"4th Of July"
The sun had just started to slip low when the fairgrounds filled with the smell of kettle corn, hot dogs, and sweet diesel from the Ferris wheel generator. That and a good dose of heat and gossip, the kind that stuck to your skin like humidity clung to your neck. Down in Willow Creek, Mississippi, there wasn't a soul who didn't have their nose in somebody else's business.
And Daisy Bell, blonde as a wheat field in July, lips painted fire-engine red, hips swaying like she still had somethin' to prove, was queen of that very business.
"You see that boy over there?" she said, dragging on a Marlboro Light, her sunglasses pushed up like a crown in her big, honey-blonde curls. "That there is Buddy Crawford's nephew. Fresh outta prison. Looks like he came with a side of hepatitis."
The table of women, four folding chairs under a green-and-white striped awning next to the funnel cake stand, erupted into laughter. Becky-Lynn nearly choked on her cherry slush. Marla June swatted at Daisy with her purse, smudging her peach-colored acrylics on the vinyl strap.
"Daisy, Lord have mercy," giggled Marla June. "You can't say things like that. Not in front of children."
"Ain't a child in sight 'cept for that one little gremlin pickin' his nose over there." Daisy flicked her cigarette into the grass, slumped back in her seat like a woman who'd earned her rest after a long day of raising hell.
The women laughed again, and Daisy leaned over the table, her bangles jingling softly. "Let me tell y'all somethin'. I swear, this fair used to be somethin'. Remember back when the rodeo would come to town and all the cowboys stayed in those trailers behind the high school? Lord, I made some very poor choices that summer."
"You were sixteen," Becky-Lynn drawled, narrowing her eyes.
"Exactly." Daisy lifted her eyebrows. "And Jackson came out lookin' like a Greek god dipped in honey butter, so clearly God wasn't mad at me for it."
There it was, the truth laid out like a lace tablecloth. Daisy had Jackson when she was just a baby herself, sixteen and wild, with a mouth that could charm a preacher or slap a sinner. They grew up more like siblings than mother and son. And though her body had lived thirty-four Mississippi summers, her laugh still carried the recklessness of youth, and her heart held the same foolish hope that someday, love would come knocking. And bring a damn six-pack and a pickup truck.
As for Jackson, he was lean like his Mama but built stronger, broad-shouldered from summer work on Uncle Reed's farm, with sun-kissed skin and long lashes that made every girl in the county sigh like a romance novel. His hair was the same honey-blonde as Daisy's, thick and just unruly enough to suggest he'd been in a tussle, either with the wind or some giggling cheerleader in the barn. He wore boots scuffed from years of wear, jeans that clung just right, and a white T-shirt that showed off arms too pretty to waste on a tractor.
Girls chased him like moths to porch light, but Jackson kept politely swatting them away. He was always kind, always sweet, and never once taken a girl past the dance floor at Sunday socials.
Daisy knew. She'd always known.
A mother didn't raise a boy up through breakups, basketball tryouts, and late-night stomach bugs without seeing the truth behind his silences. She'd seen the way he looked at certain boys, sharp, stolen glances that lingered a second too long. She saw it in how his voice changed around Coach Randall's son, or the way he deflected every time someone brought up prom dates.
But she never pushed. She waited. Daisy Bell may've been loud and foul-mouthed, but when it came to love, she knew better than to go knocking on doors people weren't ready to open.
She sipped her sweet tea, her eyes scanning the fairgrounds, watching her boy lean against the ring toss booth, talking with Buddy's niece, Callie Rae, who was clearly throwin' herself at him like a pageant queen on fire.
Poor girl had no idea.
Daisy watched as Jackson nodded, smiled that easy smile, but kept his body angled away, like his soul had somewhere else to be.
"Oh hell," she murmured, standing abruptly, "Here we go."
The girls looked up from their drinks.
"Where you goin'?" Marla June asked.
"Time to save Jackson from Callie Rae's mascara meltdown."
Her heels clicked over dry grass as she made her way through the fair, her hips swayin' like a slow song. Daisy Bell moved like she owned the ground she walked on, which, to be fair, she pretty much did. Every fried Oreo vendor, every cousin of a cousin selling bootleg t-shirts, and half the teenagers loitering near the lemonade stand had either borrowed a favor from her, kissed her once in high school, or owed her something.
But when she saw Jackson leaning against that booth like he was the main attraction and didn't even know it, her heart swelled the way only a mother's could. She slowed as she approached, watching the way he listened so politely to Callie Rae's endless chatter, arms crossed, mouth tugged into a patient little smile. His eyes caught hers over the girl's shoulder, and there it was, that secret look they shared. That look that said, Rescue me, and I got you, all in the same breath.
Daisy looped her arm through his like they were heading to a prom and leaned into him with a grin that could shatter glass. "Callie Rae, sugar, would you excuse us?" Daisy said, sugary-sweet. "I gotta borrow my baby boy for just a minute."
Callie Rae blinked, already pouting. "We were just..."
"I know what y'all were just," Daisy interrupted, squeezing Jackson's arm. "And I'm savin' him from sayin somethin' so nice you mistake it for affection. He's too polite for his own good, bless him."
Callie Rae huffed like a deflated soufflé, but Jackson gave her a nod and a gentle "See ya, Callie," that probably made her knees buckle, poor thing.
Once they were a safe distance away, Daisy smacked Jackson lightly on the chest.
"What in God's name were you doin' lettin' that girl chew your ear off like you owed her money?"
Jackson chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "She cornered me, Mama. I was tryin' to be nice."
"You're always tryin' to be nice," Daisy huffed. "One day, you're gonna be married to someone you don't even like 'cause you were too sweet to say 'no thanks, darlin', I don't fancy you that way.'"
He glanced sideways at her. "You sayin' that's how you ended up with Dad?"
Daisy barked a laugh. "Boy, I ended up with your daddy 'cause I liked his truck and he could dance. Then I realized all he had goin' for him was that damn two-step and a smile full of lies."
Jackson laughed, really laughed, and Daisy felt her chest loosen, like it always did when she made him crack open like that.
