Ropes and Dreams (3 page)

“Come on, sweetie.” Buddy followed him off the porch before passing him at the stairs, tumbling more than walking down the steps. “You’re gonna break your neck,” Drake scolded, but Buddy was already tugging and leaping, trying to run around.

Drake was going to have to buy one of those leashes Salt had told him about, the kind that would allow him to release ten or so feet of lead for Buddy. Obedience classes, those needed to happen, too, except Drake didn’t see how they could as he worked six days a week cooking for everyone.

Amazon. They’ve got to have a dump truck load of dog-training videos and books. They sell every-friggin’-thing.
Drake looked up at the sky again, but instead of the reassuring feeling from moments before, he felt alone, miniscule and more than a little lost.

His moods were swinging like a batter in a ball pen. Drake shook himself and let Buddy lead him around—which definitely was
not
the way leash training was supposed to go, but he didn’t have the energy to fight for the top dog position.

Buddy chased dust, barked at shadows and bugs. Drake was beginning to think the pup was developing some sort of canine schizophrenia, because he turned towards the long driveway and started going on like mad.

“Hush now,” Drake urged, afraid Buddy would have everyone running out from the house and the bunkhouses. Buddy kept on and no one came running—but the low growl of an engine could suddenly be heard. “Huh. Good boy.” Drake squatted so he could pet Buddy.

That hushed Buddy’s barking. The pup was all wiggles and whines, eager for Drake’s touch. “Oh, I think I love you already, sweetie.” It was nice, really nice, to be wanted so much. Drake’s eyes pricked with tears and he blinked them back. There was no reason for him to be a cry-baby.

Headlights broke over the rise in the road, and Drake watched as they got closer and closer. They turned down the drive and, for some reason, Drake’s pulse kicked up.

One of the driveway lights shone on the car. He just made out the Ashville PD logo on the side. Drake’s heart fluttered as his nerves jangled.

When he’d been younger, he’d got a ticket for speeding, but other than that, he’d never been in trouble. There was no reason, then, for him to be nervous—but there was also no reason for a cop to be coming down the drive, either, and especially not an Ashville cop, because they were out of Ashville.

Then the dots connected in Drake’s mind. The only reason for one of Ashville’s finest to be coming out here was because of the fight Troy had been involved in when he’d stopped an abusive father from killing his son. Troy had found the kid beaten to a pulp, then the kid’s father had found Troy. The resulting fight had left Troy bruised and the kid’s father in jail, while the kid—Fred Anthony Bell, known as Anthony—was still in the hospital recuperating, as far as Drake knew.

Drake had wanted to smack Anthony himself when he’d confessed to having graffiti’d up the ranch, but Drake’s anger had cooled. The kid had been his dad’s punching bag for a long time. He was bound to be messed up.

“Well, whatever,” Drake said under his breath as the cop drove right on up to park not a dozen feet from him. Buddy went nuts, just barking and leaping, trying to get to the car. Drake shielded his eyes from the headlights but couldn’t quite force himself to look away. If the cops were here to talk to Troy, like Drake suspected, he was likely going to have to lie to the police and hope to hell he didn’t get busted. There was no way he’d tell them Troy was having sex with his two lovers.

When the engine was shut off and the lights went dark, Drake picked up Buddy and waited, trying not to look shifty or suspicious. He heard a door opening from yards away and saw in his peripheral vision someone step out onto the closest bunkhouse porch. A light came on there, too, but Drake couldn’t tell who was outside.

The car door opened, and Drake blinked a few times. There was only one cop in the car, and he had his head down, with his upper body turned towards the middle of the car. He was moving a little, like he was shuffling through papers or something as he sat there. Drake had the impression of very short hair of some indiscernible colour.

“What’s going on?”

Drake recognised Salt’s voice and he glanced over at the older man standing on the bunkhouse porch. It surprised him to see Salt in a tank top and shorts. Stupid, he guessed, but apparently he’d had an image of Salt sleeping in his Wranglers and boots.

“I, uh, I think he’s got to be here to talk to Troy about the fight at the hardware store,” Drake surmised, darting his attention back and forth from Salt to the cop. Dang, he’d not suspected that Salt was so well-built for an old guy. It was just too bad Drake wasn’t interested. The man really had nicely muscled legs.

