"The Midnight Rider"
The heat had teeth that afternoon, the kind that nipped at your shoulders and curled around your neck like a sweaty lover. Mississippi sun didn't shine. It smothered. And out at the lake, every teenager with a pulse and a working set of lungs had taken up arms against the inferno with floaties, Bluetooth speakers, and enough gas station snacks to fuel a small militia.
The lake shimmered like a sheet of glass, green and still around the edges, with dragonflies dartin' over the surface and the scent of wet moss curling up from the shallows.
Jackson lay back on a sun-bleached towel, arms folded under his head, bare chest slick with sweat and sunscreen. His white tank had been abandoned on the nearest cooler, and his shades sat low on his nose. He'd barely slept the night before, haunted by dreams that swirled and pulsed like the fair's lights, and woke with his mouth dry and his chest tight.
Now, he let the heat do its work, sweating it out of him like a sickness.
Beside him, Weston was wearing a bucket hat covered in tiny watermelons, legs stretched out like he thought he was in Saint-Tropez. "Y'all ever think about how we're just...slow cookin' ourselves like pork chops in God's crockpot?"
Cassidy, perched elegantly in a camp chair with a can of sweet tea and a book she hadn't opened once, gave him a sideways look. "You'd dry out like beef jerky before you got tender, West."
"I am tender," Weston huffed. "Emotionally."
"Emotionally fragile don't count, sugar," drawled Tiffani Jean, who was painting her toenails electric blue while her left foot rested on an inflatable flamingo. "You cried when the coffee machine at Waffle House broke last month."
"That was a tragedy, and y'all know it."
"Bless your heart," Cassidy muttered, sipping her tea. "You ain't been right since that barista left town."
"That barista had a jawline sculpted by angels and a tattoo of Tennessee on his thigh. I'm allowed to mourn."
Jackson smirked, eyes closed beneath his shades. "Don't y'all ever get tired of hearin' yourselves talk?"
"No," all three of them said in perfect, well-practiced unison.
He chuckled despite himself, letting their bickering wash over him like sun-warmed water.
Somewhere across the lake, someone did a cannonball with a rebel yell, and music blared from three separate speakers, Luke Bryan overlapping with Megan Thee Stallion overlapping with what sounded like Creed, of all godforsaken things.
Cassidy leaned over, tossing a Cheeto at Jackson's chest. "You still moody, Bell? Or that fistfight at the fair fix whatever was crawlin' up your ass?"
"Still moody," he muttered, brushing the Cheeto off.
"You could at least pretend to be fun."
"I'm here, ain't I?"
"That don't count. You're lyin' there like a half-dead lifeguard. Ain't even flirted with nobody."
Jackson didn't answer. Instead, he tilted his head back, eyes on the sky. He could feel the looks. A few girls from school were camped out by the rocks, giggling too loud, pretending not to glance over at him. He ignored them.
Cassidy threw another Cheeto at his face. "You're thinkin' again," she accused.
"I'm breathin'. Y'all confuse the two."
Tiffani Jean laughed. But before Jackson could throw something back, or storm off, the bushes near the edge of the trees rustled.
Everyone turned.
From the undergrowth emerged Cash, shirtless, looking like he just got dropped outta a Calvin Klein ad by way of a monster truck rally. His dark curls were damp, stuck to his forehead, and he had that stupid, crooked grin that meant he'd just done something he shouldn't've.
Right behind him came a girl. A tall, sun-kissed thing in a clinging two-piece and cutoff denim shorts, adjusting the strap on her top, cheeks flushed, lipstick a little smudged. She wasn't laughing, but she wasn't sorry either.
Cassidy groaned aloud. "For the love of God, Cash."
Cash threw up his hands. Jackson sat up, blinking against the sun. The girl whispered something to Cash and giggled, ducking her head as she tugged her top back into place. Cash smirked and gave her a playful swat on the hip as she walked ahead, heading toward the other girls by the shoreline.
Cassidy stood. "You were gone ten minutes."
"Eleven," Cash drawled, voice low and lazy. "Y'all count real slow."
Cash hadn't even sat down before the interrogation started.
"Who was that?" Weston gasped, one hand clutching his chest. "She ain't from town. I would've remembered that walk."
Cassidy plopped back into her chair and rolled her eyes so hard she nearly tipped backward. "Don't encourage him. His ego's already draggin' behind him like a damn pickup with no tailgate."
Cash smirked as he reached into the cooler, fishing out a dripping bottle of Gatorade. "Y'all act like this is news."
"It ain't news," Tiffani Jean said, toe still wiggling in the air as she finished her third coat of glitter polish. "It's just tired. You been hookin' up with lake girls since middle school."
"I didn't hook up with 'lake girls' in middle school."
Cassidy snorted. "Well, you tried to. You just couldn't figure out what went where."
Cash twisted the cap off the Gatorade and took a long pull, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Y'all are just mad 'cause I'm God's gift to summer."
"That ain't God's gift," Weston muttered, half under his breath. "That's Satan's party favor."
Jackson smirked a little, but he didn't laugh like the others. His eyes stayed on the water, sunglasses hiding what flickered beneath the surface.
"Seriously though," Tiffani pressed, "what's her name?"
Cash leaned back on his elbows in the grass, stretching like a cat in the sun. "Ain't asked."
Cassidy looked like she might actually combust. "You what?"
He shrugged. "We didn't do a damn book club, Cass. She said she liked my truck, I said I liked her legs, and one thing led to another."
"Jesus Christ," Cassidy muttered, burying her face in her hands. "This is why I tell people I was adopted."
"Please," Weston chimed in, eyes still tracking the mystery girl as she joined a group of friends by the dock. "She's already got your family's signature jawline and bad decisions."
Tiffani cackled.
Cash just grinned wider. "She said she was from Jackson."
"Oh, great." Cassidy pulled her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose to glare at him. "You mean to tell me you let some I-55 hitchhiker drag you behind the pine trees and play corncob roulette?"
Cash blinked, unoffended. "Well, when you say it like that, it sounds trashy."
"Because it is!"
He threw an acorn at her.
Cassidy dodged it with practiced grace and took a long, meditative sip of sweet tea. "Someday, you're gonna wake up married with five kids and not remember how you got there."
"I hope so," Cash said with a grin. "That'd save me a helluva lot of time."
More laughter. And for a moment, it almost seemed as if time had paused to let them enjoy being young and loud and mostly okay.
But Jackson. Jackson was quiet.
Still leaned back on his towel, shades hiding eyes that weren't seeing the lake or the girls or the joke. He sat up on his towel with a low grunt, pushing his shades onto his forehead, blinking at the light like he was waking from something deeper than a nap.
Without a word, he stood and peeled his damp board shorts off, revealing snug black swim trunks that clung to his hips. He walked toward the water, long strides and sun-kissed skin, and dove in without ceremony cutting the lake.
