 
## **Contents**

Title Page

Copyright

Contributors

Dedications

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Epilogue

End Notes

About Jen

Books By Jen

Excerpt: Love On Deck

For the Love of Scott

A Ten Rigs Texas Tale

Jen FitzGerald

Knotted Hearts Publishing
Knotted Hearts Publishing

Fort Worth Texas

www.knottedheartspublishing.com

Published in the Unites States of America

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2017 Jen FitzGerald

All rights reserved.

First edition.

ISBN: 978-1-948236-00-3

This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
Contributors

Proofreading provided by

C.A. Szarek

Clover Autrey

Content/copy editing provided by

Alicia Street

iProofreadandMore.com.

Cover art created by

Yocla Designs.
Dedications

To Michelle, Clover, Chrissy, Gina, Angi, and Nancy for always believing I could pull this off.

To fandom for the notion that I could write.

To my family for putting up with it all.

Chapter One

Marva pushes open the door of the Ten Rigs Kennel and Shelter and glances around the sparsely furnished space. Yips and barks reply to the jangle of the bell above the door. The click-click-clicking of a tiny set of paws announce the arrival of Scott's long-haired Chihuahua, Sylvester.

Sometime since she'd last been inside, Scott has scraped up the old chipped school tile and painted the concrete a light forest green. Someone—probably not Scott—has painted paw tracks in various sizes crisscrossing the room. Picket fencing lines the walls as a sort of wainscoting. It's rather charming in a guy sort of way. Of course, Scott's lone employee, Pammy, has probably had a hand in it.

Sylvester's mostly black face appears and then he is there, dancing around her, tiny pink tongue hanging from his mouth. If his tail could wag any harder or faster, Marva wouldn't be surprised to see him achieve lift off.

"Hey, Sylvester, how's it going today, fella?" She bends her achy knees a bit and reaches down to stroke his shiny head and scratch under his little chin. "Where's your daddy, huh?"

Sylvester arfs and does a lap around her.

"Scott. Scott Hudson, package for you," she calls toward the screen door that leads to the outdoor kennel area. "I need a signature."

"Coming, Miss Maple," says a deep voice, followed by hurried footsteps. The screen door opens with a bit of a screech and closes with a bang.

Scott's almost six-foot frame comes to a halt in front of her. His chestnut brown hair, while still military-ish in cut, lays smashed to his head on one side and stuck up in random spikes on the other, as if he'd rolled out of bed after a hard sleep with wet hair.

Marva hands him the tiny terracotta-colored slip to sign, which he does with a quick scribble. She passes him the bubble wrap mailer, and he scans the return address. With a smile, he turns the package over to tear at the closure. Two hard cover books slide out; one titled, 'The Language of Our Canine Friends,' by Gloria Markus and the other called, 'Cesar's Way: The Natural, Everyday Guide to Understanding and Correcting Common Dog Problems,' by Cesar Millan and a co-writer.

Since his return home six months ago, he's done little but repair the kennel and work with the dogs he inherited. Marva's sources tell her he rarely goes anywhere, and he's never seen in anyone's company who could remotely be considered a significant other. The changes in the kennel are evidence of his dedication.

"Deputy Dawg, you need a boyfriend," she says. Someone to put a spark in his eye and perhaps a hitch in his giddy-up-and-go.

His head bobs up and the dark velvet brown of his eyes meets hers. He snorts. "Yeah? What would I do with a boyfriend?"

"You work too hard, and life is meant to be lived. Find a little happiness for yourself, would you?"

A wan smile quirks his pale pink lips. "I wouldn't even know where to look."

"The Christmas Festival is just around the corner, Deputy. You've volunteered to help. Just...be open. All right?"

The corner of his mouth curls up in another shy smile and he nods. "I will, Miss Maple. I promise."

Marva slaps the counter. "Then my work here is done." With a wink at the hunky young man, she whirls around and strides toward the door. "Take care of him, Sylvester, ya hear?"

Two quick yips and a deep chuckle follow her outside and she grins all the way back to the mail truck.

The list of prospects for young Scott is short. Ten Rigs has its share of gay men, but Scott needs someone special. She snorts softly. "Well, we all need someone special, don't we, Marva?" With a shake of her head, she climbs into the truck. Shifting into Drive, she pulls onto the road and heads back into town.

"Mike? Patrick? Stan?" she wonders aloud. Images of each one flits through her mind. "Stan's a little too old. And now that I'm thinking about it, Mike's too immature. Who else? Who else?"

A flash of royal blue catches her eye—a motorcycle speeds by—and the ensuing rush of certainty has her fist-pumping. "Bennigan Thompson," she muses. "Well, dog-gone—how did Ben not occur to me right away? He's spent a lot of time at the kennel since Scott took it over, between helping out and so-called accounting paperwork. Me-thinks Mr. Thompson might be a bit smitten. And Scott could sure use some Thompson Family kindness. If Scott and Ben aren't a match made in heaven, I'll turn in my Cupid's bow."

Ben has volunteered to help prepare for the Christmas Festival too. A word in Wanda's ear and those two young men would be paired for a task or two. But how else could she get Ben's and Scott's paths to cross "naturally?" She chuckles. Where there's a will, there's a way. And she definitely has the will.

Marva turns into the post office parking lot and slows to a stop for the post office patrons exiting the historic brick building. Another chuckle rumbles deep in her chest. "Well, I'll be..." A quick toot of the mail truck's horn brings her the attention of the five women in the crosswalk. Marva sticks her head out the now-open window. "Helen Thompson, come on over here for a moment, would you?"

"Hello, Marva. Mail route keeping you busy, I see," says Helen upon approach. The two of them had gone to school together many moons ago.

Winter's chill has left bright spots of color on Helen's cheeks, and Marva still marvels at how much all the Thompson kids look like their mother.

"'Tis the season and all that," says Marva. "Listen, there's this nice young man, Scott Hudson—took over the kennel?"

Helen nods. "I remember Scott. Gillian tutored him in algebra. Shame about his leg."

With a nod, Marva says, "He's an overcomer, all right. Anyway, he's out there at the kennel with just those dogs, subsisting on goodness knows what. You make the best pies in three counties, so I was wondering, if you ran across him at some point, if you'd invite him over for a home-cooked supper and one of those blue-ribbon pies."

Helen smiles. "You didn't need all that flattery, Marva. He was always a sweet young man despite that bastard of a father. Of course, I'll have him over."

"At least I got right to the point," she says with a wink. "And thanks."

With a wave, Helen continues the trek to her car. Marva putters into the truck yard and parks. If she was even ten years younger, she might've skipped across the parking lot and into the building. Job well done, Marva. Job well done.

So far, so good anyway. Flattery might not have been necessary, but it ensures that the dinner invitation happens sooner rather than later.

* * *

Christmas lights line the edge of just about every structure of the Thompson homestead. Roof lines, porch railings, fencing. Multi-colored lights, icicles, white rope lights.

Scott can't help the smile or the lurch in his stomach that follows. His own childhood home had never seen such tender loving care at the holidays. Not even before his mother had taken off. His father had been the Grinch personified. To have had parents who made the holidays special... Well, he hadn't, and crying about having crappy parents at this late date serves no purpose.

Holiday cheer steals over him despite his lack of fond childhood memories. Maybe this weekend he'll drive over to the big box store and pick up some lights. He'd gotten a pick-me-up out of the sight of driving up to the Thompson house and seeing it lit up like the Las Vegas Strip. Since the kennel occupies a stretch of land along the south highway in and out of town, if he lights up the facility, it'll be a sight—hopefully a good one—for anyone driving into or out of town after dark.

Scott pulls his battered old pickup into a space between a huge dark-colored dually and Ben's older-model work truck. A red medium-sized SUV and Ben's motorcycle are parked under a detached carport.

A jumbo-sized wreath with small white twinkle lights blinks from the branches hung on the large expanse of wall between two lit-from-within windows. The draperies are pulled back, revealing the women's-magazine-cover scene inside. One window frames Ben and his niece setting the table; the other shows Mrs. Thompson tossing a salad and laughing. The storybook picture pulls another smile from Scott.

The Christmas lights provide plenty of illumination to the front door. With a press of the button, the door bell chimes on the other side, and a little girl's voice yells, "I'll get it."

Scott recognizes Ben's responding baritone, although he can't make out the words, followed by a high-pitched squeal. The door opens and a wave of warm spicy-scented air washes over him. God, he's hungry.

Ben, with five-year-old Misty perched on one arm, pushes open the old-fashioned wood screen door. "C'mon in." He steps back to allow Scott room to enter. Ben holds out his hand and Scott slides his own into the man's warm grasp. "Misty, you remember Mr. Hudson, don't you?"

She nods, a wide grin showcasing the missing bottom teeth. "Hi, Mr. Hudson."

What a cutie and the spitting image of Ben. If someone didn't know that Misty's mother, Gillian, and Ben had been twins, he could be, and probably was, mistaken for her dad. Kids have never been on Scott's radar. Being gay makes it a little harder, though not impossible. Factor in his miserable childhood, and remaining childless seems the better option.

Mrs. Thompson comes around the corner. "Hello, Scott, honey. How are you?"

"I'm good. Wore out, but good." He hands her a small decorative candle thing he'd picked up at the grocery store: a six-inch green pillar candle with sprigs of pine and other random flowery things he doesn't know the names of surrounding the base.

Mrs. Thompson's eyes widen and a flush of pleasure colors her cheeks. Big blue eyes like Ben's and Misty's meet his. "Oh, honey, this is lovely. Thank you." She stretches up on tiptoe and presses a kiss to his cheek.

Scott ducks his head, hoping to hide his own unexpected pleasure at her gesture. "You're welcome."

"Now take your coat off and come on into the kitchen. Grandma Hardy's goulash is just about ready. The recipe's been in the family for generations. I hope you're hungry."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're awful polite, although I must admit it's a refreshing change," she says, sending a wink his way.

He nods. "Yes, ma'am. Eleven years in the military will do that."

Collectible plates of all sorts cover the papered walls as he follows her. They depict cats and birds, as well as the various states that the Thompsons have probably visited on family vacations. Scott had never been outside the state of Texas until he'd gone to boot camp. During the course of his Army life he'd lived in two states, passed through the airports of a handful of others, and did two tours in the Middle East. His experiences of airports and deserts have nothing on the collection of memories Ben must have of his family at Mount Rushmore or the Grand Canyon.

The dining room table is longer than he is tall and appears to be hand-made. It's stained a deep rich brown and protected by a thick shiny coat of varnish. Eight matching chairs surround it. The red, green, and gold plaid place mats are all clustered at one end.

"Sit by me, Mr. Hudson," says Misty, patting the seat next to hers.

Scott looks back and forth between Ben and Mrs. Thompson. They both play primary roles in raising Misty, and he isn't sure who he should ask. "Is it all right if she calls me Scott or Mr. Scott? Mr. Hudson is awful formal for a guy who shovels dog sh-doo all day."

Misty giggles, her tiny white teeth showing again.

"Sorry," Scott murmurs, ducking his head as slight embarrassment heats his face.

"Mr. Scott is fine, honey." Mrs. Thompson nods and then turns toward a doorway and calls, "Jed. Come to the table."

Ben waves at the chair next to Misty and takes the seat across the table from Scott.

Mr. Thompson enters the dining room and Scott halts mid-sit and straightens back up.

Mr. Thompson stops, runs his hands down the length of his suspenders, and cocks his head. "What the hell was that?"

Scott feels a bit abashed again. "Habit, sir."

Mr. Thompson grins and holds out a hand. They shake before Ben's dad continues to his seat at the head of the table. "How you doing, son?"

"Fine, sir. Just fine."

"Ben's been keeping us up to date on your hard work out at the kennel."

"Oh, well, just keeping busy, sir." Another wave of gratification wars with embarrassment. The kennel'd been his sanctuary growing up. It has become his sanctuary again.

"You're doing a great thing, honey," says Helen, setting a large pot on the table in front of her husband. Steam curls from the thick casserole, and Scott's stomach gurgles in anticipation. He can't remember the last time he enjoyed a true home-cooked meal.

All this happy-family-ness is completely at odds with his own upbringing. Dinner had been a silent affair before his mother had left, and after, it had been nonexistent. Scott had either been at weight lifting practice or working at the kennel. He'd generally fended for himself, although as part of their unspoken agreement, his father had kept the cupboards and refrigerator stocked.

Scott rises again. "Let me help you, Mrs. Thompson." Helping his hostess is the least he can do for a home-cooked meal.

"Nonsense. You're a guest," booms Mr. Thompson. "Ben, get up and help your mother."

Mrs. Thompson pats Scott's shoulder while Ben stands.

"Sit, Ma," says Ben. "I'll get the rest."

"Don't mind if I do," she says and slides into the chair to the left of her husband and across from Misty.

Ben returns with a bowl of salad and a basket of delicious-smelling rolls.

Once Ben has taken his seat, Mr. Thompson sets his hands palms up on the corners of the table. Misty sets one hand in her grandfather's and takes a hold of Scott's with the other. Mrs. Thompson slips one hand into her husband's and the other into her son's, and Ben reaches across the table. In an instant, Scott takes in the long tapered fingers and the eyes the color of the pale blue morning glories that had grown wild in the trailer park where he'd grown up, and slides his hand into Ben's. Their gaze doesn't break until their chins practically touch their chests.

Mr. Thompson blesses the meal, and everyone digs in.

* * *

Grandma Hardy's goulash was delicious and Mrs. Thompson's peach pie to die for. She's given Scott a container with a piece for later. Conversation had been lively, and each of the Thompsons had shared something about their day, including Misty. They'd finally convinced him that guests were every bit as welcome to contribute to the conversation. The latest of Sylvester's canine shenanigans had garnered smiles from the elder Thompsons, giggles from Misty, and a fond smile and star-bright eyes from Ben, although the story surely hadn't been that amusing.

The temperature has dropped while they'd eaten and visited, and unlike when he'd arrived, small white clouds appear with each exhale. The crisp temperatures nip his cheeks and nose. Burning pine scents the air from the roaring fire Ben and his dad had lit after supper.

Scott inhales deeply. The air smells of home and friendship. He fishes his keys from his pocket and unlocks the truck. He sets the pie on the dash and turns to Ben, who's decided Scott needs walking to his vehicle.

Ben hasn't bothered to put on a coat, of course, and has his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans while he jiggles his arms back and forth trying to generate warmth.

"Hey, uh, a few of us get together to play basketball up at the high school. Our last weekly game until after the holidays is tomorrow night. Around seven," Ben says. "You're more than welcome to join us."