“I’ll get dressed.”

“No need,” Drake called back to Salt. “I’ve got this.” He watched as the cop got out of the car and shut the door. From where Drake was standing, the cop was all sharp angles and pale skin. But the moon was shining brighter than it had been. Everything was washed in pale silvery colour except for whatever was in the circle of the porch light.

Drake wasn’t particularly tall, barely hitting five-five. The police officer walking towards him only had five or six inches on him. Drake had never had a uniform fetish before, but as he watched the man approach, he thought he could easily develop one. Too bulky with muscle to be considered lean, but not quite ripped, the cop was temptation walking. His hair was so short Drake would bet he could see scalp, and his lips were thin but wide. Broad shoulders, tiny waist, thick thighs—Drake wanted to eat him up.

No more sex with other people. No more jerks. And looking at this guy, he kind of exudes jerkiness.
It was true—Drake couldn’t explain what, exactly, gave that impression, but it was there all right. It was unnerving, and Drake wasn’t going to just stand there trying not to quiver.

“Evening, Officer. Something I can help you with?” he called out.

He didn’t get an answer until the cop stopped in front of him and held out a hand to shake. “I’m Officer McCain, and I’d like to speak with Troy Sampson about the events last week at the hardware store.”

Crap!
Drake hefted Buddy into his arms since the puppy seemed bound and determined to bark until his vocal cords gave out. “Hush, sweetie,” Drake said quietly to the pup, but he kept his eyes on the stud of a cop. McCain just was not a sexy enough name for the guy.
McStudly, all stern and harsh-looking. Yum.
Drake forced his mind back from the verge of unrequited lust.

“Er, it’s Will’s birthday, and they’re, um, celebrating,” he got out in a voice that reminded him of his torturously embarrassing puberty. “Inside.”

Officer McCain didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “I see.”

Just about that time, a loud, hungry moan could be heard coming from inside. Drake just knew he was beet red as he closed his eyes.

“And hear,” McCain added dryly. “No wonder you’re outside.”

Did McCain think Drake was outside eavesdropping?

“I live in there.” Drake waved a hand towards the house, almost panicked by the thought of what might happen if Officer McCain thought he was eavesdropping. “My name is Drake Cuttington. I’m the ranch cook, and my room’s right off the kitchen and I was just walking Buddy because he’s new and a baby and—”

“Everything okay here, Drake?”

Drake spotted Salt approaching and wasn’t sure whether the man would be a help or a hindrance. Nervous and excited for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, Drake looked at the police officer again. “I told him I hadn’t done anything to get arrested over but he just doesn’t seem to believe me.”

Officer McCain didn’t smile or show a hint of amusement, and Drake wasn’t sure what that meant. The cop was about as emotional as a boulder. Salt stopped to stand at Drake’s side.

“It’s fine, Salt. This is Officer McCain. He wanted to talk to Troy about the fight but Troy’s…busy,” he finished lamely just as another moan reached his ears. Drake sent a desperate look to Salt. That second moan had been from a different person, and he didn’t want the cop standing around here long enough to hear a third moan from someone else.

“Yeah, Will would have a hissy fit if his birthday fun was interrupted,” Salt said, coming to a stop almost directly in front of McCain. “Saul Johnson, but I go by Salt,” he said, holding out a hand.

“Officer McCain.” The two men seemed to shake longer than was necessary to Drake, and a strange, almost angry feel permeated the air. Drake shivered and cuddled Buddy closer.

“Maybe you can call before you come out next time,” Salt all but growled. Drake was stunned—he’d never heard Salt sound anything other than friendly. “I’ll give you my number so you can make sure you’re not interrupting. Whatever you needed to ask has waited this long, anyway. Another day won’t hurt anything.”

Are they still shaking hands?
Drake shuffled over a couple of feet just in time to see the two men end the shake. He noticed that Officer McCain somehow looked even more austere, and Salt was holding himself very stiffly. In fact, Drake half expected Salt to bristle with a bunch of spiny spikes like a porcupine, because sheesh, the man was sending out some seriously angry vibes.

Which didn’t seem to be the best way to get rid of Officer McCain, who was standing there staring at Salt like he never intended to move.

