The water rushed by on a deceptive current, quick but calm with no hint of the dangers ahead. The gurgle of the small rapids in the middle of the river set a relaxing tone to the tranquil setting. Surrounded by the rocky shoreline and towering trees that bordered the river’s edge, Sawyer could almost believe in the peace it projected. Almost.
He savored the moment, each shallow inhale sinking deep. The damp musty scent of rot and clean was distinct and different from the dry arid landscape of home. Instead of dusty red and gold rock, he was cocooned in green and brown life. Slightly claustrophobic in its closeness, yet somehow settling.
Could he hide in those woods? Hunker down where no one would ever find him? The Utah landscape was too open to hide within, but it was vast and huge and he’d been able to hide in plain sight for the last fourteen years.
“Hey, Sawyer,” Grady called out. “Are you ready to go?”
He turned back to the group of rafters. The party was almost set to begin their day trip down the White Salmon. He’d received the rundown on process and logistics back at the Kick outpost before the tourists had arrived.
“I’ll be right there.” A flash of guilt had him leaving the riverbank. He wasn’t a lazy fuck who let others do the work. He’d just needed a second to center himself.
Grady waved in acknowledgment before refocusing on his job of strapping down the waterproof dry bags. The Kick crew was organized and efficient, every member working in sync with each other. It was impressive, and Sawyer’s respect for the company went up yet another notch.
Mick would approve. Sawyer had learned the art of whitewater rafting at the hip of his surrogate uncle after his family had died. Mick’s company, Outsider Whitewater, had a thirty-year history in the Moab area and the river had been Sawyer’s salvation after his devastating loss. Mick had offered him a home and a life when he’d wished his had ended.
He sucked in a breath, a waft of pungent smoke piercing him. He gagged. The retching urge to vomit flew up his throat fast and reflexive. Fuck. He swallowed hard, throat aching with the willpower it took to keep his breakfast down. The acidic burn inflamed his esophagus and he focused on that, pulling the pain in.
The forest fire was a hundred miles to the east and nowhere near them—him. The wind had shifted that morning, bringing the smoke westward, but it wasn’t a threat. They weren’t in danger. The rundown of facts replayed in his mind in War’s steady voice. They’d been updated on it before they’d departed Kick’s White Salmon base.
His hands shook, mind flaring with images from his past. Of flames and heat. Of panicked need and sooty residue. No. He systematically shut down each thought, each destructive memory forced back and locked away until he was once again in control of his emotions. His thoughts.
He breathed through his mouth, the quick puffs slowing with his pulse. His hand was wrapped around the folding knife in his pocket before he’d consciously thought about it. The dull edge of the blade back smooth over the pad of his thumb where he caressed it, the strokes hard enough to dent his skin.
His blood pumped, anticipation singing through him with its whisper of euphoria. The high would be shallow, nowhere close to what he could get from another person. Did he have time?
“Here’s the tracker.”
The deep voice cut through the cool morning air and general chatter to spear Sawyer. His head jerked up, gaze hunting for the source. There. Next to a black truck that’d just pulled up. Asher was here. He was talking to War, both of them focused on a piece of equipment in Asher’s hand.
His heart hitched along with his breath. Mr. Preppy had taunted him last night at the dungeon, led him on, then cut him loose with a quip about not playing with employees. Chickenshit. If Asher had any balls at all, rules wouldn’t matter. Not in the dungeon at least.
He was moving toward the pair before he’d consciously thought about it. Asher wore jeans today, which did nothing to roughen up the crisp efficiency he projected. The navy polo with the white and green Kick logo on the breast hugged his chest and emphasized his biceps. Out here in a sea of royal blue splash jackets, helmets, and bright yellow PFDs, he stood out like the yuppie boy he was.
“I thought you didn’t leave the office,” Sawyer said, the antagonism flying out in part to distract himself but also to incite. Could he goad Asher into responding? Crack his cool calm like that moment in the dungeon when Asher had chastised him about limits like he was a newbie?
His eyes had flashed then, dark and intense with his admonishment. But within them had been the passionate focus Sawyer craved. The brazen fierceness that could brand Sawyer’s skin and deliver on every promise he made.
