The call came just after sunset.
Jack had just finished splitting a few final logs behind his cabin when his phone buzzed against the workbench. He almost ignored it. Most people in his town knew better than to interrupt Jack when he was working—especially when he was stripped to the waist, glistening with sweat, arms flexing with each swing of the axe. But the name flashing on his screen made him pause.
“Aunt Clara – Emergency”
His jaw tightened. Family came first.
It was a long drive—thick pine forests gave way to rolling farmland, then to the familiar outskirts of his old hometown. The roads here curved with memory, every mile dragging up a face, a scent, a flirtation long buried.
Jack hadn’t been back in over a year.
But as soon as he rolled down the windows—his truck growling low with his duffel tossed in the back seat—he felt it: the pull. He was the kind of man who left an impression, and small towns never forget a body like his.
By the time he rolled into town, the sun was down, and the gossip mill was already in full swing.
“Crosscut Tavern”, the name still read in bold iron across the front of the old wooden building. Inside, music thumped low and steady. The air smelled like whiskey, pine cleaner, and tension. Owned by Jack’s cousin Micah, it was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone—and where secrets didn’t last long.
Jack stepped through the doors and felt the ripple instantly.
Heads turned. Eyes widened.
The flannel shirt stretched across his massive frame clung to his chest, damp from the drive. His jeans rode low on his hips, worn and perfect. A few days of stubble shadowed his sharp jaw, and that look—cool, knowing, hungry—was already spreading like fire.
“Holy hell,” someone whispered near the bar, “Jack Johnson’s back.”
Micah grinned from behind the bar. “Well, I’ll be damned. The woods let you out?”
Jack smirked, sauntering over, the kind of walk that made people shift in their seats, thighs press together, and memories come flooding back.
“You know me,” Jack said, clapping Micah on the back. “Never stay buried too long.”
“Drink’s on the house tonight. You’ve already got half the town at half-mast.”
And it was true. Around the bar, familiar faces whispered and watched. Some with surprise. Some with hunger. Some with heat in their eyes that never really died.
She was the first. A tight little blonde number Jack had taken to prom back in the day, now all grown up and twice as wicked. She sidled up next to him at the bar, red lipstick and denim skirt barely covering anything.
“Jack,” she whispered, voice sultry and breathless. “Remember that thing you used to do in your truck bed?”
“I remember everything,” he growled, hand already on the small of her back.
Ten minutes later, they were in the women’s bathroom, the lock clicking shut. Jack had her bent over the sink, panties yanked down to her knees, her hands braced against the mirror. He yanked her skirt up and slid deep into her, thick and hard, each stroke making her cry out softly against her own reflection.
“Still tight,” he grunted in her ear. “Still begging.”
“I missed this,” she moaned, “I missed you.”
Jack didn’t reply. He just took what was his, slow and deep, until she was shaking, breathless, eyes rolled back.
Later, after a round of drinks and a few pool games, Marcie found him near the back hallway. She was new to town when Jack left, now all curves and tattoos, pouring drinks with a dangerous glint in her eye.
“Micah said you were back. He didn’t say you looked like this.”
Jack leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her approach like prey.
“You got a smoke?” she asked.
He pulled one from his shirt pocket, lit it, then leaned in and passed it between their lips. His mouth brushed hers. She sucked in more than tobacco.
“Follow me,” she said.
This time it was the staff bathroom. Jack had her on the changing bench, blouse open, tits spilling out, mouth wrapped around his cock as her mascara smudged and her moans vibrated up his shaft. When she straddled him, he grabbed her hips and fucked her hard, her thighs trembling as she rode every inch.
“You’re even better than they said,” she gasped.
Jack bit her neck. “They haven’t said everything.”
Later still, leaning outside by the back dumpster, a shadow approached him. It was Kevin, an old friend. Quiet. Handsome. Always on the edge of Jack’s memory.
“Didn’t think you’d show your face here again,” Kevin said, offering a bottle.
“I show more than that when I want to,” Jack replied, locking eyes.
The tension thickened instantly. Kevin shifted. “You remember prom night?”
Jack nodded slowly. “I remember the way you looked when you watched me with Emily in the truck.”
Kevin flushed. “You knew?”
“I always know.”
Jack stepped forward, crowding him against the wall. Their mouths met like thunder, hot and hard. Hands grabbed shirts, belts came undone. In minutes, Kevin was on his knees, and Jack was groaning low as his fingers twisted in Kevin’s hair, body taut with release.
“I never forgot that night,” Kevin whispered afterward, breath shaky.
Jack smirked, zipping up. “Then don’t forget this one either.”
By the time Jack left the bar, it was nearly 3 a.m. and more than a few people had vanished from their seats throughout the night. Word had already spread.
“Jack’s back—and he’s not here for long.”
Old flames. Secret lovers. Hidden desires.
Jack sat on the hood of his truck beneath the pale glow of a streetlamp, cigarette between his fingers, jeans still a little undone, lips swollen from too many kisses.
And he smiled to himself.
This town missed him.
But Jack wasn’t finished.
Not even close.
Jack’s Page
