Dropping In

work?

Chapter One

What do you mean the smoker is down? How the hell are we supposed to have Texas barbecue tonight without a smoker? Boone Tyler snapped out the words, knowing his pit master had no control over the damn equipment. But still…

No, he growled. I’ll get on the horn. Someone in the Roaring Fork Valley has to have a fucking smoker for sale. Okay. I’ll shout out when I find something.

He hung up with Darian so he could call Tug. Get your ass to the office, he barked when Tug answered.

Fuck you, dickweed. Tug didn’t sound anywhere near worried enough for Boone’s satisfaction. That was what happened when you went into business with a rodeo man. They just weren’t impressed unless you were a two thousand pound, unrideable bull. Assholes. What’s got your panties in a wad, darlin’?

Nothing wads my tighty-whities, boy. He did love treating Tug like a sub. He could hear teeth grinding every time he did it. Smoker’s down. Get with your Texas network and get me another one by two.

Say please.

Jesus, you little fuck. Boone grinned, sitting back in his chair. He did love the tough bastard to death. Please, huh? We have fifty guests who paid a thousand dollars a ticket expecting to be fed brisket and ribs.

Fuck a duck sideways. I’m on it. I’ll have something for you by noon at the latest.

And that, ladies and gents, was why he had Tug Murphy as a business partner. The son of a bitch had the entire world charmed and knew more cowboys than anyone else.

While Boone figured the old saying that Colorado would gain a thousand feet in elevation if all the Texans went home was true, he knew he was damn lucky to have the Texan he had. Tug would get that smoker.

Thanks, buddy. Have you seen Carson?

Holed up in his office making deals.

Huh. Well, let me hunt his ass next.

Good on you. Hunt away. Tell him he owes me fifty bucks from the Cowboys game.

Will do. He hung up with Tug, then went to find his other business partner, Carson Gonzales. Silly man worked far too hard on shit he had managers to do for him, and Boone needed Carson focused on their event tonight. He knocked, but didn’t wait before he strode into Carson’s office.

Dark eyes stared him down, the sleek raven’s wing hair barely showing shiny silver at the temples. Where Tug was a tiny, wiry little bastard, Carson was built like a swimmer -- all shoulders and chest. You rang?

Why are you making oil deals when I need you on this party?

Because the oil deals support the new rooms in the back. What’s wrong with the party now, and why isn’t Quasimodo on it?

One, Q doesn’t do people, you know that, and two, he’s my tech support, not a party planner.

One black eyebrow winged up. Do I look like a party planner, vato?

No. You look like the hottest guy I’ve ever met from Dallas. He winked. The smoker went down, and I have Tug on that, but I have a brand new member coming in at one and I need you to do the tour when he gets here from the airport.

No problem. Carson shot him a warm smile, eyelines wrinkling up. God, if Carson knew how pretty he was, he’d be ten times as dangerous.

Thanks. I just have too much shit on my hands.

Like a chimpanzee at the zoo?

Yep. He chuckled at the aptness of that analogy right now. He wished he had more time. Shit in one hand, wish in the other and see what filled up first.

I’ll take care of it. No problem. Tug managing okay?

Boone shrugged. Tug is Tug.

That was one of their mottos.

Yeah. Carson sighed. Well, he’ll manage.

Yep. The new guy’s name is Ashton Gregory. He’s a perfect candidate to be a regular Dom.

Yeah? We have a dossier? Curious as a cat.

Q has one filled out -- financials, preferences, references. It should be in your Dropbox.

Tell him to print it.

You tell him, Boone teased. Hidebound.

Pardon me? You’re the one who’s still decorating with antlers.

Boone looked pointedly around Carson’s office. From the iron wrought longhorn bar to the horseshoe hat rack -- this wasn’t exactly hipster material.

Oddly enough, Tug was the chrome and leather guy.

I’ll check in with Q for you, Boone finally conceded. He had to go see the guy anyway.

Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it. I’ll give you my impression after Tug saves your cookout.

You got it. Boone headed off to see their tech guy, Quentin, who was really the brain of their operation.

Q was at the top floor of the compound, hidden away up behind two sets of locked doors, the entire place heated with frigging computer equipment. Little psycho.

Good thing the man was the best at security, technology, and background checks.

One day he was going to find Q a Dom that turned him inside out. One day. Not today.

Today, in fact, was for haranguing Q about a sub shortage. Seriously, how hard was this? There were tons more submissives than Dominants, if you believed the Internet research.

He buzzed Q’s com, waiting to be allowed into the sanctum.

The door unlocked, without a single reply to his buzz, and he headed down a long hall to door number two. It swung open by remote, so he stepped inside. Hey, buddy.

Q turned to face him, long, prematurely gray hair in a dozen braids, light blue eyes like lasers. Hey, stranger.

Hey, Q. How’s it going finding me some new subs?

I have a dozen boys coming in for the weekend -- everything from newbies to pros. You want Samuel to vet them or do you want to meet them?

Samuel will be fine. He didn’t trust himself to vet the subs. Not one little bit.

Good deal. Samuel and Chris have their files. I imagine you’ll get one that sticks from that group.

