Another two shots, please.
Dark browns and reds blurred when he glanced towards the mechanical bull. Instead he saw blond. He saw Owen under him, trying to keep a straight face as Jason rode him, one arm lassoing over his head.
And then it wasn’t him on Owen, but Hayden. “Fuck off.”
“All right, mate.” It was Blake at the bar beside him, raising his hands. “Just grabbing a drink.”
Jason startled. “Sorry, not you. I was talking to . . .” Well, the truth wouldn’t do. “To Angus.”
“You want Angus to fuck off?”
“Buck off . . . buck that guy off.”
“You usually a bad sport?”
Jason was having a crisis here! Drink had hit his system and the room had a slight tilt, but it was nothing to the topsy-turviness in his chest. “I just . . . I would take care . . . I would hold on forever.”
Blake hollered to the operator across the room that they had a contender, and a few moments later Pete’s mates were chanting his name, and a few moments after that . . . Jason was being pushed toward a massive steel beast. “Go on, then. Prove it.”
Oh. Um. Asterisks! Side note! Huge disclaimer!
Fingers kept prodding his back. Pete was whooping for him, too.
Owen! Save me!
But Owen was saving Hayden. Who’d hurt him.
What if he hurt him again?
Jason clenched his fists, and then he swung himself on the back of that bull. Prove it? He’d prove that he would hold on. That he’d take all the care in the world.
He grabbed the strap, gripped tightly with his thighs, lifted his head to glimpse Owen across the room. Where was he?
He had to find him. The machine shifted under him and then lurched. No, he couldn’t come off now. Goddammit, he was trying to be symbolic.
He jostled through six seconds of mechanical bullying—
Smack!
He hit the padding with all the grace of a discombobulated duck.
Groaning, he pushed up on shaky arms. All the orchestra in tears. He couldn’t hold on. A sign of its own?
Hobbling out of the arena, he met Pete shaking his head. The whole room spun, drink and disappointment deteriorating the last of his sense.
“Mate, you are off your game.”
“Guess my arse is too sore from other things.” He shoved out of his flannel shirt. “And this stupid thing kept flapping. In the way.”
Pete found his overreaction amusing. “Yeah, yeah. Blame it on the flannel. By the way, while you were flirting with Blake—”
“I was not flirting.”
“Chill. I know. You guys were just chatting, I was exaggerating.” Pete eyed him oddly. “Anyway, Owen asked me to tell you he’s going home with Hayden. Apparently you’ll understand.”
Going home with Hayden.
He’d understand.
Hayden was the man Owen had fallen in love with at first sight, and Hayden wanted Sergeant Owen Stirling Sir back, and Owen and Jason were only fake-dating anyway, so Owen’s choice was inevitable.
He nodded and nodded and slunk away to the booth where his heart had beat out two very different melodies.
The napkin holder was full of napkins, but they were the wrong napkins.
He tipped his head against the back of the booth and closed his eyes. He must have fallen asleep, because Owen’s deep voice murmured close to his ear. “You don’t look great, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.”
Jason sighed. Home sounded good. But if he were going to dream about Owen, couldn’t he say he looked fantastic?
Heat at his shoulder.
Jason startled, his eyes pinging open. Not dreaming!
A chuckle. “No, you’re not.”
Owen hovered over him in sexy jeans, polished shoes, and a jacket over a button up. Look at that face. Chiselled, strong, clean-shaven. Blond hair gleaming like a halo. A body that knew all the ways to turn Jason on. So unfair.
To have this wondrous revelation, and not be able to keep the contents of it.
“What did you say?” Owen asked, helping him to his feet.
“You were jealous of Blake.”
“Yes.”
“You like me.”
A pause. “I do.”
But did he enough? Was it fair to want more than like when they’d only known one another two weeks?
And was it possible for Owen to fall in love at first sight again? When he’d proclaimed so adamantly that he wouldn’t? When Hayden had admitted his feelings?
God, it was unreasonable of Jason to be so upset about that. Owen and Hayden had so much more history . . .
It was just . . . he liked Owen very, very much.
Jason swallowed a groan. At least, he thought he swallowed it. Didn’t liking Owen mean he wanted what was best for him? What made him happy?
“No matter how tough people seem”—Jason felt up Owen’s generous biceps, and then gazed deeply into dark, possibly bewildered, orbs—“they can still hurt.” A swallow. “Your very smart nephew told me that. Made me think of you and my stomach dropped like a bad album.”
Owen led him through a cheering crowd and out into the cool, dark night. Fresh air hit his face. Owen slung his jacket around Jason’s shivering shoulders and pulled the lapels. Jason looked at him. “Am I making sense?”