The group quieted just a little as his splash echoed across the shore.
Cassidy glanced up from her tea. Her tone was casual, but something flickered behind her sunglasses.
"There they go," she muttered, "into their little bubble."
Weston looked up from his phone. "What?"
She gestured toward the water with her chin. Jackson was already halfway to the old floating platform near the middle of the lake, a battered wooden square, half-rotted in one corner, tethered to an ancient chain looped around a sunken cypress stump.
As if on cue, Cash stood and kicked his sneakers off, pulling his shirt over his head with a lazy yank. "Back in a bit," he said to no one in particular.
And then he followed.
Cassidy shrugged. "Them two always had their own little world."
Cash swam with long, powerful strokes, catching up with Jackson just as the platform creaked beneath their weight. Jackson climbed up first, water streaming down his back in silver rivulets. He flopped onto the warm wood with a sigh, chest rising and falling, eyes closed to the sun.
Cash pulled himself up beside him and collapsed, arms spread wide, skin steaming in the heat.
For a long moment, they didn't say anything. Birds chirped. Water lapped lazily beneath them.
"You ever get the feelin'," Jackson said eventually, "like your brain won't turn off?"
Cash didn't open his eyes. "Only every day."
Jackson smirked. "I mean it. Like... it's buzzin'. Not even thoughts, just noise. Like a hive. Like you're tryin' to sleep with a damn radio on inside your skull."
Cash cracked one eye open. "That's called bein' alive, Jacks."
Jackson made a noncommittal noise and laid back again. His chest looked tighter than it should've. Not in muscle, though he had that too, but in tension. Like he was holdin' his breath without realizin' it.
Cash rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. "What's goin' on in there?" he asked, voice low now, gentle in a way few people ever heard from him.
Jackson stared up at the sky. "I dunno. Just been thinkin'. About...stuff."
Cash waited. Let him sit in the silence. He always knew how to wait Jackson out. Like coaxing a scared dog out from under a porch.
Jackson didn't look at him when he asked, "What's it like...when you have sex?"
Cash blinked. Then he snorted. "Well, that depends on who's doin' the work," he drawled. "If it's good, it's kinda like... hittin' the gas on a four-wheeler and not lettin' go. Fast, dirty, loud. If it's bad, it's like steppin' on a nail and pretendin' you liked it."
Jackson laughed, and the tension in his body eased just a little.
Cash grinned at him. "Why you askin'? Tryin' to make a point?"
Jackson's eyes met his, searching. "You ever been in love?" he asked quietly.
Cash looked away, out at the trees, the shimmer of the lake. He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. "Nah," he said. "Don't think so. Not really. Don't even know what that feels like. Maybe somethin' slow, I reckon. Somethin' that don't scare the hell outta you right off the bat."
Jackson's voice was barely audible. "What if it does scare you?"
Cash looked back at him. Really looked. He didn't say anything right away. Instead, he reached over and flicked a bit of lakeweed out of Jackson's hair.
Then he said, slow and soft, "Well, that don't make it wrong."
Jackson blinked, leaning into Cash, and let his head fall into his friend's chest. Cash's hand came up, fingers running through Jackson's hair, slow and thoughtless, like it was something he'd always done. Jackson didn't move. Just listened. To the lake. The birds. The beating in Cash's chest that never changed pace, no matter how much the world tried to make it rush.
Then, after a long moment of silence, Cash spoke. "You know," he said, "I don't really get all that talk folks like to throw around. Labels and names, tryin' to stick people in little boxes like jars of peach jam. Never made sense to me. Always seemed like a way to make the world smaller."
Jackson didn't answer, but he tensed, just a little.
Cash noticed, and his fingers slowed. "I don't care who you love, Jacks," he continued, the words steady and sure. "Don't matter if it's a girl, or a boy, or some half-tractor bein'. Long as they treat you right. Long as they look at you the way I see you, with your big ol' heart and your messy brain, and all that quiet stuff you try to hide 'cause you think no one'll hold it right."
He let out a breath, heavy and soft.
"You got more soul in your little finger than most folks got in their whole damn family tree." He paused, glancing down at the boy curled against him. "I ain't always gonna know the right thing to say. Hell, most days I barely know what I'm feelin'. But I swear on every scar on these knuckles, I got your back. Always have. Always will."
Jackson's throat tightened. His fingers curled gently against his ribs, gripping just a little, like holding on before he let out a shaky laugh. It sounded like relief. Like gratitude too big for words.
"You're such an asshole," he whispered, voice wet, thick in his throat.
Cash chuckled. "Takes one to know one."
Jackson smiled, and without saying a word, he shifted closer, letting his arm rest across Cash's stomach, just lightly. Cash didn't flinch. Just wrapped his other arm around Jackson's shoulder and pulled him in, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The lake glowed around them. Jackson and Cash lay still on the floating platform, soaking in the weightless peace of it.
Then, a sharp whistle sliced through the air.
Jackson lifted his head. Cash tilted his chin toward shore.
Cassidy stood at the edge of the lake, hand cupped around her mouth. "Y'all plannin' on sleepin' out there like swamp hobbits?" she shouted. "Get your asses back! We goin' to the rodeo!"
Cash groaned, loud and theatrical. "You hear that? Ain't even safe on a float no more."
Jackson didn't move. His body had gone still again, his heart, even more so. Rodeo. The word struck him like a stone to the chest. Blake would be there. Of course he would.
Cash stood first, stretching his arms above his head. "Guess that's our cue."
Jackson hesitated just a moment too long, then nodded and rolled over, slipping into the water with a clean dive. Cash followed with a splash. They swam side-by-side, slow and easy at first, then racing the last few yards like they used to when they were twelve and thought the world ended at the edge of this lake.
By the time they reached the shore, Weston was already toweling off his legs like a pampered show poodle, and Tiffani Jean had applied a fresh coat of pink lip gloss that caught the light just right.
Cassidy eyed her brother with mock disdain. "You look like you just finished a Calvin Klein ad for creek people."
"Thank you," Cash grinned, wringing water from his curls. "We aim to please."
Then she turned to Jackson, already pulling a second towel from her bag and tossing it his way. "You comin' tonight or what?"
Jackson caught it mid-air. His hands were shaking, just slightly. He forced a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Think I'll skip it."
Cassidy blinked. "You? Skippin' a rodeo? That's like me turnin' down cheese fries."
"Maybe I just don't feel like sittin' in a crowd listenin' to drunk men yell at livestock," Jackson said, toweling off his chest with exaggerated boredom.
"You're just mad 'cause you can't ride worth a damn," Tiffani teased.
Jackson chuckled, but the sound was hollow.
Cash, standing just behind him, narrowed his eyes. He saw it. The shift. The tightness in Jackson's shoulders. The sudden stillness. He knew him too well not to notice when something slipped under the skin.
