Maxwell's Ma had raised him to be a gentleman: Hardworking, polite, and nice to girls. Problem is he's TOO nice, and with his soft-spoken demeanor and country ways, most gals just think he isn't interested. Owen's got a rougher attitude though, and he's more than willing to show Max how to sow a few wild oats! (Word Count: 5055)
Growing up in a small town meant you knew everybody. From the mailman to the grocer, from the diner waitress to the mayor himself, you've rubbed shoulders with everyone at least once. High schools were even smaller worlds, and there you knew everyone by name. Maxwell could never understand how city folk could do it, going to a school where you could barely name a fraction of the students there. His own graduating class numbered twenty-seven, and Maxwell had become friends with pretty much all of them. Even the most awkward ones liked to be around him thanks to his gentle demeanor and easygoing personality.
Well, except one.
Now Owen wasn't a bad guy, exactly. He was just a bit too much of the rough-and-tumble sort for Maxwell to be entirely comfortable around. Owen's smart mouth had gotten him in trouble more than once, and after bloodying a few noses in eighth grade everyone stepped wide of him and his temper. Still, Maxwell couldn't help but feel a little bad for the guy. He didn't have any real friends, and those he hung out with were acquaintances at best... the troublesome type who'd smoke behind the basketball court after class.
Maxwell just wished Owen wouldn't visit him every other day.
Owen rolled the apple in his palms, staring off into the distance. Now and again he'd toss it with a flick of his fingers, and Maxwell would wince as it spun in the air like a top. The guy never bought anything from the little fruit stand; he just insisted on hanging around for a good half an hour chatting about nothing in particular and tossing weird little glances. For once Maxwell considered being downright rude and warning Owen that if he bruised the produce he'd have to pay for it. Or maybe just plain tell Owen he'd best be doing his rounds since he was driving away the business. Sheriff's deputies don't hang around unless something's wrong.
Maxwell resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands out of frustration.
Now he wasn't averse to company, of course. Graduation had just been a few months past, and most of his friends had moved out to the cities to make a new life. That, or they'd gone off to college. Maxwell had always known he'd work on the farm, though. He'd just never realized how lonely it could be with all the guys his age going off and starting elsewhere.
“So. Friday night tomorrow,” Owen muttered, “Doin' anything?”
“Well, er... I do kinda have a date.” Maxwell let out a small sigh of relief as Owen returned the apple to the box. A sleek cherry-red car rounded the corner in the distance, and Maxwell suppressed the urge to shoo away the young deputy-in-training. It was too late anyway... Owen was going to cost him a sale. Again.
“Really? Never saw you as the romantic type, Max.”
As expected, the car slowed down a touch at the stand so the occupants could take a look. One glance at Owen's uniform though, and they simply continued to drive off.
The resulting frustration just added on to Maxwell's annoyance at the question, “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you know. Lotsa people been wonderin' when you'd meet a nice girl, bein' Mr. Popular and all. We just thought that... y'know...”
Maxwell blinked, “Know what?”
“That girls weren't your type.”
For a moment those words didn't make a lick of sense to Maxwell, but once he turned them over in his head a few times a blush began to creep onto his face.
“Wh- I'm not gay!”
“Never said you were.”
About Abbey Kypner
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Published December 20, 2013
Erotica, Literature & Fiction.