Scott's breath catches in his throat and then he sighs, his excitement immediately crashing and burning. He hasn't played hoops in years. Not since before the bomb took his leg. "Basketball. Me?"

"Why not you?" Ben's eyebrows arch for a moment.

Maybe he really doesn't know. "I wear a prosthetic."

"What the hell do I care?" Ben shrugs. "You can play basketball, right?"

Ben's gaze doesn't falter, doesn't stray to Scott's left foot. The fact that it didn't meant more to Scott than he can possibly say. "I can't jump."

A snort explodes from Ben's mouth, followed by, "That's bull shit."

"Excuse me?"

"First of all, I've seen you jump. You're all over that kennel building, climbing on the roof, jumping fences—"

"Three foot fences! Jesus." Scott throws his hands up. A three-year-old could jump those things.

"It's still jumping."

If it'd been daylight, Scott could see the bright blotches of color on Ben's cheeks that always accompany an outburst. They've shared enough animated conversations over the last several months to know. At the moment, however, a conglomeration of reds, oranges, greens, and blues from the Christmas lights cover them both and camouflage any natural coloring.

Ben's arms flap back and forth, back and forth. "C'mon, man. It's a pick-up basketball game. What's the big deal?"

Scott stills. He'd thought sports were a thing of his past, but Ben apparently has no such ideas. He clearly assumes Scott capable of anything a whole man could do. Scott can and does bounce around the kennel, hopping over the short fencing and bags of dog food or piles of random crap. But only the dogs see him when he falls on his ass.

For a casual game of basketball, the fluttery sensation in his chest seems kinda girly. But dammit if he doesn't want to play. He sucks in a breath, the icy air biting his nostrils. "It's not a big deal," Scott finally says. And suddenly it isn't. Ben has made it not a big deal.

"Then c-come on." Ben bounces on the balls of his feet now, the cold really starting to get to him. "Sh-shit, it's cold."

"Shoulda put on a jacket, dumbass."

"Up yours." Ben jerks his chin up in a gesture. "You g-gonna play or not?"

There's no stopping Scott's grin. "Okay. Yeah. I'll play."

Ben's dimples appear in response.

"G-great. S-see you tomorrow." With that, he turns and runs toward the house. "Drive safe—" echoes across the space between them, and the bang of the screen door sounds a moment later.

Scott shakes his head and climbs into his truck. What the hell has he just agreed to?

Chapter Two

Ben snaps the ball back to Jake and jogs around the key. Jake, Tim, and Sam pass the ball around, the squeals of their tennis shoes echoing in the high-ceilinged gym. Ben's glance strays to the large wall clock over the basket for the umpteenth time. Five till seven. Where is Scott? He said he'd come. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe there's a dog emergency. Maybe—

The door screeches and opens.

He came. Ben's heart does a little happy dance and he grins.

Scott steps in and glances around, appearing unsure. But he's shown up. His gaze finds Ben's and the stiffness mostly leaves his shoulders. Scott really needs to get over his hangup about his leg. If he doesn't, no one else will. He heads in Ben's direction.

Ben meets him halfway. "Dude, you made it."

"Yep," Scott says with a nod and a smile, a hint of white teeth peeking from between his lips. He removes his coat and tosses it on the bleachers. The pale yellow tee shirt contrasts nicely against his still-tanned skin and hugs his torso, highlighting his muscled shoulders and biceps and his well-defined abs. Faded Army-green sweats hang low on his narrow hips.

Yeah. Ben swallows and closes the door on any further wayward thoughts. This is neither the time, nor the place.

"You guys know Scott, right?" Ben asks as he and Scott approach the others.

"Jake Shaffer, sheriff; Tim McAllister, middle school principal and my brother-in-law; Sam Lawrence works at the bank."

Everyone shakes hands in turn.

"Dooley's always late, and there are a couple of others who may or may not show up. When we have an odd number, one of us'll sit out until one side makes a basket."

Scott nods his understanding.

Tim pitches him the ball. "Ben, bench. Let's go. Jake and Sam against Scott and me. Half court."

Thank you, Tim, thinks Ben. The surprise on Scott's face is priceless, and Ben can't help chuckling. Tim's immediate inclusion has left Scott no time to even think about his leg.

He takes off for the basket only to be blocked by Sam. He pivots and moves a few paces backwards before feinting left and sprinting right. Jake darts forward. Scott pulls up, bounces the ball, leaps, and sends the ball in a beautiful arc toward the basket. Unfortunately, Sam has circled back toward the basket and now jumps, keeping the ball from dropping through the net with the tips of his fingers.

"Nice try, Scott. Maybe next time, man," Sam says, grinning and bouncing the ball to Jake.

Pleasure and life now radiate from Scott's face. He swipes the back of his arm across his forehead and maneuvers himself back into position. If this is all it takes to bring Scott some enjoyment, Ben would have asked months ago.

Jake dribbles the ball on his way to the line and tosses it back to Sam.

The four men dance around one another, Jake and Sam pitching the ball back and forth between them. Scott seems wary about plowing in and grabbing for the ball. Tim's trying to give him a chance.

"Go on, get in there, you fools," calls Ben. "Scott, c'mon, man. You got this."

That is apparently all Scott needs to hear, and he moves in, reaches for the ball, and tips it out of Jake's grip. Tim barges forward and snags it, dribbling in a large circle toward the basket. Scott gets into position, trying both to block and be available for a pass.

His muscles bulge and roll beneath the thin cotton of his tee shirt and Ben has a sudden hankerin' to feel the flex of Scott's muscles beneath his fingers and in a more intimate setting. He pulls his gaze away from Scott and watches the basketball instead. He'd better focus on the game; otherwise his body is going to betray him in front of God and everybody.

Jake finally scores a point and switches out with Ben. Play continues and Tim eventually scores as well. Two to two.

The screech of the door brings the game to a halt and everyone turns to watch Dooley strut in. With him here, everyone can play. Ben rises. "'Bout damn time you got here."

Dooley grins. "I was—"

"Don't want to know," says Jake, holding up a hand. "Don Dooley, this is Scott, friend of Ben's. Let's play, boys."

Dooley gives Scott the once over. When he reaches Scott's feet, his eyebrow shoots up. Scott's wearing sweats, but the metal rod that serves as his ankle is visible in the open circle of the elastic.

"What the hell, we let gimps play now?" asks Dooley.

Scott stiffens, and not for the first time in the ten years they've known each other, Ben wants to plant his fist in Dooley's face. He digs his fingernails into his palms instead and says, "Damn sight better than a jackass. Shut the hell up."

"He's a decent player," says Sam. "Quit being an ass."

"I'm not playing with a gimp. I want to win."

Scott's lips thin, but still he stays quiet. Ben doesn't understand his meekness, but there are jerks all over, so maybe he prefers the high road.

"Fine," says Jake. "Tim, Scott, and Ben on one team. Don, Sam, and me on the other. Game is tied, two each."

"Sorry about that, man," says Ben to Scott when their team huddles for a moment.

Scott shakes his head, but Dooley's words still appear to irk him if the set of his shoulders is anything to go by. "Best way to show idiots like that is to win. So let's do it."

Ben grins. "Hell, yeah."

They trot to the key and spread out. Dooley bounces the ball once and throws it to Sam.

The six of them are all over the half-court, reaching and batting at the ball. Names are called, both actual names and epithets. Grunts and muttered cuss words sound as well as the shrill squawk of rubber against hard wood.

"Jake," Dooley calls. He bounces the ball once and shoots the ball in Jake's direction before elbowing Scott in the gut.

A loud 'oof' bursts from Scott and he bends over, gasping for breath.

"What the hell was that?" Ben shouts, moving toward Dooley, wanting to bash his face in yet again. The bastard.

Tim slides an arm around Ben's waist and halts his forward momentum. "Don't," he says firmly, but for Ben's ears only.

Ben twists, but Tim won't release him. "He's been doing that all night. And Scott, dude, flatten him. You can take him."

Dooley laughs, the jerk. "I'd like to see him try."

"Boys, boys—let's play nice." Jake holds up his hands, one palm facing Ben, the other facing Dooley. "Or we're all going home. Got me?"

Only the expression on Scott's face—like he wants to tear someone a new one and Ben thinks it just might be him—keeps Ben from pushing the issue. But dammit, if Scott doesn't take Dooley down a notch or two the next time he gets lippy, Ben isn't going to be responsible for his actions.

With a single jerk of his head, he yanks out of Tim's hold, and Tim lets him go. The guy might look like a bean pole, but years of wrangling stubborn teenage boys has given him a wiry strength.

Dooley spreads his arms in an affirmative gesture.

Ben would wager a Ben Franklin that Dooley has no intention of playing nice. He's made his opinion of Scott perfectly clear. Ben points at Tim, then points at Dooley and says, "Watch him."

Tim nods.

Play resumes and Ben tries to keep close to Dooley, but Dooley and Scott both seem determined to circle each other, although as far as Ben can tell, Dooley is behaving himself.

Another few minutes of squeaks and heavy breathing and the thwack of the ball on the floor pass, until finally Jake jumps from the corner, and the ball swishes through the net.

Four-two. Well, shit.

Jake and Sam slap palms, and Dooley makes a fool of himself with silly gestures and some sort of moves that resemble a mating dance.

Tim accepts the ball from Sam and points at Ben. He jogs outside the line and immediately inbounds the ball to Scott.

Scott takes off for the basket only to find Dooley blocking his path. Ben circles around one way, Tim the other, hoping to find a lane for Scott to pass the ball. He pivots right, then left, but finds himself stuck. He finally just tosses the ball in Tim's direction. Tim jumps and snags it out of Sam's grasp and then races toward the basket. He zags between Dooley and Scott, eluding Dooley's reaching grasp, jumps, and slams the ball into the net.

"Nice," shouts Scott, nodding to Tim.

Scott walks in a circle as he works to catch his breath and Ben follows him with his gaze. The man is fit, that's for damn sure. Six months of minor construction work and building maintenance as well as kennel cleaning and dog wrangling have kept him in shape. Ben knows for a fact that he works out too. Just then, Scott lifts the bottom of his tee shirt and wipes his face with it. Ben's eyes are drawn to the barely outie belly button and the smattering of dark hair that surrounds it and trails southwa—

"Thompson, you really need to keep your man crush off the court," says Dooley.

Ben wrenches his eyes away from Scott's abdomen to catch Dooley's smarmy smirk before snapping his gaze to Scott's. He feels the weight of five pair of eyes, but doesn't care. He only has eyes for Scott, who, at the moment, only has eyes for him. Everyone else fades into the background. Scott's eyes have gone wide and the color on his face has deepened although probably only Ben realizes the man has just blushed. Ben holds his gaze for what seems like minutes and then finally shrugs. His feelings haven't really been a secret, although he'd have much rather revealed them to Scott in a less public forum. But the knowledge is out now and there's no taking it back. Ben doesn't want it back, truth be told. He's tired of waiting for the right moment that never seems to come.

Scott's chest rises and falls with the breath he takes and then he nods.

"Four-four," says Tim. "Let's play to the next point and call it done. I want to get home." He looks at Ben and waggles his eyebrows. "Rachel's ovulating."

It takes a moment for Tim's meaning to register and Ben makes a face. "Oh, God—that's my sister, you jerk."

Everyone laughs, and, just like that, the tension dissipates, although Scott's feelings on the matter of Ben's feelings remain to be seen. But as he's proven, Scott isn't prone to overly public reactions.

Jake carries the ball out of bounds and tosses it to Dooley, who nudges Scott—nothing illegal—and sprints to the free throw line. Ben meets him there and waves his arms up and down and around, doing his best to keep the jerk from getting the ball to either one of his teammates. But Dooley times it just right, and when Ben brings one arm down, he jumps and hurtles the ball toward the backboard.

Ben whirls around and watches as, by sheer dumb luck, the ball bounces between the rim and the board and drops into the net. He throws his hands up and groans. And just like that, the game is over.

"Yeah," Dooley shouts, raising a fist.

"Lucky shot," calls Tim.

"Skill, baby, pure skill."

Ben snorts and Scott shakes his head.

Everyone gathers up their gear and makes for the door. Ben lets Jake and Scott chat. It's good for Scott to get to know other people as he's been mostly holed up at the kennel since he'd taken ownership over the summer. Sam has set the basketball next to the locker room door and jogs across the court to catch up. He flips off the switches, plunging them into mostly darkness as they push into the parking lot. A couple of light poles centered in the asphalt keep the parking lot illuminated. A swarm of insects buzz around in the light like Kamikazes. The weather hasn't quite gotten cold enough to kill them all off yet.

Tim and Sam break off first, heading toward Tim's respectable little sedan. "Night, brother," he calls to Ben. "I'll say hi to your sister."

Sam tee hees rather loudly.

"Yeah, yeah," Ben replies. "Night." He so doesn't even want to think about that.

"You want to do a dude, but you don't want to think about your sister having sex? That's a little hypocritical, don't you think?" Dooley asks.

Ben whips his head to the side to see Dooley's smirk and raised eyebrow.

"There's nothing hypocritical about it." Ben shakes his head. "I wouldn't want to think about my sister having sex if I were straight. She's my sister."

"Good point." Dooley angles for his vehicle and tosses his bag into the back of his truck. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he says and guffaws.

"No worries," mutters Ben. Besides the whole liking-women thing, Dooley makes reference to all kinds of activities Ben has no interest in. A snowball has a better chance in the Sahara Desert.

"Take care, man," says Jake to Scott. "We start back after the new year. I hope you'll join us again."

"Thanks," Scott says, looking like he's just found a hundred-dollar bill on the ground. "I'd like that."

"Night, Ben," says Jake, holding out a hand and clicking his key fob. The large pickup truck chirps and the lights flash.

One by one, the vehicles rev to life and pull out of the school parking lot, and then it's just Ben and Scott. They approach Scott's beat-up little kennel truck without speaking. It's so old, it pre-dates the use of key fobs. He actually has to stick the key into the key slot and turn it to unlock the door.

"Sorry about tonight," Ben says, although he isn't quite sure what he's apologizing for. Maybe for Dooley, maybe for his own revelation.

Scott sticks his hands into his coat pockets and leans against the truck bed. He studies the inky sky and then the gym building before meeting Ben's gaze. "Is it true?"

"It is." Ben offers a single nod. He stands a couple of feet from Scott, and the condensation of their breathing dissipates between them. Ben's grateful they're outside the fluorescent glare of blue-white light. The shadows allow them both a bit of cover.

"I didn't know," says Scott.

