Page 3 of Burned & Bound

“I went out with Jackson for a ride.” I cleared my throat as my voice cracked. “We talked. I promise we didn’t mess with the herd or break anything, Sir.”

He grunted, and my heart lodged in my throat. That wasn’t a good sign. Neither was the way he pushed to his feet. I remained rooted where I was, knowing that turning my back was the worst thing to do. Sometimes it was just easier to take my father’s wrath than try to avoid it. That always ended worse. I could take a hit or two. I was tougher than he thought I was.

He reeked of alcohol as he stomped close. My stomach rolled at the stench. I didn’t move—could barely breathe—as he glared down at me. I hoped to hell he just decided I wasn’t worth his time and went back to drinking so I could go to bed.

“What the hell is that on your neck?” he demanded loudly. Before I could say a word, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and wrenched my head hard to the side. “Is that a goddamn hickey on your neck?”

My heart stuttered in my chest, and my ears burned. I definitely remembered Jackson’s mouth on my neck, but I hadn’t known he left a mark.What was I supposed to say?He knew I’d been out with Jackson, and the evidence was right there.

“Dad, I…” I swallowed hard, struggling to say the words. “I love him.”

I barely had time to register the blind rage in his face before the first hit came. The blow to the side of my head sent me stumbling backward.

“The hell you do!” he screamed. The ringing in my ear distorted the sound. I pushed back the urge to run.

I could take a hit.I just kept reminding myself that. A few hits and he’d be done. He always got bored with me.

But each hit got harder, and I crumbled. I didn’t mean to, but I did. When his fist connected with my jaw, I went down. Blood coated my tongue, and I hurt everywhere. I covered my head but that didn’t protect my stomach from the toe of his boot. Something cracked and pain exploded in my side. I cried out and scrambled across the floor. He grabbed the back of my shirt and dragged me to my feet.

“Please, stop!” I begged, fighting off his hands.

More words were shouted at me but I couldn’t hear them over my own screaming and the sounds of his fists on my skin. When he grabbed me by the throat, he lifted me clean off the floor. I clawed at his hand and kicked with my feet. My throat burned, and black spots blotted my vision.

In a desperate move to get free, I kicked him in the balls as hard as I could. My steel-toed work boots made all the difference. He dropped me as he collapsed to his knees. Gasping and sobbing, I put as much distance between us as I could.

“You get out!” he hollered, his voice tight. “You get the fuck out of my house! I won’t have some faggot for a son! You get the fuck out! Get out!”

I ran up the stairs two at a time and stormed through my room, tearing it apart as I grabbed whatever I could stuff in my backpack. The stash of money in my desk drawer, some clothes, the leather cord from Mom. It wasn’t much. I didn’t have much I could take with me.

The picture of Jackson and I on my desk stopped me in my tracks. Maybe I could go there? Maybe I could—

Heavy boots stomped up the stairs, and my heart lurched into my throat.I had to get the fuck out of here.I wasn’t sure I could handle much more from him. I frantically took apart the frame and stuffed the picture in my bag before darting through the window onto the small overhang.

I’d snuck out this way more times than I could count. Getting from the overhang to the tree and dropping down was second nature. Even beaten, broken, and bloodied, I still managed to do it.

I was halfway down our drive when I dared to glance over my shoulder. He stood in the window.Just watching.

I couldn’t stay here. He’d kill me. And I couldn’t run to the Myles family house. I couldn’t stay that close. My father would never hurt Jackson, but I suddenly understood that he’d have no problem killing me. Maybe not intentionally, but it’d happen. If I stayed, it’d happen.

I ran away and refused to look back.

CHAPTER 01

west

seventeen years later

So, tell me, Jackson,” the reporter—some woman named Sadie or some shit like that—said on the crappy bar TV, “how does being the League’s first openly gay bull rider affect your experience?”

“Jesus fuck,” I muttered into my beer. Who the fuck thought that was a goddamn good question?

“Well, the only one who matters in this whole thing is the bull, and he only cares about two things as far as I’m concerned: tossing and trampling me. I think that’s all there is to say about that,” Jackson replied. I snorted, shaking my head.

Jackson Ford Myles: the League’s poster boy for gay inclusion. What a fucking joke. Who cared wherehe put his dick?

Maybe I cared a little.It was a mix of resentment and interest if I was being honest with myself.Jackson was nothing but a bad reminder of what got me into this miserable fucking life. I glanced around the dingy, questionable biker bar.Yeah, I was living it up.

And yet, that didn’t stop me from sizing him up every time I saw him on TV. He really leaned into the whole cowboy thing, except now it worked for him. That wayward chestnut hair was damn near blond from the sun while those bright blue eyes stood stark against his tanned skin. The full beard he had did nothing to hide the chiseled jaw. Head to toe, he had broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and a toned physique. Working the ranch did something for him.

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