They stopped near a bench under a string of lights. Daisy plopped down and kicked off one heel, massaging her foot. "Lord, my dogs are barkin'. I swear, if Jesus meant for women to wear heels to county fairs, he would've built gravel roads outta velvet." Jackson stood over her, arms crossed, looking too tall and too handsome for her peace of mind. She squinted up at him. "You moisturize today?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Your skin's glowin'. Like a pregnant woman. Or a cult leader."
He shook his head, smiling. "It's just hot out, Mama."
"Mmhm. You out here lookin' like a Greek statue and I'm supposed to believe it's just the heat?" she teased, not really expecting a reply. His smile faded just a hair, but he didn't flinch. Daisy saw it, like a shadow over a lake, but she didn't press. Not yet. Instead, she patted the seat beside her. "Sit down. You're makin' me feel like a hobbit."
Jackson dropped beside her, legs long, body still humming with nervous energy. They sat in silence for a moment.
Daisy leaned her head on his shoulder, and he let her, like always. "You know," she said softly, "sometimes I forget I had you. My body still remembers, but my heart don't. You've always just been...mine. Like somethin' I conjured up one night when the stars were lookin' the other way."
Jackson's throat bobbed, and he tilted his head toward hers. "You're gettin' sappy."
"I'm always sappy. That's why I wear so much mascara. Keeps it from showin'." She nudged him. "You alright?"
"Yeah."
"You lyin' to me?"
"A little."
She nodded. "Okay. You'll tell me when you're ready."
Another silence. A long one. But the kind that felt like a blanket and not a wall. Jackson leaned back, stretched out his legs. "I think I hate the fair," he said suddenly.
Daisy turned to look at him, feigning shock. "Excuse me? Hate the fair? You take that back."
He grinned, but it was crooked. "It's loud. Smells like fried feet. Everyone here's tryin' too hard to be someone they ain't."
"Well hell, baby, that's what makes it fun. You put on your boots, eat somethin' deep-fried and terrible, pretend you're gonna win a goldfish, and act like your heart ain't been bruised to hell and back." She smirked. "We're all just struttin' around like we ain't lonely."
Jackson tilted his head. "You lonely, Mama?"
Daisy thought about it. Then shrugged. "Not tonight. I got you."
His face softened, and he reached over, laced his fingers with hers. They sat there like that for a minute, the roar of a tractor ride spinning somewhere behind them, kids squealing.
She squeezed Jackson's hand, took a long breath, and said, "Alright, darlin'. You ready for a funnel cake the size of your head?"
He grinned. "Hell yeah."
"Then get your fine self up. Mama's buyin'. Just don't make me watch you eat it like a Neanderthal. Last year I almost called social services."
A short walk later, Daisy and Jackson had just settled onto a hay bale near the funnel cake stand, powdered sugar already dusting their fingers, when Daisy's girl gang descended like seagulls spotting an unattended picnic.
"Look who I found near the lemonade booth flirtin' with a high school mascot," Marla June sang, fanning herself dramatically. "Our very own hot mess express."
Becky-Lynn rolled her eyes and flopped down next to Daisy, nearly spilling her oversized cherry limeade. "He was not flirtin'. He was lost. And I was givin' him directions to the piglet races."
"You were touchin' his arm, Becky."
"People touch arms, Marla June. Jesus."
"Not like that, they don't."
Daisy laughed, waving the powdered-sugar-smeared napkin at them. "Y'all are worse than the bachelorettes in Nashville. I swear, if one more of you says the word manifest, I'm throwin' myself into the cotton candy machine."
Jackson shook his head, half-smiling, half-mortified. "Y'all got no shame."
"That's rich, comin' from the boy who made three girls cry by accident this semester," Marla June said, elbowing him. "You got a reverse Midas touch, sweetheart. Everything you don't want turns to desperate."
Jackson leaned back, eyes on the sky, voice dry. "Well, if they'd stop tryin' to trap me into talkin' about moon signs and polyamory, maybe I'd go on a second date."
Daisy cackled. "Oh, he knows what polyamory is. I raised him right."
Becky-Lynn squinted across the fairgrounds, licking sugar off her thumb. "Y'all see that?"
Heads turned.
There, stepping out of the rodeo tent like he'd been poured from the very dust of the earth, came Blake Buckley.
The man who would change everything.
Six-foot-two and carved from slow thunder, Blake moved with the kind of ease that made time hesitate. His jeans hung just right, faded in the thighs, snug in all the wrong places. A chess flannel shirt clung to his chest like it owed him rent. His arms were rolled to the elbows, revealing tanned, veined forearms dusted with golden brown hair. A thick beard, neatly trimmed but undeniably wild, framed his strong jaw. And up top, his long chestnut hair was pulled into a loose bun that somehow looked both rugged and regal.
He was masculine in that effortless, old-school way that made every man in town suddenly remember they had to adjust their posture, and every woman clutch her drink a little tighter. The crowd around him didn't part, exactly. But they shifted. Because Blake Buckley didn't walk through a place. He owned it. And he didn't ask for attention. He commanded it.
Becky-Lynn whispered, "I swear to God he smells like saddle leather and dirty promises."
Daisy didn't say anything. She was watching Jackson. Her son's jaw tightened just a tick. His fingers tapped his thigh in a rhythm that didn't match the music. He didn't look away, but the look he gave Blake was not admiring. It was sour.
"Well," Jackson muttered, eyes following Blake's approach. "Look who decided to show up. Mister Bull-Ridin' Buckley himself."
Marla June raised an eyebrow. "You sound like you got a personal grudge against him."
"Don't like people who think they're better than everyone," Jackson said too quickly.
"Sugar, he didn't even say nothin'."
"He don't have to."
Daisy didn't speak. But her eyes narrowed slightly. Because she knew her son. She knew when he was being honest, and she knew when he was hiding behind irritation.
Then Blake saw them.
More specifically, he saw her.
Daisy felt it like a spark off a faulty wire. His eyes locked onto hers like they'd met before, even though they hadn't. Not properly. Maybe once, years back, in passing, but this? This was something new. He didn't look at Becky-Lynn. Didn't glance at Marla June. Didn't even flick a gaze at Jackson, though Daisy caught the barest up-curve of one side of his mouth, like he knew he was being watched and liked the taste of it.