"No one did."

"Really?" Scott asks with a slight scoff. "None of those guys were at all surprised."

Ben lets his head drop for a moment. "Fair enough. So I wasn't very good at concealing my feelings. I never actually said anything to anyone."

"Why did you never say anything to me?"

"Well..." He'd wanted to, many times, but something in Scott's demeanor always held him back. Ben mirrors Scott and tucks his hands into his coat pockets; his pulse picks up. "You were so busy with the kennel. Focused and..." Kinda closed off, but Ben doesn't want to say that. The guy had dealt with a lot over the last year and a half. He has a right to be closed off. "...I just wasn't sure."

"That I was gay?"

Ben snorts. "No. That I knew." He sends Scott a half smile. "I wasn't sure you were interested in a relationship. And I didn't want to ruin our working rapport, much less our friendship, such as it is."

Scott pulls his hands from his pockets and crosses his arms, tucking his fingers into his pits, and sighs. "I wasn't, you know. Interested. In a relationship, I mean. The thought of it hadn't even occurred to me. And then someone said something, and it's been rolling around in my head ever since."

Ben glances skyward and chuckles. "I have a feeling your dinner invite to Chez Thompson wasn't a random twist of fate."

"Oh, you're kidding." Scott's gaze skims the road. He looks as though he's considering and discarding suspects. "Miss Maple?" he finally asks, eyebrows arching.

"Probably. Ma said something about talking to her at the post office last week."

"Geeze..." Scott swipes a hand down his face and tucks it back under his arm. "Yeah."

"So how did you end up being invited to dinner anyway?"

"Saw your mom at the gas station."

"Ah." Ben lifts and lowers his shoulders. "Well, I'm glad you came."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The air brakes from a semi up on the highway rumble through the night air. Cars line up in the drive-through of the taco place across the street.

Ben zips up his leather jacket and shoves his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. "So...how're you feeling about a relationship now?"

"I'm not sure. I, uh...I told Miss Maple I'd be open." Scott sighs. "But it's been a long time since I've been with anyone. The prospect is a bit daunting, to be honest."

Ben can't look away from the anxious expression on Scott's face. Ben has been interested for a few months now; another few weeks, maybe months, of waiting aren't going to kill him. Not now that he's gotten Scott's attention and Scott hasn't slammed the door shut in his face.

"How about we take it slow then?"

Scott quits leaning on the side of his truck and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat again. He stares at the ground for a long moment.

At least he seems to be giving it some thought, but the longer he takes, the lower Ben's stomach sinks. Scott's probably trying to word his rejection. "Look, Sco—"

"All right," says Scott, his head shooting up.

Ben blinks. "You what? All right?"

Scott nods. "Yeah. Let's go slow."

On the inside, Ben is doing cartwheels, but he doesn't want to freak Scott out with a crazy display of excitement. The man looks like he's just gotten a letter from the IRS.

Which is no way for a guy with a possible new boyfriend to look. Ben needs to replace his expression with something a little more positive.

He steps forward and cups Scott's face, brushes a thumb over his plump bottom lip. Scott's mouth opens slightly in surprise and his wide brown eyes flick from Ben's eyes to Ben's mouth and back. Want and lust ward with apprehension. A first kiss has never been so important, and Ben's heart hammers in his chest.

Ben closes his eyes and gives Scott an Eskimo kiss before brushing their lips together, feather soft. Everything in him wants to deepen the kiss, but he'd said slow, so he increases the pressure a moment and leaves it at that. They stand forehead to forehead, breathing in each other's air, and then Ben lifts his head. He skims Scott's lower lip with his thumb again and then drops his hands before he forgets himself. "I'll call you, okay? Maybe in a day or two."

Scott nods, looking a little flummoxed. "Sure. Yeah."

"Night then." Ben jogs over to his motorcycle and straps on his helmet. His blood doesn't stop thrumming until he falls asleep, the memory of Scott's lips against his keeping him awake far past his bedtime.

Chapter Three

The truck sputters and dies. "Dammit!" Scott shouts and slams his hands against the steering wheel. He cranks the wheel and pulls onto the side of the road. How the hell could he have run out of gas?

Easy, you moron. You've been preoccupied all day.

Ben's kiss had thrown him for a loop. The drive home last night had been pretty much a blur. After taking care of the dogs and showering, he'd collapsed into bed. Then he'd gotten up before dawn to clean out the occupied kennels before showering again and heading into Big Spring for his monthly therapy sessions.

Jason knew something was up, but Scott had courteously refused to 'fess up. Instead, they'd talked about his dinner at the Thompsons' and his foray into Ten Rigs society by volunteering to help set up for the Christmas festival.

Everything but the kiss.

The kiss was—is still too new, too special, too private to share with anybody not directly involved. Thank God physical therapy had offered him a forty-five-minute respite from all thoughts of the event, but as soon as he'd gotten on the highway for home, the memory had played itself out in living color over and over as if the repeat button had been pressed.

The low gas indicator light is broken, and he'd been watching the fuel level gauge and had planned on getting gas on his way into Big Spring. But his mind had returned to the scene in the parking lot, and he'd forgotten all about getting gas. He's a thirty-one-year-old man. Too old and too male for such a simple barely-a-kiss kiss to affect him so much. Cripes.

Scott snatches up his cell from the seat next to him and scrolls through his contacts. The list isn't long, but there's only one person he feels even remotely comfortable calling. And right now, even that is in question. He tosses the phone again. He's supposed to have had a couple of days to ruminate on the possibility of a relationship with the man before seeing him again.

Now he doesn't even get that.

Grabbing the damn phone, he swipes his thumb across the screen, keys in his PIN, and pulls up his contacts again. The phone gives off three short beeps and Scott squints at the top corner of the screen. Another cuss word explodes from his mouth. In all his agitation over that kiss, of course he'd forgotten to plug his phone in last night. Maybe the kiss hadn't been such a good idea. But he can't bring himself to wish it hadn't happened, despite his current situation.

He presses the call button for Ben's number and waits. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. C'mon, Ben. Pick up, pick up. Mid-fourth ring, three more little beeps sound and then the device goes silent. Scott looks at the now-black screen of his phone. Dammit, dammit, dammit. He carefully sets it down, though the urge to toss it out the window is huge. Being dead isn't the phone's fault after all. He slouches in the driver's seat, closes his eyes, and sighs. He has to get back to the kennel, so he has no choice but to start walking and hope someone from Ten Rigs recognizes him. The Ten Rigs turn-off is still a good five miles out, and the kennel is another mile and a half after that.

The truck rocks with the force of the wind as if to shake him from the vehicle. Who knows what the wind chill is, but at least there's sunshine.

Scott scoops up his phone, shoves it into the pocket of his coat, and locks up the truck. Although, who would want to steal this piece of crap, he doesn't know.

He's been walking for an hour, surprised that only a handful of cars have passed him going in either direction. He'd have thought there'd be more people driving between Big Spring and Ten Rigs or Big Spring and Snyder in the middle of the day, but apparently not. Not that he'd planned on hitchhiking, but surely someone would have recognized him and given him a ride.

After another forty-five minutes, his leg has begun to ache. Scott just isn't used to this level of continuous repetitious movement. That, coupled with his physical therapy earlier, is going to mean one sore stump for a few days.

The high-pitched whine of what can only be some sort of sport motorcycle sounds behind him. His heart jumps in hope. Not many people in Ten Rigs own motorcycles, and who knows about Snyder. Being so far out in West Texas, most people own trucks or SUVs of one sort or another.

Please let it be— Before Scott completes the thought, the bike zooms past him. It looks like Ben's bike, and the chances of there being two of those exact same make and model motorcycles around here are pretty slim. Scott throws up his hands, but at the speed Ben is going, he's so far past him in a matter of moments that it's a futile gesture. Dammit.

He shoves his hands back into his pockets only to realize the bike has turned around and is approaching him at a slower and slower rate. Thank God. It crosses the yellow line and comes to a halt a few feet in front of him.

Ben settles his feet on the ground, throttles back the motor, and tugs off his helmet, leaving his auburn hair sticking up every which way. "Hey, sailor, want a ride?" Ben waggles his eyebrows and grins and then laughs.

"I wasn't a sailor, you idiot," Scott says, but he can't keep his lip from twitching.

"Whatever. What happened to the truck?" Ben glances in the direction he's just come.

"I ran out of gas, no thanks to you." It takes less than a blink to register his admission. Shit.

Ben just laughs. "How do you figure?"

There's no way in hell Scott is going to admit he's been overcome by a barely there kiss. That is so sixth-grade-girl, it's embarrassing, even if it is true. Dammit. "Nevermind. Doesn't matter."

Ben's mirth fades. "All right," he says and studies Scott for a moment. "You want a ride?"

"On that thing?" Scott eyes the bike. He can't quite tell if it'll seat two or not. And if it does...

Ben nods. "Or I can ride home and get the truck. Or go up to the school and get Ma's car. It's closer."

"No." Scott shakes his head. He can handle—what?—ten minutes max on the back of this thing. "It's fine. I really need to get back to the kennel."

"All right." Ben hands Scott his helmet. "Put this on."

"Don't you need it?" Aren't there laws?

"On the off chance we go down, you get the head protection. It's non-negotiable."

"Okay. Where do I sit?"

Ben pats the space behind him. "Sit as far back or as close to me as you feel comfortable. Feet go there." He points. "You can hold onto that part there—" He points again. "—or you can put your hands on my waist." He glances in the direction of home. "It'll take us less than five minutes."

Scott slides the helmet over his head and fastens the chin strap while Ben revs the engine. He balances the bike between his legs and sits, then nods. Scott swings a leg over and settles into position, leaving a couple of inches between his crotch and Ben's ass.

He's never been on a motorcycle. Putting his hands on Ben makes Scott nervous, but not holding onto him seems foolhardy. He clutches Ben's waist and squeezes once as an indicator that he's ready. Ben nods and revs the engine again. He puts the bike into motion, settling his feet on the pegs, and picks up speed.

The cold air rushes over them, but the sound is muted by the thick helmet. Ben's hair ruffles in the draft. The bike vibrates smoothly beneath them, and Ben tilts the vehicle slightly as they take the turns. Scott holds his breath each time, even though Ben doesn't cant the bike too steeply. Thank goodness. Otherwise, the ride is uneventful, and a short time later, Ben pulls to a stop near the front door of the kennel and cuts the engine.

Scott's heart is thumping as he dismounts. His knees feel a little wobbly and he fumbles with the chin strap, but finally gets it undone and removes the helmet.

Sylvester dances and yips at the chain-link fence. More barking sounds from the kennel area beyond.

Ben takes the helmet from him and grins like the Cheshire cat. "What did you think?"

Scott's cheeks warm. Shit. "How could you tell?"

"What? That you were a motorcycle virgin?" he asks and laughs. "The tightness of your hands at my waist and the squeeze of your knees along my hips."

Scott rolls his eyes. "Great." Just what he needs—to look like a dumbass in front of the guy who likes him. But better for him to know what he's getting, Scott supposes.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "Next time'll be better."

Scott arches an eyebrow. "Next time? You're that sure you're going to get me back on that thing?"

"I'm pretty sure, yeah." Ben nods and winks. Scott's gut quivers at the promise in Ben's voice. "I'll go into town, get a car and a gas can, and head back this way, all right?"

"Listen, Ben, there's no rush. I've got to work with the dogs for a while this afternoon. How about tonight? You bring gas and beer, I'll order pizza."

Ben had offered slow, and Scott still wanted that, but they couldn't make any progress without spending time together. And suddenly, he wants to dip his toe in.

Ben's whole face lights up and then immediately dims. "Oh, man, I wish I could, but Misty's got her kindergarten program tonight. And we're going for ice cream after that."

"Yeah. Okay." It's silly to be disappointed. They're at the very beginning of whatever this is, and they both have jobs and obligations. There are bound to be conflicts. "Of course."

"Hey, what are you doing on Monday night?" Ben asks, his face suddenly shining like a movie theater marquee. "Everyone's coming over for the Game of the Week. Why don't you come too?"

"Who's everyone?" Not that it matters. If Scott accepts, his appearance will basically be an announcement. He just wants to know who all he is potentially announcing to.

"Tim, Rachel, and Leah. Leah might bring her flavor of the week. That's it."

Ben's family. That doesn't seem so daunting. He's already faced half of them. How intimidating can his sisters be?

"Okay." Scott nods slowly. Sylvester yips. He hands Ben a twenty. "For the gas."

Ben shoves the cash into his pocket. "I'll stop by in the morning then."

Scott lifts a hand in farewell and enters the kennel. Sylvester dances around him and Scott picks him up. The soft fur of Sylvester's neck is silky against his face. "I think I have a boyfriend, Syl. What do you think of that?"

Sylvester arfs and licks Scott's cheek. Scott chuckles. "I'm not so sure, either." He lowers Sylvester to the ground and takes off his coat. "C'mon, boy, we've got work to do."

Chapter Four

Ben places the slow cooker of chili cheese dip on the dining room table and surveys his family. "Um..."

Everyone stops what they're doing and looks at him. His gaze flits from person to person and he runs his tongue over his lips. He swallows past the tiny lump in his throat. This shouldn't be so hard. This is his family. They'd accepted his homosexuality a decade ago. But it's been years since he's brought anyone home. Since before his sister Gillian's death and before he'd become Misty's de facto father.

Of course, if he doesn't say anything, Scott's arrival will, and that wouldn't be fair to Scott. Ben wants all the teasing over with before he arrives. Well, as much of it as possible. There's no way Scott is going to make it through the evening without being on the receiving end of a few comments, if Ben knows his family. And he does. All eyes are on him. He wipes his hands down the front of his khaki pants. "I, ah...invited someone."

Cheers go up around the room, and he lets out the breath he'd held, and warmth creeps up his face instead.

Leah loudly singsongs, "Ben's got a boyfriend, Ben's got a boyfriend," and resumes her silverware laying.

"Hush, Leah," admonishes Ma, although her own smile is wide.

"Are you kidding? After all the times he did that to me? No way, José."

Ben rolls his eyes. Yeah, he might've had that coming. But he was the only boy in a houseful of sisters, and the list of indignities he'd suffered at their hands over the years is lengthy.

"Ooh la la," says Rachel, elbowing him. Her loose auburn curls bounce around her round face. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"Is it Scott?" asks Tim, a delighted grin on his face. He sets down the stack of special game-night plates he's carrying—leftovers from Ma's collection of various Corelle-ware patterns she'd amassed over the years.

Ben can't help his answering smile and nods.

