Page 11 of Casual Felonies (Wildlings #1)
TRUETT
You know how when something’s on your mind, you start seeing it everywhere? Like that time I was looking for my car, and suddenly, every other car on the road was a classic Mustang.
This is like that, only way less pleasant: Rami Bash is suddenly everywhere, and it’s getting ridiculous.
My shop isn’t that far from where he lives, and I’m sure we hang out in a lot of the same places, but until this week, I’d never run into him in the wild. Now I’ve seen him at the grocery store twice and had to slip out before he saw me.
I swear, it’s like he’s following me.
Mostly, though, every time I see him, guilt winds its way around my insides. It’s enough to make me want to run him down and apologize. Explain that I never treat lovers that way, or anyone, really.
Only, the more I’ve had time to think about it, the more I realize I was desperate to get him out of the shop because I didn’t want to do something stupid—like look into his gorgeous eyes for too long and wind up falling in love with the man.
That’s obviously ridiculous on its face, and no doubt the result of the flood of hormones that got dumped into my body after coming so hard I nearly fucking passed out.
No way in hell I’ll be explaining any of that to him.
While I’d been able to avoid a face-to-face run-in at the grocery store, I’m not able to do so now. We’re both at the BBQ for Queer Kids annual cookout at Fiesta Gardens, and I’m competing in the amateur pit master contest being held under the big pavilion.
Guess who’s one of the judges? I doubt Rami knows how to operate a grill, much less judge a BBQ contest, but here we are.
I watch as he makes his way around to each contestant, keeping my hat pulled down low. They all recognize him from social media and are dazzled by his beauty, not to mention charmed by his genuine warmth. He takes his time with each table, asking the contestants about their techniques.
From my vantage point, I can tell which entries he likes and which he isn’t as keen on. By the time he arrives at the neighboring table, I’m going out of my skin, wishing I’d left early.
After eating my neighbor’s barbecue—oof, Rami does not like this plate—he finally spots me and does a double-take. Even after he’s finished chatting, he hangs back. I adjust my brim and catch his eye, and he finally rocks forward and approaches my table.
“Oh hey, Truett,” Rami says, swallowing thickly. “I…I didn’t realize you were competing this year.”
“Yep.” I point to the compact smoker I brought with me. “Bought this for myself last summer and have been experimenting with flavor profiles ever since.”
I live in the tiny apartment attached to my shop—fine, it’s technically an office—and I’ve got two dedicated parking spaces, one of which I’ve turned into an unofficial sort of outdoor lounge area.
Is it legal? No, but thankfully, the people in my neighborhood know how to keep their mouths shut .
“Oh? What’s today’s flavor profile?” he asks, accepting the sample-size paper plate from me.
“Classic Texas with a hint of something special,” I answer, grateful for both the shade and the cross breeze that cools my heated face.
He takes a bite, then tilts his head as he chews.
“Curry,” he says, then coughs quietly into his napkin. “Oh, that’s red curry.”
“Too spicy?”
I gesture for his canteen and refill it with ice-cold water. He takes a few glugs, then goes after the meat again.
“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it.”
His eyes meet mine as he takes another bite. “No, this is my third year as a volunteer judge, and I like a rub with a little heat.” He clears his throat again, as though he may not have intended the double entendre. “Just, uh, wasn’t prepared. This is a really good balance of heat and flavor.”
“Glad you like it.”
He deflates a little, like he can tell I’m just trying to keep it moving. Instead of going to the next table, however, he holds the small plate to his nose and inhales deeply. “This isn’t just mesquite, is it?”
Maybe he does know a thing or two about barbecue.
“Good sniffer. I mix it with oak, forty-sixty. Keeps it from getting too mesquite-y.”
He flushes from the compliment and takes down the last bite, chewing and nodding.
“Smart,” he says, handing back the sample plate before making a few quick scratches on his small notebook. “Mesquite can take over a flavor profile if you let it.”
