Calvin’s Cowboy

By Drew Hunt

Published by

JMS Books LLC

This book is available in print.

Visit

jms-books.com

for more information.

Copyright 2011 Drew Hunt

ISBN 978-1-61152-068-2

Cover Photo Credit:

sunny13

,

Songquan Deng

Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design:

J.M. Snyder

All Rights Reserved

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the

copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with

the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered

offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used

fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

Calvin’s Cowboy

By Drew Hunt

This one is for everyone, like me, who loves cowboys.

Chapter 1

“Fuck!” Calvin shook his head in resignation.
Little about Parish Creek had changed. The phrase

Bumfuck, Egypt,

passed through Calvin’s mind as he walked towards the small grocery

store just off Main Street, the once-blue paint on the window frames just a little more sun bleached and peeled than he remembered.

His classic 1982 Pontiac Firebird stood out a mile in the small parking lot among the various pickups, some of which showed gun racks

through the rear window. He rolled his eyes. After all, this was Texas.

The interior of the store hadn’t changed all that much either. There was still that unique smell, a mixture of fresh vegetables, kibble and floor

wax.

He pushed his cart along the aisles in search of food that didn’t require barbequing, deep frying or smoking. His choices were thus

somewhat limited.

The range of beer wasn’t exactly wide, either. He scanned the shelves in the cooler; there was the expected Lone Star, San Miguel, and

Budweiser. There was a brand he didn’t recognise, and judging by the price, it was probably horse piss. The shelf above the Shiner sign was
empty. He was about to settle for Corona, when he spied a case of imported Czech beer tucked behind a box of Bud Light. It was on special, too.

Old Mrs. Grantly at the checkout looked at him suspiciously when she rang up the beer. He was half expecting her to ask him for ID.
“We had a man come in few months ago asking for that. We didn’t have any, so I ordered some, but folks round here don’t like anythin’ that’s

foreign.”

“Doesn’t suit their discerning palates?” Calvin asked as he reached for a plastic sack, only for Mrs. Grantly to wave him off and bag up the

beer herself.

“They like what they like,” she said, picking up a jar of low fat mayo.
Calvin hoped this wouldn’t take forever. He wasn’t in luck.
“We haven’t seen you here in a long time. Guess you have made a life for yourself up in New York.” She managed to put a world of

disapproval into the last two syllables.

“Uh, yeah.”
“Seems to suit you, though. You’ve lost weight. And you don’t need glasses any more.”
“Uh, no.”
“Seems like only yesterday since you were in here for Cokes and my homemade sugar cookies.”
The rye bread and yogurt were bagged.
Calvin felt obligated to ask if she still baked the cookies. He was relieved to find that she wasn’t allowed to sell homemade goods in the

store any more.

“The government has no business poking its nose into what we sell. Why, next they’ll be—” Finally Mrs. Grantly got to her main point. “Your

folks are selling up and moving to Florida.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. Now, how much do I owe you?” Calvin took out his wallet, needing to end the conversation. Things were so different when checking out

groceries in New York.

* * * *

As he walked to his car, he took note of the scattering of tired-looking family sedans and SUV’s in among the pick up trucks. There was an

old green Ford Taurus in the space next to his. Instinctively Calvin checked to see that the driver of the Taurus hadn’t scratched his shiny black paint
job. Satisfied his pride and joy was unmolested, he popped the trunk and put in his bags, before closing the lid gently.

Looking around, he muttered, “The town that time forgot.” Clearly the early employees of Dell Computers who had made it big when their

stock options went through the roof, Dellionaires as the locals termed them, hadn’t moved out from Austin as far as Parish Creek.

He ran his shirtsleeve across his forehead. He’d forgotten how bad the humidity could be this far south. Growing up, he remembered that the

locals would tell any newcomer who complained about the weather that if he didn’t like it, “just wait five minutes and something else will come
along.” He was amused that when he moved to New York City and made a comment about the sleet and biting winds, someone made exactly the
same remark to him.

He ramped up the car’s air conditioning before peeling out of the parking lot. However, the chilled air soon made Calvin’s damp white dress

shirt uncomfortable, so he turned down the fan.

Driving down Main Street at just a couple of miles above the posted limit, Calvin was forced to slam on his brakes. Some gum-popping

airhead had stepped out onto the crosswalk against the light.

Calvin hit the horn. “Can’t you fucking read?” he shouted. Though, as his windows were all rolled up to keep in the cool, he wasn’t sure if the

halter-topped blonde heard him. “It says ‘Don’t walk’ for a fucking reason!”

She continued to saunter across the road, seemingly oblivious of how narrowly she’d come to being splattered across his hood.
By the time she had crossed, the light had changed to red, giving Calvin a couple of seconds to calm his pulse.
Glancing to his right, he saw a parked pick-up truck. The painted sign on the side caught his attention.

Brockwell Home Improvement

. John

Brockwell, Sr., had been in business in the small town since Hector was a pup. Calvin smiled at the phrase he hadn’t thought of in years. John
Junior had been the high school’s star pitcher, but he and Calvin had moved in very different social circles back then. Brock had been Mr. Popular
with girls hanging all over him, whereas Calvin…

A horn blaring behind him brought him back to the present. Quickly memorizing the phone number painted on the sign, Calvin let out the

clutch and sped off, leaving the impatient old-timer in his beat-up Oldsmobile in his dust.

He had no doubt his return to town and the selling of his parents’ house had been headline news among the local gossips.
Firmly putting aside his irritation at small-town life, Calvin fiddled with the car radio in an attempt to find something other than Christian radio,

or some mournful country singer lamenting the lack of opportunity in his depressing blue-collar existence. “Yeah, bud, I can sympathize,” he said,
looking round at the empty storefronts, boarded-up movie theater and derelict ice cream parlor. All of which were thriving businesses during his
youth. He sighed. It was all so depressing, knowing he would be stuck in this podunk town for at least a month, so he thought he had better just
make the best of it, and quit bitching.

As he continued to listen to the country singer’s crooning, he began to feel a little better. He pictured the cowboy as tall and blond, with his

hat pushed high up on his head while he leaned against a split rail fence and…Calvin had to admit he’d always had a thing for cowboys in old
flannel shirts and skin-tight Wranglers.

Soon the old homestead came into view. Calvin drove round back and parked. He cut the engine, which in turn stilled the singing cowboy

who had moved on to complaining that his dog had run away with his best friend, or whatever it was. Truth be told, he didn’t hate country music as
much as he pretended; it just didn’t fit with the city-smart image he liked to project.

As soon as he opened the car door, another blast of heat and humidity hit him. His shirt, which had barely had time to dry, became moist

again before Calvin had hefted his grocery sacks and gotten them into the house. At least he’d remembered to keep the air on. The window unit in
the kitchen was still whining away.

As he put away his few purchases, he pondered on how he’d begged his parents to get central air, but his dad had firmly resisted. “There’s

nothing wrong with what we have. Why spend money when we don’t need to?” Calvin had offered to pay for the installation, but oh, no. So he’d
dropped the subject. The argument about air conditioning was typical. His parents, while certainly not rich, could afford to make life easier for
themselves, but stubbornly refused to do so if it meant spending money needlessly. It had therefore come as a major surprise when he’d gotten a
phone call from his mom one evening after she and his dad had returned from a bus tour of Florida that they were giving serious consideration to
moving to the Sunshine State.

“The weather is better for my arthritis,” his mom had confided.
Secretly, Calvin knew the real reason. As long as they lived in Texas, his dad would never quit his job as an assistant principal at the local

middle school. The job was stressful, and Calvin had long argued that his dad should take advantage of the board of education’s fairly generous
early retirement package.

In a later telephone conversation, Calvin had managed to extract from his mother the news that Tom had had a mild heart attack. This had

been the wake-up call that he’d needed.

His mom had seen and fallen in love with a vacant two-bedroom condo in a retirement community in Lake Wales.
Calvin had had to push hard to persuade his parents to go ahead and not wait until their place in Texas was sold. He promised he could

arrange a bridge loan at favorable rates if such became necessary, but the clincher had been his promise to return to Texas to co-ordinate the sale
of the old place, thus freeing his parents to move to Florida just as soon as the ink was dry on the contracts.

Pulling a beer out of the case before putting the remainder in the fridge—a Frigidaire, which Calvin had repeatedly been told was as old as

he was—he found the opener, popped the cap and took a long pull.

After draining the bottle and putting it in the trash, the habit of recycling not having yet reached as far as Parish Creek. Remembering his

visions of cowboys in tight Wranglers, western shirts and Stetsons, he fired up his laptop and went to the CMT website hoping to find some sexual
fantasies.

“Damn it!” he exclaimed, clicking on the live feed link.
They were showing a retrospective of Dolly Parton, and although he didn’t mind her music, her outsized breasts did nothing for him. He

closed his browser in frustration. Then he remembered Brockwell’s sign. Fishing out his cell phone, relieved that at least there was good cell
service, he dialed the number and waited.

“Thank you for calling Brockwell & Son. I’m sorry, but…” Calvin waited for old man Brockwell’s recorded message to finish, before leaving

his phone number and asking for someone to call him back. Once he hung up, he began pacing, his eyes catching all the little details which he
knew would need to be attended to before he could put the house on the market. He’d not confided this to his folks, knowing it would probably have
persuaded them to remain. He would pay whatever it cost to smarten the place up.

A few of the quarry tiles in the hallway were chipped; he hoped the whole floor wouldn’t have to be pulled up, but he’d negotiate that, plus

myriad other things with the contractor. “When he finally bothers to call!” Calvin said, noting that an hour had passed since he’d contacted them.

He knew he was impatient, but his drive had got him where he was now. Gone were the days when he’d cower in dark corners while others,

more sure of themselves, would strut around and make all the decisions.

After a second circuit of the house, he opened his laptop and logged in to check email. He was engrossed in a report from Tim, his business

partner, on the potential that would be gained if they could wrestle the Jenkins account from their archrivals, when the doorbell rang. Still mulling
over the satisfaction of seeing the expression on Thompson’s face if they did steal the account from under his nose, Calvin rose, walked down the
hallway and opened the door, half expecting someone from the local Baptist church in search of a donation, or bent on saving his soul from Hell’s
fire.

However, the vision of cowboy masculinity that stood on the stoop immediately had Calvin believing that whatever religion the guy was

hawking, he’d be willing to sign on the dotted line immediately.

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.

“It wasn’t as great as you think, being me.”
“Oh, spare me. You didn’t walk to school every morning worried that you were going to be beat up, have your head pushed down the john or

have your homework stolen from you.”

“What?”
“You heard me. But fuck the past. I hated high school and am glad I got out of this shit hole of a town.”
Brock could agree with him about getting out of Parish Creek. He’d managed it—for a while at least—until sports injuries and family

obligations had pulled him back. However, he couldn’t agree with Calvin about high school. There he’d been someone. Now he was a fucking
nobody with a business rapidly going down the tubes with…Brock closed his eyes; he wasn’t feeling well, and reminding himself of how badly life
had treated him wasn’t helping any.

The engine started and… “Hello Calvin. What is your destination?”
Brock’s eyes shot open.

Fuck a duck!

it was KITT, the voice from

Knight Rider

. That’s what this car reminded him of. “Always thought you

were a fuckin’ nerd.”

Calvin, who had started to roll the car out of the bar’s parking lot, slammed on the brakes, causing Brock to jerk against the seatbelt. “If you

want to walk, then be my guest.”

Brock patted his pocket to check that his truck keys were there. “Fine! I’ll drive myself.”
Calvin pulled out a fancy looking cell phone. “The second you put those keys in the ignition I’m calling the cops.”
Brock sank lower in his seat, defeated.
Calvin started driving again. “It’s just a GPS with the voice of William Daniels.”
Brock said nothing.
“Though, uh, yeah, I guess it’s a bit geeky to have it installed in the same make and model of car as the one in the TV show.”
Brock snorted.
“Shut the fuck up. I work hard for my money, and without kids or a boyfriend I treat myself to the occasional toy.”
“Must be nice,” Brock grumbled, thinking how little cash he had to survive on each week. There was never anything left over for ‘toys,’ as

Calvin termed them.

The two fell into silence for a while, until Calvin asked, “So, where’s home?”
Brock didn’t want to go home. It wasn’t because he’d be alone. No, it was because the place was a mess, the roof leaked and the paint was

peeling. There were dirty dishes in the sink and piles of dirty laundry to wash.

“Brock?”
He realized he’d not replied to Calvin’s question. Before he could formulate a response, they hit a pothole. Brock’s stomach rolled.
“Gonna puke!”
“Jesus!” Calvin pulled to the curb. “Not on my upholstery you’re not.”
Brock fought to unlatch the door, but was held in place by the fucking seatbelt.
Thankfully Calvin was onto it and released the catch. Brock leaned out of the car and painted the gutter. The smell and the bad taste in his

mouth made him retch again.

“Ah, fuck,” Brock said when he realized he’d got some puke on his shirt.
“Here.” Calvin had got out of the car and was standing by the open passenger door, but to the side, out of projectile range. He handed Brock

a handful of Kleenex.

“Thanks. Sorry about this, I just—” How could Brock tell him it’d been a shitty week, hell, a shitty year? The guy didn’t need to know—and

probably wouldn’t be interested in—his tales of woe and misery.

“It’s okay.” Calvin sounded genuine.
If anything, that made Brock feel worse.
“Want some water?”
Brock shook his head; he didn’t think he would be able to keep it down.
“Just to rinse your mouth, maybe it’d take away the nasty taste?”
“Thanks.” Brock took the offered bottle, rinsed and spit.
Calvin put a hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Feel better now?”
“Some.” However, most of the improvement was because of Calvin’s concern. He could feel the heat of the man’s palm radiating through his

shirt.

“Ready to set off again?”
Brock nodded.
Calvin closed the passenger door, walked around the car and got back into his seat. Starting the engine, he said, “Seatbelt.”
Brock rolled his eyes, but complied. In a strange way it showed that Calvin cared. Brock hadn’t had anyone care for him in…he didn’t know

how long.

“I think I should take you back to my parents’ place. You shouldn’t be left on your own after drinking so much.”
It wasn’t exactly the first time Brock had tied one on. Hell, lately he’d often found himself in some bar or other, trying to drown his sorrows, but

his sorrows had grown life jackets and had taught themselves how to swim. Brock snickered at the image.

“Huh?” Calvin asked.
“Nothing.”
After a minute or two of silence, the car traveling along the dark and mostly empty streets, Calvin said, “There’s only one bed, an air

mattress. As you saw earlier, most of the furniture has been shipped off to Florida.”

Brock didn’t see a problem.
“You’d have to share a bed with a queer guy.”
Brock didn’t know what to think. If he reached for Calvin in the night he could pass it off as being drunk.
“Will that be a problem?”
“Uh, no, just as long as you keep your hands to yourself,” Brock huffed.
“You’re pretty high on yourself, aren’t you?”
Brock didn’t answer. He didn’t need to as they had arrived at the house, and Calvin was shutting off the engine.
Getting out of the car, Brock stumbled, but again Calvin was there to steady him. Brock took a few seconds longer than was strictly

necessary to hold on.

“You’re a mess. I hope that stain will come out of your shirt.
“Yeah, me too.” It had cost him a couple hundred bucks at a fancy store in Austin. Given his current financial situation there was no way he’d

be able to replace it. “Goodnight, KITT.” Brock waved at the car just before Calvin closed the door to the house.

“Ass.”
“See, I knew you liked my ass.”
“Oh, brother. Come on. Let’s get you out of that shirt. I’ll find a bucket to soak it in.”
Brock thought better of making a comment about Calvin wanting to get him naked. Since high school and his short-lived career in the minor

leagues he’d let himself go a little. Sure, he was still strong, he had to be for the type of work he did, but he’d lost much of the definition he’d had in
his late teens and early twenties.

“You need a shower.”
“You’re determined to get me naked, aren’t ya?”

Shit!

Why couldn’t he keep his fool mouth shut?

“You’ve got as much chance as Mother Theresa at turning me on tonight. I suggested you take a shower because I don’t particularly want to

share a bed with someone who stinks of puke, whiskey and stale cigarette smoke.”

Brock felt strangely crestfallen.
“And there’s aspirin in the medicine cabinet. I suggest you take some, because you’re going to have one hell of a headache in the morning,

uh,” Calvin consulted his watch, “later today. Jesus, I must have been crazy to get out of my bed to rescue your drunken ass.”

“Sorry.” Brock could feel himself getting emotional, so escaped to where he thought the bathroom was.
“No, dumbass, that’s the fucking hall closet. Here.” Calvin took his arm and guided him to the bathroom. “You can manage from here I’m

sure. Trust me when I say that it has never been a fantasy of mine to hold your limp dick while you piss.”

Brock closed the door—and for good measure—slid the bolt closed.

* * * *

Christ on a pogo stick,

his mouth felt like the inside of a wrestler’s jock strap. And Brock had had some experience with the insides of

wrestler’s jock straps. In high school he used to mess around with a couple of guys on the varsity wrestling team, but it was totally understood it was
just guys getting off when their girls weren’t putting out.

“Oh, God.” Where was he? The room didn’t look familiar.
“You’ll probably need the help of the almighty with the hangover I bet you’re sporting.”
“Huh?” Brock looked up to see, uh, “Calvin?”
“You remembered. Doesn’t always happen with the guys who share my bed.”
Brock didn’t want to think about that. “What time is it?”
“A quarter till ten.”
“What?” Brock shot up. The room swayed. He lay back down again, holding his head.
“I figured you needed your beauty rest, so I let you sleep. And has anyone ever told you that you hog the blankets?”
“My ex-wife.”
That at least earned him a raised eyebrow. “Is that why you’re her ex? She got fed up with being cold at night?”
“No, I divorced her if you want to know.”
This got another raised eyebrow, but Brock wasn’t going to say any more. Mary Ann and he got married only because a condom had split

one time, and when she’d become pregnant, their two daddies had made them both do the right thing.

“How’s the head?”
Brock rubbed the top of his head. “Like a fuckin’ army of jackhammers are at work demolishing the town.”
“Hmm, if only. Say, is Miguel’s on 4

th

and Patterson still in business?”

“Huh?” Brock didn’t understand.
“Miguel’s,” Calvin repeated slowly, like as though Brock were a third grader. “Used to have the best Mexican food this side of the border.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I think they’re still there. Why?”
Calvin gave him an exasperated look. “Because I was going to buy a truck load of drywall from them.”
“What?” Had Hal slipped something into his JD last night?
“Okay, I’ll make it simple. Miguel’s menudo is the best hangover cure I know of. I’m assuming he still sells it?”
“Uh, yeah, I think so.” In truth Brock hadn’t eaten there in years, he couldn’t afford to. He silenced the little voice inside him that told him he

could eat there if he didn’t spend what little money he had on liquor.

“Good, so once you’ve gotten dressed, that’s where we’re headed.
Brock reached for his pants. He doubted he had enough money to…
“My treat. Miguel’s is about the only decent thing in this Podunk town. Your jackhammers are welcome to the rest of it. Oh, I managed to get

the puke out of your shirt, but it’s not dry yet. See if you can find something to wear in my suitcase over there.”

Brock rolled off the air mattress, conscious he was only wearing boxers. Crawling over to an expensive tan leather suitcase, he studied the

closed top. “I ain’t gonna find no gay sex toys or shit like that in here, am I?”

“Do you want to?”

Fuck!

He really shouldn’t tease Calvin like this; he always ended up the worst for it.

Calvin huffed, got on his knees and unzipped the suitcase. Searching through the clothes, he said, “Not much of my stuff will fit you.” He

looked up and gave Brock a close examination, making Brock flush. “Maybe this sweatshirt might be baggy enough. Though in this heat—”

“Thanks, it’ll be fine.” Brock stood up, snatched the offered clothing from Calvin and headed for the door.
“And just so you won’t be embarrassed in being seen out in public wearing a fag’s clothes, we can swing by your house before Miguel’s so

you can change.”

Brock remembered the mess his place was in. “No, its okay, I’ll manage with these.”
Calvin shrugged. “Do you remember where the bathroom is?”
Brock closed the bedroom door without replying.

* * * *

Brock had to admit the menudo was excellent. He could have used a second bowl, but with Calvin paying he…
“Hey, Miguel,” Calvin called out to the over-weight, middle-aged Mexican, “can we have two more bowls?”
“Sure.” The man waddled off and soon returned with a tray. Brock eyed the new bowl hungrily. Amazingly, his appetite had returned.
“You too thin. Need to eat more,” the man said, setting a bowl in front of Calvin. “All that New York Jewish food.” Miguel shook his head and

made a tsking noise with his tongue.

“I know a bistro owner in New York who would sell his grandmother to get his hands on your recipe for menudo.”
Miguel laughed. “What would I need with his grandmother?”
“Sorry, Matthew, I tried,” Calvin said, dipping his spoon into the steaming soup.
Brock was already halfway through his bowl.
Miguel ambled off, muttering something about how he already had enough old ladies in his family to support.
“So,” Calvin asked, “When can you start work on the old homestead?”
Brock swallowed his mouthful of soup. “I haven’t even priced it up yet.”
“I know, but I’ll still choose you, whatever your price.” Calvin’s look had Brock fidgeting in his seat.
Brock knew the guy was only trying to wind him up, and Brock was beginning to realize he’d never get the best of him, so it was better to

ignore his teasing.

“Well, I’d have to look in my workbook, but I think I’ll be able to squeeze you in—”
“Cut the crap.” Suddenly Calvin had turned all stern and businesslike. “I know you’re struggling for work. This town is barely holding its head

above water. Folks don’t have money to have repairs or renovations done. What they can do themselves, they do.”

Ain’t that the truth,

Brock said to himself.

“So let’s make a deal. You give me a fair price and I’ll accept it. You do the work quickly and well, and I’ll throw in a bonus.”
Brock didn’t have a problem with that. He did good work, and, given that he didn’t have anything else on, he could start pretty much

immediately.

“Deal.” He held out his hand to shake on it, just like his daddy had taught him. Something else his daddy had taught him was that you could

learn a lot from how a guy shook your hand. Calvin’s was warm, firm, yet not designed to crush the bones in your hand.

The shake, however, went on for longer than Brock was expecting.
“What’s that on your wrist?” Calvin asked, using his free hand to raise the cuff of Brock’s—or rather his own—sweat shirt.
“Uh,” Brock was getting panicky about two men holding hands in public. He looked down at his wrist and saw something black, granulated,

with irregular edges. The thing was about the size of a quarter. “It’s nothing.”

Calvin touched Brock’s wrist. “When I saw it earlier I thought it was a birthmark, but now—”
That was the last straw; Brock pulled his hand out of Calvin’s.
“I said it’s nothing. I probably caught it on something.”
Calvin eyed him. “Last year my company did a promotional campaign to raise awareness of skin cancer. What you have on your wrist looks

just like a melanoma.”

Brock’s mouth went dry. His daddy had died from liver cancer. Okay, the two weren’t the same, but didn’t cancer run in families?
Meanwhile Calvin was busily pressing buttons on his fancy cell phone. “Here.” He thrust the phone at him. “That’s a picture of a melanoma.”
Brock stared at the image, then at his wrist. He couldn’t deny they looked similar. “It’s nothing,” he bluffed.
“Does it itch?”
Brock could hardly tell him it didn’t, as his question occurred in mid-scratch. “It’s nothing,” he repeated, hiding his wrist under the table.
“The fuck it isn’t.” Calvin’s voice was getting louder. Folks were beginning to stare at them.

“Shh. I’ll go to the doctor’s office in a few days if it doesn’t clear up.”
“You’re going now! This can’t wait. Every hour leaving melanomas untreated can be fatal.”
Way to make him feel better.
Calvin snatched back his phone. “Who’s your doctor? I’m gonna make an appointment right now.”
“No.”
“You’re right. It’d be quicker just to show up. Who are you with?”
“I, uh,” Brock stared down at the remains of his soup, his appetite absent again. “I, uh, don’t have insurance,” he mumbled.
“What?”
“When dad set up the company, he looked into health insurance, but the premiums were too high. He figured whatever we’d have to pay out

for one-off things would be less than the premiums. Only he got sick and—”

Calvin let out a breath. “Okay, we’re going to the emergency room. They have to treat everyone there.”
Brock didn’t want to go; he had hated hospitals ever since his daddy had spent the last months of his life in one, but Calvin wasn’t giving him

any choice.

Calvin called for the check, paid and left the diner, Brock following along behind.

Dead man walking.

* * * *

The ride to the hospital seemed to take an age, but in reality Brock knew it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. He sat quietly as

Calvin drove, Brock’s truck still sitting in the bar’s parking lot. At least Brock assumed it was still there. No one in their right mind would want to steal
the heap of rusting junk. Plus everyone in town knew him—and his truck—so he figured it would still be there later…If there was a later.

Thankfully Calvin stayed quiet during the ride. Brock wasn’t up for much meaningful conversation. At thirty-five he was too young to die; he

still had most of his life ahead of him. And who’d look after Junior? Junior and he were a family and…

Brock hadn’t realized they’d arrived until he felt Calvin taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. It must have been a mark of how spooked he

was because Brock welcomed the reassuring touch; he didn’t automatically pull away or check to see if anyone was watching them.

“It’ll be all right. The key with these things is to catch them early. And you say you don’t remember seeing this lesion before?”
Brock shook his head. He was always getting scraped up, it went with the job, but he couldn’t remember seeing this particular—whatever it

was—before.

“Come on then, pardner, let’s go hustle.” Calvin gave Brock’s hand one final squeeze before letting it go.
Earlier, Brock had found Calvin’s pseudo western talk irritating—even demeaning—but now he knew the man was just trying to cheer him

up.

“Thanks for this. I—”
“S’okay. I couldn’t have you going to the big contractor’s resting place in the sky halfway through your work on the house could I? This is just

me looking after my investment. He gave Brock a reassuring smile to let him know he was joking.

* * * *

The reception area was bustling; medical staff, patients, relatives and their children milled about in what Brock took to be total chaos. Who’d

have thought the place would be this busy at Saturday lunchtime?

Calvin muscled his way to the front desk. “Hello, we need to see a doctor.”
“There’s a line, buddy!” someone behind them called out. Calvin ignored him.
The receptionist kept on typing at her computer.
“Excuse me,” Calvin waved a hand in front of her. “But we need to see a doctor immediately.”
The receptionist looked up, and, with a bored tone Brock knew she must have practiced, said, “You need to join the line.”
“Look, lady, there’s an emergency here, and you need to stop playing solitaire on your computer and register this patient, now!”
“Sir, you need to join the line,” she repeated.
“Calvin, come on, let’s do as she says.” Brock hated that everyone was staring at them.
“I don’t give a flying fuck about your precious line! I need a doctor, now! If his treatment is delayed because we’ve wasted time waiting in

your stupid line, then I’ll sue this hospital, you, your children and your children’s children. By the time I’ve finished, you’ll be lucky to get a job
scrubbing bedpans!”

Brock wanted the floor to open and swallow him up.
“Uh huh.” Sighing, she asked, “What’s the problem with your friend?” She still sounded bored, but this was at least progress.
“He has skin cancer. Melanoma.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s on his wrist.” Before Brock could protest, Calvin had grabbed his arm, raised it, and pulled up his sleeve.
She took an uninterested look at it. “Go to the end of the line.” Turning to the next person she said, “Yes, can I help you?”
“This is not acceptable. I demand to see your supervisor! We’re not moving from this spot until we get some treatment here!”
“Calvin! Stop it!” Brock started to move away, but Calvin grabbed him.
Fortunately a doctor showed up just then. “Is there a problem here?”
“You could say that. This…this woman refuses to book my friend in, he’s got skin cancer and he needs urgent treatment.”
“Okay,” the obviously overworked doctor said. “Come through here and I’ll take a look.”
Despite the embarrassment, Brock was grateful for Calvin’s pushy attitude. He followed the white coat across the hallway and between a

pair of curtains.

“Take a seat, Mister…?”
“Brockwell,” Calvin answered, following them through the curtains.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but would you please go to the desk and fill in the forms to register Mr. Brockwell, and then wait out there until—”
“No, I want him to stay with me.” Brock didn’t care how pathetic or needful that made him sound.
“Okay, let’s take a look. Your wrist did you say?”
“Yes, doctor,” Calvin put in. “The right one.”
The doctor shot Calvin a look of exasperation, but Calvin hardly seemed to notice.
Brock rolled up his sleeve. The doctor put on a pair of latex gloves, and picked up Brock’s hand to examine it.

“When did you first notice this?” the doctor shot Calvin a glare that kept him silent, for the moment at least.
“This morning. We were having brunch, Calvin noticed my wrist, he showed me a picture on his phone and—”
Calvin got out his cell. “Here, look. Classic melanoma. It could be a photograph of Brock’s wrist.”
The doctor took a brief glance at the screen, and then returned his attention to Brock’s wrist.

* * * *

Storming out of the curtained exam room, Calvin’s left elbow securely held in his right hand, Brock pushed through the crowd ahead of them.

He didn’t know which emotion he felt the strongest. Anger, relief or…lust. Propelling Calvin through a door into a bathroom, Brock made for the
handicapped stall. He slammed the door behind them and flipped the lock. Whirling round to face a shocked-looking Calvin, Brock launched
himself at the man and crushed their mouths together in a savage kiss.

Brock felt the man opening his lips, accepting Brock’s tongue, and then thrusting back with his own. Someone was whimpering, Brock didn’t

know—or care—who it was.

Finally running out of air, Brock disengaged. Panting, they both looked at each other. Calvin’s lips were swollen; Brock bet his were in a

similar state.

“A scab. A fucking scab!” Brock shouted, the noise echoing off the walls of the stall.
“Yeah. Who knew they could look so like melanoma.”
“You…I—” Brock couldn’t organize his thoughts. “I thought I was dying.”
“Yeah. I did, too. Honestly, it looked just like—”
Brock silenced him with another kiss, this one less crazed, more…thoughtful…more meaningful.
“I know,” Brock said when they separated, but not by much. Brock could feel Calvin’s breath on his face.
“When the doctor took that bar of soap and lathered up that gauze swab and then rubbed it on your wrist, I thought I was going to explode. I

mean, what kind of quack cure was he trying to pull?”

“Yeah. But when he explained that if the thing flaked off like that—”
“I know. Sorry, man. Sorry for over-reacting like I did.”
Brock stared deep into Calvin’s eyes. He hadn’t noticed before what a deep shade of green they were. Suddenly Brock needed the guy,

needed to tell him—show him—just how grateful he was for caring, for being willing to step up to bat for him. Brock didn’t know of anyone else who
would have. Before he could change his mind, Brock sank to his knees and was pulling at Calvin’s zipper.

“What are you doing?”
Brock didn’t reply. If Calvin didn’t know now, he soon would. Zipper down, Brock reached inside and, after pulling aside the black silk boxers

—something he’d have to rag Calvin about later—Brock pulled out the guy’s dick. It wasn’t easy as it was an impressive size, and hard as iron.

Licking the exposed crown a couple of times, Brock captured a pearl of juice. The flavor exploded on his tongue, but Brock didn’t have time

to savor; he had to get to the main event. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed Calvin to the root.

“Jesus!” Calvin moaned, putting his hands gently on either side of Brock’s head.
This would not be the most finessed blowjob he’d ever given, but Brock tried to put all he was feeling into it, as he knew he’d not be able to

put it into words. Calvin had believed in him, hadn’t listened to his bullshit about being okay. Instead he’d taken charge of everything, marched him
to the ER and demanded they get treatment. Sure, it’d been embarrassing as hell standing at the desk, but secretly Brock had admired Calvin for
standing up for what he believed in, sticking up for him.

“Oh, God!” Calvin groaned when Brock started to hum around the head of Calvin’s dick. “Not gonna last long.”
That was the idea. This hard floor was hell on Brock’s knees.
Pulling off a little to take a breath, Brock put his tongue to work by rolling it around Calvin’s shaft.
“Jesus, man.”
Brock redoubled his efforts to make it good for Calvin.
“Oh, man, gonna…gonna…!”
Brock felt his mouth fill with warm pungent sweetness. Levering himself up with the aid of the toilet seat, he stood.
“Wow. I—”
Brock silenced him with a kiss, feeding Calvin’s seed back to him. They swapped spit for a minute or so, before the enormity of what he had

just done began to dawn on Brock.

“I sure wasn’t expecting anything like that,” Calvin said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.
Brock froze when he heard the outer door open and close. Footsteps echoed in the tiled room, then came the sound of a stall door being

latched. Suddenly the stall he was in felt too small, the lights too bright, the smell of disinfectant too strong. What had he done?

With shaking fingers, Brock unlatched the door and fled. This should have been about saying thank you to Calvin, but his good intentions

were crowded out by images of other blowjobs given—and received—in other bathroom stalls. Those had all been about getting off, relieving an
urge. Brock felt cheap…dirty.

Chapter 3

“Brock?” Calvin stared after the man as he ran out of the bathroom stall. He heard the outer door being wrenched open and then slammed

closed.

Well, I’ve heard of wham, bam, thank you, man, but this is ridiculous.

Then Calvin realized his soft—and still damp—dick was hanging out of his pants. Tucking himself back in, he went to the row of sinks,

washed his hands, dried them, and slowly made his way out of the bathroom. He felt strangely depressed. He guessed he should have expected
Brock to get an attack of

What the hell have I done.

Emerging from the ER exit, Calvin blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to the bright sunlight. Turning right and walking along the sidewalk, he

remembered they’d come in his car, Brock’s truck still being at the bar. Despite feeling jilted, Calvin worried how Brock would get home. However,
on approaching his car he saw Brock leaning against it. Normally Calvin’s first thought would have been about possible damage to his paint job, but
instead he felt relieved that the guy hadn’t run away completely.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Brock mumbled, scuffing the toe of his cowboy boot on the asphalt.
“Okay.” Calvin wanted to say more, but knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere.
“Would you drive me to the bar so I can pick up my truck?” Brock still wouldn’t meet Calvin’s eyes.
“Sure, no problem.”
They both got in the car; even KITT’s usual greeting failed to improve either of their moods.

* * * *

The ride to the bar was made in complete silence. Calvin thought about turning on the radio, but given his current luck they’d probably be

playing

Stand By Your Man

on the country station, or there’d be some asshole preacher ranting on about sin and damnation on the religious

station. So his hands remained on the wheel. He slid the occasional glance over to Brock, whose expression stayed closed-off and unreadable.

Pulling up in the bar’s almost empty parking lot, Calvin shut off the engine, but Brock made no move to get out. They sat in silence.
“Thanks,” Brock eventually said, “you know…for today.”
“No problem.”
“My daddy died in that hospital.” Brock’s voice cracked.
“I’m sorry.” Calvin wanted to reach out and at least touch the guy, but was pretty sure the gesture wouldn’t have been welcomed.
Brock let out a breath and ran a hand over his face. With the engine off, the temperature inside the car was starting to rise.
“What did he die of?” Calvin asked when it looked as though the conversation had stalled.
“Cancer.”
Calvin winced. It made him feel even more of a fool for his over-reaction about Brock’s supposed melanoma.
“The doctors gave him three months. He

lived

—if you could call it living—for nearly seven.”

“Shit.”
“There was this medicine that the doctors said might give him extra time. Daddy didn’t want any of it, said they should just take him out to the

corral and shoot him,” Brock laughed humorlessly, “but I had to try anything that’d keep him alive, you know?” Brock turned an anguished gaze to
Calvin.