"How do you know and I don't?" asks Rachel, sending her husband a good-natured glare from across the chest-high counter separating the dining room from the kitchen. Tim flashes her a cheesy grin.

"Good for you, honey," says Ma. Then she shakes her head. "I should've known Marva was up to something."

"Is it serious?" asks Rachel, bringing in a bowl of tortilla chips and a stack of heavy-duty napkins.

Ben shrugs. After getting to know Scott over the last four, five months, he wants it to be. Eventually. "Neither one of us has been with anyone for a while. We're gonna take it slow and see how it goes."

Just then, Misty races in, strawberry blond pigtails skewed lopsided on her head, followed by Dad. They've been feeding the cats.

"Who's your new boyfriend, Ben?" She climbs onto one of the bar stools and jumps into his arms, smacking a kiss to his cheek. He holds her close, inhaling the smell of fresh air and the little girl perfume she likes to wear, and kisses the side of her head.

"Some guy named Scott," says Leah. "Do I know him?"

"He camed for dinner."

"Oh, he did, did he?" Leah asks, her Thompson blue eyes going wide.

Misty nods vigorously, pigtails bouncing. "He has a doggie named 'Vester, right, Ben?"

"Right, munchkin." He lets Misty slide to her feet. "Listen, guys, I can take the razzing, but go easy on Scott, would you?"

"Sure we will, Bennigan," says Leah, sending him a smirk.

"I mean it, please."

"Leah, watch yourself," says Dad with just that underpinning of steel that none of them had ever wanted to hear as kids. Even at thirty-three, it can still spike Ben's pulse. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Rachel and Tim exchanging raised eyebrows.

"God, Dad, all those times he tormented me?" Leah settles her hands on her hips looking all affronted. A vision of her at age eleven doing just that and stomping her foot and exclaiming, 'It's not fair,' flashes through Ben's mind. There is apparently no growing out of the middle child mindset.

"This isn't about Ben, sweetheart, it's about Scott, all right?" Dad kisses her cheek. "His growing up circumstances were far different from yours. He might not understand the way in which your sarcastic remarks are intended. Ben, on the other hand, is fair game," he says with a wink.

Everyone laughs.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Tim, will you pull the tater nuggets from the oven?" Ma asks, bringing the crock of BBQ beef and a couple of bags of burger buns to the table. "Get the door, Ben. Your boyfriend's here."

"What?" asks Ben, gaze darting to the window.

"Will do, Ma," says Tim, heading into the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

At the top of her lungs, Leah says, "Ben's boyfriend's here."

Misty charges to the door. Ben scurries after her, but he isn't fast enough. She pulls it open and says, "Are you Ben's boyfriend?"

Laughter filters out from the kitchen and Ben's stomach churns again. He sure hopes Scott isn't that easily scared off.

Scott's eyes saucer and his gaze snaps to Ben's.

"Misty, go help Gamma." He propels her out of the entry hall and back into the kitchen.

"God, I'm so sorry. I told them you were coming, and Leah had to exact a bit of revenge for all the crap I gave her in high school." Ben pushes open the screen. "If you want to brave the lion's den, they should've gotten most of it out of their systems by now, but if you want to bail, I completely understand."

Scott's expression is difficult to read with the Christmas lights providing most of the illumination.

"Scott, honey, get your behind in here," calls Ma. "You two are letting out all my nice warm air."

One dark eyebrow arches and Scott steps inside, a plastic grocery bag dangling from his wrist. "Yes, Mrs. Thompson," he calls back. To Ben he says, "Have you got a whip and a chair handy?"

Ben laughs, takes Scott's coat from him, and points him in the direction of the kitchen. He hears Scott's fortifying breath and claps him gently on the shoulder as they round the corner into the kitchen.

"Stop," hollers Leah.

Scott and Ben both freeze.

"Geeze, Leah, what?"

She points to a spot over their heads and Ben's stomach sinks. Oh, hell.

Scott looks up. "Oh, uh..."

"Leah, leave the boys alone."

"It's not like I planned it, Ma," she says, flashing a smart-ass grin. "We didn't even know Scott was coming until ten minutes ago."

"Fine," says Ben. It isn't like he doesn't want to kiss Scott, because he does. Very much so. But he'd much rather have some privacy—not six pair of eyes on them. He leans forward and plants a quick peck on Scott's scruffy cheek. "There. Satisfied?"

"For now," she says with a wink.

Ben rolls his eyes. "Okay, so...Scott, the family. Family, this is Scott. Scott, you know Ma and Dad."

Scott shakes hands with Dad and hands Ma the grocery bag.

"What's this?" she asks, peering into the bag and then turning shining eyes up at Scott.

Scott shrugs. "A little birdie told me you had a hard time finding your favorite Christmas candy here in Ten Rigs. I was in Big Spring yesterday, and I hope that's it."

"It is, honey. Thank you." She surges up and kisses his cheek. "This one's a keeper, Ben."

Ben's face heats up, but he ignores it and proceeds with the introductions. "You remember Tim?"

From the other side of the bar, Tim lifts a hand. "Good to see you, man."

Scott nods.

"Next to him is his wife and my sister Rachel, and next to her is our sister Leah."

"Y'all really do look that much alike, don't you?"

"Scary, isn't it?" says Dad with a mock shiver.

Leah squeezes past Dad and looks Scott up and down. "Oh, you're hunky. Are you sure you're gay?"

Scott laughs. A deep chortle that Ben wants to hear again. "Pretty sure, yeah."

She shrugs and winks. "Just checkin'."

Misty squirms into the crowd and pats Scott on the stomach. "Hi, Mr. Scott. You 'member me, don'tcha?"

He kneels down. "How could I forget you, Misty? I hear you had a program on Friday. How'd it go?"

Misty beams. "We singed Christmas songs, and then Gamma and Papa and Ben and me had ice cream. Do ya like ice cream, Mr. Scott?"

"Sure do."

"What's your fav—"

"Misty," says Leah, "come on, let's get some dinner before these stinky boys eat it all up."

Misty's head swivels around and she bounds toward Leah. "'Kay."

Ben meets Leah's eyes and mouths, "Thank you."

She winks.

"Scott, honey, get a plate and dish up. There's plenty," says Ma.

Twenty minutes later, everyone is seated in the den, and the familiar sounds of football announcers and screaming fans blare from the big screen.

Ben watches Scott and Dad eating and talking. They look to be getting along, and for that, he is imminently grateful, but how the hell has he ended up seated across the room from his 'date'?

It's not that he wants to cuddle or anything—okay, he does, but not in front of his family—not yet, anyway—but he would like to at least talk to his guest.

"Oh, c'mon, ref—are you kidding me?" shouts Ma. "Get your eyes checked."

Scott glances at Ma and smiles.

Ma is the resident football aficionado and Monday nights in front of the Game of the Week are as good an excuse as any to get the family together. Not everyone makes it every week, but everyone has made it tonight.

"Tell me, Scott," says Dad, "you a football fan?"

Scott glances at his plate and then at Ma with a speculative expression. "Do I get sent home if I say no?"

Dad throws back his head and laughs. Ben chuckles.

"Actually, I discovered hockey during my hospital stays and rehab."

"Yeah, baby," exclaims Tim, raising a fist. "Go Mounties."

"You've got to be kidding?" quips Scott. "The Rotors all the way."

"You know Noah Drinkwater is from here, don't you?" asks Ben.

Scott's eyes get large. "Wow. Really? Who'd have thought an NHL hockey player would come out of Ten Rigs, Texas?"

"I know, right?" says Ben. "He usually comes home for a few weeks after his season ends. I'm sure we can get together or something."

"You know him? I don't remember him at all."

"We did Scouts and Little League together," says Ben. "He left to play in one of those junior leagues that feeds into the professional system after middle school. Lived with a family in Nebraska, I think it was."

Ben rises then and begins collecting plates. Half time is moments away and they all have their parts to play. Except Ma and Dad. Ma and Dad stay put. Leah has Misty duty tonight, and Tim, Rachel, and Ben will oversee the cleaning up of dinner.

Scott stands. "How can I help?"

"Go pick some ice cream, honey," says Ma. "Ben, show him the freezer."

"Right this way."

The whistle blows and everyone gets to work.

"But I don't want to go to bed," says Misty.

"You never want to go to bed, munchkin," says Leah. "Let's go."

Misty stomps up the stairs with Leah right behind her.

Rachel and Tim start rinsing the dishes, and Ben leads Scott into the garage and opens a large chest freezer of nothing but ice cream.

Scott looks inside and then looks at Ben with huge brown eyes. "Holy hot fudge sundae, Batman, that's a lot of ice cream."

Ben laughs. "Yeah, we have it just about every night. And, as you can see, we aren't that picky."

Wispy white condensation swirls upwards as they both brace themselves with their hands on the edge of the open freezer and study the contents. Well, Scott peruses the ice cream. Ben just looks at Scott. The five o'clock shadow, the spiky black lashes, the strip of white at the base of his hairline indicating a recent haircut. He wants to nuzzle the spot behind his ear.

The corner of Scott's mouth crooks upwards and he turns his head to meet Ben's gaze. His dark eyes shine in the light from the freezer bed. "Like what you see?" he murmurs, his gaze flicking to Ben's mouth and back.

Ben's stomach swirls and, damn, he wants to steal a kiss. But they'd agreed to slow, so he'll just bide his time.

Scott leans in and takes possession of his mouth. Then, somehow, they're upright and chest to chest, and there's heavy breathing and tongue and teeth and noses, and his pants are growing tight and—

"How long does it take to pick out ice—"

Ben steps back, chest heaving, gaze never leaving Scott's.

"Oh, shoot. Sorry, guys." Rachel whirls around and disappears before he can say anything.

Scott's chest rises and falls in quick waves as he too works at catching his breath. He points at the freezer. "I guess we should pick something and get back."

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "Don't worry about Rachel, she won't say any—"

"Oh. My. God. I missed it?" comes Leah's voice loud and clear from the kitchen.

They haven't been in here that long, have they?

"Or never mind. Sorry about that."

"I kissed you, remember?" Scott says, grinning as he reaches into the freezer and comes up with a carton of mint and chip.

"Granted. But they're my family." And he's going to get his revenge somehow.

"Yes, they are, Ben. Don't worry about it. Come on."

The freezer shuts with a thud and Ben follows Scott back into the house, dreading the ribbing that is now sure to come.

Maybe they can avoid it if they parted company for the next few minutes. Ben pushes Scott toward the family room while he goes into the kitchen to help Tim and Rachel scoop the ice cream.

"I'm so sorry, Ben," Rachel says, looking genuinely contrite. "I should have figured. When Tim and I first started dating, we had a hard time keeping our hands off each other. Now—"

Tim loops his arms around her and presses a kiss to her neck. "Now nothing. I still have a hard time keeping my hands off you. You're just as gorgeous today as you were the day I married you." She turns in his arms and clasps her hands behind his neck and rubs his nose with her own.

"Could you not...over the ice cream?" Ben says, making a face. But it's all in jest. In reality, he can't have asked for a better man for Rachel. If only Leah would find someone just as perfect for her.

"You've got no room to talk, Bennigan, after what I just walked in on." Rachel kisses her husband one last time and turns back to the ice cream. They empty the carton just as Misty thunders down the stairs. She runs into the kitchen wearing her favorite dinosaur pajamas. "What kinda ice cream are we having?"

"Mint and chip," Ben says, handing her a bowl.

He follows her into the family room and watches her plop on the sofa next to Scott. He isn't meant to sit next to his date for some reason. Ben hands a bowl to Scott, then to Ma and Dad before taking the chair next to Dad.

"You like this kind?" Misty asks, holding the bowl up for Scott's inspection.

"I sure do."

"Me too. It's Ben's fav'rit."

Scott sends him a wink. "Is it?"

"Uh huh." She takes a bite, and the TV shows the teams readying for the second half. "Mr. Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to the Christmas Festival with us?"

He blinks and looks at the TV. "Ah, well, I don't know."

Ben's heart sinks. He hasn't asked because, well, the Festival opens Friday, and it's only Monday, and he just hasn't thought that far ahead.

Ma sends him a frown before saying, "Of course, he's going to the Festival with us, Misty." Then her lip quirks and Ben waits for it. "He's Ben's boyfriend, after all."

Everyone laughs and Scott smiles. "Well, I guess that answers that," he says to Misty.

With a single decisive nod, she says, "Yep," and shovels another bite of ice cream into her mouth.

Chapter Five

Scott stands between Mrs. Thompson and Ben, who carries Misty on his shoulders. A larger and larger crowd gathers around the huge and beautifully decorated tree in anticipation of the official tree-lighting ceremony that kicks off the Christmas Festival.

Ben's hand rests on the small of Scott's back and his thumb moves in slow circles, making Scott's blood hum in his veins. If Ben is going to do things like that all night, Scott will be hard pressed not to find one of the many sprigs of mistletoe tied up around the square and plant one on him. As if sensing Scott's gaze, Ben smirks, but keeps his eyes on the tree.

The mayor finally steps onto the podium and offers a warm welcome to Ten Rigs visitors and a hearty thanks to its citizens. Someone kicks off the traditional singing of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" and then finally, the ten thousand lights are lit to a collective 'oooh' from the crowd, followed by a round of applause.

"Can we see Santa now?" asks Misty as the crowd begins dispersing.

"Everyone's going to want to see Santa right now, munchkin," says Ben. "Why don't we go feed the reindeer first?"

"'Kay," she says, clapping.

Mrs. Thompson glances from Ben to Scott and back, then winks. "We're gonna meet up with Mary and Arnold. Call us when you're ready to send her home."

Scott turns away to hide his blush. Even Ben's parents can't resist teasing them. He loves it, even though it flusters him a little. He feels accepted and wanted, and he can't ever remember feeling that way.

Mr. Thompson curls an arm around his wife's shoulders and they meander off, chatting and laughing.

Ben lifts Misty from his shoulders and sets her on the ground. She immediately situates herself between them and takes their hands.

They find the reindeer enclosure and buy several cups of the small pellets being offered. After feeding the reindeer, they get in line for Santa's Workshop. Once Misty has seen Santa and connected with another little girl from her kindergarten class, they head for the large igloo-shaped bounce house.

Misty and her friend Amy crawl into the bounce house under the watchful eye of Amy's mother, Johanna, one of the servers up at O'Leary's Pub.

Scott follows Ben to one of the many extra benches placed around the town square and sits beside him. Ben rests an ankle on his knee and taps on the small expanse of wood between them that is now hidden by his crossed leg. Scott glances down and grins before sliding his hand into Ben's. The rightness of it makes him sigh.

