Calvin’s Cowboy (2 page)

The man, at least six feet three of him—although it was difficult to gauge his exact height because of the white Resistol seated firmly on his head, hiding his eyes—gave Calvin a smile. Quickly sweeping his gaze downward, Calvin saw a firm square jaw, with perhaps a day’s growth of beard. The cowboy’s neck had a red kerchief tied around it that contrasted with a powder blue western shirt with, good heavens, pearl snaps. He was maybe a little paunchy, but Calvin could forgive him that.

A huge silver belt buckle sat above a more than amply filled out crotch contained by a pair of tight, faded Wranglers. Calvin’s eyes moved down to take in a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots.

“Hi,” said a deep voice that seemed to vibrate along Calvin’s nerve endings.

It forced Calvin to look back up at the vision’s face, the owner of which used its index finger to push up the brim of the hat, revealing a pair of blue eyes, the same color as the faded denim. Calvin felt himself falling into those eyes.

“Hey,” Calvin returned, stopping himself at the last second from saying , ‘howdy, pardner.’

“Y’all said you were fixin’ up the old place to sell.”

“Yes.” Although Calvin knew outwardly he was portraying an air of polite interest, over ten years of business dealings had taught him to maintain a neutral expression even under the most stressful of circumstances, and this hunk was certainly putting stress on a certain part of his anatomy. “Calvin Hamilton.”

“John Brockwell.” John held out his hand, which instinctively Calvin took. The shake was firm, strong, masculine, and dry.

Feeling devilish, Calvin said, “And here was me thinking you were Gary Cooper.”

John smiled again, this time showing a row of perfect white teeth. “Line dancin’ is tonight. I figured I’d get ready, then go from here.”

“I see. I guess I was expecting your father. It was his voice on the answering machine.”

Immediately the smile faded. ”My daddy passed last fall. I haven’t felt up to changing the message on the answering machine.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. With you only just back in town, guess you wouldn’t have known.”

“No, I didn’t. Please accept my condolences.” His innate southern hospitality, rarely used in his cut-throat business dealings in the Big Apple, kicked in and he invited John over the threshold.

Almost before Calvin was aware, the two of them were sitting in the screened-in porch, two bottles of the imported beer between them. John’s Resistol lay on the chair next to him. The absence of the hat revealed a full head of mid-length blond hair that was starting to go white at the temples.

Dolly Parton, eat your heart out,
Calvin thought, raising his bottle to John, or Brock as Calvin had been asked to call him.

“Calvin Hamilton,” Brock mused. “We were in high school together, right?”

“At the same time. I wouldn’t exactly say together.” Calvin remembered with bitterness the times when he would be pushed aside whenever the pack of star jocks would go strutting down the halls.

“You were that drama geek with the thick lenses.”

Calvin’s bitterness overflowed. No way was he going to let this guy intimidate him now! Not after he’d spent years honing his body in the gym, having Lasik surgery on his eyes, and generally improving himself until he was a partner in a well-respected New York PR and marketing firm.

“Yeah, that was me.”

Brock treated him to a smile before raising his bottle and taking a gulp of beer.

“And the rumors about me back then were true. I am a fag.”

Brock jerked forward; beer streaming out his nose as he coughed.

Calvin leapt to his feet, ran round the table and thumped Brock on the back.

“It’s okay,” Brock wheezed. “Thanks.”

Calvin returned to his seat. “I wanted to make that clear before you accepted the job. I’m an out gay man, and if you’re not comfortable with that, then…”

“No, no. It’s cool. You just surprised me is all. Folks round here wouldn’t…”

“Yeah. Guess I’ve gotten too used to New York ways.”

“So,” Brock asked, a twinkle in his eye, “did you have a secret crush on me back in high school?”

Immediately Calvin fired back, “No, I thought you were an arrogant asshole.”

Brock’s face fell and Calvin felt as though he’d got one back from all those years ago. “I just am still really sensitive about those days. They weren’t exactly happy times for me.”

“No.” Brock shook his head then looked Calvin straight in the eyes. “Guess they weren’t. Sorry.”

“Every day at school was a battle to remain hidden, to blend in, to stay below the radar, just so one of your jock buddies wouldn’t notice me, trip me, push me into a locker or use me as a punching bag.”