Yeah, Samuel and Chris were a committed pair and he’d met very few subs that could handle them -- alone or together. They were one of Tug’s finest finds.

This was the reason The Barn worked as a BDSM club. They had the best team in the business.

Excellent. Do you have a guest list for this weekend finalized?

I do. Q nodded. We have thirty RSVPs for Friday and Saturday, ten for Sunday.

Good turnout. They were no hoteliers, so having that many people agree to come to a ranch outside of Aspen was a great testament to all their hard work.

Gay ski week. I turned fifty people away.

Shit, is it that time again? He was a rancher first and a businessman second. He went by the ground, not by the calendar.

It is. I ran the regular advertisements. I have a band in for Friday and Saturday and we have a small open house planned on Sunday morning.

Brunchy foods?

Doughnut wall. Biscuits and gravy. Ham and cheese bagels.

Hipster, he accused, fondly.

I love weird shit. Q twirled in his chair making pew-pew shooting noises.

Nut. Have you eaten today?

I’m not hungry.

That’s not what I asked. Q could easily self-destruct if left alone too long.

No.

What would you like? I’ll call the kitchen. No way was he letting Q get away with no food. He texted down and ordered French toast and bacon, orange juice, and decaf.

What are you doing? Q rumbled.

Ordering you French toast. He knew Q couldn’t resist the Texas toast pain perdu their kitchen produced.

Butthead.

Indeed. But I can’t trust you to eat on your own. He grabbed a chair, because he’d ordered himself a croissant too.

You’re a turd. You want to see who’s coming this weekend? You want to guess?

Boone raised a brow. Is there someone I should worry about? His ex was banned, so…

Worry? No. Master Neil is coming up. Lewis and Ewan are coming to do a shibari exhibition. The fabulous four are intending to come and play.

Oh, God. I need to order more champagne.

Done. Q chuckled. I know these guys too well.

Don’t we all? Remember when they decided to mount a dildo to the mechanical bull and give out prizes?

Yes. It was a nightmare for the cleaning crew. Honestly, Q had less of a sense of humor than he did. But we did see a marked uptick in submissives…

Or maybe not.

He chuckled. So, what’s all the gossip?

The new supplicant -- I mean, Dominant -- looks like a gem. He’s into spanking, ass play, control. He’s going to have the subs falling over themselves in piles.

Good. We need a new sensation. All their Doms were very popular, but they tended to settle into committed relationships fairly quickly. It worked out, because it made for a stable community base, but it was that spark that they all lived for.

The com buzzed, so Q rose to go retrieve their breakfast. Brunch. Whatever. No waiters in the inner sanctum.

You know, you could let people in here. They don’t bite. Like that was ever going to happen -- Q didn’t let anyone but him in. Ever.

You know I can’t. Q had just admitted it too.

I know. That smells amazing.

We can share. Q drew him into the little apartment, the low table.

Thanks, hon. I do like your place. It was damn tranquil. Which was so not an adjective he normally used for Q.

Thank you. Q offered him a grin that was surprisingly young, innocent.

Boone sank onto the couch, almost drooling at the amazing spread revealed when Q lifted the dome. Maybe he could breathe for just a moment. Relax.

There was nowhere else he could just let his hair down -- strange how this secret hideaway they’d built for Q had become a safe space for him.

Not to mention the croissant. Croissants were his happy place.

Q handed him a slice of bacon.

Oh, God. Bacon. He munched hard.

Mmhmm. Proof there’s a God. Q curled his legs next to him.

And he loves us. He sucked down half his croissant in just a few bites. It was filled with eggs and cheese and chives.

Yes. You want a piece of my toast?

Mmm. Only if you eat the meat. He knew this game; it was a trade-off to keep Q eating.

Okay. Q gave him a piece and the carafe of syrup.

They ate in companionable silence, and Q fed himself as much as he fed Boone, so that worked.

Are you coming down to the cookout, Q, or should I send up brisket?

Send it up? I’m not up for the loud.

You got it. He would check in on Q again on Saturday night. Parties made Quentin twitchy, and Boone made it a habit to avoid spiraling Q. Digging the man out of a deep hole was a tough job. Better to not have him fall in the first place.

You want to play backgammon? Q asked, looking so damn hopeful.

I do. He could find the time. Boone slipped out his phone to ask Tug to text back just before noon so he could get back to work. Right now, he owed himself, and Q, a little break. And he owed Q an ass-kicking at backgammon.

There was something soul-deep satisfying about warring with a worthy opponent.

Together, they cleared the food detritus so they could settle across from one another again. They set up the board, and in minutes, the battle had begun.

After game one, he had a text from Tug saying that two meat smokers along with their competition pit masters were on the way, along with an up and coming country DJ and about twenty more huge patio heaters.

This weekend might be saveable after all.

* * *

Ashton Gregory stood at the baggage claim at the Aspen airport, waiting for his suitcase to appear. He could hardly miss it; the place was tiny. A couple dozen other people stood around with him, most of them looking determinedly at their phones.

All but that one over there.

Uhn.

Lean and blond, tanned as shoe leather with the brightest green eyes he’d ever