He got what he wanted. Beck left, without another word. There was a rush of cool air and then the bathroom door closed with a quiet click.
“Oh, God.” His legs collapsed under him and he let them, the weight of everything crushing him down as well as any bull ever had. Beck was never going to forgive him for being who he was, and he was never going to be anyone else.
He was a fool—always had been, always would be.
The good lord should have taken him in the arena. He would have died winning.
15
For when he was nobody and worked at the Walmart.
Jesus Christ, Sky.
Fuck. Beckett wanted to kick Sky in the ass. And himself too, for that matter.
And what kind of question was that? Was he sure? Of course he was sure. He wanted Sky every fucking minute.
But before Sky left for good, before he made himself let Sky go and pretended he’d stopped wanting, he’d worried every fucking minute too. Every moment he wasn’t missing Sky so much it tore him to pieces.
He learned to keep his mouth shut because he knew what he’d signed on for. It wasn’t a big deal when they were younger, and he was an associate working ridiculous hours and focusing on his career. Sky would go, and he wouldn’t feel guilty about working until three in the morning. Then Sky would come home with a smile as bright as the sun, a hard-on that would last three days, and a wad of cash under his gold buckle.
They were on fire. Good times.
And when Sky got a little older and Beckett finally earned some free time. Sky would come home injured and he’d think,Okay, this time Sky will give it up and stay home and we can start that life together. But as soon as Sky was well, or well enough, it was back on the road, chasing the next purse.
He should have said something then. Years and years ago. They should have had a discussion, or a fight, or whatever it would have taken for them to understand each other. It might not have changed a thing, but they’d have been better off than they were this morning.
He’d wanted to talk. Every time Sky got ready to go again he’d wanted to, but he didn’t want to fight. Neither of them ever wanted to fight. Eventually he decided he couldn’t do it anymore. The injuries had gotten more serious; the last one over four years ago knocked Sky out for the rest of that season, but that wasn’t enough to keep his husband home.
Beckett was working reasonable hours, he was making decent money and could support them, and all he did was worry and ache.
If you have to go, if those bulls are that important to you, then don’t come back.
Sure enough, every bit as stubborn as those damn bulls were, Sky didn’t. And he didn’t call to apologize, which didn’t make him any better.
Radio silence was the story of their last four years.
This injury, though? This one was his fault. If he’d only called, if they’d fixed it, maybe Sky wouldn’t have been on that bull. But Sky was, and he’d made a horrific wish. This was his fault.
Last night was as good as they got together. It was fucking perfect and he wanted more. This morning, though, was worse than it had ever been.
Fuck.That was his fault too.
I just want you to stay this time, Stud. Please. I need you to stay.
His coffee had gone cold while he’d been staring out the French doors, and he realized suddenly that all this time he’d been waiting for Sky to come downstairs, Sky had probably been waiting for Beckett to come up and get him.
Shit.
He set his mug down on the kitchen counter and hurried upstairs.
Sky wasn’t in the bedroom, and when he ran to the bathroom door, Sky snapped, “Don’t you open that door.”
He pulled his hand away like the knob had burned him. “What?”
“Don’t. Please.”
Where was he? On the pot?