An hour later. No, that wasn’t quite right. Two hours later, after Zeth’s visit, there were voices inside Josh’s head. Sometimes they sounded like warlocks. Sometimes they didn’t. Wispy. Guttural. Uncontrolled. Tampering. He tried to focus on cutting the lawn, bare-chested and gleaming in the sun, catching the heat under his arms and against his pecs. Part of him believed that Ranger Zeth’s palms caressed his bare chest instead of the sunbeams. Soothing strokes ensued. Comforting motion. Josh walked to and fro with the mower, cutting the high grass, semi-hard between his legs, inside his jeans, and unable to concentrate on his job.
Time for a drink. Something strong. Anything strong. He found a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in the kitchen, above the sink. Filled a glass with three fingers’ wort