“Yeah. I’d have done the same.” Even though they weren’t especially close, Calvin shuddered at the thought of losing his own father.
“But all it did was prolong his agony, as well as stack up some fuckin’ huge hospital bills.”
“Ah.” Calvin remembered they didn’t have health insurance.
Brock slammed the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. Then he brought both hands to his face. Calvin could see the man’s shoulders

shaking. He ached to comfort Brock, but they were in a public place in Podunkville, and the site of two men hugging—no matter the circumstances
—would probably get both their asses handed to them on a plate.

“I’m real sorry, Brock. Your daddy was a good man.” Calvin handed him the last of the Kleenex.
“Thanks.” Brock sniffed. “Shouldn’t cry. Men don’t cry.”
“One thing my own daddy taught me is that a real man is one who can cry in front of another man. So you go ahead and cry if you need to,

and I won’t judge you.”

“Thanks.”
Brock took a few minutes to compose himself.
“Feel better now?”
Brock nodded and settled lower in his seat. “I’m sorry.”
Calvin shook his head. Strangely reluctant to let Brock leave, but knowing he couldn’t keep him any longer, Calvin let out a breath and said,

“Well, I guess you’d better go and start pricing up materials.”

Brock looked at him. “You still want me? Even after I freaked out like I did?”
“I thought we agreed not to talk about that.” Calvin sure wanted to, but…
“Thanks, man.” Brock’s smile did something to Calvin’s insides that he wasn’t willing to examine too closely.
“Go on. Git. Give me a call when you’re ready to start work. And in the meantime I’ll press your shirt.”
“You’d make someone a great housewife.”
“Fuck off.”

* * * *

Brock’s talking about his daddy made Calvin conscious of the fact that he hadn’t spoken with his folks for a couple of days. At a stoplight

Calvin got out the Bluetooth earpiece, pressed the button, said, “Mom and dad,” and the phone did the rest.

“Calvin, honey,” his mom said when he’d identified himself.
“Just thought I’d call…you know…to see if you two were doing okay.” The light turned green and Calvin eased forward.
“Uh, yes. Your father and I are both well.”
They spent a couple of minutes discussing the weather, how they were all settling in, and so on. Calvin could tell his mother was surprised to

hear from him. Rarely did he call just to chat.

“Have you two made any friends down there?”

“Yes, we’ve been invited out to a bridge game at the country club as a matter of fact.”
Reluctantly, Calvin said, “Sorry. If you need to go I can—”
“Nonsense. It’s not for a couple hours yet.”
“How’s dad? Any more chest pains?”
“No, and we got him registered with a good heart doctor here. He’s from Pakistan, but his English is very good.”
Calvin barked out a laugh. “Is Dad there?” Despite the reassurances his mom had given, Calvin needed to talk to the man himself.
“Sure, he’s right here. Just a minute.”
By this point Calvin had arrived home, but stayed in his car to continue the call.
“Calvin,” his dad rumbled into the phone. “This is a nice surprise. There’s nothing wrong is there? You’re all right? There’s nothing wrong with

the house?”

Something eased inside Calvin. “No, Dad, everything’s just fine.”
“Did you choose a Realtor yet?” I don’t trust Perkins on 5

th

and Vine. They screwed Bill Heggerty when he sold up last year.”

“No, Dad, I haven’t picked anyone yet. I promise I won’t use Perkins. I’ve asked a contractor to do a bit of renovation first. It’ll help sell the

place.”

Calvin half-expected his dad to say that the house was fine and didn’t need fixing up. Therefore it came as quite a surprise when he said,

“Good idea. But then you would know about things like that, you being a smart New York executive.” There was obvious pride in the man’s voice.

“I don’t know about that.” Calvin could take praise from anyone in stride, except when it came from his daddy. Then he always became

uncomfortable and strangely shy. “I asked Brock…uh, John Brockwell to come over yesterday to give me some advice.”

“He’s a good man. His daddy was, too. Too bad about what happened to him.”
“Yeah, Brock was telling me this morning about that.”
“Oh, you saw him again today?”
No way was Calvin going to tell his father he’d spent the night—albeit platonically—with Brock.
“I’m glad we could put some work his way.” His daddy rumbled, “I know it can’t be easy for him and John, Jr.”
“John, Jr? That’s who I spoke to.” Had his daddy forgotten what he’d said earlier about the elder Brockwell dying?
“He’s at baseball camp, isn’t he?”
“What?” Calvin’s confusion increased. As did his worries about his daddy’s state of mind.
“Oh, I think I understand now,” his daddy chuckled. “John, Sr. died last fall.”
“Yeah.”
“So John, Jr., the boy you were in the same grade at school with, is John Brockwell, Sr., now.”
“Uh, I suppose.
“And his son is now John Brockwell, Jr.”

Brock has a son?

Calvin was stunned, but then he remembered Brock saying he’d been married. “Oh, I see.” Calvin felt strangely deflated,

though why, he wasn’t sure. He bet Brock was a great dad.

“Anyway, son, I’m glad you hired Brockwells. John, Jr., uh, I mean John, Sr. will do a good job. His daddy taught him well.”
“Uh, yeah.” Calvin was still getting used to the idea of there being a junior version of Brock running around.
“Well, son, I better go now. These long-distance calls are expensive, and I know you’ll be busy, so—”
Calvin didn’t bother trying to explain, yet again, that he had unlimited long-distance. And the comment about being busy was reasonable

given that on the few times he’d called his parents, he’d cut things off after a few minutes because he’d run out of things to say. He’d usually use the
excuse that he had a meeting or a presentation to attend.

“Okay, Dad. Good talking with you.”
“You, too, son.”
“I…I love you, Mom, too.”
There was a slight pause at the other end. Calvin was beginning to think the connection had been dropped.
“Thank you, son. We love you, too.” Was his daddy’s voice more gravelly than usual? “Bye, son.”
“Bye, Dad. You take care now, ya hear?” Calvin pressed “End,” closed his eyes and laid his head back on the headrest.
A few moments later a knock on the driver’s window had Calvin jerking alert. It was the mailman. Calvin rolled down the window.
“Mr. Hamilton?”
“Yes?” Why didn’t the guy just put the letters in the mailbox?
“Heard you were back in town.”
Was this a statement or a question? Calvin said nothing.
“You’re selling up your folks place ‘cause they’ve moved to Florida.”

What does this guy want?

Calvin asked himself. “Yes.”

“Heard you’d asked John Brockwell to help you fix the place up.”
“Oh? And who told you that?” He’d only made the deal a couple hours ago.
“Well, my cousin Alice, she was havin’ brunch at Miguel’s diner, an’ she saw you an’ Brock eatin’ there an’—”
“And down here two people eating together translates into one of them doing work for the other?” Calvin crossed his arms over his chest

and tried to stay calm.

“Well, uh, she said you two shook and it looked like it was on a deal and—”
“Do you have any letters for me?” Calvin interrupted him; he’d had enough.
“Not for you…they’re for your folks.” The guy handed them through the open window.
Calvin was half-expecting the mailman to tell him the contents of the still sealed letters. “Thank you.” The first thing he’d do the next morning

would be to set up a mail redirect.

“Brock will do a good job for you.”
“I think so, too.”
“Reckon this ole place will need a fair bit of fixin’ up,” the man said, surveying the front of the house.
“Reckon so.” Calvin wasn’t giving him any further information.
“It’s just Brock an’ his kid, and work’s hard to come by nowadays, so Brock’ll sure appreciate the work you’re sendin’ his way.”
Calvin pressed the button to wind up the window. He got out of his car, and shut and locked the door. Turning to face the mailman, he was

about to dismiss him, when the man stuck out his hand.

“Thank you.”
“Huh?” Calvin automatically took the guy’s hand and shook it.
“It hasn’t been easy for those two these past few months. No one seems to have any money hereabouts, and I know Brock’s found it hard to

provide for his boy, ‘specially since the hospital went after him an’ the business for their money.”

“Uh, yeah.”
Calvin was reminded again why he hated small town life. Everybody knew everybody else’s business. Still, he was forced to conclude, they

seemed to look out for others, which couldn’t be all bad.

“You let me know if there’s anything I can help you with while you’re in town. Name’s Tommy. Tommy Perkins. My son owns the Realtors on

5

th

and Vine.”

Ah!

Calvin thought. “I will, and thank you.”

* * * *

After dropping the letters on the hall table, Calvin went into the bathroom to check on Brock’s shirt that he’d put on a hanger over the tub. The

shirt was dry, but incredibly wrinkled. The stain had come out at least. He toyed with the idea of taking it to the dry cleaners; they would at least
press it correctly. Calvin hated ironing. Feeling the soft blue silk gave Calvin a hard on. He had to admit Brock had looked hot in the thing.

Before he could talk himself out of the idea, Calvin had stripped off his T-shirt and was putting his arms through the sleeves of Brock’s shirt.

Doing up the pearl snaps, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the medicine cabinet.

“Get off your horse and drink your milk!” he drawled, and felt only a little stupid. But there was no one around to see him make a fool of

himself.

Brock’s Resistol!

Calvin remembered Brock wearing it out to the car; he knew he hadn’t worn it in Miguel’s or inside the hospital. He couldn’t

remember seeing him wearing it as he walked across the bar’s parking lot. “Could it still be—?”

Calvin briskly walked into the kitchen, snatched up the keys to the Pontiac and dashed outside. Sure enough, the Resistol was on the

floorboards behind the passenger’s seat.

Placing the hat on his head, Calvin admired himself in the door mirror. “Hoo yeah!”
He took a look around; thankfully no one had seen him. Not that he really cared anyway.
Despite Brock’s excellent—if hurried—blowjob of a couple hours earlier, Calvin felt himself getting aroused. This was aided by the soft silk

caressing his naked chest. The shirt was too big for him, but that just meant greater movement of material rubbing him.

The only mirror in the house was in the bathroom. Calvin tried to adopt various expressions; neither smiles nor grimaces seemed to fit.

However, a mean and determined look hit the spot nicely.

Growing uncomfortable in his boxers, Calvin fished out his hard sex and—still looking at himself—began to jerk off. Images of cowboys in

western movies he’d seen, or books he’d read filled his mind. However, his thoughts always returned to Brock. Brock standing tall, proud, and drop-
dead sexy in the doorway the previous day when he’d come to see the house. Brock sleeping in the bed next to him, vulnerable and needing
comfort. Brock on his knees in front of him, giving a blowjob. Fuck, that had been a surprise. Calvin had half expected the cowboy to knock him on
his ass for all that shit about skin cancer.

“Oh, yeah!” Calvin tightened his grip.
Brock’s mouth had been positively sinful in the pleasures it had teased out of Calvin’s dick. Calvin closed his eyes and leaned further back

on the toilet seat, all the while pumping his meat. The way Brock had hummed on his cock head, the way his talented tongue had caressed his
shaft. The level of suction had been just right, and the sound of his slick member being vacuumed into that heavenly moist cavern.

“Oh, Christ!”
No way had Calvin’s had been the first dick Brock had sucked. The knowledge that there had been others before him was not something

Calvin wanted to think about. So he changed tack and began to fantasize about Brock on his back, legs in skin-tight leather chaps with silver
fringes bent above his chest, Calvin fucking his tight cowboy ass, deep and hard. Brock on a horse, the dying sunlight behind him.

“God, yes,” Calvin moaned. He liked that picture.
But what about being on the horse with Brock, Calvin’s arms tightly holding Brock as Brock expertly spurred the horse onward?
“Ride ‘em cowboy!” Calvin shouted.
Feeling he was approaching climax too soon, Calvin loosened his grip and slowed his stroking. He opened his eyes and looked at himself

in the mirror. Despite the clothing, Calvin knew he was no cowboy. But even without the hat and fancy western shirt, Brock was every inch the lone-
riding westerner.

Calvin realized it was better to go sit on the john, close his eyes and return to his fantasy images rather than be reliant on his own reflection.

Gary Cooper came to mind, but this only returned Calvin to Brock. There was only a passing resemblance between the two men, but calling Brock
by that name always gave Calvin a bit of a thrill. Gary Cooper had been sexy, hot

and so fuckin’ beautiful.

Redoubling his efforts on his dick, Calvin returned to the idea of him and Brock on horseback, galloping through the now moonlit night. The

motion of the horse rubbing Calvin’s dick against Brock’s Wrangler-clad ass. Brock had to know Calvin was hard as iron…wet iron. The tip of his
cock was leaking a steady stream of pre-cum into his boxers.

“Hold on!” Brock shouted as the horse vaulted a high fence that suddenly loomed up from out of the darkness.
Calvin tightened his grip around Brock, feeling his firm chest and slightly softer belly.

All the more to hold onto,

Calvin thought, pressing

himself against Brock’s firm, wide, strong back.

After safely negotiating the fence, Brock reined in the horse and brought it to a halt at a clearing. Moonlight reflected from the surface of a

lake to their left. Brock dismounted and beckoned for Calvin to do the same.

“Come on, darlin’ I won’t let ya fall.”
Calvin, who, even in his fantasy knew he was no horseman, gingerly swung his right leg over the cantle. Taking a deep breath, he slid down

between the horse and Brock’s tall—oh, so tall—body. The sliding friction, mimicked by Calvin shifting lower on the toilet was the final straw. Two
things happened almost simultaneously: semen erupted from Calvin’s dick, and the plastic toilet seat beneath him let out a loud crack and Calvin
fell sideways to the tiled floor.

“Shit!”
Calvin lay for a moment, winded. Then—recognizing the absurdity of the situation and realizing he was unharmed—began to laugh. This

increased when he noticed that the front of Brock’s shirt was covered in come.

Eventually reality started to creep back in. He was on the floor of the bathroom of his parents’ old house, leaning back against the side of the

bathtub, a cowboy hat upside down inside the tub.

Standing, rubbing his sore hip, Calvin retrieved Brock’s hat, thankful it was undamaged.
Contemplating the idea of soaking the shirt once again, Calvin decided a trip to the dry cleaners was a better option.

* * * *

Calvin thought it wise to take Brock’s shirt—plus a few things of his own that needed cleaning—to somewhere beyond the Parish Creek

town limits. For all he knew the true owner of the shirt and its stains would be recognized, and, before the chemicals had started to work the news
would be all round the town. Calvin doubted Brock was out. “Hell, he’s probably not even out to himself,” Calvin said before instructing KITT to find
him the second-closest dry cleaners.

The Asian lady behind the counter had trouble understanding that Calvin wanted their two-hour clean, not the next day service.
“Too late. Need for nine o-clock for two hours.”
“What, I have to bring in my cleaning by nine if I want it cleaned within two hours?”
She nodded and smiled. “Not time now.”
Calvin looked at his watch. It was 2:45pm. “What time do you close?”
She seemed to think about this. “Not seven. And not six.”
“Six thirty?”
She nodded and smiled. Calvin had to admit she was pleasant, only the language barrier was adding grit to the wheels of commerce.
“But if it takes only two hours to clean, I could pick up before 6:30.”
“No, tomorrow. And is cheaper. Only one dollar forty-nine each. Is two dollar ten cent for two hours.”
“But I don’t mind paying extra.” Calvin even got out his wallet and started counting out bills.
“No, too late. No time today.”
Calvin persisted, even at one point asking her to bring out one of the people he could hear in the back room, but not even that—and the offer

of the extra money—would persuade them.

One of the ladies in the back—whose English was marginally better than the one at the counter—managed to convey to Calvin that although

the store itself stayed open until 6:30 the back room cleaning staff finished at 4pm.

So Calvin handed over two cotton dress shirts of his own, Brock’s silk shirt, and a pair of khakis, and told the lady he would collect them in

the morning.

The lady gave him a ticket and said, “Bye till morning.”
“Tomorrow,” Calvin smiled wearily, heading for the door. He doubted he’d see Brock that night, so his efforts at a speedier service had been

in vain anyway.

* * * *

There was a Whole Foods on the next block, so Calvin decided to do some much-needed grocery shopping. The cashier and the bag boy

seemed overly chatty, but Calvin was able to keep the conversation to safe and banal topics.

Groceries—including a few cartons of frozen yogurt—safely stowed in the trunk, Calvin started back to Parish Creek.
“Shit,” he said out loud. “I forgot to get a new seat for the john.”
Knowing the frozen items wouldn’t stay frozen if he paid a visit to a home-improvement store, Calvin determined he’d manage the best he

could for the rest of the day and pick up a new seat when he went to collect his dry cleaning.

* * * *

Calvin spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening catching up on business. The office could run itself, he and Tim had hired excellent

and capable staff, but there were several things only he could attend to. One of them was the pending decision about whether to pursue the Jenkins
account. Calvin read the email from Tim, who seemed to be edging away from the idea. Calvin wrinkled his brow and decided he better give Tim a
call. Even though Calvin was an hour behind New York time, he knew Tim would still be at the office.

“Howdy, Cal!” his business partner said. Tim was the only one who could get away with using the short version of Calvin’s name.
“Just thought I’d check in. You, Felicity and Maggie are okay?”
“Yes, we’re all fine. And you? Ridden any broncos yet?”
“Uh, no.” Calvin had come to realize Tim’s views of anything south of the Mason-Dixon Line had been gained mainly from Hollywood movies.

“Just trying to get the folks’ place ready for sale. I’d forgotten how much slower things run down here.”

They chit-chatted about inconsequentials for a few minutes before Calvin got to his point. “Listen, I don’t understand your objections to us

taking over the Jenkins account.”

“Wow, the South must have started to seep into your veins. The Cal I knew here in New York would have started the conversation with that

statement even before I’d had a chance to say ‘hello.’”

“Fuck off.”
“No, seriously. Something’s changed with you. What is it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Tim stayed silent. The bastard knew exactly how to get Calvin talking.
“Well…there’s this contractor who’s really struggling to find work, so I—”.
“Oh, shit! You’ve found another lost puppy.”
“What? No. Like I said, Brock’s just a contractor.”
“And he’s struggling to find work, so you thought you’d do your white knight thing.”
Calvin found himself squirming. “It’s not that bad. This place needs work before I put it on the market.”
“And?”
“And the recession has hit pretty hard here.” Calvin recalled all the boarded-up storefronts in town.
“And?”
“Your needle stuck on that word, is it?”
Tim sighed. “This Brock guy wouldn’t happen to be handsome would he?”

“I don’t think he’s your type.”
“I’m a happily married heterosexual man. Guys aren’t my type.”
“You once said you would jump the fence for Bruce Springsteen.”
Tim laughed. “The Boss is the only exception to my straightness. And Cal, stop trying to evade the question.”
“I’m sorry, what was the question again?” This was Calvin’s last hope, wearing Tim down enough so he’d drop the subject.
Tim sighed, but stayed quiet.
“Okay!” Calvin knew he was sunk. “Yes, Brock is handsome.”

Fucking beautiful,

he silently added.

“And have you had sex with him?”
“For a straight man you’ve got quite an interest in gay sex.”
“So you have had sex with him,” Tim concluded.
“Well…Bill Clinton wouldn’t count it as sex.”
“Oh, Cal!” So much disapproval, regret and love was crammed into those two syllables. “It’s Roger all over again.”
“Brock is not Roger. And I’m not in love with Brock.”
“You said you weren’t in love with Roger, either. But his departure—after getting thousands of dollars out of you—still resulted in you moping

around the place for weeks.”

“Like I said, Brock isn’t Roger. I knew Brock in high school and couldn’t stand the sight of him.”
“And now he’s handsome.”
“Shut up.” Calvin had begun pacing the house’s central hallway, a sure sign he was nervous. “All I’ve done is offer him the contract for

renovating this place.”

“And blown him.”
“He blew me if you want to know. Took me in the bathroom at the hospital.” Calvin’s voice was rising in volume. “And within a couple minutes

I was shooting gallons of come down his throat.”

“If you’re trying to gross me out, Cal, it won’t work. I love you. I’m concerned for you. That’s why I’m saying all of this.”
“I know. Sorry.” Calvin stopped pacing.
“It’s just, when you find one of these ‘lost puppies,’ you—”
“We’ve found some good employees that way. And the student sponsor scheme has been an almost universal success.”
“Yeah, I’ll give you that, it has.”
For the past few years their company had given out a small number of partial and full-ride scholarships to college students in exchange for

their agreeing to work with the company for a set number of years after graduation.

“But it’s the emotional cost on you when you get attached to these lost puppies and they can’t—or won’t—return your feelings. That’s what

concerns me.”

Calvin sighed. “There’s nothing between Brock and me.”
“Yet.”
“Tim. Enough of you playing my Jewish mother. Now what about us and the Jenkins account? You remember what we agreed last month.”
“You agreed, I still had reservations.”
They talked the issue over for another ten minutes, Calvin wanting to move forward, Tim dragging his heels.
“The recession is beginning to bite. We will lose some clients when they go under. The Tilbury account is particularly shaky.” Calvin had

begun pacing again.

“Yeah. But can we take on something so big? Will we be over-reaching ourselves?”
“Look, schedule a meeting between our people and their people for next week so we can hammer out exactly what they need and—”
“You’ll still be in Texas won’t you?”
“Yeah. You’ll have to handle it. Sorry. If—after meeting them—you think it’s not a good fit for us, then I’ll back your decision.”
They talked a minute or so longer, but finally settled on Calvin’s compromise.
“Well, I better let you go. No doubt you have a hot date planned with your Brock.”
“He is not

my

Brock, and all I plan to do this evening is more work then get to bed. I’ve been neglecting my running lately, so I want to get an

early start in the morning before the heat.”

“Sounds so romantic.”
“Not everyone can live the American dream of a spouse, kid, dog and house with a white picket fence.”
“It’s two kids, and we don’t have a white picket fence,” Tim protested.
Calvin just rolled his eyes. “Say goodnight, Gracie.”
“Oh, God, now he’s quoting old TV shows at me.”
“At least it wasn’t lyrics from a Broadway show.”
“True. But please, Cal, keep yourself safe. And I don’t just mean condoms.”
Calvin was touched by Tim’s concern. “I promise. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Calvin hung up, sighed, walked into the kitchen, snagged a bottle of beer and carried it onto the screened-in porch.

* * * *

Rubbing at his gritty eyes, Calvin glanced down at the clock on his laptop. 10:17 pm. He decided he’d done enough for the day.

Remembering his promise to himself to go for a run the next morning, Calvin shut down the laptop, took it inside and put it back on Charge. Then
after kicking off his sneakers, he pulled off his clothes, dropped them on the floor by his airbed, and padded into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later he was showered and climbing into bed, but soon discovered he couldn’t sleep. Images of the day floated across his

mind, most of them involving Brock, either real or imagined.

“Shit!” Calvin rolled over and grabbed the pillow next to his.

Brock’s pillow,

the little voice in his head said. Calvin told it to shut up.

Fifteen minutes ticked slowly by, and Calvin was still as awake as when he went to bed.
“Oh, fuck it.”
Calvin got up, went into the bathroom, and opened the medicine cabinet. Breaking an Ambien in two, he returned one piece to the bottle,

and swallowed the other half with some water. Deciding he might as well take a piss while he was there, and feeling a little sleepy, he opted to sit

rather than stand. But as soon as he put his full weight on the seat, it pitched sideways.

“Fucking hell!”
A now fully awake—and slightly bruised—Calvin returned to his bed. Getting out a paperback, Calvin propped himself up as best he could

with pillows and decided to read until the pill kicked back in.

Chapter 4

Brock sighed. It was too fuckin’ warm, but he couldn’t afford to switch on the window AC units.

So take off the sweatshirt, dumbass!

the voice in his head told him.

Reluctantly Brock raised the hem of the garment and pulled it over his head. Immediately he felt cooler, as what air there was drifting through

the house caressed his naked chest. Folding Calvin’s sweatshirt over the back of a kitchen chair, Brock eyed the pile of dirty dishes with distaste,
but knew he couldn’t put off the unpleasant chore any longer.

Turning on the faucet, Brock waited until the water started to run hot. Adding dish soap, he began to scale the mountain.
The phone in the hallway rang. Fearing it would be the hospital’s debt collectors, Brock paused, hands still in the sudsy water.

Or maybe it’s Calvin,

the annoying voice announced.

Brock dried his hands and went to get the phone before the answering machine had a chance to kick in.
“Dad!” Junior said before Brock could speak.
“Hey, Champ. You having a good time?”
“It’s awesome!” Brock had to move the phone an inch or so away from his ear.
“You won’t want to come home when it’s over, eh?”
The line went quiet. “I am having a good time, but I’m really missing you.”
“That’s good to hear, son.” Brock had to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. “’Cause I’m missing you one hell…uh, heck of a lot,

too.”

Junior laughed. “Hey, Dad, guess what?”
Brock smiled. “What?”
“Guess.”
Laughing, Brock said, “You got signed by a scout from a major league team?”
“Ha! No, I pitched a one-hitter today.”
“That’s my boy!” Brock’s chest swelled with pride.
“And that’s not all.”
“Oh?” Brock went back into the kitchen and rested his butt against the countertop.
“In the last inning today I got a double and drove in two runs.”
“Hooboy! That’s fantastic.”
“You really think so?” Junior sounded a little unsure.
“Hell…heck, yeah. I’m real proud of you, son. Maybe I should start callin’ you ‘Slugger’ instead of ‘Champ’.”
Junior giggled.
“Wish I could have been there to see you play.”
“Yeah, me, too. I miss you.”
“Miss you, too, Junior.” Feeling the conversation was getting too downbeat, Brock said, “I got a big contract today.” He pushed himself away

from the counter and reached into the fridge for a drink.

“Yeah?” Junior sounded brighter.
“You remember Vice Principle Hamilton?” Brock popped the tab on the can.
“He once gave me detention for punching Ronnie Halsop.”
“I remember. You were trying to protect a freshman.”
“Yeah.”
Brock had been called to the middle school where he’d been told his son had indeed punched another student. Junior hadn’t challenged

this, and had told the vice principal and Brock he’d done it in order to defend a smaller kid who was being bullied, and added that, if it happened
again he’d punch the bully a second time. It was something Brock wished he’d had the courage to do when he’d been in school.

“Mr. Hamilton knew that, which was why you only got an hour’s detention instead of a week’s suspension.”
“Guess so.”
Brock took a long swallow of his drink and burped softly. He rubbed the cold can against his naked chest.
“But getting back to what I was saying. Mr. Hamilton has taken early retirement and—”
“What are you drinking?” Junior asked, tension obvious in his voice.
“Soda.”
“M’ kay.”
Brock knew Junior was concerned he had been drinking beer. His alcohol consumption was the only major bone of contention between

them. Brock—wanting to keep the peace—rarely drank in front of his son.

“What about Mr. Hamilton?” Junior asked.
Brock explained about how he’d got a call from Calvin, and how his folks were selling their house, and that he’d been given the contract to fix

up the place before it went on the market.

“You’ll still be able to come to the game on Friday, won’t you?”
Brock hoped Calvin would understand if he took the day off, or maybe it’d be better to wait until the following week before starting. “Wouldn’t

miss it for the world, Champ.”

“Thanks. Glad you’ve got some work.”
Brock had kept most of his financial worries to himself, but Junior was a smart kid, and knew they weren’t in the best financial shape. Thank

God Mary Anne’s folks had agreed to pay for Junior’s camp this year.

“We’ll be okay, you an’ me. We’re a team.” Brock crushed the now empty can in his free hand and tossed it in the overflowing trashcan.
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, Champ.”

* * * *

Before Brock knew it, it was 4pm. He hadn’t managed to gather all the figures he wanted from the trade catalogs. There was nothing for it;

he’d have to go online to check the rest. When he’d been in high school there were precious few computers, and the Internet hadn’t existed. Junior
had shown Brock the basics, and although he’d forgotten much of what his son had taught him, Brock was reasonably sure he could get the
information he needed without too much difficulty. The only trouble was Junior had taken his laptop to camp with him, so Brock had to go to the
library to use theirs.

“At least they’ll have air conditioning,” Brock said, going in search of a T-shirt.

* * * *

The library did have air conditioning, but unfortunately it wasn’t working.
“Oh, John,” Miss Aldridge, the elderly librarian twittered when he entered. “It’s you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Brock said, taking off his old black Stetson. He hadn’t been able to find his Resistol when leaving the house.
Fanning herself with a magazine, she said, “Our air has stopped working. Do you think you could take a look at it?”
“Well, I’m not sure.” Brock looked up at the wall vent, thinking of possible law suits if he did something wrong. He had fixed window AC units,

but he didn’t know squat about central air.

Miss Aldridge had been his English teacher in high school and now, Brock assumed, to try and keep active, volunteered at the library.

Looking at her lined and wrinkled face Brock mused that she must be at least eighty now.

“Oh, dear.” She looked disappointedly at him.
Brock shuffled his feet. “Have you called the air-conditioning company?”
“Yes, but they said they couldn’t send anyone until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest.”
Brock sighed. He’d never been able to say ‘no’ to this woman, something he knew she was counting on. “I guess I could take a look, but I

can’t promise I’ll be able to fix it.”

Her old face lit up. “Oh, thank you, John, That’s very kind of you. You’ve grown up so much since high school.”
Brock winced. Trust Miss Aldridge to be able to issue a compliment and a rebuke in the same statement.
As he was led in back, Miss Aldridge said, “I understand you’re helping Calvin Hamilton renovate his family’s house.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brock had long ago ceased to marvel at how quickly news traveled in the town.
“That’s good of you. Especially as you two were not exactly friends years ago.”
“No, ma’am.” Brock tried to keep his face neutral.
“Well, here we are,” she said, opening a nondescript door. “I’m sure I don’t know what has happened. We’re always so careful with it, just

setting the controls like the man showed us.” Always prim and starched, Miss Aldridge looked as though the heat was getting to her.

“You go back and take a seat, Miss Aldridge, and I’ll see what I can find out in here.”
“I will, but first I must check to see if those books—” She wandered off, still talking to herself.
Brock shook his head before turning the light on in the tiny equipment room. He stared at the air-conditioning unit, praying for inspiration. The

thing was still running, but wasn’t producing cool air.

All the dials seemed set properly, not that he’d know if they weren’t. He glanced up at the small window. “Outside!” he said aloud. He thought

he should tackle things logically and work from the outside in.

Leaving the room, Brock saw that Miss A. was busy with a patron, so he passed her and left through the main doors. The heat inside was

nothing compared with that outside. He stuck on his hat, which at least shaded his eyes, and walked around the side of the building. Soon finding
the condenser unit, he saw that dead leaves and twigs obstructed it. He pulled away what he could, but he needed to remove the outer grill and do a
proper clean out.

Brock re-entered the library. Miss Aldridge caught his eye; said something to her customer and trotted over to him.
“Do you know what the problem is?”
“I think so, ma’am.” Remembering his manners, Brock took off his Stetson. “I need to shut the unit down before I can do anything else.”
She nodded, obviously secure in her own mind that Brock was on top of things. Brock was much less sure.
He went back into the small equipment room, which could probably more accurately be described as a closet, and shut the air-conditioning

unit down. For good measure he threw the breaker switch, too.

* * * *

An hour later, Brock replaced the final screw in the condenser’s housing panel and sent up a quick prayer. He’d brushed, teased and picked

out as much debris as he could from the fan blades, but hadn’t dared dismantle anything he wasn’t confident about being able to reassemble.

Going back inside to a now deserted library, Brock made his way to the back. Miss Aldridge was standing by the equipment closet door,

hovering.

“I’ve done all I can, ma’am.” Brock’s right hand automatically went up to his hat to remove it.
“I’m really grateful.”
“Where’s the thermostat?”
“Oh, um.” She had to think for a moment. “Yes, of course.” She led him back into the library and stood by a complicated digital box. Brock

sent up another prayer. He was certainly keeping the Almighty busy this day. He turned the thermostat to off, then went back into the equipment
room and turned on the power. Back in the library he re-set the thermostat.

“Oh, I’m so glad you know what you’re doing. I only have window units at home,” Miss Aldridge told him.
“Me, too.”
They walked back to the equipment room. Brock felt at the pipes, but the thick insulation prevented him from feeling anything. Gently easing

back the padding Brock felt blessed coolness.

“We might be in luck, Miss A.”
“Oh, splendid.” She clapped her hands together and moved rapidly back into the main part of the library.
After pulling the insulation back into place, Brock followed and found his former teacher smiling up at the vent, which was pumping out chilled

air.

“You did it, young man!”

Brock felt justifiably pleased with himself. Rarely in high school had he done anything to earn praise from this woman.
Remembering why he’d come to the library in the first place, Brock said, “Oh, I need to check a few things on the computer. Is that all right?”
Miss Aldridge turned from the vent, a frown on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry, but we closed ten minutes ago. I need to switch off the air conditioning

now before locking up.”

Brock sighed.
“We open again at nine in the morning. You could come back then if you like.” She smiled at him.
“I would only be about fifteen minutes. I need to check a few prices, it’s for Calvin, uh, Mr. Hamilton’s house renovation.”
“I’m sorry, the library

is

closed,” Miss A. repeated. “You may come back tomorrow. We open at nine o’clock. I have to leave now. I have a

meeting of the altar guild this evening.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Brock jammed his Stetson on his head and left.

* * * *

Brock needed a drink, so he pointed his truck toward Hal’s. Then he remembered he hadn’t paid his tab from the night before. He hoped

he’d have enough with the twenty in his wallet. Jesus, he hated being low on cash.

And,

he noted with grim amusement,

Miss Aldridge didn’t mention anything about paying me.

He tried not to let it bother him, but he couldn’t wait until the next time he had an overdue book. Miss Fuckin’ High and Mighty Aldridge could

fuckin’ whistle for her money.

You’d have to borrow a book first before you could bring it back late,

the annoying inner voice pointed out.

He told it to shut the fuck up.
Brock turned off the engine, sighed and stepped down onto the asphalt. He hoped Hal wouldn’t be too sore with him for leaving the previous

night without paying his tab.

“Hey, Hal,” Brock greeted him on entering the dimly lit bar.
The place was filling up with folks coming in for a drink after work. Brock had hoped to pull Hal aside to ask about his tab; he didn’t want the

whole town hearing he owed money.

Hal actually smiled at him. “What’ll it be?”
That all depended on how much money he’d have left after paying his debts. “Uh, I.” Brock lowered his voice, forcing Hal to bend forward. “I

kinda left last night without paying.”

Hal shook his head. “It’s already been paid.”
“What?” Brock said louder than he’d intended.
Beckoning Brock to lean further forward, Hal quietly said, “Your friend Calvin paid it. Resuming a normal voice and standing up straight, Hal

continued, “Now, what can I get you?”

“Uh, a diet 7-Up.”
Hal raised an eyebrow. “Want anything in that?”
“Ice and lemon.”
Brock wasn’t sure why he’d ordered something non-alcoholic, but he didn’t correct himself. Maybe Junior’s concern earlier had

subconsciously had him choose a soda.

As he sat sipping his drink, Brock was forced to muse on the differing attitudes of people. He’d done old lady Aldridge a favor, and she

hadn’t let him use the library’s computer. Then he’d pretty much ignored Calvin during high school, never putting a stop to the shit the other jocks
pulled, and now Calvin went and paid his tab.

As soon as Brock set his empty glass down, Hal immediately came over to offer a refill.
“No thanks.” Brock handed over his twenty and waited for Hal to make change. “Say, how much was my tab last night anyway?”
“Don’t remember exactly,” Hal gave him his change. “But I think it was a bit under twenty dollars.” He scratched his beard. “Yeah, that sounds

about right.”

