Leighton... and me. It didn't matter at all. It didn't matter that he was just a really good coach and had been my friend. All that mattered around here is that he'd been seen in a gay bar, that my phone had a picture of him in that gay bar.

It got the town talking, all right. And it got him fired. His whole life was destroyed because of me and my idiocy. I hang my head, the weight of the world pounding down on my shoulders because even if Coach Leighton says he's okay, it doesn't matter. I ruined his reputation and mine by being a complete and total idiot.

"Dallas! Breakfast is ready! You can't be late for school!" I hear my mother yell, and I try like hell to push away all the memories. All the fear. Because none of it matters. I can't run away. I'm stuck here in this godforsaken town for another year until I finish high school.

What I'll do after that, I have no damn clue. I'll likely work on a farm or in the oilfield, like everyone else around here—just rotting away.

"Dallas Evan Boone! I'm not going to tell you again!" I hear my mother's shrill voice from downstairs.

Jesus fucking Christ. Is there anyone more pathetic than me? I'm eighteen years old, and I hightail it down the stairs like my ass is on fire because my mommy used my middle name.

The answer is no. There is no one more pathetic than me. Just in case you were wondering .

I make it down to the kitchen and see my dad already at the table, drinking coffee and picking at his bacon as my mom fusses around the kitchen. Neither of them looks at me, despite my mother hollering like a banshee for me to join them only moments ago.

It's not unusual. They'd rather I didn't exist, and yet they still can't do anything out of the ordinary. We eat breakfast in near silence before I give my mother a kiss on the cheek, grab my keys and backpack, and head out of the house. I barely get the door closed before I run smack into the hardest body I've ever felt, and it takes everything in me not to stumble right onto my ass as I struggle to keep my balance.

I'm not a small guy by any means. Corn-fed farmboy built for football, but the man before me is built like a goddamn truck. His dark eyes remain on mine while I barely manage to recover.

I don't say anything, and neither does the stoic man before me. I study him far too closely. More than I should. But hell, I just got the wind knocked out of me. I'm gonna blame it on that.

He's tall—about two inches taller than my six foot two, at least, and his eyes are dark brown with so much anger and brutal suspicion, it nearly knocks me backward again. But his hard, square jaw, high cheekbones, and full red pouty lips pursed so damn tightly are my undoing.

I can't help sweeping my eyes down over his beautiful face to his highly muscled arms crossed over his broad chest. The man is seriously defined, but it's not like gym-rat defined—it's like hard work. There's no other way you get a body like that. Hours and hours of hard work, likely out in the sun, if his dark tan says anything.

I slowly drag my eyes back up to his, realizing with horror that I've been staring for far too long and I'm likely to get my ass knocked the hell out doing that. "Can I help you?" I ask him, feeling the need to stand up a little taller and flex my biceps as I fold my arms too, staring him down.

One thing about me, I'm damn used to defending myself, so I never back down. Not since...

Nope. Don't go there right now, Dallas.

"Yeah. You can get your ass in the truck," his deep voice growls, and I look back behind him where he gestures with his hand, seeing a shiny black new Dodge, still running.

I look back at the guy's face—a face I'm pretty sure will be burned into my memory no matter how short this interaction. I don't like that at all. I don't... I can't admit just how rattling this man's beautiful features are.

Thoughts like that get me into trouble.

You will act right, or you will not have a family, son. Do you understand me?

Shit. Shit. Shit. No. I try to push the memory of my father's words away and focus on the stranger. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Dallas, right?" he asks, and I nod in answer. "That's what I thought. Get in the truck," he demands again, and I just stay put, my arms still crossed.

Is this guy insane? "I don't know you."

"You don't have to. I know you. I know exactly what you are, and there's no way in hell I'm letting you get away with it." He drops his arms, and I stiffen as he steps closer to me. He knows what I am? Fears sweeps through me, but I don't move. I don't back away.

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," I try weakly, my voice barely sounding like mine.

"Yeah, you do," he says, getting even closer, and I try like hell not to think about how damn good he smells. So not the damn time, Dallas. Jesus. I am seriously screwed up.

"I really don't," I try. I don't know this guy. Maybe Chance has a brother? Or a friend who's come to take revenge? Hell, it could be just your run-of-the-mill homophobe, for all I know.

