Chapter 2

I too was above-average in those days of lust with my future groom. Dodge Pierce, my deceased cowboy father, had passed on his handsome genes to me, which were responsible for my frame (at its peak at thirty-three), 190 pounds, blazing red hair and sideburns, freckles on the bridge of my nose, five-eleven height, light green eyes, and no dimples. Gray’d often said that I could pass as a triple-X star because of my boyish looks and brawny size, and I never disagreed with him. Honestly, I was sweet to look at and I could turn some queer cowboy heads in Stockton County, even if I was a ginger. I wasn’t shy, and I wasn’t insecure. I always got what I wanted because I worked for it, and nothing stood in my way—which is why I was marrying Gray McKeever in six weeks, keeping the man as my own for life.

We kissed again after pissing and checking ourselves out in the mirrors. Again, the kiss was blow-our-worlds-apart perfect and a tingle of warm intoxication built between my legs, and his, I presumed, since he was as hard as steel and seemed ready to start something naked and naughty between us. 2: The History of Men

Cabella Hall

7:51 P.M.

Just for the record, we didn’t take the time to mess around just then. Too many guests were waiting for us to return from the bathroom. We made our way to the head table and kissed in front of the twenty-seven guests as they clinked their stainless-steel spoons on their glasses, goading us to show our affection publicly.

And the beef brisket dinner was spectacular: tasty, tender enough for just a fork, and beautifully presented. The double-whipped, cheesy mashed potatoes were a crowd pleaser; farm-fresh buttered vegetables (corn, peas, and carrots) came in second place; and the warm rolls were were slathered in homemade butter from Franklin Ranch, a stone’s throw from Glock Ranch. For dessert, the linen-draped table—which seemed half a football field long—was piled with summertime pies, doughnuts, three different cakes, cinnamon rolls, tarts, and an unending selection of cookies.

During the meal and the flow of alcohol, Gray’s older sister, Audrey Lynn McKeever-Ashland, shared a heart-warming toast: “to my brother and his lover; to these handsome men who are in love. And to your happiness in the future. May your wedding and the days to follow be full of laughter, good hope, and all things blessed. We are here this evening to thank you two for the love you give each other.”

Flutes of champagne were raised and clinked around the hall. The three violinists played “Love Story” by Taylor Swift, and Gray and I kissed yet again. Of course Audrey made eye contact with me and winked. She and I’d been friends for the last four years, ever since Gray and I had accidentally bumped into each other in the bathroom at The Poppycock Bar in downtown Tulsa. The woman was the apple of my eye. Not only was she faithfully devoted to her husband, Hill Ashland, and madly in love with the broker, but she also was honest, never catty, and always just happened to look out for my best interest.

Not a wrinkle had formed on her face since I’d met her. Audrey still looked the way I had met her at The Poppycock Bar some four years before: five-six frame, a slim one-twenty, thirty-three years old, blond curls, Cancun-blue eyes like her brother’s, turned-up nose, sinewy limbs, and a dimple in the center of her chin that was magically adorable. She was an English teacher at Stockton High School, supervised the Drama and Poetry Clubs, and was genteel with everyone around her.

Unlike his older sister, Gray was fairly wealthy. The story of how he’d gotten his money was interesting, of course. Once he’d earned a business degree from Stockton College, he’d decided to buy into a hot sauce recipe—just plain old red cayenne peppers, distilled vinegar, salt, garlic, and xanthan gum—with his business partner, Reggie Doll. Despite its simple recipe, Roping Cowboys Hot Sauce took off and the money rolled in. The company had two factories. Reggie and his staff watched over the one in Oklahoma City. Gray and his team ran the sister location in Tulsa—only about thirty minutes away from Glock Ranch. Granted, the business was only three years old, but was profitable already and was growing into something big. Gray’s bank account was over a million dollars, but he used very little of it, if any. He was a big believer in sinking his cash back into the company, making sure it grew. Gray was smart and he took the business seriously, although he never allowed it to control his life.

My story wasn’t as genteel as Gray’s, though. I won’t lie and say that it was. I grew up in West Hollywood with my Aunt Bernadette and Uncle Charlie: my parents died when I was an infant. My parents passed from this world to the next in a head-on collision on Sunshine Way that flung them through the windshield. I was strapped into the car seat in the back and, by the grace of God, as Aunt Bernie always said, emerged unscathed from the tragedy.