No, Blake Buckley walked straight up to Daisy Bell with the confidence of a man who could pull a woman into his world just by speakin' her name. "Evenin', ma'am," he said, voice deep as well water and warm as a whiskey fire.
Daisy felt it in her knees.
She tilted her head and offered a slow, syrupy smile. "You always greet women like you're about to propose, or am I just lucky?"
Blake chuckled, slow and lazy. "Ain't decided yet."
The girls giggled behind her like junior high students. Jackson said nothing.
Daisy stood, brushing powdered sugar off her sundress and meeting his gaze like a challenge. She was Southern, but she wasn't soft. "Well," she said. "Blake Buckley, is it? You ridin' in the rodeo this weekend or just here to break hearts and eat funnel cake?"
His smile widened. "Thought I'd do all three."
Daisy's grin stayed sweet, but her eyes had steel behind 'em. "Well then. Welcome back to Willow Creek. Just mind the sugar. Around here, even the pie bites back."
As they stood there, the air between them vibrating like a string plucked too tight, Jackson turned and mumbled, "I'm gonna go check on the carnie dog stand. Becky said they got the good mustard this year." He didn't wait for an answer, didn't even glance back.
Blake watched Jackson go, then looked back at Daisy with a quirked brow. "That your boy?"
Daisy tilted her head. "Sure is."
Blake nodded. "Good lookin' kid. Bet the girls chase him like hounds."
"They do," Daisy said lightly. "But he's got a heart like mine. Hard to catch, harder to keep."
Blake's eyes flickered. "Maybe he gets that from you."
Daisy smiled, slow as molasses. "Maybe."
Further down, Jackson walked fast through the fairgrounds, weaving past the petting zoo, past the blaring speakers of the scrambler. He wasn't sure where he was headed. He just needed to get away. Away from Daisy's honey-warm laugh. Away from that smug, towering bastard with the bun and beard and smolder. And most of all, away from the part of himself that had leaned in a little too hard when Blake Buckley spoke like thunder wrapped in bourbon.
He hated men like that. Too confident, too perfect, too damn obvious. Blake probably didn't even try. He just strolled in like God's own cowboy, knowing the town would sigh at his boots and buckle. And Daisy, God, she was already halfway to writing him into a country song. The way her smile tilted, the way her fingers fussed with her hair.
Jackson shoved a hand through his own golden hair, the same honey-blonde as Daisy's, curling just a little at the nape where the sweat and humidity got to it. He paused near a row of picnic tables, biting the inside of his cheek.
He wasn't jealous. He wasn't.
He was protective. That's what it was. His Mama had been through enough. Raised him on her own, worked three jobs by the time he was ten, dated a string of fools and gas station philosophers who came and went like the seasons. She deserved better than some over-polished rodeo prince with a flirtation problem.
And yet.
You're a goddamn idiot, Jackson told himself. That's what this is. You're bein' stupid, and moody, and weird.
"Jesus," came a voice behind him, rough as gravel and twice as sharp. "You always walk like someone just told you country music's shit?"
Jackson turned, the weight in his chest breaking up. He didn't smile, but something in his shoulders loosened.
"Cash," he said, the name falling easy.
Cash Dalton stood like he didn't give a damn what anyone thought. Shirt unbuttoned halfway down, black tank beneath. Jeans that hung low on his hips, scuffed boots, and a toothpick pinched between his lips. He had thick black hair that always looked slept-in, a jaw peppered with stubble, and eyes like dark smoke, hot and unreadable.
If Jackson was sunshine and sugar, Cash was moonshine and menace.
They were a study in opposites, but always had been. Since they were six and Jackson had pulled him out of a dog pen at the trailer park, bleeding from a fight with his stepdad's belt. Since they were seven and Jackson had taken the blame for a broken window, and Cash had cried for the first time anyone saw. Since forever, really.
"Thought I'd find you skulkin' around the hot dog stand," Cash said, nudging Jackson's shoulder. "You do your broody routine here now?"
"Just needed some air."
Cash glanced around. "Air smells like sweat and corn dogs." Jackson didn't answer. Cash squinted at him. "What's crawled up your pretty-boy ass?"
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Nothin’.”
"That's a lie. You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when your Mama starts flirtin' with somebody with muscles. Don't tell me this is about that Buckley guy."
Jackson froze, the name hitting too clean.
Cash smirked. "Aw, hell. It is, ain't it? I heard he was back in town. Ridin' in the rodeo. Girls are already linin' behind him like he's some kinda cowboy Jesus."
"Y'all give too much power to men who wear belt buckles the size of dinner plates."
"You wear a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate."
"That's different. Mine's vintage."
Cash laughed, a low, rough bark. "You're ridiculous."
Jackson huffed, slumping against the fence. "I just don't trust him."
"Yeah?" Cash leaned next to him. "Or you don't trust yourself?"
That made Jackson still. Cash didn't mean anything by it. He never did. Cash had a way of sayin' things that cut close without knowing why they hurt. He was all instinct, no polish.
"You always gotta psychoanalyze me?" Jackson muttered.
"I leave the analyzin' to Becky-Lynn. I just say what I see."
Jackson looked over at him, at the mess of a boy he'd loved like a brother since before either of them knew what love meant. Cash had bruised knuckles, a crooked grin, and a heart so tender it only showed when it thought no one was watchin'.
And that was the thing, wasn't it? Jackson didn't have to explain things to Cash. He could just be. Sarcastic, complicated, confused. Hidden.
"Girls still throwin' themselves at you?" Jackson asked, changing the subject.
Cash shrugged. "You know how it is. I just hang out near you and smile. They think I'm deep."
Jackson snorted. "You are deep. Like a pothole."
"Hey," Cash said, grinning. "It works. You're the sugar. I'm the dirt. Girls love a project." They stood there a moment, watching the sky shift into dusk, the lights of the fair beginning to glow like distant stars. Cash bumped his shoulder against Jackson's again, softer this time. "You gonna be alright?"
Jackson nodded. "Yeah."
Cash looked at him a second longer, then nodded too. "Alright. C'mon then. Let's go find Becky before she tries to climb the ferris wheel without supervision."
