Page 6 of Broken Highway (Cult Boys #1)

SEVEN

You can tell a lot about someone by the way they eat.

For example, this man sitting in front of me has no qualms about making a mess of himself as he devours his food.

The double-stacked hamburger is long gone with a battlefield of crumbs littered across the small square table.

Ever seen a man trying to impress someone eat like a neanderthal?

Neither have I. Complete Daddy energy but in the package of a twenty-something who’s been blessed by the gods.

Reminds me so much of Silas, without the flare for human suffering under the guise of walking the holy path.

I wager this man has never set foot in a church, much less a compound of brainwashed zealots.

He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t have the capacity for bullshit.

Straight to the point. Doesn’t look a smidge like the homosexuals Magnus warned us about.

Feminine, flashy, and ready to drag you to hell with them, as if cocksuckers were knights of the Devil himself.

Those are my favorite kinds though. But Magnus—may he rest in eternal hell—never would have pegged this man to be one of them.

He’s a different kind of knight. Strong and muscular, with a body hidden behind a black tee and layered with a black and blue plaid shirt that’s rolled to the elbows.

There’s a splatter of white paint near the hem of his shirt, but it’s probably just mayonnaise.

Certainly, I know I didn’t miss a drop. Never do.

Lick it clean. Swallow it all like a cure for a hunger I can’t sate.

His face is drawn in extremes. A diamond jaw with sharp cheekbones surrounded by a softness that’s contrasted against a thick layer of scruff.

Eyes that pierce, stab, and scream, I own you.

The kind of gaze that’s impossible to turn away from.

An allure of safety, temptation, and savagery.

Eyes that undress and beg to be undressed with a magnetic pull that makes it difficult to choose between staring into his soul or staring at his cock.

I choose cock.

I glance down, but the table obscures my view.

Back to his eyes then. The darkest of blues, bordering on black. He’s watching me now. Studying me with an inquisitive furrow of his brow. I force myself to look away and pick at the basket of fries before me.

Most people eat breakfast as the sun rises in the morning. Not this man, and now apparently not me either.

As he continues to watch me, he digs into a pile of french fries that are covered in nacho cheese and onions. “What are you running from?”

“That’s a wild assumption to think I’m running from anything.” Manipulation is a game, and telling tidbits of the truth is a strategy. Give a little and hide a whole lot. Telling him I set fire to my own car makes him believe I’m not lying about anything else.

“Everyone’s running from something or someone, especially those who—” He leans across the table and whispers, “Those who set their own car on fire.”

“Touchè, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Okay fine.” He cleans the yellow cheese from his fingers with a wadded napkin. “If you’re not running from something, where are you running to?”

The second rule of manipulation? Knowing when, and how, to divert a conversation. I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over each other. “It just dawned on me that I’ve sucked your dick and you’ve bought me food, and I still don’t know your name.”

He tongues the inside of his cheek, a look of displeasure passing over his lips. “You’re not a fan of subtlety, I see.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean you’re being too loud.”

“Oh sorry.” I lean over the table. “Didn’t realize you were on the down low.”

“I don’t care that anybody knows you sucked my dick.” He scowls, and then whispers, “I care that people will hear the other part. That you don’t even know my name. Trust me, I’m not afraid to fight a single soul up in here.”

“So what’s your name?” It’s a question I should have asked before, but between almost being run over and racing to see what’s underneath his jeans, there wasn’t much time.

“Noah Ri—” He stops himself. “Noah Ford.”

“It’s not often that people get confused reciting their own name. Going out on a limb here, but does your confusion have something to do with that ring on your finger?”

He pulls his hand from the table and hides it from view, sitting somewhere on his lap. “That’s none of your damn business.”

“I can still taste your babies in my mouth, so maybe what’s not my business actually is my business.” I brush my tongue over the front of my teeth. “Salty by the way. You should really consider adding some fruit into your diet.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

I won’t be answering that question. “Did he leave you or did you leave him?”

“How about you tell me your name before you start digging into my life like some kind of twinky Dog the Bounty Hunter?”

