Page 13 of Cowboy Dreams

Complying seemed smarter than questioning, so I did that. He kicked my feet wider, then patted me down. I waited as he neared my groin to see if he was the kind of cop that put more hand action there, but he barely touched me before pulling my wallet out of my back pocket and eyeing my license.

“Stay put,” he ordered, adding after a moment, “Sylvester Georgia…dis.” He mangled the name, pronouncing the first part like the state. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

“Georgiadis.” I pronounced it right, but without too much emphasis. “It’s Greek.” Mom took Cassie’s name and let me choose to do the same.

“Greek. You Greek too? Foreigner?”

“No.” I should’ve added the “sir” that would win me more favor, but it stuck in my throat. “Born right here in Colorado.”

“Huh.” He set my wallet on the hood of the car. “Where you been tonight? Out drinking?”

“I had one beer.”

“At Max’s?” He moved to the side where he could see my face.

Another chill went through me. He had to know Max’s was a gay bar, and that could be bad news, but I said, “Yes.”

“Crappy liquor. Crappier customers. Buncha queers.”

For a moment, I felt the self-preservation impulse to deflect, to say something like, “Yeah, boy, I didn’t think a bar in this part of the state would be full of queers. Drank my beer and split.” If I’d been passing through some redneck state, not planning to stay, I probably would’ve tried. I wanted to avoid a beat-down as much as the next man.

But I was staying put, and Max’s was Joe’s bar. And when common sense caught up, I realized the cop wouldn’t believe me anyhow. He hadn’t been behind us all those miles. If he knew I was at Max’s, it was because he knew who I was. He’d just get a kick out of me putting down other gay men.

So I said, “The beer’s better than the Scotch, that’s for sure.”

“Turn around.” He looked me up and down as I faced him. “How drunk are you?”

“One beer doesn’t do much for me.”I’m a big guy.I didn’t say that.Don’t emphasize to the cop that you’re bigger than he is.

“OK, we’re going to check that out.” He had me follow his penlight, the beam bright in my eyes, made me walk the white line along the shoulder, and stand on one foot. I complied with competence, and without snark. When we were done, he stood there a few feet away, right hand still not far from his holster. “Might still be above the limit. You sure blew away the speed limit.”

I pulled slow breaths through my nose and said nothing.

“Quiet night. Got nothing better to do than take drunks off the roads. Be a shame to tow that cherry of a car, though.”

More moments passed. I wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Probably not a blow job, given that he hadn’t groped me. Money? A chance to drive the Mustang? Or just because he could? Because I was queer and he could, or was this me being a stranger, or a guy with a foreign name, or simply anyone who wasn’t a cop?

I’d never know because the radio at his belt crackled with some unintelligible message to which he unhooked it and replied, “Five minutes. I’m on it.” He turned back to me. “Your lucky day. Now, driving a hundred miles an hour carries a ten-day minimum sentence with the three-hundred-dollar fine. Driving ninety-nine is just the two-hundred bucks.”

I was not going to beg that bastard to be honest.

Luckily time was on my side, because the radio crackled again. He said, “Stay put. I’ll put you at ninety-nine. Hate going to court.” He jogged to his cruiser, came back with a form he filled out and passed the top copy to me along with my license. I took them with fingers that were steadier than my gut. The cop tipped his hat to me, lips curled. “You have a nice day now, y’hear. And drive safe.” He knocked my wallet off the hood onto the dirt and jogged to his cruiser, backed a few feet, and pulled out onto the road, siren blaring.

Twenty seconds, one dip and a bend in the road, and he was gone.

Sitting down right there in the dirt had a certain appeal, but I straightened my spine, picked up my wallet, dusted it off. My driver’s door still stood open. I got in, shut the door, gripped the wheel in both hands and breathed in for four, hold for four, out for four. When my chest felt less tight, I put the car in gear and headed home. Below the speed limit and it galled me, but I didn’t have the energy to do all that again.

When I reached the end of the driveway in front of the ranch house, Joe was there, leaning against his truck. He had his legs crossed at the ankles, his thumbs in his jeans pockets, and his hat pulled low. He straightened as I parked, then sauntered over.

“Hey, city slicker, did you stop to howl at the moon—” He must’ve seen something in my face because he cut himself short and dropped the drawl. “What happened? Did you hit a critter?”

I shook my head. “Got a speeding ticket.”

My effort at nonchalance didn’t pay off because he peered at my face, then muttered, “Fuck. Was the trooper a beer-belly blond around fifty with a nasty fucking attitude?”

“Didn’t see his hair under the hat,” I said.

“Deputy Morse, I bet,” Joe told me. “The sheriff has him running speed traps a lot, because he’s not good with people.”

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