Bobby ran his hand down over his face and leaned back in his chair. The groaning of the springs warned him that he was close to tipping over. He dropped forward, stared around the Rougaroux Social Club headquarters, and exhaled.
He was going to hunt down Scott and then kill him for talking him into running the festival this year. He’d avoided it for ages, but this time, with most of the leaders of the pack dealing with new mates, and the pack’s growing pains in regards to admitting gay men, well, yeah, he’d had to admit he’d been the logical choice.
And that just sucked.
So there he was on the Friday before the festival started, still trying to nail down two more bands and get a return call from the traveling-amusement-ride people to confirm they’d be in town by next Wednesday and setting up in time for Friday’s opening.
He glanced at the poster for this year and grimaced. A snarling wolf’s head, blood dripping from long fangs, eyes yellow and wild, looked back at him. It was the same one from last year, and he’d hated the cartoonish drawing. Now, he’d wanted something more photo-realistic, more sophisticated, but the budget wasn’t there for a new logo. It wasn’t what he’d wanted, but at this point it would have to do. If anything else went wrong, he’d blow his stack.
His entire body ached, and his wolf had been begging for weeks to get out and run. Ever since meeting Mark in Lake Charles, his wolf, usually quiet and calm, had been irritable, demanding, and a real pain in the ass.
Bobby knew what it wanted. Mark. That sweet ass. The way he submitted, let Bobby take his body. The way his eyes looked up into Bobby’s as Bobby held the younger man down and fucked him.
There was only one way to soothe the beast inside him, and he knew it. He didn’t like it, but what the hell? If he didn’t do something soon, he’d go crazy.
He and Mark had made plans to meet again tonight.
He opened a drawer in the desk, pushed all the paperwork into it, and shut off the computer. If he hurried, he could get home, change, and make it to Lake Charles by nine p.m.
The phone rang, and he froze, fighting over whether to pick it up or not. At five thirty on Friday afternoon, this couldn’t be good. It never was. He reached for it, then swore and let his hand drop. He grabbed his hat, locked the desk, and strode out of the office to the front of the storefront the club rented for meetings.
After locking the outside door, he paused. The phone had stopped ringing. If the caller really needed him, he or she would call his cell.
No call.
Great. He exhaled and got into his truck.
He could be home in fifteen minutes, showered, shaved, and dressed in another twenty and out the door. Mark would be waiting for him, and just that made him hard. He adjusted his cock in his jeans, spread his legs wider, and started the vehicle.
Bobby snorted. He was an old fool.
But his heart and his wolf urged him to keep going, to meet Mark and to claim him again and again.
»»•««
Mark looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. No way would he be able to go to Lake Charles and meet Bobby tonight. He’d fallen behind and hadn’t figured on the turn-in date for the papers when he’d told Bobby he was free.
And there was no way to let Bobby know.
Mark thought of just going anyway, meeting Bobby, and telling him he had to leave, but he knew the minute he saw the big man, all his resolution would fly out the window as the blood rushed to his dick.
Damn. They’d been so stupid to keep up the no-info deal. Even a phone number would have been okay. They could have talked, rescheduled.
But no, they had to be cool. Aloof.
Fuck, men were so stupid sometimes. Even gay men.
He reached out and turned the clock around so he couldn’t see the time. Maybe he wouldn’t think about Bobby waiting at the bar for him. The disappointment on his face. Maybe it turning to anger.
Mark worked on the papers until his eyes crossed and it grew too late to leave and catch Bobby. Even if he got to the casino, who would he ask for?
He thought of Bobby at the bar, waiting, and Mark nearly chewed through his bottom lip.
What if Bobby got pissed? What if he picked up someone else? Took him to the room? Did the things he was going to do to Mark to a stranger?
Mark growled deep in his throat.
Bobby was his.
But with Bobby over sixty miles away, there wasn’t much Mark could do about it. He groaned and pushed the rest of the papers off his desk.
They scattered onto the floor.
Mark put his head in his hands and counted to ten. Took slow breaths in and let them out just as slowly.
This was nuts. He’d never gotten so bent out of shape over a guy before.
But Mark knew, deep inside, Bobby wasn’t just any guy.
»»•««
Bobby stood in the door of the bar, took a deep breath, and entered. He blinked, his eyes fighting to adjust to the dark as he made his way to the bar. Along the way, he tried to look as if he weren’t looking for someone.
He reached the bar and sat, calling the bartender over with a flick of his fingers.
