Page 16 of Missile Tow
The moment I stepped from my room and made sure the door was locked behind me, the door across the hall opened. When I turned around, out stepped a man from a Marlboro ad. He nodded a courtesy hello and motioned with his hand for me to go ahead of him.
Of course, as a gay man, I immediately hoped my ass looked as good in my jeans as it did when I first had them on. We walked toward the elevator and stood silently while waiting for the lift to arrive. He smelled familiar. A scent I recognized as nice, but inexpensive. Not an old man’s cologne like Aqua Velva, but one you wouldn’t necessarily mistake for designer.
We stepped into the elevator, and I silently scolded myself for being so typical with my analysis of his scent. When had I become such a snobbish gay man? I didn’t remember being that way in college before I met Evan, but I also didn’t feel good about blaming him for my quick-to-judge attitude.
I added another fault to thetry to improvelist I’d been compiling, as I desired to change being judgmental. It was early in the trip, but my list was growing. I was critical of myself, too, but others didn’t deserve my unwelcome analysis.
“From out of town?” he asked, a thick, manly baritone voice waking me from my list keeping.
“You can tell?” I asked, nervously avoiding eye contact, but happily noticing he had zero malice in the tone of his question.
He glanced at my feet. “We don’t get a lot of shoes like those fancy ones you’re wearing around here,” he quipped. “Don’t get me wrong, I like them, but not practical in Spokane winters.”
He was kind in spirit, even though he was making a judgment. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt because his demeanor was quite pleasant.
“Seattle,” I stated, shrugging my shoulders and looking at his feet. “Local, I assume?” gesturing toward his cowboy boots. “Shiny,” I added.
The handsome stranger laughed and lifted a foot. “My going-out boots,” he claimed. “I’m not a cowboy by any means, but I do business locally, so I try to fit in.”
I nodded and smiled. Not a flirty smile because I was unsure of his Eastern Washington pleasantness. I knew people from rural areas had a reputation for being nice, and the odds he was gay were slim to none around these parts.
I was unsure how to keep the chat going, and before I knew it, six floors had zipped by, and we were in the lobby. Again, he motioned for me to go first and kindly held the door from closing on us after I hesitated.
“Thanks,” I said, wondering if I should ask more questions regarding his work or anything else to keep talking with him.
“Enjoy your stay, Seattle,” he said, turning and heading across the lobby.
I said nothing, and before I could come up with anything, he was too far away to have heard me.
“Smooth, Van,” I muttered.
Mystery hunk had the body of a man who may have worked out or was naturally built as an athlete. And to make sure my blood pressure responded, he wore Wranglers. He wore the denim like a second skin. A husky man’s ass sat atop thick thighs and long legs. His broad back was visible from twenty yards as he strode away.
I’d struggled to look at him in the elevator, but I’d noted deep blue eyes, a five o’clock shadow that was close to being an eleven PM shadow, and one of those cleft chins that looked like a small ass crack. Perhaps he actuallywasthe Marlboro Man.
A quick mental fantasy of being underneath the stranger in my hotel room crossed my mind before I shut it down. True, I was on the hunt for a cowboy or a country boy, but he was obviously a straight guy who was just being nice. Country nice, I assumed.
After grabbing a beer, I found a slot game I’d played at a local casino in the Seattle area and shoved a hundred-dollar bill into the machine. After four or five spins, the chair next to me slid away from the neighboring machine, and the man from the elevator sat down next to me.
“Hello again, Seattle,” he said, chuckling. “Just so you know, I’ll keep calling you Seattle until you formally introduce yourself,” he added.
After the shock of his sudden appearance, I held a hand out. “Vance Holter.”
His lips pursed. “Hmmm, Vance. Vance,” he repeated. “Yeah, you look like a Vance. Dirk is my name.”
I laughed. “And you look like a Dirk,” I joked.
He held his Budweiser up, glancing at my beer choice. “A Bud for Dirk, and a Stella for Vance. Yep, starting to make sense.”
“Hey,” I warned. “I’m not all citified.”
He slid his thumb and index finger across his lips and then made a twisting motion as if to lock them up. “I’ll keep your secret, Van.”
I stared at him, curious that he’d shortened my name. “You used my nickname,” I said. “That was quick.”
“You look like a Van too,” he responded, sliding a couple of twenties into his machine.
“And what does a Van look like?” I asked, being far more flirty than I safely should’ve been.
