Whiskey Business by Avon Gale

Author:Avon Gale [Gale, Avon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gay romance
ISBN: 978-1-63477-899-2
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2016-12-28T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

“MR. WOOD will be on in a moment, Mr. Keller,” said Amy, Garrett Wood’s assistant. “He’s just finishing a conference call.”

Adam made a noncommittal noise, sat on the rocking chair, and wondered idly if he’d sat on one since he was a teenager. His parents had them, of course. All good southerners had rocking chairs on their porches, or a swing. But he hadn’t been on one in a long time. He avoided going home if he could help it, and family dinners were stilted affairs served in the dining room and did not inspire any desire to linger when they were over. He couldn’t imagine why there’d be rocking chairs on the porch of a funeral home for similar reasons. But what did he know? The town was turning out to be nothing like he’d thought.

That, of course, made him think of Ryder—which Adam should not be doing when he was about to talk to his boss, even if he was technically on hold. Except the hold music was boring, and his mind kept wandering to better things—namely Ryder on his back with his legs spread, open and wanting and asking for Adam’s cock—

“Adam, sorry about the wait,” Mr. Wood’s voice breezed, causing Adam to flush and look around furtively, as though anyone were there to see him sport wood while sitting in a wooden rocking chair, on a wood porch, while talking to… Mr. Wood. God. The town just pulled crazy down from the ether. It really did.

“No problem,” said Adam, trying to inflect some breeziness into his own voice because if he sounded wooden…. Yeah, no. It was already absurd enough.

“How’s it going in Hangman’s Hollow?”

Adam wondered if that name had been on the list of Rejected Possible Town Names. He’d have to ask Ryder. “It’s going fine, sir,” he said. “I’m getting the reports completed, and I should have the first round sent off for you in a day or two.”

“Still on time to complete the initial appraisal?”

Even if he weren’t, Adam knew better than to say so. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Good. That’s good. And the local yokels aren’t giving you any problems?”

Not unless you count ill-timed hard-ons and a pie addiction. “They’ve been surprisingly helpful.” And limber. “It’s quite a town, sir,” he added. “Lots of character.”

Wood snorted. “I’ll bet. I knew it’d help that you were from Lexington.”

It hadn’t, but Adam kept that to himself. “They’re excited about the prospect of a tour stop,” he said, in lieu of anything else. “And I think investors might feel the same way.”

“What about you? What do you think?”

“I think they would. Yes.” That he could say definitively, because Gallows Grove was just the right kind of quirky that you could experience safely for a few hours and then leave before you really thought about all the macabre business names and began to dread nightfall.

Wood told him to check his e-mail for a few more forms, talked briefly about UK’s chances in the tournament that year, and then ended the call.

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