“Is this the same parking space?”

Dean stood beside Sully’s truck, predictably rusty and red and beat-up from years of constant use. He’d been driving it since high school, a hand-me-down from some uncle or another. He didn’t go very far, and not very often, so he’d never seen fit to replace it.

“As what?” Sully murmured, sidling up to him in the soft shadows that caressed Dean’s smooth young face, the privacy of the secluded parking spot making him feel free and frisky in ways the crowded diner hadn’t.

Dean smirked knowingly. The sexy little shit, always paying attention and noticing things and remembering what Sully had said and all. “The same place where you parked so there’d be no one to see you kiss Grady, silly.”

Sully’s stomach did a little flip-flop at the soft, smooth term of endearment. Silly. Such a perfect, citified word. A cute, sweet, even soft word. Almost feminine, even. Not like “bro” or “dude,” but … silly. He liked Dean’s softness. His slight stature and roly-poly middle and cute little face and the way the soft blond stubble covering his head shone in the moonlight filtering through the trees above.

“What, do you have a photographic memory or something?”

“Hardly,” Dean demurred, sliding an elbow atop the bed of Sully’s truck just the same. “But I remember details about things that are important to me.”

Sully arched an eyebrow. “I’m? Important? To you?”

Dean glanced down at his shoes, the same grubby sneakers he’d worn into Pappy’s earlier that day. He was still in the same outfit, as a matter of fact, making Sully wonder if he’d even brought a change of clothes for the next day. If not, Sully would have to take him shopping or, better yet, shop for him.

Little plaid boxers to sleep his sexy little ass in. Or maybe not so little, Sully mused silently to himself, just baggy enough to keep sliding off his narrow little hip bones. Little khaki cargo pants to traipse around Gravel Gulch in, plenty of pockets for note pads and pencils and other studious, college boy knickknacks. Maybe a few—sized medium, probably—Pappy’s Pub shirts for good measure. A good reminder, perhaps, that Dean was just a tourist here. Passing through. A quiet, gentle, soft, sexy diversion and nothing more. The thought gave him a little thrill where he least expected it and, perhaps, most needed it.

“Of course you’re important,” Dean said reasonably, as if arguing a point during a speech in some Political Science class and not standing, face to face and crotch to crotch with some small-town country boy who had eyes for him. “I’m staying in your place, for Pete’s sake. You just bought me dinner. I’m hoping you’ll give me a tour of Gravel Gulch at some point in the near future so, sure, you’re suddenly, actually very important to me.”

“Very important to you.” Sully moved closer, boots scuffing on the pavement beneath them. “I like the sound of that.”

He was close enough now that Dean had to look up to peer into his eyes. Sully liked that, too. He liked being on his home turf. Liked being the older one, the taller one, the bigger one. He liked being the working man to Dean’s graduate student, picturing his big, calloused hands all over that soft, studious skin, yielding and shivering beneath his touch. Liked being the aggressive one and, by the sounds of it, the more experienced one as well.

Sully let Dean look up into his eyes for a good, long minute. It was spring in Pistol Creek, Kentucky. Warm this time of year. Or, as the dusty old brochures in City Hall said, “sultry.” The kind of weather to put a spring in one’s step, a bee under one’s bonnet and, in Sully’s case, a rattlesnake in his faded old blue jeans.

“So?” Dean asked, voice low and soft to match the gentle spring breeze that caressed his pretty little face the way Sully’s big, hungry fingers literally itched to. “Is it?”

“Is it what?” Sully asked, voice lower still, and deeper by far. He felt it rumble through his chest on the way to his lips, saw Dean’s eyes widen in reply. He liked that, too.

“The same place you parked that night? Last year?”

“Yeah, Dean, it is.”

Dean simply nodded, scrubbing his head stubble absently in the pale moonlight. His fingers looked long and thin. Delicate, almost. A student’s fingers. Attached to a city boy’s hand. Nervous and tender and awkward and … sweet. Sully wondered, idly, what those soft fingers might feel like atop his hard, sweaty skin.

“But why?” Dean practically croaked.

“Old habits?” Sully murmured. It wasn’t late. Hardly past 9:00. But in Clay County, they rolled up the sidewalks practically at 8:00 on the dot. The Wagon Wheel was already turning off its sign, the parking lot empty and nary a car cruising past as they stood, just around the block from where they’d shared an electric dinner, as secluded as one could be just off Main Street.

“So the Wagon Wheel?” Dean started.

“Is where I take guys, Dean.” Sully was insistent. He’d already made it clear he was gay. Already made it clear he was single. Unattached. More than available. And horny as hell, judging from Sully’s dancing trouser snake. He didn’t want to pressure Dean. Jesus, the poor kid looked like a deer caught in the damn headlights. But from the way he’d acted at dinner, curious and knowing and quiet and not surprised by Sully’s antics at all, Dean didn’t necessarily seem opposed to the idea of, well, something more. “Guys I want to spend more time with.”