“Whiskey. Neat.”
The bartender nodded, gave him a well-worn welcome smile, and moved away to fix the drink. While Bobby waited, he spun around on the bar stool and leaned his elbows against the bar. Nice crowd. Lots of men.
No Mark.
He checked his watch. Quarter to ten. He hadn’t rushed to get there. Still it wasn’t early and wasn’t late.
“Anything else I can get you?” The bartender’s voice came from behind Bobby.
He turned around. “No. That’s it.”
The man paused, wiped the counter. “You looking for someone?” His raised eyebrow sealed the decision to ask about Mark.
“What makes you ask?”
“Well, either you’re a cop or you’re looking for a wayward boyfriend.” The guy gave him a smug grin. Bartenders could smell a cop for miles, even an old retired one, Bobby supposed.
“Not a boyfriend, really. There’s a guy, comes in here often. About forty. Dark hair but with this white streak on the side of his head.” Bobby fiddled with his drink.
“This guy in trouble?”
“No.” How much should he say?
“Ex?”
“No. Look, we met here a couple of months ago. Had a good time. We’re supposed to meet again tonight.” He let his words fade, unsure of what he wanted to happen.
“I get it. Think he might have stood you up?” The bartender smiled and nodded. “Had a few of those myself. Sucks.” He shrugged and moved off to fill another order.
Bobby sipped his drink. Dude was probably right. Mark had come to his senses and decided whatever they had wasn’t enough. He was an old fool sitting there on this bar stool.
“Hello. Want to buy me a drink?” A young voice from next to him brought Bobby’s head up and out of his thoughts. He turned, a flare of hope ignited, but it wasn’t Mark. He looked into the hopeful face of a guy about twenty-five.
“Sure. What’re you drinking?” Bobby asked, slightly flattered but knowing the kid just wanted to use him for a drink or two or three. Maybe hope Bobby’d pay him for a blowjob in the bathroom.
“Cosmos, tonight,” the young guy quipped. He gave Bobby a smile filled with promises. He wore eyeliner, just smudged, around his brown eyes. Nice. Cute. So not Bobby’s type. Even if he wasn’t half Bobby’s age.
“Cosmo for the kid,” Bobby ordered. The bartender nodded and went to work.
“So, do you have a room?”
Bobby laughed. “Okay, kid. Here’s the score. I’m not looking for a hookup, at least not with someone young enough to be my son. Feels sort of pervy, you know.”
The guy shrugged, unrepentant. “I have daddy issues.” He grinned. “Want to be my daddy?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and fuck, he was adorable. For a moment, Bobby thought, What the hell? His cock thought What the hell? too.
“Nope. I’m looking for something a little more aged, like a fine wine.” Bobby teased back. “You look a bit more freshly brewed, like a beer, and you’d probably keep me up all night.”
The bartender put the cosmo in front of the kid. Bobby slid a ten to him. “Keep the change.” The bartender gave him a quick grin, his gaze dancing over to the guy at Bobby’s side. “Uh, no streak of white hair,” he reminded Bobby.
“I know.” Bobby shook his head and snorted. “But he is cute.”
The young guy preened at the compliment.
“But way too young,” Bobby added.
The kid’s shoulders slumped. He’d finally gotten the idea Bobby wasn’t going to play. With one last hopeful look, he slid off the bar stool, grabbed his drink, and moved off.
The bartender laughed. “Man, you must really be hung up on this guy.”
“Yeah, I guess I am.” Bobby had no idea why he was telling the bartender his problems, but he really couldn’t talk about it to anyone else, could he? Except maybe with Ted, Scott’s partner.
Bobby hung around until almost midnight, then called it quits.
“I’m outta here.” He put some money on the bar. “Is this enough?”
The bartender nodded. “Look, if I see the guy, can I give him your name?”
Bobby paused. Then he reached for his wallet, pulled out his business card, one he’d had made when he retired, and handed it to the guy. “Yeah, I’d appreciate that.”
The man looked at it and read, “Robert Cotteau, Sheriff, Retired, St. Jerome Parish.” His eyebrows shot up. “Okay.” He slipped it into the edge of the mirror behind the bar. “I’ll keep a lookout for him.”
“Thanks.” Bobby rapped the bar with his knuckles, a habit he’d fallen into in his days as a sheriff, and then slid off the stool. Without another look at the men, he left, feeling better for leaving his card.
Just maybe…
Foolish old man.