They disappeared into the crowd and found the others lounging on a patch of dry grass behind the carousel, clustered around a folding blanket and a cooler stuffed with sodas and pilfered beers from someone's dad's garage fridge.
Cash raised two fingers in greeting. "The prodigal sons return."
"About time," groaned Tiffani Jean, who was halfway through a bag of boiled peanuts and had her feet kicked up in someone's lap. "We thought y'all eloped."
"We would've," Cash said, jerking his thumb at Jackson, "but he's still hung up on Blake 'Jesus Abs' Buckley."
Jackson coughed so hard he nearly inhaled a peanut. "You're an asshole," he muttered, cheeks coloring.
Cash just winked and popped the tab on a soda.
Lounging next to Tiffani was Weston, all sharp cheekbones and sarcasm, fanning himself with a paper plate like he was dying of heatstroke. "Oh my God, did you see Blake?" he said dramatically. "I swear to God, he smiled at me. I thought I was gonna combust. Like just—poof! Gone. Vaporized by masculinity."
"You combust every time a man makes eye contact," drawled a low, unimpressed voice from behind the cooler. "You nearly passed out when the mailman called you 'sweetheart.'"
Jackson turned to grin at the speaker, Cash's twin sister, Cassidy Dalton.
Cassidy was Cash in mirror: same dark hair, same sharp jaw and whiskey-bottle eyes, but where Cash was all reckless energy and shrugged-off rage, Cassidy was composed like a blade. Sleek. Smart. Scary if she wanted to be. She'd been valedictorian of their class, was already working nights at the animal clinic, and had a glare that could castrate a man at fifty paces.
"You're just jealous I've got charm," Weston said, mock-huffing.
"I've got pepper spray."
"I rest my case."
Cassidy looked up at Jackson, one brow raised. "You alright?"
Jackson nodded. "Just been…walkin'."
Cash chimed in, "Mope-walkin'. Big difference."
Jackson elbowed him, but Cassidy didn't push. She just handed him a soda from the cooler, cold and damp in her palm. That was Cassidy for you. No fuss. Just did the thing that needed doing.
Tiffani Jean, meanwhile, flopped dramatically backward on the blanket. "Y'all, I am dyin' for a dance. We've been sittin' here like lumps. I came out in boots for what? To pose next to a damn corn dog?"
"Your feet hurt," Cassidy pointed out. "You said that five minutes ago."
"They do hurt. I'm sufferin'. But it's sexy sufferin'. Like country music heartbreak."
Weston snorted. "Please. Your version of heartbreak is when Sonic runs outta cherry limeade."
"I will cry over that and you will respect it."
Cash glanced toward the glowing tent near the field, its entrance flanked by hay bales and strands of twinkle lights. Faint country music pulsed beneath the chatter of the fair. "C'mon," he said, hauling himself up. "Let's go dance."
"Since when do you dance?" Cassidy asked.
"Since girls started thinkin' it's hot when I try."
"That's tragic," she muttered, standing anyway.
Jackson followed the group as they ambled toward the tent. Someone had strung up mason jars with candles inside. Jackson lingered a little behind them, watching the group laugh and jostle each other. Cash slung an arm over Tiffani's shoulders, Cassidy rolled her eyes and sipped from her flask, Weston strutted like he was already on the dance floor.
These were Jackson's people.
This was his home.
The world that raised him.
As they stepped under the canopy, the first chords of a fiddle song kicked up, and it wasn't long before the dance floor throbbed with heat and rhythm, dust kicked up in soft clouds beneath the boots of half the town. Strings twanged from the live band at the corner, and the kind of joy only found in small towns on summer nights poured into the space like sweet iced tea.
The moment Jackson stepped beneath the lanterns, the crowd shifted around him, parting in quiet awe. He moved with an ease that could only be born, not taught.
Cass grabbed his hand and spun under his arm with a snort. "You gonna dance, Bell, or you just gonna pose like you're waitin' on a magazine shoot?"
"I'm warmin' up," he smirked, catching her and twirling her right back.
Weston slid in with an exaggerated shimmy, hollering at Jackson, "Work it!" and even Tiffani Jean attempted a semi-successful line dance despite her aching feet.
Jackson's smile widened with each beat. Here, he felt seen. Here, he wasn't a question mark. He was Jackson Bell, the golden boy, the fair's favorite son, the boy every Mama praised, and every girl wanted to take home.
And for a moment, he almost believed it.
But then, the crowd rippled.
Not like before, when he'd walked into the tent. This was different. A shift. A murmur, then a tide of heads turning, followed by whispers like dry grass catching fire. Jackson's laugh caught in his throat. They were walking in like they owned the damn earth.
Daisy Bell and Blake Buckley.
Jackson saw it all. Saw how their hands were laced, saw how his Mama laughed, how her fingers brushed his chest like she couldn't help it.
A rush of heat climbed Jackson's neck.
"Shit," Cassidy muttered beside him, sipping from her flask. "Y'all see that?"
Tiffani Jean leaned in, all bug-eyed. "Daisy Bell out here snatchin' another one. Can't even be mad. That woman's like if Dolly Parton and a bottle of Jack had a baby."
"People already whisperin'," Weston added. "God, I love this town."
The music didn't stop, but the atmosphere twisted. Some danced on, some pretended not to look, and others stood still just long enough to soak in the spectacle. And Jackson? He stood in the center of it, heart hammering. He hated Blake Buckley. He hated how cool he looked, how his shirt clung to that carved, broad chest. How that belt buckle gleamed like a trophy. How his smile, rare, slow, almost private, spilled across his lips when Daisy laid her head on his shoulder.
What the hell's wrong with me, Jackson thought? He should be pissed. Protective. Embarrassed, even. He was those things. But that wasn't the full picture. Because beneath it, deep in a place he didn't let himself reach, Jackson felt something else. A slow, aching envy. Not for his Mama. Not even for the attention.
But for Blake.
For the way he filled out his jeans. For the way his hand fit against the small of Daisy's back. For the way he stood, unshaken, like a man who'd never had to apologize for taking up space. Jackson's eyes narrowed. He felt seen by the town. Blake didn't need to be seen. Blake claimed the room without trying. And the worst part? Jackson didn't know if he wanted to be Blake. Or be held by him.
