Brokeback Cabin II

From cabin walls to kitchen floors—the cabin was just the beginning.

Wow—Brokeback Cabin has officially become not just my top story of 2024 but the most-read piece since I launched this Substack. I’m stoked that so many of you connected with it.

Thank you for reading, sharing, and supporting my work. Your enthusiasm fuels every word I write. 🙏🏼

If you want to see where Red and Cole’s journey goes next, drop a like or comment. I’d love your thoughts on where these two should head from here.

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Catch up:

I hadn’t seen Red in months, and time had worn us both down, not in ways that did us any favors. But I couldn’t lie—I still craved the way he felt inside me. Even my wife, Julie, had started to notice the shift. She thought I was screwing Sandy, the next-door neighbor.

Funny enough, I had suspicions about her too—her boss, late nights, lingering cologne—not mine. But I didn’t care. Our marriage wasn’t built on love; it was a contract, a convenience, and we both signed it knowing the fine print.

Spring came early this year. The Plant Farm circuit was calling, and Red and I would soon hit the road.

“Early start this season?” Julie asked, pouring coffee into my cracked mug.

“Yep,” I muttered, eyes scanning the morning paper.

She lingered by the table, her voice soft but sharp. “I haven’t seen Red around here in a while. You two have a falling out?”

My grip on the mug tightened. “He’s picking me up in a bit. We’re heading out on the truck for a short run.” I looked up from my paper. “Why are you so dressed up?”

Julie raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I told you—I’ve got that workshop in Pensacola. You don’t listen to a damn thing I say. I told you two weeks ago.”

I forced a nod. “Right. Workshop. Got it.”

“Y’all stay out of trouble,” she said, her palm grazing my stomach with a mix of affection and indifference.

“You too, hon,” I replied, tapping a pencil against the table as she disappeared down the hall.

The quiet settled around me again, thick and heavy. Just the thought of Red had my body buzzing—my pulse quick, my dick already half-hard at the memory of his rough hands and the way he growled my name.

Yeah, it was going to be a long drive.

The rumble of Red's truck in the driveway was impossible to miss. His heavy boots followed, each step reverberating through the wooden porch. I swung the door open just before he knocked, and there he was—standing in my doorway, broad and solid, his jeans clinging in all the right places.

My eyes dipped, lingering shamelessly on the bulge below his belt buckle. His black tank top stretched tight across his chest, sweat glistening on his tanned skin under the brutal sun.

“You gonna let me in?” he drawled, that low southern rasp curling in my gut.

As he passed, I stepped aside, his arm brushed my chest, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

“Beer?” I asked, already reaching into the fridge.

Red dropped into a chair, stretching one leg out lazily while the other propped against the seat’s edge. I tossed him a cold bottle, but he didn’t crack it open. Silence settled over us, heavy and loaded. Neither of us wanted to dig up the memory of the cabin. That night was supposed to stay buried—hidden from others and ourselves.

“All gassed up?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah. She’s ready to roll. Air’s acting up, though.” He shifted, his boot tapping against the chair leg. “Where’s the missus?”

“You should’ve passed her on the way in. She’s off to some conference in Florida.”

“That right?” His voice dropped a little as he pushed up from the chair. The beer still sat unopened in his hand.

Red moved to the window, his hands gripping the counter, head bowed low. The fabric of his tank stretched across his broad back, every muscle tight, every tendon etched in sharp relief as his shoulders rose and fell with a heavy breath.

“Cole?”