Linus called before Carson could turn his back on him and their conversation.
“Got shit to do,” Carson kept muttering, moving toward the gate.
“Bud!” Linus yelled.
Carson drew in a breath and turned back.
“Anytime you wanna come over and hang, my door’s open. Yeah?” Linus said what he’d said before a lot.
“Yeah,” Carson continued to mutter, knowing he’d take him up on that, as he had hundreds of times since the man moved next door.
This just wouldn’t be one of those times. He didn’t go over after his dad had a go at him. And the reason he didn’t was right then written on Linus’s face.
Linus was giving him a look that Carson read. He’d honed his skills at reading people, started doing it the minute he could cogitate. If he didn’t, he’d have it far worse than he did from his old man.
Far worse.
But the look on Linus’s face said he didn’t know if he wanted to climb out of his truck and give Carson a hug or if he wanted to climb out of his truck, slam into Carson’s house, and kick his dad’s ass.
Sometimes he dreamed of Linus kicking his dad’s ass. The man was built. He was tall. He’d wipe the floor with Jefferson Steele.
But most of the time, he dreamed of doing it himself.
He didn’t because his dad kept him fed. He kept a roof over his head. He kept clothes on his back. He needed the jackhole.
When he didn’t, things would change.
But he didn’t court disaster for Linus. Linus was a good man. If he had a go at his dad, his dad would stop at nothing to put Linus in a world of hurt any way he could.
Linus didn’t need that. The woman who looked at him like he could move mountains didn’t need that. And Linus didn’t need to give it to a woman who he looked at like the first day that dawned for him was the day he laid eyes on her.
“Take care of yourself, Car,” Linus said quietly.
Carson nodded and moved to and through the gate, lifting a hand behind him as he did in a lame goodbye.
The goodbye was lame. He was lame. Weak. Pathetic. Of his own free will, walking away from Linus and into a filthy, stinking pit that held nothing for him but pain, violence, and neglect.
He hit the back door and heard it immediately. His father’s grunts. The woman he brought home whimpering through each one.
Not the good kind of whimpering, the pained kind.
She was dry.
How the fuck his father could nail as much tail as he did and not sort that, Carson had no clue.
What he knew was the man was good-looking. He made decent money. He could be a charmer.
But mostly, he was a jackhole, and he only hid it long enough to get off. Therefore none of the women stuck around.
He would have thought they’d talk. Women did that shit. But apparently, when it came to his dad, they didn’t.
Or maybe his dad was just that good of a player.
Moving swiftly through the house, avoiding going anywhere near the living room where his dad was fucking some bitch on the couch, he headed to his room.
He was sixteen but he’d already had four girls. The first one sounded like the woman his father was currently pumping on their couch. Those pained whimpers.
It wasn’t good, fucking dry. He got off but it wasn’t good.
It really wasn’t good for her.
He’d learned with the second one that if he kissed her a while then paid some attention to her tits, things were a lot better down there. Wet and hot. Sweet. And it far from sucked, tonguing and toying with a girl’s nipples. He’d got off, she hadn’t, but the whimpers he got when he was doing her were of an entirely different variety.
Number three was where he found it. She’d shown him. He got her ready. He got off. But when he was done, she wasn’t and she wanted to finish. So she took his hand and pressed his finger against her clit and moved it around, moaning and squirming and…fuck. So damned hot, he nearly came again on her leg watching her. In the end, he got her off with her help and Carson watched, thinking it was beautiful.
A miracle.
So number four got it all. After he made out with her forever, did shit to her tits and got her wet for him, he’d fucked her while he worked her clit, and she’d gone