Cassidy leaned in, sharp-eyed. "You good?"
Jackson blinked. "Yeah."
"You're starin' like you seen a ghost."
"Nah. Just a cowboy with too much cologne."
But even as he said it, his gaze drifted back.
And this time, Blake looked right at him.
A beat passed. A breath.
Jackson looked away first, cutting through the crowd as he rushed for the back.
The bar was nothing more than a long slab of old wood nailed across a couple of sawhorses, sticky with years of spilled beer and last-minute regret. The scent of bourbon, hay, and someone's cheap cologne curled around Jackson's nose, but none of it was strong enough to drown out the image burned behind his eyes, Blake's hand on his Mama's waist, that smug cowboy smile aimed like a shotgun across the dance floor.
He slammed his palm down on the bar top. "Two whiskeys," he said to the grizzled man behind the bottles. "Make 'em strong."
"You sure you old enough for that?" the bartender muttered.
Jackson just glared. The man shrugged and poured.
He leaned against the wood, one elbow propped up, chest heaving slightly. The music had slowed to a dreamy two-step behind him, but his blood hadn't gotten the message.
Then, he felt it.
A body sliding in close behind him, slow, until there was barely space to breathe. The heat of another man's chest pressed against his back, and the scent that hit him: leather, tobacco, and whatever cologne Blake Buckley wore to make women dizzy and men uneasy.
Jackson stiffened.
"Bar's crowded," came the voice, deep and too damn close to his ear. "Hope you don't mind me slippin' in."
Jackson turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Blake's face over his shoulder. "There's plenty a room on the other end."
Blake smirked, eyes beneath the brim of his hat. "But you're standin' right here."
Their arms brushed, bare skin grazing, and Jackson hated the way his body reacted, tense and hot and hungry all at once. "I see you like makin' yourself at home," Jackson muttered, turning back to his drink.
"Only where I'm welcome," Blake said, then added, after a beat, "Funny. You don't sound like you're tellin' me to leave."
Jackson scoffed. "You always this full of yourself?"
"No," Blake said, tilting his head. "But you seem full enough for the both of us."
Jackson turned sharply, and they were face to face, lips inches apart, breath mingling in the tight space between them. Blake's smile didn't fade. If anything, it deepened.
"You got a smart mouth," Jackson snapped.
"And you got a twitch in your jaw when you're mad," Blake said, slow and smooth, like he was describing the weather. "Kinda cute, actually."
Jackson's fist curled on the bar.
"You hittin' on me?" he asked, voice low.
Blake leaned in closer, until Jackson could smell the bourbon on his breath, rich and warm and maddening. "You'd know if I was hittin' on you, Bell."
Jackson swallowed hard. His pulse thundered. His skin was flushed and his thoughts were falling all over themselves in the rush. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to pull him closer. Fuck.
Blake's eyes flicked down, just for a second, to Jackson's mouth. "You don't like me," Blake said, voice dipping.
"No," Jackson rasped. "I don't."
"Good." Blake's tongue flicked the corner of his lips. "I don't like you either."
It wasn't flirtation.
It was something else.
Rougher.
Built on heat and hate and the kind of tension men don't talk about, not with words.
The bartender slid the whiskeys in front of Jackson, the clink of the glasses a sharp crack between them. "Thanks," Blake said, plucking a glass before Jackson could stop him.
"Wasn't for you."
Blake drank it anyway. "Tastes better now."
Jackson stared at him, jaw flexing. He didn't understand it. The fury. The need. The way Blake filled every inch of air around him like he belonged there. He'd never wanted anyone like this. Not the way he wanted to push Blake, break him, get under his skin. Not the way he wanted to know if Blake's mouth tasted like that bourbon. Not the way his body was thrumming now, teeth on edge, like the music, the bar, the entire damn fair had dropped away and left just this.
Just them.
Blake set the empty glass down and backed away with a grin that said you're already mine, even if he never said a word. "I'll be seein' you, Bell."
And then he was gone, hat tipping once as he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jackson with nothing but a half-finished drink and the taste of something burning in the back of his throat.
Obsession.
That's what it was.
Pure, searing, goddamn obsession.
Jackson stayed at the bar longer than he meant to, heart still flogging from Blake's breath on his neck. He sipped what was left of the second whiskey, but it didn't do much to steady him. His skin still buzzed. That cowboy had a way of getting under his ribs.
He set the glass down and wiped his palm across his jeans, his eyes wandering toward the other end of the bar where Cassidy stood, sipping something neon and fizzy with a little umbrella sticking out the top. Her long legs were crossed at the ankle, her hair tied up in a loose ponytail. Her tank top read "I'm the fun twin" in glitter letters.
But Jackson wasn't the only one watching her.
Colton Avery, backwoods trash with a gym membership and a juvie record, had zeroed in on her like a dog in heat. He leaned in too close, his beer sloshing, whispering in her ear with the kind of smile that always came before something bad. Jackson couldn't hear what he said, but he saw Cassidy recoil, scowling, trying to brush him off.
Then Colton touched her.
Just a hand on her hip, casual, territorial, disgusting.
Jackson's stomach twisted. "Goddammit," he muttered just as a blur of fury tore past him.
Cash.
His jaw was already clenched like a trap snapping shut. His fists were balled, eyes wild with that dangerous fire Jackson had learned to read over the years. He was going to kill Colton.
Jackson downed the last of his drink and took off after him. "Cash, wait...!"
But Cash didn't hear him.
Or didn't care.
He was already shoving Colton hard enough to make the redneck stumble back and hit the bar. "You touch her again," Cash growled, "I'll knock your fuckin' teeth out your neck."
Cassidy shouted, "Cash! I got it!" but it was too late.
Colton pushed back.
Fists flew.
Jackson got there just in time to grab Colton's arm mid-swing and rammed him back, slamming the bigger guy into the edge of the bar. "Back the fuck off," Jackson hissed, his voice low and furious. "You touch her again, and you'll be shittin' teeth for a week."
The bouncer tried to intervene, but this was small-town chaos. Two golden boys beating the hell out of a local piece of shit, and half the bar was either watching with glee or pretending not to see a damn thing.