"Drop it," Cash said, voice quiet but firm, cutting clean through the chatter. "He said he ain't goin'."
The others paused, more from the tone than the words. Cassidy raised a brow, but she didn't push.
Weston shrugged. "Suit yourself. More funnel cake for us."
Cassidy looked between them, said nothing, then turned to start packing up her towel and drink cans.
The group started to drift off yet Cash lingered behind. "You want me to drive you home?" he asked quietly, brushing water off his chest.
Jackson shook his head, his voice barely more than gravel. "Nah. I wanna walk."
Cash nodded. "Alright."
Jackson turned, towel slung over his shoulder, walking barefoot down the dusty path that wound through the trees toward home.
He walked barefoot, his flip-flops slung from two fingers, the towel draped over his shoulder like a makeshift cloak. The sun had slipped below the horizon now, but its residue lingered. And Jackson walked slow, like maybe if he took his time, the thoughts wouldn't catch up. But they always did.
Blake.
That name had been echoing in his head since the bathroom stall. It clung to his ribs, wormed into the marrow of him. He tried to shake it. Tried to make it about anger. Tried.
He could still feel the heat of Blake's hand on the back of his neck. Still hear the breath between their mouths. The weight of him. The smell. It wasn't even that Blake was beautiful, though he was. It was the way he moved through the world like he didn't owe anybody a damn thing. That raw masculinity, the kind Jackson had spent most of his life trying to imitate, afraid he didn't quite get it right. And Blake had seen through it. With one look. He'd touched Jackson like he knew, not just his body, but his secret.
Jackson dragged a hand down his face, groaning. "Get the fuck outta my head."
But Blake didn't leave. The memory pulsed hotter now, faster, morphing from shame into something else. Want.
Jackson stumbled over a root and cursed, catching himself on a fencepost, panting. He stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling like he'd just sprinted a mile. His skin was damp with sweat and lakewater, but it wasn't the heat that made him dizzy.
What is this?
He remembered the way Blake had looked at him. That flicker in his eye. The way his thumb had pressed against his lip, rough and sure. The way he'd whispered, "You got a split lip, Romeo."
Jackson's stomach clenched. His throat dried. Ever since Blake had swaggered into town with that slow smile and those hips that moved like he owned the land he walked on. Jackson hated him from the start because he'd wanted him from the start. He shoved off the fencepost and kept walking, faster now. And still, Blake's name kept circling his brain like a fly he couldn't swat.
The house finally appeared down the road, tucked behind the trees.
The porch light was on.
Jackson stepped through the front door and was met with the scent of hairspray, cheap rose perfume, and hot flat iron smoke. The familiar clatter of heels on hardwood rang down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable voice of Daisy hollerin' to no one in particular.
"Where in the unholy hell is my purse? I swear on Jesus and Jackson's sweet little face, if that damn cat knocked it off the table again I'm gonna make boots outta her!"
Jackson shut the door behind him, dust still clinging to his ankles, the damp towel now slung over one shoulder like a sash of defeat. He could already hear the sound of a curling iron snapping shut. He kicked his flip-flops off, dropped the towel, and wandered down the hall, following the chaos into the kitchen.
Daisy stood in front of the sink, one heel strapped on, the other clutched in her hand like a weapon. Her hair was a wild halo of blonde curls pinned half-up, and her dress was clinging in all the right places, though one strap kept sliding off her shoulder.
She looked like the goddess of Southern sass and barely contained disasters.
"There you are," she said, not turning around. "You got ten seconds to tell me where my purse is or I'm sellin' your record player to that toothless man at the flea market."
Jackson leaned against the doorframe. "Evenin' to you too, Mama."
She spun, squinting at him. "Don't 'Mama' me in that broody tone. I can smell lake water and teenage angst from here."
"I ain't broody."
"You ain't not broody."
Jackson exhaled through his nose and wandered past her, plucking her purse from the back of the kitchen chair like it was always there. "Your eyes don't work when you're running late," he muttered, setting it on the counter.
Daisy grabbed it, kissed his cheek mid-motion, then slid on her other heel in a dance-like step that would've impressed a younger version of herself.
"You're a saint and a pain in my ass," she said, flipping the purse open to check for her lipstick. "Help me find my earrings. The gold ones. Not the hoops, I'm tryin' to look classy tonight."
Jackson reached into the fruit bowl, where nothing resembling fruit had ever lived, and tossed her the earrings. She caught them with a grin.
"You are my child," she said, affixing one with flair. "That little noggin of yours is good for somethin' after all."
He sat on a stool and watched her with quiet intensity. The way she buzzed around the kitchen like a storm in heels. The way she smiled into her compact mirror like she hadn't been hurt. Like she didn't feel the eyes of every woman in town crawling up her back when she dared to flirt with someone everybody else wanted.
Like Blake. Blake Buckley.
"You goin' tonight?" Daisy asked, catching her son's gaze in the mirror. He hesitated. "Mm," she hummed. "That's a no."
"Don't feel like it," he said flatly.
She turned, one hand on her hip, earrings sparkling. "You don't feel like seein' grown men wrestle livestock under floodlights while smellin' funnel cake? What kind of Southern boy are you?"
Jackson smirked, but it didn't last. "I'm tired."
Daisy's smile faded just a little. She crossed to him, touched his arm. "You alright, baby?" He nodded, too fast. "You sure you ain't got a little heartbreak hangin' on you?" she asked, teasing light back in her tone. "I saw the way Callie Rae was starin' at you last night like you were the last Popsicle in the freezer."
Jackson rolled his eyes. "Callie Rae thinks anyone in a button-down is marriage material."
"Yeah, well. I've made worse choices," Daisy said, then added under her breath, "and I married one of 'em."
Just then, the sound of tires on gravel crunched from outside, followed by a loud honk.
"That'll be Marla June," Daisy said, grabbing her clutch. "And she's already had two vodka Sprites and a Xanax, so if we don't leave now she'll try to drive into the pond."
She kissed Jackson's cheek again, slower this time. "You sure you don't wanna come? We could sit together, bet on who falls off the bull first."
He shook his head. "Y'all go."
Daisy stared at him a moment longer. Her eyes held questions. Not just about tonight. About everything.
The screen door squeaked open again, and in came Marla June like a rhinestoned hurricane. All hips, hair, and hooped earrings, she tottered into the kitchen in wedge heels far too ambitious for gravel and a wrap dress that clung to her like gossip on a Sunday.
"Whew, lawd, it's hotter than a preacher's wife at confession out there," she declared, fanning herself with a church bulletin she'd rolled into a makeshift paddle. "I nearly melted into the driver's seat, Daisy, and if your son don't get me a glass of sweet tea I'm gonna faint and sue you for wrongful death."
