Pretty Boy Read online

  Pretty Boy

  A Perfect Boys Novel

  K.M. Neuhold

  Contents

  Title Page

  Blurb

  Copyright

  Chapter‌ ‌1‌ ‌

  Chapter‌ ‌2

  Chapter‌ ‌3‌

  Chapter‌ ‌4‌ ‌

  Chapter‌ ‌5‌ ‌

  Chapter‌ ‌6‌

  Chapter‌ ‌7‌

  Chapter‌ ‌8‌ ‌

  Chapter‌ ‌9‌ ‌

  Chapter‌ ‌10‌

  Chapter‌ ‌11‌ ‌

  Chapter‌ ‌12‌ ‌

  Chapter‌ ‌13‌

  Chapter‌ ‌14‌

  Chapter‌ ‌15‌

  Chapter‌ ‌16‌

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter‌ ‌19 ‌

  Chapter‌ ‌20 ‌

  Chapter‌ ‌21 ‌

  Chapter‌ ‌22

  Chapter‌ ‌23 ‌

  Chapter 24

  Chapter‌ ‌25

  Epilogue

  More By K.M.Neuhold

  About the Author

  Stalk Me

  Blurb

  Once upon a time, in a little Texas town in the middle of nowhere, there lived a boy who everyone called ugly…

  When half your face is covered in a big, blotchy birthmark, you get used to the staring and the whispers. You get used to feeling unwanted.

  Until he walks into my bar…

  Tall, gorgeous, and all kinds of out of place. And the way he looks at me ain’t like no way I’ve ever seen before.

  Does he mean it when he says he wants to take me away from here? Nobody’s ever wanted me around for long. Can I believe Barrett when he says that’s what he wants?

  Something about the word Daddy on my lips makes it all seem possible. Even if I don’t really believe anyone would want to keep an ugly boy like me forever…

  *** Pretty Boy is a low-ish angst, steamy, sweet Daddy/boy story with NO age play.

  Copyright

  Pretty Boy© 2020 by K.M.Neuhold

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book and Cover design by Natasha Snow Designs

  Editor: Editing by Rebecca

  Chapter‌ ‌1‌ ‌

  Sterling

  Once upon a time, in a little Texas town in the middle of damn nowhere, there lived an ugly boy. He was so ugly, it’s said his own daddy took one look at him in the hospital and hightailed it out of Texas as fast as his legs would carry him. It wasn’t the boy’s fault he was born with a big ol’ splotchy birthmark covering half his face. Some folks said it was a sign of the devil, but the boy didn’t know anything about that. All he knew was that he had to work twice as hard, be twice as polite, and even then, nobody wanted nothing to do with him.

  I look up at the jangling sound of the bell over the door, shaking off my odd bit of day dreaming and tossing the rag I was using to wipe the bar into the sink. I put on my best smile, even though I know it won’t do any good.

  “Evenin’ Mr. Garrett,” I greet in a quiet but polite voice, flickering my eyes to him for only a second before dropping my gaze to the dusty floor. I learned a lot of tricks over the years to keep from getting picked on too much, and one thing I know is the longer I look somebody in the face, the longer they’ll look in mine. Even if they don’t mean it, I’ll see the disgust in their eyes, the discomfort at having to look at me.

  “Beer,” he grunts, sliding onto his regular barstool at the end of the bar.

  I nod and busy myself grabbing a clean glass and filling it from the tap. We ain’t got nothing too fancy here, but that’s just the way most folks seem to like it. One type of beer at the only bar in town. That’s kinda how this place is—one grocery store, one restaurant, one main road, one stoplight, and one freak everyone loves to poke fun at.

  I set the glass down in front of him and get back to wiping down the bar, even though it’s already pretty clean. Keeping busy is good. A little hard work never hurt nobody; that’s what my grams always said anyway. She said as long as I worked hard and prayed hard, my face wouldn’t matter so much to people. I been prayin’ and scrubbin’ for a good twenty-five years now, and it ain’t helped much. I guess it ain’t hurt much either, so at least there’s that.

