Page 2 of Off Limits
Told himself a lot of things, actually.
That he was having fun. That it was his choice. That there was no difference between fucking strangers for free and fucking them for rent money—so he might as well get something out of it, right?
He'd gotten very good at telling himself things.
Ray's disappointment of a son had really lived down to expectations—dropout turned rent boy. What would any of the guys back home think if they knew?
Nothing good.
The sun was nearly done setting by the time Asher finished the basic cleaning. He'd found sheets in a hall closet, made up the smaller bedroom, and confirmed that the hot water heater still functioned. Small victories.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since the gas station burrito at lunch. There had to be something non-perishable in the pantry, his father had always kept emergency supplies?—
A flash of light caught his peripheral vision.
He straightened, turning toward the window.
There it was again: a dim glow coming from the direction of the small stone outbuilding set about fifty yards back from the main cabin.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose.
That building had been strictly off-limits throughout his childhood, his father's prohibitions against entering it so severe that Asher had never dared test them. It was his father's workshop… Though come to think of it, Asher had never once seen anything built or repaired there.
"What the hell?" he muttered, moving to the window for a better view.
The stone structure was barely visible in the gathering dusk, but the light was unmistakable—a warm glow escaping around the edges of what must be blackout curtains.
Someone was inside.
2
The sensible reactionwould be fear, perhaps a call to the local sheriff. Instead, Asher just felt a surge of frustrated irritation. He'd been back less than four hours, and already the complications were starting.
"Thanks, Dad," he muttered to the empty room. "Really appreciate the mysterious trespasser. Very thoughtful parting gift."
He grabbed his father's heavy flashlight from its hook by the back door—both a light source and a potential weapon, though he had to be real, his combat experience consisted mainly of one ill-advised bar fight where he'd thrown a drink and immediately ran away.
But hey, the flashlight looked intimidating. That had to count for something.
The mountain darkness was nothing like the city’s. It swallowed everything except what was directly illuminated. Asher switched on the flashlight, its powerful beam cutting through the growinggloom as he picked his way down the overgrown path toward the stone building.
The temperature seemed to drop with each step, the night air carrying something that made his primitive brain scream warnings. Pine needles crunched under his feet, too loud in the stillness. Even the usual night sounds—crickets, owls, the rustle of small animals—had gone quiet, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
The outbuilding was small, cabin-sized, with walls built from stone and a heavy roof. A single window faced the main cabin, its edges glowing with the light from within. The door was thick oak, reinforced with iron bands that had always reminded Asher of something medieval. Tonight, they looked less like decoration and more like they were meant to keep something in.
As he drew closer, a vehicle came into view, parked behind the building where it hadn’t been visible from the cabin.
A truck.
A very specific truck that made Asher freeze, his pulse suddenly hammering in his throat.
Black Ford F-150, at least ten years old, with a distinct dent in the rear fender.
He’d made that dent himself years ago, when he’d been getting driving lessons.
"Shit," Asher breathed, mouth going dry. "Gabriel."
Gabriel Stone. His father's oldest friend, whose rare visits had been the highlights of Asher's isolated adolescence. The man whose crooked smile and deep voice had starred in fantasies Asher carried with him when he fled to the city.