“Are you two going to whip it out and see who has the bigger dick in a second?” Drake blurted out before he could censor himself, but he was quickly becoming irritated. Whatever testosterone throw-down was going on between the two idiots, Drake felt excluded. While he didn’t want to get in the middle of it, he couldn’t help but dislike being left out. He’d experienced that too many times.

“Seriously, I don’t know what you two’s problem is, but this is ridiculous.” Drake huffed and turned on his heels. He’d go inside and leave them to their idiotic glare-off.

It wasn’t until he reached the first step that it dawned on him what had been going on—that had been sexual tension, he’d bet. Salt and Officer McCain…

Jesus, talk about a wet dream come to life.
Drake’s cock was going to be erect before he got on the porch!

“Mr Cuttington.”

Drake stopped, one foot on the bottom step. He couldn’t decide if he’d really heard Salt growl right then or not. “Yes, Officer?”

“You can leave, Mr Johnson. I’d prefer to speak with Mr Cuttington alone.”

Wow, the cop sure could talk with an icy tone that had to send a chill all the way to Salt’s balls. Officer McCain wasn’t even speaking to Drake and he wanted to curl up and lie at the man’s feet rather than hear that tone again.

“Ain’t anything you should be sayin’ to Drake you can’t say in front of me,” Salt argued, and damn, but he didn’t sound like he was intending to back off.

“It’s okay, Salt. I’m pretty sure Officer McCain isn’t going to handcuff me and haul me off.” Drake turned around as one of the two men rumbled wordlessly. He wasn’t sure which of them had made the sound.

“Yeah, well—” Salt began, but that weird tension was back in the air and Drake just did
not
need any more drama in his life.

“Salt, just go back to the bunkhouse.” Drake touched Salt’s arm, something he immediately regretted when Salt turned a hungry look on him. Drake snatched his hand back and cleared his throat. “Seriously, what do you think he’s gonna do to me?”

Wrong question. Salt glared daggers at McCain and sneered. “Yeah, I ain’t got time to write out a list.”

Officer McCain, for his part, didn’t alter his expression at all.

Drake might have got the sexual tension wrong. He was suddenly sure that Officer McCain and Salt wanted to beat the crap out of each other.

“You’ll make me turn the dang hose on you both if you don’t stop it,” Drake threatened. “I’ve had enough dealing with jerks to last me a lifetime.”
And in any other lifetimes, should reincarnation be possible.

“Drake, I—” Salt began, twisting around enough to look at him.

Drake glared and snuggled Buddy up under his chin.

Salt seemed to droop right in front of him. “I’ll just go keep an eye from the porch.”

“No. Go. In.” Drake was going to be just as stubborn as both the idiots standing out there with him. “I’m serious, Salt. I will make every meal of yours inedible for a week if you don’t stop this…this…whatever it is you’re doing!”

Harsh threat, maybe, but Drake was at his wits’ end—and, granted, his wits weren’t particularly long to begin with, but those two would try the patience of a saint.

“Fine.” Salt ran a hand through his hair right before he shot a harsh look at McCain. Then he left, and Drake closed his eyes for a second. He was slow sometimes. Obviously, he’d missed the signs that Salt was really interested in him.
Like, in that possessive, he’s-mine sort of way
. Drake hadn’t done anything to encourage him. He’d known Salt had eyed him up, sort of, but Drake had thought the man was just interested in a fuck at the most.

No one interested in just getting off would act like he was ready to piss on me and mark me as his. As for Officer McCain, he probably doesn’t care for Salt acting like he’s God.

Or, for all Drake knew, the police officer hadn’t cared at all. McCain’s expression hadn’t changed at all since he’d arrived.

Salt strode away, his boot heels striking the ground hard enough to kick up dust. Drake watched Salt until, with a last look over his shoulder, he went inside.

“Wow. That was…stupid,” Drake said, more to himself than anyone else. Buddy yapped as if in agreement and squirmed frenziedly. “Okay, okay, I get the message.” He set the pup down and let him bounce and bark, then he turned his attention to Officer McCain. “I don’t understand how I can be of help.”

McCain took a card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Drake. “If you could call me and let me know when’s a good time for your employers, I would appreciate it.”

“Okay,” Drake said slowly, taking the card. “Salt could have done the same thing.”

“He doesn’t live in the house with them,” was all Officer McCain told him.