War chuckled, but Asher only lifted that sculpted brow of his. The look he shot Sawyer from behind his glasses was glacier cool and blazing hot at the same time.
“I’m working.” Asher made a pointed glance at the other guides, who were busy getting the rafts into the river. “And you?”
Dick. A jittery agitation dug under Sawyer’s skin, biting over his forearms and down his nape. It creeped along his spine, and he resisted the urge to stretch his neck and shake the sensation off. Asher would be merciless in a scene—if he actually was a sadist.
Sawyer still questioned that claim.
He ignored Asher’s dig and turned his attention to War. “Do we need anything else in the raft?” He was riding with War on this first trip, learning the river and taking mental notes before he ran solo.
“I think we’re good.” War nodded toward the river. “Run through the last safety reminders and get our group in the raft. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Sawyer gave him a salute and left without another word or glance at Asher. He felt him, though, Asher’s intensity boring into his back as he strolled to the river’s edge.
“All right,” he said with a smile. “Who’s ready to have some fun?”
A chorus of whoops met his question. They had a wild group today, which was exactly what he needed. The four men and two women grinned at him, and he let the rest of his shit go.
The great thing about guiding whitewater was he couldn’t think about anything else. He had to focus on the river, even on the slower sections. He was responsible for these six people from now until they unloaded at the end of the run.
Well, him and War today. But tomorrow he’d be on his own with another group of day trippers, and he had a lot to learn and remember.
He went through the group, rechecking PFDs and helmets for proper fit and tightness, each action shutting down his other thoughts. His other desires.
His other needs.
The river would get his adrenaline pumping. The action would engage his mind. The new scenery would capture his attention.
He’d forget about his life and the pain for the day. Ignore the drifting scent of the forest fire raging in the east and focus on the moment. It was all he could do—had been doing since his entire family had perished in a house fire fourteen years ago.
“Let’s get this raft in the water,” he hollered, grabbing the bow rope. His past was long done, and nothing he did would ever change it.
Ash cursed under his breath, his concentration shattered. He should’ve left after War had given him the tracker back. Hell, he could’ve left after he’d given the equipment to War that morning. But he was still out here in the damn woods for no real reason.
A mosquito buzzed his ear and he swatted at the vibrating hum, certain the little sucker would be back with reinforcements. The citronella torches and candles were obviously useless. Too bad there wasn’t an app for that.
The Mosquito Killer: Turn it on and watch the suckers plummet to their death.
He froze, brow furrowing. He pulled up a new file on his computer and quickly started typing, code and concepts zinging from his mind to the page. The idea had merit. Not in real life, of course, but for a game. If he could get it out before midsummer, he had a chance at making a decent payback.
He ran a quick search on available app games to check if any like it already existed. There were a couple, along with a few claiming to repel the pest via a sound. Seriously? If that worked someone would’ve milked that invention years ago.
“Hey, Ash,” Grady called, breaking into his thoughts. “Are you staying around for dinner?” He motioned to the food they were laying out on tables under the back patio. The scent of grilling meat logged in to his brain as he blinked at the smoke billowing from the gas grill.
Was it really that late? He glanced at the time on his computer. Seven o’clock. Damn. “Yeah, sure,” he answered. He might as well eat before hitting the road home.
He would’ve finished his latest program hours ago if his mind hadn’t kept jumping from one thought to another in an erratic pattern that was driving him nuts. He usually corralled his randomness better.
And he usually didn’t have a distraction like Sawyer circling his peripheral.
He clicked over to the photo software, Sawyer’s mug popping up in full color. Water splashed white behind him, his grin countered by the drawn line of his brow below his helmet. Muscles slick and popping with the stroke of his paddle, skill and power the message communicated from the single shot. A great one to add to Sawyer’s employee profile on the website.
The date and time stamp appeared in the lower right corner, the river location in the left. His new program was working nicely. The location stamp would save the photographers time and hopefully increase their sales. The tracker War had carried on this trip had ticked off the coordinates, which merged with the camera locations along strategic points in the river. Auto-loading the photographs on the company’s website for virtual purchasing was another perk he’d recently added. Linking it to the company’s app streamlined the entire process from shot to purchase.