Jackson didn't move.
Marla June stopped, planted a hand on her hip, and squinted at him like he was a puzzle that had been put together wrong. "Well, ain't you just a picture of tortured youth. Look at him, Daisy, broodin' like a Southern James Dean. Somebody cue the blues."
"He's bein' dramatic," Daisy said, swiping her mascara wand in quick, practiced flicks. "Claims he's tired, but I think it's somethin' else."
"Mmm-hmm," Marla hummed, coming around the kitchen island and plopping down on a stool. "It's always 'I'm tired' right before a boy starts writin' poetry and starin' at the moon like it owes him money."
"I don't write poetry," Jackson muttered.
"You would," Marla said, winking. "You got them sad little eyes. Like you been loved and left by someone with good hair and bad intentions."
Daisy snorted, fixing her earrings in the mirror she kept magnet-clipped to the fridge. "I invited him, but he turned me down like I asked him to milk a snake."
Jackson stood, walking to the fridge and opening it just to avoid their eyes. "I said I was stayin' in. It ain't that deep."
"Well, hell," Marla said, dragging her glittered nails along the countertop. "Now I gotta know what's got you actin' like a tragic country song. Someone break your heart? You tryin' out celibacy?"
Jackson pulled a Gatorade from the fridge and gave her a dry look. "Just want a quiet night."
"Mmm," she said again, unconvinced, eyes dancing. "Sounds like a fella who saw somethin' at the fair that got his brain twisted."
Daisy arched a brow at her. "We are not grillin' my child tonight, Marla."
"I ain't grillin'," Marla said, fluttering her lashes. "I'm simmerin'."
Jackson leaned against the counter, unscrewing the bottle cap like it might save him. "Y'all done?"
Daisy crossed the room and gave him that look, the one only mothers know how to do, half affection, half no-bullshit. "Baby, I love you, but you look like someone sucked the light outta you and left you runnin' on battery fumes. You sure you don't wanna come?"
"I'm good, Mama," he said, quieter now.
Daisy hesitated. Then she softened, pressing a hand to his cheek. "Alright. Just promise me you won't sit here and wallow in whatever you ain't sayin'. That's how rust settles in."
Jackson gave a small, reluctant smile. "I'll be fine."
"Damn right you will," Marla said, grabbing a lipstick from her clutch and popping it open like a flare gun. "Now, if Blake Buckley ends up shirtless on that bull, I will be clappin', and I expect y'all not to judge me."
Jackson stiffened.
Daisy sighed. "I swear, if he so much as winks at you, you'll get pregnant just from eye contact."
"I welcome the miracle," Marla said, standing with a flourish. "Take me, Cowboy Jesus."
Daisy laughed as she grabbed her purse and keys, giving Jackson's arm one last squeeze before heading for the door.
"You sure, baby?" she asked again.
He nodded. "Y'all go raise hell."
"That's the plan," Daisy said, blowing him a kiss.
Marla twirled once for effect. "Don't wait up. I plan on gettin' at least three free drinks, one indecent proposal, and a slow dance with a man who owns a boat."
"Dream big," Jackson muttered.
And then they were gone. The screen door slammed, the tires crunched over gravel, and their voices faded into the soft swell of summer air.
And just like that, the house was quiet. So quiet it ached.
Minutes later, Jackson stood beneath the showerhead, his forehead resting against the cool tile, water pounding against his shoulders in steady, punishing rhythm. The steam wrapped around him, thick and clinging, fogging the mirror on the other side of the door, the same one where Daisy always wrote "Love Yourself" in lipstick before she left for big nights out.
He ran his hands through his hair, eyes shut tight, breath shallow. He'd told himself he wasn't going. Told himself over and over that he could stay home, listen to records until the restlessness ebbed. But it hadn't. It wouldn't.
Because Blake Buckley was out there.
And Jackson could feel it like a live wire under his skin. That magnetic pull, sharp and low in his stomach. Want disguised as rage, hunger masked as disdain. It was like having a splinter he didn't want removed. A wound he wouldn't admit to poking.
He turned off the water and stood still, dripping, steam curling around his perfect frame like smoke. By the time he stepped into his room, the light outside had shifted, the last blue of day dissolving into velvet night. He stood naked for a moment by the bed, towel slung low around his hips, his skin still kissed with summer heat. He didn't look in the mirror. He didn't need to.
Jackson was beautiful.
It wasn't just the sharp cheekbones or the golden tan or the way his blond curls fell wild and damp around his face. It was the kind of beauty that lingered, like cigarette smoke or the last note of a sad song. He had a body that moved like it was used to being watched, even when he didn't want to be seen.
And tonight, something in him wanted to be seen.
Even if it was just by one person.
He opened his closet slowly, fingers brushing past flannels and old high school T-shirts, the band tee from a concert he went to with Cash, worn thin and soft as sleep. He passed them all.
Tonight, he chose black.
A fitted black button-down with the sleeves cuffed at the forearms, snug enough across the chest to make the air catch when he moved. Jeans that hugged his legs just right, faded but clean, the kind you kept for nights when you wanted to feel like someone else.
He stood before the mirror, combed through his hair once with his fingers, then again with the practiced ease of a boy who'd learned the ways of his own curls. He didn't wear cologne, but he dabbed a little sandalwood oil on his throat, beneath his jaw. A whisper, not a shout.
He hesitated at the doorway. Then turned. Made his way to the porch. The boots were waiting there. Scuffed, worn, sun-bleached. The same pair he wore every Sunday to church and every other Saturday to hell. He sat down on the top step, pulled them on one at a time, leather creaking, laces fraying at the ends.
Jackson stood, rolled his shoulders back, and stared out at the gravel road ahead. He didn't know what he was walking into. Didn't know if he was going for answers, or just for that ache.
But he knew he couldn't stay here.
Not tonight.
He stepped off the porch, gravel crunching under his boots, and disappeared into the Mississippi night.
*
The rodeo grounds came alive like a beast roused from slumber.
Floodlights burned down from creaky metal poles, harsh white beams over the red clay arena, while the snap of leather reins, and the crackle of country music boomed through the warm Mississippi air. It was sacred chaos, an orchestra of boots on gravel, whistles, barks, and distant bellows of restless bulls waiting their turn behind rusted gates.
Children darted between hay bales with glowing cotton candy sticks like fireflies, chased by their mothers' scolding. Trucks lined the fence in proud rows, tailgates down and coolers open, radios tuned to FM stations, the occasional rebel yell cutting across the breeze like a whip.
Everything was loud, colorful, alive.
And at the heart of it, under the grandstand's neon glow, walked Daisy Bell, her blonde curls bouncing as she navigated the crowds with Marla June clacking beside her.
"Damn, Daisy," she drawled, elbowing her friend. "If Blake Buckley don't fall flat on his face tonight when he sees you, I'll eat my lipstick."
