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You’d think folks would have more to say about a local big shot getting tangled up with a man. Not some secret affair or a boy kept on the side, neither. No, Boyd Crowder didn’t see fit to hide a damn thing when it came to Raylan Givens. But then again, most men weren’t Boyd Crowder.
The issue didn’t seem to be disgust so much as some twisted fascination. Before Jimmy ever went to work for Boyd, he’d heard the talk, the kind of talk usually saved for women way out of the league of the men doing the talking. Except this time, it was about a man. A man who, by all accounts, had enough of those finer qualities to make folks think the wrong kind of thoughts.
“I mean, that mouth,” one of them had said. “Why’d the good Lord put a mouth like that on a man, anyhow?”
Jimmy had chalked it up to small men coveting what they couldn’t have, but then he started working for Boyd and saw firsthand what had them all riled up. Because good God Almighty, Raylan Givens.
Raylan looked like he belonged on a damn movie screen, like he ought to be laid out all pretty in one of them Calvin Klein ads you see hanging over the interstate. And the way he moved, jeans slung low on lean hips that didn’t hurry for nobody, hell, it was enough to make any man pause. Boyd kept him close, always had him hanging off him. Didn’t matter if Raylan was high or clear-headed, he always had that slow, knowing smile stretched across a face too damn pretty by half.
Boyd knew exactly what he had. Knew what other men wanted, even if all they got was a taste in their imagination. He seemed to take a kind of pleasure in the attention Raylan got, even as it made something ugly rise up in him. Jimmy had heard stories about that too. About folks who’d gotten a little too close. A little too friendly. A little handsy. And ended up missing one or both of those hands for their trouble, maybe worse. Because it wasn’t just Boyd folks had to worry about.
Raylan might be all easy grins and lazy hips, but he was loyal. And he was quick with his hands. Quicker with a gun.
Of course, there were plenty of men who claimed they were immune to all that ‘queer’ business. Jimmy had hoped to be one of ‘em, but well, some things just ain’t in a man’s control, and that was that. He did his best not to let his eyes linger too long, and thanked the good Lord above that while Boyd Crowder was a powerful man, he wasn’t no damn mind reader. And what went on in the privacy of Jimmy’s own head stayed there, never seeing the light of day.
In hindsight he should’ve known something was off as soon as he knocked on Boyd’s door. Should’ve caught it right away, the way Boyd’s voice sounded, tight, edged with something strained.
He didn’t catch what was said but took it as admittance anyhow and pushed the door open, only to stop dead in his tracks.
For a second, maybe two, he just stood there, so overwhelmed by what he was looking at that he clean forgot himself. A mile of golden skin and lean muscle lay stretched out across the desk like some kind of offering. Raylan’s head was tipped back, near hanging off the edge. His eyes were hazy, unfocused, and there was a little trail of spit slippin’ from the corner of his mouth, still curled up in that ever-present slow, lazy smile.
Boyd stood behind his desk, looming over him, hands pressing Raylan’s knees up to his chest. Other than his fly hanging open, for well, obvious reasons, Boyd was still buttoned up proper. But Raylan sure as hell wasn’t. Everything was on display, laid out like sin itself, and Jimmy’s mouth went dry as dust.
"Not that I don’t appreciate the interlude, Jimmy," Boyd intoned, smooth as ever, damn him, like this was just another business meeting. "But if you could go on and tell me what’s got you knockin’?"
Jimmy tore his eyes away from Raylan, which took real effort, like trying to pull his boots free from deep, sucking mud, and met Boyd’s gaze instead. That was a mistake, too, ‘cause there was danger there, cold and sharp-edged, like the glint off a knife just before it cut.
Jimmy had seen men get careless around Boyd before. Seen ‘em mistake his slow way of talking and that preacher’s lilt for softness. But Boyd Crowder was about as soft as a coiled rattler, and right now, that rattler was looking at Jimmy like he might need to be put down.
“Uh—” Jimmy swallowed, forced his brain to work past the heat crawling up his neck. “It—it ain’t nothin’ urgent, Boyd. Just—just some business with Tanner I thought you might wanna hear ‘bout.” He took a step back, careful-like, showing his hands, like he was talking down a spooked horse. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Boyd hummed, still watching Jimmy too close, like he was weighing something in that sharp mind of his. His grip on Raylan’s legs didn’t waver, but his fingers started moving absentmindedly, thumb stroking slow along the inside of Raylan’s thigh, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.
Raylan sure as hell noticed.
He let out a breathy little hum, and shifted, hips rolling slow, just a tease of movement, just enough to test. Just enough to see if Boyd would let him.
Boyd’s hand snapped down, fingers digging in just hard enough to still him. He didn’t even look, didn’t take his eyes off Jimmy, but his grip spoke plenty clear.
“Now, Raylan,” he murmured, voice a little rougher than before. “We’re entertainin’ company. You wouldn’t want to be rude now, would you?”
Raylan huffed out a lazy laugh, all mischief and sin, but he settled, though not without stretching slow and indulgent beneath Boyd’s hold.
Jimmy, for his part, was damn near praying for the earth to split open and swallow him whole.
“Well, Jimmy,” Boyd continued, as if nothing had happened at all, fingers picking back up their idle stroke, slow and easy. “You’ve already interrupted, so let’s not kid ourselves.” His voice was as smooth as river stone, but Jimmy weren’t fool enough to miss the steel beneath it. “Now, go on, what is it you think’s so damn important it couldn’t wait?”
Jimmy licked his lips, another mistake, ‘cause his damn traitor brain took that second to remind him of Raylan—Raylan all stretched out, pupils blown wide, skin flushed from whatever hell or heaven Boyd had been dragging him through.
He fought to keep his eyes locked on Boyd, throat bobbing. “It’s, uh… it’s about Tanner’s crew. They been runnin’ their mouths.”
Boyd sighed, like this was all real tiresome, like Jimmy hadn’t just walked in on him balls-deep in Raylan. “Course they have,” he muttered, more to himself than Jimmy. Then he lifted his chin, eyes flicking over him, still assessing.
“Well now, Jimmy, seein’ as you’ve already taken it upon yourself to darken my doorstep at such an inopportune moment, I reckon it would be downright discourteous of me not to entertain whatever urgent bit of business has sent you knockin’." He tilted his head, considering. "That said, a man oughta know when he’s walked into somethin’ that don’t rightly concern him. So why don’t you take a breath, go pour yourself a drink—hell, take two—gather your composure, and when I’m inclined to be more hospitable, we’ll see about discussin’ what’s weighin’ on your mind.”
Jimmy damn near tripped over himself noddin’. “Yeah. Yeah, alright, Boyd.”
He turned, kept his steps steady even when his legs felt like jelly, and let himself out the door. He shut it soft behind him, then pressed his back up against it and sucked in a breath, hands shakin’ at his sides.
There was a soft, familiar laugh, the kind that had always made Jimmy’s stomach do flips, but it quickly morphed into a pleased groan, followed by the subtle rhythmic scrape of furniture on floor. Jimmy’s chest tightened, and his stomach twisted.
Jesus H. Christ. If the images he was left with weren’t enough that sound was going to haunt him.
He was gonna need more than a drink.