“Thanks.” Brock set his Stetson on his head and stood, his barstool immediately being taken by another patron.
Walking out of the bar, Brock determined he’d pay Calvin back in the morning when he went to his place to deliver his estimate. Then he

remembered he didn’t have all the prices. No way was he going back to the library in the morning. Calvin would have a computer; he’d ask if he
could use it.

* * * *

Brock hadn’t slept well. It was too hot, and his bed felt empty. Why, he couldn’t say for certain, because he had never brought another guy

back with him, not with Junior in the house. No way would he admit that despite his alcohol consumption the previous night, being held in
someone’s arms had resulted in the best night’s sleep he’d had in ages.

There was no bread in the cupboard. There was dry cereal, but the milk had turned sour. So Brock stood by the sink in his boxers, a cup of

black coffee in one hand and a slice of cold pizza which he’d bought a couple days earlier in the other.

Breakfast over, he whistled as he rinsed his coffee cup and left it on the drainer. Still whistling he padded back into the bedroom to dress.
“Now, what to wear.” He stared at his mostly empty closet. He needed to do laundry, but the washing machine needed a new pump and…he

shook his head, determined to think about such things another time. Pulling his best pair of Wranglers off the rail Brock eyed them critically. Would
he be working today? He didn’t want to spoil them if he were. He replaced the hanger and took down a pair of black jeans. They were a little tight on
him, but…they showed off his ass. Brock smiled and reached in and took a sleeveless black tee off the shelf to go with them. Black wasn’t exactly a
suitable color for working out of doors in the summer, but he’d deal. A pair of grey boxers went on first, followed by white socks. Lying on the bed,
he had a bit of trouble with fastening the waistband, but a sharp breath in did it. He fed a belt through the loops, slipped on the T-shirt , stomped into
a pair of boots, and put on his Stetson. Before closing his closet door he tipped his hat at his reflection in the mirror.

* * * *

Calvin didn’t answer his door when Brock knocked. Surprised, Brock went round back and peered through the window of the garage. KITT

was there. The sliding glass doors to the bedroom were close by so Brock thought he’d take a look to see if Calvin was still asleep. The strong sun
reflecting off the glass made it difficult for him to see much of the room. Using his hands to shield his face, he leaned in close.

“Do you make a habit of peeping in folks’ bedroom windows?” Calvin said from just behind him.
Brock jumped and spun around, surprised and more than a little embarrassed at being caught. Calvin had obviously been out for a run, his

closely-cropped dark brown hair was plastered to his scalp with sweat. His white wife-beater had a damp patch running from mid chest to the hem,
below which Brock could see a pair of strong legs encased in blue nylon running shorts.

Brock said the first thing that came into his head. “You look hot.”
Calvin gave Brock a slow appraising look, from the tips of his black cowboy boots, up his legs, resting for a moment on his silver belt buckle,

then further up until their eyes met.

“And you’re looking particularly sexy this morning, too, Gary Cooper. Black really suits you.”
Brock felt his face flush.

Darn it, why did the guy always best him?

“Have you had breakfast yet?” Calvin asked, confusing Brock.
He remembered the small slice of cold pizza. “Uh, not exactly, why?”
“Because after my shower, I planned on making breakfast, and thought you could join me.”
Brock wasn’t sure if Calvin was referring only to breakfast. “Thank you, that’d be mighty neighborly of you.” Brock tipped his hat.

* * * *

Inside, Calvin waved at the coffee maker. “Help yourself. There’s sweetener and non-dairy creamer in the canisters if you need them. I’ll be

back in a minute.”

“Okay, thanks.” Spying Calvin’s laptop computer on the kitchen table, Brock asked if he could use it for a few minutes.
“Sure, no problem. Hang on, I’ll just log you in.”
Calvin stood rather close as he waited for the computer to boot up. Brock could smell the man’s sweat; it was clean, masculine, and he

found his dick hardening. He quickly sat down, which put his nose level with Calvin’s right armpit. Brock resisted the temptation to take a deep sniff.

After tapping a few keys, Calvin announced, “There you go.” He twisted the machine to face Brock.
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“What do you want to look at? Cowboy porno?”
“Yep. But I’ll be sure to bookmark the best sites for you to drool over later.” Brock looked up and smiled, pleased that he’d at last got one

over on Calvin.

However, without batting an eye, the man moved behind Brock’s chair and put his strong sweaty arms around Brock’s shoulders. Bending,

Calvin whispered in Brock’s right ear, “Why would I need pictures on a screen when I’ve got a real-life cowboy right here?”

Calvin’s tongue snaked out and licked Brock’s ear, causing Brock to shudder. Calvin then stood up, removed his arms from around Brock

and sauntered out of the kitchen.

“Back soon, sexy.”
“Fuck!” Brock said to the empty doorway through which Calvin had just passed.
Pushing down on his painful erection, wishing he’d chosen a pair of more forgiving jeans, Brock stared at the laptop and tried to concentrate

on spackling, grout and exterior paint.

* * * *

“Find what you were looking for?” Calvin asked several minutes later.
Brock looked up from the screen to see that Calvin had dressed in a white T-shirt that showed off his toned arms. The front of the shirt had a

drawing of the Manhattan skyline on it, and in case anyone didn’t recognize the view, the word “Manhattan” was written underneath. Calvin also had
on a pair of faded denim cut-offs and flip-flops on his naked feet.

“Yes, thanks.” He went on to tell Calvin of his experiences at the library the previous afternoon.
“Some things never change. Old lady Aldridge was a complete bitch back in high school.”
Brock was surprised to hear Calvin say that. “I thought you were her golden boy. She was always holding up your work as an example to us

lesser mortals.”

“Exactly, how do you think that made me feel?”
“Smug?” Brock offered.
Calvin snorted. “It made things worse. I just wanted to do my schoolwork and stay out of the limelight as much as possible. It was all right for

you jocks to excel, people patted you on the back or lauded you as a hero when you scored the winning touchdown or hit a home run or whatever.
When I did what I was best at I got shoved into a locker and got called a nerdy fag.”

Brock looked at the keyboard. “I never did anything like that to you.”
“True.” Calvin let out a breath,
“But it didn’t stop me from laughing with them as they did it.” Brock swallowed and looked up at Calvin. “I was too scared they’d discover my

own secrets.”

Calvin, who had been sitting at the table opposite, suddenly stood. “All that was years ago. I’ve moved on.”
Brock recalled the conversation he’d had with Junior the previous day, and the memories it had evoked. “Yeah. Look,” Brock stared up at

Calvin, who turned from the open fridge to face him. “I wish now I’d stood up to those meatheads, told them to lay off you.”

Calvin treated Brock to a thin smile. “Thanks.”
Brock nodded.
“Well, this pleasant stroll down memory lane won’t get breakfast made.”
If Brock had been expecting sausage, biscuits and milk gravy, he was disappointed. Calvin pulled out fresh fruit and yoghurt before closing

the fridge with an elbow. Though after taking a few bites Brock had to admit the food was refreshing and very tasty.

“I guess you being a hard-working physical kind of guy, you’ll need more than this to keep your strength up.”
Was Calvin starting with the sarcasm again? “It was very nice.”
“Thanks. But how about an omelet with turkey bacon, peppers and mushrooms?”
Despite having just eaten something, Brock’s stomach took that moment to growl.
Calvin laughed. “That’s settled then. One healthy but cowboy-sized omelet coming up.”
Brock watched as Calvin opened the fridge again and pulled out more ingredients including a carton of Egg Beaters, a product he’d seen

but had never tried. As Calvin chopped, stirred and cooked, Brock couldn’t help but think how comfortable and domestic the scene felt.

“Like I said yesterday, you’d make someone a great housewife.”
“And like I said yesterday,” Calvin observed from the stove, cast iron skillet in hand, “Fuck off.”
Brock laughed. Then he remembered something else about the previous day. “Hey, thanks for paying my bar tab. But you shouldn’t have.”
“No problem.” Calvin slid the omelet onto a plate and carried it over to the table.
Brock reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Hal said it was twenty dollars, so—”
“Honestly it’s not important.”
Brock eyed Calvin. “I pay my debts.”
“Okay, okay. But how’s about I take it in trade.”
Brock, who had just swallowed a mouthful of food, choked.
“Whoa there, cowboy.” Calvin moved behind Brock, to thump him on the back.
“I’m all right,” Brock coughed. He took a drink of coffee.
“That’s a relief.” Calvin massaged Brock’s shoulders. “It’s not usually my cooking that causes a man to choke.”
Brock wondered if there was a double meaning in there.
Calvin stopped massaging Brock’s shoulders and went to the counter to pick up the coffee pot. Refilling Brock’s mug, he said, “No, I meant I

require your contracting abilities to replace the toilet seat in my parents’ master bathroom. It snapped yesterday.”

“Oh?”
“So if you’ll find the correct replacement seat and install it, then we’ll forget about your bar tab.”
Brock knew Calvin was perfectly capable of attaching a new toilet seat himself, but recognized this was Calvin’s way of allowing Brock to

save face regarding his debt. Brock felt grateful at the man’s thoughtfulness.

“Deal.” Brock nodded. “This is a great omelet.” The subtle flavors of the bell peppers, tomato, and bacon made him forget that this was

supposed to be a healthy meal.

“Thanks. I do my best to please.” Calvin smiled.
Brock wasn’t going to take the bait, if bait was being offered. “I’ve worked up an estimate for you.” He pushed the sheet of paper across the

table. Calvin took a seat opposite and began to read.

After a minute or so Calvin looked up. He was frowning. Surely the man wasn’t objecting to the price, Brock had cut down the costs as much

as he could.

“Is this a one or a seven?”
“Show me.”
Calvin slid the paper across the table, keeping his finger on a particular column.
Brock studied the figure in question. “A seven.”
Calvin nodded. “You added it as a one, so your total is lower by sixty dollars than it should be.”
Huh?” Brock got out his pocket calculator and began to punch in numbers. How the hell had he made such a basic mistake, and how had

Calvin worked it out so quickly in his head?

“Sorry.” Brock handed back the amended paper.
“That’s okay.” Calvin shrugged. “It was you who would have been out of pocket.” Glancing down at the sheet again, he said, “I accept.” He

got out his checkbook and began to write.

Brock let out a breath.
“Is half now and the other half when you’ve done acceptable?”
Brock hadn’t been expecting Calvin to be as generous as that. “Sure.”
“Brockwell & Son?”
Brock nodded. He hadn’t changed the name when his daddy died, and he hoped one day Junior would maybe join him in the business.

If the

fuckin’ hospital doesn’t get it first.

Calvin tore the check out of the book and pushed it across the table to Brock.
“Thanks.” Brock glanced quickly at the check, but knew it would be correct. He folded it and put it in his wallet. “We can hop in my truck and

go get what I’ll need.”

“We?”
“You need to choose the colors of the paints and the style of tiles you want.” Brock thought about adding,

seeing as you’re a homo you’d be

good at shit like that,

but he knew Calvin would fire something back at him.

“We’ll have to stop off at the dry cleaners.”
“No problem.”
“Uh, your shirt was still stained,” Calvin blushed, “so I took it in for cleaning.
“Why? I mean, it could have just gone into the washing machine.” Brock thought of how much dry cleaning cost.
“I needed some of my own stuff cleaning, so I thought I’d take your shirt as well. It’s silk, I didn’t want to take the risk of damaging it.”
“Oh, okay.” Brock knew Calvin was only doing what he thought was best, but the extra expense was…
“Don’t worry, it’s on me.” Calvin held up a hand to quell Brock’s protests. “You’re right, I could have washed it in the machine, or better still

hand washed it. But it would have needed ironing, and mom will have taken her iron with her.” More softly Calvin added, “And besides, I fucking
hate ironing.”

Brock laughed. “Me, too.” Then he sobered. “I can start this afternoon, but I’ll need to take Friday off though.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Need to watch my kid play a ballgame and bring him home from camp.” He realized this was the first time he’d told Calvin about

Junior. “I can work Sunday to make up for it.”

“Sunday is the fourth. You’ll want to spend the day with your family.” Calvin removed the plates and mugs from the table and stacked them in

the dishwasher.

“Oh, yeah, I’d forgotten about that.” Brock stood and put on his Stetson. “So it’s okay that I take off Friday?”
“No problem.” Calvin smiled at him and nudged the door of the dishwasher closed with his foot.
“Thanks.” Brock tried to put his hands in his pockets, but the jeans were too tight.
“Oh, your Resistol is in the family room. Do you want me to get it?”
Brock shrugged. “Might as well leave it where it is for now.” His Resistol was his best hat and he didn’t want to get it dirty with work.
“Okay then, Gary Cooper, let’s go and round ‘em up.”

Brock shook his head and turned for the back door.
“Fuck!”
“What?” Brock turned back around.
“Nice ass!”

Chapter 5

“So, what shape seat do you need?” Brock asked.
They were standing in the bathroom section of the home-improvement store

,

a seemingly endless selection of fixtures and fittings in front of

them.

“Shape?” Calvin asked, confused.
“There are two basic kinds, round and elongated.” Brock sketched with his hands.
“I have no idea.”
Brock shook his head. “How can you not know? You sat on the thing for years.”
“Yes, but I don’t have eyes in my ass.”
Brock smirked.
“Don’t go there, Gary Cooper.”
“Okay.” Brock held up his hands defensively. “Say, how’d you come to break the seat anyway?”
Calvin leaned in to Brock’s side and got under the brim of his Stetson. “While jerking off thinking about you, of course.”
Brock pulled back, looked momentarily shocked, then let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah, right.”
Calvin couldn’t look at Brock. Why the hell had he told him the truth? At least the man took it as another of Calvin’s teasing jokes.

Concentrating on the prices, Calvin realized he could get a basic wooden seat for about $25, so suggested they get one of each of the two main
shapes, so they’d be covered.

“No problem. I’ll get you a refund for the one we don’t need. Probably have to come back here for this and that, so I can return whichever seat

you don’t need.”

“Too much hassle. I’ll give you whichever one doesn’t fit. I assume you’ll be able to use it on another job?” Calvin risked a glance at the sexy

cowboy.

Brock looked as though he might protest, but in the end merely nodded and said, “Thanks.”
“I’m ninety percent sure I need the elongated shape, but…” Doing it this way would help Brock out.
“No problem. Any particular preference for color or style?” Brock asked.
“Just wood color.” He wouldn’t be sitting on it for long.
Calvin watched Brock reach up and take down a couple of seats from the rack. The sleeveless black T-shirt he wore showed off his biceps

beautifully. Calvin tried to adjust himself discreetly, but Brock caught him and raised an eyebrow.

“Shut up!” Calvin growled.
“Didn’t say a word.” Brock grinned.
The bastard took hold of the flatbed cart and began pulling it behind him, the effort causing the muscles in his right arm to flex wonderfully.
Calvin followed behind, readjusting himself again.
As they shopped for floor tiles, grout and lord knew what else, Calvin couldn’t help but observe other people in the store. He hadn’t realized

quite how big a construction-worker fetish he had.

“You’re drooling,” Brock whispered to him at one point when a particularly fine example of flannel-shirted hunkiness walked past pulling a

cart carrying lengths of two by fours.

“Yeah.” Calvin tore his attention from the hunk and focused on Brock. “But he doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
Brock shook his head. “Idiot.”
Surely the man didn’t have an inferiority complex? He was sex on legs.
Eventually Brock said they had everything he would need for the time being, and began pulling the loaded cart toward the checkouts.
Calvin removed the two toilet seats; he’d pay for those himself.
The bored-looking checkout operator leaned down and began to scan the various items with a hand-held scanner. He announced the total

and Brock handed over his card, which the guy ran through the machine, twice. Then he punched in the details manually.

“Is there a problem?” Brock asked after restacking the last of the boxes of floor tiles.
“It’s declined the transaction.”
“Shit!”
“Do you have an alternate method of payment?”
“No,” Brock shook his head.
“I’ll page a manager.”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll—“Brock said.
The checkout guy ignored him and picked up a microphone and said something into it which Calvin couldn’t catch; the store’s acoustics

were terrible.

Calvin snuck a glance at Brock, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. Calvin ached to do something, but didn’t think leaping to Brock’s

defense, especially in public, would go down well. He’d learned his lesson from the ER the day before.

A manager came over, tapped a few keys on the register and confirmed what Calvin had already suspected, Brock’s trade account was

maxed out and they wouldn’t advance him any more credit.

Brock looked embarrassed, and Calvin couldn’t stand it any longer.
“I’ll pay for this with my credit card.”
“No,” Brock said.
“That won’t be a problem,” the manager chipped in.
To Brock, Calvin said, “I’ll be paying for it anyway, so it makes no difference to me.”
Brock hesitated, and then shrugged his reluctant agreement.
Turning to the manager, Calvin said, “I will receive the same trade discount as you’d have given Mr. Brockwell.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, that isn’t possible unless you have your own trade account.”
Calvin, seeing that Brock was becoming increasingly uncomfortable at the situation, just wanted to get them the hell out of there.

“Fine!” Depositing the toilet seats on the conveyor belt, Calvin took Brock’s arm. “Come on, bud, we’re outta here. We’ll get what we need

from

Home Depot

.”

“But what about your toilet seats?” the manager asked to their retreating backs.
Calvin turned around. “You can stick ‘em where the sun don’t shine.”
Calvin was relieved to hear Brock chuckle.
Another manager, who—judging by the fact that he was wearing a tie—was more senior, caught up with them at the exit. “I’m sorry,

gentlemen. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

Calvin held his tongue.
“On this occasion we’re prepared to let you use a different credit card to pay for your items.”
“Big of you,” Calvin muttered under his breath and followed Brock back to the register.
Calvin paid for the goods, including the much-maligned toilet seats. Brock pulled the cart out of the store and loaded his truck, all the while

not saying a word.

Getting into the cab, Calvin did up his seatbelt, and waited while Brock tried to start the engine. It finally coughed into life on the fourth

attempt.

“Fuck!” Brock said when they were finally underway.
Calvin put a hand on Brock’s knee and gave it a squeeze. “At least someone in there had the sense to realize they were about to lose a

sale.

“I’m sorry.” Brock let out a breath and pulled his Stetson lower on his forehead.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
As he drove, Brock bit at his bottom lip. Calvin gave the man’s knee another squeeze before reluctantly returning his hand to his own lap.
Brock pulled into another parking lot. “Need to visit the bank,” he said quietly, not looking at Calvin. “To deposit your check.”
“No problem. I need to go do some of my own banking, too. Who’re you with?”
“Chase, the same as you.”
For a second Calvin wondered how Brock knew where he banked, then realized the name was on the check he’d given him. This set Calvin

thinking. He figured Brock was probably overdrawn and the check would merely go to pay off the bank.

As they walked, a number of people either stopped Brock to talk, or just nodded in his direction. Calvin felt himself standing just that bit taller

being next to such a popular and well-thought of man.

And it doesn’t hurt that he’s a fuckin’ hunk,

Calvin told himself.

Standing in line, awaiting their turn at the one open cashier window, Calvin verbalized his earlier thoughts. “Would it help if I withdrew the

cash and gave you that instead of you depositing the check I gave you?”

Brock thought for a second. “Yeah. That would help. Thanks.” He lifted his head and treated Calvin to a small smile.
Calvin wanted to lean over and kiss the cowboy until his smile widened into the beautiful shit-eating grin Calvin knew it could be.
“No problem. It makes no difference to me either way.”
“I’m still grateful, though.” Brock’s smile widened a little, but not as much as Calvin wanted.
A woman entered the bank, joined the line behind Brock and immediately started in at him. “You said you would come out and fix my leak.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Patterson.” Brock took off his Stetson. “I gave you a price, but you said you would rather get someone else.” Brock’s

voice was quiet; obviously he didn’t want to conduct business in such a public setting.

Mrs. Patterson evidently didn’t have such qualms. More loudly she said, “I wasn’t paying that! Daylight robbery is what it was.”
The line moved forward.
“Ma’am,” Brock said, running the brim of his hat through his fingers, “I quoted you the going rate, a bit less actually, because you’re a

previous customer.”

“And the gutters you cleared for me last year are all blocked up again.”
Calvin bit his tongue. This had nothing to do with him. Fortunately he’d reached the head of the line and the teller’s window had just become

free.

Transacting his business as quickly as he could, mindful of the bitch still haranguing Brock, Calvin moved back to the line, a wad of bills in

hand.

Interrupting the woman in mid flow, Calvin said, “Here you are, Mr. Brockwell, the full amount like we agreed.”
Calvin would have left things there, but the woman sniffed with evident derision. That was it. Calvin wheeled on her. “Brock charges a fair

price for a fair day’s labor. I for one am more than happy to pay for good work.”

“Well!” she expostulated.
Calvin moved to one side. “The teller is free now. I’m sure you won’t want to keep her waiting.”
Mrs. Patterson sniffed again, and—nose in the air—walked past them.
A young guy behind them snickered. “Jeez, guy, I’d hate to get on the wrong side of you in an argument.”
“All part of a day’s work for a New Yorker,” Calvin admitted, but couldn’t help smiling.
“Old lady Patterson is a real tightwad.” Raising his voice so it would carry, the man continued, “If she stuck a lump of coal up her ass, within a

week she’d shit out a diamond.”

Calvin and Brock laughed over that one—and the resultant stare of disapproval from Mrs. Paterson—all the way to the dry cleaners.

* * * *

Brock insisted on carrying the dry cleaning back to the truck.
“I can manage a few shirts and a pair of pants,” Calvin bristled as they walked down Main Street.
“I know you can,” Brock bumped shoulders with him. “But I just wanted to do this. It’s nothing compared with what you’ve done for me today,

for the past couple days.”

“Well, if it soothes your macho pride to carry for me, then I’ll live with it.” It was Calvin’s turn to bump Brock’s shoulder. “But don’t make a

habit of it.”

“I’ll try my hardest not to.”
Calvin had to admit the view of Brock’s bent arm as he held the clothes on their hangers over his shoulder was worth the mild irritation at

being thought weak.

“And don’t think I didn’t notice that you paid me half the bill and didn’t take out what I owe you from earlier

,

” Brock said, waiting to cross at the

light.

“We can deduct that from the other half. Besides, it was too good an opportunity to pass up, paying you what we agreed in front of that old

witch.”

“Yeah,” Brock chuckled.
“And, too, it’s the right time for my credit card. I won’t have to actually pay for that transaction for another five weeks.”

By which time I’ll be

back in New York.

The realization troubled rather than thrilled Calvin.

* * * *

Having unloaded the van with Calvin’s assistance—something Calvin did to prove to Brock he was no longer the weak nerd he used to be

—the two sat at the kitchen table drinking tall glasses of ice tea.

“So, what are you going to tackle first?” Calvin asked, draining his glass and getting up for a refill.
“The seat for the john. Can’t have you not having a place to sit your ass.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Calvin attempted to flutter his eyelashes. He didn’t bother pointing out that he could always use the guest

bathroom in a pinch. “Glad you noticed my ass.” Calvin twisted round to try and look at it himself. “Some people think it’s my best feature.”

Brock snorted. He stood and handed his empty glass to Calvin.
“You disagree?” Calvin affected a wounded tone. “So, Mr. Cooper, what do you think is my best feature?”
Brock seemed to struggle for an answer. Calvin had to admit he’d sure got him good with that one.
“Why do you keep on callin’ me Gary Cooper?”

Shit! He

wasn’t willing to go there. “Can you sing?” Calvin was proud of his quick thinking.

Brock looked confused. “Uh, no.”
“Exactly, so I can’t call you Gene Autry or Roy Rogers, can I?”
Brock tilted his head to the side. “Huh?”

Oh, fuck it!

Calvin told himself. He put the glasses on the counter and turned to face Brock. “Gary Cooper was a beautiful man.” He reached

up and rested his fingertips on Brock’s cheeks. “And you are a beautiful man.”

Calvin felt the heat rise in Brock’s face. Brock shook his head, dislodging Calvin’s fingers.
“Well you asked,” Calvin said, doing everything he could to show how sincere he was being.
“You shouldn’t tease me like that.”
“I’m not teasing.” Calvin took hold of Brock’s face again and tilted it toward him. “I’ve never been more serious in my life. You are a beautiful

man, both inside and out. And in the next twenty seconds I’m going to kiss you, so if you don’t want—umph!”

Brock’s chest barreled into Calvin’s, pressing him up against the fridge. The impact caused bottles inside the appliance to rattle, and a roll

of paper toweling to glance off Calvin’s arm as it fell from the top of the fridge. Brock’s mouth latched onto Calvin’s, his tongue demanding entry into
Calvin’s mouth.

Calvin soon recovered his shock and thrust his tongue into Brock’s mouth. Calvin’s hands started to roam up Brock’s muscled arms, his

wide shoulders, his strong neck, and up into his hair. He didn’t care that he was whimpering and rubbing himself up against Brock’s strong, work-
hardened body.

Eventually—but all too soon for Calvin’s liking—Brock drew back for breath. Calvin glided his hands downward and held Brock’s waist. No

way was the cowboy gonna flee like last time.

“You okay?” Calvin asked when Brock stayed silent, apart from his elevated breathing.
“Yeah.”
Calvin pushed his crotch into Brock’s and felt a definite bulge. “From the feel of things I guess you are.” Calvin rubbed the man’s back,

reveling in the muscles underneath his black, sleeveless tee. Sinking to his knees, and eyeing Brock’s impressive bulge up close for the first time,
Calvin said, “I owe you a blowjob. And now seems like the perfect time to deliver.”

Calvin started mouthing Brock through his jeans, but the man stiffened, and not in the way he’d intended. Stopping immediately, but refusing

to let go his hold on Brock’s thick thighs, Calvin looked up into Brock’s now troubled eyes.

“I…not here.”
Calvin didn’t understand.
“When we…I did you in the bathroom, it was…” Brock ground to a halt.
“You want to do it in the bathroom?”
“No!” Brock said loudly, then bit his lip. Calvin had to admit Brock looked totally adorable doing that.
“Okay, no problem.” Calvin got to his feet; resigning himself to the idea that he wouldn’t be blowing the cowboy today or maybe any day.
“I…It wasn’t what I wanted.”
“You didn’t want to blow me in the bathroom?” Calvin touched Brock’s cheek.
“No…yes.”
Calvin stroked Brock’s face, hoping to comfort him. This close his beauty was irrefutable. The laughter lines radiating from Brock’s eyes just

served—in Calvin’s opinion—to enhance the man’s appeal.

Brock leaned into Calvin’s caress. “Shit! I’ve fucked this up.”
Calvin gently moved Brock’s head until it rested on Calvin’s shoulder. The resumption of the close contact revealed to Calvin that the man

had gone soft. And thinking about it, so had Calvin.

Stroking Brock’s back, Calvin whispered, “No you haven’t. It’s all good. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”
“Thanks.” Brock let out a breath that tickled along Calvin’s neck, causing him to shudder.
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m listening.” Calvin continued to rub Brock’s back.
“When we were at the hospital I wanted to thank you…let you know how much I appreciated you standing up for me, for doing something to

help me.”

“Uh huh.” Calvin wanted to say more, but sensed Brock needed to get out whatever it was that was troubling him.
“But that place, the bathroom, it wasn’t…” Brock swallowed. “Wasn’t the right place…it reminded me of hook ups, anonymous, you know?”
The penny was teetering on the edge of dropping. “Tell me.”
Calvin risked a kiss to Brock’s ear. Brock shuddered and buried his head deeper into Calvin’s shoulder.

“Not proud of doin’ stuff like that, but when it got too much I…” Brock stopped talking and just clung to Calvin.
“It’s okay. Trust me, I understand. It’s okay.” Then Calvin got an idea. “Will you let me take you to the bedroom, if that’s more…” Calvin

searched for the right word. “Appropriate?”

Calvin felt Brock nod in agreement. So, before the guy could change his mind, Calvin took hold of Brock’s hand and led the unresisting

cowboy down the hallway.

Once through the bedroom door, Calvin asked, “Want me to close the drapes?”
Brock nodded again, but didn’t immediately let go of Calvin to allow him to accomplish the task.
“It’s all good,” Calvin soothed, rubbing the man’s wide, powerful back.
Brock let out a long steady breath and slowly disengaged. “Sorry. I don’t—”
Calvin silenced him with a tender kiss. “You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about, you hear?”
Brock treated Calvin to the ghost of a smile before leaning down and giving Calvin a closed-mouth kiss. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now for those drapes.”
Calvin walked to the window and pulled them across. Despite the reduced light, he had no difficulty in seeing Brock still standing where he’d

left him, now biting his lip. It was rapidly becoming a favorite image for Calvin.

“Come on then, Gar…Beautiful.”
“Men aren’t beautiful.”
“I didn’t think so either until you stood on my doorstep a couple of evenings ago.”
Brock took hold of Calvin’s chin. “Please, don’t tease me, not about this.”
Calvin removed the hand and kissed Brock’s palm. “I promise, hand on heart,” he moved Brock’s hand to Calvin’s heart, “and on dick,” he

moved the hand lower, “that I’m not joking. You are beautiful. Please believe me. That’s why I’ve been calling you Gary Cooper, because, well,”
Calvin felt embarrassed, “I couldn’t straight out call you beautiful because you might have knocked me on my ass.”

“Nah, your ass is way too cute.”
“I knew you’d noticed it!” Calvin yelled in triumph.
Back was the shit-eating grin Calvin loved so much. He just had to kiss it.
“What was that for?” Brock asked.
“Just that you were smiling, and I like to see it. Makes you even more beautiful.”
Brock shook his head. “I wish you’d quit it with the beautiful shit.”
“You want me to go back to callin’ you Gary Cooper? ’Cause it’ll mean the same thing.”
Brock sighed, but his smile was back.
“So, Beautiful, you gonna let me at that big ole Texas dick of yours?”
“You’ll not leave me alone until I let you.”
“Nope.” Now it was Calvin’s turn to wear a shit-eating grin.
Brock reached for his belt buckle.
“No you don’t.” Calvin batted away Brock’s hands. “My bedroom, my rules.”
“Thought this was your folks’ room.”
“Don’t split hairs.” Calvin surprised himself at how quickly he was able to undo the large western buckle. No doubt it was the thought of what

lay ahead.

The waistband was unbuttoned, then the zipper lowered. Calvin wondered how Brock had managed to squeeze his slight paunch into such a

narrow band. Peeling the black jeans down Brock’s powerful thighs, Calvin soon discovered a problem. Brock’s cowboy boots. While he looked
sexy in them, they would have to come off in order to remove the jeans. Maybe he could persuade Brock to put them back on again when he’d
undressed him. Nah, that’d be too kinky, as would asking Brock to wear his hat while Calvin sucked him.

“Um, you’re gonna have to take off these boots.” Calvin said on his knees, looking up at Brock’s amused expression.
“Me? I thought this was your room, and therefore your rules?”
“Bastard.”
Brock just smirked down at him.

Fuck, he looks so sexy,

Calvin thought, getting back to his feet.

Calvin gave Brock a quick kiss before grabbing hold of him and lowering him to the airbed.
“Hey!” Brock protested.
“Quit your bitchin’. It’s the only way I could think of to get these boots off you without you falling ass over teakettle.”
Calvin moved to the foot of the bed, bent down and grabbed the instep of Brock’s boot and began to tug. It didn’t budge.
“How the hell do you get these things off? And I don’t want to hear about how it’s not your problem.”
“Turn around and pick up a boot between your legs.”
Calvin did as asked.
“Now pull on the heel. I’ll use my other boot to apply counter pressure to that gorgeous ass of yours.”
Calvin wasn’t sure about this, but was game to try anything once. The sensation of Brock’s booted foot on his ass wasn’t bad; in fact, it was

kinda nice. The boot slipped off relatively easily. Then Calvin had the pleasure of Brock’s naked foot (the sock having come off with the boot)
rubbing on his ass while Calvin pulled off the other boot.

“There,” Calvin said, setting the second boot on the floor next to its mate. “God, what do you do when you don’t have the services of a sexy

boot puller-offer?”

Brock raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest; I guess you could be described as sexy.”
“Fuck off.”
Brock smirked. “But to answer your question, I use a bootjack. Got one in the truck as a matter of fact.”
“What?” Calvin spluttered. “You mean you had me going through all that when you’ve got some gadget that will do it?”
“That’s about the size of it, yeah.” Brock’s shit-eating grin was the only thing that saved him from a punch. “I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to

lick my boots. I hear tell some guys get off on that shit.”

Calvin’s dick twitched, but it only took him a nanosecond to decide it wasn’t for him. “Nah, there’s something else I’d much rather lick.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
Calvin took a hold of the hems of Brock’s jeans and began to pull. Brock helped by lifting his ass. Calvin tossed the jeans aside and took a

moment to drink in Brock’s awesome legs.

“Do you want this off, too?” Brock raised the hem of his sleeveless tee.
“Nah, leave it on. Makes your arms look really big and sexy.”
“Not beautiful?”
“Yeah, that too.” Calvin was distracted by Brock’s amazing legs. Getting on hands and knees, he crawled up the airbed as far as Brock’s

crotch.

“Under here is what I’m gonna lick.” Calvin took a hold of the waistband of Brock’s boxers. “Grey? Why not black to go with everything else?”
Brock shrugged. “Didn’t think anyone would see ‘em.”
“Well you thought wrong, Mr. Color Uncoordinated.”
“Sorry, I’ll do better next time.”
Calvin raised an eyebrow. “And who says I’ll want to blow you a second time?”
“If you don’t get on with it I’ll probably die of old age before you do it the first time.”
“Touché,” Calvin conceded and began to pull down Brock’s underwear. “Fuck!” Once Calvin got a look at what Brock was packing, he

privately determined there certainly would be a next time. Many of them. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a dick.”
“Yes, but—”
Calvin left Brock’s boxers halfway down the man’s legs because he just had to touch the work of art in front of him. The penis was just the

right length, proportionate to its thickness. The thing was totally straight along its shaft, widening slightly at the head, a head that was covered in
foreskin. Calvin hadn’t handled that many uncut dicks before. The skin was slightly darker than the rest of Brock; a network of fine veins
crisscrossed the shaft and…

“You gonna suck it or just gawk at it?” Brock’s impatient question cut through Calvin’s musings.
“In a minute. God, Brock, this just proves it. You are beautiful.”
Brock sighed. “Oh, brother!”
Calvin retracted—then pushed back—Brock’s foreskin. It was such a neat trick he did it a couple more times. Brock’s cock dribbled out a

pearl of pre-seminal fluid that Calvin caught on his tongue. It didn’t really taste of anything much, but Calvin enjoyed it nevertheless; it was part of
Brock, and now it was part of him. He then laved the head, trying to get the tip of his tongue into the pee slit, then between the extra skin and
Brock’s cock-head. Brock started moaning and shuffling around on the air mattress, so Calvin knew he was doing it right.

Using broad strokes Calvin laved up one side of Brock’s sex and down the other. Although this didn’t elicit any extra noises from Brock,

Calvin quite enjoyed it, so did it again. Then Calvin decided he’d go on a taste tour of Brock’s equipment. There was a definite increase in flavor in
the crease between Brock’s legs and his torso. The taste grew even more as Calvin licked at the ball sack. Then he realized Brock’s scrotum was
hairless.

Wow, the cowboy shaves his balls does he?

Looking up, Calvin saw Brock also trimmed his blond pubic bush. Calvin approved.

“You gonna suck me or what?” Brock rumbled.
“Or what.”
Calvin dove lower to explore Brock’s taint. Back came the groans, even the odd “Jesus” was thrown in as well. However, Calvin couldn’t gain

clear access because the movement of Brock’s legs was impeded by his boxers, which were still at his knees.