Daisy smirked, not missing a step. "Good. Then your mouth'll finally match your personality, loud and full of wax."
Behind them, Becky-Lynn Willis hustled up in a red fringe jacket, slightly breathless, carrying two jumbo lemonades and a funnel cake that had seen better structural engineering.
"Hey y'all!" she chirped, almost tripping on a rock. "Took me forever to park. I swear half the town showed up tonight. It's like every straight man with a belt buckle crawled outta the woods."
“You complainin’ or flirtin’?” Marla asked, snagging a bite of the funnel cake before Becky-Lynn could stop her.
Becky-Lynn rolled her eyes. "A little of both."
The three women huddled near the railings, looking out over the arena. A young man on a caramel-colored horse galloped past to cheers, dust flying in his wake. Someone nearby cracked a beer, and laughter swelled in great gusts from the bleachers.
Marla reached into her purse for her hip flask. "Now, where is that handsome cowboy of yours, Daisy? We need to check if he's shirtless tonight. For research purposes, of course."
And as if summoned by divine mischief, the crowd parted.
And Blake Buckley strolled in.
He was a towering silhouette backlit by the rodeo lights, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a midnight-black button-down tucked into his low-slung jeans. His thick beard was freshly trimmed, his hair tied back into that signature bun.
Lord help every woman (and more than a few men) whose eyes followed the sway of his walk.
"Speak of the devil," Marla whispered, fanning herself with a napkin. "And he shall saunter."
Blake reached them in slow, confident strides, a crooked smile already blooming.
"Evenin', ladies," he drawled, eyes grazing past Marla and Becky-Lynn with polite warmth, but landing squarely, unshakably, on Daisy.
He nodded toward her, that lazy grin spreading. "Well, now. You showed up lookin' like trouble bottled in perfume."
Daisy tilted her head, smile half-sweet, half-sharp. "And you look like a sin I already regret considerin'."
Becky-Lynn clutched her funnel cake like it was keeping her upright. "I feel like I'm watchin' two deer circle before they lock antlers."
"I feel like I need a cold shower," Marla muttered.
Blake's gaze lingered on Daisy, but it shifted, flickered once around the crowd, subtle, but Daisy noticed. The way his eyes passed over heads, over faces, searching for something, or someone, that wasn't there.
"You alone tonight?" he asked, voice dipped in honey.
"Just us girls," Daisy said. "Jackson didn't wanna come."
Blake's smile faltered. Barely, but it did. His jaw ticked. He reached up, tugged slightly at the collar of his shirt like it suddenly fit wrong.
Becky-Lynn glanced sideways at Daisy. Marla's expression tightened, just a flicker.
Daisy, to her credit, didn't flinch. "He's got his moods," she said lightly. "Wasn't feelin' it."
Blake nodded, slowly, eyes returning to the arena, but not seeing it. He barely had time to fumble for a smooth recovery before the air around them shifted again, this time not from his silence, but from the storm that was Cassidy Ray barreling toward them.
"Mama Bell!" Cassidy cried, boots thudding against the dirt as she raced forward in a blur of denim shorts and windblown hair.
Daisy turned just in time to catch her goddaughter in a full embrace, staggering back with a dramatic, delighted shriek. "Cassidy Lynn! Girl, you been drinkin' motor oil again? You nearly cracked a rib!"
Cassidy beamed. "Only thing I've been drinkin' is sweet tea and good decisions."
"Then I reckon you're overdue for a bad one," Marla muttered, still nursing her flask.
Cassidy laughed, looping her arm around Daisy's waist like a girl half her age. Behind her, the rest of the gang filtered in, Tiffani Jean twirling a baton she'd found Lord-knows-where and Weston already eyeing the snack stand.
And finally, Cash, swaggering in with his damp curls slicked back, his T-shirt clinging to the heat still radiating off his body from the lake. He nodded at Daisy with that familiar, lopsided grin.
"Well, if it ain't my second-favorite mama," he drawled.
Daisy smacked his shoulder. "You didn't even try to get him to come, did you?"
"I did," Cash said, feigning offense. "I pleaded, bribed, and guilt-tripped like a good Southern boy, but he weren't havin' it."
"He's just stubborn as his mama," Marla said, leaning in conspiratorially. "But cuter, so we forgive him."
Cash chuckled, but before he could answer, Marla's hand dropped mid-air, her gaze caught on something over Daisy's shoulder. Her expression froze. "Well, butter my biscuits and call me sin," she whispered.
Everyone turned.
And there he was.
Jackson Bell stepped through the wide gates of the rodeo grounds. The noise around the venue didn't stop, but it bent, around him, toward him, as if gravity had shifted and all eyes were momentarily drawn to that one impossibly beautiful figure cutting through the dust and light.
And he was glowing, not with showmanship, but with something quieter. Like sorrow dressed up in Sunday best. A boy who didn't mean to make you stare, but did anyway.
And Blake Buckley? He stared.
He hadn't even realized he was holding his breath. His eyes scanned Jackson's body once, then again, slow, devouring, like he was watching fire crawl up a field of dry wheat. His grip tightened on the fence rail, fingers whitening at the knuckles. There were people all around, but his world had narrowed down to one boy.
Jackson didn't look at him at first. His gaze stayed level, unreadable.
But then, just briefly, it flicked. Toward Blake. Met his eyes like a match meeting gasoline. That glance didn't linger. It didn't need to.
The damage was done.
"Well, damn," Cassidy whispered, as if breathless. "He came."
Cash, who'd been standing a few paces back, shifted his weight. He saw it. Not just the hush of the crowd. Not just Daisy's eyes lighting up with joy.
But Blake.
Blake, who had been slick and smiling a minute ago, now standing like he'd taken a hit to the chest. Cash narrowed his eyes, a slow realization dawning in his gut.
Jackson's arrival wasn't a surprise.
It was a detonation.
And Blake Buckley was standing at ground zero.
Jackson walked through the last stretch of dust and gravel. The group was clustered near the railing, but they might as well have been shadows. Because the only thing Jackson could see was Blake Buckley. And Blake was watching him like he'd been waiting all damn day. That sharp, unreadable gaze never broke as Jackson closed the distance, slow and easy like a man who wasn't entirely sure he wanted to reach the end of this road.
Twenty feet.
Jackson adjusted his cuffs.
Ten feet.
Blake's jaw twitched.
Five.
Daisy saw him first. She gasped, bright as a firecracker, her smile blooming full as Mississippi spring. "Well, look what the cat dragged back!" she said, arms opening like she might actually throw them around him, except, of course, she paused to make sure she didn't smudge her lipstick on his shirt.
Jackson let himself be pulled into her side, her perfume, vanilla, rose, and hair spray, washing over him like home.