Oops. I have an excuse for not knowing his name because I’m not in the habit of remembering the guys who pay me to suck their dick. What’s his excuse? “Seven. No last name.”

“Everyone has a last name.”

He’s right, but as someone who doesn’t want to be found, I’m not about to spill. “You asked me what I’m running from, but wouldn’t it be an interesting story if I was running from my last name?”

“You know what I just realized? I don’t actually care. I’m not into that cryptic shit.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m very interested in my question. Did you leave him?”

“Sort of.”

“Did you love him?”

“Complicated.”

“If I suck your dick again, will you elaborate?”

“I’m sure you’ll suck it regardless, so forgive me for not seeing the incentive to spill my life story to a stranger.”

“What is it with men? Ya’ll have no problem being vulnerable by opening your pants, whipping your dick out, and letting some stranger gag on it, but god forbid you let someone in.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Not even close. Always felt like such a foreign concept. Never been in love and not sure I’ve ever been exposed to people who are in love. Everything’s a facade. “We’re talking about you.”

“Have you ever hated that person at the same time? Like you want to die every time they touch you, but you cuddle up next to them every single fucking night because it’s the only place that feels remotely safe in the whole world?”

“I’m not a cuddler.”

“You don’t appear a day over twenty. I’m not sure you’d have any idea what I’m talking about.”

“I’m twenty-two.”

“I’m twenty-seven.” He smiles a shit-eating grin—always trying to match my energy. “Look at us, sharing secrets.”

I’m inquisitive. Always have been. Think that’s why my mom first realized I wasn’t a good fit to lead the future of the church.

Questions were dangerous. She tried her best to steer me away from my inquisitive nature, but when she realized she couldn’t, she tried steering me toward a way out. That didn’t quite work out as planned.

But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Noah. “Did he buy you that car of yours?”

He lets out a sigh and averts his gaze. “I didn’t hate him much that day.”

“If someone bought me something nice like that, I think I’d pretty much excuse anything.”

“Material things don’t buy happiness.”

“I don’t think anyone is truly happy in this life. Considering that, I’m content to find happiness in the little things like a full stomach or a mouth full of cock.”

He narrows his eyes on me. “I can’t tell if you truly love dick this much or if you’re just trying to convince me that you’re worth keeping on my payroll.” The crux of his elbow jerks as he does something with his hand, something out of sight. “It’s close to working.”

I can see what he’s doing, though. Trying to hide his excited cock. He’s almost as insatiable as I am, but nowhere near as inquisitive. “Did he suck your cock, or did you suck his?”

“Whatever it took to make him happy.” He pushes the basket of fries to the side and brings an elbow onto the table. “He bought my love, or something that at least looked like love. He bought me and I was for sale. I hooked up with this guy last night and he thought I was for hire.”

“That’s funny.” The thought of him with another man kind of excites me. Wonder what that was like. “Earlier tonight, I almost got my ass spread open by some butch dude who thought I was a full-service whore.”

He points straight at me, displeasure washing over him. “You need a fucking shower.”

“I can’t disagree with that.” I agree half-heartedly, but the scowl on his face tells me I should take his words less as a suggestion and more as a command. “I can go take a quick one in the trucker showers if you promise to still be waiting for me when I get back.”

The metal legs of the chair squeals as I push myself backwards to stand.

“Don’t do anything funny, because there’s one thing you need to know.

I don’t share.” He grabs me by the wrist. Firm enough to exert dominance, but not firm enough to leave a mark.

“I mean it. If you come back smelling more like jizz than body soap, you’re going to be spending the night on the side of the road.

I’m guessing that’s the last place you want to be sitting when the cops start searching for the arsonist.”

What is this feeling? Is it butterflies?

The same swarm that lifted me from a dazed existence the first time I laid eyes upon Silas?

Something else? That feeling of never being in control.

That feeling of never wanting to be in control.

Of knowing being in control means losing it, spinning out at the worst possible time.

They say eyes are the window to the soul.

They say blue-eyed men are the gatekeepers of love and innocence.

Guess that’s why the blueness of his eyes more mirrors a dark storm than a glistening sea.

No innocence there. Just hunger and control.