This Red Rock (8 page)

of his car, till the windows steamed and both of us were

laughing at the cliché. We"ve ridden together, this summer;

herded cattle and tacked up fencing and fixed the combine

harvester when it chewed itself up. My freshman engineering

class actually helped me there, first time anything learned in

school ever really did. I didn"t let Oro hear the end of that

one for days. He"s not an immodest man, but he likes to

learn things by trial and taste and feel; he"s skeptical of

book-learning in a measured way that means he"ll read these

things before he dismisses them. On that occasion, he

certainly didn"t dismiss me, but he didn"t look too happy,

either. The twist of displeasure in his mouth is weirdly

attractive; something cute about it, like a wounded puppy. I

told him that, too, and he snorted and disagreed vehemently.

I sucked him off behind the mechanical store till he came

round to my point of view.

I"d been here maybe four weeks when I let the words

slip. I could have understood it, maybe, if it had happened

during sex—if I"d panted it into his ear when my mind was

offline, body writhing under its own power, thrusting and

jerking desperately for closeness. But in the event, it wasn"t

anything like that. Wasn"t even afterward, in that quiet space

when things are still hazy, your muscles lax and liquid with

afterglow. No, I said it when he was grooming Reuben in the

stable, stroking his mane and making stupid faces with his

fingers twined through the dark strands. He"s so ridiculous,

the way he treats that horse. His eyes get this
glow
, all

coppery under the dark. “God, I love
you,” I told him, my

head on one side. He turned toward me, coppery glint

undimmed.

This Red Rock |
Louise Blaydon

50

“I love you, too,” he told me, brushing back my hair.

I think it took us both a whole day to realize what we"d

actually said. In my case, it had been true for at least a

fortnight already, but God, I hadn"t meant to
say
it. Guys

don"t come out and
say
stuff like that to the rancher they"re

fucking and obsessing over for the summer. These things are

called “summer romances” for a reason.

I guess, between us, we"ve kind of forgotten the reason.

It"s been eight weeks, now, and I"m barely the same

person. I flatter myself that Oro isn"t, either. He talks a hell

of a lot more than he did when I met him, which is surely

due to my bad influence. I hope he"ll manage to keep this up

when I go back to California. I"ve informed him in no

uncertain terms that I expect him to actually speak when I

get him on the phone. My mother says I can rack up phone

time like a girl, and I"m not about to deny it. I need to hear

voices; I need to hear the people I love. And that means Oro

has to tie me to the red rock state; wish me goodnight and

good morning and remind me he loves me.

I have a suspicion he"ll turn out to be excellent at phone

sex.

Packing up my car, I"m quiet, uncharacteristically so. I

haven"t actually driven her since I got here, all those weeks

and a lifetime ago. I think I get, now, why Uncle Frank"s so

fond of his horses. Cars don"t
support
you the way a horse

does when you ride him; there isn"t the same sense of

respectful give and take. There"s only this massive hunk of

metal and you careering it at stupid high speeds through the

dirt, and every mile you go is a mile in the wrong direction.

This Red Rock |
Louise Blaydon

51

I guess that last part is only true when you"re driving

away from home.

Oro kisses me long and hard in the quiet before I leave,

after I"ve said my goodbyes to Frank and his household, and

the guys on the ranch, and Sasha. Sasha"s eyes were large

and accusing, wanting me back, telling me I shouldn"t be

leaving.

Oh, Sasha, believe me, baby, I know. I"ll be back for

winter break, I promise.

When I had set off for San Diego to start my first

semester, I"d thought I wanted rid of the Southwest forever. I

wanted to immerse myself in the thrum of generica, the easy

acceptance of Everytown, USA. Now, I"m driving with the

dust of home on my feet, and I don"t want to have to shake it

off. My mom"s out there, and Uncle Frank, and Oro. My

grandfather always said we were Southwesterners at heart. I

guess I"ve remembered why everyone thought he was such a

wise old man.

Two more years, Alex. Two more years.

The road speeds under my tires, inexorable and red.

Two more years, and I"ll be driving home in the right

direction.

About The Author

An avid reader of everything from New Scientist to the back

of the cereal box, LOUISE BLAYDON has been writing,

encouraged by her father, ever since she could hold a pen.

Her writing, like her reading, has wandered erratically from

genre to genre, but has settled firmly on gay romance, to the

mild bemusement of Dad. Louise also writes sporadically for

various journalistic publications and has been known to

print the occasional poem.

She owes much of her inspiration and support these days to

an amazing network of friends, whose willingness to listen to

her rail against life, the universe, and everything she could

not live without. Louise"s pursuits beyond writing are

worryingly few, chief among them being Worrying About Not

Having Pursuits Beyond Writing. However, this has long

been the case, and after many abortive attempts to pad her

leisure-time resume with everything from hiking to yoga, she

has pretty much given up. She does enjoy singing, country

walking, making deep-voiced sardonic remarks, and tasting

the rain, but has a horror of organized activities.

Louise has altogether too many academic qualifications and

can only dream that her list of published works will one day

be equally long.

Also by LOUISE BLAYDON

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Western Romance from DREAMSPINNER PRESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

This Red Rock ©Copyright Louise Blaydon, 2011

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the

authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com

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