He scanned the area, easily finding Sawyer among the group. The day trippers had all departed at some point, leaving the contingent of Kick employees. They’d had twelve rafts on the White Salmon today, along with an intermediate whitewater kayak class. The photographers, kayakers, drivers, and outpost staff were also included with the guide crew.
Sawyer leaned against a tree, one hand shoved in the pocket of his cargo shorts. The ends of his hair were wet around his face, his T-shirt hugging his broad shoulders and chest before it draped around his slim waist.
Sawyer studied the others, smiling and responding when spoken to but not truly engaging. Because he was the new guy, or was that his nature? Ash picked the latter. Like himself, Sawyer seemed to observe more than participate.
Older than a majority of their seasonal staff, Sawyer had an air about him that fit more with that of the partners. Knowledgeable, contained, and too experienced with the shit life dished out.
The sun was on the way down, still hours from setting, yet pitching the light into that early-evening glow that softened everything, including Sawyer. His jaw appeared more relaxed beneath the beard stubble, his skin golden. The blond steaks in his hair were more butter than white now, blending with the darker strands beneath. Ash’s view was unhindered by the haze that hung high in the air from the distant forest fire. The westerly winds down the Columbia River Gorge could drag the polluted air for hundreds of miles.
Sawyer’s gaze was focused upward at the moment, a beer bottle gripped in his hand. He appeared contained yet relaxed, but not unaware. If Ash didn’t know better, he’d swear Sawyer had a military background. He’d fit in nicely at Kick—in more ways than one.
How relaxed would Sawyer be if he was bound naked to the tree he was leaning on, hands tied over his head, the expanse of his back and ass completely open to Ash, free to do with whatever he wanted? Anything. A bullwhip maybe? Cane interspersed with a cattle prod? Or something slower, less expected yet equally as satisfying?
Ash shifted on the bench, his dick filling with each image of Sawyer sweating and begging or stoically rigid. To feel that strength give, watch it shed away bit by bit until he came apart beneath his hands would be unbelievable.
He yanked his gaze back to his computer and went through the motions of saving and closing his files before shutting down his laptop. He had his dick under control by the time he took his bag to his truck and snagged his jacket from the seat. A chill was coming in from the Columbia, the heat of the day disappearing along with the sun. It’d be cold tonight, and thankfully he’d be back home in his warm bed before it got that bad.
At least it wasn’t raining. Trips ran rain or shine, and early July in Oregon was an unpredictable mix of dreary and bright.
Ash gave up all pretense on why he was still hanging around and headed straight to Sawyer. As much as he should leave things alone, he couldn’t stop himself. Hell, he didn’t want to stop himself. There was an element of enjoyment in taunting Sawyer with something he couldn’t have. The sadist in him didn’t get off on being deliberately mean or a general asshole, but watching Sawyer struggle with Ash’s decision not to play was fun enough to go back for.
He grabbed a water out of the cooler and rinsed the residual taste of smoke from his mouth. Air advisories had been up for most of the day, but it hadn’t seemed to ruin the fun for anyone. At least not that he’d heard.
Sawyer watched him approach, one side of his mouth curling up as he puffed out a short scoff.
“What are you still doing out here, Mr. Preppy?” He made a pointed glance over Ash, stopping on his deck shoes before he shook his head. “Isn’t this a bit out of your comfort zone?” His smile grew, the dimple popping, but it was lost as he took a long drag from his bottle.
Ash crossed his arms and simply studied Sawyer. Remarks about his appearance barely registered. He’d outgrown any insecurities over how he dressed around the same time he’d accepted he was gay, and that’d been before his divorce ten years ago.
“Trip go well?” he asked, going for cordial. “War said everything went smoothly. He even had a few compliments for you, which he’s usually stingy on handing out.”
Sawyer shrugged that off. “It was good. The canyon’s cool and the rapids keep it interesting.” He glanced around. “The whole area’s different from what I’m used to.” His focus went upward again.
Ash followed Sawyer’s line of sight and found nothing interesting, just trees and sky. “Is that good or bad?”
“Just different.”