Jackson's knuckles cracked against Colton's face.
Cash landed another hit.
Cassidy screamed at them both.
It was chaos. Glorious southern chaos.
Meanwhile, under the twinkle of lights on the dance floor, Daisy tried to drown out the noise in her head with the music and the way Blake Buckley's hands fit around her hips.
He held her like he'd done it a thousand times. People stared. She could feel it. She could feel them. The whispering women. The disapproving eyes. The judgy little smiles from girls who hadn't known childbirth and heartbreak at sixteen. They were watching Blake, sure, but she knew what they were really thinking. Why him? With her? Isn't she the one who got knocked up in the back of a Firebird behind the Dollar General? She's just trailer park pretty. Rode hard and hung up wet.
Blake leaned down, murmuring something soft that made her laugh out of habit. But her smile faded just as quick.
She pulled away. "I...I need a second."
Blake caught her wrist, gentle but firm. "What's wrong?"
Daisy bit her lip and looked away. "Nothin'. Just hot in here."
"You ain't good at lyin', sweetheart."
But before she could answer, the sharp sound of fists hitting flesh cracked through the music like a whip. They both turned toward the bar.
The crowd was already parting, forming a loose circle of gasps and hollers. Daisy could make out Jackson's white shirt, spotted now with blood, someone's, she couldn't tell whose, and Cash's unmistakable snarl.
"Oh, hell," she whispered, already taking a step forward.
Blake stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. "Don't. I'll take care of it."
"That's my boy."
"And you ain't gonna help nothin' by throwin' yourself in the middle of a brawl," he said, quiet and sure, already moving. "Let me handle this."
And with that, the cowboy turned and walked toward the mess like he was headed into a rodeo ring. Daisy stood still, trembling with something lonely and bitter that made her feel fourteen again. All those eyes still on her. All those girls wondering how she got the prize horse.
She pressed a hand to her stomach. "Don't you dare get soft on me now," she whispered to herself.
But her eyes were still on Jackson.
Her boy.
Her golden boy.
The brawl had thickened. Blood. Sweat. But then a new kind of presence cut through it.
Blake Buckley didn't rush. He didn't need to. The way he moved, purposeful, calm, eyes steady, that was enough to part the mass. Boots thudding on the ground. His flannel rolled up to the elbows, forearms taut with muscle and calluses. That bun still tight at the crown of his head, not a strand loose. He looked like some outlaw out of myth, bearded, sun-browned, carved from rough timber and red dirt.
"Alright," he said, voice a low drawl. "That's enough." Cash had Colton in a headlock by then, teeth bared like a rabid dog. Jackson was panting, eyes wild, lip bleeding. "Move," Blake said, not shouting, just commanding.
Cash glanced at him and, for once, actually did.
Blake reached between the boys and yanked Colton by the collar, dragging him upright like a sack of feed. He slammed him against the bar, not hard, just firm. Enough to remind Colton of the food chain.
"You so much as look at that girl again, I'll break your damn fingers one by one," Blake said, low, right into Colton's ear. "You understand me, you greasy little pecker?" Colton nodded, his cocky smirk long gone. "Say it," Blake growled.
"I understand," Colton muttered.
Blake released him, brushing his hands like he was done with a chore. Colton wiped his mouth, already bruising, and turned to go. But he couldn't help himself. Couldn't just leave.
As he walked past Jackson, he muttered under his breath, "Ain't no wonder your momma always end up spreadin' for any man with a belt buckle. Guess trash runs in the family."
Something inside Jackson snapped. "You piece of shit!" he said, lunging. But before he could land a single hit, a thick arm caught him around the middle. "Let me go!" Jackson screamed, kicking, thrashing. "LET ME FUCKIN’ GO!"
Blake didn't. He just threw Jackson over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. One arm around Jackson's thighs, the other pushing through the crowd that had gasped and fallen silent again. It was humiliating. Mortifying. Jackson pounded his fists against Blake's back, but Blake didn't flinch. Not once.
"I swear to God, I'll kill you," Jackson barked, writhing, the rage in him spilling out like blood. "You arrogant, backwoods piece of...PUT ME DOWN!"
But Blake didn't answer.
He carried him through the far end of the bar until they reached the restrooms. He kicked open the men's room door and shoved it aside with his shoulder, then stormed into the far stall, the big one, thank God, and slammed the door shut behind them. He finally let Jackson down, roughly, like tossing a bag of grain to the floor.
Jackson stumbled back against the stall wall, flushed, panting, fists still clenched and shaking. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he spat. "You think you can just carry me like I'm...like I'm your fuckin' property or somethin'?"
Blake's chest rose and fell like a bull holding back the charge. "You were gonna get yourself arrested," he growled. "Or kill that little shit. Either way, you're welcome."
Jackson took a step forward, pushing at Blake's chest. "I didn't ask for your help, Buckley. I don't need some goddamn cowboy throwin' me over his shoulder. I can take care of myself."
Blake caught Jackson's wrist mid-push. Their eyes locked. For a second, the heat in that tiny stall was unbearable. Their bodies close, breath mixing.
Blake's jaw flexed. His hand still on Jackson's wrist. "You got a temper on you," he said, low. "That hot blood don't scare me."
Jackson yanked free. "Good. 'Cause I ain't scared of you either."
The silence between them was hot, bitter, charged.
Blake stepped in closer, close enough that Jackson could feel the heat coming off his skin. "You don't like me," Blake murmured.
"No," Jackson spat. "I don't."
Blake's smirk was slow. Dangerous. "You sure about that?"
Jackson's heart slammed. The walls of the stall felt like they were closing in. "You're an asshole," he said. "You think just 'cause you ride bulls and wear tight jeans that everyone's supposed to fall at your feet."
Blake chuckled, slow and low. "Don't need 'em to fall. Just need 'em to stare."
"Yeah, well, you got the whole goddamn county starin', don'tcha?" Jackson barked. "Lookin' at you like you're some goddamn rodeo Jesus."
Blake didn't move. Didn't blink. "You were starin' too." Jackson froze. "Back there on the dance floor," Blake said, voice like smoke.
Jackson's throat went dry. His hands curled into fists. "Fuck you."