"Y'all look like the damn Homecoming Court," he muttered, eyeing Marla's glittery clutch and Becky-Lynn's red fringe jacket.
"We look like hope, baby," Marla said, tossing her hair. "And hope ain't never overdressed."
Jackson gave her a small, crooked smile, but his eyes, his body, drifted elsewhere.
To him.
Blake hadn't moved. He was standing just to the left of the group, one hand on the rail, the other flexing subtly at his side like he wanted to reach for something and didn't quite know what.
Their eyes met.
Again.
Just for a second.
But it hit like a thunderclap in the middle of a drought. No one else noticed. The others were still laughing, gossiping, slapping backs and stealing sips from Marla's flask. But for Blake and Jackson, there was no fairground. No rodeo. No sky.
Only that.
That stare.
That gravity.
Blake's mouth quirked, but not in amusement. It was restraint. Pure, white-knuckled restraint. "Didn't think you were comin'," he said, his voice low, rough as gravel under bare feet.
Jackson shrugged, casual as sin. "Didn't plan to."
"But here you are."
Jackson licked his lips slowly, absently, and Blake's eyes followed the motion like a starving man watching the first bite.
"Guess I changed my mind," Jackson murmured.
Daisy looped her arm through Jackson's and beamed at the others. "Ain't he handsome tonight? I mean, he always is, but, Lord have mercy, look at him. Jackson baby, you puttin' all these rodeo boys to shame."
Jackson chuckled softly, hiding behind the collar of his shirt. "Mama…"
Daisy leaned into Marla, stage-whispering, "He gets that walk from his daddy, but the rest's all me."
Blake didn't laugh. His eyes were locked on Jackson's fingers now, long, elegant. Jackson noticed. And in response, barely perceptible, he shifted closer. Just enough to make Blake's breath hitch.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
"You ridin' tonight?" Jackson asked, voice light, but the look in his eyes wasn't.
Blake nodded, finally tearing his gaze away, if only to keep his hands steady. "Bull #17. Real son of a bitch."
Jackson tilted his head, smiling faintly. "You like ridin' wild things, huh?"
The silence that followed was thin and sharp as wire. Becky-Lynn giggled at something Cassidy was saying, Marla fanned herself with a rodeo flyer, and Daisy leaned in to fix Jackson's collar, ever the proud mother hen.
But no one, not a soul, saw how Blake's fingers dug into the railing. Or how Jackson's shoulder brushed ever-so-slightly against Blake's arm when Daisy pulled back.
It was like their bodies had started orbiting.
"Y'all gonna stand here starin' at each other or we gonna go find our seats?" Marla called out, not looking up.
"We'll meet y'all in a second," Daisy said, linking her hand through Jackson's. "I need to steal my boy for a walk so I can brag properly without bein' interrupted."
As the group began to drift toward the bleachers, Jackson hesitated. He looked back once.
Blake was still there.
Watching.
Silent.
And Jackson, Lord help him, wanted to stay.
But Daisy tugged on his hand and he let her lead him away.
Behind them, Blake Buckley turned his gaze to the dirt.
The stands were buzzing now, every row packed tight with townsfolk leaning over popcorn buckets, sipping cherry slushies through plastic lids, and clutching programs like they were gospel. Dust swirled through the lights in golden clouds, and the PA system crackled with the voice of a too-enthusiastic announcer shouting names and stats, barely keeping up with the chaos in the arena.
Daisy, Jackson, Cash, Cassidy, Marla, Becky-Lynn, Tiffani Jean, and the rest of the group had taken a set of worn metal bleachers halfway up. Good view, but far enough from the splatter zone in case some unlucky cowboy got thrown like a rag doll.
"Lord have mercy," Marla said, fanning herself with a program, "if one more bull throws his rider on the first buck, I'm gonna have to do somethin' about it. These boys are embarrassin' the livestock."
Cassidy snorted. "Yeah, like you could stay on a bull longer than two seconds."
"Sweetheart," Marla said with a smirk, "I been ridin' heartbreak and disappointment for thirty years, I can handle a few horns."
Laughter rang from their section. Even Jackson cracked a grin, though his eyes had flicked to the arena more than once, scanning for Blake.
Becky-Lynn leaned toward Daisy, voice syrupy and low. "I don't see that sexy bull rider of yours yet, honey. You think he's gone back to polishin' his, uh, belt buckle?"
Daisy, sipping a tall soda through a straw, winked. "He's just waitin' for the lights to hit just right. Man like Blake knows how to make an entrance."
But then the air shifted.
A ripple of unpleasant tension slithered up from the lower rows as a group of rough-looking boys climbed into the bleachers just three sections down. Dirty jeans, sunburnt necks, ballcaps turned backward, laughter loud and crass like a pack of coyotes fresh off the kill.
Colton led the pack, swaggering like a man who'd never been taught how to use a door politely. He held a bottle of Coke in one hand, the other draped casually around the waist of a girl with over-bleached hair and a far-off stare.
The moment he spotted Jackson, his lips curved into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Well, well, look who crawled outta his mama's apron strings," he drawled, loud enough to reach Jackson's ears. "Didn't think pretty boy Bell had the balls to show up."
Cash stiffened beside Jackson. Jackson rolled his eyes and stared ahead, jaw tight.
"Y'all ever notice how he walks?" Colton went on, loud and theatrical now, his friends snickering behind him. "Like he's tryna audition for somethin'. You ever see a rooster sashay?"
That got a few hollow laughs from the surrounding crowd, uncertain and awkward.
Cash stood up.
Cassidy reached for his arm, whispering, "Cash... don't."
But Jackson didn't move. His eyes stayed locked on the arena.
Colton leaned forward, voice oily. "What's the matter, Bell? Yer' chicken?"
And that's when it happened.
Daisy stood.
She did it with the kind of grace that made people pause, even before she opened her mouth. She didn't shout, didn't wave her arms. She simply rose to her full height, eyes narrowing, mouth set in a fine, deadly line.
The murmurs hushed like someone had pulled the volume from the world.
"Colton Wayne Bishop," Daisy said, her voice sweet as molasses and sharp as a butcher's knife. "You must be feelin' real brave tonight, actin' like a man with a full set of teeth and half a brain."
The entire section turned.
Colton blinked, caught off guard. "Now hold on..."
"No, you hold on," Daisy cut in, stepping one row down, her heels clacking with authority. "I ain't raised no son to be spoken to like that by the kind of boy who failed junior year twice and still thinks a GED is a venereal disease."
A collective gasp.
Jackson, still seated, blinked in stunned awe. Cash sat back down slowly, grinning.
Daisy kept going, her voice lifting like a sermon. "Your mama's a decent woman. I know her. She crocheted me a tea cozy last Christmas. She didn't carry you for nine months just for you to come out here actin' like trailer park pond scum with a nicotine addiction and half a personality."
