Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 98643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
I managed to keep my wits about me as I hurried across the driveway, but when I saw Xavier, Curtis, and Brooks talking at the bottom of the farmhouse’s porch steps, I veered left and kept walking until the sounds started to fade. Growing up in New York had heightened my sense of direction, so I knew that I was far away enough from the main part of the ranch to escape prying eyes but close enough that I wouldn’t get lost.
I followed the sound of trickling water until I found a little creek bed. I was surrounded by a patch of trees, but since I could still hear the faint voices of the men working on the ranch, I didn’t hesitate to find an old log to sit on. I felt hot, cold, and numb all at the same time. I stared at the little stream by my feet but didn’t care how clear it looked or how pretty it was as the water flowed around the bigger rocks and stumbled over the smaller ones.
I should have been crying but I wasn’t. I hurt, but I wasn’t crying. It wasn’t that I wasn’t a crier because I was. I’d cried after the three assholes in that alley had beaten me and called me names. They’d physically hurt me, but the personal degradation had been so much worse. I’d cried the entire drive up the mountain to the ranch where my friend was waiting for me, and I’d cried in his arms when he’d asked me what had happened to me.
Right now, though, I doubted I could cry even if I wanted to. The only other time I could remember this feeling was when…
I shook my head because I couldn’t deal with the past now. I never gave that horrifying time in my life any real estate in my brain. After all, you couldn’t be the life of the party or the queerest of the queers who believed in things like the gay mafia if you were dredging up the horrors of the past.
A light pecking on my pants caught my attention. I looked down to see Lovey picking at the hem of my leggings. I gently petted her on the top of her head since I had no idea where else to touch her or whether chickens even liked to be petted. Now was the time to find out because if she jabbed her beak into my skin, I probably wouldn’t feel it anyway.
The cute little hen looked at me liked she was trying to figure me out and then with one swift move, she flapped her wings and did a little hop that had her landing in my lap. I waited to see what she’d do next, but she merely crouched where she was and began rubbing her beak against my arm like she had an itch she needed to be scratched. I’d never had a cat or dog, but I figured those animals would have cuddled up to their owners in a similar manner. Was it possible the sweet chicken had picked up on my emotions, or lack thereof, and was reacting to that?
I didn’t know or care. I just began stroking her like I’d seen people do with their pets. Strangely enough, the rhythm of running a few fingers lightly along her back was comforting in its own way. Unfortunately, not even the hen’s kindness was enough to pull me from the rabbit hole my mind was falling into.
What had I done to Flynn to warrant such cruel behavior? I wasn’t the one who’d kissed him first. I hadn’t made him press me against the wall and lift me, leaving me no choice but to wrap my legs around his body. I hadn’t been the only participant as our tongues had tangled, and the whimpers coming from deep in my throat hadn’t been self-induced. Hell, I hadn’t even touched him below his neck. Yet the way he’d dropped me and pushed me away would have been the exact behavior from a bi-curious guy who’d suddenly come to the realization that he liked the feel of a man’s lips just as much as or even more than a woman’s.
“I shouldn’t have gone near him,” I muttered to Lovey.
Hell, I never should have gotten it into my head that I could cook a nice breakfast for all the ranch hands instead of just the men living in the main house. I’d never told anyone before, including Brooks, but I liked cooking. I’d only ever really done it for one person, who happened to be myself, but the idea of feeding something delicious to a group of men who apparently just slapped some eggs and bacon in a pan and burned a bag’s worth of bread every morning had been exciting. It’d made me feel useful.