  A few more regulars trickle in and out over the next few hours. Some leave me decent tips, but most just take their drinks, try not to look at me too much, and leave just enough money to cover their tab when they’re finished. I pocket the tips I do get and try to mentally calculate the groceries it’ll buy for us. Best to get the groceries right away when I can before Mama gets ahold of the money and spends it on booze. Not that I’m complaining. At least she stayed. She coulda left like my daddy did, but she stuck around.

  That jangling sound draws my attention again while I’m checking the bottles of liquor. I turn my head, expecting to see more of the same—guys I grew up with stopping in for a drink after a day in the oil fields, men who’ve been sitting their butts in these barstools long before I was born, or maybe one of the few women who make it a habit to come down here after dinner.

  My breath catches in surprise at the sight of the man who walks in instead—tall and broad like he almost can’t fit through the door, his hair dark and shaggy, a thick beard on his face just the same, and a hard look in his eyes like he’s not the kind of man to mess with. I ain’t never seen a man like him.

  A flash of heat burns through my whole body in an instant, like everything inside me is waking up all at once. The man’s eyes land on me, and my stomach swoops and dances, trying it’s damndest to make an escape it seems. I lick my dry lips and tell myself to look away. Any second now his eyes are going to adjust to the dim lighting of the bar, and he’s going to notice my birthmark.

  His stride as he makes his way over to the bar is full of the same unflappable confidence that’s in his eyes, each step echoing like thunder, his body seeming to own every inch of space he occupies. My heart lodges itself into my throat as I take a shaky step in his direction, glad to have the bar to hold onto when my trembling knees barely do the job of keeping me upright.

  He claims one of the stools, and now that he’s close enough to get a proper look at me, his eyes dance over my face and then skitter away in a hurry like he’s afraid of being caught looking too long, but unable to help himself. My shoulders curl, and I tuck my chin down so he can’t get another good look.

  “What can I get ya, sir?” I ask, barely forcing my voice above a whisper.

  “Whatever’s on tap, pretty boy,” he answers, his voice deep and smooth, without a hint of the Texas twang I’m used to hearing.

  I tense at his words. Pretty Boy. The jeer never failed to make my teeth clench and my blood boil. It sounds so different falling from his lips, without a hint of mocking like I’m used to, but I’m sure I’m just hearing it wrong. He’s being cruel, just like everybody in this godforsaken town.

  “Name’s Sterling,” I say quietly, hoping he doesn’t hear the tremble in my voice, my hand clenching around the damp rag I hadn’t realized I picked back up at some point. I toss it aside and turn to get him his beer. While I fill the glass, I cast another curious look at him out of the corner of my eye. I wonder where he’s from. Is he just passing through? If so, Billow is a real strange place to stop. There’s nothi
ng here but tumbleweeds and rattlesnakes.

  I set the glass down in front of him, and he looks up, a warm spark in his eye that makes me all sorts of uncomfortable before I manage to look away again. “Thanks, Sterling.” He purrs my name in that rich voice of his, and my cock perks up.

  I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. If looking too long at somebody ain’t safe, then getting an erection just from hearing them say my name definitely ain’t safe. Nobody around here is like that. Nobody except me, and I learned a long time ago that I’d better learn to be okay alone, because nobody will ever want a freak like me.

  Barrett

  I’m not sure what possessed me to pull off the highway into this little town I’m not even sure has a name. I knew there wouldn’t be much here in the way of food or accommodations, but I felt some kind of strange pull. My sister, Lorna, has always said I can be a bit too fantastical at times. But watching the shy, beautiful boy bustle around avoiding eye contact with everyone as he works, I can’t help but feel like he’s the reason I’m here. He glances in my direction, and I meet his eyes, holding them until his gaze flits away like a frightened little bunny. It’s okay, little rabbit, you can look at me.