Colton's jaw worked uselessly. The girl beside him had already scooted a full two feet away.
"You wanna run that mouth?" Daisy continued, stepping into full queen mode now, arms crossed. "Then do it in the ring. Enter the bull ride. Show us what all that real man talk amounts to. But you won't, will you, sugar? 'Cause you know you'd last about as long as your last girlfriend did on prom night, thirty seconds and cryin'."
The stands erupted.
Laughter thundered across the metal bleachers. Some folks clapped. A few hooted. One older woman fanned herself while whispering, "Lawd, protect me from petty vengeance."
Colton's face burned crimson. He muttered something, "crazy bitch”, under his breath and stormed off, knocking his Coke bottle off the bench as he went.
Daisy turned slowly and climbed back to her seat, smoothing her dress like nothing had happened.
Becky-Lynn blinked, awestruck. "Remind me never to cross you, sugar."
"I didn't do it for me," Daisy said, eyes forward again.
Her hand found Jackson's. She squeezed it once. Gently. Jackson didn't speak. But he turned and looked at her, and there was something behind his eyes now. Something lit. Not by rage. But by love.
*
The lights above the arena flared brighter, sizzling like stage lamps just before curtain rise. The crowd still buzzed with the aftershocks of Daisy Bell's verbal demolition, people leaning over their nachos, whispering, pointing, laughing, but the noise shifted, subtly, almost instinctively. A crackle through the PA system jolted the bleachers into new anticipation.
And then, like thunder rolling low across the Delta, the announcer's voice boomed across the loudspeakers:
"Ladies and gentlemen, hold onto your hearts and your hats. Up next in the ring, the man they call the Midnight Rider…Blake Buckley!"
Cheers erupted like fireworks. Girls screamed. Boys hollered. The elders chuckled knowingly, sipping from foam cups and muttering, "Here comes the show pony."
Jackson's breath caught.
Blake hadn't even entered yet, and the whole place was shifting in his direction like the moon pulling at the tide.
The rodeo gate creaked open.
And there he was.
Blake Buckley, straddling the back of a snorting, furious bull like it was the devil's own machine. His shirt was rolled to the elbows, sleeves taut around thick forearms. Leather gloves gripped the rope tight across the bull's hide, and his thighs clamped firm around the beast's haunches.
He wore no protective vest, just raw muscle and arrogance, the definition of Southern recklessness.
His hair was tied tight into that damn bun, but wisps had broken loose and curled down his temple. A streak of dust clung to his cheek like war paint. And perched low on his brow was a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, dipped just enough to shadow his eyes until he looked up, and stared straight into the crowd.
Straight at Jackson.
Time didn't stop.
But it slowed.
Jackson didn't blink. Couldn't. Blake's stare pinned him to the bleachers. Then, just as fast, the handler slapped the bull's flank.
The gate burst open.
And the beast exploded into the ring.
The crowd roared.
Blake rode low and tight, body fluid but tense, the epitome of power under pressure. The bull spun like a cyclone, muscles flexing, hooves tearing the ground as it twisted and kicked. But Blake moved with it, his hips rolling with the rhythm, his free arm outstretched like a dancer's, counterbalancing the chaos.
"Ride it, Blake!" someone shouted from the stands.
Cassidy clutched Cash's arm, gasping. "He's gonna fall!"
"No he ain't," Cash murmured, eyes narrowing.
Jackson didn't breathe. His hands gripped the edge of the bleacher bench. His lips were slightly parted. He watched Blake's every move, the fierce control of his thighs, the way his chest flexed with each jolt, the sweat glistening along his collarbone under the lights.
Beautiful, Jackson thought.
And the thought burned like whiskey.
Eight seconds hit. The bell rang.
Blake didn't let go.
The bull gave one last vicious buck, but Blake launched himself from the beast's back in a perfect dismount, landing hard and rolling in the dirt before standing in one fluid motion.
Hat still on.
Smile crooked.
Chest heaving.
The arena erupted.
Blake raised one hand in the air, tipping his hat to the crowd, but his eyes found Jackson again, lingering, heavy. Jackson's heart felt like it might climb out of his throat.
Daisy leaned into him, clapping furiously, radiant. "Did you see that? My God, baby, he rode that thing like it owed him money!"
Marla was fanning herself with both hands now. "If he ain't already married, I'm callin' dibs."
Jackson didn't answer.
Couldn't.
He was still staring.
And from across the ring, dust swirling around his boots like smoke, Blake Buckley stared right back.
It suddenly became too much. Too overwhelming.
Jackson yanked himself off the bench and pushed through the crowd, weaving between arms and elbows and laughter, trying to breathe. The roar of applause still echoed in his ears, but it wasn't the noise that rattled him. It was the way Blake had looked at him from the back of that bull like Jackson had been the rope he was holdin' on to.
He needed air.
He needed space.
He ducked behind the far end of the bleachers where the lights thinned out, where the hard shadows gave way to quiet. Jackson leaned back against one of the support beams, closed his eyes, and tilted his face to the stars.
I don't want him, Jackson thought.
But the lie sat sour in his throat.
Blake Buckley had gotten under his skin like river silt, slick, subtle, and impossible to wash clean. Every sharp word, every smirk, every loaded glance between them. It wasn't hate. Or it was. But not the kind that made you turn away.
It was the kind that made you want.
He didn't hear the footsteps right away.
But he felt them.
A shift in the air.
A slow gravity.
"That your spot?"
Jackson's heart clenched.
He didn't need to look. He knew the voice. Low, rich, dragging the syllables like smoke. Blake stood half in shadow, his boots scuffing the dirt, one hand still bandaged from the ride, the other tucked into his belt. Jackson didn't answer. Just rolled his jaw and kept staring up at the stars.
Blake stepped closer, boots slow, deliberate. "Didn't know the golden boy liked hidin' behind the bleachers."
"Didn't know the cowboy knew how to sneak," Jackson replied, not moving.
"I sneak better than I ride," Blake said. "But you'd know that. You were watchin' me the whole damn time."
Jackson's head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. "You don't know what the hell I was doin'."
Blake's mouth quirked into that maddening half-smile. "I know what you weren't doin'. You weren't watchin' the bull."
Jackson scoffed and shoved off the beam, straightening his spine. Blake was too close now. Too much heat, too much presence.
"I came out here to be alone."
"Yeah?" Blake said, stepping into that invisible line that separated sense from surrender. "'Cause you don't look like you wanna be alone. You look like you're hopin' I'll come a little closer."
Jackson's breath hitched before he could hide it. Blake noticed. He stepped in. Closer. Close enough that their boots nearly touched, close enough that the air between them warmed, thickened, pressed.
"Back off," Jackson said, voice low and tight.
Blake's brow arched, but he didn't move. "Why?"
Jackson's chest rose and fell. "'Cause I said so."