"You're not too bored, are you?" Ben asks, squeezing his hand slightly.

How can he be bored when he's been accepted by and welcomed into the fold of a family so warm and generous that he isn't quite sure how he's supposed to feel? He blinks away the slight prickle at the corners of his eyes. Bored is nowhere close to what he's feeling. He glances at Ben, clutches his hand a little tighter. "No. I... No, this is nice." He snorts. Nice is an understatement, but he's at a loss. "Not just nice, I mean...your family has been... They're amazing. Misty's...God, she's a riot. The look on Santa's face when she asked for a pirate ship tree house was priceless."

Ben laughs. "She's a lot like Leah, heaven help us."

His thumb rubs across Scott's knuckles and the rhythmic motion does funny things to Scott's insides. He's never felt like this; he can't give it a name, but he doesn't want it to end. That Ben accepts his lost limb and his prosthetic leg as just another part of him, like his dark hair and eyes, is astonishing. It seems to have no bearing on who Ben considers him to be or what Ben thinks he can do. Like he's blind to it, even though he knows about it. Scott has fought a lot of prejudice in the year and a half since his injury, and now here is a man to whom a fake leg is mostly a non-factor, and he can't help be a tiny bit in love with him for that reason alone.

"Earth to Scott, come in." Ben kisses the back of his hand and Scott blinks in surprise.

He looks around, but no one is paying them any mind. "Huh?"

"I'm gonna get some hot cocoa. You want some?"

A cover of clouds has blown in across the area, warming up the temperatures for opening night of the festival, much to everyone's surprise, and Scott isn't cold at all. "Nah. I'm fine, but thanks."

Ben leans over, his lips hovering in the vicinity of Scott's ear. Scott's heart beats double time at the warm fan of Ben's breath.

"You sure? You and the taste of chocolate...I think the combination would be pretty damned tasty."

Scott sucks in and lets out a breath. Mischief dances in Ben's blue eyes.

"Um. Okay. Cocoa'd be great."

So there's going to be some kissing going on later, which is fine by him. All the accidental and not-so-accidental touching and the brushing up against one another has definitely ratcheted up his own need for some alone time with Ben.

His deep chuckle goes straight to Scott's groin. Ben gets up and heads toward the bounce house. The snug fit of the man's jeans doesn't help matters either, and Scott pulls the legs of his own jeans down to ease the sudden snugness. Ben has a few words with Johanna. They both look Scott's way and Ben points. Scott lifts his hand in acknowledgment of something, and Johanna nods. Ben disappears around the bounce house.

Scott watches the crowd, waving to folks he recognizes like Aiden O'Leary, owner of O'Leary's Pub, as well as Miss Marva and Miss Wanda. Some folks wave at him just because their gazes met. He hadn't missed his hometown when he'd left for the Army. His middle and high school years hadn't held any fond memories. But being part of a community, being part of a family, even peripherally, touches a place in him he'd long thought dormant.

"Mr. Scott!" Misty shouts before plopping into his lap.

He shifts slightly to avoid getting a knee to a sensitive part of his anatomy but laughs as the breath whooshes out of him. He looks up and waves at Misty's friend's mom, who smiles and then changes direction. "Did you have fun?"

Her exaggerated nod, sparkling eyes, and wide smile say everything she hasn't. "Where's Ben?"

"He went to get some hot cocoa."

"I love hot cocoa. Is he gonna bring me some too?"

"I'm sure he will. If not, you can have mine."

"'Kay," she says and nestles into his lap, tugging his arms around her. Something clicks inside him, and for the first time in a long time, he thinks there just might be some happiness in his future. The fact that this little girl has accepted that her uncle has a boyfriend and not a girlfriend without missing a beat says a lot about the whole Thompson family.

"Mr. Scott, how come you and Ben didn't sit on Santa's lap?"

A chuckle rumbles in his chest. "We're a little too big, don't you think?"

She nods and yawns. "Yeah. I 'spose so."

"Besides, grownups can ask Santa for what they want on Santa's website."

"They can?"

"Sure they can."

She yawns again and settles more snugly into his arms. Deep contentment wraps around him like the warmish breeze that whispers through the trees.

"Didja?"

"Did I what?"

"Ask Santa for something?"

At the moment, he has everything he could possibly want, with the exception of good homes for the shelter dogs in his care. "Not yet, but I will. I promise."

"Maybe if you ask for a pirate ship tree house, too, he'll bring one to Ten Rigs."

Scott resists the urge to laugh too hard for fear of disturbing her. If her transition from live weight to dead weight is anything to go by, he'd say she's falling asleep in his arms. And isn't that amazing?

Ben comes into view, his large hands dwarfing the Styrofoam cups he carries. A smile creeps softly across his features when he spots Scott and Misty. "It's a good look on you," he says softly, retaking the spot to Scott's right. After a few flicks and taps to the screen of his smart phone, ringing floats up from the device.

"Hey, sweetheart," says Mrs. Thompson.

"Hey, Ma. Misty's conked out."

"Okay. Give us a few minutes to say our goodbyes and we'll meet you at the car."

Ben offers to take Misty, but Scott is thrilled at the feel of a sleeping child in his arms.

They sip their cool-enough-to-drink cocoa on the way to the Thompsons' car parked on a side street a couple of blocks away.

Mrs. Thompson doesn't bat an eyelash at the sight of Scott carrying her granddaughter. She opens the rear door and holds the front arm of Misty's booster seat out of the way. "Nice and easy, honey," she murmurs, and Scott isn't sure if she's talking to him or to Misty. A couple of clicks later, Misty is secured for the ride home.

"Thanks, Ma," says Ben, pressing a kiss to her cheek and helping her into the front passenger seat.

"Night, boys," she says.

"Use condoms," calls Ben's dad just as her door closes.

"Oh my God, Dad, really?" Ben calls after the moving vehicle and throws his arms into the air. He whirls around, bright splotches on his cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

Scott laughs hard. "It's fine. It's nice."

"It's not nice; it's embarrassing," Ben says, the flush on his cheeks bearing out his assertion.

"They love you."

One side of Ben's mouth lifts in a half-smile. "Yeah. And they seem to like you well enough. So that's a good thing."

"Do they?"

"Uh, huh. I like you too," he says, his gaze circling the space around Scott.

"What are you—"

Large hands cup his head and warm lips cover his. "I've been wanting to do that all night," Ben says, resting his forehead on Scott's. "Let's get out of here."

"And go where?"

"We can go back to the house if you want. Misty sleeps like the dead, and Ma and Dad will probably watch TV in bed."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not." Having anyone else around while fooling around, no matter how innocent the fooling or how welcoming and accepting the anyones, will stress him out. He's always had to keep his displays of affection private, and old habits die hard.

"Just to be clear, we're not...?" Ben's raised eyebrow ask the question he won't or can't give voice.

The thought made his stomach loop, and Scott shook his head. "Ah...no. But I'd rather it just be us."

"I've got no problem with that. I left my bike at the office. Where's your truck?"

"A couple of blocks over."

"Let's go."

* * *

Barking from the kennel echoes as Scott presses Ben against the door, kissing his mouth, his jaw, his bobbing Adam's apple, relishing the scrape of Ben's faint stubble. The pressure of a lean hard body against his own feels so, so good after so long without. His pulse picks up, his breathing shallows as Ben's hands slide up his arms and cup his jaw, tilt his head a little more to the side, deepens the kiss. The hot wet slide of their mouths is delicious and electric, but something isn't right.

Scott stills, listens, and pulls back, frowning.

"What is it?" Ben's chest rises and falls like the bow of a ship in rough seas.

Scott's own does the same. He shakes his head, frowns, and looks toward the dog yard. Something is off.

"Uh uh. If I did something, you need to say so."

His gaze snaps to Ben's, pupils blown, and he shakes his head. "No. God, no. Not you, not this." He gulps a breath. "I just— Something's wrong."

Ben nods. "Okay..." he says, sounding unsure.

Scott presses his lips to Ben's and then sticks his key in the doorknob and pushes. He listens again. He hasn't heard Sylvester's high-pitched arfing mixed in with the other barking. The jangle of the bell over the door hasn't been immediately followed by the clicking of Sylvester's nails on the concrete. That isn't good. It isn't good at all. His stomach twists.

"Syl—" he tries to holler before his throat takes the rest of the word hostage.

"Scott, what is it?" asks Ben, his forehead creasing in concern.

Scott flips on the lights and they both blink in the sudden brightness compared to just the muted colors of the Christmas lights he'd hung last weekend.

Another round of barking comes from the kennels.

"It's my dog." His words are choked as he scans the room.

Ben glances around. "Maybe he's asleep."

Scott shakes his head hard. "No. He always greets me. Not once—not once—since the day I got him has he not come running when I get home." He looks behind the counter and slams his fist on the Formica at the sight of the empty dog bed. He takes the stairs three at a time with Ben right behind him.

"Does he have a favorite hiding spot?" Ben asks.

"No," Scott exclaims with another shake of his head. "I told you. Something's wrong." He scrapes his fingernails across his scalp. His heart hammers in his chest. Oh God, oh God, oh God. He gasps for breath.

Ben clamps a hand on his shoulder and he jumps.

"Hey, breathe. Look at me. Breathe in."

Scott meets Ben's gaze and sucks in a jagged breath.

"Breathe out."

He lets out the air he's just hauled in.

"Breathe in."

Scott obeys, his heart slowing slightly.

"Breathe out. That's it. Okay. Let's go room by room, all right? We'll find him. I'll look up here, if you're okay with that. You start downstairs."

All Scott can do is nod. He forces himself to take measured breaths. He descends the stairs again carefully. Last thing he needs is to take a header. He slides both hands down the walls as he goes.

Visions of Hoya lying still on the sand flash in his brain. He swallows back his fear. Letting his fear—letting his memories—take over isn't going to help him find Sylvester.

He blinks, shakes his head. Okay. He can do this. He can do nothing for Hoya anymore. He has to find Syl.

Scott scans the office slowly, fights the urge to skim. If he skims, he'll miss something. The floor under the desk, the empty bottom bookshelf, under the table. Nothing. In the waiting area, he runs his gaze across the floor under the folding chairs along the wall and front window. Still nothing.

"Sylvester, buddy, where are you?" He ignores the breaking of his voice. Sylvester has to be outside then. Rhythmic thumps indicate Ben is on his way down. If he'd found Syl, he would've called for Scott. Dammit.

"Go through the inner kennel." He points at a door and Ben nods, heading there immediately. "I'm gonna look in the yard. There's a doggie door."

"Okay," says Ben, disappearing. Barking echoes throughout the place at Ben's intrusion.

Scott pushes outside and flips on the floodlights. More barking fills the air.

"Syl, where are you?" He can barely get the words past his throat. He stops, bends over and braces his hands on his knees, taking several deep breaths of air. He needs to calm down. Being in a panic certainly won't help Syl, but he's having such a hard time focusing on the here and now. Despite the deep, even breaths, his head feels light. He shakes it, and takes another breath in and then lets it out.

Slow and not-so-steady, he moves along the walkway, his eyes scanning back and forth, slowly, methodically.

Then he sees Sylvester's tail. His heart leaps to his throat and lodges there. Syl's tail isn't moving.

His tail is always moving.

"Oh, God." Sylvester. He drops to his knees. He swallows past the lump. "Ben," he shouts. Only he hasn't. Tears sting his eyes. Syl— God— Please— He's panting now. He needs help. He can't—

"Ben—" That's better, but still not loud enough for Ben to hear him, not over the noise the dogs are making.

Scott places a gentle hand on Sylvester's side and turns his face to the sky. Thank you. Syl is breathing. That's something. Fast, but steady. Good. That's good. Unlike Scott's own breathing. His inhales are short, his exhales deep. He can't keep enough air in.

The bang of the door makes him start. He whips his head around and meets Ben's wide eyes. "Ben."

He doesn't know if he manages volume this time, but Ben says, "It's okay. I'm here, boo," and is by his side in a flash.

Ben settles a hand on Sylvester's side. "He's breathing; that's good. Let me call Dr. Farmer." Ben fishes out his cell phone and is thumbing through his contacts within moments.

Scott looks at him, blinks. He has the vet on speed dial?

"She's a client," he says, as if able to read Scott's mind. Scott hears the barely there answer from the other end of the connection. "Doc, I've got a dog emergency—a long-haired Chihuahua—" He looks at Scott. "How old?"

"Um...six. He's six."

"Six years old. Unconscious. We're not sure what happened, we just found him."

Ben listens and nods. "Will do. Thanks, Doc. See you when we get there.

"We need a board and a towel or a blanket."

Scott nods and clambers to his feet. He immediately stumbles and collapses because his legs have gone numb from sitting on them.

"Easy there, kimosabe," says Ben. "Sit for a minute, straighten your legs. I saw a pile of blankets in the kennel. Be right back."

Scott shifts to sit on his hind end with his legs sticking straight out and the blood flows back to his feet—foot. He hisses at the painful tingle he feels, seemingly, in both feet. Sylvester still hasn't moved, save the slight rise and fall of his body. Scott's eyes and nose burn, and he scrunches his eyes closed. Please, oh, please, oh, please, let him live. He can't die. He just can't. 'Cause if he does— No. He shakes his head.

Ben returns and kneels next to Scott and Sylvester. "Hey..."

Scott looks up into Ben's big blue eyes.

"I'm here, okay? I'm here."

"Thank you. I don't know what I would have done if you weren't."

Ben pats his leg. "You would've done what needed doing. It's fine." Gently, slowly, carefully, Ben shifts Sylvester onto the section of organizer shelving he'd taken from the storeroom. Sylvester remains limp and unmoving.

Ben stands and holds out his hands to Scott. When Scott places his hands in Ben's, he's tugged upright.

"Can you manage the doors?" Ben asks.

"Yeah. Sure. Doors." Scott nods jerkily.

Ben picks up the shelf with Sylvester's still little body wrapped in a blanket on it. They make their way back out to the kennel truck and Scott climbs in the passenger seat and puts on his seat belt. Ben sets the shelf on his lap. "Where're the keys?"

"Here." He slaps them into Ben's palm. The only reason Scott had known where they were is because they'd clanked on the doorknob when he'd pulled it shut. Ben's in the driver's seat, and the truck is down the driveway and on the highway toward town in moments.

Chapter Six

Dr. Susan Farmer and Lucy, one of her vet techs, await their arrival. Doc nods at Sylvester's wrapped and secured little body. "Good job," she says, taking the shelf from Scott. "Scott, I'm going to take him back and get some x-rays, take some blood, see what I can find out, all right?"