Brock looked embarrassed. “I kinda remember that.”

“And then they’d brag about beating up the school fag?”

Brock looked down at his half-empty bottle. His silence was answer enough.

“We lived in different worlds back in high school. Everybody knew you and how many home runs or whatever you had hit the previous season. Whereas no one, apart from my fellow ‘drama geeks,’” he sketched quotation marks in the air, “knew about me. And that was just fine.”

Brock shifted uncomfortably, Calvin had made his point, so he changed the subject to the reason for Brock’s visit.

They had a walk through of the house, Brock pointing out things such as the odd patch of damp, crumbling masonry and the quarry tiles in the hallway.

Going outside, Brock requested use of a stepladder so he could examine the roof.

“See how many of the shingles have turned up at the edges?”

Calvin was more interested in looking at the man’s ass than whatever was on the roof, but managed to make an affirmative noise.

“They’re quite brittle, too,” Brock said snapping off a small piece. “When was the roof last shingled?” Brock got down from the ladder and helped Calvin put it away in the garage.

“I was just going to college, so I’d say about seventeen years ago.”

A new roof was added to the list of what needed to be done.

When they were back inside, Calvin said, “I’m anxious to get the old place on the market and sold as quickly as possible, though still for a good price.”

Brock nodded. “I’ve had a cancellation, so I could start next week, if you want?”

Calvin did want. He doubted there had been a cancellation, but opted not to call Brock on it. He asked Brock to get some figures to him by the weekend. Though Calvin had decided to accept the quote; if nothing else, the eye-candy would be worth the few extra bucks. Also, throughout their conversation, Calvin’s gaydar had been pinging softly. He suspected Brock was deeply closeted.

Their handshake and eye contact at the door were held a second longer than those of a straight guy. This gave Calvin further support to his growing theory that Brock was a kindred spirit.

Once he had bid the tall drink of water goodbye, Calvin closed the door and rested his back against it. “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!”

Chapter 2

Brock looked up from his drink and saw the last man he wanted to see. “Of all the motherfuckin’ gin joints in all the motherfuckin’ towns in all the motherfuckin’ world, he walks into mine,” he growled at Calvin.

“And here was I thinking this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Calvin picked up Brock’s hat from the stool and sat down.

“Why the fuck did you call him?” Brock asked Hal, the barkeeper.

“It was either him or the sheriff.” Hal continued to wipe down the already pristine bar top.

“Thanks a bunch!” Brock knew he was being an ass, but didn’t give a damn.

He’d planned on going straight from the old Hamilton place to line dancing, but seeing Calvin and how rich and successful he’d become had put him in a bad mood, so after leaving Calvin’s folks’ place, Brock had pointed his truck at
Hal’s Bar & Grill
for a drink before going on to the dance. One drink had led to two, then…

“So, Gary Cooper, ready to saddle up and mosey on back to the bunkhouse?” Calvin handed the Resistol to Brock.

Brock put the hat on, annoyed that the fuckin’ New York asshole could be so chipper, when he felt like total shit. It wasn’t fair. He should have been where Calvin was now. All successful and shit. After all, he had been the fuckin’ big man on campus, star baseball jock with girls hanging all over him.
And what had Calvin been? A fucking nerdy fag, that’s what!

“Not fuckin’ fair!” Brock growled. “Give us another Jack for the road, Hal.”

“Sorry, Brock, you’ve had enough for tonight. Go home and sleep it off.”

“I said I want another!” Brock rose from his bar stool and wobbled.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Calvin caught him.

God, he smells good
, Brock thought. But he couldn’t—no he mustn’t—feel like that about another guy. Not in public anyway. “Get your fuckin’ pansy hands off of me!”

Brock fought to get free. The barroom began to tilt. He fixed his gaze on the shelves of liquor behind the bar to steady himself, but the strong hands never left him.

“Come on; let’s get you out of here before you draw even more attention to yourself.” Brock heard Calvin, but his voice seemed a million miles away. “Has he settled his tab?”

“Uh, no. But I can get it from him later.”

“It’s okay, I’ll take care of it, just tell me how much.”

