Page 2 of Cowboy Dreams

Saturday, I almost didn’t go, just to be ornery. But I’d woken up with painful morning wood, and my dick had nagged at me hopeful-like through the day. I was bound and determined to do something about it this time. Even if it wasn’t with Mr. Rich City.

Sure enough, when I arrived, there was no broad-shouldered stranger at the bar. I shoved my hopes down in the little box in my head where a lotta stuff like that lived, and paid for a drink while I scanned the thin crowd. I was in no hurry. Things would pick up later.

Round about midnight, I was just deciding that Junior Willoughby looked decent enough this time when I swear I felt a chill like an ice cube on the back of my neck. I turned and there he was, coming in the door. Those ice-blue eyes seemed to track right to me, and he headed my way. Several other guys watched him. That face and those shoulders were prime beef in a sea of ordinary folks like me.

When he reached the bar, he sat beside me, glanced at my glass, and asked Max, “Is your rum as mediocre as your Scotch?”

“You’ll have to buy one to find out,” Max drawled.

“Two rum and cokes.” He slapped two twenties on the bar.

Max coughed because his drinks ran seven bucks, but took both and poured out two stiff measures. The stranger pushed one toward me and drank the other like he was used to doing shots.

“Yes, as I thought,” he said, setting down the empty glass. “A bit lower than top shelf.”

“Well, I like it.” I sipped at mine, acting like it was some vintage brandy champagne thing. Even though booze never was more than a quick way to get a little lubrication onboard.

“I’m not sure what that says for your palate.”

“Says I’m not some city slicker with a fat wallet and prissified tastes.”

“Or that you’ve burned out your tastebuds.”

I shrugged and took another sip. “You got a name?”

“Yes.”

I waited but he didn’t go on, just eyed me sideways. “What’ve I gotta do to hear it? Lift your wallet and read the license?”

“Maybe tell me yours first?”

“Joe. McNeil. Folks around here know me, anyone could tell you. But I never seen you in these parts before.”

“Oh dear, senility setting in?” He peered at me with fake concern.

“Say the fuck what?”

“You saw me in here just last week. I’m shocked you’ve forgotten. That memory loss must be most inconvenient.”

I’d meant before that, and he knew it. So I said, “I guess you’re just that forgettable.”

He licked one finger and gave me a point in the air. I tell you, my jeans got tight watching his tongue on his skin.You can lick my finger, or any other parts you want.

“If you told me your name, I forgot that too,” I said.

“I didn’t.”

“You sure? Murgatroyd Bumblegarden rings a faint bell.”

“Hearing things too. Tsk tsk.” He shook his head. “There are no bells in here, Joe.”

I suddenly wanted to get this man and his smart, pretty mouth away from Max and the other guys—a bunch of them leaning close, listening, ready to horn in if the stranger got tired of plain old Joe. “Maybe we should check outside,” I suggested.

“Maybe we should, at that.” Mr. City waved to Max. “Keep the change.” He slid off his stool and raised an eyebrow at me. “Coming?”

“Takes more than a free drink and a pretty face to make me cum,” I muttered. “But I ain’t opposed to it.” I picked up my hat, walked past him, and led the way out, because he’d been making all the moves, and while I like a guy to push a bit, I didn’t have a measure of him yet.

Outside the bar, the night had turned crisp and chilly, with winter no more than a breath away. I set my hat on my head, zipped up my shearling coat, and turned to face the stranger. He was wearing a jacket today too, but leather, soft and rich. He fastened the buttons, standing in the flashing light of the Miller Beer sign in the bar window. Red and blue flickered highlights across his skin.

---