Page 40 of Bad Cowboy, Tennessee

I replayed the video, looking for a glimpse of his cock, but he’d kept it out of frame on purpose, I was pretty sure.

But he’d sent me this. Like he was proud to show off his load, knowing that he was filming it for me.

Why do I like that so goddamn much?

I barely registered what I was doing as I pulled my cock out, gripping around it as it ached.

I came to the video, fast and rushed, before I could stop myself.

After sitting in my living room feeling like I was losing my mind for a solid half an hour, I knew I had to do something more normal.

I’d called Andrew up and grabbed lunch with him, talking about anything and everything we usually did.

TNU football, TNU hockey. Frat stuff. The fucking weather. I loved talking about it all, because none of it had to do with Draven.

But then, on my way home, I felt like I was being watched.

Very watched.

Even as my truck lurched along on my own driveway, it didn’t feel likemineanymore. The afternoon sun was full and bright. Like there was nowhere to hide.

Well, I don’t have a fuckin’ thing to hide, anyway.

I stood taller. All of Bestens seemed to be permeated by Draven, but that didn’t mean I was going to shrink away. I tried to shake the feeling that my town was starting to feel likehistown, and my pride took center stage.

And I swore when I walked across my front porch I caught a whiff of his scent.

It can’t be his scent.

Of course it wasn’t. It was just imprinted on my mind, associated with the porch so much now that I couldn’t help but think of it.

It was time to film a video for the Cocktail Bro channel.

I put everything else out of my mind and set up my phone on its little bendy tripod in my kitchen, propping it up on one side of the sink as usual. I gathered my ingredients, focusing on what I knew how to do best.

“This right here is what I like to call the Bestens Beach Day,” I said into the camera. “Do we have beaches in Bestens? No. But we have coconut rum, mango syrup, and a hint of my secret ingredient: pulverized sweetened ginger. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Step one is to make your fresh mango syrup.”

I went through the first steps of the recipe.

I was shirtless again, because those videos had been performing about thirty times better than any video I’d posted before. I’d tossed on a pair of aqua blue shorts to go with the beachy theme, popped on a crisp white backwards hat, and had my Hard Spot Saloon armband around one bicep.

But as I was filming, I kept fucking shit up.

First I burnt the sugar for the mango syrup.

Then I added too much salt to the ginger, which only needed a tiny pinch.

And then, when I caught a glimpse of a tiny sheet of paper folded up on my kitchen windowsill.

I focused in on what was written on one side of it:

Baby Blue.

As I reached for it, I knocked over the shot glass full of coconut rum that I’d just poured. It spilled out onto my kitchen floor. I sucked in a lungful of air, turning to my phone and shutting off the recording video.

I snatched up the little piece of paper and unfolded it, reading the inside.

This kitchen window still isn’t secure.

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