He nods, looking pretty shell shocked. Ben drops a light arm across his shoulders.

"Lucy, take them to the private waiting room and then come help me."

"Right this way," says Lucy, heading down the hall.

Ben has never seen Scott like this. Sylvester's accident has thrown him for one hell of a loop, and he has a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with the bomb that had taken Scott's leg. But he doesn't know how it relates to the dog. Scott's a pretty private guy, and even though they are now seeing each other, it's still early days and too soon for any sort of gut spilling. But hell, some insight would be useful.

Lucy opens a door and hurries in and turns on a small table lamp. She pulls a remote control from a drawer and sets it on the small coffee table. "There's a coffee pot and water in the mini-fridge."

"Thanks," says Ben and she leaves. He shoves his fingers into his front pockets and scans the room.

Several wood-framed chairs with upholstered seats and backs line one wall. It's a cozy room with a fake ficus in the corner and small flat screen TV hanging on one wall. A cluster of framed pet photos decorate another.

Lucy left the door cracked—no one else is in the vet's office at eleven thirty at night.

Scott collapses into a chair. He crosses his arms and bounces both legs.

Ben sits next to him. He isn't sure what to say or what to do right now. If it had been him, he'd want company and companionable silence, not irritating platitudes. "If you need something, let me know," is all he says.

Scott nods, then closes his eyes and drops his head against the wall, knees still rising and falling at a rapid rate.

Minutes turn into half an hour and then an hour. They sit without speaking, although the volume and rate of Scott's breathing ebbs and flows as he works through his emotions. Ben wants to comfort him, but Sylvester's accident and Scott's reaction are huge things, and the two of them have no history with even the small things to guide him.

Screw it. He has to do something.

He reaches for Scott's hand when Scott's eyes flew open. They're red-rimmed and full of such misery that Ben's breath stalls in his lungs.

Scott stands. "Look, Ben..." He rakes his hands across the top of his head. "I can't... We can't... This isn't going to work."

Ben's vision narrows and he goes cold all over. He shakes his head. "What? I don't understand. What isn't going to work?"

Scott looks pretty wrecked. "We can't be a thing anymore. Whatever it is we're doing, we can't do anymore."

Ben's head buzzes. "Why not?" He stands too. This isn't how the night is supposed to end. They'd gone back to Scott's place to be alone. To go slow quickly. And now this.

"Syl got hurt because I've been distracted. Because I was out having fun instead of taking care of my business."

"That's not tr—"

Scott pounds the wall behind him. "My head was in the frickin' clouds because of you. I lost one dog already." He's shouting now. "I can't lose another. It would kill me, Ben. I can't. I just...can't." His last word is a whisper and tears bubble on his lower eyelids.

Ben takes a step back as if Scott has punched him in the gut. His lungs have stopped working. He shakes his head. No. No. No. Scott doesn't mean it. Can't really mean it. They'd been sneaking touches all evening, and they'd gone back to Scott's place to talk, to touch, to kiss, to watch TV... That was all.

Scott is hurting and lashing out, and he needs comfort, but a sixth sense tells Ben there is a pretty good chance he'll get decked for his trouble.

"Scott—whatever happened wasn't your fault."

"It doesn't matter. I lost focus, and I just can't afford to do that. I can't go down that path again. Please. If you care about me at all, let it go."

Ben isn't sure what path that was. "Scott, boo, c'mon. You need someone here with you."

"I'm fine now," he says with a sudden hard edge to his voice.

Ben reaches out for the wall to steady himself. This can't be happening. They've just connected. It's been good. It's felt right. It's—

"Mr. Hudson?" Lucy appears in the doorway. "Dr. Farmer would like to speak with you now."

Scott nods and moves past Ben. "Don't wait," he says for Ben's ears only and is gone.

Ben stands frozen. Murmured voices carry from down the hall as Doc tells Scott whatever she's learned. And Ben is here alone and, now, unwanted.

He has to go, has to get out of here.

He plods back to the front, shoving his hands into his pockets. Shit. He has Scott's keys. Fishing them from his pocket, he leaves them on the front desk and stumbles outside. The night air remains balmy beneath the cloud cover.

The parking lot is empty, save three cars. Ben doesn't have a ride. Either he calls someone or he walks the ten blocks to his office. At one a.m. on a Friday, walking it is. He has no desire to explain why he needs a ride. He has no explanation.

Twenty minutes and ten blocks later, Ben is no closer to understanding what happened, or why Scott broke up with him before they've even gotten started. His head is throbbing and his eyes are scratchy. His throat hurts from swallowing back tears and the string of obscenities he so badly wants to shout at the top of his lungs. His bike sits tucked up against the wall of the brick bungalow that houses his business. He's half-tempted to crash on the sofa in his office, but no matter the chaos and the crazy, home is where he'll find comfort.

* * *

Five long, lonely, crappy days later, Scott steps into the warmth of Ben's accounting firm office. He isn't here to get Ben back.

What he's done is unforgivable. He just needs to explain his mindset. Nerves and not weather are the source of his trembling hands, although another cold front has blown in.

Ben's receptionist and assistant, Patty, looks over from the monitor screen. To her credit she doesn't frown, but on his previous work-related visits, she's always had a smile for him.

"Um, hi...I came by to talk to Ben if you think he'll see me."

Her gaze strays to the cup in his hand and her face softens just slightly. She pulls the glasses from her face and lets them hang on her chest from the chain around her neck as she pushes her padded frame to her feet. "C'mon," she murmurs.

He follows her into the short hall that leads to the two accountants' offices.

She knocks on Ben's closed door and opens it far enough to stick her head in. "There's someone here to see you," she says.

"Who?"

Scott's heart somersaults at the sound of Ben's baritone. He's missed it. A lot. More than seems possible after only a few short days as a couple.

Patty pushes open the door and Scott steps into Ben's line of sight. He takes a breath. "Me."

Ben's eyes go wide, and his lips part as if taking a surprised breath. His gaze darts to Patty and he says, "It's fine," and stands.

Patty returns to her desk and Scott hovers in the doorway feeling very unsure of his welcome. Well, he hasn't been cussed at or immediately thrown out, so that's something at least. His heart thrums hard.

"How's Sylvester?" Ben asks tentatively, either fearing his answer or worried about bringing up the topic. Considering it had been Sylvester's accident that had precipitated the chain of events that led to this awkward meeting, Scott can't blame him.

"Oh, he's good. He's fine." Scott nods, feeling the relief all over again. "He came home a couple of days ago."

"What was the diagnosis?"

"Shock and temporary paralysis. A couple of cracked ribs."

"Well, shit. How?"

"Based on where we found him and his condition, Dr. Farmer thinks he probably lost his balance or footing and fell off the top of the kennels. The distance and impact on his little body were too much."

Ben shakes his head. "That's—God, that's crazy."

"Yeah."

"Hey, listen, I'm glad he's all right."

Scott nods again. "Thanks. Me too."

They stare at each other, the silence growing thick. How does he segue into the rest? Shit. He should've thought things out a little better.

"Is that a Strawberry Banana Fudge Delight from Carla's Deli?" Ben finally asks, gaze straying to the large white Styrofoam cup with its clear plastic domed lid showing off a plump strawberry in a bed of whipped cream.

Scott glances down and another rush of relief flows through him. Right. His peace offering. Scott nods and holds it out.

"You drove all the way into Snyder to get that?"

The question seems like a good sign. A quick breath escapes him. "I did."

"For me?"

"For you."

Ben jams his fingers into his front pockets. "Tell me why I shouldn't throw that in your face?"

And just like that, Scott's hopes crash into a jagged boulder and sink into the roiling seas. He deserves that and then some. He's been on the receiving end of ass chewings by any number of high-ranking officers during his stint in the Army. Why is this so much worse?

'Cause you hurt the one who seems to care about you more than anyone else in the world, you moron.

Scott could've studied the workmanship on the front of Ben's desk for hours, but he's never been one to shy away from an ass chewing that is rightfully his. He meets Ben's gaze. While an apology might not be accepted, it is the place to start. He opens his mouth to speak, but Ben beats him to the punch.

"For crying out loud, Scott. What you said...that hurt. I didn't think I could feel that awful again. But the last few days have been hell. I don't know what happened; I don't know what I did. We were okay and then we weren't, and I..." He rolls his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and lets it out again.

Scott hangs his head and then scans Ben's office walls, noting his degree, as well the family photos and drawings from Misty. "I'm so very sorry. I really am. Your family must hate me."

"No, Scott, they don't hate you. They're all a little miffed with you, sure, but they're worried about you too."

The words hit Scott like a blow to the head. His gaze snaps to Ben's. "Really?"

This being cared about is a new feeling. He can't remember when someone last gave two shits about him. His mother hadn't even cared enough to take him with her. These people that he's known for all of two, three weeks are worried about him. Have taken him into their home and their affections. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Really." And, as if sensing Scott's imminent breakdown, Ben asks, "Now what are you doing here with that thing? That Strawberry Banana Fudge Delight.

"From Carla's Deli.

"In Snyder."

Scott snorts and coughs. He holds it out again. "Apology and peace offering. I owe you an explanation when you're ready."

Scott follows Ben's glance at the clock on the mantel of the old fireplace. Four twenty.

"I'm ready. Do you mind if we walk?"

Scott shakes his head. "You realize the temperature's barely above freezing outside, right?"

"You're the one who brought a shake," Ben says, putting his coat on and zipping it up before taking the treat from Scott.

"I didn't know what else to get. Flowers and chocolate didn't really seem appropriate, although I did consider them."

Ben's fleeting smile buoys Scott's hope that he's going to be forgiven at least.

"I'm done for the day, Patty," says Ben on his way past. "Shut 'er down and go on home."

"Have a good evening, Ben...Scott."

"Night, Patty, and thanks," says Scott. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and walks beside Ben as they head eastward. Long shadows from the setting sun leave them more in brisk shade than waning sunlight. Ben has popped off the plastic lid and devoured the strawberry already.

"So?" Ben says. He's eased the tension, but Scott is still going to have to earn back any semblance of the easy camaraderie they'd been establishing.

He meets Ben's gaze and then stares down the street. Every house is brick; most of them have covered porches and signs at the end of the walkway or hanging from the porch roof; an old neighborhood gone commercial.

"I really am sorry..." he says yet again. As if saying it over and over will drive home his sincerity. "I freaked out over Sylvester and I took it out on you."

"No kidding," Ben says, though not unkindly, stirring the shake. "What I don't know is why. Is that an explanation you can give me now, boo?"

The use of "boo" gives Scott pause. Ben had called him that the night Sylvester got hurt. When they'd been a couple. How he remembers that detail, he isn't sure, but what does his use of it now mean? Scott has never had a special endearment all his own. And you don't call someone by a special name if you don't still have feelings for that someone.

"Yes," he answers, and the word comes out more breathless than he would have liked, but it doesn't matter.

"Okay...good." Ben sounds surprised.

Jason had finally convinced Scott that whether or not the explanation patched things up between them, Scott needs to tell his story as much as Ben needs to hear it--no matter how hard on Scott it might be. And sooner rather than later. But Ben's use of "boo" and his whole demeanor seem to indicate that at some point there could be a reconciliation. Scott sends a glance and a thanks skyward.

"Do you want to do that here? Do you want to go to the diner? Do you want go back to my office and order pizza?"

Walking versus going back to Ben's warm office? His toes are feeling the cold, but otherwise he's okay, and not being Ben's sole focus will be easier. "Let's keep walking."

"All right."

They pass a few more houses before Scott takes a deep breath and begins. "I was a military working dog handler in the Army. My dog Hoya and I were sent to Afghanistan. He'd been trained to sniff out bombs."

Ben's inhale is audible as he puts the pieces together.

"As I'm sure you just guessed, I lost my leg because of a bomb." His throat tightens and his nose and eyes prickle again. "I lost Hoya too."

Ben turns sorrowful eyes on him. "Scott, man...I'm so sorry."

He nods, unable to say anything. He breathes hard through the urge to turn and run, to hide; he breathes through the rush of embarrassment that washes over him like a freakin' tidal wave.

Ben walks beside him, not ignoring him, but letting him work through his anxiety without any seeming need to fuss over him or help or any of those things most people try to do. Especially talk.

When Scott can speak again, he says, "Thanks."

Ben shrugs. "No problem."

With a hand to his arm, Scott stops him. Despite his outward appearance of calm, concern darkens Ben's eyes. "No, I mean it. What you did just now, how you reacted. It was...what I needed."

His features smooth out and a small breath puffs from his mouth. "Good. I didn't know. I just went with my gut."

Scott nods. There is a bit more to tell, so he starts walking and Ben falls in step beside him once more. The sun has dropped below the skyline. Darkness slips over them. The streetlights are beginning to flicker and buzz. They round the corner.

"I didn't know about Hoya until later. The ex...explosion knocked me out, but it killed him instantly. He took the bru—" Scott sucks in a breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. He wants to cry again. He's had over fifteen months of counseling and he wants to cry like a two-year-old. They walk and he breathes. "He took the brunt of the blast. I knew it was a possibility—my death, his death. We talked to counselors all the time, but the reality was...h-h-hard."

"You don't have to tell me anymore," Ben murmurs.

Scott nods his acknowledgment, but then shakes his head. "I, uh, I want you to know. Sylvester's accident brought everything back to the forefront and Jason, my therapist, says I need to tell someone I trust. That's you. I'm sorry I'm being such a big ba—"

"Hold the damned phone." Ben turns flashing eyes on him. "Don't ever apologize to me for feeling sad or scared or anxious or pissed off about what happened to you or to Hoya, you got me?"

"What?" Scott blinks. Most people think he should just get over it. That it was just a dog, but Hoya had been his pal, his partner, his comrade in arms, and Scott has always felt as if he'd failed him somehow.

"You need to beat the shit out of something, let me know. You need a shoulder to cry on? Call me. You don't ever have to do this alone, man."

For Ben to accept the scope of this...Scott is flabbergasted. "I...I just wanted you to know why I freaked out."

"And now I do. Thanks for the Strawberry Banana Fudge Delight, by the way."

A snort sends a puff of condensation into the evening air. "You're welcome."

"Thanks for telling me about Hoya."

Scott's chest rises and falls with the deep breath he takes. He nods.

"Did you mean what you said about not wanting there to be an us?" Ben asks quietly.

Fear chills Scott from the inside out. Honesty is the best policy, according to Jason. He swallows and says, "You gotta understand. When I lost Hoya, I questioned every move, every decision I made. I blamed myself for a really long time."