Brock, still with his eyes fixed on the shelves, leaned further into Calvin’s side. God, the man had good muscles for a swanky New York lawyer or whatever the hell he was.

“Come on, pardner, time to hit the trail.”

“Not your fuckin’ partner,” Brock mumbled.

“Whatever. Come on, let’s get some fresh air. See if that will sober you up some.”

Brock thought the idea was good, so he began putting one foot in front of the other. The room swayed and he felt himself pitching forward.

“I got ya.” Calvin’s grip around his waist tightened.

Brock leaned into the embrace. Calvin felt strong, safe.
Whoa!
Brock jerked free and almost cannoned into a guy just coming out of the bathroom.

“Watch where you’re going!” the guy said.

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Brock, can it.” Calvin got a hold of him again. “Sorry, man. He’s had too much to drink and—”

Brock didn’t know what the guy said in reply because Calvin picked up the pace and the next thing he knew they were in the parking lot. The cool air hit him, and Brock immediately felt a bit better. He didn’t fight to get free of Calvin, though.

“Just walk me to my truck and I’ll—”

“You’re not driving anywhere tonight.”

“I’m all right.”

“Yeah, sure you are. If I was to let go of you now, you’d just keel over.”

“Fuck off! I’m a real man. I can hold my liquor.”

Calvin laughed.
The fucking fag laughed
. Brock wasn’t standing for that. He broke free of Calvin’s grasp, raised his fist, and threw a punch that didn’t connect. The world spun. Next thing he knew he was face down on the ground. “Fuck!”

Brock heard the gravel crunch next to him.

“You all right?”

’Course he wasn’t fuckin’ all right, but no way was he going to tell Calvin that. “Help me up.”

“So long as you promise not to throw any more punches. I’d hate to put you down again.”

“Fuck off. I just over-balanced is all.”

“Because you’re drunk off your ass.”

Calvin helped him up. God, everything hurt.

“Where’s my hat?”

“Here.” Calvin gave it to him.

Brock stuck it back on his head, trying to recapture what he could of his dignity.

“Come on, let’s get you home so I can get back to bed.”

They started across the parking lot again, Brock not resisting Calvin’s grip on his shoulder.

“Bet you used to dream of getting me into bed when we were in high school.”

“Those might have been your dreams,” Calvin said, “but they sure weren’t mine.”

“You saying I’m a fag?” Brock stopped walking, disengaged from Calvin and was ready to throw another punch.

“Oh, quit it. Just keep walking and shut the fuck up. I should have told the bartender to get the sheriff to sling your drunk ass in jail for the night. But, no, when he asked me to come get you, fool that I am, I agreed.”

“Why’d Hal call you anyway?” Brock couldn’t work that one out.

“I don’t know. Seems you were holding the card I gave you earlier and were muttering something. No doubt it wasn’t pleasant.”

Brock remembered sitting at the bar, flipping Calvin’s card over and over, pissed at how successful the guy had become, and there he was, divorced with a kid, and the fuckin’ hospital on his ass for his dad’s unpaid medical bills. Yeah, too right what he’d been saying hadn’t been pleasant.

“Hal had no business calling you.”

“Probably not. Maybe everyone else he tried said no.”

Privately Brock had to agree no one else would have agreed to come get him. He didn’t have any friends, or at least no one he could truly call a friend.

They had stopped at a black Pontiac Firebird that looked familiar somehow.

“Just stand there for a minute.

Calvin let himself into the car, leaned over, and opened the passenger door. Brock managed to get himself in and shut the door.

“Seatbelt.”

“Fuck,” Brock mumbled, scrabbling around to find it. He pulled the belt across himself, but couldn’t work out how to fasten it.

“Oh, come here. We’ll be all night otherwise.”

“Keep your fucking hands off my crotch.”

“Brock, this might come as an enormous disappointment to you, but I do not now, or have ever had, fantasies about you or your crotch.”

“Why not?” Brock immediately regretted asking the question.

“Because at school you were arrogant, mean, and just so full of yourself.”

Brock wanted to disagree but honestly couldn’t. He knew he’d been a jerk in high school. Being the star pitcher came with certain perks, such as not having to pass tests in class, hand in assignments on time, and stuff like that. But there was a darker side to it all. One he bet Calvin had no idea about.