“Back in a second, BBD,” Calvin said, kissing the tip of Brock’s penis.
“BBD?”
Pulling the boxers off and tossing them across the room, Calvin said, “Brock’s Beautiful Dick.”
Brock shook his head, but made no actual comment.
Now Calvin had full access to Brock’s secret places and took full advantage. Easing Brock’s legs wider apart Calvin stuck out his tongue

and began to lick along the top of Brock’s ass crack.

“Hell!” Brock grunted, bending his knees.

You ain’t felt nothin’ yet,

Calvin thought, taking his explorations deeper. Brock started to whimper and shake. Calvin brought forth more spit

and used it to push against Brock’s rosebud.

“Oh, Christ…oh, Christ.” Brock panted. “Don’t stop…don’t ever stop.”

No intentions of, buddy,

Calvin thought, pushing his tongue as far into Brock’s chute as he could.

Brock raised his legs and held them under his bent knees.
Calvin spent a long time sucking, licking and kissing Brock’s anal opening. He’d never considered himself an ass man before, but Brock

had him rapidly changing his mind. Calvin knew Brock had had other lovers, but he was determined this would be a blowjob the cowboy wouldn’t
forget in a hurry.

Mouth growing tired, Calvin reluctantly disengaged, making Brock moan in protest. Looking up, he saw Brock’s right leg was hanging in free

space while his right hand was pumping at his dick.

“No, that’s mine!” Calvin pried Brock’s fingers away from the now slippery member.
“Gotta come.”
“Oh, you will, cowboy, have no fear of that. But I’ve not finished torturing you first.”
“Shit!” Brock threw his head back onto the pillow and groaned.
Calvin took hold of Brock’s right leg, and, with agonizing slowness, began to lick and kiss his way up the underside of it. Brock had amazing

quads. It had to be all the baseball and laboring he did. The muscles felt so hard Calvin decided to bite lightly at them. Brock whimpered and threw
his head from side-to-side.

Calvin had no idea the area behind the knee could be such an erogenous zone, but Brock’s whimpers and wails increased in volume the

moment Calvin made contact with it.

Deciding he’d wrung all the pleasure he could from that region of Brock’s body, Calvin moved along. The man had awesome calf muscles.

As this area didn’t seem to illicit any strong reaction, he laid a trail of angel kisses to Brock’s ankle. Never really having given ankles much thought
before, Calvin spent a few moments studying Brock’s. Like the rest of the man the joint seemed strong and solid. Then came Brock’s foot. One
swipe across the sole had the man almost leaping off the bed.

“Like that, eh?”
Calvin kissed his way toward Brock’s toes. He popped the little toe into his mouth, ran his tongue around it, then licked the space between

Brock’s little toe and the next one. In a kind of slalom pattern Calvin licked the underside of one toe, moved into the space between toes, and
washed the topside of the next toe. Reaching the end, he swirled his tongue around and started back in the opposite direction.

“Shit, man! I gotta come.”

“Patience. I’ll soon get back to that.” Calvin looked up at Brock’s straining member. Pre-seminal fluid was oozing out of the dark red tip,

which was peeking out of its turtleneck collar. “Just want to pay a bit more attention to your BBF.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about now? BBF? Don’t tell me, Brock’s Beautiful Feet?”
“Close,” Calvin smirked. “Brock’s Beautiful Foot.” Delivering a final lingering kiss to the sole, Calvin bent Brock’s leg and laid the foot flat on

the bed before lifting Brock’s left leg and kissing the sole of that foot. “This is BB

O

F, Brock’s Beautiful Other Foot.”

You’re fucking

loco

. Now come on, get me off!”

Calvin kissed the tip of each toe before placing that foot on the bed, too.
Running the fingers of both hands up the insides of Brock’s legs, Calvin said, “Some people are all about instant gratification. They can’t

appreciate that the buildup is half the fun.”

“More sucking and less jawing.”
“Your wish is my command.” Calvin bowed low, opened his mouth, and swallowed Brock’s entire length in one fluid movement.
“Oh, fucking hell!” Brock yelled. His legs crossed behind Calvin’s neck, and Brock’s hands—that had been pulling at the blanket—clamped

themselves to the sides of Calvin’s head.

Normally Calvin objected to being manhandled when giving a blowjob, wanting always to be in control, but he knew Brock was so close to

the edge he’d be able to finish him off in seconds. Calvin considered slowing down, but he knew he’d teased his beautiful cowboy enough. So with
a combination of tongue action to the underside of his dick, repeated swallowing, a finger inside the still moist asshole and finally a couple bars of

God Bless America

hummed on the cock-head, Calvin was rewarded when Brock shot a massive load of cowboy come into his mouth and down

his throat.

* * * *

Brock lay on his side. Calvin—needing to get closer and thinking Brock might be in need of reassurance—worked his left arm underneath

Brock, and laid his right arm over the top of him. Calvin moved in close and pressed their chests and groins together. He hadn’t gotten off, but that
didn’t matter.

When the post-orgasmic shudders stopped and Brock’s heart-rate slowed, Calvin expected the guy to say something. When he didn’t,

Calvin felt he had to fill the silence.

“You okay?”
“Uh huh.”
Another silence descended, Calvin breaking it by asking, “You’re not freaked or anything?” The last thing he wanted was for Brock to run

away from him again.

“I feel…”
Calvin waited several heartbeats before prompting, “Yes?”
Brock moved a little further down the bed and snuggled into Calvin’s chest, resting his head under Calvin’s chin. Calvin tightened his grip

and tilted his face to kiss the top of Brock’s head.

“I feel…safe,” Brock whispered.
“I’m glad.”
The two lay together for the longest time, Calvin listening to Brock’s steady breathing. He wasn’t sure, but thought the cowboy had dozed off.

To pass the time, Calvin began to write on Brock’s T-shirt-covered back with the index finger of his right hand.

“What are you doing?” Brock asked quietly.
“How’d you mean?” Calvin kissed the man’s ear.
“With your finger.”
“Writing.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll show you.” Calvin pulled away from Brock a little and resumed what he’d been doing, this time on Brock’s chest.
Calvin spoke the letters aloud as he drew them. “B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L.”
“Why?” Brock asked in a small voice.
“Why are you beautiful? That’s down to your genes, I guess.”
“No.” Brock sounded close to tears. “Why are you bein’ so nice to me? There are other folks out there you could have got to fix up the house,

other men you could have brought here to your bed. Why me?”

“Why not you?” Calvin kissed the top of Brock’s head again. “It’s true back in high school I couldn’t stand you, but I’ve grown up since then,

and so have you. Now I see what a great guy you are.”

“Great or not, I’m flat-assed broke.”
“Okay, you’ve got some financial troubles—”
“Some?” Brock laughed.
“And I want to help if I can.”
“Why?” Brock asked again.
“Why not?” Calvin repeated. “Don’t you think you deserve a break?”
Brock shrugged.
“You getting injured, stopping you from playing ball, wasn’t your fault. Your daddy dying wasn’t your fault. The hospital bills aren’t your fault.

You’ve been doing the best you can, raising your son. I just want to help a little if I could. And it also benefits me.”

“How so?”
Calvin thought it high time he lightened the tone of the conversation. He moved down the bed until he was face-to-face with Brock. “I get the

folks’ place fixed up by the studliest,” Calvin kissed Brock’s ear, “sexiest,” he kissed Brock’s cheek, “beautifulest,” he kissed the side of Brock’s
mouth, “cowboy this side of Austin.”

Their lips met and Calvin put everything into his kiss that he was unwilling to say out loud.
“Thanks. Not sure I deserve it, though.”
At that moment, gazing into those sad blue eyes, Calvin determined he’d do everything he could to make his cowboy happy.

Your cowboy?

the voice asked.

Calvin swallowed. Yeah, for whatever time he had in Texas, Brock would be his.

The tender moment was shattered when Brock let out a loud fart.
“Fuck, man! That stinks.” Calvin pulled away.
“Sorry. Probably shouldn’t have had refried beans last night.”
“Ya think?”
Brock farted again. “Be back in a minute.” He rolled off the bed and went into the en-suite bathroom.
Calvin got off the bed and went to the window to let in some air. Then remembered. “Brock the—”
There was a crash. “Somebitch!”
“…toilet seat is broken,” Calvin finished more quietly. He raced into the bathroom. “You okay?”
“Fuckin’ toilet fuckin’ seat,” Brock said, sitting up on the floor, rubbing his hip.
Calvin tried to hold in a laugh, but failed miserably.
“Jesus Christ.” Brock levered himself upright.
“You okay?” Calvin finally managed to get hold of himself enough to ask.
“Where’s that fuckin’ replacement seat. I’m puttin’ it on right now before someone else lands on their ass!”
Calvin laughed again, but watching a near-naked Brock walk down the hallway and bend over to pick up his toolbox and one of the seats,

had his chuckles replaced with groans of appreciation.

Following Brock back into the bathroom and watching him take off the old fittings, Calvin observed, “You know, if it got around that you did

your work in nothing but a sleeveless T-shirt, you’d have a full order-book within days.”

Brock looked up at him. “Fuck off.”
“Just sayin’,” Calvin shrugged. “I thought you’d appreciate me giving you the benefit of my advertising expertise.”
“And this is me giving you the benefit of my plumbing expertise.” Brock picked up the new seat. Notice what shape it is?”
Calvin looked. “Ah.”
“The round one. To quote you, ‘I’m ninety percent sure I need the elongated one.’”
“And to quote you,” Calvin fired back, “‘Fuck off.’”

Chapter 6

“I’m done,” Brock called out, giving the last of the newly laid tiles a final wipe.
It was Thursday night, and he’d just finished another job on his list to renovate the Hamilton place. Saturday he and a crew would re-shingle

the roof.

“Okay, meet you round back,” Calvin hollered from the other side of the house.
With the aid of the doorframe, Brock eased himself up from his knees. “Jesus, I’m getting old.”
“What did you say?” Calvin asked.
“Nothing.”
Admitting to himself that he was in pain from kneeling all day was one thing, telling Calvin—who most likely would insist Brock take a pill, or

see a doctor, or whatever—was something else entirely.

Locking the back door, Brock walked around to the sliding glass doors of the master bedroom. Brock had not been entirely honest with

Calvin when he’d told him that once the tiles in the hallway were laid, they couldn’t be walked on until the morning. In truth, they’d probably be okay
after a couple of hours. As Brock had hoped, Calvin had protested at such a restriction. This was when Brock had played his trump card.

“Guess you’ll have to stay at my place tonight then.” He hadn’t been able to look at Calvin when he’d made the offer, partially out of fear that

the man would be able to tell he was nervous, and partly because he didn’t think he could hide his disappointment if Calvin had refused.

“You know,” Calvin had said, forcing Brock to look at him anyway, “all you had to do was ask and I’d have slept in your bed without you

having to construct such an elaborate ruse.”

“What? I—”
Calvin had silenced him with a kiss. “Just pulling your leg, beautiful. I’d welcome a change from the airbed.”
“Oh.” Brock had hoped Calvin’s agreement would be because of more than just not having to sleep on an air mattress.
“And besides,” Calvin had continued, “being in a proper bed with the most beautiful man in the county means we can get up to far more

without the risk of punctures.”

Brock had blushed. Damn Calvin for always having that effect on him.
“You ready to g—” Brock halted mid-word when he popped his head through the sliding glass doors into the bedroom.
Calvin stood in the bathroom, brushing his hair. The green short-sleeved shirt he was wearing was stunning. It fitted his narrow shoulders

perfectly, clung to and emphasized the slight muscles of his back.

Will I do?” Calvin smiled, turning fully toward him.
“Fuck!” Brock resisted the temptation to adjust the growing bulge in his cut-offs. The shirt matched Calvin’s eyes perfectly.
Earlier, when Calvin had agreed to stay overnight, Brock had instituted the second part of his plan by inviting the guy out on a date. Calvin’s

eyes had widened in surprise, and his mouth had fallen open. Brock had decided to enjoy that moment, because he suspected there wouldn’t be
many occasions when Mr. New Yorker would be lost for words.

“But I’ve nothing to wear to go out in,” Calvin had protested.
Brock had shrugged. “You don’t need anything fancy.”
“The hell I don’t. I want to look good when I’m on the arm of the most beautiful man in the state.”
“Thought I was the most beautiful man in the county?” Brock had started to get used to Calvin calling him ‘beautiful,’ although he still didn’t

believe him.

“You got a whole lot more beautiful when you invited me on a date.”
Brock had shaken his head.
“Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Hello?” Calvin was clicking his fingers in front of Brock’s face. “Did ya space out there?”
Recovering quickly from his recollections, Brock shot back, “I got lost in how awesome you look tonight.”
Calvin blushed.

Score one for me,

Brock told himself. “Are you ready?”

“Sure am. You still not gonna tell me where we’re going?”

Brock walked back to the sliding doors. “Nope. Now come on, I need to get showered and changed at my house first.”
“Oh.” Calvin looked mildly disappointed. “I thought you might be going as you are.”
“What?” Brock looked down at his dusty construction boots, his equally dirty and frayed cutoffs, and tatty plaid shirt.
“You look hot in your construction gear, and the tool belt is the ultimate in macho accessorizing.”
Brock shook his head. “You’re fuckin’ loco.”
“Tell me,” Calvin sidled up to him, Brock backing away for fear he’d dirty Calvin’s clothes, “I’ve seen you as a cowboy and a construction

worker, do you also transform into a leather daddy, a G.I., a cop, and an Indian chief?”

“What?” Maybe Calvin really had gone loco.
“My very own one-man Village People.”
“Oh, yeah.” Brock remembered now. “Nope, I don’t do Indians, soldiers or cops, but I’ve got a black leather motorcycle jacket somewhere in

my closet. Does that count?”

Calvin looked as though he were seriously considering the question.
Brock sighed. “Come on, otherwise we’ll be late for the movie.”
“The movie?”

Shit!

Brock thought.

“You’re taking me to the movies?”
“Yes, but that’s all I’m telling you. Now come on, get your ass in gear and let’s get moving.”
“I’m moving, I’m moving.”

* * * *

Getting into his truck, and having Calvin remind him, again, to fasten his seatbelt, Brock turned the key. On the fourth try the engine caught

and they rolled down the drive.

“What’s this?” Calvin bent down and picked up Brock’s hardhat from the floorboards.
“What do you think it is?”
“Why didn’t you wear it today?”
“Huh? I was rippin’ out then layin’ new tile.”
“Suppose.” Calvin put the hat on his own head.
“It’s probably dirty.”
Nah, it’s fine.”
Brock caught Calvin looking at his reflection in the passenger-side window. The man was such a goof. The hat sure didn’t go with Calvin’s

dress shirt.

* * * *

Finally arriving at his place—hoping Calvin wouldn’t notice the sad state the house was in—Brock shut off the engine. Thankfully Calvin kept

any opinions to himself. Letting them both inside, Brock was grateful he’d picked up the place the night before in hopes Calvin would be coming
over. And thanks to Calvin, Brock had been able to afford a new pump for the washing machine, so had managed to reduce the mountain of dirty
laundry. The rest was firmly squashed into the hamper and the lid tightly closed.

“Are you going to take off that hat?” Brock asked.
“Only if you’ll model it for me.” Calvin took the hat off, reached up, and put it on Brock’s head. Stepping back, Calvin clapped his hands. “Oh.

My. God.”

Brock felt himself grin.
Calvin ran his hands down Brock’s bare arms. Brock knew how much Calvin got off on his arms. So the previous night he’d cut the sleeves

off an old plaid shirt. The shirt had tears in the elbows anyway.

Well, that was Brock’s excuse, and he was sticking to it.
“Much as I like you feeling me up, I need to get showered and changed.” Brock held Calvin at arm’s length and looked into the man’s green

eyes.

God, you’re adorable,

Brock thought.

I could so easily fall for your mixture of goofiness and take-charge attitude.

“Need a hand?” Calvin waggled his eyebrows.
“No way.” Brock’s arms fell to his sides. “We’d never get out of the house if I let you do that.”
“So?”
Brock was tempted, but that night was too important for them to just stay home and mess around. A few days earlier when he’d seen that on

Thursday night the drive-in movie theater near Austin was showing

High Noon

, Brock just knew he’d have to swallow any qualms he’d have about

taking Calvin out in public. The man had done so much for him; Brock had to do something to return the man’s kindness.

“Spoilsport.”
“The rest of the night after the movie will be ours.”
“True,” Calvin leered.
Walking down the hallway, Brock spied the blinking message light on the answering machine. He didn’t think it would be Junior and—fearing

it would be the debt collectors—he walked past it.

In the bathroom Brock stood under the hot shower. His muscles—particularly those in his right arm—were aching. He’d have much preferred

a long soak in the tub, but there wasn’t time.

Drying off, then wrapping a towel around his middle, Brock splashed on some cologne—a Christmas present from Junior—and went into the

bedroom to dress. The temperature had dropped as evening had advanced, making him wonder if a storm was coming in. He hoped not, as that
would ruin the movie. Quickly dressing in matching underwear and socks, Brock took his western shirt out of its plastic dry-cleaning wrapper and
put it on. Then came his best blue Wranglers, and, after feeding in a belt, he stomped into his cowboy boots. The chill in the air had him reaching for
a denim jacket, which more-or-less matched his jeans. Putting his Resistol on his head, Brock stole a quick glance of himself in the mirror. He’d do.

As he’d hoped, Calvin smiled when Brock entered the living room.
“Back to being Mr. Cowboy, I see.”
“Yep.” Brock put his thumbs in his pockets. Shit, he’d forgotten his wallet. “Back in a minute.”
“Nice ass!” Calvin said to Brock’s retreating back.

Brock remembered Calvin hadn’t brought a jacket. He doubted they’d have time to go back for him to get something. Brock got an idea, but

doubted Calvin would go for it.

Maybe if I tell him it’s a bit of a retro date.

Brock reached into the back of his closet and pulled out something he

hadn’t worn in years. Carrying it back to the living room, Brock became increasingly convinced it was a dumb idea, and turned back for the
bedroom.

“What you got there?” Calvin asked.
Brock turned back around. “Um, it’s getting cold,” he began. “An’ the heater in my truck don’t work all the time.”

Try all of the time,

the little

voice told him, “So I figured you’d need a jacket, an’ well, I sorta hoped you’d…” he spread the object he’d been holding, and felt foolish. They
weren’t kids. This wasn’t a high school date. “Sorry, dumb idea. I’ll just put it back in my closet and see if—”

“Wait. You wanted me to wear your old letterman jacket?”
“I did but…well…it’s sort of an old movie we’re going to see and…sorry, like I said—dumb idea.”
Calvin walked up to him, kissed him, and took the jacket from him. “I think it’s a cute idea. Bet I’m not the first of your dates to have worn it,

though.”

Brock shook his head. “No one but me’s worn that jacket.” He needed to make sure Calvin understood that.
“Thanks, beautiful.” Calvin kissed him again. “I don’t know why that makes a difference, but it does. I’d be honored to wear your letterman

jacket.” He put it on. It fit him pretty well. “So long as you won’t get uncomfortable if anyone sees us who knows you while we’re out.”

“No, it’s okay.” Brock bit his lip; he hoped it would be okay. They were going some distance from town, so the chances of running into

anyone he knew were slim.

Calvin fluttered his lashes. “I hope you don’t think this means I’m going to put out.”

* * * *

“Oh, God, this is the bit that always turns me on the most,” Calvin whispered, snuggling up closer to Brock’s side.
On the screen, the camera was looking up at Gary Cooper as he stood in the middle of the street.
“Yeah, I can tell.” Brock used his left hand to press at the hardness between Calvin’s legs. Brock’s right arm had been around Calvin’s

shoulders since they’d arrived.

All through the movie Brock had studied the lead actor and couldn’t see the resemblance Calvin said existed. The guy had dark hair for a

start.

“But he’s not as beautiful as you,” Calvin said for the…Brock had lost count. Each time Brock had snorted in disagreement.
When the credits began to roll and cars around them started their engines, Calvin gave Brock a squeeze.
“Gary Cooper was fifty in that movie. You’ve got fifteen years on him.” Calvin kissed him. “And besides, you’re here, alive and in color. Gary

Cooper’s just a black and white image on a strip of celluloid.”

That didn’t make Brock feel much better. The movie probably hadn’t been the best choice with its theme of one man standing up for what

was right. Brock had never done that. He was no Will Kane. But Calvin’s lips all over his face, and Brock’s eagerness to return the kisses soon had
him forgetting about the movie.

“So, you gonna take me home and we can make your bedsprings sing?” Calvin asked when Brock thought he would come just from making

out.

“Anything you say, Grace Kelly…Ouch!” Calvin hit him on the arm. “What was that for?” it was his injured pitching arm, too. The arm that had

been aching all evening.

“I’m not a woman.”
“Never said you were. Was just gettin’ back at you for all the times you called me Gary Cooper.”
“Okay then. But just so you know,” Calvin grabbed his crotch, “I’m all man, baby.”
“Yes, you are,” Brock chuckled, still rubbing at his arm.
“Sorry. Did I hurt you?” Calvin started to rub Brock’s arm for him.
“Nope, it’s just that was my pitching arm, and—”
“Shit. I really am sorry.”
“’sokay.” The pain was easing anyway.
Brock turned the key, the engine spluttered, but didn’t catch. “Shit.” Brock tried again, and mercifully it came to life.
“You need to get this thing looked at,” Calvin said, moving to the other side of the bench seat and reaching for his belt. “Seatbelt.” He told

Brock.

Brock rolled his eyes.

* * * *

“Can you pull over?” Calvin suddenly announced when they were about halfway home.
“Huh?” Brock began to look for a parking space.
“I need to visit that drug store.” He pointed out the window.
“Oh?” Brock pressed on his dick, which had begun to sit up and take notice.
“Horndog! I was getting some liniment for your shoulder if you want to know.”
“Oh.” Brock was by turns disappointed that it wasn’t about sex, and touched that Calvin was still thinking of his shoulder. “You don’t need to.

I’m sure a soak in the tub will take care of it.”

Brock flipped on his turn signal and parallel parked. Remembering the trouble he’d had starting the engine, he told Calvin he’d stay in the

truck with the engine running.

“So we can make a quick getaway, huh?”
“Something like that.” Brock watched Calvin climb out of the truck and walk into the brightly lit store.
Getting bored with waiting—what was Calvin doing, having them mix up something to order?—Brock turned on the radio and found some

quiet country. He slouched lower in his seat. It had been a great evening. Brock hadn’t seen much of the movie, preferring to watch Calvin instead.
The man’s smooth skin, soft brown hair, and the way his cute little nose twitched whenever he took in a deep breath. God, he had it bad. Best of all
he liked how Calvin had snuggled up to him, and occasionally would kiss him. Brock hadn’t realized how much he liked being touched. Calvin was a
very tactile person.

“Okay, home James,” Calvin said on opening the passenger door.

“What did you get?” Brock asked, eyeing the large paper bag Calvin put on the seat. Brock reached for it, but had his hand slapped away.
“All will be revealed in good time, beautiful.”
“Seatbelt,” Brock said, smirking at his passenger, who flipped him the bird.

* * * *

They’d just found an open stretch of country road and Brock was stepping on the gas when a clunk came from somewhere, followed by

clouds of steam billowing up from under the hood.

“Fuck!” Brock slowed and pulled over.
The engine continued to grumble as the coolant boiled, and there was an unpleasant odor of hot antifreeze. Brock had no idea how the hell

he would be able to afford the cost of a tow, let alone the garage bills. Assuming the heap of junk could be fixed. Brock closed his eyes and let out a
long breath. This wasn’t happening.

“Well,” Calvin eventually said, “at least it’s a different angle to ‘oh, we seem to have run out of gas’.”
“Shut up,” Brock mumbled. He didn’t need Calvin’s sarcasm.
“Sorry.” The cab fell silent for a couple of minutes. Then Calvin asked, “Are you with Triple A?”
Eyes still closed, Brock shook his head.
“Good thing I am, then.”
Brock heard the beeping of keys on a cell phone.
“What you doing?” Brock asked, opening his eyes.
“Calling for a tow truck.”
“But I can’t—”
“I’m covered. Don’t worry. Yes, hello. We’ve broken down on the…” Calvin asked Brock where they were, Calvin relaying the information to

the dispatcher.

A couple of minutes later Calvin hung up and said that someone would be with them within the hour.
“Thanks.” Brock closed his eyes again. What had started out as a perfect date was now ruined.
“Brock?”
Brock didn’t respond.
“It’ll be okay, man. Help’s on its way.”
“They won’t be able to fix whatever it is by the roadside.” Brock’s voice was flat. “All they’ll do is tow us to a garage and—” Brock left unsaid

the bit about how he wouldn’t be able to afford the cost of repairs.

“It might not be as bad as you think.” Calvin took Brock’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
Brock’s eyes shot open. “Shit!”
“What?” Calvin let go of his hand.
“I was supposed to pick Junior up from camp tomorrow, go see him play and—”
Calvin took Brock’s hand again and kissed his knuckles. “I can drive you there in my car. That’s not a problem.” He started rubbing his thumb

along Brock’s fingers.

Brock slumped back against the seat. “I’m such a fucking failure. In business. To my kid.”
“No, you’re not.”
“What the hell would you know? You’ve always had money, you’ve always…” Brock snapped his mouth closed; it wasn’t fair to take it out on

Calvin. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Calvin twisted round, worked his left arm behind Brock, and pulled the man toward him. “We’ll work something out. Honestly, it’s

going to be all right.”

Brock didn’t see how. Unless. “You’re not paying for it.”
“Huh?”
“I won’t let you pay the repair bill. No way.”
Calvin let out a breath, Brock was sure that was what Calvin had had in mind.
“You can’t keep bailing me out. I’ve gotta do this myself. I can’t rely on you all the time.”
“Brock, you’re not Will Kane. You don’t have to do it all yourself. Unlike the marshal, there are people who will help you.”
“And what’s going to happen the next time something else goes wrong and you’ve gone back to New York? I have to take care of myself and

my kid.” He shivered.

Calvin gave him a squeeze. “How bad is it? The debt I mean?”
Brock buried his head in Calvin’s shoulder.
“Brock?” Calvin rubbed his spine.
“Fuckin’ bad.” Brock let out a breath. “It’s got to where I don’t answer the phone no more.”
“Oh.”
“That’s why you had to leave a message on the machine. I was home, but I screen most of my calls.”
“Oh, Brock.”
“They’re fuckin’ relentless.”
Calvin began to rub circles on Brock’s back. “They’ll go after any assets they can, such as the business, especially if it’s in your dad’s name.”
“Yeah.”
“What about his house?”
“Sold.”
“And yours?”
“Rented.” Brock thought he might as well come completely clean. “And I’m behind with the rent, and the landlord is starting to make noises

about eviction.”

“Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll have to declare bankruptcy.”
Brock didn’t answer.

“John, look at me.”
The unexpected use of his given name had Brock disengaging from Calvin, opening his eyes, and looking at the man.
“You have to. You’ll lose the business anyway, but at least declaring yourself bankrupt will clear your debts, help you start again.”
“And do what? I’m a failure. I failed my daddy, my—”
“Stop it!” Calvin shook him. “You did the best you could.”
The two fell silent. Brock started to shake again, both from the cold and from the fact he didn’t know what to do.
Noticing this, Calvin pulled him back into a hug and held him tight.
Right away Brock felt safer.

* * * *

Through the rear-view mirror Brock saw a set of headlights approach and slow down. The tow truck moved in front of them and parked. The

driver got out of his cab and started toward them. Despite the passage of time, and the man’s increase in weight—his bulk barely contained by his
grease-stained T-shirt—Brock recognized him instantly.

“Fuck!”

Could this day get any worse?

Mean Mitch Madison had come to tow them. Mitch was the baddest, meanest, most evil SOB of

Parish Creek High during their time there. Brock disengaged from Calvin and climbed out of his truck.

“Stay in here,” Brock growled. He had to keep Mitch away from Calvin, somehow. The man had been Calvin’s worst tormenter.
“Howdy, Brock. Heard someone had broken down,” Mitch said through his chewing jaws.

Jeez,

Brock thought,

I should have added ‘stupidest’ to my list, too.

“Yeah, that’d be me.”
“But yours wasn’t the name I was given.”
“Uh, no, my passenger called for assistance. But this is my truck, so you can deal with me.”
The door behind Brock opened. Then Brock remembered his letterman jacket. He just knew Mitch would make something of it, and it

wouldn’t be pleasant.

“You’ll need to see my Triple A card,” Calvin said.
Brock heard shoes on the pavement. Calvin came toward him. Brock turned round to see Calvin, minus the jacket. He let out a breath.
“Thanks. Just needed to check.” Mitch glanced at the card before handing it back to Calvin. “’Course I remembered who you were anyway.”
Brock’s muscles tensed. If Mitch said one wrong word to Calvin he’d lay the fucker out. This wasn’t high school anymore. Brock wasn’t

scared to defend Calvin now.

“And I remember who you were, too.” Calvin didn’t look the least bit intimidated.
“Yeah…well.”
“Mean Mitch Madison, the guy who made my life a living hell at school.”
“Well…I…look, I live in Austin now, an’ there’s a lot of you queers who live there and—”
“The word is gay, or homosexual. But as that’s got a lot of syllables in it, and I wouldn’t want to tax your brain, just think of me as gay.”
Mitch outweighed Calvin by a hundred pounds or more. Okay, much of that was fat, but even so. Brock moved to get between the two.
“Guess I cain’t blame ya for still bein’ sore with me.” The man spat out a stream of tobacco juice. “But like I was saying. I live in Austin

nowadays an’ there’s quite a lot of qu…gays in the neighborhood. An’ for the most part they’re all right. They don’t bother me none, and I don’t
bother them.”

“Mighty neighborly of you.”
“About my truck.” Brock thought he better get the conversation back on track and hopefully defuse the escalating standoff. “Calvin, get back

in the truck. It’s starting to rain.”

Calvin stared at Brock for a moment—Brock was sure the man would refuse—then Calvin nodded and did as he was asked.
Brock let out a breath and turned back to Mitch. “I hope you can get us going.”
Mitch asked what happened and Brock told him. As Brock had expected, the guy couldn’t repair his truck, though Brock had to admit he

probably went above and beyond in trying.

“Your radiator’s shot.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Brock admitted none too happily.
“I’ll tow you back to Bill’s garage in Parish Creek. He can take a look at it in the mornin’.”
“Okay, yeah.”
The wind was getting stronger and the rain was falling harder.

* * * *

Brock and Calvin stayed in the cab of the tow truck until Mitch had finished unhooking Brock’s truck. The journey back to Parish Creek had

been tense. Brock had made sure he was in the middle, just in case.

Coming around to the open passenger window of the tow truck, Mitch offered them a ride to wherever they needed to go. Brock was about

to suggest he take them to Calvin’s—where at least they could pick up KITT—when Calvin said that he’d call a cab.

“Look, man, I know we’ll never be best buds or nothin,’ but let me do this. It’s not out of my way or anything and—”
“Is this your way of apologizing for all those times you ripped up my homework, or punched me in the stomach, or tried to cram me into my

locker?”

“Well…I—”
“Didn’t think so.” Calvin opened the door—almost knocking Mitch over in the process—and climbed down from the tow truck. “We’ll call a

cab. Goodnight.” With that Calvin turned his back on them and started pressing buttons on his phone.

Mitch shrugged up at Brock. “I tried.”
Brock jumped down from the cab. “Not soon enough,” he mumbled, slamming the door and walking toward Calvin.
A minute later Brock heard the tow truck’s engine start up and drive away.
“You okay?” Calvin asked.
“What? It should be me asking you that. I’m sorry it was him.”
“Not your fault.” Calvin was tight-lipped and shivering in the relentless downpour, the wind whipping at his now semi-translucent shirt.
“Come on let’s get back in my truck. We’ll at least be dry in there.” Brock put an arm around Calvin and led him to the passenger side door.

* * * *

“Well, this certainly was a date to remember,” Calvin said, taking off Brock’s letterman jacket as they stood dripping in Brock’s hallway.
The storm was getting closer, rumbles of thunder becoming more frequent and louder.
“Sorry. I wanted it to be perfect, but instead…” Brock trailed off.
“Parts of it were perfect.” Calvin started to peel Brock’s denim jacket off him. “Spending time with you,” Calvin kissed Brock, “watching a

movie cuddled up to you,” he began to unsnap Brock’s shirt, “knowing I was with the most beautiful man south of the Mason-Dixon Line…that was
all perfect.”

“Thought I was the most,” Brock groaned when Calvin unzipped Brock’s jeans, pulled out his dick and began to tug on it, “beautiful man in the

state.”

“You got more beautiful when you stood up to Mitch Madison for me.” Calvin led Brock by his dick along the hall to his bedroom.
“Should have done it years ago.”
Calvin pushed Brock face down onto the bed. Straddling him, Calvin said, “Yes, but you stood up to him in the end, that’s the important

thing.”

Brock felt Calvin pull away his shirt and begin to rub his shoulders, making Brock moan.
“Hang on, let me get the liniment. Don’t move.”
Brock had no intensions of getting off the bed. However, he began to work his belt buckle loose; he needed out of his damp Wranglers.
There was a flash of lightning, Brock counted, one-thousand, two- thousand…he got to eight thousand before the roll of thunder hit.
Calvin came back into the bedroom and told Brock off for moving.
“I’m still on the bed aren’t I?”
“Which part of ‘don’t move’ didn’t you understand?”
“Jeez. Aren’t you Mr. Bossy this evening?”
Calvin lightly slapped Brock’s ass. “But seeing as how you started, you may continue.”
“Oh, thank you. You’re so kind.”
For that he got another swat. He’d never admit it, but Brock kinda liked a bit of spanking now and again.
Belt and waistband loosened, Calvin started to peel the jeans down, and then stopped. “The fuckin’ boots again.”
Brock couldn’t help his bark of laughter.
“Turn over onto your back. Jeez, talk about déjà vu.”
Brock complied. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
“Huh. Now come on, cowboy, left boot first.”
Footwear finally removed, Calvin pulled at the bottom of Brock’s Wranglers.
Jeans and boxers off, Calvin climbed up toward Brock’s face, laying a trail of kisses as he ascended. “This is so much easier on a real bed.”
“Yeah.” Brock put his arms around Calvin and held him tight. Outside the storm raged, but inside Brock felt safe and warm. Between kisses

he said, “Like how you take care of me.”

“Like taking care of you.” Calvin bit at Brock’s bottom lip then let go. “Come on, beautiful, time for you to roll over so I can work the kinks out

of your shoulder.”

Brock did as he was told. Resting his head on his forearms, he waited. “Shit! That’s fuckin’ cold.”
“Wimp.”
“Fuck you!”
“Don’t worry, it’ll soon warm up.”
“Huh.” Brock wasn’t so sure. The stuff stank, too.
“Stop being a baby.” Calvin began to rub the stuff into Brock’s shoulders. For a while Brock didn’t notice any appreciable improvement in his

pain level. The pressure of Calvin’s crotch as he straddled his hips, plus the man’s strong fingers and thumbs as they dug into his flesh, felt great.
Slowly heat began to build in two places. Brock’s crotch and his right shoulder. The former was distracting and the latter amazing. He shifted
around to try to ease the pressure on his engorged member.