Ben nods.

"And when I found Sylvester like that, all that guilt, all that pain came rushing back."

"I understand," says Ben, stuffing his fingers in his pockets. "But did you mean what you said about not wanting there to be an us?"

Scott doesn't flinch from Ben's gaze, though he very much wans to. Honesty and all that. "At the time, yes."

Ben's eyes go wide.

"And for several days afterward."

Ben does a good impression of a fish and Scott smiles.

"Until Pammy called Jason and he helped me pull my head out of my ass." Scott shrugs. "I'm sorry for being an idiot."

Ben opens his mouth and from the expression he wears, he's going to dispute Scott's assertion.

Scott holds up a hand. "I'm not saying I didn't have a good explanation, but I was still an ass, so I apologize."

Ben chuckles. "Apology accepted. So. Again. I ask...how're you feeling about there being an us?"

"How are you feeling about there being an us?" That's the more important question, although he suspects Ben wouldn't be asking if he wasn't at least entertaining the possibility. That thought alone makes Scott's pulse pound like thirty pair of feet in a platoon on a PT run.

"I want there to be an us more than anything," he says. "I've waited a long time for you."

Scott takes a breath, blinks. "You've only known me for seven months. I mean, really known me."

Ben taps his chest, right above his heart. "I've been waiting for you."

Scott has been waiting for Ben and the Thompsons too, only he hadn't known it until he'd spent the last several days without the warmth of their presence in his life.

Apologies and explanations aside, Scott isn't anywhere near healed. He knows that much at least. "I'll probably still have moments like when I found Sylvester."

"To be expected, I imagine."

"For a while."

"As long as you don't kick me to the curb every time you do, I can learn to handle them."

Scott nods. "Okay."

"Okay. You still haven't answered my damn question."

Scott can't fight the smile. "Yes. I want there to be an us, too."

"Good, I'm glad." Ben grabs fistfuls of Scott's coat and hauls him forward and plants a long kiss on his lips. If they weren't standing on a street corner, Scott might have tried to deepen it, but in reality, he's just happy about being forgiven. Being given a second chance at this relationship is more than he'd expected or hoped for. Ben scoops up the cup he'd dropped to the ground with one hand and took Scott's hand with the other. "Let's go home."

Scott isn't sure whose home he means, but it doesn't really matter, not as long as they are an "us."

Epilogue

New Years Eve

Scott follows Ben up to the third floor of the Bluebonnet B&B and down the hall to the room marked eight. Scott's heart thrums like the wings of a hummingbird. Ben pushes into the room and drops his backpack and a soft-sided cooler on a small wooden bench.

"This is nice," says Scott, peering around the large corner room. A large four-poster bed dominates the space and his insides twist with anticipation as well a bit of apprehension. He hasn't been with anyone since he'd lost his leg. Ben never seems to notice it, which is reassuring, even going so far as to tangle his ankle with the metal rod that serves as Scott's right ankle. But still...

The bedside table lamps provide soft illumination for the rustic Texas-themed room. Scott drops his duffel bag next to the dresser, and follows Ben to the French doors. He hooks his chin on Ben's shoulder and slides his arms around Ben's waist. The lights of downtown Ten Rigs twinkle beyond the multi-paned doors. The night is clear and crisp, and they'll have a great view of the fireworks from the balcony, according to Ben.

"You okay?" asks Ben. "Nothing has to happen."

"I'm okay. And I want stuff to happen. I'm just nervous." They've spent practically every evening together since they'd made up a week and a half ago, and their make-out sessions are getting hotter and going farther each time. He really is ready to bridge this last hurdle. He's even broken down and called Jason. After confessing everything to Jason, Jason thinks Scott is probably ready too, but reminded him that mild anxiety, which Scott would experience, was not the same as not being ready. When Ben suggested they ring in the New Year together, Scott agreed and made clear his thoughts on what that might entail. Ben had been pleasantly surprised.

Ben swivels in Scott's embrace and rests his forehead against Scott's. "Don't be afraid to call a halt at any time."

Scott sighs. "I told you...it's not about the sex."

"I know, your leg. Okay." Ben nods. Issue acknowledged, but not brushed off. He glances at his watch. "Fireworks start at seven-thirty. We've got an hour. I'd say let's get comfortable, but then we'd have to bundle up to go out on the balcony to watch."

"We can take off our coats at least." Scott tugs off his Army green toque. "Open a beer..."

"I bet there's a hockey game on."

"I'm sure there're a few."

A few minutes later, they're shoulder to shoulder on the king-sized bed, with Dallas versus Florida in the first period of play showing on the large screen hi-def TV. Dallas's center and left winger are zipping up and down the ice, but as much as Scott loves watching an exciting game of hockey, his situation finally makes an impression.

He's alone with Ben.

In a hotel room.

Snugged up close on a bed.

A very large bed.

With no chance of being interrupted.

Scott sets his beer on the bedside table and turns toward Ben.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. God, we're alone. Alone alone." He still has to bare his stump—he's already decided he doesn't want to have sex with a plastic and metal contraption connected to his body—but as with everything else pertaining to Scott, Ben is sure to deal with it in a low-key fashion.

Ben grins.

"And we're watching a hockey game."

"And?" Ben murmurs, the sparkle in his blue gaze giving way to a more primal glitter.

An answering heat settles low in Scott's stomach. He shifts and swings a leg over to straddle Ben's lap. "And I can watch hockey just about anytime I want." They kiss slow and deep. Ben's hands slide beneath Scott's shirts and up his back. Scott shivers under his touch, his pulse kicks back up, and his dick starts shifting in his jeans.

"Clothes off," Scott breathes. Sure, he'd wanted slow three weeks ago when Ben had first suggested a relationship, but he's all in now, and fuck slow. They've done just about everything but have anal intercourse. They separate and get naked. When all that's left is his shorts and his prosthetic, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"What do you need from me?" Ben asks.

And there it is. That care that warms Scott from head to toe. A year ago, he'd thought he'd never be with anyone again. Sure, it was his anger and his anguish talking. But hell, even six months ago, after he'd gotten past all that, he still didn't think a relationship was in the cards for him.

Scott shakes his head and pats the space next to him on the bed. "Nothing. I'm okay." He is. Mostly. Now that the time has come, his nerves have reasserted themselves. With a small breath, he grasps a hold on the socket and tugs. The prosthetic shell slides off, revealing his liner-covered stump. He lays the appliance on the floor.

Ben sits quietly, hands folded on his lap, looking at the wall in front of them.

"You can look at what I'm doing...at my leg."

"Okay," Ben says with a nod, allowing his gaze to shift from the wall to Scott's leg.

Scott leans over and kisses him. Here he is, baring all to a guy he could easily fall in love with. Is falling in love with. Every touch, every smile Ben offers tugs at something deep inside of Scott. Something that his mother's abandonment and his father's resentment and anger had forced so far down, he'd forgotten it was even there. Belonging. Happiness. Joy.

"What was that for?"

"Being a good boyfriend."

Ben appears a bit puzzled, but doesn't ask for clarification.

Scott pulls off the thin socks that cover the liner and provide cushion and then removes the liner itself. He has about three inches of leg/stump below his knee. The scars are healed at this point, though still pinkish. Only narrow lines mar the sides and underside of his leg. Scott scooches back and turns so his leg rests entirely on the bed.

Ben looks for a few moments, then meets Scott's gaze. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really. Sometimes. A little." Scott shrugs. "The phantom pain is a real thing. I do experience that every now and again."

"They did a good job... I guess. It looks smooth and neat."

Scott runs a hand around the end, massaging it a little. "The surgeons cut higher than the injury. The bomb...it was a ragged wound, so yeah, they cut higher so that they could make the stump clean and neat for the prosthetic." He's talked about it so often in therapy, discussing it doesn't bother him much any more.

Ben's warm hand covers Scott's and squeezes. "God, Scott... I can't imagine. I'm sorry you had to go through all of that."

"Thanks. I... Yeah." Ben's support is heartfelt and easy, but not overly sentimental and uncomfortable. Scott appreciates that fact more than he can say. His injury was what it was, and he'd gotten over the self-pity and woe-is-me mindset ages ago. With Ben and the rest of the Thompsons in his life now, the expectation of living life as a bachelor with just the shelter dogs for companionship fades with every passing day. "You can touch it."

Ben turns uncertain eyes up to Scott's. "You sure?"

Scott snorts. "We're fixin' to get down and dirty, so yeah."

Ben grins and runs a light hand over the knee and around the stump before leaning over to kiss Scott's knee cap. And he's done with the stump. He's acknowledged it, but Scott isn't his stump and the stump isn't Scott, and Ben, apparently has things not-stump-related on his mind.

He trails kisses up Scott's thigh and noses at the crease of Scott's groin. Scott collapses against the pillows and lets himself enjoy the attention. Ben's hot breath ghosts over the cotton of Scott's briefs, and he's instantly hard. Ben pushes off his own underwear and crawls up Scott's body. The sight of Ben's long lean form makes Scott's toes curl and his mouth water. Scott wants to map every inch of Ben's body with his fingers and tongue. He wants to know Ben's body as intimately as he knows his own. He wants Ben to know his too.

Ben straddles Scott's lap, only there's no space between their matching erections this time. Ben softly rubs his nose and face against Scott's. Scott closes his eyes and savors the touch. Ben licks and nips the skin around Scott's Adam's apple. He kisses his way up Scott's neck, sucking, then nipping his earlobe, before asking, "Can I ride you?" in a low tone. The deep pitch goes straight to Scott's dick, and he could cut glass he's so hard and, now, leaking.

"Please."

Ben offers him another long slow slide of lips and tongue before removing himself from Scott and the bed to root around in his backpack for supplies. Scott feels the loss keenly, but takes the time to shove off his underwear and send them flying to the carpet and toss the unnecessary pillows to the floor as well. He folds the bedspread and blanket down to the footboard. Ben returns with a couple of condoms, a bottle of lube, and a hand towel. Scott can't help his arching eyebrow.

"What?" asks Ben glancing at the items he's tossed on the bed.

"You're awfully optimistic."

"There are two of us with dicks, you know."

That sends Scott's heart pounding double time. "And the towel?"

Ben shrugs. "Between lube and come, I'd hate to ruin the towels or the sheets here."

"Mmm," is all Scott says before opening a condom and rolling it on himself. After not being with anyone for over two years, being here with Ben is surprisingly comfortable. Now that the leg has been dealt with, the rest is welcome and easy. They like each other, they want each other. There's no reason to be shy or embarrassed at this point. It's time to take pleasure in and enjoy one another's bodies thoroughly.

Ben preps himself quickly and efficiently before returning to slick Scott's erection up and settle back across Scott's lap. "You ready?"

Scott grasps Ben's hips and nods. God, is he ready for this. But... Heat washes up his face. Okay, maybe he's a little embarrassed. "I don't know how long I'm gonna last though...it's been a long time."

"It's been a while for me too, okay?" Ben kisses him. "It doesn't matter. We have all night and tomorrow and tomorrow night." With a hand to Scott's shoulder for balance, Ben reaches around and positions the head of Scott's dick at his hole. He looks into Scott's eyes and says, "Here we go," before pushing himself down.

Scott groans at the vice-like pressure and the heat swallowing his cock. He pants as Ben lifts and lowers himself slowly, taking more of Scott's erection each time, until he's fully seated.

Ben sits still for a moment, breathing hard through his nose. "Shit, I...that's...you feel so good. I feel so good." Scott huffs a laugh at Ben's babbling, and Ben gasps. "I felt that." A beat later, he says, "I gotta move." And he does.

Scott's skin buzzes with pleasure and his breathing picks up speed as Ben's body moves faster. Soon, the urge to move counterpoint to Ben's motions gets the better of Scott, and he meets Ben thrust for thrust. Eyes locked, they rock back and forth for some time. His muscles tense and his toes curl as pleasure courses through his veins. Each surge is just a little harder, a little more urgent. The telltale tightness settles in his sac, and his hands clutch Ben's thighs. He's gonna leave marks, but he can't let go. "Ben, shit, I'm gonna come," Scott says, panting.

"Do it. C'mon, Scott. Do it," Ben says.

Scott thrusts up hard and comes with a muttered curse, his cock pulsing its way to spent. His muscles loosen with his endorphin high, and he relaxes into the bed, throwing an arm over his face. Everything inside him sings with happiness. He's never been so content or at peace with his previous partners as he feels now. Ben is special in so many ways.

"All right?" Ben asks, running a hand up Scott's chest.

Scott looks up into Ben's eyes and smiles. "Mmm...never better."

Ben leans over and they kiss for a bit until Scott's softening dick slips from Ben's body, though Ben doesn't move from his spot.

"What about you?" Scott asks.

Ben takes his cock in hand and strokes himself for a few minutes, twisting slightly on the down stroke. Scott feels Ben's calves tighten on either side of his hips before he groans and comes, warm creamy splatters of ejaculate hitting Scott's stomach. He regards Scott with a warm gaze for a few moments, reaching forward to cup Scott's face. "This was good, boo. Is good. I haven't felt this high since high school. And no marijuana involved."

Scott laughs.

"The things you do to me," Ben says, sliding to the mattress and curling into Scott's side. He grabs the towel and wipes the mess off of Scott's abs. "The day you hired me to keep the kennel's books was the luckiest day of my life."

"I'm the lucky one," says Scott, trailing his fingers up and down Ben's long back. He has a wonderful guy to call his own, a special little girl to spoil and maybe one day call his own as well, and a group of people who care whether he's alive or dead. He's damned lucky.

Faint whistles sound overhead followed by a boom and some crackling.

Ben glances at the ceiling. "I guess the fireworks have started. Wanna go watch 'em?" he asks.

"We had plenty of fireworks a few minutes ago," Scott says, grinning, "but yeah. Let's watch."

As they sit bundled up together on the over-sized rustic bench on the balcony, Scott can't help but think there's no place he'd rather be. Ben is the fireworks of his life—bright and exciting, colorful lights in the darkness. And even though real fireworks only happen two or three times a year, he has a feeling that Ben is going to brighten up his days and nights for years to come.
End Notes

Thank you for downloading this e-book. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your vendor of choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The following trademarked items appear in For the Love of Scott. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmark mentions in this work of fiction: Corelle-ware, the NHL, The Stanley Cup, Little League Baseball, the Boy Scouts of America, Batman, Dr. Seuss's The Grinch.
About Jen

Jen FitzGerald has loved romance since her Winnie the Pooh days. Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh have always been platonic soul mates. As a teen, Jen cut her romance teeth on Silhouette's teen romance line and Danielle Steele books concurrently. She's still an avid reader, but these days, Jen has added writing romances of her own to her list of fun things to do.