“Too much green for you?” He couldn’t say anything about the wet, since it hadn’t rained in the two days Sawyer had been in Oregon.
Sawyer shook his head, his gaze dropping to stare into the trees that surrounded their property. “No line of sight.” He nodded toward the woods. “I’m used to seeing for miles, not feet. Or at least clear to the next butte.”
“And that kind of vast openness is foreign to me.” Ash studied the area, trying to understand what Sawyer was getting at. “I’m a born and raised Oregonian, home of the tree huggers and granola crunchers.”
That got a chuckle out of Sawyer. “I don’t know. Moab will give you a good run on the granola crunching.”
“I bet.” He smiled. “I’m sure most of these guys would feel at home there.” He nodded toward the rest of the group. Cargo shorts, flannels, sandals, and various headwear from beanies to baseball hats were the general attire. He definitely stood out as the overdressed one—and he’d tried to dress down today.
“Yeah, they would.”
The conversation lagged as the general camaraderie of the group flowed around them. A lot of their seasonal staff were college students in their early twenties. A few were year-round guides who’d transition to another outfitter when the season here was done. Grady had been one of those before he’d decided to invest in Kick and plant himself in Oregon.
“So what else do you do?” Asher asked. “Besides guiding rafts through crazy-as-shit rapids?”
Sawyer frowned. “Why do you think I do something else?”
“I run the background checks on all employees.” He raised a brow and let that sink in.
The frown deepened. “If you know what I do, why are you asking?”
“I thought it’d be nicer.”
Sawyer barked out a laugh, grin wide before he hid it behind his hand. “I thought you were a sadist.” Fortunately. he said that under his breath, even though no one was close enough to hear them.
“I can be nice.” His tone came out harder than intended and pretty much countered his statement. “In fact, I’m generally a pretty nice guy.” He stepped closer, eyes narrowing, voice dropping. “I enjoy inflicting pain, but that doesn’t make me an automatic dick. I’m not into humiliation or degradation, and I sure as hell don’t get off on treating people like shit.”
Sawyer glared right back at him, the moment dragging out. He sniffed, lips pressing flat, tension winding them closer even though neither of them moved.
The hair on Ash’s nape stood on end, a certainty settling within him. If they were alone instead of standing in the open with an avid audience, Ash wouldn’t hesitate to charge in. Fuck his employee policy or any other policy he had about play partners. The chemistry between them was too real and strong to walk away from.
“So you’re just a dick to me then?” Sawyer finally asked, the dig made with a twitch of his lips.
It was impossible not to see the amusement that shifted over the heat. Sawyer hadn’t retreated or backed down. Instead he’d tossed out a jest Ash could take or ignore.
“Only when you deserve it,” he countered, stepping back under the guise of taking a drink of his water. He cocked a smile when he lowered the bottle, chest easing. “Come on.” He motioned to the food. “I’m hungry, and the burgers are up.”
“What if I’m a vegetarian?”
He gave a dramatic wince. “I’m sure veggie burgers are on there too. We’re in granola land, after all.”
Sawyer’s deep laugh tumbled over Ash once again, each ripple digging under his skin a bit more. “Then I’ll fit right in.”
Ash paused, brow lifting. “So you’re really a vegetarian?” His mother had a whole spiel he could repeat by heart on why meat was good for the body.
Sawyer raised his brow right back, the golden flecks dancing in his eyes before he dropped the act. “No.” He punched Ash in the arm, the gesture more friendly than hurtful. “Let’s eat. Some of us worked our asses off today.”
“And some of us worked our brains,” Ash countered.
Sawyer glanced back over his shoulder, heat dropping into his slow perusal. “You obviously work your ass at some point.” He winked. “Let me know if you ever want help with that workout.”
He walked away as Ash stood there and watched his long strides and a confidence that should’ve been annoying. His chuckle bubbled up from his chest, a slow acceptance of what he’d tried to deny. Good or bad, wrong or right, he liked Sawyer—a lot. And not as an employee, or even a friend.
He wanted to get to know him better—outside of work. The itch to have Sawyer beneath him, moaning in pain or pleasure, was growing stronger every time they talked. How long would he have to wait? Because it was only a matter of time now. That much he was certain of.