SWAT Ed: Fox & Bull (Nothing Special 8)

“Sure, thanks, Bull. I already know exactly what I want,” Rid answered, strolling into the kitchen, his bold blue eyes on Dale. “Not much for colas or beer. A lot of guys my age do seem to go for that… but, I prefer a nice, aged whiskey myself.”

If Dale’s body could secrete his damn pheromones, it would’ve stifled them all.

“That sounds like a winner,” Walker called out. “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks. Fox, show Rid where I keep the good stuff.”

“No need,” Rid spoke up, brushing his long body against Dale’s back as he reached over him and grabbed a couple of cubes of ice, those sexy lips of his only inches from Dale’s ear. “I see the good stuff already.”

Fox and Dale both stared dumbfounded after Rid left with his two fingers of whiskey and Walker’s scotch, throwing Dale a sizzling look over his shoulder.

Fox gave a low whistle. “Damn. Okay, the rest is up to you, my friend.” Fox stole a quick glance at Rid’s plump ass as he walked away, then turned and gave Dale a pitying expression.

“Good luck.”

His dad had two scotches, and since he’d refused to eat much of Fox’s overcooked steak, he probably didn’t have enough food in his belly for the liquor he’d consumed. Which meant he was a little tipsy, and that meant trying to embarrass Bull with silly stories from his childhood. He put his hand up when his father tried to tell them about catching Bull and Os’s cousin, Jester, behind the barn.

Fox’s eyes widened.

Bull tossed back his final shot of vodka. “I was sixteen years old, Pop. And me and Os were in another one of our on-again, off-again phases. I’d hardly call that scandalous.”

“Hey, I don’t care. Jester was the only one of the two who had a pair of balls.” Walker stamped his cane on the floor.

“All right, old man.” Bull leaned over and knocked his father on his shoulder. “I think you’ve done your damage for the night.”

“I don’t get to have a lot of nights like this, son.” Walker grinned, his hazy brown eyes moving down the table. “Just trying to enjoy it.”

“There’ll be plenty to come,” Fox said. “Besides, I wanna hear more about that debutante who tried to say Bull knocked her up.”

His dad appeared ready to go on another tangent, but Amelia cut him off that time. “It’s late, and you fellas are acting like you don’t have jobs to be at in the morning.”

Dale and Rid were turned towards each other and had been having their own hushed conversation for the last hour and a half while Fox had sat riveted by every theatrical tale Amelia and Pop could think of. His foreman seemed pretty relaxed in Rid’s company now—although his four beers and two shots of whiskey he’d had after supper probably assisted with that—as he leaned into Rid’s side with his arm draped around the back of his chair. Dale looked absolutely smitten as Rid talked about his plans for after college and how he intended to work for Bull full-time.

Bull hadn’t felt so complete in years, if ever, that he could remember. He was staring at Fox as he drank his cider and laughed at his father. Bull’s gaze fell to Fox’s throat, and he sat taller in his seat to relieve the pressure building lower. Sharp eyes cut in his direction, never missing anything, and a subtle smirk tilted Fox’s peach lips as if he knew Bull’s situation.

Amelia turned off the light in the kitchen, and a spark of heat started a bonfire building in Bull’s chest. Fox was his. And in less than ten minutes, he wanted him naked and buried under him.

Rid pushed his chair beneath the table and turned towards him and Fox. “Thank you again for the invitation.”

“Anytime.” Bull stood to shake Rid’s hand when Fox’s phone buzzed loudly on the table. A dark warning sign appeared before that recognizable red dot began to flash on the screen.

Fox’s eyes flew to his before he yanked his phone off the table.

“They’re back?” Bull gaped.

“Who?” Walker asked. “Oh no.”

“The fuck is going on?” Dale demanded.

“Shhh,” Fox hissed sternly, and the room fell silent. “Sit down and be quiet, please. Now.”

Un-fucking-believable. Fox had devised an excellent plan to take down Newt Thompson this weekend on his own home turf— the Rusty Spur—but it seemed the gutsy piece of shit was impatient. He’d come back to hurt Bull or this ranch; either/or, Fox was ready to kill this motherfucker now. They’d all been warned the first time. No more nonlethal. Fox tapped the sequence for Free, hoping he was still in the office since it wasn’t quite ten o’clock.

Bull was hesitant as he sat back down, and Fox could see him white-knuckling the arms of his chair, his jaw clenched, his dark eyes furious, wanting to do anything but sit down. He turned his concerned gaze on his father, who now appeared sober as hell as he clutched Amelia to his side. She already had moisture welling in her eyes, her visible fear tugging at Fox to protect them.