Page 24 of Missile Tow
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“I need a hotel, ma’am.”
Bertie glanced my way. I hurried over.
“You can… um… You can stay with me,” I uttered, clearing my throat and walking up beside him. “I have a spare bedroom you’re welcome to until the storm passes. I’d like to help you out. You know, and stuff like that.” I suddenly had diarrhea of the mouth. I couldn’t shut up. “You’d be safer here. Here in Missile. You did say you were coming to Missile, didn’t you?” I stammered.
He turned to face me, and I caught Bertie’s eye as she smiled from behind his back, shaking her head as I rambled on about nothing. I knew she wanted to say,‘Smooth move, Chip.’I also knew she was impressed with my attempts.
“Really?” he asked. “You’d do that for a stranger?”
All I managed to do was nod.
CHAPTER TWELVE: Van
The older woman was smiling and nodding along with him. My mom’s voice came through loud and clear.
“Are you out of your mind, Vance? You can’t stay with some random man you met two minutes ago.”
They both continued to stare. I recalled the 1970s classic horror flickThe Hills Have Eyes.As a fan of the horror genre, I loved the older stuff with the subtler approach to bloodshed. In that particular movie, the deranged locals lure travelers in and then torment them. Sometimes they ate them.
“I don’t even know your names,” I stated, figuring if I had their names, they’d have to be normal people.
“Bertie Baxley,” she said, touching her chin and pointing at him. “And he’s Chip Winlock. He owns this establishment and is very trustworthy.”
“I’m Vance, but my friends call me Van,” I offered, noting she’d said Chip was trustworthy. Don’t all murderous clans say things like that?
“Then let’s be friends, Van,” the lady said.
They both gave the impression of being nice. She seemed bossy, but in a pleasant way. I instantly liked her take-charge attitude. I recognized I was naturally a follower, so I’d probably go along with anything she said. I also had a soft spot for elderly people. She may have been elderly, like she appeared, but this woman was spunky.
“I’m going home early,” she announced, untying the apron she wore. “He’s closing soon, so you boys take the rest of the chicken and jo-jos home for your supper.”
“I will,” Chip said, nervously looking between me and her.
Chip was all man. I wasn’t positive he wasmytype of man, but he was definitely a man. His Levi’s were threadbare in all the right places. I had a difficult time not staring at his well-worn crotch. The denim was faded over an ample bulge and caused me to swallow hard, wondering what was behind the metal buttons.
A blue flannel shirt accented his blue eyes perfectly. He wore a cream-colored Henley under the shirt, the shirt open. A belt buckle the size of a saucer had a bucking bronco design and was attached to an old and weathered leather belt. His boots were scuffed beyond any cobbler’s ability to repair and had leather laces tied in a double knot.
He stood exactly as one would expect a ranch hand to stand. Like a total dude. Dirty blond hair was messy and lacked any particular style. I imagined he’d just removed a cowboy hat but not bothered with his hair. Yet, the entire package exhibited a porn-worthy, stud-like, super straight, man-esque hunk, who had zero idea he’d just invited a homo to stay the night.So not my taste, though.
Who was I kidding? Chip was a tall, lean drink of water. And I was thirsty as fuck. Of course, even if he liked men, he wouldn’t like a man like me. And even if I liked him, I couldn’t be with a man who had such a disregard for how he appeared in public. He was too casual, too uncaring concerning his clothing choices, too much of a dude, and probably too straight to give a rat’s ass about my criticism.
“I have a dog,” he said out of the blue.
“I like dogs,” I replied.
“My spare bed is actually in a loft,” he added. “The ladder is old and difficult to climb.”
“Are you sure you want me to stay?”
He realized he sounded like he’d just delivered reasons to talk me out of staying. “Yes! For sure!” he exclaimed, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “I have plenty of room, and Pooch likes guests. We don’t ever have any, but he likes people. He likes strange people, too.”
“Strange people?” I asked.
“Strangers!” he quickly corrected. “People he’s never met.”
“What’s his name?”