“What’s wrong? You uncomfortable?”
“No,” Brock said quietly.
“Did I give you a stiffy?” Calvin bent down and kissed the back of Brock’s head.
“What do you think?”
Calvin’s low chuckle—that Brock managed to hear between claps of thunder—did nothing to ease the situation. “How’s your shoulder?”
Moving his arm experimentally, Brock discovered much to his surprise there was less pain. “Amazing.”
“Me or the massage?”
“Both.”
Calvin chuckled again and kept on working. Brock was so relaxed, the disastrous evening, the busted truck and the meeting with Mitch

Madison became dim, fuzzy somethings on the periphery of his diminishing consciousness.

Calvin shifted from atop him. Kissing each cheek of Brock’s bare ass, he said, “Back soon, beautiful.”
Brock rolled to his side, careful not to get gunk on the sheets. They probably should have put towels down before starting.
“So,” Calvin said, coming back into the bedroom, towel in hand, “I did give you a stiffy.”
“Yeah. Wanna play with it?” Brock waggled his dick at a smirking Calvin.
“Hmm,” Calvin seemed to consider the offer. “First roll back onto your stomach and let me clean you up. Then we’ll see.”
Brock complied, but wasn’t sure if Calvin would agree to blow him. Hell, he’d even settle for a hand-job.
“There we go.” Calvin tossed the towel at the bedroom door.
Brock rolled to his side to face Calvin. Their lips seemed to naturally move toward each other. Brock had never known anyone to be so into

kissing. He guessed some men thought it too intimate. Personally he could never get enough. As they continued to kiss—the rain hurling itself at the
window, which was illuminated by frequent flashes of lightning—Calvin’s hands started to wander. Eventually they gravitated to Brock’s ass.

“Yeah, man,” Brock groaned between kisses.
“I so want inside your cowboy ass.” Calvin gave said ass a slap.
“Yeah.”

“You okay with that idea, beautiful?”
By way of answer, Brock pushed his ass harder into Calvin’s hands.
“Guess that’s a ‘yes’,” Calvin snickered.
“It’s a ‘hell, yes’!”

* * * *

Brock thought he would die, pass out or just come from all the prep work Calvin insisted on doing to his ass.
“Just fuck me,” Brock groaned after Calvin had been messing around back there for a good quarter hour. The storm was showing no signs

of abating.

“Asses are like fine wine. They need to be savored.”
Jesus, his butt wasn’t a fuckin’ bottle of merlot. However, Brock couldn’t be too sore at Calvin. If he hadn’t got the slick and box of rubbers

from the drug store then they wouldn’t be doing this now. Brock didn’t keep such things in the house, although with Junior getting to that age, he
would have to revise that idea. Brock didn’t want any more unplanned pregnancies in his family.

“Wow, you’re tight. How long’s it been?”
Brock grunted when Calvin stretched him a bit further. “Couple of years.”
“Almost a virgin again.” Calvin bent down and kissed Brock’s shoulder.
“Yeah right. Look, man, I’m ready. Just slick yourself up and slide in. I’m dying here.”
“Patience, beautiful. This will be a pleasurable experience for you. Don’t want to hurt you. Never want to hurt you.”
Brock dropped his head, hoping the pillowcase and the thunder would muffle his sob. No one had cared enough to never want to hurt him.
“Okay, I think that’s got it.” Calvin withdrew his fingers, and Brock twisted his neck to watch Calvin wipe his hands, then tear open a foil

packet. “You gonna roll over?”

“What?”
Calvin tipped his head to one side. With a puzzled look on his face, he repeated, “Roll over. So you’re on your back.”
A surprised Brock shifted position. No one had ever before asked him to do it missionary.
Brock’s emotions must have shown on his face because Calvin said, “Why wouldn’t I want to make love to you face-to-face? You’re beautiful.

I want to see you.”

Brock couldn’t do anything about the sniff or the lone tear that rolled down his cheek. Jesus, had Calvin actually said “make love”? Brock

didn’t think his heart could stand it. The man had feelings for him. Brock could no longer hide the fact from himself that he reciprocated those
feelings back at Calvin.

“Ready?”
Unable to trust his voice, Brock nodded and raised his legs.
“Hang on.” Calvin reached for a pillow and folded it in two. Brock got the idea and rolled onto his shoulders, allowing Calvin to put the pillow

under the small of his back.

“Yeah. You’re at the perfect height now.” Calvin smiled down at him. “You okay?”
Brock nodded again, and swallowed. The guy really did care.
Calvin’s entry was long, slow and so god-dammed amazing, Brock thought he would come just from that.
“Still okay?”
“Never better,” Brock managed to reply.
It had been too long since he’d been filled. Most of his admittedly small number of sexual partners had wanted Brock to top. He guessed his

size and build had folks assuming he preferred the dominant role. Sure, Brock could top, but given the choice, he much preferred to spread his legs
and receive.

Calvin started slow…and kept it slow. Every third or fourth stroke saw the head of Calvin’s dick rub across Brock’s prostate. This resulted in

a steady ooze of pre-come flowing from Brock’s dark red cock-head.

“Jesus, man, you’re tight.”
Brock squeezed his anal muscles on Calvin’s next outstroke.
“Nice!” Calvin groaned. He pushed in a bit harder, but still kept things slow…maddeningly slow.
“God, man, fuck me!”
Calvin leaned down and—although their sizes made it awkward—captured Brock’s lips for a kiss that had Brock’s balls tingling.
Releasing the kiss, Calvin said, “Knew you’d be a pushy bottom.” He raised up and resumed his slow pace.
“Oh, man.” Brock threw his head from side to side. He had to get off. Despite knowing Calvin would stop him, Brock couldn’t prevent his

hand from latching onto his dick and giving it a few hard pumps.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Calvin pried Brock’s fingers off his dick. Lifting the hand, he gave each knuckle a separate kiss.
Brock had never known anyone who went in for kissing different parts of the body. He had to admit it was romantic and nice and… “Oh,

Christ, Calvin, can’t stand it. Need to come!”

“That’s what I like to hear, a man begging.” Calvin’s grin was evil…pure evil.
“Fuckin’ bastard.”
“Yep.” The grin widened.
Calvin picked up Brock’s right leg and began to rub the sole of the foot against his right nipple.
“Knew you’d be a kinky top,” Brock moaned, feeling the nub harden.
“You inspire me to ever loftier heights of kinkiness.” Calvin pumped a couple more times. “Jesus, Brock, your ass is amazing. It was made to

be plowed.”

Brock appreciated the compliment, but his need to climax was becoming more of a necessity. “God, Calvin, if you don’t let me come I’ll…I’ll

—”

“Okay, cowboy. Hang on tight, ‘cause I’m gonna ride you hard and put you away wet.”

Fuck, where did Calvin get these dumbass phrases?

Calvin’s next in-stroke was so powerful it made the wooden headboard bang into the wall, competing with the crashes of thunder outside.

And that was just the start. Who knew such a leanly muscled guy would have such power? Brock felt himself being pushed up the bed, but Calvin
was onto it and—grabbing him by the thighs—pulled Brock back onto Calvin’s pistoning rod. Brock knew he’d have bruises in the morning, but he

didn’t give a shit.

Brock couldn’t help it. His hand reached for and began to flog his dick. Calvin must not have noticed as he didn’t stop him. Brock would have

punched him if he had.

“Yeah man, do it!” Calvin had noticed. “Come on, cowboy, shoot that fuckin’ load.”
Brock let out a scream that would have woken the neighbors, if it hadn’t happened at the same time as a huge clap of thunder. Semen shot

out of his dick, arcing high into the air before landing in several splats on his belly.

“Oh, God, Oh, God!” Brock kept pumping until the last little bit had oozed out. He had to stop because his dick head was too sensitive.
Calvin had slowed his strokes, but Brock was pretty sure the guy hadn’t climaxed.
“You okay?” Calvin asked.
There was a flash of lightning quickly followed by a boom of thunder. The house shook.
“You made the earth move.”
Calvin let out a bark of laughter, then continued to thrust slowly.
It didn’t seem as though the guy was in any hurry to climax. Brock did the tightening of his anal muscles thing again, which made Calvin curse

and slam in harder a couple of times.

The lightning and thunder were getting closer together.
“Hell of a storm,” Calvin observed.

Jeez, this guy’s a real talker during sex,

Brock mused. “Yeah.”

“What say I pull out and shoot all over your beautiful belly?”
Brock looked down at his semen-stained belly. It was probably his least favorite part of his body. He knew he should do crunches to get back

his muscle tone, but never found the time. “Okay by me. You’re running the show.”

Thunder and lightning happened simultaneously. The lights flickered, but stayed on.
“Hell, it’s overhead,” Brock said, lowering his legs to the mattress and pulling Calvin on top of him. “Maybe we should turn off the lights?”
“No way. I don’t want to miss a second of looking at you.”
They kissed. Brock wasn’t scared of storms or anything, but could admit they weren’t exactly one of his favorite things.
Calvin discarded the condom and began to rub off against Brock’s belly and chest. Brock brought his arms around to pull Calvin closer.
“Really dig your broad shoulders,” Calvin admitted, kissing the right one.
“Thanks.” Brock realized it was a pretty dumb thing to say. “Like yours, too.”

Shit, that wasn’t much better.

Calvin stiffened in Brock’s arms and let out a soft gasp. Brock felt warmth spread between them.
“Wow. I’m surprised I lasted that long,” Calvin admitted.
Brock kissed him. “You were amazing.”
“No, you’re the amazing one.”
Brock didn’t feel like arguing. He was tired, happy and felt safe cuddled up with Calvin.
“Of course, pumping out a couple loads this afternoon while thinking about you in your sexy-as-sin construction-worker gear probably helped

me last longer.”

“What?”
“I had to test out the new toilet seat didn’t I?”
Brock shook his head. “Idiot.”
“I’m serious. I wasn’t lying the other day in the home-improvement store when I told you how I managed to bust the old seat.”
“Why?” The post-coital glow was wearing off, and his fears and insecurities were starting to crowd back in.
Calvin huffed. “One day, John Brockwell, you’ll finally realize what a totally awesome man you are.”
“That’s not gonna happen anytime soon. Not until I’ve paid off my daddy’s hospital bills, cleared my rent, bought a new truck and…” It was

never going to happen. Brock clung tighter to Calvin, wishing the world would just go away.

“This is what we’re going to do.” Calvin said, hugging him back. “You won’t like it, but I’m not giving you any choice. Tuesday morning we’re

making an appointment to see a bankruptcy lawyer. You are going to sit that beautiful ass down in front of him and tell him everything.”

Brock shook his head in the negative.
“This is not negotiable. I’ll either go with you, or mind Junior, whatever you want. But this shit starts to end Tuesday.”
Brock shook his head again. This wasn’t right.
“Then after we see the lawyer we’re going to go talk with Bill. If your truck can be fixed then I’m paying to have it fixed. And if it can’t, well…

we’ll cross that bridge if we have to.”

“No,” Brock said weakly.
“Yes,” Calvin replied, brooking no argument. He began to rub circles on Brock’s back. “But we’re not going to think about any of this until

Tuesday. Tomorrow we’ve got that ballgame at Junior’s camp to go to, Saturday you’re on my roof, and Sunday is the Fourth. Don’t know what’s
happening Monday yet, but I’m sure we’ll find something.”

“Why are you doing all this?” Brock asked through a tightening throat.
Calvin paused. “Because I want to.” The man sounded almost as choked up as Brock. Swallowing, he continued “Because…because you

deserve a break.”

Brock didn’t get it. No one had ever cared this much for him. No one had ever been willing to spend so much money on him.
“I’ll pay you back…every penny. Even if it takes me the rest of my life, I’ll pay you back.”
“It isn’t necessary, but if you insist, then we’ll sort something out later.”
“Thank you. Sorry, ‘thank you’ doesn’t even come close.”
“It does, and you’re welcome. Now come on, let’s get cleaned up, this come is starting to dry.”
Brock smiled.
“Don’t know about you, but I’m beat. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and while you might not need your beauty sleep, I sure as

hell do.”

Brock reluctantly let go his tight grip of Calvin. “Crap. You’re handsome. Way more than me.”
Calvin laughed. “Not from where I’m laying, buster.”
Brock found a smile from somewhere.
Calvin kissed him. “You’re so beautiful when you smile. Now go on, it’s your bathroom, so you get to use it first.”

* * * *

They were in bed. Calvin was snoring softly, the lights were off, and the storm had blown itself out. Brock lay sleepless, unable to get his

mind around Calvin’s generosity. However, he was doing his best to follow Calvin’s advice of not thinking about it until Tuesday.

Remembering the time Calvin had used his finger to trace out words, Brock began to write,

I LOVE YOU

on his savior’s spine.

“Wish you could stay here in Texas,” Brock whispered. “Don’t know what I’ll do without you.”
In his sleep, Calvin pulled Brock tighter to him.

Chapter 7

Bright sunlight peeked in through the not-quite closed drapes at Brock’s bedroom window. Calvin—who lay spooned behind Brock, his right

arm over the cowboy’s waist, his right hand cupping a handsome-sized set of balls—didn’t want to get up, but his increasingly full bladder was
leaving him with little option.

Sighing, Calvin removed his arm. Brock mumbled something and shifted in his sleep.
Calvin kissed Brock’s right shoulder. “Back in a minute.”
Before leaving the room, he turned in the doorway to take another look at Brock. The man’s face was peaceful, his mouth was slightly open

with a small line of drool running down the side of his chin and pooling on the pillowcase. Brock’s blond hair was all sleep-tousled and just so cute.

Calvin turned away. “God, I’m so screwed,” he muttered, leaving the room.
Once up, Calvin could never return to bed, no matter how alluring his bedmate. Dressing as silently as he could in the spare set of clothing

he’d brought with him, he left the bedroom and went in search of coffee.

* * * *

Calvin sat at the kitchen table, mug of black coffee in hand, running through his options, quickly realizing he didn’t have any. He’d have to call

Tim, who—Calvin knew—would spend ten minutes bitching him out and a further ten pleading with him to be careful. Brock appeared in the
doorway just as Calvin reached for his cell phone. Calvin was sad to see he’d put on a pair of blue striped boxers. Calvin’s eyes traveled up the
man’s wide physique, past the eyes that only looked partially focused, and up to the hair that stuck out at odd angles.

“Yep, I’m screwed,” he whispered into his coffee mug.
“What?” Brock yawned and scratched at his nuts.
“You want any food?”
“What is there?” Brock shuffled to a chair and flopped down into it.
Calvin resisted the temptation to tell Brock that as this was his house—and presumably he’d bought the groceries—how should Calvin know

what was available?

Instead, feeling domestic, Calvin asked, “What would you like?”
Every morning since Brock had been working on Calvin’s folks’ place, Calvin had cooked the man breakfast, fixed him lunch and often

supper, too. So Calvin couldn’t be too mad at Brock for expecting he’d make him breakfast today, too.

Brock scratched his chest and looked around, possibly seeing this was his kitchen, not Calvin’s. “Uh. Don’t think I have much.”
Calvin smiled. A dopey and unfocussed Brock was an irresistible sight. “We’ll grab something on the way to Junior’s camp. My treat.”
Calvin expected an argument, but Brock simply nodded.
“Coffee?” Calvin held up the pot.
Brock grunted. Evidently his cowboy wasn’t much of a talker first thing in the morning.

Your cowboy?

a voice asked.

Calvin refused to acknowledge the taunt, concentrating on pouring a mug and sliding it across the table.
“Thanks, darlin’.”
Calvin raised an eyebrow, but Brock didn’t notice as he was devoting all of his limited concentration skills on finding the handle of the mug

and lifting said mug to his lips. Calvin rather liked the endearment, but suspected Brock had only used it because he wasn’t fully awake.

“When you’ve drunk your coffee and,” Calvin sniffed, “taken a shower, we’ll head out, okay?”
“Mmmkay.” Brock stood, and, mug still in hand, shuffled off, presumably to the bathroom.
Calvin adjusted himself in his shorts. “Yes, totally screwed.”

* * * *

A minute or so later Calvin heard the water come on. He could do with a shower himself, but figured they would stop off at his folks’ place, so

decided he’d use the bathroom there. Remembering he needed to call Tim, Calvin reached for his cell again.

Someone knocked on the door.
“Fuck!”
Calvin went into the hallway, looked at the closed bathroom door, then at the front door. Whoever was there was persistent as they knocked

again. Calvin guessed he’d better go see who it was.

“Who are you?” the visitor asked. He was thin and balding, and the suit he wore was made of cheap, shiny cloth. Calvin took an instant

dislike to him.

Calvin thought of several retorts, but decided to be good, for the moment. “Hey there.” He put on a big smile and held out his hand. “Nice

day, isn’t it? But the storm last night. Wow.”

“Don’t know what your game is, mister,” the man said, puffing himself up. “I’m Ralph Fitzgerald, the landlord, and I’m here to collect my

overdue rent.”

Calvin kept his hand out. Finally Ralph seemed to feel obliged to take it.
“Pleased to meet you, Ralph. I’m Calvin.” Calvin let go of the man’s sweaty palm and none too discreetly wiped his hand on his khakis.
“Sub-letting from Mr. Brockwell isn’t allowed. It says so in the rental agreement.” Ralph pointed at a sheaf of papers in his left hand.
Calvin stepped off the porch and walked around the side of the house furthest from the bathroom. As he expected, Ralph followed. “No, I’m

not sub-letting. But see up there?” he pointed to the guttering and the patches of missing shingle. “As the landlord, you’re responsible for
maintaining the property. I’m sure it says so in the rental agreement.” It was Calvin’s turn to point at the papers.

“And Mr. Brockwell is responsible for paying the rent, which he hasn’t done in two months.”

“And how long haven’t you done these repairs? Longer than two months I would imagine.”
“That’s beside the point. I’m owed—”
“And Mr. Brockwell is owed repairs. Now, as you know, Mr. Brockwell is a contractor. He could do the repairs and you two could come to

some arrangement and—”

“Just who the fuck are you anyway?”
Calvin sighed. It was too early to get into an argument. “I know Mr. Brockwell owes you money, and as you are no doubt aware he’s having

some financial issues at the moment and—”

“Not my problem. I just want my money.”
Calvin held up a hand. There was no reasoning with the man. He knew Brock would be out of the shower any minute and he wanted the guy

gone. “Look, I’ll pay what he owes.” Calvin took the pieces of paper the man had been holding. “Can I keep these?” Glancing at the final total, Calvin
said, “Just give me your bank details and when I go home in an hour or so I’ll transfer the money to you online.”

“I ain’t givin’ you my bank account details. No way. You could clean me out.”

Oh, brother.

Calvin sighed again.

Trust Brock to have a Luddite landlord.

“Okay, okay.” Calvin held up his hands. “Tomorrow I will come to

your office with a certified check.”

“Those things can bounce.”
“No they can’t. They’re guaranteed that the funds are…” Calvin decided to save his breath. “Cash. I’ll bring cash, okay?” He just wanted the

man gone.

“How do I know you’re not just blowing smoke up my ass?”
Calvin dug deep into his rapidly dwindling reserves of patience to avoid telling the guy that he had no interest whatsoever in his scrawny ass.
Calvin started walking to the man’s car, a green Camry with spots of rust around the wheel wells. “You don’t, but here’s my card. I’m co-

owner of this company. You

will

get your money, all of it, tomorrow.”

The man looked at the business card. “New York?” He said it with distrust, if not downright distaste.
Calvin opened the car door for him. “Tomorrow. Let’s say ten o’clock. When we’ll also discuss a repair schedule.”
The man got into his car, still muttering. Calvin closed the door, and, not looking back, walked up the porch steps and back into the house.

Brock was just coming down the hallway, a towel wrapped around his middle, another being used to dry his hair.

“Enjoy your shower?” Calvin asked.
“Was there someone at the door?”
Calvin considered lying and saying ‘no,’ or telling Brock it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses or the Mormons, but he couldn’t. “It was your

landlord.” He folded the papers and stuck them in his back pocket.

“Shit. He’s a fuckin’ menace.”
“Also as dumb as a box of hammers,” Calvin muttered.
“What?” Brock was rubbing at his ear.
“Nothing.”
“I bet it was him that left a message last night.” Brock stared at the answering machine.
Calvin saw a light blinking on it. “You probably should listen to the message, it could be Junior.”
Brock didn’t look convinced, but pressed the button anyway.
“Brockwell, this is Ralph Fitzgerald, your landlord. But not for much longer if you don’t pay me what you—” Calvin reached over and punched

the stop button.

Brock turned and trudged into his bedroom.
“I saw him off. He won’t be back again today,” Calvin said.
“You didn’t pay him or nothing?” Brock loosened the towel around his waist and sat on the unmade bed.
Calvin held out his arms. “Don’t usually carry a few hundred dollars cash in my pocket.”

Obfuscation is still lying,

his inner voice told him.

Brock grunted and began to scrub at his neck with the towel. The movement caused the towel at his waist to come open, giving Calvin a

glorious view of Brock’s soft cock.

With effort, Calvin raised his eyes and looked into Brock’s troubled face. “Remember, you promised you wouldn’t worry about any of this shit

until Tuesday.”

“You told me not to worry. That’s not the same as me promising.” The frown on Brock’s face deepened.
Calvin cupped Brock’s face, and, using his thumbs to massage away the frown, said, “We’re not talking about this until Tuesday.” Calvin

leaned down and kissed him.

Brock tasted of spearmint toothpaste. One taste wasn’t nearly enough. Before Calvin knew it they were seriously sucking face. Breaking

their lip-lock, Calvin slowly sank to his knees and devoured Brock’s cock, which was now standing at rigid attention.

“Oh, God!” Brock groaned, flopping back on the bed, his legs coming up and bending at the knees, giving Calvin access to the man’s

beautiful rear.

Not gonna look this gift ass in the…

Calvin giggled, unable to complete the metaphor.

“What?” Brock mumbled, evidently too far gone in lust to really care if Calvin answered his question or not.
Answering would mean Calvin would have to break away from sucking Brock’s balls, and he wasn’t about to do that. Well, not unless it

meant going lower to eat out Brock’s ass. The man tasted clean, fresh, and wholesome. Calvin couldn’t get enough.

“Yeah, darlin’, that’s it!”
Calvin knew it was the lust talking, but the words still made him shiver.
When Calvin’s jaw started to ache, and he feared Brock’s whimpers and moans were likely to attract the attention of the neighbors, he

reluctantly pulled away.

“Why’d you stop?” Brock wanted to know, still holding his legs behind his knees.
Calvin stood and smiled down at the wanton cowboy.
“Fuck me!”
“You sure? We’ve got a long ride ahead of us. Don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I said, fuck me!”
Calvin slipped off his flip-flops, pulled his T-shirt over his head, dropped his shorts and boxers and stepped out of them. “Where’d you put

the lube?”

Brock growled in frustration, but lowered his legs, rolled over and went hunting under the side of the bed, emerging a few seconds later with

a plastic bottle that he threw on the bed. Rolling back into position, he raised his legs for a second time.

“Condom?”
Brock searched under the bed again, and on finding a rubber, tossed the foil packet onto the bed. He reassumed his position and glared up

at Calvin.

“Pillow?” Calvin smiled.
“Jesus, do you want me to do all the fuckin’ work?” Brock reached above his head and threw a pillow at Calvin, who caught it.
“Nope, it’s me who’ll be doing the fuckin’.”
“Smart ass.”
Calvin popped the top on the bottle of lube and started working on Brock’s hole.
“For a man who had a dick up his ass less than twelve hours ago you sure are tight. It’ll take me ages to loosen you up.”
“Stop fuckin’ around and just fuck me.”
Calvin had to laugh at the versatility of the F-word. “Why’s my beautiful cowboy so impatient this morning?”
“Jesus, Calvin, just fuck me, will you?”
Calvin had managed to work three fingers in; Brock really needed some more stretching. Although he would never admit it out loud, he was

just as eager to get back inside Brock as Brock was to have Calvin inside him.

Calvin withdrew his hand and wiped it on the sheet. Looking down at Brock, who was biting his bottom lip in anticipation, Calvin couldn’t

resist one last tease. Picking up the condom wrapper, he said, “You know, I always like to put these things on real slow. Millimeter by slow
millimeter. Gives me such a thrill.”

“CALVIN!” Brock shouted.
“Okay, okay.” Clearly he’d pushed the man as far as he dare. Calvin rolled the rubber on quickly, slicked on some lube and positioned

himself at Brock’s entrance.

“Yes!” Brock sighed as Calvin began to push forward.
Even though Brock was in a hurry, no way would Calvin rush this part. He couldn’t hurt his cowboy; also the pulsing, tight heat was just too

delicious to squander on a quick entry.

“Yessss!” Brock said when Calvin was all the way in.
“You okay down there?”
Brock closed his eyes, an expression of total bliss on the man’s beautiful face. Calvin just had to kiss that face. Their relative sizes made

that a little difficult, but if he pulled out a little, and Brock bent forward…they could manage it.

“Want another slow one?” Calvin asked once they’d finished kissing.
“No, fuck me hard.”
“Okay, you’re the boss.”
Calvin pulled almost the whole way out, and then slammed back in…hard. The impact pushed Brock a couple of inches up the bed, Calvin

having to pull him back.

“Jesus!” Brock yelped, his eyes opening wide in surprise.
“Much rather take my time and enjoy loving you,” Calvin told him, trying out a few more gentle strokes.

* * * *

Calvin wasn’t sure how long their lovemaking lasted; both of them were bathed with sweat by the time he’d edged away from his climax for a

fourth time. Brock looked completely wrung out, Calvin had stopped him from jerking off a couple of times, each occasion with Brock growling
threats of physical violence, which Calvin laughed off.

“Okay, cowboy, it’s time to gallop back to the barn. Hold on tight.”
“About fuckin’ time!” Brock grumbled.
“I never leave my men unfulfilled.”
Why the hell was he talking about past fucks? To his shock Calvin realized all his previous sexual encounters were just that, fucks. Here,

now, with Brock, this was something different…something more. Calvin closed his eyes. He couldn’t…mustn’t fall for this man.

Too fuckin’ late!

the

voice told him. Calvin tried to ignore it, but he knew.

“Oh, shit!” Calvin’s climax had snuck up on him unaware. And because he’d delayed it several times it was a doozy.
The room spun…Calvin was falling forward…falling onto Brock, who was holding him tight. The lights went out.

* * * *

“Yo, man. You okay?” Brock’s concerned voice floated somewhere above…below him.
Calvin opened his eyes and saw Brock inches from his face. “Uh.”
“You must have passed out or something.”
“Or something.” Calvin felt life return to his body. It was hot in the room, or was it him?
“You need anything?”
Calvin shook his head and worked his arms around Brock’s wide chest. “Not a thing.”
Brock kissed him. “Me neither.”
They lay—Calvin atop Brock—for several minutes, their breathing and heart rates slowly returning to normal.
Calvin felt the full condom slipping down his now soft dick. Thankfully he must have had the sense to pull out sometime earlier. “Did you

come?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brock chuckled, the man’s broad chest vibrating under him. “Can’t you feel it?”
Thinking about it, there was a cold slippery something between them.
“If we don’t move soon we’ll be stuck together.”
“So?” Calvin yawned. “Can’t think of anyone I’d rather be stuck to.”
Brock kissed him. “You were…amazing.”
“You’ve changed your tune. Earlier you were threatening to cut off my balls for not letting you come.” Calvin returned the kiss.
“Yeah well. What can I say, I’m impatient.” Brock nibbled at Calvin’s right ear. “But, darlin’, it was sure worth the wait.”
Calvin snuggled closer. “Like it when you call me darlin’.”

“Gotta call you something.”
“What about Calvin?”
“Need something more…special, more personal. You call me beautiful an’ cowboy an’ Gary Cooper.”
“That’s because you’re a cowboy, and you’re beautiful, and you remind me of Gary Cooper.” Calvin just wanted to sleep. Why was Brock

suddenly being so talkative?

“Unless you’d prefer something else?”
“Such as?” Calvin yawned and closed his eyes. Brock made for a really comfortable mattress.
“I dunno. ‘Sugar cakes’?”
Calvin’s eyes shot open. “Huh?”
“Or maybe ‘Shnuclekins’.”
Calvin raised himself up and glared at Brock. “Shnuclekins?”
Smiling, Brock then suggested, “‘Pootipops’?”
“No fuckin’ way.”
“‘Ukiscrumptiousness’?”
Calvin raised his arm to slug Brock, but the big guy grabbed him and rolled them both over. Calvin found himself squashed into the mattress.

Brock’s teasing smile morphed into something Calvin recognized but refused to acknowledge.

Oh, God, it had got to the silly name stage. He was totally, completely, absolutely screwed. Closing his eyes, Calvin whispered, “You can call

me darlin’, and we’ll work on something else another time.”

Calvin felt Brock give him a tender kiss. “You got it, darlin’.” The moment was broken when Brock got off him and said, “Shit, look at the

time!” we need to hustle if we’re gonna have breakfast on the way.”

Calvin sighed, opened his eyes, and looked at Brock’s old-fashioned brass alarm clock. It was a little after ten. There wouldn’t be time for

them to stop off at his folks’ place. “Okay if I shower here?”

“No problem.”
“You gonna have another shower?”
Brock sniffed his pits, an action which had Calvin’s dick coming back to life. This reminded Calvin that he needed to dispose of the rubber,

which had come off and was hiding somewhere in the folds of the sheets.

“Yeah, guess I should. Want me to come with you?”
Calvin ran his hands along Brock’s wide shoulders and down his strong arms. Shaking his head, he said, “It’s hard enough keeping my

hands off a dry beautiful Gary Cooper cowboy, I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions if I got them on a wet and soapy Beaut—”

Brock silenced him with a kiss. “You’re crazy.”

Crazy for you,

Calvin thought, getting up and leaving for the bathroom.

* * * *

Once he was showered, dried, and redressed, Calvin used the time while Brock took his own shower to pick up the bedroom. After

discovering the errant condom and burying it in the trashcan, Calvin stripped off the sheets. He’d wait until Brock finished before starting the
washing machine. Performing these cozy little chores for his man further rattled Calvin. One thing he definitely wasn’t was domestic. He thought
about calling Tim, but instantly rejected the idea. There wouldn’t be enough time. Sure enough, within a minute Brock emerged.

“Thanks for stripping the bed. I wouldn’t have wanted Junior to come home and see anything that’d, well, you know.”
“No problem.” Calvin remained on the bed. If he were to touch Brock they’d start messing around again…and it’d be nightfall before they got

on the road.

Brock opened a drawer and got out a clean pair of boxers.
“So, what sexy duds is my cowboy gonna wear that’ll leave me with a perpetual hard-on all day?”
“Want to help me choose?” Brock grinned over at him.

Fuck! I shoulda kept my big mouth shut!

Calvin thought, standing up and walking toward Brock’s closet.

* * * *

They were making good time. KITT had been programmed with their destination and had set a course that Calvin hoped wasn’t the quickest.

Not long after they’d left Parish Creek, Brock had reached over and taken Calvin’s right hand. Calvin had glanced over to his passenger, who
steadfastly refused to look his way. Calvin had raised their joined hands and brought Brock’s knuckles to his lips. Brock had looked over at him
then, giving him a shy smile. Calvin knew it wasn’t easy for his cowboy to show affection to another man in public, so was very proud of him for
being willing to go as far as he did.

As the miles rolled by, Calvin settled into a deep contentment. The only fly in the ointment was Brock’s choice of music.
“Isn’t there anything else but George Straight?”
“You don’t like King George?” Brock smirked.
“He’s okay in moderation.”
Calvin wished he hadn’t let Brock bring the CDs along, but when he’d asked just before they were leaving, Calvin hadn’t been able to say no.

He was rapidly discovering he was rarely able to say no to Brock. The music made his cowboy happy, so Calvin knew he’d deal. Wouldn’t stop him
from bitching, though.

“How come you drove all the way from New York? Hell of a long way.”
“True,” Calvin conceded. “I rarely get to drive in Manhattan, it’s just not practical. It’s usually bumper-to-bumper and there’s hardly anywhere

to park.”

“I’d hate to live in a place like that.”
“I thought so, too, before I first visited the place. But then I fell in love with it.” Calvin resisted the temptation to wax lyrical about how—when

he’d first walked the streets of New York—he’d been able to imagine himself living in a particular building, going out for groceries at the nearby
bodega, buying a hot pretzel from a certain street vender. Things had just clicked for him. Now he knew he’d never be able to live anywhere else.

“But still, I’d have thought it would’ve been quicker to fly.”
“It would, but when my mom and dad said they were moving to Florida, but needed someone to tie up loose ends in Texas, I thought I’d take

some time off work and treat myself to a road trip as a vacation.” He rarely went on vacation; there was no one to go with.

“Just you and the open road. Sounds great.”
“Yeah. I visited a few places along the way. Took me the better part of four days.” He left unsaid that he’d not been in any real hurry to arrive,

Parish Creek holding all the bad memories it did.

Brock’s stomach grumbled.
“Ready to find somewhere for breakfast? Though I guess it’s more like brunch.”
“Wouldn’t mind. You wore me out this morning.”
“Ha. I was the one who almost passed out.”
“Bit more than ‘almost’. You sure you’re okay?” Brock looked at him in concern.
Calvin squeezed Brock’s hand, which he was still holding. “Never better.”

* * * *

The roadside diner they found was like something out of a fifties movie or TV sitcom. There were tall stools at a long counter as well as

Formica-topped tables in orange-colored booths. There was even an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner, softly playing something by Marty
Robbins.

“Least it’s not Doris Day,” Brock said out of the corner of his mouth.
“I bet they have some of her hits, though.”
Brock snickered.
“Booth or counter?” Calvin asked.
Brock walked to the one free booth, sat down and took off his black Stetson. Brock had said that because of getting wet the previous day,

his Resistol would have to be steamed and reblocked. Brock’s light-green chambray shirt with faux-pearl snaps had been an irresistible choice for
Calvin. More difficult was which of his many belts Brock should thread through the pair of blue Wranglers Calvin had picked out. Eventually Calvin
had chosen one with a turquoise design etched into its oval buckle.

A waitress, who, judging by her leathered face, had probably started waiting tables in the place when Doris Day was in her prime, handed

them menus and began to pour coffee.

“I’ll leave y’all to make ya minds up, and I’ll be back soon.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Brock drawled. When she’d left he said, “This place is like a frickin’ museum. I half expect Richie Cunningham and The

Fonz to come walking in.”

Calvin snickered. Looking down at his menu, he felt his arteries hardening. The food seemed authentically fifties, too.
Brock chose the breakfast special, Calvin a more modest bowl of oatmeal followed by toast and scrambled eggs. The waitress topped up

their coffee and departed to put in their order with Nik. Calvin knew it couldn’t be a genuine fifties diner without a Greek chef.

Brock excused himself to visit the bathroom, which, unlike in

Happy Days,

was not labeled

Guys

. Calvin leaned out of the booth and eyed

the jukebox. Geek that he was, he knew on sight it was a Seeburg M100C with the original fiberglass pilasters. Calvin just had to get closer to have
a look and a feel. When he got there, he noticed that indeed the machine did have a couple of Doris Day tracks. He ached to play

Secret Love

, but

daren’t. He wasn’t ready to declare his feelings yet, and definitely not in such a public setting. Although the small mixed crowd seemed okay, there
just was no telling. So, reluctantly, Calvin dropped in his quarters and selected

Deadwood Stage

, watching the mechanism select the disk and

begin playing it.

A few seconds after Calvin got back to the booth Brock returned. “Did you pick this song?”
Calvin grinned. “Couldn’t resist.”
Brock shook his head and smiled.

* * * *

As they grew closer to their destination, Calvin sensed an increased unease from his passenger. The first clue was Brock letting go of

Calvin’s hand.