Jen lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with her husband and dog. Their three children are now adults and out terrorizing the world at large instead of them. When not working her day job, Jen spends a lot of time reading, writing, watching hockey, and perusing her social media platforms of preference. She also enjoys music, cross stitching, and chatting online with writer friends.

Find her online at her blog, A Time for Everything or on Facebook.
Books by Jen FitzGerald

For the Love of Scott

Ten Rigs Texas, Book 1

Love On Deck

Ten Rigs Texas, Book 2

Absent Without Leave

Ten Rigs Texas, Book 3

Rock the Cradle of Love

Ten Rigs Texas, Book 4

Coming to Grips

Ten Rigs Texas, Book 5

Only For the Weekend

Ten Rigs Texas, Book 6

Three more Ten Rigs Texas books are in the works.

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Love On Deck

Book Two of the Ten Rigs Texas series

Chapter One

The thump of the music can be heard and felt from outside the entrance of one of the ship's many bars. Andrew pulls open the door and lets the noise and color wash over him. Sweeps of sunset red, grass green, indigo blue, and deep orange from a round club light keep the dark at bay. The music has a decent bass, and Andrew's pulse picks up the beat and thrums in time. The stress of the last few months eases a little. He's on a well-deserved vacation, even if he's alone on a Valentine's cruise.

The bar takes up the whole of one wall, bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors lining glass shelves. A granite bar separates the three bartenders from the crowd. There are slightly more men than women, and Andrew's pretty sure he's in the right place. From what he's read, most cruises these days have a bar that leans primarily gay.

A seat opens at the bar and, once he ensures its occupant won't be returning, he slides into it. A drink is set in front of him within a few minutes, and the smooth glide of Johnnie Walker Black is everything he wanted.

The dance floor isn't terribly crowded yet. He fully expects it to be in the next couple of hours. The bodies bounce and sway in time to the rhythm. There are any number of them he wouldn't mind taking back to his cabin. Against the far wall stands a tall man in a dark-colored tailored suit. Hair slicked back. Hint of whiskers shadowing his chiseled jaw. Not only are women crazy about a sharp-dressed man, but Andrew is too. Linen pants and a tropical-print shirt belie his own penchant for expensive tailoring. He's on a Caribbean cruise, and it's been way too long since he's worn much other than his suits, hence the cruise wear.

It's also been way too long since he's gotten laid. Perhaps he'll catch the sharp-dressed man's eye and gauge his level of interest. But said eye is glued to something or someone out of Andrew's line of sight. The crowd parts, and Andrew's gaze is drawn to the lithe figure moving sinuously with the music.

He's instantly mesmerized. The figure is dancing—not alone exactly, but not really with anyone else either. He's caught up in the melody, swaying and moving with the grace and control of a professional dancer. Dark hair frames a young angular face. A dark tee shirt and snug jeans emphasize the spare frame. There's muscle to be sure, but not a single ounce of fat is apparent, and Andrew wouldn't be surprised if he danced for a living. Several tats embellish the bare flesh of both arms, although it's too dark to make out what they might be. Andrew can't help but wonder where and what other ink might be hiding beneath his clothes. Because a guy like that...yeah, there are more tats.

Andrew's mouth goes dry at the grace and the beauty that emanates from this guy as he moves. There's a joy and a truth that speaks to Andrew, as well as to everyone else if the slight hush of the crowd is anything to go by. This is a man who's embraced his homosexuality and made his peace with it. It's incredibly attractive. And Andrew wants it, if only for a night.

The music swells and then ebbs, and the dancer stills. The hush holds for a moment longer before a round of applause breaks the charged silence and the dancer opens his eyes and looks around in surprise. His smile is wide and shy and confident as only a young person's can be, and frustration stabs at Andrew. The guy may be old enough to drink, but at the ripe old age of thirty-one, Andrew draws the line at sleeping with anyone younger than twenty-five. He glances back at the suit and sees him walking toward the young man. Despite his decision, he's a little disappointed. But the night is young and he's not in a rush, nor is he that desperate to get laid.

Andrew downs the remains of his scotch and signals the bartender for another. It warms him, and the edges of his sobriety are getting just the slightest bit soft. He loses sight of both the suit and the dancer as a wave of newcomers enter the bar. There are plenty of people to watch now. It's the first night of the cruise, and the downtime will do him good. Is doing him good already. The last five months had been filled with endless meetings and late nights as he and one of the firm's largest clients hashed out contract verbiage and negotiation points for the buyout of an elevator parts manufacturing company. That was in addition to minor contract negotiations for other clients and his regular review of documents for the half-dozen attorneys of the firm. Aside from a few long weekends and family holidays, this is his first vacation in well over two years.

"Hi."

Andrew blinks and focuses on the tall curvy woman who takes the seat next to his. He accepts her outstretched hand into his own, smiling. She's barking up the wrong tree, but he's on vacation and he's a friendly guy. "Drew."

"Penelope."

"Nice to meet you, Penelope. Is this your first cruise?"

Dimples frame her red-coated lips as she smiles again. A more natural, less forced smile than before. Her brown eyes sparkle with her enthusiasm. "Oh, yes, it is. I've never been to Mexico either." Her admiring gaze slides up and down his body. Her interest is appreciated, but for naught.

"So you plan to go on the excursions then?" Andrew asks. The five-day Western Caribbean cruise they're on will stop in Progreso and Cozumel. Whether or not he leaves the ship remains to be seen. A couple of lazy days in the sunshine with fruity drinks and several playlists on his smart phone sounds like a mighty fine plan. Despite it being mid-February, the weather should be warm enough for sun bathing. He's not sure about swimming, but he can decide when the time comes.

Penelope sits back, showing her cleavage to its best advantage. It's nice cleavage as far as he can tell, but it's doing nothing for him. Her sensual musky scent is nice too. He can certainly appreciate a well-blended, well-chosen perfume.

"Well, now, that depends on what's available on shore," she says, "and if there's anything more interesting going on here on the ship."

He supposes he ought to out himself. It's not that he cares, but he doesn't want it to come off too abrupt.

"Listen, Penelo—"

"Hey, there you are," says a voice in a sultry tone that sends a shiver right down Andrew's spine.

Andrew and Penelope both turn to see the young man from the dance floor. Eyeliner highlights his eyes. It's bold and daring, and thank God Penelope is staring too because Andrew almost falls off his stool. The subtle scent of expensive cologne and clean sweat swirls between them, and Andrew doesn't inhale sharply. Those eyes caress his face and a hand slides up his arm and across his shoulder. Long fingers trace the collar of his shirt and brush the fine hairs at the base of his neck, making them stand on end. Sparks dance along his skin like water on a hot skillet. Blood rushes to his groin.

The quiet click of Penelope's teeth brings Andrew back into coherence. He's not quite sure what's going on, but it seems he's being rescued from Penelope. The sharp-dressed man must have struck out and somehow this exotic creature noticed him. He leans his head against the man's arm and gazes into his eyes. He's not quintessentially good-looking, nor Andrew's usual type. His features are sharp and angular, but there's an intensity about him that makes up for it. This up close and personal, Andrew recognizes that he's definitely a man, though, and not an overgrown twink. And Holy Nutcracker Suite, Batman, the evening just took a turn for the better. He's nothing if not quick on the uptake and joins the charade. "Was that dance for me?"

Andrew hears a faint "excuse me" and knows that Penelope has gotten the message loud and clear. He should say something, but his mind has gone blank, and there's no way he's breaking eye contact.

"Connor," says Connor.

His fingers caress Andrew's neck again, raising chills. "Drew," he offers. His blood thickens and slows, turning to molten lava in his veins.

"You want to get out of here, Drew?"

Any dark corner would do right now, really, but a bed would be preferable. With a nod, Andrew pulls his wallet from his pants and tosses a fifty on the bar. It's a gross overpayment for two drinks and a tip, but the chance to fuck this beautiful creature into a mattress is well worth the cost.

Connor's hand hovers at Andrew's back as they leave the bar, and that's a new experience for him too. Height-wise, the two of them seem to be within an inch of each other, which pleases Andrew no end, though he's not sure why. The elevator is empty and any notion of personal space is invalidated immediately. A scant inch, maybe two if you account for clothing, separates their bodies. Connor cups Andrew's face in his hands, running thumbs over his cheek and lips, and looking deep into his eyes with those roiling Kohl-rimmed seas. A jolt of want, sharp and needy, zigzags through him. Here, under the florescent lights, Andrew can see that Connor's eyes are a dark blue-gray.

Andrew misses their heat when they close, but then Connor's mouth is on his, Connor's body is pressed against his, and the rasp of heavy breathing fills the small space. Lips glide across lips, teeth nip, and tongues slide sinuously. As ready as Andrew is to take this to the next level, an elevator car is certainly not the place. He has no idea where Connor's cabin is, but he hopes to high heaven it's not too far away, because it's been a long damned time since he's wanted to come this badly.

The loss of Connor's touch is confusing until the elevator dings. The couple waiting in the corridor gives them a look, and Andrew thinks it's less because they're holding hands—well, Connor's dragging him by the wrist—than because it's probably absolutely clear as to what they'd been doing in the elevator and what they're fixin' to do now. He can't bring himself to care. Aside from Will and Casey, and, now, Connor, no one on this ship knows who the hell he is.

Connor pulls his key card from his wallet, and a moment later, they're in Connor's cabin. Andrew's pressed against the door, hands restrained above his head against the cool wood. Connor's surprisingly strong for being so thin.

The cabin is pitch black. Without sight, Andrew's other senses are on high alert. His skin prickles in anticipation. Connor's cologne mixes with the heady scent of arousal. The low hum of the air circulation system competes with the soughing of their breathing. Andrew's as hard as he's ever been. Connor rolls his hips against Andrew in a fluid rhythm that reminds Andrew of the waves on the beach—a constant smooth advance and retreat. There's no disguising either of their erections. The friction is heady even through four layers of clothing. Connor kisses down his neck to his collarbone, and suddenly Andrew's hands slide down the door, while Connor's fingers brush against his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. Flames ignite from each point of contact. He pushes the cotton-polyester blend Hawaiian shirt to the floor and goes to work on Andrew's linen pants.

Andrew encounters the soft cotton covering the flat, firm wall of Connor's abs. For someone so slim, he's solidly built, and Andrew almost wishes for light. The sight of Connor's body has got to be amazing, but the lack of any sort of illumination has added a layer of eroticism he doesn't want to lose. Andrew tugs at the tee shirt, and heavy breathing punctuates the frantic removal of the rest of their clothes. The cool air soothes his heated body. "Bed," he says softly.

Connor "mmm"s in agreement.

A hand around Andrew's wrist guides him several steps into an open area of the cabin, and the rustle of bedclothes and the scrunch of the mattress taking Connor's weight fills the darkness. Andrew's knees hit the edge of the bed and he climbs onto it. The cool of the spread at his back counters the heat building between the two of them. He's pushed to his back, and Connor straddles his hips, bringing their erections into alignment, and begins rocking his hips.

"Nnng..." Andrew bucks at the contact of dick on dick, the slide and catch of skin. Someone's leaking pre-come, and it's gotta be him. Well over five months have passed since there's been anyone other than Rosie, and contact with another person feels better than it has any fucking right to. God, he wants to come. He arches into Connor, increasing contact, increasing pressure. "Please tell me you've got lube."

Connor kisses him slowly, deeply, messily, and he's close.

"Connor..." he breathes more than he actually says.

"Hmm...?"

"Make me come. Fuck. Please. Make me come."

The bed dips on his left as Connor leans away. The brief withdrawal of heated skin-to-skin contact allows Andrew to take a step back from the edge. The bedside table drawer is whisper silent as it's pulled open and is shut with a faint thud. Connor's weight evens out. There's a soft click and a "pfft" and then a slicky noise that Andrew knows exactly what is, and his dick strains in eagerness. A hand closes around his dick, and a guttural "fuck" passes his lips. Conner strokes Andrew's aching cock with a firm grip. The reduced friction and the added silk of the lube bring him back to the precipice in a heartbeat.

"I'm sorry," Andrew pants, want dancing along his skin. "I'm not going to last long at all."

"Fuck my hand," says Connor.

Andrew meets every downstroke of Connor's hand with an upthrust of his hips. He fists the duvet for purchase. A litany of "fuck, yeah" and "oh, God" intersperse his pants and groans until his balls tighten and his muscles quiver. There's a tingle at the base of his spine. A flash of light bursts behind his eyes. His body lets go. It's fast, powerful, and messy. Connor eases him through the tail end of his orgasm, and Andrew sinks, boneless, into the mattress. His chest heaves as he works to catch his breath. The potent combination of sex, sweat, and Connor's cologne saturates the air around them, and hell yeah. He hasn't come as a result of someone else's effort in months, and having someone to share the experience with feels so damned good.

Connor pads to the bathroom and brings back a warm washcloth. He cleans up the mess on Andrew's abdomen and flings the cloth into the void before stretching out beside him, fingers tracing patterns on Andrew's chest and stomach. "You all right?" Connor asks.

"Never better, to be honest," Andrew says into the darkness. "Give me a minute, and I'll return the favor. What do you want?"

"A blow job," says Connor, his warm sweet breath ghosting across Andrew's lips before he's kissing him. Andrew isn't disappointed, either in being kissed again or the request. It's another languid kiss, slow, soft, deep. Andrew's certainly not complaining. After his drought, it's a nice change of pace even though he'll probably never see this guy again.

The kiss ends and Andrew takes to his knees, while Connor rolls to his back. Andrew skims Connor's body with his hands, trying to memorize the lean flesh as best he can.

"Wait. There's something you should know..." Connor says, his voice going quiet.

Andrew stops touching. "All right." He matches the solemnity of Connor's tone and waits. What the hell could be so important right this very moment?

"I'm uncut."

Two simple words. In and of themselves, they simply convey information. The timing and the tone tell a different tale. Andrew's years of speaking with witnesses and clients allows him to hear the undercurrent of hostility laced with the merest hint of fear. Connor's lack of circumcision must have been an issue with other partners more than once if he feels the need to lob the information into the moment like a hand grenade into a pond. Andrew honestly couldn't give less of a shit, so he snorts and asks, "Does your dick work?"

"Of course it fucking works." Connor's relief is hidden beneath the sharpness, and Andrew smiles. "Then I couldn't care less," he says, reaching out again.

~*~*~

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