  None of the customers seem too chatty, mostly sipping their drinks and staring quietly at the bar like zombies. Sterling moves around unbothered, filling drinks and cleaning things. His lithe little body moving automatically. I’m guessing he’s been at this a while. Although it’s hard to imagine he’s a day over twenty. Which makes me a perverted old man for daring to appreciate the perky curve of his ass in those tight jeans every time he has his back to me. I bet it would look so pretty reddened by my handprints.

  I shake off that thought before it can take hold. Presumptuous, that’s another thing my baby sister loves to call me. Maybe I am, but it comes with the territory of being born rich and privileged. From the minute I was out of my mother’s womb, I was told I could have anything I wanted. That kind of thing can go to a man’s head if he’s not careful.

  I down the rest of my beer, running my hands through my thick mane of hair and gesturing for Sterling when I catch his eye again. He perks up instantly, plastering a smile onto his lips and hustling over to me.

  “Another beer?” he asks.

  “No, thank you. I wanted to ask if there’s a hotel near here.” The words surprise me as they fall out of my mouth. A hotel around here? I wasn’t planning to stop, let alone stay the night here. I have an early meeting in Dallas, which is still another hour and a half away.

  He gives me a wry, crooked smile. I like this one better than the last one. It looks more real, more relaxed, but still not quite right. I wonder what Sterling’s unguarded smile looks like.

  “Sorry. There’s a Motolodge the next town over. It ain’t no Ritz Carlton or nothin’, but they have beds and only the occasional roach.”

  I grimace at the idea, and then immediately feel like a snob. “What about food?” My stomach growls. It takes me a second to realize I haven’t eaten since last night. I ordered room service at the hotel I stayed at last night, and then told myself I’d stop for lunch. But driving through Texas was like some kind of time warp. Before I knew it, it was dark out, and I was only a hundred miles from Dallas.

  He shakes his head again. “There’s a place, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” He lowers his voice as he says it like he’s afraid someone will overhear him talking badly about what’s apparently the only local restaurant.

  “That’s okay. I should be on my way to Dallas anyway.” I let my gaze linger on him for a few more seconds, and he squirms under my gaze, doing that thing where he sort of hunches in on himself again before turning his body sideways so I can only see the unmarred side of his face. The motion almost seems subconscious, as if he’s done it a million times. I’m sure he has. My protective instincts rise up inside me in an instant at the thought of anyone staring or making him feel bad about his face. There’s an undeniable sweetness about him that begs me to shield him from any viciousness in the world. Though, looking at his skinny frame and the way he holds himself, I have no doubt he knows a hell of a lot more about viciousness than I do.

  “Drive safe and watch for critters out there in the dark,” he advises. I nod, my lips twitching in a smile at the twang in his voice and the earnest expression on his face.

  “I will.”

  He walks away to get a refill for the man at the end of the bar, and I reach into my pocket, pulling out my wallet and tossing a hundred-dollar bill down onto the bar. I may not be able to do anything for the boy, but hopefully the money will make a small slice of his life just a little better. Maybe I can swing back through here in a few days after my Dallas meeting. I’m not sure what that will accomplish, but I like the idea of seeing him one more time before I head home to Vegas.

  I don’t even make it to my car before the door to the bar flies open and the quick crunch of gravel has me turning around to find the boy sprinting after me.

  “Sir,” he pants, skidding to a halt in front of me. I reach out to steady him before he careens into me. “There was a mix up. You left too much.” He thrusts the hundred-dollar bill toward me. “The drink was only two-fifty. I think you meant to leave a five prob’ly?”

  “There wasn’t a mix up.” I reach out and curl my hand around his, noticing the smoothness of his skin as I push his hand back toward him. “I left it as a tip.”

  He shakes his head, trying again to offer me back the money. “It’s too much,” he insists.

  “Sterling.” I say his name firmly, and his eyes snap to mine, going wide. He stops trying to give the money back, and I fight a smirk. If he responds so beautifully to my tone alone, I can only imagine what a perfectly sweet boy he would be for me. “I left this money for you. I can more than afford it, and I want you to have it.”

