All of the Voices by Bailey Bradford (little red riding hood read aloud txt) 📗

“That’s really…gross. I think I’m going to pass on that suggestion as well. Besides, Aunt Mary loved Robbie Red. Talked about him all the time when I called her.”

Matt looked over his shoulder at Carlin. “You’re shitting me, right? Mrs. Hawkins didn’t really name him, did she?” Why hadn’t he known that?

“She really did,” Carlin said as he slathered more ointment on Matt’s back. “Robbie really did a number on you. I had no idea chickens could be so vicious. I’ll feel like a real man next time I sit down and have my favorite chicken dinner.”

“You only get the real man creds if you kill the chicken yourself,” Matt said. “As for vicious chickens, that little red bastard is a Rhode Island Red. Most of them are regular ol’ chickens, nice enough if you think of chickens that way. But occasionally some of them are aggressive. There’s even been cases where a Rhode Island Red killed a small dog or fox if it invaded the rooster’s territory.”

Carlin stepped in front of him and shuddered. “Great, so I actually have a killer rooster, that’s what you’re telling me. Wonder why Robbie Red didn’t try to get me too?”

Matt grinned at his lover. “You’re just too cute. Or maybe the rooster was afraid of getting sued.”

“More like getting stewed,” Carlin deadpanned.

Matt groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. “I can’t believe you said that. If I thought you meant it I’d ask when dinner was, if I ate chicken.”

“You don’t eat chicken?”

“Nope.” Matt nearly laughed at the disbelieving look Carlin gave him. He slapped a hand over his heart. “I swear. Used to have to help my grandpa with his chickens when I was a kid. I can’t tell you how many times I got pecked or scratched, but I decided back then I didn’t like chickens and haven’t eaten any since.”

“I guess I can understand that, though I’d probably have gone to the other extreme and eaten as much chicken as I possibly could have.” Carlin looked around Matt’s tiny bathroom. Matt looked as well, trying to see it through Carlin’s eyes. The walls were painted a sunny yellow, the floor tiles were white, and the shower curtain was some yellow, red and orange abstract patterned thing his sister had picked out for him. It was a bathroom, nothing fancy.

Carlin nodded as if the room met his approval. “You up to giving me a tour of the rest of the place?”

“Sure. Guess you didn’t see much as you hustled me to the bathroom,” Matt teased. “Not that there’s a lot to see. This place used to belong to my grandpa and grandma. When they passed away they left the house to me and Shelly, my sister. I bought out her share since she didn’t want anything to do with the place.”

“Was that the grandpa with the chickens?”

“Yeah, my Mom’s dad.” Matt pointed to his left. “Here’s the living room, and down the hall is my bedroom and another two rooms, one I use as a weight room, the other is a bare bones bedroom.”

Matt showed Carlin each room, watching the man closely for his reactions. The house had been moderately decorated in a western style by Matt’s grandparents, and Matt hadn’t seen any need to change much more than the paint. He’d also sanded down the hardwood floors and refinished them, bringing out the golden honey color of the wood that’d been dulled by the years.

Carlin touched the aged wooden frame of one of the larger paintings in Matt’s bedroom. “Who painted this?”

Matt looked at the painting of the north Texas sunset casting shadows over the mesquite and scrub. “My grandma. Most of the paintings in the house were hers. My grandpa would make the frames out of aged mesquite. It was his favorite wood.”

“Is that what these beautiful floors are made of?”

Matt nodded. “Yeah. Grandpa laid each plank himself when he built this house.”

Carlin looked over the room, humming quietly. Matt hoped Carlin liked it, though why he wanted the man’s approval was beyond him. Other paintings of landscapes hung on the cream colored walls. The bed frame and furniture were all made of mesquite, hand carved by Matt’s grandpa years ago. A braided oval rug in shades of blue lay on the floor beside the bed. The Bird of Paradise quilt Matt’s grandma had made topped the bed like an exquisite adornment, the dark blue background material set off by an intricate design in pastel shades Matt wasn’t sure he could name.

“You love it here.”

Matt stopped his perusal of the quilt and faced Carlin. “I do. Not just this house, but McKinton, too. It’s home and I can’t imagine ever living anywhere else.”

Carlin glanced away for a moment. Matt heard him swallow, a dry clicking sound as his Adam’s apple bobbed. “You know I’m going back to New York soon. Tomorrow I have a meeting with a real estate agent. I made arrangements for Aunt Mary’s funeral after I talked to Sheriff Stenley. Her funeral will be held Thursday at the funeral home since Aunt Mary wasn’t one for religion. After that I have to meet with her attorney, sort out what to do with her assets, then I have to get back to New York.”

Matt’s eyes burned at the mention of Mrs. Hawkins’ funeral. Being around Carlin tended to ease the grief Matt felt over her death. He’d have thought, before meeting Carlin, the man’s presence would have only emphasized the pain, but that simply wasn’t the case. The little blond had charmed Matt in the hours he’d known him, and Matt was afraid he was going to miss Carlin when he went back to New York.

But he wouldn’t burden Carlin with such a ridiculous thought. Besides, maybe it was only the sexual attraction between them that Matt would miss. It was too much to try to figure out right now when Carlin was standing only a few feet away. Matt didn’t want