"And if I don't?"
Jackson's fists clenched. The panic wasn't fear. It was fire. "You think I won't knock your teeth in?" he muttered.
Blake chuckled. God, that chuckle, it was slow and deep. "Try it," he said.
Jackson's hand shot out, aiming for Blake's chest, shoving him away, creating distance, clarity, anything.
But Blake caught his wrist. Easily. With one hand. The movement was effortless, smooth, controlled. Blake stepped forward, their bodies colliding like magnets. Jackson shoved again with his free arm, but Blake blocked it and caught that wrist too. Their chests were touching now, heat to heat, heart to heart.
"You're not mad at me," Blake whispered, eyes locked on Jackson's mouth.
Jackson strained, gritted his teeth. "You don't know a damn thing about me."
Blake leaned in, slowly. His breath, warm and laced with sweet corn liquor, hit Jackson's lips. Jackson snarled, half pain, half desire, and tried again to twist free. Blake let him fight for a beat, then shoved him, sudden and hard, against the wooden beam. The impact rattled through Jackson's ribs, stole his breath.
Blake pressed a forearm against his chest, not violent, dominant. His eyes bored into Jackson's with something between a challenge and a confession. They were nose to nose now. Lips inches apart. Jackson's chest rose fast beneath Blake's forearm, his pulse raging.
And then Blake spoke.
Low.
Gravel-thick.
"Y'know," he drawled. "You look like an angel with that hair and them eyes...but you got the heart of a bull, don't you?"
Jackson's mouth parted slightly.
Blake leaned in, his nose brushing the side of Jackson's cheek, his breath warm and thick with dust and desire. "Most beautiful damn thing I ever seen."
The words were not a compliment.
They were a confession.
And they shattered something inside Jackson.
All the restraint.
All the denial.
All the fury.
He lunged.
Their mouths collided, not soft or sweet, but hungry. Jackson's hand fisted in Blake's shirt, yanking him forward with a ferocity that surprised even him. Blake groaned low in his throat, his grip tightening as their bodies slammed together, shoulder to chest, hip to hip.
Their teeth clicked. Breath tangled. The kiss was hot, uneven, all edges and collisions, Jackson biting Blake's bottom lip hard enough to draw a gasp, Blake gripping Jackson's waist and pushing him harder into the beam, like he couldn't get close enough, fast enough.
It wasn't neat.
It wasn't pretty.
It was need.
Jackson's fingers trembled as they clawed at the back of Blake's neck, pulling his bun loose. Blond curls fell around his face like gold caught in a storm. Blake's hands slid down Jackson's sides, rough palms mapping his body like they were learning it by instinct.
But there was hesitation there too. Flickers of restraint. Blake would surge forward, then pause, just a breath, like he was testing the depth of water before diving.
And Jackson, God help him, wanted to drown. He kissed harder, forcing the hesitation away, trying to erase it, smother it.
Blake let him, for a moment.
Then he caught Jackson's wrists again, gently this time, holding them between them like a boundary neither knew how to break or honor.
Their foreheads touched.
Their breaths synced.
Jackson's voice broke the silence first, hoarse and barely audible. "This ain't supposed to be happenin'."
Blake didn't answer.
He just looked at him.
Jackson swallowed hard. His body was trembling. With what, he didn't know. Fear? Lust?
Jackson pulled back, his chest heaving, his lips parted, still swollen from the kiss. His eyes darted to Blake's, wide and disoriented, like he'd just woken from a dream he wasn't sure he should've had.
The silence swelled.
Jackson blinked, looking down, his fingers brushing his own mouth as if to erase the moment. "Shit," he muttered, breathless, shaken.
Blake didn't answer. He didn't move. His eyes were locked on Jackson, but he didn't dare reach for him again.
Jackson stepped back like he'd touched fire. His chest rose and fell like he was trying to breathe through something too big for his lungs. "I shouldn'ta..." he said, voice cracking.
Blake finally took a step forward.
"Jackson..."
"No," Jackson said, holding up a hand, voice frayed at the edges. "I don't know what you did to me, but I ain't never…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "This ain't happenin' again."
He turned.
Started walking.
But Blake reached out.
His hand closed around Jackson's forearm, not rough, not pulling, just there. Enough to say, stay.
But that's when a new voice cut through the quiet.
"Everything alright back here?"
They both turned, startled.
Cash stood at the edge of the shadow, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched like coiled snakes. His eyes flicked from Jackson to Blake.
Jackson froze.
He wiped his mouth, fast, like he was wiping away a crime. "Fine," he said, already moving again. "We were just..." he stumbled.
Jackson didn't wait. Didn't look back. In seconds, he disappeared around the edge of the bleachers, swallowed by the crowd and the lights.
Cash watched him go. Then turned back to Blake. Slowly, he stepped forward. Not threatening. Just sure.
Blake straightened his shirt, eyes still fixed on the spot where Jackson had vanished. His chest was rising a little faster than usual.
Cash stepped forward, closing the last bit of space between them until he was eye to eye with Blake. His voice was low, not loud, not dramatic, but it carried weight. It was the kind of quiet you only hear before a fight breaks out.
"Listen here, Buckley." He said the name like it tasted bad. "I don't care how many bulls you ride, how many girls scream your name, or what the hell you think you're doin' playin' this game with Jackson. But let me make one thing real clear, if you hurt him? I'll bury you so deep the only thing left of you'll be a belt buckle and a damn rumor."
Blake's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't speak.
Cash stepped in, his voice tightening. "He ain't like you. He ain't built for this kinda mess. You walk around like you don't feel nothin', like folks are just places you stop off at on your way to whatever comes next. But Jackson?" Cash pointed in the direction Jackson had gone. "He feels everything. He don't know how to hold back. He trusts too easy. Loves too hard. And if you take that and turn it into somethin' ugly...I swear to God…"
His eyes burned now, not with rage, but with promise.
"You'll wish that damn bull had finished you off in that ring."
He let that hang. Let it breathe between them. Then Cash took a step back, his fists finally unclenching. His voice dropped, just above a whisper now.
"Jackson's my brother. I know every scar he's got 'cause I watched him earn 'em. I know how many nights he cried without sayin' why. And I ain't ever let anyone break him, not his daddy, not this town, and sure as hell not you."
He let out a breath and turned.
"So whatever it is you're doin', you better figure it out. Quick. 'Cause you ain't playin' just him. You're messin' with one of the only good thing I've ever had in my life. And I don't take kindly to people fuckin' with that."
And just like that, Cash walked away without looking back.
And Blake didn't say a word.
He just stood there, watching the dust settle where Cash had been. His chest rose slowly, like the weight of every word had landed and found its mark.
And for the first time in a long while, Blake Buckley didn't feel so sure of himself.
(To be continued...)
Casual Wanderer © 2025
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