  The pink tip of his tongue peeks out from between his lips, wetting them before disappearing back inside. I feel his hand clench under mine, tightening around the bill as he scrunches his forehead. He’s thinking entirely too hard about this.

  “Take the money. You need it more than I do, pretty boy,” I insist.

  The wrinkles in his forehead smooth out, and for the first time tonight, I see something other than sweet, shyness in his eyes. They harden, as does the set of his jaw, and his hand clenches under mine again.

  “I don’t need no charity,” he says curtly. “And I ain’t no pretty boy.” He yanks his hand out of my grasp, dropping the crumpled bill on the ground and stomping back into the bar without looking back.

  I stand in stunned silence for a solid minute, staring at the door to the bar with a mixture of frustration and awe. Sweet boys have always been my weakness, but a sweet boy with claws when he needs them? Fuck, that’s the stuff of my fantasies.

  It’s all I can do to keep myself from heading back in there and tossing him over my shoulder…or putting him over my knee. The only thing that makes me get into my car and drive away is the promise to myself that I’ll come back in a few days.

  I don’t think I could stay away if I tried.

  Chapter‌ ‌2

  Sterling

  I stand in front of a row of canned soup, trying to decide if it’s better to buy a larger amount of pea soup—which I detest—or only two cans of the more expensive chicken soup. I know the answer, but I want to pretend for another couple minutes that I could get the chicken soup if I wanted.

  Of course, that nagging little voice in the back of my mind reminds me that if it hadn’t been for my own dang pride, I coulda bought a whole lot of chicken soup. At a dollar fifty per can, a hundred dollars…oh boy, that would be a helluva lotta soup.

  I squirm internally, embarrassment filling me at the reminder of the other night, and the handsome stranger who clearly took one look at me and decided I was some sorta charity case. I might not be rich, but I get by just fine. I keep food in the cupboards and keep my mama alive, and if that’s all I can do, it’ll have to be good enough.

 
Who does he think he is anyway? Just because he’s some sexy, gorgeous man from the big city doesn’t give him no right to judge my life or take pity on me.

  With a huff, I finally cave and fill my basket with as much of the God-awful pea soup as I can afford, and then treat myself to a box of Saltines to make it a little more bearable. And, since I made a good choice with the soup, I have enough left over for a package of lunch meat.

  Before I can get tempted to grab anything else, I head up to the front and get in line to pay. I’m sure I have enough, but while I wait, I mentally add up everything in my basket and then count out my money so I have it ready to go. Miss Amanda may be making chit chat with every customer in front of me, asking about their kids and talking about the weather, but experience has taught me that it’s best if I’m ready to pay and leave quickly.

  The line shuffles forward, and when it’s my turn, I unload my basket, keeping my head down and trying to ignore the feeling of Miss Amanda’s eyes on me. She don’t mean no harm by staring; I know most folks can’t help it. Neither of us say a word as I hand over my payment, she gives me back my change, and then I grab my bags and hustle out of the store, feeling a dozen eyes on me as I go.

  The sun is beating down something fierce as I step back outside, missing the air conditioning of the store as soon as the doors swing closed behind me. I hitch my grocery bags up and get to walking home so I can fix myself a sandwich before I have to be at the bar for my shift.

  Gravel crunches under my feet as I walk down the familiar road. I’ve been making this walk from our house to the grocery store probably once a week since I was seven or so. I would walk up and down the busier road that leads in and out of town, and gather up as many cans and bottles as I could, then I’d turn them in and use the money at the store. Mama did her best, but there wasn’t always food at home, so I learned to do for myself.

  I look over my shoulder at the sound of tires on the road. I cringe when I see Bryson Farrow’s truck slowing to keep pace with me. I walk a little bit faster as he rolls his window down. My heart sinks at the sight of Tommy Lawrence in the passenger seat. Bryson is bad enough on his own, but the two of them together always seem to wanna try to one up each other at my expense.