"Sit," Blake said, nodding toward the little metal stool bolted into the wall, probably meant for drunk cowboys or old men needing to catch their breath.
Jackson blinked. "What?"
"Sit your stubborn ass down. You're bleedin'."
Jackson hesitated, heart in his throat, then muttered, "I'm fine."
"You got a split lip, Romeo," Blake said. "Quit bein' proud."
Something in his voice, less gruff now, more coaxing, made Jackson give in. Slowly, reluctantly, he sat on the stool. Blake knelt in front of him, jeans creasing tight over his thighs, boots squeaking slightly against the floor. The sudden vulnerability of seeing Blake, Blake fuckin' Buckley, kneeling before him made Jackson hard.
Blake leaned in.
Not close enough to scare, but just enough for Jackson to see the light catching in the curve of his hazel eyes. His hand reached up, callused thumb brushing the corner of Jackson's mouth. It was a small cut, from where Colton's ring had caught him. Nothing serious. But Blake's focus on it, on him, was deadly serious.
Then Blake did something Jackson didn't expect.
He pressed his thumb to his mouth. Coated it with his own spit. Then returned it gently to Jackson's lip, wiping the blood away with slow, practiced strokes.
Jackson froze.
His whole body locked up, as if time had slowed.
Blake's fingers were warm. Sure. His touch not tender, but present. Focused. Jackson's breath caught, and as soon as Blake pulled away, his tongue darted out, instinctive, tasting the spot where Blake's thumb had just touched. Jackson's eyes blinked. Once. It took everything Jackson had to reopen them. To resist not keeping them close as he reveled in Blake's taste. Whatever exquisite flavor Jackson's tongue had just tasted, he wanted more of it.
Blake's eyes flicked down and watched it. Watched him. "You always this mouthy?" Blake asked quietly.
Jackson swallowed. His voice came out husky. "Only when I'm cornered."
"You ain't cornered." Blake's voice was even softer now.
Blake's knees pressed between his legs. His eyes, his mouth, that slow-burning look like he was reading Jackson's soul through his lips. They were suddenly close, too close. Just one more second. One more lean forward. One more flicker of want. One more.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound hit them both like a gunshot.
They jerked apart.
A woman's voice, high, frantic, called. "Jackson? You in there?"
Daisy.
Jackson stood up so fast the stool nearly toppled. He shoved past Blake, heart racing, humiliation already scorching his cheeks before he even reached the door. He flung it open. There she was. Daisy stood with her hair a bit frizzy from the dancing, concern all over her face, her sundress clinging to her. "Baby, are you alright?"
Jackson didn't say a word. He ran past her, out the bathroom, through the bar, and out into the open air.
Behind him, Blake stayed in the stall.
Still kneeling. Still breathing hard.
Still tasting Jackson's blood on his thumb.
*
The truck pulled into the long gravel drive.
The headlights blazed the white-paneled house at the top of the hill, small, square, and crooked in the roof, but with a big-hearted porch that wrapped around as if meant to embrace the whole world. Wind chimes clinked in the breeze. There was a porch swing, half-painted. Hanging baskets of drooping petunias. A pair of old cowboy boots sat beside the door like they were waiting for someone to come home.
"Yours?" Blake asked, nodding toward the boots as he shifted the truck into park.
Daisy smirked. "Jackson's. He refuses to throw 'em out. Says they make him look like he just walked off a damn cologne ad."
Blake chuckled low in his throat. "Reckon he ain't wrong."
Daisy rolled her eyes, but the smile was already curling at her lips. She pushed the passenger door open and stepped down. Blake came around and leaned against the front of the truck, arms folded, watching her.
"Well," Daisy said, swaying slightly on her heels, arms crossed. "This is where I tell you goodnight."
He stepped a little closer, boots crunching the gravel. "You not lettin' me in for a nightcap, Miss Bell?"
Daisy gave him a look that could've curdled milk. "You been drinkin' motor oil? No man goes inside my house. That's a standing rule."
Blake's grin was lazy. Confident. "Not even to fix that janky porch light I saw flickerin'?"
"Nope."
"To kill a spider?"
"I ain't scared of spiders."
"To tuck you in?"
She laughed then, tossing her hair off her shoulder. "Lord, you're persistent."
He took another step, his voice dropping to a slow, velvety whisper. "Only with things I want."
Daisy's heart kicked up, but she hid it well behind a practiced sass. She stepped up onto the porch and turned back to face him, one hand on her hip.
"This house is mine," she said. "Mine and Jackson's. It's our little church. Ain't no man crossed that threshold since Jackson was in diapers."
Blake looked up at her like she was a riddle he didn't mind spendin' the rest of his life tryin' to solve. "That a challenge?"
"It's a boundary," she said, softly now. "One you're gonna respect if you plan on stickin' around."
Blake dipped his head in a slow nod. "Yes, ma'am."
But there was still a glint in his eye. That same heat that had been there since the dance floor. Since the moment he saw her in that dress.
"I'll win you over, Daisy Bell," he murmured. Blake got in his truck, the engine purring to life again. He leaned out the window as he started backing out the long gravel drive. "I'm gonna make you break that rule."
She didn't turn around. Just raised her hand and flipped him the bird over her shoulder with a laugh.
Blake whistled low, grinning to himself as he drove off into the night, the truck's taillights glowing like embers.
*
The fair was winding down, its bright and noisy charm slipping into quiet fatigue.
Jackson wandered through it like a leftover thought.
Cash had offered to drive him home, voice still rough from shouting during the brawl, but Jackson had waved him off with a muttered, "I'm good, man. Need the air." He wasn't sure where the truth ended and the excuse began, but he needed the solitude more than the ride.
He walked with his head bowed slightly, hands tucked in the pockets of his worn jeans, his white T-shirt streaked with dust and a smear of blood that hadn't quite dried. He fished a cigarette from his back pocket, lit it, and drew the smoke in deep. It settled in his lungs like a sigh too long held in.
Still. Still, he could feel Blake Buckley.
