Category: Zeke Lightman

Zeke looked like the town smelled. He was dry and dusty, sun-choked, burnt to a deep tan like hushpuppies overfried in underheated fat. He was tall and lanky and ropy-muscled, with more power in his compact frame than an observer might have thought. He wore a dusk-colored wide-brimmed hat to keep the keen Wyoming sun off his eyes.

From The Filthiest Alphas in Boots, Sneakers and Sandals

Zeke the Texan — Tyrell ain’t remember his last name — but he was alright, a bit loud and whoopy for a whiteboy, but he was from Texas, they don’t know no better. He wear a cowboy hat and a pair of bluejeans that look about a thousand years old. Ain’t even got a brand name on ’em, Tyrell noticed, like Zeke’s mama made ’em herself outta sheets of denim.

From Tyrell the Mandingo

His pants were brown, and brown again from caked-on mud that had dried with a layer of desiccated dust on top, weighing his legs down. He clomped in heavy black boots that stretched up his ankles with a flaired tip, grayed with time and overuse. They had been nice and expensive when they were new, but that was years ago, they were nothing more than oft-foxed stogies now. The colors had faded, the designs now invisible, the looping lines carefully etched by the shoemaker now smoothed while Zeke’s cheeks had grown weathered and wrinkled. His boots were as worn out as a fire fading into coals; the fabric was frayed and perpetually moist, fragrant like spilled wine baking in the sun.

From The Filthiest Alphas in Boots, Sneakers and Sandals