“You okay?” Calvin asked.
“Yeah.”
Calvin knew this wasn’t the case, so tried to get Brock talking. “Was it confusing having three people in your family called John Brockwell?”
Brock chuckled. “Not really. Daddy was always John. Since middle school everyone called me Brock, and Junior is, well, Junior.”
“It’s a nice tradition carrying on a name like that.”
Brock shrugged. “I guess. Daddy didn’t really give me much option when Junior was born.”
From the little Brock had revealed about his father—forcing his son and his now ex-wife to marry—Calvin was beginning to get a much

different impression of the senior Brockwell from the one he’d previously held.

“What happened to your mom?” Calvin couldn’t remember there ever being a Mrs. Brockwell.
“She left when I was in grade school.”
“Left?”
“Yeah, with my younger sister.”
“Younger sister?” Calvin realized he was sounding like a parrot.
“Daddy wasn’t an easy man to live with.”
Calvin knew there was a wealth of information—and probably hurt—behind that short statement. “Oh. How come you didn’t go with your mom

and sister?”

“Basically daddy wouldn’t let her take me. You have to understand, back then the courts—especially here in Texas—probably would have

sided with daddy, him being a local businessman an’ all.”

“Wow.”
“And, too, mom just had to get away, and, as Jessica was still a baby, and daddy had no use for babies, much less baby girls, mom took off

with her.”

Calvin wondered if Brock held any resentment toward his mom for leaving him behind. “Do you have any contact with them?”
“Not much.”
The short statement told Calvin he was straying into territory Brock wasn’t comfortable about exploring, but there was one thing Calvin

needed to know. “How come you got custody of Junior, and not…”

“Mary Ann?”
Calvin nodded.
“Well, first there was daddy’s influence, but after we got married Mary Ann started to stand up to him. She’s the only woman I know who ever

did.”

Calvin thought he might actually like Brock’s ex.
“When Mary Ann an’ me realized it wasn’t working between us we sat Junior down—he was only about five or six at the time—we asked him

who he wanted to live with.”

“Really?” Calvin doubted a kid of that age would be able to make such a decision.
“You gotta understand, Junior’s always been smart. Not necessarily book smart—though he’s certainly no dummy like his daddy—but—”
“Whoa! You’re no dummy.”
Brock shrugged, seeming to neither agree nor disagree with Calvin. “Well anyway, we gave Junior the choice of who he wanted to live with.”
“And he chose you.” Calvin got a lump in his throat.
“Yeah.” Brock smiled. “Me and him’s always been real close.”
“And Mary Ann didn’t object to you having custody?”
“Nope.” Brock sighed. “Many divorced men hate their ex-wives. I still get on well with mine.”
Calvin turned to look at Brock. He felt the car veer to the right, so returned his eyes to the road.
“I couldn’t love her like she needed…” Calvin heard Brock swallow, “deserved.”
“Does she know about…”
“Me being queer?”
Calvin winced at Brock’s choice of words.
“Oh, yeah. Junior, too.”
“Really?” Calvin risked another glance at Brock. “And they’re both okay with it?”
“Yeah. Amazin’ ain’t it?”
Calvin had to agree that it was.
Brock went on to say that his ex had re-married, and had a new family. Each year Junior visited his other family during the summer break.
Despite their discussion, Brock’s unease seemed to increase. He kept picking at the cuticle on his left thumb, prompting Calvin to put his

hand over it and to ask him what was wrong.

“I’ve never…I’ve never introduced Junior to another man.”
“Not even a friend?”
Calvin had been told Junior was smart, but surely he’d have to be incredibly smart to know what Calvin meant to Brock. Even Calvin wasn’t

sure what he meant to Brock.

“Well, yes, but you’re…well, more than a friend.”
Calvin didn’t know what to say. He just gave Brock’s hand a squeeze.
“And, too, you’re out and proud and I don’t know.”
Spying a dirt track ahead, Calvin flipped on his turn signal—even though there was little traffic on the road—and drove down the track a way.
“Where are we going?”
Calvin shut off the engine and turned to his passenger. Putting a hand on Brock’s left shoulder, Calvin said, “Brock, look at me.”
Brock did so.
“You remember me saying yesterday I’d never hurt you?”
Brock paused for a moment and then nodded. “But that was when we were—“
“Making love. Yes, and I meant it. And not just in the bedroom. I would never intentionally hurt you anywhere.”
“Sorry.” Brock looked down.
Raising Brock’s chin with one hand and pushing up his Stetson with the other, Calvin kissed him on the lips. “Even though when we’re at the

ballgame I’d love nothing more than to run across the circle—”

“Diamond,” Brock corrected.
“…and point up into the stands—”
“Bleachers.”
“…and yell, ‘see that awesome, amazing man up there?’”
“Not beautiful?” Brock smiled.
“‘…that awesome, amazing and the most beautiful man in the whole of the U.S. of A? Well he’s mine!’”
Brock smiled and shook his head. “Goofball. And I thought I was the most beautiful man in, what was I up to before?”
“South of the Mason-Dixon Line.” Calvin licked at Brock’s bottom lip before lightly biting at it. “But you got more beautiful when you let me

make love to you last night and again this morning.”

Despite the center console, Brock leaned into Calvin’s chest and the two men spent a few minutes holding each other, Calvin breathing in

Brock’s amazing scent.

“But I’d never pull anything like that at the ballgame, because it’d hurt you, and I never want to hurt you.”
Calvin heard Brock sniff. He held his cowboy tight until the man was able to regain control again.
Just before they separated, Calvin gave Brock another kiss. “That’ll have to keep you going until the next time we’re alone.”
Calvin wasn’t sure when that would be. Later that afternoon the home-improvement store would deliver the new shingles and the roofing crew

would stack them. Then at first light Saturday the crew would return to start the re-roofing.

“I’ll hold you to that.”
They kissed again, separated, and—once Calvin had straightened the hat on Brock’s head—he started the engine, turned around and

bumped their way along the dirt track back to the highway.

* * * *

Sitting in the bleachers next to Brock, Calvin felt lost. Sure, he knew the basics about baseball, but most of what Brock was telling him went

over his head. Brock was fuming that Junior was pitching curve balls. Calvin didn’t understand, and said as much.

“He’s too young, his skeleton hasn’t matured enough. The fu—” Brock must have remembered ladies were present. “The darn coaches

shouldn’t teach such a pitch.”

“Seems like Junior is coping with them okay.”
Brock shook his head and let out a breath. “He’s my son and I’m proud of anything the little shi…um…guy does, but he hasn’t got enough

different pitches in his arsenal.”

“Oh.”
“A good pitcher needs a decent fast ball—as well as a good change up.”
Calvin shrugged and went back to watching the game. It was fucking hot. He took a swig from a bottle of water he’d bought at a gas station

on the way in. He then offered the bottle to Brock.

Calvin had to tear his attention from the poetry in motion that was Brock’s Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed, and focus back on a kid

running to home plate.

His first sight of Junior had confirmed to Calvin that the boy was a chip off the old block. The thirteen-year-old was so much like Brock at that

age—same strong physique, same wide shoulders, same blond hair and blue eyes—it had taken Calvin a few seconds to recover. However, there
were some distinct differences, too. Junior was a great deal more demonstrative than Calvin ever remembered Brock being. On first entering
Junior’s room, a space he shared with another boy, Junior and Brock had hugged for the longest time. And, Calvin had noted, it wasn’t just a macho
jock slap on the back type of hug, either. Calvin had felt as though he were intruding on a private moment, so stepped backward into the hall. But
Junior had disengaged from his dad and stuck out his hand and shaken Calvin’s hand warmly.

“My daddy’s told me you’ve given him the contract to renovate your folks’s place.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Calvin hadn’t expected such a mature reaction. “You’re welcome. But please, call me Calvin. ‘Sir,’ or ‘Mr. Hamilton’ is my dad.”
Junior’s face had then broken out into a smile. “Me an’ your daddy didn’t always see eye-to-eye.”
“Junior!” Brock had scolded.
Junior had then smiled up at his father. There was genuine affection in the boy’s eyes. “Sorry, Dad.” Then Junior had returned his whole

attention back to Calvin. “But he was always fair with us kids.”

Calvin had nodded. “That’s a fair assessment. Thank you. I know a lot of the kids at the middle school didn’t like him, didn’t recognize that he

had his good points, too.”

“Run, you idiot!”
Calvin was snapped back to the game. A man, presumably one of the player’s fathers, was yelling at someone on the field.
Brock sighed and shook his head.
As the game progressed, Brock would occasionally mutter quietly to himself. The third time it happened Calvin asked what was wrong.
“He should have caught that ball.”
Calvin shrugged, Junior was doing just fine as far as he could tell.
However, a short time later when Junior caught a ball that seemed to hurtle toward him, Brock was one of the first to cheer.
But, despite his best efforts, Calvin’s mind began to wander again.
Junior had invited both Brock and Calvin to take a seat in his dorm room. There was one spare chair, which Calvin had opted for. Brock and

Junior had sat on the bed, Brock’s left hand moving from Junior’s shoulder to the small of his back, even once high-fiving him when Junior had
related some feat he’d achieved during his stay.

All through the short visit, Junior had kept bringing his roommate into the conversation, praising him for his achievements, and generally

making the kid feel included. Calvin had been amazed by the young man’s maturity. No wonder Brock was so proud of him.

Brock slapped Calvin on the shoulder, making him jump. “Well, that’s it,” he announced.
Calvin looked around; people were standing up, packing their coolers and generally making ready to leave. The players were dispersing,

many to go talk to relatives in the crowd.

Junior approached.
“Good game, Champ. Proud of you.” Brock patted the boy on his shoulder.
“Thanks, but…” Junior’s head was down. “I screwed up a couple times.”
Brock gave the back of his son’s neck a squeeze. “Your team won. You helped them win.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Did you enjoy the game? Did you enjoy the camp?”
Junior nodded, but still didn’t meet Brock’s eyes.
“Well, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
Junior’s head came up, a tentative smile on his face.
“I’m proud of you, Champ. Always will be.”
Around them, kids were being praised—or in a couple of cases harangued—by their parents.
“You wanna get changed, gather your stuff together and then we’ll get on the road?” Brock asked his son.
“Okay, Dad. Thanks.”
“And then Calvin has a surprise.”
“He has?” Calvin was confused.
Brock leaned in and quietly said, “KITT. He’s,” pointing at Junior, “a big fan of the show.”
“Oh, right.” Then Calvin remembered his need to call Tim. If he didn’t do it now he’d have to wait until that evening, and he couldn’t wait.

“Listen, guys, while you get yourselves organized I need to make a phone call. I’ll meet you in the parking lot in, say, half an hour?”

The two Brockwells nodded.

* * * *

Calvin had found a shade tree and had sat under it for about five minutes staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button. Did

he really want to do this? Depressing the button, Calvin brought the phone to his left ear and waited.

As soon as the phone was picked up, Calvin said, “Tim, it’s me.”
“Hello me.”
This made Calvin smile, but it didn’t last.

“What’s up?”
“Why should there be anything up?”
Tim did his usual silent waiting thing.
Calvin let out a breath. “You know me too well.”
“So, I repeat, what’s up?”
“It’s Brock. You remember, the contractor guy I—”
“Yes, I remember Brock. You’re bailing him out by paying him to renovate your mom and dad’s house.”
“Yes.”
“So? Or don’t I need to ask? His business is in a worse state than you first thought and you’re going to give him money?”
“No…yes.”
“Well, that’s clear.”
“Yes, his business is failing. I’m going to go with him Tuesday to see a bankruptcy lawyer.”
“And?”
“And,” Calvin let out a breath.

Here goes.

“And I’m in love with him.”

There was silence at the other end.
“Tim, you still there?”
“I’m here.” The man’s tone was steady. He wasn’t yelling, or telling Calvin he was mistaken.
“And?” Calvin eventually asked.
“Are you sure? You’ve only known this Brock for a week…less than a week.”
“We were in high school together.”
“Where you couldn’t stand him.”
“I know. But…” Calvin started picking at the hem of his cut-offs.
“If you can fall in love with someone in less than a week, how long will it take to fall back out of it? And do you know if Brock loves you as

much as you say you love him?”

Calvin didn’t answer. Although he trusted Tim’s judgment on almost everything, his friend was wrong about him and Brock.
“I won’t tell you that this is Roger all over again.”
Calvin resisted the temptation to point out Tim had done precisely that. “I never loved Roger, you never heard me say that I loved Roger.”
“No, I didn’t hear you say it, but—”
“I didn’t love Roger,” Calvin repeated. He didn’t care he was sounding like one of his dad’s former students.
“I know you, Cal Hamilton. A sob story plus a pretty face, and you’re ready to open your checkbook.”
“Brock’s not like that!” Calvin snapped.
“Cal, love, he is. And you know it.”
“Brock is different. I swear he is.”
“Uh huh.”
“Tim, you haven’t met him. Brock’s genuine, and nice and—”
“Sexy and hung.”
“Tim!”
“Well, is he?”
“We had this discussion earlier this week. The only man you’re interested in is Bruce Springsteen, so keep your mind above Brock’s shorts.”
“And up to his face? Is he handsome?”
“He’s beautiful, and I tell him so, often.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Tim, it’s the real thing, I know it.”
“There are several things wrong with this picture. But to make it simple I’ll focus on just one. You live in New York. Brock lives in Texas.”
“I know.” Calvin sighed.
“Are you prepared to move back to Bumfuck, Egypt?”
Was he? “No. Manhattan is my home.”
“And I suspect Parish Creek is Brock’s. Look, Cal, I honestly don’t want to burst your bubble, this…whatever it is between you and Brock, it

has no future.”

Calvin blinked away tears. He couldn’t argue with his friend’s logic. Calvin had expected the man to say exactly what he’d said.
Tim was continuing. “How much longer do you expect you’ll stay in Texas?”
“Don’t know.” He was back to sounding like a middle-schooler.
“Try for a minute to take all your emotions out of this. Looking at the situation purely from a logical perspective, do you need to remain in

Texas? You’ve hired someone to renovate the old homestead. You can engage a Realtor. Let these people do what you’re paying them to do and
come back home and do what you pay yourself to do.”

“I’ve been working while I’ve been here.” Calvin fired back, not following Tim’s advice to remove emotion from the situation.
“Cal, no one has said you haven’t been working. But you know yourself that you can’t do everything from thousands of miles away.”
Calvin did know that, but just then wasn’t willing to admit it.
They talked for a while longer, not getting any nearer a resolution. Eventually Calvin looked at his wristwatch and realized he’d been on the

phone for nearly twenty minutes.

“I’ve got to go. I’m at a baseball game and—”
“You hate baseball.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I bet.”
Calvin explained about Brock’s truck, Junior’s camp, and how he’d offered to drive Brock there.
Tim sighed. “You’re in deep this time, buddy.”
“Yep, up to my neck.”
“More like over your head. Look, Cal, you’re a big boy and—”
“You back to contemplating the contents of men’s underwear?”

“Shut up. Like I said, you’re a big boy now. And much as I think you’re making a huge mistake, I’m not going to stand in your way…I can’t.”
“Thanks, bud.”
“You’re welcome. Just…oh, shit I don’t know…just be careful.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Calvin pressed ‘end’ and gazed up into the leaves of the shade tree. “I’m screwed, just…screwed.”

Chapter 8

“Dad?”
Brock started and turned from the window to see his son coming into the room, dressed in a wrinkled T-shirt and sleep pants.
Brock looked at the mantle clock. It was five till five. “Why are you up so early?”
“Wanted to see you off.”
Brock saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned back to the window. A white Ford Focus drove down the street.
Junior chuckled. “I bet you’ve been checking the time and the window for the past ten minutes.”
It was more like fifteen, but Brock wasn’t going to admit that. “I don’t want to keep Calvin waiting. The roofing crew’s supposed to arrive at

five thirty.”

“Uh huh.” Junior yawned. “Tell me something. Are you and Mr. Hamilton, how would you have said it back in your day, ‘sweet on each

other?’”

“What? I’m not that old!”
“Whatever. But are you?”
Brock checked the window again, all the while nervously swinging his hardhat in his right hand.
“I wouldn’t mind if you were. He’s a nice man. He’s good for you.”
Brock felt himself blushing. He wasn’t having this conversation. Parents did not discuss their love lives with their children.
“It’s okay.” Junior came over and gave him a one-armed hug, which Brock returned. “And what’s with the old football jersey with the cut off

sleeves?”

“It’ll be hot today, and I’ll be on Calvin’s roof and—”
“Oh, I see.” Junior’s smile increased. The little shit probably did see.
Brock scratched at his bare right arm. “What time did you say Kyle’s mom was expecting you?” Brock hated having to ask the parents of

Junior’s friends to mind his son while he went out to work.

“In a couple hours. Kyle’s got a new game for his Xbox 360. We’ll probably play on that for most of the morning.”
Brock wished he could afford to get his son more of the technological gadgetry teenagers seemed to crave, but to give Junior his due, the

boy had never asked for anything that wasn’t essential for his studies.

Another car—a white Taurus—passed down the street.
“Dad, please come away from the window. The neighbors will think you’re spying on them.”
Brock did so. Flopping down in his armchair, hardhat on his knee, he looked back up at the clock.
“It’s only a minute since the last time you checked.”
Brock stifled a yawn. Then he heard a car come onto the driveway. Standing quickly to see whom it was, he dropped the hat, much to

Junior’s amusement. Picking it up, he scowled at his son before looking out the window. It was Calvin.

Jogging to the front door, Brock paused with his hand on the doorknob. Over his shoulder he yelled, “Don’t know what time I’ll be back. If

Kyle’s mom doesn’t feed you, there’s five dollars in the coffee canister on top of the fridge. Get yourself a burger or something from Dairy Queen.”

“Okay, Dad. Have a good time.”
“I’m working.”
Junior appeared in the doorway from the living room. “Uh huh. Now don’t keep your honey waiting.” He grinned.
Shutting the door behind him and approaching KITT, Brock knew he’d have to have a conversation with his son. But all thoughts of Junior’s

teasing evaporated when Brock saw Calvin, left arm bent and resting on the open window. The bright blue, short-sleeved button up shirt, the dark
sunglasses: Brock realized he was frozen in place, staring. Calvin looked so…sexy.

“Brock?” Calvin lowered his sunglasses to ask.
“Uh—” Brock started moving again.
“You want to go get your Resistol? I can take it into town later this morning.”
“Oh, uh, okay.” Brock turned and re-entered the house. “Me again,” Brock called out, walking down the hallway to his bedroom.
On his return trip, misshapen hat in one hand, hardhat in the other, he saw Junior leaning against the doorpost of his own bedroom, a smirk

on his face.

“Would it help if I stayed at Kyle’s tonight?”
“Help?” Brock stopped to ask.
“I know I’ve only just come back from camp an’ all, but…you know…me being out will give you an’ Mr. Hamilton a chance to be alone and…”
“Thanks, son.” Brock didn’t stop to analyze the offer. He was running late. “See you later. And you be sure to mind Kyle’s mom.”
“Yes, Dad!” Brock could hear the eye roll in his son’s voice. “And you make sure to—” the rest of Junior’s words were cut off by the closing of

the front door.

“Sorry about the early start,” Brock yawned, “but the guys will need to get as much done as they can before it gets too hot,” he told Calvin

after situating himself in the car.

“Seatbelt,” was Calvin’s expected reply.
Brock had gotten so used to it he’d started to deliberately forget to put it on, just so Calvin would tell him about it.
“I was worried that the bundles of shingles the home-improvement store delivered yesterday afternoon would fall off the roof overnight.”

Calvin handed Brock a Styrofoam cup.

“Thanks,” Brock peeled off the lid and took a sip of the hot coffee. “They didn’t fall off, did they?”
“Nope.” Calvin reversed down the driveway, Brock balancing the cup to try to avoid spillage.

* * * *

Brock was pleased to see the crew hadn’t arrived by the time Calvin pulled up outside his folks’ house.
“Better put her in the garage, don’t want any roofing material falling on her,” Calvin said, driving into the garage.
“I thought KITT was a him?”
“Whatever.”
“And there shouldn’t be much by way of falling shingles, remember we’re not ripping off, just putting another layer on top of the old.”
“Uh huh.” Calvin yawned.
“Too early for you?”
Calvin undid his seatbelt, leaned over and kissed Brock’s cheek. “It’s never too early for my beautiful cowboy.”
Brock turned his head so he and Calvin could kiss on the mouth. Calvin’s sunglasses got in the way, so Brock pulled them gently away.
“Bit early for dark glasses isn’t it? Though they look sexy on you.”
Calvin took the glasses and put them on Brock’s face. “They look even sexier on you.”
They kissed again; evidently Calvin didn’t mind the glasses getting in his way.
“You don’t taste as though you’ve put on any sunscreen,” Calvin said once they’d parted to draw breath.
“Nah, don’t usually bother with it.”
“Well, mister, you will be bothering from now on.”
Calvin opened the car door and got out, Brock doing the same at his side, but on trying to exit the vehicle realized he hadn’t undone his

seatbelt, which made Calvin snicker.

* * * *

“Good thing I got some high factor sunscreen the other day,” Calvin said, coming back into the kitchen where Brock was leaning against the

counter, finishing his cup of coffee. “You’re blond and light-skinned; you need to look after your skin.”

“Uh huh.” Brock yawned. He wondered if there was any more coffee.
“I’m serious. It’s the only skin you’re going to get.”
Brock shook his head. This was more of the same from when Calvin had thought he had skin cancer.
“Want me to put it on, or can you manage?”
Brock smirked. “Which would you rather do?” He knew which he’d prefer.
“I’d rather you let the crew do all the work while I take you back to bed and love on you all morning.”
Brock chuckled. “Then what would we do in the afternoon?”
“You could love on me.” Calvin popped the cap on the bottle of sunscreen and squirted some into his palm. “Arms first.”
Brock could have predicted that. Calvin sure kept jonesing on his arms. Brock did a bodybuilder-type biceps pose as Calvin began to rub

the lotion into his skin.

“God, that’s sexy,” Calvin groaned into Brock’s ear.
Next came Brock’s face, Calvin asking him to put on the hardhat. “And why’d you take off the shades?”
“We’re indoors. And you can’t add sunscreen if I’m wearing glasses.”
“I guess,” Calvin conceded. “Now come on, put on the hat.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause you look beautiful in it.”
Brock did as he was told, and Calvin began to slather the lotion on Brock’s cheeks, nose and—lifting the hat, much to Brock’s amusement—

his forehead.

“And besides, I want something to jerk off to while I’m in here by myself and you’re up on the roof hammering in nails.” Calvin spread the stuff

all around Brock’s neck, even under the collar of the jersey.

“We use a nail-gun these days, not a hammer.”
Calvin sunk to his knees. “And what a gun you have.” Calvin bit at Brock’s jeans clad dick.
“Calvin!” Brock stepped back a pace.
Following him, Calvin kept on biting Brock, who tried to take another step backward, but only managed a half step before coming up against

the cabinets.

“Need to get at this nail gun!” Calvin growled.
“You’ll get sunscreen on my jeans.”
Calvin looked up at him with a devilish expression. “Who needs hands?”
Flicking out his tongue, Calvin captured the zipper tab, gripping it between his teeth and pulled down.
Snuffling inside the fly, Calvin said, “My cowboy is going commando!”
“Yeah, well, it’s going to be hot today.”
“It’s hot all right,” Calvin said, licking the underside of Brock’s dick, which was painfully trapped inside the jeans with no more room to grow.

“Need to free this bad boy.”

Calvin raised up slightly and within a few seconds had undone the button on the waistband, separating the flaps with his nose.
“Calvin, don’t.” But even to Brock the protest sounded half-hearted.
Brock’s jeans began to slide down his legs. Before Brock’s dick could slap his belly, Calvin had it in his hand.
“Got you now, my pretty!” Calvin kissed the weeping head. “Yep, this is a mighty fine tasting gun. Tonight, or just as soon as the crew finish, I

want you to nail me with it.”

Brock groaned as Calvin slid his mouth all the way down his length. “Yeah, darlin’, that’s it.”
It was a good thing Calvin was sucking him off now, because otherwise he’d be hard all day just thinking about getting inside the man’s hot

ass. The slurpy noises, sensual licks and the wicked suction, all combined to scramble Brock’s brain, making rational thought almost impossible.

“Yeah, darlin’ just like that. Swallow it all, yeah.”
Brock’s hands found their way to the sides of Calvin’s head, directing the action. God, this man was an expert cocksucker. He’d go right

down, then slowly pull back, increasing the suction as he went. Then when the head was at his lips, Calvin would work his tongue around the
foreskin, rub along the pee-slit to capture the steady ooze of pre-seminal fluid that Brock knew he was producing. Now and again Calvin would
gently bite on the loose foreskin before moving his teeth out of the way again for the rapid descent, swallowing Brock to the root. And while all that
was going on, Calvin’s oily hand kept rolling Brock’s balls around in their sack.

“Jesus, man, you’re killing me.”
Brock felt Calvin laugh around his cock-head, which just then was down Calvin’s throat.
Through the fog of lust Brock heard the rumble of a truck engine. He looked out of the window.
“Ah shit!”
Pedro, José and Juan were here, the last lowering the front passenger seat to get out of the back of the truck’s cab.
“What?” Calvin said, pulling off.
“The crew is here.”
“Oh, that is bad timing.” Calvin’s look was pure evil.
Cursing up a storm, Brock pulled his jeans up and made for the door, hoping the guys wouldn’t notice he was packing wood. It had definitely

been a bad idea not to put on underwear.

“Ask them if they want some sweet tea. I made up a pitcher last night.”
“Okay,” Brock said, leaving the house. “Hey guys. Looks like it’ll be another hot one.” He looked up into a clear, cloudless sky.
“

Si

,” Juan observed.

Brock offered the tea, which they drank while the air compressor for the nail guns built up pressure.

* * * *

It was about nine thirty when Calvin came out with more tea, telling Brock he was heading into town.
“Thanks,” Brock said, taking one of the frosted glasses.
“Is everything going okay?”
“Yep, we’re a bit ahead of schedule I think.”
Brock had teamed up with Pedro, the latter laying the three-tab while he operated the nail gun. They’d change over after their short break.

Juan and José emerged from the other side of the house, and Calvin offered them their own glasses.

“

Gracias

,” José said, smiling and nodding at Calvin.

Juan merely grunted before downing the tea in a couple of swallows.
“Thirsty work, especially in this heat,” Calvin observed.
“

Si, señor

,” José smiled and nodded again.

“I’ll leave the pitcher on the garden wall over there in the shade in case you need some more while I’m gone.”
“

Gracias

,” Pedro smiled.

“Thanks, darl…Calvin,” Brock said, hoping no one had noticed the slip.
“I’ll stop off at the garage while I’m out and ask Bill about your truck.”
“Okay, thanks.” Brock wanted to protest, but they had their agreement about not discussing it until Tuesday, and it wouldn’t look good

arguing in front of the roofers.

“Shouldn’t be too long. I’ve left the door unlocked if you need the bathroom or anything.”
“Thanks.”
Brock smiled as he watched Calvin reverse KITT out of the garage and gave Brock a salute before turning right and heading down the

driveway.

“

¡Pinche puto!”

Juan spat.

“

¿Qué

?” Brock whirled on him.

“El paga tu sueldo.

”

“

Ni mi importa. ¡Sigue siendo un joto!”

Brock was instantly brought back to high school and all the times the kids used to call Calvin a fag. He’d stood back then, but he’d be

damned if he would now. “

¡Cállate la boca!”

“¿Por qué? ¿Eres un maricón también?”

Juan smirked and pushed Brock, who immediately pushed him back.

Within seconds fists were flying, and José and Pedro were parting them.
“

¡Lárgate de aquí!”

Brock yelled at Juan and pointed at the street, which only a few minutes earlier Calvin had driven down.

“

Sin problema

.” Juan looked at the others and insisted that if he were made to go, they should leave, too.

Pedro shook his head, and José refused to meet Juan’s eyes.
Juan hawked up a mouthful of saliva and spat it at Brock’s feet. If it had touched him, Brock would have laid the guy out, but chose to let it go.

Unfortunately for Juan he hadn’t been the one driving, and Pedro—who had the truck’s keys—refused to hand them over. Juan walked down the
driveway, cursing with every step.

Only when he’d gone did Brock realize the area around his left eye was hurting. He raised his hand, it came away dry, but his face sure was

tender.

“Juan’s very religious,” Pedro offered quietly.
Brock didn’t think God would have appreciated the foul language only some of which he’d been able to understand, and he thought he had a

pretty good grasp of Spanish cuss words.

“Okay, back to work, guys. And thanks for staying.”
“No problem,” José said, climbing the ladder.
“You need some ice,

Señor

Brockwell,” Pedro said.

“Yeah, maybe later. We’ve got to work harder now Juan’s no longer here.”
Pedro shrugged. “More money for the rest of us.”
Brock smiled.

* * * *

During their next short break, sweat now rolling down Brock’s back, making him consider taking off his football jersey, Pedro tentatively

asked about Calvin.

“Brother of my wife, he,” Pedro seemed to struggle for the English word, “homosexo.”
“Homosexual.” Brock supplied.
“

Gracias

.”

“And, you’re okay with that?” Brock knew many Latinos had a hard time understanding the idea that one man could love another.
Pedro shrugged. “So long you love someone, what it matter who they are?”
Brock nodded.
“You love

Señor

Calvin?”

Brock felt his face drain of color.
“Is okay. I not care.”
Swallowing, and taking a huge leap into the unknown, both in coming out to a relative stranger and also admitting his love for Calvin, Brock

nodded.

“

Si

.” Pedro smiled. I see how you look at

Señor

Calvin, it like how I look at my Gabriela.”

“Thanks, bud.”
Brock was saved from any further embarrassment by Calvin coming back up the driveway.
“What’ve you done to your eye?” Calvin asked on opening the driver’s door.
“And good morning to you, too.”
Brock hustled Calvin and his purchases into the house; he hadn’t had a chance to warn Pedro that he hadn’t told Calvin how he felt about

him.

Safely inside the air-conditioned kitchen, Brock wanted to kiss his man silly, but knew the men were still on their break and could look in at

the window.

Calvin moved toward him. At first, Brock thought it was to kiss him, and so he stepped back.
“Not that again,” Calvin said. “I just wanted to get a closer look at your eye. What happened? Did a piece of shingle get you? I hope you gave

as good as you got.”

Brock shook his head. He related some of what had happened, telling Calvin Juan had called Calvin a fag, how Brock had told him to shut

up, and then, when Juan had asked if Brock too was gay, that was when things had gotten physical.

“But you are gay.”
“Yes, but he didn’t say it nicely.” Brock realized he sounded childish.
“Violence doesn’t solve anything.”
“He pushed me first.” Shit, that wasn’t much better.
Calvin got out a bag of frozen peas and made Brock hold it against his eye.
“I can’t sit in here while the others work, especially as we’re a man down.”
“Five minutes won’t make much difference. And I’ll come out and give you a hand.”
“What?” Brock took the icepack off his eye.
Calvin pushed it back. “I bet I’d look great in a hardhat and plaid shirt.”
Brock shook his head. “For one thing you’ve never shingled a roof before, for a second you’re not insured, and for a third you—”
“Okay, okay. I’ll just stay here in the kitchen and bake cookies or something.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Brock let out a breath. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. It’s a dirty, hot job. Trust me, you’re better off in here.”
“Baking cookies.”
“Only if they’re oatmeal raisin.”
“Goof.” Calvin lightly punched Brock’s left arm. “Sorry, was that your playing arm?”
“Nope.”
Calvin started to kiss Brock’s arm to make it better.
Brock pulled away. “I’m sweaty and dirty.”
“Yes you are.” Calvin resumed his kissing.
The noise of the nail gun started up above them. Brock felt guilty for being inside an air-conditioned house while the others were working in

the hot sun.

Putting an arm’s distance between them, Brock asked, “What did Bill have to say about my truck?”
Calvin pouted at Brock’s retreat. He looked so fuckin’ sexy Brock couldn’t resist leaning in and kissing him.
“What was that for?” Calvin asked.
“Just because.”
“Hmm.” Calvin smiled.
“My truck?”
“Oh, yeah. Bill wondered which you’d prefer, burial or cremation.”
“Shit. That bad?”
Calvin shrugged. “I asked Bill to patch the truck up as best he could. He said he should be able to get most of the parts from the junkyard.”
Brock didn’t think that would cost too much.
Calvin’s mind must have been on the same wavelength, because he said, “Bill agreed to take a check when the work is done because he

knows my daddy. At least there’s something good about these small towns.”

Brock chose to stay silent about how Calvin was paying for the repair, as well as his dislike of Parish Creek. Instead he asked about his hat.
“Jake said it’d be ready Tuesday.”
Thanks.” Brock gave him another kiss.
“Wow, if I’d known running errands for you would get me kissed, I’d have run them for you earlier in the week, too.”
That got Calvin another kiss. “I’ll always give you kisses, darlin’.”
“Thanks, beautiful. I picked up a few things from Grantley’s, too.”
“Including more beer, I see.” Brock kissed Calvin’s neck.
“Yeah, the old gal almost forced it on me.”
Brock raised an eyebrow, which Calvin couldn’t see as he was still nuzzling the man’s neck.
“It’s that imported stuff you were drinking earlier this week.”
Brock remembered. It was pretty good, much better than the beer he usually bought.
Calvin squirmed at Brock’s continued attentions to his neck. “No one else in town will buy it. I think it’s because they don’t have refined

palates like me.”

Brock snorted. More like the locals wouldn’t pay more than they needed to for beer.

“I’ll let you have some later. Don’t want my beautiful construction worker falling off the roof because he’s intoxicated.”
Brock didn’t think one bottle of beer would render him incapable, but Calvin was right. He’d be better off waiting.
“And I hope that’s not the only thing I’ll be getting later.” Brock squeezed Calvin’s ass, making the man yelp in surprise. “Remember, you

promised me some of this.” Brock bit Calvin’s ear.

“And I always deliver on my promises, big boy!” Calvin cupped Brock’s hard dick.
Shit, he’d have to go out there and face the guys with another fuckin’ hard on.

Damn Calvin!

But before he could get to the door Calvin stopped him and laid a gentle kiss on his left eye. “For defending my honor you’re now the most

beautiful man in,” Calvin had to think for a moment, “have we had North America yet?”

Brock laughed. Shaking his head, he said, “Nope, don’t think so.”
“Okay then, you’re the most beautiful man in North America.” Calvin picked up his sunglasses from the counter and slid them onto Brock’s

face. “There, now no one will know you went ten rounds with Mike Tyson.”

* * * *

After Brock paid Pedro and José, Calvin handed a couple of twenties to each man, thanking them for their hard work.
“

Gracias, Señor

,” José told Calvin before getting into the truck.

Pedro shook Calvin’s hand, winked at Brock and then climbed in opposite José and started up the engine.
“He fancy you or something?” Calvin asked when the pickup was turning onto the street.
“Who, Pedro?”
“Yes, Pedro.”
Was Calvin jealous? “He’s got a wife and kids.” Brock wasn’t sure about the latter, but Pedro being a good Catholic, offspring was almost a

certainty.

“Huh, that doesn’t prove anything. Look at you.”
“I’d rather look at you, and that sexy ass of yours.”
“Horndog.”
Brock chased Calvin back into the house, along the hallway and into the master bedroom.
“You stink. You’re taking a shower before I touch you.”
“I thought you liked my stink?”
“In moderation, but you still need a shower.”
Brock wondered if it would be better to shower at home. He kicked himself for not bringing a change of clothing with him.