I toss the plate in the can beneath my table. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
“Uh, yeah,” he says, awkward. “See you around. ”
He quickly scuttles over to the next table and, not gonna lie, I follow his ass all the way over.
“Ahem.”
I look up, and it’s the next judge, clearing her throat.
“Sorry about that,” I say, plating up the barbecue. “Careful, it’s spicy.”
“I’m good with a little heat,” she says with a smile. “And don’t worry. I, too, have been distracted by Rami Bash’s ass.”
I open my mouth to protest, to deny that I was, in fact, looking at his ass, but I don’t have it in me to lie. Instead, I shrug. “Busted.”
She laughs, making yummy noises as she samples my meat.
“Name’s Marley. Can I guess if you’re looking at his ass, you wouldn’t want my phone number?” she asks, delicately wiping the corners of her mouth.
“You would be reading that correctly,” I say, holding up my rainbow wristband.
It’s not that I haven’t slept with women, nor is it an issue of attractiveness. She’s a classic Texas beauty: tall, curvy, with pretty brown eyes, full lips, and long golden-blonde hair curving past her shoulders.
I simply don’t care to find out what her ass tastes like.
Rami, on the other hand… Nope, not going down that rabbit hole again.
“My loss,” she says on another tinkling laugh, then hands me back the sample plate. “By the way, that’s fucking delicious.”
I smile. “Thanks, Marley.”
She moves on, and I try to ignore the fact that Rami looked over each time she laughed. I’m definitely not going to think about what that means.
Once the judges have finished their walk-through, the contestants put their gear away while the judges deliberate.
After I’ve packed up everything and stored it in my trunk, I grab a beer and walk past the various food trucks until I find a guy selling the most delicious-looking meat-on-a-stick combos.
I ended up with a comically large sausage on a stick, still eating it as the announcer requests the contestants to head to the main stage. All the judges are there, and everyone is a little sweaty and red-faced in the Texas sun.
After dipping the sausage in the fantastic homemade barbecue sauce the chef provided, I take a big bite. As I do, I glance up at the stage to find Rami looking at me with hunger in his eyes.
I bite off more than I should, then curse because the meat is fresh out of the smoker and is burning the inside of my mouth. I chew fast and swallow quickly, knowing I’m definitely gonna pay for that move later on.
Even though my mouth is deliciously on fire, I have to laugh. That was the gayest shit ever. I’m tempted to keep going after the sausage, but they’re already making announcements, and I really did burn the inside of my mouth.
The judges start off with a bunch of different awards, including the most unique taste.
“Going to be honest with you folks,” Marley says into the microphone, her eyes sparkling. “The most unique taste is often not a favorite, but that was not the case today.”
She sends me a grin, then announces my name as the winner of the category.
Determined to ignore Rami, I walk up on stage and take the hilarious rainbow cow statue from the flirty judge while still holding the sausage on a stick in the other hand.
“Now that I’ve seen how you handle your meat, I never had a chance in hell, did I?” Marley asks, her attitude and grin playful.
I look in Rami’s direction, and she laughs. Producing a mildly frustrated sigh, I step into her half-hug .
“Something tells me you’ve got a chance with that one,” she whispers into my ear.
Not knowing what to say, I give her a wink and head off the stage. Rami shifts as I pass him, and our eyes catch. I send him a quick nod, then curse myself for not being able to ignore him.
Stop being led around by your cock, True.
It happens again when I win second place overall, though at least this time I’ve taken down the rest of the sausage—burned tongue be damned—and am no longer carrying a massive phallic symbol on stage with me.
When I pass Rami for the second time, he’s biting his lower lip, staring at me like he’s holding back as much as I am.
It’s all I can do not to drop my trophies and drag him to my car to do very dirty things to him in the back seat.
Thankfully, my head is smarter than my cock today, though goddess knows that’s not a guarantee of future success. Fingers crossed we go back to not running into each other all the time because I don’t know how much of this I can handle.