"Chloe," he says, and now I'm really fucking confused. I just stare at him, dumbfounded by the name he just gave.

"I don't know a Chloe."

"Bullshit," he says and gets into my face, his disdain for me palpable, but I don't know why.

"I don't." This is so not good. The guy is seriously deranged.

"Let me help you out," he says coolly. "Kensley. A little over a year ago, at a party out in the middle of nowhere. You and Chloe. Apparently, up against a tree." His teeth are bared, and I notice his fists clenching.

My heart rate kicks up at the memory. Another idiotic mistake. So fucking stupid, I've pushed it to the back of my mind. I don't want to think about that night, but how the hell does this total stranger know about it?

My eyes widen, and I drop my folded arms, taking one step back away from him, almost hitting the front door of my house. "Look, man. I didn't know she had a boyfriend. I wouldn't?—"

"Shut up," he snaps, and holy shit, is this how I die? Really?

"Listen... you're going to have to trust me on this. I'm not a threat, okay? Like not at all." I hold my hands up in surrender. "I was so drunk that night... there's... I don't think I even..."

"Shut. Up," he says again slowly but making a point. I snap my mouth closed. "I'm not her boyfriend, asshole. I'm her brother."

My eyes widen as I stare at him. I don't even remember what she looks like. I was trying to prove something that night. All I did was make a total fool out of myself. "Look, man, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to disrespect your family, but I swear she... I mean..." Fuck, do I let him think that I fucked his sister against a tree at a party when I was so fucking drunk I could barely stand only because I'm just a young horny idiot? Or do I let him murder me slowly and painfully because I used his sister to fight things I still can't face to this day?

Do I tell him I struggled to even get hard, let alone stay hard, and had to think about someone else in order to come? That I went home and climbed in the shower, crying like a damn baby afterward? That I'm just a fucking mess, and I have absolutely no interest in his sister, and he doesn't have to worry about me staying away from her.

I look into his murderous gaze. Probably should do what he says and keep my mouth shut altogether.

Less is definitely more in this situation.

"I'm not getting into your truck, and I'm late for school, but I won't go near your sister again," I say when he remains silent.

I push past him and head toward my old beater truck that's definitely seen better days and looks a little sad, especially parked next to his much newer and nicer one. But he grabs my arm to stop me before I get far.

"You're going with me."

"For what? I'm late for school," I say dumbly as if it matters to this man.

"For a DNA test."

My entire body locks up at that, and I stare at him. "What the hell are you talking about? For what?"

He lets go of my arm, his eyes hard and unforgiving. "Tell your brain to catch up," he says cruelly, and I blink.

And I blink again as I stare at him, then shake my head. "Chloe is pregnant?"

"Nope," he says, popping the p and stepping into me again. "Chloe has a four-month-old son, and you,"—his eyes remain locked on mine, sending my body on full alert, and I try to shift away from him in a way I hope is subtle because if this guy sees me sporting a boner right now, he'll rip my head off for sure—"are the father."

All traces of a boner are fully gone now as he says the words I couldn't fully wrap my head around. "No, I'm not," I say instantly. "There's no way."

"No?" he asks angrily. "So it wasn't you? It was a different Dallas from Big Bend High that night?"

I start to open my mouth but then close it quickly, a sense of dread flowing through me. I was so damn drunk. It only lasted a few moments. There's no fucking way. "I'm not the father. Did you even consider anyone else?"

"There was no one else."

I don't point out that his little sister could have easily lied to him because I like my head where it is, even if it's never done me much good anyway.

"I'm late for school. I can't..." I shake my head, fighting heavy breathing. It feels like my chest might explode, but I keep walking until I get to my truck and yank open the door.

He's there in an instant, blocking me from closing the door when I climb into the cab. "You are Christian's father, whether you choose to hide from it or not." I look up into his dark eyes, not seeing so much hate there—hell, it looks a lot more like pity. And I don't know which is worse.

"I need to go," I say numbly, and thankfully, he moves out of the way, allowing me to close the door. I drive off down the dirt road, heading to school, dread settled deep in my belly.

I'm not a father.

I can't be.