* * * *

Back at his place, the message light was blinking on the answering machine. Brock pressed

play

.

“Dad, it’s me. Kyle’s mom said it’s okay for me to sleep over. She said for you to give her a call this afternoon.”
Brock felt his dick fill at the prospect of being able to spend the night loving his man. He smiled over at Calvin.
Junior continued, “You make sure to say ‘hi’ to Mr. Hamilton from me. And tell him he better treat you right, or I’ll have to have words with

him.” Junior laughed and Brock blushed.

“Wow,” Calvin said.
Brock was embarrassed but at the same time kinda proud of his son.
A second message began. “Brockwell, this is Ralph.” Brock started to cringe at hearing from his landlord. “Now your rent is up-to-date I’ve

agreed with your friend to begin the repairs you say you need.”

Brock shot a look at Calvin, who gazed steadily back at him.
Ralph’s message continued, Brock only half-listening to how the guy would come out on Wednesday morning to have a look at what needed

to be done. The message ended, but Brock and Calvin’s gazes remained locked.

“You said you hadn’t paid him,” Brock said.
“That was true…at the time.”
Brock stared down at the answering machine.
“We agreed you’d let me help you,” Calvin said, putting a hand on Brock’s shoulder. “We also agreed we wouldn’t talk about it until

Tuesday.” He rubbed the shoulder.

Brock sighed. Despite their agreement, he was still very uncomfortable with the idea of owing money to his friend…his lover. Turning away

from Calvin, Brock trudged into the bathroom and began to strip.

A minute or so later Calvin came into the bathroom. “Thought you could use one of these.” He held up an open bottle of the imported beer.

Brock hadn’t realized they’d brought any with them.

“Thanks.” Brock took a long swallow. Wiping his mouth, he saw Calvin close the toilet lid and sit. “I’m sorry.”
Calvin shook his head. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
Brock turned to the shower and got it going. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Want to join me?” he smiled, letting Calvin know he was okay.
Calvin returned the smile. The two hugged for a time, neither man saying anything, Brock content just to hold and be held by his man.
“I think the water should be hot enough now,” Calvin eventually said into Brock’s ear.
Brock disengaged, stepped into the tub, and held a hand out for Calvin to join him. Calvin undressed quickly and took his hand.
“Oh, wet, naked cowboy, my favorite kind.”
Brock bent and gave Calvin a kiss. The hot water had plastered Calvin’s brown hair to his scalp, making it look darker. His man didn’t have

an ounce of fat on him, a fact made even more obvious by the water flowing down the taut smooth body. His muscles were just right, perfectly in
proportion to his frame. As he continued to wash Calvin, Brock became more convinced his darlin’ was simply perfect.

Brock hated to hurry their shower, but he knew the limits of his water heater, so reluctantly sped up his soaping. Calvin, however, still

seemed to want to take his time applying soapy lather to Brock’s various body parts.

They’d finished rinsing and had just resumed kissing when the water began to grow cool. Brock quickly turned the knob and the two of them

stood dripping in the bathtub, Brock’s hands reaching out to cup Calvin’s face.

“Brock?” Calvin asked after they’d stood silent for about a minute.
“Just let me look at you,” Brock said.

“I’m nothing special.”
Brock disagreed. “I’ve decided on your new name.”
“Huh?”
Brock let his arms drop to his sides, and then realized he might as well get out and start drying off. He opened a towel and held it out for

Calvin to step into.

Kissing the side of Calvin’s wet neck, Brock said, “Michael Knight.”
“What?”
“Your name. Michael Knight. You’ve got the car of course, but it’s more than that.” Brock reached for another towel and started to rub himself

dry. Calvin stopped him and took over. “Remember what the motto of that show was? ‘One man can make a difference?’”

“Yeah?”
“Well, you’ve made a difference to me.” Brock wanted to confess his love, but couldn’t. If he knew Calvin were staying in town he’d have

fallen onto his knees and asked Calvin to move in, marry him, work with him, hell, anything. But Calvin would soon be going back to New York.

“I just did what any guy would do to help someone out.”
Brock shook his head. “You’ve done way more than anyone else ever has.”
Calvin shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t think I look like a Michael. And I certainly don’t look like David Hasselhoff.”
“And I don’t look like Gary Cooper.”
“You do, okay; the hair’s different, but—”
“If not Michael, what about Knighty?”
“Fuck off. You’re not naming me after ladies’ nightwear.”
Brock laughed; he hadn’t thought of it like that. “All right then, you can be ‘My knight.’ You already are,” he whispered.
“I suppose it’s better than ‘Schnucklekins.’”
Brock let out a bark of laughter.
Fists on hips, Calvin said, “But the first mention of shining armor and the name is toast, okay?”
Brock nodded, and then kissed Calvin. “Okay, My Knight has a deal.”
They were done drying each other, so Brock took the towels and hung them on the rail before leading Calvin to his bedroom.
“Though I still don’t know what’s wrong with ‘Calvin,’” Calvin said, getting onto the bed.
“Nothing is wrong with ‘Calvin,’” Brock replied, lying next to his lover. “Nothing at all.”
“You could call me ‘Cal’ if you want. Only one other person, Tim, my business partner, calls me that.”
“Nope, I want a name that’s just mine. I’m not sharing you. Not ever.” Brock immediately wished he hadn’t added that last. Images of the

Manhattan skyline started to crowd his mind. Brock stared into Calvin’s face to banish the unwelcome visions.

“Make love to me,” Calvin said softly, causing Brock to shiver.
Although mostly a bottom, Brock knew he’d employ every skill he’d ever learned to bring Calvin pleasure. He started by kissing at Calvin’s

neck, and slowly working his way down, detouring to Calvin’s nipples, spending quite some time licking, then softly biting them.

Calvin’s hands weren’t idle. As Brock slowly made his way down to the main prize of Calvin’s hard dick, its owner was stroking Brock’s right

arm with feather-light caresses, causing Brock to break out in gooseflesh.

Finally reaching Calvin’s member, Brock thought about bypassing it. He knew if the roles were reversed Calvin would tease out the moment

for as long as he could, but Brock was too anxious to wait. Kissing the man’s exposed cock head, Brock rubbed his tongue under the bulb, making
Calvin moan his name.

“Gonna love you good, darlin’,” Brock whispered before licking at Calvin’s balls.
Calvin’s legs came up in invitation. Brock went lower, licked at Calvin’s taint, then down into that secret realm, a place Brock guessed few

others had been allowed to venture. Brock assumed Calvin was usually a top. He had the take-charge attitude he usually associated with men who
preferred the dominant role. Refusing to dwell further on the rare privilege he was being granted for fear of losing his nerve, Brock speared his way
passed Calvin’s ring and plunged his tongue in as deep as the tight rosebud would allow.

“Oh, yes!” Calvin squeaked.
Brock smiled; he was doing it right. This was all about making his man feel good.
Sometime later—Brock having loosened Calvin up as much as he could through oral ministrations—he pulled away.
Calvin whined.
“Just need to find a rubber, darlin’.” He hoped there still were some.
Brock took a few seconds to regard his lover—bent legs held in the air, blissful dazed expression on his face. Brock just had to kiss those

lips.

“Sorry, darlin’,” Brock said, once he’d pulled back.
Calvin blinked at him. “You never need to apologize for kissing me.”
For that Calvin got another kiss. Then Brock went in search of protection and lube.
“Brock?” Calvin asked when Brock had found what he was looking for.
“Yeah, darlin’?” Maybe ‘My knight’ didn’t quite fit all occasions.
“Would you wear your Stetson?”
Brock was confused. “I often wear it.”
“No, I mean, now. While you make love to me.”
Brock felt his eyebrows rise. “Why?” He immediately realized that was a dumb question. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
“And one of your western belts, too.”
“But I’m not wearing pants.”
Calvin snickered. “Don’t need pants. Just need you, your hat and your belt.”
Brock shrugged. “My kinky knight.” Huh

, maybe the name has its uses after all.

Brock went into the hallway, got his Stetson from its hook, and returned to the bedroom, still holding it in his hand. Calvin didn’t have to have

the monopoly on kink.

“Why’re you not wearing it?”
“In a minute. Want to pick out a belt first. Wanna help me choose?”
They spent a couple of minutes, Brock holding up various belts, most of which used to be his daddy’s, while Calvin decided.

Lord, my daddy would be turning in his grave if he knew what I was about to do while wearin’ one of his old belts,

Brock told himself.

All through this Brock was surprised to realize his dick remained rock hard. So much so, it was starting to hurt.
“This one?” Brock asked after holding up the eighth—or was it the ninth—belt.
“Yeah, the stones in the buckle match your eyes.”

Jesus

, Brock thought,

trust Calvin to be worryin’ about color coordination at a time like this.

Brock handed the belt to Calvin. “Okay, darlin’, put it on me.”
Calvin did, and took his time doing so. It sure felt weird just wearing a belt.
“Now the hat,” Brock picked up his Stetson and handed it over.
Calvin stood and reverently placed the hat on Brock’s head, taking a few seconds to seat it correctly.
“One last item,” Brock said, picking up the condom wrapper. “Want to do the honors here, too?”
Calvin silently rolled the rubber down Brock’s member.
“You okay, darlin’?” Brock asked. His man was quieter than usual.
Calvin smiled. “Don’t think I’ve ever been more okay.” He kissed the tip of Brock’s latex covered cock.
Given the time it’d taken him to

dress

, Brock decided he should loosen Calvin up again, this time with fingers and lube. Surprisingly Calvin

didn’t object to the delay.

The lovemaking—when it finally began—was all Brock hoped it would be. Calvin was tight; Brock kinda liked the idea that few had been

where he was now, balls deep in the most wondrous ass in…Brock couldn’t help his snicker.

“What’s funny?” Calvin asked.
“If I’m supposed to be the most beautiful man in whatever it is—”
“North America. And there’s no ‘suppose’ about it.”
Brock shook his head, “Then your ass has to be the tightest, most amazing ass on this continent, too.”
“I’ve promoted you.”
“Huh?” Brock began a slow withdrawal.
“You’re now the most beautiful man in the northern hemisphere because of how you’re making love to me, how you agreed to put on your hat

and,” Calvin groaned when Brock slid his length back inside his lover’s hot sheath, “and your belt.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask me to wear my boots, too.” Brock began another slow pull out.
“Shit, I forgot the boots.”
Brock pushed back in mid-stroke. “I’m not leaving this tight ass until I’ve bred it.” Brock glowered down at a grinning Calvin, who rose up to

give Brock a kiss. However, the Stetson’s brim got in the way and Calvin had to content himself with kissing Brock’s neck.

Brock knew when his lover topped him he was able to take his time and draw things out, but now Brock was the one in charge he would take

things at a faster pace. Decision made, Brock gripped Calvin’s thighs and sped up.

“Yeah, cowboy, ride me!” Calvin yelled, grabbing hold of Brock’s belt.
Brock was too far gone into the fuck to care what—if anything—the neighbors thought. He was inside his Calvin, and he was determined to

enjoy every last second.

“Cain’t last much longer, darlin’. You close?”
Judging by how fast Calvin was flogging his dick, Brock guessed he was.
“Gonna, gonna!” There was a moment where agony and ecstasy converged, Brock felt he was teetering on the edge of some unseen

precipice, and then with a force and speed he’d never known before, he hurtled over the edge into absolute pleasure. Falling on top of his lover and
knocking his hat off in the process, Brock screamed Calvin’s name.

* * * *

Brock couldn’t sleep. The bedroom was too warm and stuffy. Too many thoughts were swirling around in his brain, and his eye hurt.
Calvin lay atop the sheets, lightly snoring, and snuffling occasionally. Brock wondered if the man was dreaming, and if so, what about. Was

he in the dream? But whatever Calvin was dreaming about, Brock hoped it was a pleasant one.

Earlier that afternoon Brock had made love to this man. He knew Calvin was the only man he had ever truly loved. Brock sniffed. It was a love

that couldn’t go anywhere.

Turning away from the vision that was Calvin, Brock looked at his alarm clock. It was ten after one. Knowing he’d not be able to sleep for

some time, Brock got up and pulled on a pair of boxers before leaving the bedroom.

Padding into the kitchen Brock went in search of ibuprofen. Shaking a couple pills into his palm, he next headed for the fridge. There, on the

bottom shelf, were several bottles of Calvin’s beer. Lifting a bottle out and trying to twist off the cap before realizing he needed an opener, Brock
pulled out the silverware drawer and rummaged around before he found what he needed. Opening the bottle and taking a long pull from it, Brock
remembered the pills. They were no longer in his hand.

“Shit!”
He must have dropped them in the drawer. Not feeling like searching for them, he shook two more out of the pill bottle and swallowed them

with another mouthful of beer. The beer was almost finished. A couple more gulps and it was.

Brock burped softly, before reaching into the fridge for a second bottle. “Sorry, Junior.”
Unlocking the back door, Brock walked barefoot onto the deck. The familiar sound of crickets was comforting, the electronic buzz of the

occasional cicada less so. Setting his bottle at the edge of the deck, he stepped down onto the dry parched lawn. Venturing further from the house,
he felt the merest hint of a breeze whisper across his almost naked body. Even though the moon was almost full, Brock didn’t worry overmuch about
being seen by the neighbors. He had a pretty high privacy fence.

Within a few seconds there was a sting to his chest. “Fuckin’ mosquitoes.” He scratched at the bite.
He thought about going back indoors and turning on the air conditioning, but that was expensive, and he liked the soothing sound of the night

insects. Remembering he had some citronella candles somewhere in the garden shed, he thought he’d light a few of them to keep the bugs at bay.
With enough moonlight to see by, Brock walked down the garden path in his bare feet, slapping at the occasional mosquito bite. He’d always had
the misfortune of being particularly attractive to the bugs.

Eventually finding the candles and a box of matches in the third place he looked, Brock exited the shed.
Midway along the yard there were a couple of live oak trees with a hammock strung between them. Setting the candles—that were in clay

plant pots—in a circle between the trees, Brock lit the wicks, climbed into the hammock, and closed his eyes. Then he remembered the bottle of
beer he’d left on the deck. Carefully rolling out of the hammock, he walked up the yard, retrieved his drink, took a swig from it, and ambled back to

the circle of flickering candlelight.

Stretching out again, Brock stared up into the dark tree branches and let the sound of the crickets carry him away. But his thoughts kept

intruding, shattering his peace. What was he gonna do with his life? Junior was growing up way too fast, his business was going precisely nowhere,
and then there was the visit with the fuckin’ bankruptcy lawyer Tuesday. Brock would bet Calvin had already made him an appointment, but fear—
plus their agreement not to discuss it—had combined to keep him from asking about it.

And then there was Calvin. Brock let out a breath. The man was everything Brock had ever wanted in a man. Kind, cute, mildly dominant,

willing and eager to take charge. And generous. Brock had no idea why Calvin would even give him the time of day, let alone spend God knew how
much money on bailing out his sorry ass. Before last week Calvin must surely have hated him. Back in high school Brock had played the jock
meathead, looking the other way when his buds teased and tormented Calvin. Nope, for as long as he lived, Brock knew he could never be proud of
his actions—or rather inactions—back then.

Had he overreacted with Juan earlier? Brock didn’t care. It was the right thing to do, despite what Calvin had said about violence not solving

anything. It had made Brock feel better.

Although the citronella worked reasonably well, the odd mosquito still got to him. He was about to get up and go indoors when he heard, “So,

this is where you’re hiding?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Brock yawned, looked over the side of the hammock and chuckled.
Calvin had found one of Brock’s old white T-shirts, which was too big for Calvin—it was baggy even on Brock—the thing hung on Calvin’s

slight frame, going down almost to his knees.

“Room for another one?” Calvin grinned.
“Only if we scrunch up real close.”
Calvin’s grin increased. “I think I could stand that.”
It took some maneuvering, but soon enough the two of them were lying chest-to-chest, the natural shape of the hammock pushing them

close.

Calvin kissed him. “So romantic, cuddling my cowboy by candlelight, serenaded by crickets.”
Brock kissed him back.
Calvin let out a long noisy fart. “That’s better.”
“So romantic,” Brock snickered.
“Shut up. You weren’t the one with a telephone pole shoved up your ass this afternoon.”
They fell silent, Brock enjoying the intimate closeness. The crickets began to lull him into a light doze.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Calvin asked.
Brock let out a breath. “Just had stuff on my mind.”
As he’d expected, Calvin didn’t let the subject drop. Reaching up to stroke Brock’s hair, he asked, “What sort of stuff?”
“Oh, you know, life, the universe, if the Rangers will have a shot at the Series.”
“Things’ll be better after Tuesday.” Calvin had seen right through his bullshit.
Brock seriously doubted things would be better.
Calvin kissed him again. “I’m here.”
Brock gave him a tight squeeze. “Don’t go.”
“Junior’s staying at a friend’s house tonight, so I don’t plan on going anywhere.”
“No,” Brock shook his head. “Don’t go back to New York. Stay here, in Parish Creek with me.”
Brock laid his head on Calvin’s shoulder, wishing for all the world he hadn’t asked what he’d just asked. Obviously Calvin wouldn’t stay here,

there was nothing to keep him around, especially not a washed-up contractor with debts coming out of his ears and…and…hell, he didn’t know.

Calvin began to rub circles on Brock’s back. “Manhattan is my home now. I couldn’t live anywhere else.”
Brock closed his eyes to ward off the moisture that was threatening. “I know. Sorry. It’s just I…” Brock swallowed. What did he want to say?

What could he say?

“You could always come visit me in New York.”
Brock shook his head. That wasn’t the answer, besides, how the hell would he afford the airfare, and who’d look after Junior?
“Once you’ve finished fixing up the old homestead, how long’s that gonna take? Another three, four days?”
Brock nodded.
“Have you any work lined up after that?”
Brock shook his head.
“So once the place is ready, I’ll put things in the hands of a Realtor, then you, me and Junior can fly to the Big Apple, and you can stay for as

long as you like.”

Brock opened his eyes, lifted his head from Calvin’s shoulder and looked directly into the man’s face. “Junior, too?”
“Of course Junior, too. He’s a great kid, with a great future ahead of him.”
“Yeah.” Though what kind of future his boy would have in Parish Creek Brock didn’t know. There was no money for college, that was for sure.
“When was the last time you two had a vacation?”
Brock shrugged; he couldn’t honestly remember.
“And before you even start worrying about the cost of airfare—”
“No, I can’t let you pay for that, too.” God knew the man was forking out loads of money as it was.
Calvin kissed him. “I can write it off as a business expense. You can be, oh, I don’t know, a contracting consultant for a new office block I’m

thinking about building.”

“Are you going to build a new office block?” Brock had no idea Calvin’s company was that big.
“Hell no, but my accountant will be able to convince the IRS that it was something Tim and I had considered, but rejected on grounds of cost.”
Brock shook his head.
“Don’t say no. Just think about it. You’d like New York, and I bet Junior would love it.”
Brock sighed. Junior certainly deserved a proper vacation, and Calvin was right, he’d have a ball in the big city.
“Okay, I’ll think about it.”
“Great!”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“I know. That’s all I ask.” Barely missing a beat, Calvin said, “So, do you think this thing will stand up to some alfresco antics?” He picked up

Brock’s hand and laid it on his ass. “I’m not wearing anything under this T-shirt.”

Brock laughed, slapped Calvin’s butt, then kissed him hard on the lips.

Chapter 9

“Mom, could I have your recipe for peach cobbler?”
“Hello, Calvin, and a happy Fourth of July to you, too.”
“Sorry.”
Calvin leaned back against the kitchen counter. He’d just returned from spending the night at Brock’s and had been invited to come back

that afternoon. Brock would be grilling a few burgers and hotdogs, and Calvin—remembering the peach cobblers his mom used to make—had
offered to bring dessert.

“That’s okay. How are you? Doing anything special for the Fourth? I guess you must be if you’re asking for recipes.”
“Yeah.” Calvin couldn’t help his grin. “I am.” He felt the grin morph into a wide smile.
He and Brock had gotten in some good lovin’ that morning. Before yesterday Calvin had been in love with Brock, now…he was totally, head-

over-heels, heart-skippingly gone on the man. He hoped with everything he had that Brock would come to New York and…

“And your dad and I are fine, too. Thanks for asking.”
Calvin snapped out of his reverie and stood upright. “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just, I…well, I…” Could he tell her?
“Judging by your happy, if unfocussed, mood, I’d say whatever it is, it’s good.”
Calvin let out a breath. “The best. I’ve fallen for the most wonderful man in the world.”
“Oh.”
Calvin had hoped for a little more than that. His folks knew he was gay, had been pretty cool about it, but he guessed this had been the first

time he’d actually paraded it in front of them, so to speak.

“It’s Brock, John Brockwell.”
His mother didn’t say anything.
Calvin felt a need to fill the silence. “You know, the contractor whose been fixing up the place?”
“Yes, I know who Brock is. Wasn’t he married? Doesn’t he have a son?”
“Yes he was, and his son is called John, Jr.”
“I see. Well, um, good for you.”
“Thanks.” To himself Calvin added,

I think.

“This is, well…sudden.”
Calvin let out a breath. He couldn’t deny that. “I know. But when you met dad, you said you knew straight away.”
“Oh, honey, that’s not really the same thing. I loved your dad.”
Calvin’s heart sank and his buoyant mood evaporated. “Okay, Mom, I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll catch up with you later. Bye.” He

clicked off and stared down at the floor.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Calvin pulled his shoulders back and set his jaw. Snatching up his car keys, he thought

When the going gets

tough, the tough go shopping.

* * * *

Brock seemed to like him in button up shirts, so Calvin visited the menswear store in the next town over and bought two, one in pale blue and

another in a light shade of green with darker green threads. The store had knee-length shorts on sale, so Calvin got three pairs. And of course he
had to get a new pair of boat shoes, too. The checkout operator scanned his items, asked if he wanted the hangers—he didn’t—and kept up a
steady chatter which Calvin mostly ignored. After having his card swiped and signing the slip, Calvin picked up his bags and was about to leave
when the clerk told him to ‘have a nice day.’

The mood Calvin was in, he doubted he would, but quietly thanked the perky blonde woman and left.
Determined to fulfill his promise to make peach cobbler, Calvin drove to Whole Foods, took a cart, and perused the aisles, searching

aimlessly. He realized he should have looked up a recipe online beforehand. He tried his phone, but there was no service. He bought plenty of
peaches, making sure he’d have enough. And just because he felt like it he also bought plums, some oranges that were not from Florida—he
checked—and hopefully all the fixings for oatmeal raisin cookies—another recipe he’d have to look up. He’d make everything his man wanted, he’d
be everything his man wanted, and fuck those who didn’t think he deserved to be happy. He would make his and Brock’s relationship work, no
matter what. “I’ll show her!”

A matronly woman gave him an odd look.
“Sorry. I…” Calvin sneezed. He fumbled in his shorts pockets for a tissue.
“Bless you.” The woman handed him a neatly ironed and starched handkerchief.
“Thank you.” Calvin blew his nose.
“You’re welcome.” The older lady, hands resting lightly on the handle of her cart, looked at him kindly.
Calvin felt a strange desire to confide in the woman. He knew he couldn’t tell her everything, but a modified version of the truth should be

okay. “Just had a quarrel with my mom.”

“Oh, dear.”
Calvin twisted the handkerchief, not knowing what to do with it. He could hardly give it back now, but keeping it also felt wrong.
She saved him from any further worry. “Keep the handkerchief. At my age I don’t need anything for birthdays and Christmas, so my family are

left with getting me toiletries and hankies. I’ve got drawers full of both at home.”

Calvin smiled.
“I hope you make things up with your mom. Today’s a day for being with family.”
“Yes, and I will be with family,” Calvin said, looking at the contents of his cart, and thinking about Brock and Junior.
“But that won’t include your mom?”
“No,” Calvin shook his head. The woman frowned, so Calvin went on, “My folks live in Florida.”
“Ah.” The woman’s smile came back.
They pushed their carts forward—and much to Calvin’s surprise rather than isolating himself as usual—he continued to talk. The woman—

who told Calvin to call her Gladys—would be cooking that afternoon for her family, who were traveling in from Corpus Christi to spend the holiday

with her.

He picked up a couple of cans of peaches and set them next to the fresh peaches.
“You must like peaches,” Gladys said.
“I’m making cobbler. But I can’t get cell service in here, so I can’t check the Internet for a recipe to see which works best.”
Gladys shook her head. “I don’t understand this Internet folks talk of nowadays. I always use fresh peaches.”
Calvin put the cans back.
“Would you like me to write down my recipe for you?”
Calvin thanked Gladys, who opened her large purse, pulled out a notebook and pen, and began writing.
Tearing out the page and handing it to Calvin, Gladys said, “My relatives think that at my age I need to write things down so I don’t forget. So

they bought me this notebook.” Her eyes twinkled.

“Ha,” Calvin glanced at the neat, even script, “doesn’t look like you forgot anything here.”
She smiled, the wrinkles in her face softening. “I’ve made cobbler since I was a girl. The day I forget how to make it is the day that the good

Lord can take whatever’s left of me.” Gladys put the notebook back in her purse.

“Which won’t be for a long time to come yet.”
Gladys laughed.
Hoping he wasn’t trying his luck, Calvin asked if she knew how to make oatmeal raisin cookies. Out came the notebook again.
Feeling a whole lot better about himself, as well as life in general, Calvin rolled his cart to the registers and smiled amiably as the male clerk

scanned his items and asked how he would be spending the Fourth.

“With family,” Calvin beamed. “And you?”
The man muttered something about maybe watching the fireworks on a neighbor’s deck. Calvin’s gaydar was pinging. He suspected the

man would be spending the day alone. Calvin felt sorry for him, even considered inviting him to spend the afternoon with him and Brock, but it
wasn’t his house, so kept quiet.

* * * *

Back at home, Calvin arranged his ingredients on the counter. Turning the dial on the radio he found some Lee Greenwood and set about

his tasks.

Within a couple of hours he’d finished baking. He’d wiped down the kitchen counters and even cleaned out the oven and the fridge. In short,

he was bored and the conversation with his mom started to weigh down on him. Looking at the kitchen clock he saw it was a little after twelve.
Brock had said to come over about three.

“But he also said to come when I was ready.” And Calvin was ready. He didn’t want to be alone.
Packing everything up in the car—including the remaining case of imported beer—Calvin set out for Brock’s house, anxious to have his

cowboy hold him and—if he was lucky—kiss him.

“You’re early,” Brock said coming out of his front door just as Calvin was opening the trunk.
Calvin felt a wave of depression hit him. “Sorry, I’ll…I’ll come back later when—”
Brock spun him round and wrapped him in a hug. Calvin was too stunned…too grateful for the contact to protest that they were showing

affection in public.

“What’s wrong?” Brock asked, letting him go.
“Nothing,” Calvin smiled, silently adding the word

now

to his statement.

Brock regarded him for a few seconds, shook his head and then looked into the trunk. “What’d you bring?”
Calvin felt on safer ground, and—handing a few packages to Brock while carrying the others into the house—told him some of what he’d

been up to that morning.

“You made me oatmeal raisin cookies?” Brock looked like a little kid on Christmas morning.
They were in the kitchen, and Calvin was about to lean in and kiss his cowboy’s smiling face when Junior came in.
“Happy Fourth of July, Mr. Hamilton.”
“It’s Calvin, and happy Fourth of July to you, too. Did you have a good time with your friend last night?”
“Yes, sir. Did you have a good time with dad last—”
“Junior!” Brock warned.
Junior grinned, and Calvin found it hard not to burst out laughing at the look on Brock’s face. Any residual unhappiness he’d felt at his

mother’s insensitive comments was gone.

“Here.” Calvin opened a brown paper bag and offered it to Brock. “Have a cookie.”
Brock did.
“Can I have one?”
“It’s, ‘May I have one,’” Brock said through a mouthful of cookie.
Junior and Calvin looked at each other and laughed.
“What?” Brock said after swallowing.
“Nothin’, Dad. Are they good?”
Brock nodded and handed the bag to his son.

* * * *

By one o’clock everyone was sitting in front of the TV watching baseball. By ten minutes past one Calvin was bored, but trying to look

interested. By a quarter after one he’d pretty much given up and was scanning the room looking for something else to concentrate on. Brock was
the obvious choice: socked feet, and bare legs ending in a pair of baggy soccer shorts. Above the waist he wore a blue, red and white Rangers T-
shirt.

“But the Rangers aren’t playing are they?” Calvin asked, immediately feeling stupid.
“Nope, they play this evening,” Brock said after taking a swig from a can of soda, his eyes not leaving the screen.
“Right.”
Calvin tried to focus on something else; it didn’t seem right to check Brock out with the man’s son in the same room. Calvin’s eyes met

Junior’s.

Junior smiled. “Did daddy ever show you his baseball trophies?
Calvin shook his head.
Junior stood and walked to the door. “Come on.”
“Calvin won’t be interested in a few bits of plastic and metal,” Brock said, eyes still on the screen.
“I am,” Calvin said, getting to his feet. He was interested in anything about his man.
To Calvin’s surprise Junior went into his bedroom, Calvin feeling a little uneasy about following, but when Junior beckoned him in, Calvin

crossed the threshold.

“But I’m taking you away from the game.”
Junior shrugged. “Baseball’s okay to play, but I’m not that interested in watching it.”
Calvin wondered how much Junior genuinely liked the game, and how much was because it interested the boy’s father.
Looking at the shelf containing a few cups, plaques and other odds and ends, Calvin remarked, “It won’t be long before you’ll be adding to

this yourself.”

“Nah.” Junior shook his head. “I play, but I’m not that good, as you saw the other day. Daddy was the star player. I’ll never be great like he

was.”

Calvin smiled. There was definitely a lot of hero-worship here.
“This is what daddy won, or rather what his team won in his senior year at school.” Junior held up a small plastic trophy on a fake marble

plinth. “You probably remember them going to the regional finals.”

Calvin nodded, but he didn’t remember.
Junior went on to show him a number of other cups, medals and plaques, charting Brock’s baseball career, Junior seemingly growing ever

more proud as each achievement was chronicled.

“And here’s the scrapbook that granddaddy started. It’s got every article that mentions daddy from the

Parish Creek Gazette,

as well as a

few from the

Austin Daily Herald

.”

Junior picked up a large ledger and turned the pages, his pride at his dad’s achievements obvious. Calvin read the articles; the stats were

incomprehensible, but the reports of the games almost always praised Brock’s pitching.

After the scrapbook, Calvin noting that Junior didn’t linger long on the articles discussing Brock’s career-ending injury, they took to

examining various baseballs and bats,—Calvin privately thinking each looked the same as the others—yet dutifully holding each as Junior passed
them to him.

Finally Junior pointed to a baseball shirt which someone had put behind glass and framed. “This was daddy’s uniform in his last season.”
Calvin nodded. He bet Brock had looked really sexy in it, but kept the thought strictly to himself.
“I know,” Junior said, sitting on the corner of his bed, “that daddy only ever played in the minor leagues, and maybe he wouldn’t have ever

been good enough to play for the Mets or the Rangers.”

Calvin shrugged. “He was certainly a star when we were in high school, breaking a few records.” He knew that much at least.
“Daddy was never the most valuable player on a World Series winning team or anything, but I don’t care.” Looking directly up into Calvin’s

eyes, Junior continued, “He’s my daddy and I’m proud of him. He raised me single-handed after he and mom got divorced. He taught me right from
wrong, taught me how to be a man.”

The room fell silent, save for the noise of the TV commentators that Calvin could faintly hear from the living room. Swallowing the lump that

was in his throat, Calvin said, “Your daddy’s a good man.”

Junior nodded, but the intense stare remained. “Please, Mr. Hamilton, don’t hurt him.”
“Huh?” Calvin wasn’t expecting that.
“Daddy hasn’t had it easy these past few months, what with granddaddy’s death, the economy and everything.”
“Yes, I know.” Calvin spoke softly; the situation seemed to demand it. “And I’d do anything rather than deliberately hurt him.”
“Thank you.” Junior smiled. “I know what you’re up to, you know.”
“Huh?”
“Inviting Daddy an’ me to New York.”
Calvin open and closed his mouth a couple of times. He was about to tell Junior that he didn’t know what he meant, when Junior continued,

“It’s okay.”

Calvin let out a breath. “Mind if I sit?” He gestured to a rocking chair with a large brown teddy bear sitting in it.
Junior nodded.
Calvin sat and began to hug the bear. “What’s his name?”
“Gilbert. He used to belong to daddy.”
The idea of Brock having a teddy bear made Calvin smile.
“When mom left, daddy gave Gilbert to me.”
Calvin remembered Brock telling him how Junior had had to choose which parent he wanted to live with. That couldn’t have been an easy

decision for a young kid to have to make.

“New York. I know why you invited us,” Junior reminded.
Calvin sighed. He’d hoped the change of subject would have distracted Junior, but the kid was no dummy. “I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t

want you two to move up there.”

Junior nodded.
“I can show you both what the Big Apple has to offer, but I realize moving would mean a huge change. New school for you, new job for your

dad. And the big city is a whole different world from small-town Texas.”

Junior began to ask questions, Calvin soon losing sight of the fact that the boy was not yet in high school. They discussed schools, possible

employment opportunities for Brock. Junior even asked about Calvin’s condo, where it was and how big it was.

“The spare room—which would be yours—has a view of the Hudson. You’d even have your own bathroom.” Calvin was surprised at how

quickly he was allowing himself to think of the two Brockwells living with him.

Calvin knew he had to get back to reality as much for his own sake as Junior’s. “But like I said, it’s a huge decision. It won’t be easy for your

dad to move from Texas. Everything he’s ever known is here.”

“You swapped Texas for New York.”
Calvin nodded.
“So if you can do it, then so can we.”

Calvin hoped with everything he had that they could…and would.
“And most things daddy’s ever known here in Texas have let him down.”
“You sure you’re only thirteen?”
Junior grinned. “Yep. Just knew I had to act all grown up for this conversation, ‘cause it’s such a biggy.”
Calvin realized something. “You showing me your dad’s memorabilia,” he swept his hand in the direction of the shelf, “that was just an

excuse to get me alone to have this conversation wasn’t it?”

Junior’s grin widened.
The room fell silent again. Back in the living room the TV commentators were getting excited over something, but despite himself, all Calvin

could think about was he, Brock, and Junior living as a family in New York. The three of them could walk on the recently opened High Line. Eat out in
restaurants, or grab a burrito from a street vendor, then look around the stores in Chelsea market. Maybe visit the Metropolitan Museum, go to
Strawberry Fields in Central Park. Calvin let out a breath. It would be wonderful; he could almost reach out and touch it.

‘But it’s not the same.’ His mother’s words of earlier floated, unwelcome, into his mind. It was the same!
“Still in here?” Brock paused in the doorway to his son’s room before entering. Ruffling Junior’s hair, Brock said, “Hope you didn’t bore

Calvin, showing him all my old junk.”

“It’s not junk,” Calvin and Junior said at the same time. They looked at each other and laughed.
“Whatever.” Brock shrugged. “I just realized something. We don’t have any charcoal for the grill.”
“I thought there was half a bag in the shed,” Junior said.
“Nope.”
Calvin wondered where they could get more. “I guess the convenience store at the gas station would be the nearest place that would be

open.” He knew from the day before Mrs. Grantley didn’t plan on opening on the holiday, being busy with her family who were traveling in from out of
town.

