Page 11 of Cowboy Dreams

“Bar. Singular. Because this is a wasteland.”

“But one you want to live in? Stay in?” I stared hard into those pale eyes, because I felt like all of me was riding on the answer.

“Yes. I do. And I’ll be by Max’s at ten sharp next Saturday night. What then?”

Warmth flooded through me, and it wasn’t from the shearling jacket I was zipping up. “Then I reckon we’ll see what one sharp hotel manager and one ordinary cowboy can do together.”

“Sounds like a plan.” But before we headed down the stairs, he caught my arm and set a hand against my jaw, thumbing over my lip. “Just one correction. You’re notordinary, Joe. Not one little bit. You’re amazing.”

That touch, those words I hadn’t realized I was hungry for, carried me forward through a long week at work. They echoed in my head and filled any times of quiet. Until the moment I stood in front of Max’s Place again, looking at a candy-red muscle car in the parking lot. Until the moment I gathered my hopes and dreams, and pushed open the door.

Chapter Two

Sylvester

TheliquorinMax’sPlace really was vile. The beer was marginally better, but I barely tasted the Dos Equis I’d given him twenty bucks for, as I sat at the bar and waited. Joe had said ten sharp, and I had a feeling he’d be right on time. I’d asked around and the word in town was that Joe McNeil was pretty ordinary, a stand-up guy but not too bright and, you know, kinda queer.

I already knew they were wrong about him not being bright. He might not use fancy words and that slow cowboy drawl wasn’t all put on for my benefit, but he was sharp underneath. Like that analysis of the dude ranch idea— he clearly had practical competence. Quick with a comeback, too. I did like that in a man. I liked Joe, way more than I should have for two meetings, and one excellent fuck.

When I’d arrived at Max’s around nine-thirty, I’d gotten the once-over from the locals. If I hadn’t met Joe, there were a couple of men sitting at the small tables with that working-cowboy look— strong forearms and dusty boots— that turned my crank, but compared to Joe, they faded into the background. I couldn’t even say why, just that from the moment he met my eyes and came out with that lame pick-up line, something deep inside me sat up and said, “I want! That one.”

A gift of fate that he thought the same and liked to bottom. The memory of that plug in his ass made me shift on my bar stool.

The glass front door opened for the sixth time since I sat down. This time, the cowboy taking his hat in hand was Joe. The bar lights haloed his blond hair sticking up messily around his head. Most of the men here cut theirs short, maybe with a bit of length on top, but I liked that Joe had enough hair for me to hold onto while fucking his mouth— an image which didn’t help my tight-jeans situation.

I didn’t wave his way or get up, just waited for him to spot me across the room. Joe strolled over with that loose cowboy stride, a little roll of the hips and an easy strength that was night and day from a city twink flexing his ass. I watched him cross the floor, watched him pause to chat a moment with this guy and that, as if I wasn’t his target—the brat.

It took him a couple of minutes to reach me, and just as he did, I turned away, signaling to the bartender as if I wanted another of the beers I’d only half-finished.

Joe jostled my knee with his. “I got a couple good offers if you’re not interested.”

I turned and raised an eyebrow. “Ah, but do they come with an extra-long pillow-top mattress?”

“Y’know…” Joe took my beer bottle from my hand and drank a gulp. “A guy whose own appeal rates lower than his mattress is in trouble.”

“Point.” I gave him the finger lick and air-point, seeing the way his eyes narrowed as he glanced at my mouth. “Of course, we could also talk about a guy who can be seduced by a mattress.”

“Don’t recall the mattress bein’ the one with its hands on me.” He took another sip.

I swiped the bottle back. “Give me that. I ordered you your own.” The bartender, with good timing or good eavesdropping, came over then with the fresh Dos Equis and I handed him another twenty. Good tipping was something I owed folks who could use it and an investment in future goodwill. I might be the queer guy opening a local business to be wary of, but I could also be the man who tipped really well.

Most of the men in the bar had their eyes on us. I guess not a lot exciting happened around here. Joe had to be aware of the scrutiny but he didn’t take his eyes off me as he popped the cap off his bottle and ran his tongue around the inside of the rim.

I told him, “Seven for technique, five for style points.”

He laughed in a way I already craved and tilted his head back, chugging beer. His Adam’s apple bobbed. A drop escaped down his cheek to his neck and I had to restrain myself from licking the amber droplet off his skin.

When he paused, I said, “Very nice. You plan to put your money where your mouth is?”

He set the bottle down on the bar and eyed me sideways as he tucked a five-dollar bill into the neck with a little extra twist. “Money— where my mouth was. Why don’t we go find out?”

I almost quipped about how maybe I was enjoying this fine establishment too much to leave, but sarcasm might’ve come out like a slur on the bar, and I needed these folks with me later. So I saluted him with my beer, set aside the empty, and strode out without looking back.

For a minute, I wondered if he’d wait to follow me, to make a point. He seemed to enjoy resisting me as much as I enjoyed pushing him around. But I heard the door open and close three steps behind me. I turned as I reached the Mustang. “So—”

“My truck tonight,” he said.

I looked over at the battered Ford he’d gotten into last time I brought him back here. The pickup had a rust problem over the big wheel wells, a white driver’s door that didn’t match the rest, loose hay in the bed, and a heavy hitch on the back. A working truck. I had respect for that, even if I wasn’t going to let him see it. “It clashes with my sweater.”

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