That bathroom stall. Blake kneeling in front of him, rough thumb dragging across his mouth, eyes too sharp, too knowing. Jackson had caught the smell of him, sweat, whiskey, leather, and tasted the salt of his own blood where Blake had wiped it. He'd seen Blake's gaze linger. Like he was watching a flame and wondering what it might feel like to burn. Jackson's breath caught just thinking about it, and he cursed himself for it. He was pissed, furious that the man had touched him, furious that it had felt like something. That it had stirred something molten and dangerous inside of him. And most of all, furious that even now, hours later, his body still remembered it.
He kicked at a stone and watched it tumble down into the ditch, disappearing into shadow.
Damn Blake Buckley.
He'd always hated the cocky son of a bitch. The way Blake made people look at him like he had the right to take what he wanted. Like he was already halfway into your life before you even noticed the door open. And now he was sniffin' around Daisy like a hound lookin' for scraps.
Jackson's jaw clenched, cigarette dangling from his lips.
But what burned the most was the way his skin still buzzed. The way he'd leaned back against the stall, knees weak, when Blake had cleaned the blood from his mouth. The heat in his stomach. The flash of curiosity in Blake's eyes, sharp and fleeting.
What the hell was that, Jackson thought?
He blew out a long breath and turned onto the narrow path that cut between the cornfield and the riverbank. The fair sounds were nearly gone now.
Then something.
A whisper.
A sharp moan.
Jackson froze mid-step.
It came from the river. Behind the brush. A stifled whine followed by the unmistakable sound of someone trying, and failing, to stay quiet.
He tilted his head, the cigarette ember glowing bright in the dark.
Part of him wanted to check. Curiosity pricked at his skin, a habit born from years of watching his back. Something about the sound. He stared toward the treeline, hearing it again. A muffled plea. A breathless noise.
But he was too damn tired.
Too bruised, too raw. Too full of questions. So he shrugged, flicked the cigarette into the grass, and kept walking. Shoulders squared, hands shoved deep in his pockets again. The house wasn't far now. Just a little more gravel road, a rusty gate, and a porch light that would probably still be on. And maybe tomorrow, just maybe, he'd forget what it felt like when Blake Buckley touched his mouth like he owned it.
Jackson walked away, allowing the world around him to finally sleep.
But further down, near the river, something lingered.
Awake.
The water moved slow, whispering its secrets to the reeds that lined the muddy bank. Fireflies blinked in and out like quiet signals. The distant music of the fair was nothing more than a faint, dying echo now, just a beat or two carried on the wind.
And there, tucked back beneath a canopy of cypress trees, Blake Buckley's van stood like a ghoul.
Dust clung to its flanks. One back door hung open, yawning toward the river. The other had a bootprint smeared across its panel. The van was still, save for the soft groaning of the metal frame, rising and falling like breath, like it had lungs and knew how to ache.
A flicker of movement.
A rough grunt.
Inside, there was a body, massive, tense, pounding in rhythm against another. Blake's hand was splayed against the roof of the van, the veins in his forearm catching the moonlight as he shifted. His other hand held onto the door's edge, knuckles white, back bowed like a battery, grumbling insistently.
The guy beneath him was a mess. His shirt rucked up to his chest, his jeans tangled around his ankles, his body trembling with every brutal thrust. His fingers clawed at the ridged leather seat of the van, desperate for something to hold onto as Blake fucked him raw.
"You slow the fuck down...fuck, dude," he hissed, his voice strained and shaky, like he was teetering on the edge of control.
Blake didn't even flinch. If anything, he went harder, his hips slamming forward with a force that made the guy's back arch even more. "You don't talk like that when you're fuckin' pussy, huh?" Blake growled, his voice dripping into a growl.
Blake reached for a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his lighter. The flame illuminated the other guy's face for a split second, the sharp angles of his jaw, the swollen lips that had been busted in a fight earlier that night.
Colton.
Blake's hips pistoned forward, driving his thick, veiny cock deeper into Colton's tight, quivering hole. Colton's face twisted, his jaw clenched, his cheeks flushed with shame and something darker, something desperate. He turned his head to the side, his breath hitching as Blake's dick stretched him wide, the burn of it making his toes curl tightly.
"No one...ever fucked my pussy like this," Colton spat, his voice trembling, like he was disgusted with himself for admitting it. His hands clawed at the seat, his knuckles white, body trembling like a scared animal. "Fuckin’ hate this…" he whimpered, his hands coming up to cover his face.
Blake exhaled a plume of smoke into the night, the cherry of his cigarette glowing like a tiny, angry star. His free hand gripped Colton's hip, fingers digging into the flesh there, leaving bruises that would surely bloom purple by morning. "Then whatcha doin' here, ya greasy pecker?" he growled, his voice low and rough, like gravel under his boot. His hips snapped forward again, his cock slamming into Colton's ass with a wet slap.
Colton didn't answer. There was no softness there, no ardor. Just the brutal rhythm of their bodies, the slick slide of Blake's dick in and out of Colton's hole, the way Colton's ass clenched around him, greedy and tight. One was trying to forget something, the other was trying to feel anything at all.
Colton shut his eyes, teeth biting into his lips as Blake's cock hit that spot inside him, the one that made his legs shake and his 5-inch cock throb and bounce over his abdomen. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the hurt that rose in his throat, the ache that had nothing to do with the way Blake was fucking him.
"I ain't gay," Colton muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, like he was trying to convince himself more than Blake.
Blake's lips curled into a smirk, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against Colton's ear. "Ain't said you were," he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. His hips didn't stop, didn't slow down, just kept driving into Colton with a relentless rhythm that had Colton's knees buckling.
They fell into silence again, the only sounds the wet slap of skin on skin, the soft hush of the river wind, and Colton's muffled moans as Blake's cock pounded into him. A distant sound, a car maybe, made Colton jerk, his body tensing around Blake's dick. "Hurry up," he gritted out, his voice strained, his nails digging into Blake's massive shoulders. "I think someone's coming."
Blake chuckled darkly, taking a long drag from his cigarette before blowing the smoke toward the stars. "Yeah..." he said, his voice low, trailing off. "Me," Blake added, hips pistoning relentlessly and his neck snapping back as he began to unload inside Colton.
(To be continued…)
Casual Wanderer © 2025
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the brief quotations
embodied in critical reviews and specific other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