“Yeah, probably. But as I don’t have a truck I—”
“No problem.” Calvin stood. To Junior he said, “You’ll have to show me the rest of those cuttings later.”
Junior smiled.
In the hallway, Brock asked, “Will you let me drive?” At the door he put on a Rangers ball cap, backward.
Calvin was surprised by the request, but quickly realized Brock driving would have certain benefits. Calvin would be able to give his cowboy

—rather than the road—his attention. Looking at Brock’s headgear, Calvin knew he preferred the man in a cowboy hat.

Calvin pulled out his keys and handed them over, their fingers touching for a few seconds.
“Thanks, darlin’.”
“What’s with the cap?”
“You don’t like it?”
Calvin tilted his head to regard the cap. “Prefer it the right way around.” He reached up, removed the cap and put it back on Brock’s head,

the bill facing the correct way. “Yeah, that’s better.”

Taking a quick look down the hallway, Calvin leaned in and pecked Brock on the lips, but the bill got in the way; the cap lifted up and fell off

Brock’s head.

Calvin picked the cap back up and, reversing it, put it back on Brock’s head. “Okay, so maybe it is better backward.”
Brock smirked, then leaned down and gave Calvin another—unrestricted—kiss.

* * * *

“But Grantley’s is closed today,” Calvin said when Brock pulled into the parking lot of the general store and drove around back.
“I know.” Brock shut off the engine and turned to him. Grinning, he said, “And Junior was right, we do have half a bag of charcoal left.”
“Huh?”
Brock reached over the console and pulled Calvin in for a long kiss.
A couple of minutes later, their lips barely touching, Brock said, “Thought you needed a bit of TLC.”
“Rather have some TCL.”
“Uh?”
“Tender cowboy lovin’.”
Brock smiled and kissed him again.
They decided to get out of the car and take a walk. Brock led him to a tumbledown fence and helped him step over it. Then he heard the

sound of trickling water. Calvin had forgotten about the creek that ran behind the store.

“Damn bugs!” Brock slapped at his arm.
Calvin remembered how much the insects had loved biting his cowboy the night before, so while out shopping earlier that day he’d called in

at the drug store and bought some bug repellent. He’d left it in the car, thinking to take it in to Brock’s house, but the warm welcome he’d received
on first arrival had had him forget all about the stuff.

“Hang on a minute, just need to get something from the car.”
Calvin scrambled over the fence and jogged back to the parking lot. It was only when he reached into his pocket he realized Brock had

driven and still had the car keys. He jogged back to the fence and met a smirking Brock, who was holding out the keys to him.

“You could have said something.”
“Like watching you run.” Brock continued to smirk.
After retrieving the bottle of repellant lotion, Calvin spent an enjoyable few minutes rubbing the stuff on Brock’s exposed skin, even

wondering aloud if it was necessary to apply it to some unexposed areas.

“No thanks,” Brock grinned. “I think you’ve put enough on my arms to ward off any insect within a quarter mile. And how come you got lotion

rather than a spray?”

“I can’t rub in a spray,” Calvin admitted. He loved touching Brock’s arms. Kissing them, too, but realized that covered in gunk as they now

were, he wouldn’t be able to do the latter for a while. Oh, well, he’d deal.

“Love it when you take care of me.”
“Love taking care of you.” It was on the tip of Calvin’s tongue to add, ‘just plain love you.’ But he couldn’t. It was too soon, their future too

uncertain.

As they walked along the bank, shaded for the most part by trees, Calvin was soothed by the peacefulness of the scene. The birdsong, the

babbling of the creek, and the buzz of the occasional insect as it flew past.

Brock slid his right hand into Calvin’s right back pocket and pulled Calvin into his side. The gesture felt right, comforting, and safe. Calvin

didn’t say anything—just carried on walking—for fear of breaking the spell.

He had to admit, it was difficult to find such tranquility in Manhattan. Could he try living back in Parish Creek? Or maybe in a larger town or

city close by? Austin had a decent-sized gay community. It would mean a lot of upheaval at work. Could he do his job effectively from Texas? He’d
done okay this past week or so hadn’t he?

A small black and white dog appeared from round a corner and bounced toward them, its unseen owner calling after it. Brock took his hand

out of Calvin’s back pocket and moved away. The dog sniffed at their ankles. Brock bent to pet it.

“Howdy, little guy,” Brock said.
The dog yipped, turned around and raced back to its owner, who appeared around the corner a few seconds later.
“Happy Fourth,” the man said, nodding at Calvin and Brock.
“Same to you,” Brock said.
Calvin merely nodded. No, he couldn’t move back to Texas. Everything was just so…closeted there. Calvin sighed. He wanted to go back to

Brock’s where they could be close without fear of being seen. Then Calvin remembered Junior. He sighed again.

They came upon a fallen tree trunk that lay along the side of the path.
“Want to sit a spell?” Brock asked.
Calvin shrugged.
Brock lowered himself down and patted the trunk next to him. Calvin sat where indicated. Neither man spoke. Brock picked up the

occasional stone and tossed it into the creek.

Eventually Brock turned to Calvin. “So, what’s been eating you this afternoon?” Calvin was about to open his mouth, when Brock continued,

“And don’t tell me it’s nothing. Something’s been on your mind ever since you came back.”

Calvin thought he’d done a good job of hiding his problems. Letting out a long breath he tried to stall. “Oh, you know, life, the universe, if the

Mets will have a shot at the Series.”

Brock smiled, shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
Calvin grimaced, and then quietly said, “My mom.”
“What about her?” Brock slung an arm across Calvin’s shoulders and just rested it there. The weight felt comforting, safe, making it easier

for Calvin to talk.

“She doesn’t approve.”
“Of?”
“Me…us.”
If Brock was surprised Calvin had told his mom about them, he didn’t show it.
“No, that’s not fair. I think I surprised her when I told her about you…about you and me.”
“She knows you’re gay, right?”
“Oh, yes. That’s never been a problem. But I guess I’ve never introduced her to anyone, much less someone she already knew.” Silently

Calvin added,‘

someone she thought was straight.

“What did she say?”
Calvin swallowed and related the conversation as best he could recall. He had no difficulty at all in remembering her final words. “So I

pretended I had another call and hung up.”

“Oh.”
“Brock, What we have—it is just the same. At least for me it is.” Calvin knew that was a loaded statement, but he just had to know.
Brock straddled the tree trunk to face Calvin fully. Calvin followed suit.
Brock leaned in and gave Calvin a gentle kiss on the lips. “Darlin’, you’ve turned my life upside down, inside out and back to front this past

week.”

Was this a good or a bad thing?

Calvin wondered.

“For what it’s worth, which might not be a whole lot, an’ I don’t want to disrespect your mamma or anything, but she’s wrong.” Brock slapped

at his arm; evidently the anti-bug lotion wasn’t doing its thing. “What you an’ me have is real special.”

It wasn’t the declaration Calvin would have hoped for, but it would do.
Reaching out, Calvin gently touched Brock’s cheek near his black eye. The flesh was black and purple. “Does it still hurt?”
“Not really,” Brock whispered, leaning forward and kissing Calvin, who kissed Brock back.
They sat and exchanged kisses until Brock started to fidget.
“What?” Calvin said, leaning back.
“Fuckin’ bugs.”
Calvin stood and offered a hand to his cowboy. “Come on, beautiful, let’s get back. Junior will be wondering where we’ve gone.”
Beginning to realize how smart that kid was, Calvin bet the boy had a fair idea what he and Brock were up to.
Calvin’s assumption was proved correct. Arriving back at Brock’s house they found Junior on the sofa, flipping TV channels.
Glancing over at them, Junior said, “I put that half-bag of charcoal next to the grill.”
Brock nodded. “Thanks, son.”
Junior then looked over at Calvin and gave him a wink.

* * * *

Stretched out in a lawn chair in the shade of a live oak, Calvin didn’t think he’d need to eat again for at least three days. Brock had piled

Calvin’s plate with everything anyone could have expected at a good ole Texas Fourth of July cookout. Burgers, hotdogs, potato salad, corn on the
cob, baked beans and watermelon.

Calvin let out a loud belch. “Sorry.”
Junior snickered.
“Knew I shouldn’t have had beans,” Calvin admitted.
His peach cobbler had been a real hit. Both Junior and Brock had had two helpings. Calvin thought it might have needed a bit more sugar,

but both Brockwells pronounced it perfect, the best cobbler they’d ever tasted. Calvin had accepted their compliments, not allowing himself to
believe they might just have been saying it out of politeness. It was too perfect a day, and too fucking hot to think about anything complicated.

“Another beer, Mr. Hamilton?”
“It’s Calvin.” Calvin opened his eyes to look up at Junior. “And thank you, I think I will.”
“Dad?”
“Thanks, son.”
Calvin remembered Brock saying the only big thing he and Junior disagreed on was Brock’s drinking. Evidently they must have come to

some compromise for the holiday.

“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I have some beer?”
Calvin opened his eyes; he wanted to see how this would play out.
“You’re a bit young.”
“Kyle’s daddy lets him have beer.”
Calvin noted Junior was going for the

my friend’s parents are cool enough to let their kid drink

angle.

“I still think you’re a bit too young. Maybe next year.”
“And Kyle’s mom works for the police department.”
“As a dispatcher,” Brock parried.
Junior continued to state his case. Calvin had to admire the boy’s persistence. He didn’t whine or complain, just calmly advanced his

arguments.

“Okay, bring out a small glass.” Brock eventually said.
“Yes!” Junior raced into the house.
“He’ll probably hate the taste of it,” Brock said. “I know I did when I first sneaked cans from under my daddy’s nose.”
Calvin laughed.
Junior was back in a matter of moments, two bottles and a glass in hand.
Brock poured an inch of beer into the glass Junior held. Calvin expected the boy to complain about the amount, but he didn’t. Brock stayed

the boy’s hand before he could bring it up to his lips.

“Let me tell you a story.”
Junior rolled his eyes.
“It’ll only take a minute. I used to sneak beer from your granddaddy. It didn’t take him long to cotton that the cans in the fridge were

disappearing faster than he was drinking them. Now I thought I was bein’ smart by crushin’ the cans and buryin’ ‘em deep in the trash. But I got
caught. I thought I was in for a whippin’ for sure.”

Junior giggled, and then grew serious. “What happened?”
Brock took a swig from his bottle. “I’d never been able to drink more than a few mouthfuls. I’d pour the rest away, usually behind the shed. I

think that’s what clued your granddaddy in ‘cause it was at the back of the shed where he caught me.”

“What did he do?” Junior asked.
“Made me drink the whole can.” Brock nodded to the glass in Junior’s hand. “Just take a sip.”
Junior did, and immediately pulled a face.
“Want the rest?”
Junior shook his head and gave the glass to Brock.
“I was sick to my stomach for the rest of the day. And wasn’t feelin’ too good the next morning either. Didn’t help that your granddaddy had

cooked up the biggest, greasiest breakfast, and made me sit down to eat it.”

Calvin barked out a laugh.
“Never thought the kitchen table and the john were so far apart.”
Calvin continued to laugh, as did Junior.
“How long was it before you took another drink?” Calvin asked.
“Couple of weeks,” Brock admitted. “See, your daddy wasn’t the smartest back then.”
Junior looked as though he was about to protest.
Brock held up a hand. “Trust me, I wasn’t. But I hope I’ve learned from the mistakes I made. This was why I let you have a taste of beer now.

Better you do it in front of me than behind my back.”

Junior nodded.
“Next time you want to try it, ask, okay?”
“Yes, Dad. Thanks.”

* * * *

Calvin was surprised at the number of people who had turned up at the high school football stadium to watch the fireworks.
Junior asked Brock for money to buy a funnel cake from one of the concession stands.
“Get me one, too,” Brock said, reaching into his back pocket.
Calvin said he’d get it and pulled out a ten before Brock could protest.
“Thanks, Calvin,” Junior said. “Would you like one, too?”
Calvin shook his head. He was still full from the cookout.
The high risk of being bitten by insects had had Brock putting on a pale-blue long-sleeve button up shirt before they left the house. Calvin had

applied more bug killer, ‘just in case.’

“Why’re you starin’ at me?” Brock asked under his breath.
“Just because.” Blue really suited his cowboy.
Brock turned his head away, clearly uncomfortable at such a conversation taking place in public.
“Sorry,” Calvin said, and meant it. Though whenever Brock wasn’t looking, Calvin would sneak peeks at his man. He liked how Brock’s belly

was a little rounded. It was soft to cuddle up to, to put his head on.

“Stop lookin’ at me like I’m something to eat,” Brock said under his breath.
“Sorry,” Calvin repeated. “But make no mistake, I will eat you later.”
Brock shook his head and turned away to start a conversation with someone else.
Calvin thought it better to mingle, put some distance between himself and the man he loved.
God, the old place hadn’t changed much, not that he frequented the football stadium when he’d been a student at the school. There were a

few people present who Calvin knew…even fewer that he actually wanted to talk to. He chit-chatted with a handful of his old teachers who still taught
at the school. He said ‘hi’ to a fellow geek who had been in the drama club with him. While standing in line at a concession stand to get a bottle of
water he got talking with—of all people—a former jock. Calvin recognized him as the starting wide receiver, but he was sure the guy didn’t
remember Calvin, a fact for which Calvin was grateful.

The fireworks—when they finally came—were pretty good. The school band accompanied the pyrotechnics, and managed to stay fairly in

sync, too.

By the time the last rocket had exploded, Calvin was ready to sit down. Not seeing Brock or Junior anywhere, he made his way over to the

bleachers.

“Hi, didn’t think I’d ever see you back in Parish Creek.”
Calvin looked at the speaker, and drew a blank as to his identity.
The guy laughed and held out a hand. “Derek Creswell.”
Calvin took the proffered hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Wow, you’ve changed.”
Derek laughed, and held onto Calvin’s hand for just a second longer than expected. “Could say the same about you.”
Calvin took a seat next to Derek and spent a few minutes catching up. Derek had been the geekiest of geeks in Calvin’s grade. He even

had a pocket protector, probably a collection of pocket protectors. But now, wow. The guy had swapped mechanical pencils, protractors, and
compasses for muscles, tattoos, and spiked hair.

“What are you doing now?” Derek asked.
“PR and advertising in New York.”
Derek nodded, as if Calvin was confirming what he already knew. “Heard your folks were selling up and moving to Florida.”
“They’ve already moved, and I’m in the process of getting their place ready to put on the market.”
Derek smiled. “Well, I just might be able to help you out there, my friend.” He reached into a pocket of his ripped jeans and pulled out a wallet

from which he extracted a business card.

“Creswell Real Estate Agency,” Calvin said aloud. Then he looked over at the bad boy biker. The two things didn’t fit.
Derek laughed and squeezed Calvin’s knee. “Real estate is just the day job. At night…” Derek held out his arms as if gripping the

handlebars of a motorcycle and followed it up with a few growls.

“There you are,” Brock said to Calvin, then shot a disapproving look at Derek.
Calvin introduced the two of them. Derek was friendly, and Brock made the attempt, but Calvin could tell the man was jealous.
“Well, it’s been great catching up. I’ll certainly get back to you once Brock here has finished renovating the place,” Calvin said.
“Look forward to it.” Derek stood, shook hands with Calvin then Brock before leaving.
“What did he want?” Brock asked, staring daggers into Derek’s retreating back.
“A fuck under the bleachers.”
Brock’s gaze shot back to Calvin.
“But I told him, ‘No thanks, I’ve already got a beautiful cowboy who’ll do that.’”
Brock harrumphed, took a look around, but the bleachers were pretty empty and no one was close. “I want to try something.”
“Oh?” Maybe Brock really was gonna take him under the bleachers. The thought had Calvin plumping up.
As they made for the exit, Brock said, “Junior’s gone home with a school friend, hope it’ll be okay to go pick him up later.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Where were they heading? Once out of the stadium, Brock took a right, then a left, and walked toward the gymnasium. They stopped in front

of the entrance to the boys’ locker room, a place that held no good memories for Calvin.

“Don’t know if this key still works.” Brock took out a small shiny key and fitted it into the lock. It turned, there was a click, and Brock pushed

the door open.

Immediately the memories of musty damp towels, teenage male sweat, and Bengay assaulted Calvin. He stood rooted to the spot.
“It’s okay,” Brock soothed, rubbing Calvin’s shoulder. “I wanted to bring you here to…I don’t know, to rest a few ghosts for you, make some

good memories of this place.”

Calvin nodded, and, taking a firm grip on his emotions, stepped into the dark interior. He immediately began to shiver, even though the room

was warm and stuffy.

Brock flipped on the lights, and locked the door. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Calvin swallowed. This was just a room. A room couldn’t hurt him.
Calvin felt Brock taking his hand and leading him along the rows of lockers. The place hadn’t changed much. The lockers were painted a

different color, but the tiles on the walls and floor were the same, as were the benches, though maybe they looked a little more battered and scarred
than Calvin remembered.

Brock sat down on one of the benches, and, as they were still holding hands, Calvin found it more comfortable to sit next to him. They didn’t

say anything. Somewhere a showerhead dripped, but otherwise the room was silent.

“Didn’t think my old key would still work.” Brock’s words made Calvin jump. Brock squeezed his hand in reassurance. “Coach gave a few of

us on the baseball team keys so we could lock up after ourselves if practice ran late or something.”

Calvin wondered about that ‘or something.’ Images of jocks indulging in circle jerks and maybe more crept into his mind.
“Why you smiling?” Brock asked.
Calvin hadn’t realized he was. He told Brock what he’d been thinking.
“Nah, nothing like that ever happened, unfortunately.”
“Which locker was yours?”
“That’s right, we never had gym together, did we? Otherwise you’d have known ‘cause you’d have been secretly scoping me out as I got

changed.” Brock smirked.

Calvin snorted. He knew Brock was only teasing.
Brock let go of his hand, stood, and walked down the row of lockers. “This one.” He placed his palm on one of the blue-painted metal doors.

“Wonder if my old combination still works.”

Calvin laughed when Brock tried the lock but didn’t gain entry. He stood and walked over to the locker that used to be his. Oddly, their

lockers were quite close. He spun the dials, the lock disengaged and the door swung open to reveal an empty locker.

“Wow, what are the chances?” Brock said, coming up to Calvin and, after pushing up his Stetson, nuzzled Calvin’s neck.
“Yeah, what are the chances that a beautiful cowboy would ride into my life, sweep me off my feet and—” The rest of Calvin’s words were

lost in Brock’s kisses.

“Need you,” Brock groaned, and pushed Calvin into the bank of lockers.
Calvin tensed. He was instantly transported back to when jocks would push him into these self same lockers, jeering at him, calling him

names, and sometimes punching him.

“Sorry.” Brock backed off. “You okay?”
Calvin took a breath and looked up into Brock’s concerned, beautiful face. He nodded. “Just a ghost trying to spook me.”
Brock took Calvin’s hand and brought the knuckles to his lips. “No one is ever gonna hurt you again. Not on my watch.”
Calvin swallowed.
Brock closed the locker door. “Wanna get out of here?”
Calvin started to nod, then changed his mind. “No. Just hold me.”
Brock did, making sure he didn’t press him into the lockers again.
“What time did you say we’d pick Junior up?” Calvin asked, knowing he’d be sleeping alone that night, and wanting to put off the moment of

separation for as long as possible.

“About ten.”
“What time is it now?”
Brock looked at his wristwatch. “Quarter after ten.”
Calvin sighed. “Guess we should make a move.”
“Uh huh.” Brock made no effort to let go of Calvin.
“Thanks.”
“What for?”
“For everything. For doing this, for being you, for…” Calvin choked up.
Brock’s hands smoothed up Calvin’s arms and rested on his shoulders. Holding him at arm’s length, Brock stared into Calvin’s eyes for the

longest time. “I love you, Calvin Hamilton.”

“Oh, Brock.” Calvin closed the distance and hugged his cowboy for all he was worth. “I love you, too. So much.” Calvin was crying, and he

didn’t care.

“Wanted to tell you for a while, but…” Brock sniffed.
“Me too.”
Brock kissed Calvin’s eyes. “Was talking with Junior earlier. If you still want us to come up to New York for a vacation then—”
“Of course I do! You’re both welcome to stay for as long as you like.”
They stood in the middle of the locker room hugging and swaying slightly. Calvin hoped Brock and Junior would stay with him forever, but

he’d take whatever he could get.

Sniffing and blinking away his tears, Calvin pulled back to look into his cowboy’s face. Reaching up he ran the fingertips of both hands down

Brock’s cheeks. “You’re the most beautiful man in the world.”

Brock smiled then shook his head and sighed theatrically. “I guess it’ll be all down hill from here on out.”
“Huh?”
“Can’t get any bigger than the world.”
Calvin grinned. “Don’t bet on that. There’s a solar system, a galaxy, heck, a whole universe for you to get beautiful in.”
“You’re fuckin’ loco.” Brock kissed him.
Just then Calvin’s phone rang. He looked at the display.
“It’s my parents.”
He thought about letting it go to voicemail, he couldn’t cope with any more bullshit from his mom, not just after Brock and he had said what

they had.

“You should answer it,” Brock said, stepping away.
Calvin reached out for him with his free hand. “No, stay.” Pressing the button, Calvin brought the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Calvin, honey, it’s Mom.”
Calvin rolled his eyes at Brock. “Hello, Mom.”
“Did you have a good Fourth?”
“Yes, thanks. I spent it with Brock and Junior.” If she thought he was going to avoid talking about them then she was shit out of luck.
“That’s nice.”
“Yes it was.”
“Look, son, about this morning.” She paused.
Calvin didn’t say anything.
His mother let out a breath. “I talked with your dad and…well I think what I said might have come across as a little insensitive.”

Ya think?

Calvin thought, but out loud said, “It didn’t help.” Brock squeezed his hand, and Calvin squeezed back. Into the phone Calvin said,

“Mom, I love him, and he loves me.”

“I’m really pleased for you, son. Brock’s a good man. I was just surprised this morning when you told me.”
Calvin nodded. “I can understand that. But what Brock and I have…it’s real…genuine.” Calvin looked at Brock, at his black Stetson that was

on crooked, at his kiss-swollen lips, at his kind, caring eyes. “I just love him so much.” Calvin had to blink away fresh tears.

“I know, and I’m sorry for what I said this morning.”
Calvin talked with his mom for a while longer. When the conversation seemed to be winding down, his dad picked up an extension and

joined in.

Eventually, after a few more tears and a lot more fence-mending, Calvin ended the call and accepted a long hug from his lover.
“Come on, let’s go get Junior.” Brock patted Calvin’s back. “We’ve got a vacation to plan.”

Chapter 10

Everything in Calvin’s living room looked neat, clean, and expensive. Brock thought the furniture was Mission, although he wasn’t enough of

an expert to say for certain. The clean lines felt pleasing and masculine.

Sinking into the cushions on the oxblood leather sofa, Brock sighed. They were here in New York. The plane ride had been…great. Calvin’s

insistence on traveling business class had meant more legroom, which Brock had appreciated, as there had been a delay before the plane took
off.

Brock had been able to tell—despite his son’s attempts to appear cool and mature—Junior had been excited during the flight, asking Calvin

endless questions, wanting to know what everything was and how it worked. Calvin and the cabin crew had indulged him.

Brock smiled at how well Calvin and Junior had gotten along right from the start. He knew if it had been otherwise, he couldn’t have pursued

a relationship with the man.

“Here we go.” Calvin came into the room carrying two tall glass mugs of hot chocolate.
Brock took one of the glasses, but was afraid to drink from it for fear of spilling.
Calvin got out two large coasters and put them on the end table. Even the table looked expensive in an elegant, understated way. Brock was

pretty sure it was pecan wood, the top inlaid with etched copper.

Brock placed his glass on one of the coasters, and Calvin did the same on the other.
“You okay?” Calvin asked.
Brock nodded and looked around the room again. At first glance the sage green carpet appeared to be one color, but closer examination

showed the pile was sculpted, making a swirling pattern in a lighter green. His eye was drawn to the entertainment system in the corner, all cherry
wood and smoked glass. A huge LCD television sat on top of it. Halfway along the opposite wall was a gas fire with imitation logs. Above the
cherry mantle was a watercolor—probably original—of a cowboy, his back resting against a tree, his hat pulled low over his eyes. Brock smiled.
Calvin sure had a thing for cowboys.

“Nice place you got here.”
Calvin tucked his legs underneath himself and leaned against Brock, who put an arm around him.
“It’s just a place,” Calvin sighed. “Having you and Junior here helps make it a home.”
Brock rubbed Calvin’s arm, not sure how to respond. He chose not to. It’d been a long day, what with the drive to the airport in Austin, leaving

KITT in the long-term parking lot, the flight, and then the cab ride to Calvin’s apartment.

“Junior settle down okay?” Calvin asked.
Brock twisted to face Calvin and pecked him on the lips. “Out like a light. The flight and the mini guided tour of Manhattan from the cab tired

him out.”

Calvin smiled and kissed Brock back. “He seemed to like what he saw.”
“Especially the Empire State Building. I didn’t realize they put red, white, and blue lights on it for the Fourth.”
“Yes, you get a really good view from my bedroom.”
Brock raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”
Calvin smirked. “Horndog.”
The two exchanged kisses, Calvin climbing onto Brock’s lap, the deep sofa cushions giving them plenty of room to maneuver.
“The hot chocolate is going cold,” Brock eventually said.
“Don’t care about hot chocolate when I’ve got a hot cowboy.” Calvin leaned in to suck on Brock’s bottom lip.
Eventually they made it to the bedroom—the hot chocolate untouched—both men trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake Junior.
They undressed quickly. The lights were off in the room, the only illumination coming from the window. Brock went to close the drapes, but

the view—lighted windows in tower blocks, headlights of cars traveling along the various expressways—caused him to pause in wonderment at the
almost silent scene in front of and below him. Calvin was right, there was a great view of the Empire State Building.

Calvin came up behind Brock and began to massage his shoulders. “You okay, beautiful?”
“It’s different to what I thought it would be. Bigger, busier.”
Calvin ran his palms down Brock’s bare arms. “It’s a view I never tire of seeing.” Turning Brock to face him, Calvin kissed him on the lips.

Cupping Brock’s face, Calvin stared into his eyes. “Another view I will never tire of seeing.”

Brock kissed him back. “I love you.”
“Not nearly as much as I love you.”
They kissed for a few moments; the glow from the city illuminated Calvin’s face looking adoringly up at him.
“Thank you,” Calvin whispered.
“What for?” Brock whispered back.
“For coming here. For as long as you stay, I’ll do everything I can to show you how much I love you, how much I want you and Junior to be a

part of my life, and—”

Brock silenced him with a kiss. “Should be me thanking you. All the things you’ve done for me, for Junior.”
Brock closed his eyes and recalled the visit to the bankruptcy lawyer. He shuddered. Calvin had gone with him—and when it had gotten too

much—he’d reached out and taken Calvin’s hand. Brock hadn’t cared what—if anything—the lawyer had thought. That evening, and every evening
since, Calvin had listened to him when the shame of failure had seemed overwhelming. Calvin had whispered words of love and reassurance,
promising Brock he’d get through it and come out whole on the other side. Calvin had been there for him every step of the way.

Despite Brock’s protests, Calvin had paid the garage repair bills for his truck, had paid for his hat reblocking, had paid for countless other

things. Then when Brock had announced he’d finished the renovations on Calvin’s folk’s place, Calvin had paid—in cash—the balance of his bill,
plus an extra five hundred dollars. Despite Brock’s attempts to hand back the money, Calvin had reminded Brock they’d agreed he would pay a
bonus if Brock completed the work quickly. And, as they’d shaken on the deal, Calvin said he wasn’t going back on it.

Opening his eyes again, Brock stared into his man’s face. “No, darlin’, I’ll say it again, it’s me who needs to thank you,” he whispered.
“You being here is thanks enough.”
Calvin laid a trail of kisses starting at Brock’s throat, moving down his chest, belly, groin, then along the length of his stiff dick.
“Welcome to New York City.” The man took Brock’s dick down his throat in one swallow.
Brock gasped. “You’re sure makin’ me feel real welcome.”
Getting blown while looking down on the city that never sleeps was a unique experience for Brock, one he thought he could get used to. But

before he could even get used to this blowjob, Calvin pulled off.

“Wha?”

“Bed’s more comfortable.”
Brock smiled and took Calvin’s hand.
Calvin was right. The bed was one of the most comfortable things Brock had ever lain on. If he weren’t so wrapped up in making out with his

lover, he’d have asked about the four-poster that had to be bigger than a standard king size.

“Wanna try something,” Calvin said between kisses.
Brock licked Calvin’s neck. “Anything you want, darlin’.”
Calvin picked up Brock’s hard member that was oozing a steady stream of juice onto the quilted bedspread. “With you still having all of what

God gave you,” Calvin ran his finger along Brock’s foreskin, “and me not, I thought we could do this.”

Calvin lined the tip of his penis up with the end of Brock’s, and pulled Brock’s loose skin forward over Calvin’s exposed cock head.
“Docking?” Brock asked.
Calvin kissed him. “Makes me feel closer to you.”
“Yeah.” The sensation felt odd, but a good kind of odd.
Calvin began to jack the two of them. At one point he got too enthusiastic and the connection broke. Bending down and licking away the

excess pre-seminal fluid from Brock’s cock head—both of them were quite prodigious leakers—he joined them again.

“Want you to come over my cock.”
Brock loved Calvin’s dirty talk. It was so unexpected from such a put-together conservative kind of guy. Brock also loved how Calvin would

take charge and direct things.

To muffle his whimpers, Brock put a forearm over his mouth. However, Calvin soon removed it, replacing it with his own mouth.
The connection broke again, but both of them were too fired up to care. Calvin climbed on top of Brock and ground their groins together.
“Need you, cowboy. Come for me.”
“Almost there, darlin’,” Brock growled through clenched teeth, trying to stay as quiet as possible.
Then it happened. Brock felt himself teeter on the edge…then slowly tilt over…and fall, as if in slow motion. Calvin was there to catch him,

silencing his whimpers.

“Got you, beautiful. Won’t ever let you fall.”
It wasn’t the most intense orgasm Brock had ever had, but it was one of the longest. Feeling safe and loved in Calvin’s arms, Brock soon

drifted off to sleep. His earlier worries of being in a strange city, of being bankrupt, of not having a job faded into warm, fuzzy, comforting darkness.

* * * *

“First order of business,” Calvin said, pouring himself and Brock cups of coffee and Junior a glass of orange juice, “is breakfast, and then

we’re going shopping.”

“Huh?” Brock mumbled, rubbing his whiskery chin. All he could focus on was the need for caffeine.
“I don’t have anything in the pantry, so we’ll need to go out for breakfast.”
“Okay,” Junior said. “And I guess the shopping is for groceries.”
Calvin nodded. “After we’ve been clothes shopping.”
“Huh?” Brock repeated. The black coffee hadn’t started to kick in yet. Had Calvin said they were going shopping for clothes? He and Junior

had packed two suitcases full of clothes.

“Junior,” Calvin addressed Brock’s son. “What did your daddy forget to pack?”
Junior looked confused.
“What does he wear most days, but didn’t bring with him?”
The light of understanding dawned in the boy’s eyes. “His cowboy hat.”
“Exactly,” Calvin said. “And probably his western shirts, belts, and boots, too.”
“I didn’t want to look like a hick,” Brock protested.
“You didn’t want to look like a hick.” Calvin transferred his attention from Brock to Junior. “Please cover your ears for a moment.”
Junior laughed, but didn’t comply.
Turning back to Brock, Calvin said, “Seriously, Brock, if you don’t want to wear those types of clothes, that’s okay, but if you chose not to

wear them because you’d be embarrassed, then that’s wrong.”

“How’d you mean?”
“New York has everything. You’ll see people in traditional African clothing, as well as Indians, Muslims, and Jews wearing their traditional

garb. We see it all, and nobody blinks an eye. People can be who they are in New York. So if you’re a cowboy, you can dress like a cowboy.”

“Well, I do kinda miss wearin’ my hat,” Brock said sheepishly.
“Then it’s settled. We’ll mosey on over to the western goods store an’ get this hick a hat.” Winking at Junior, Calvin said, “You can uncover

your ears now.”

Junior laughed.
“Would you like a hat, too?”
“If’n yor a-offerin’, I reckon that’d be mighty swell. Ifn’n Pa says it’s all right.”
“No,” Brock said, the joke having gone far enough. “I’m not letting you spend your money on stuff for both of us. Junior’s my responsibility.”
Calvin looked hurt. He nodded, took a sip of his coffee and stayed silent.
Later, when Junior was in his room getting ready, Brock apologized.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I overstepped the line,” Calvin said, only briefly meeting Brock’s eyes. “I never want to undermine you in front of Junior. It’s

just…well I don’t have a son of my own. Never thought I’d be the paternal kind, but…Junior, he’s such a special kid I just wanted to spoil him a little.
Sorry.”

Brock took Calvin’s hand that was resting on the table and gave it a squeeze. “I can’t buy him everything I’d like to, and—”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…While I had you two here I wanted to make you both happy.” In a lower voice he added, “Make me happy.”
The two men stood, hugged, then kissed.
Brock felt overwhelming affection for Calvin. He’d opened his home, his heart and his wallet to the pair of them, and lord knew why. “I love

you somethin’ fierce.”

* * * *

The western clothing store Calvin found seemed to have everything. Brock could even forget they were in New York, not Texas. Okay, they

had more sparkly shirts with fringe type dealies on them that no genuine cowboy would be seen dead wearing, but there was plenty of the real stuff,
too.

But the prices!

Brock put back a pair of stonewashed Wranglers.

Calvin took the jeans back off the rack and held them against Brock’s legs. “Stop it,” he admonished. “My treat, remember. Do you like

them?”

Brock admitted he did.
“And I bet your ass would look purty damn fine in ‘em,” Calvin whispered.
Brock felt himself blush. Damn his fair complexion. He’d had the same thought.
To his credit, Junior only chose a couple of items. Calvin looked at Brock, who nodded.
“That’s a good start, Junior,” Calvin said, “but what about boots? And we haven’t visited the hat department yet.”
Junior—who saw Brock nod—said, “You sure, Dad?”
“If Calvin says it’s okay, then it’s okay.”
“Calvin says it’s okay,” Calvin said. “Now which color hat do you want? I’ve been reading up about the ‘X’ rating of hats.”
Brock sighed. He’d thought Calvin would have bought Junior a straw hat, similar to the one the kid had back home. He should have known

Calvin wouldn’t go for the cheap option. But despite his reservations, Brock couldn’t help but get caught up in Junior’s excitement. Brock’s first felt
hat had been cheap; it was all he could afford at the time. But he’d been real proud of it.

Brock followed as Calvin and Junior made their way over to the hat section, Calvin’s hand resting in the center of Junior’s shoulders, the two

of them in animated conversation. Brock felt an enormous sense of pride wash over him. These two people were his family, his past and—maybe
—his future.

* * * *

They spent a magical few days seeing the sights of New York. However, when they visited Times Square, Brock felt Calvin was

uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?” Brock asked, just after a Japanese tourist had handed back Calvin’s camera after taking a picture of the three of them

hugging.

“Nothing, I’m having a great time,” Calvin said, putting on a smile even more false than the one he’d worn for the photograph.
Junior was a few feet in front of them, and Brock was sure he was out of hearing range.
“Liar,” Brock whispered.
“It’s just the crowds.”
“Huh?” Brock didn’t understand. The guy lived in the center of a huge city. Surely crowds were a fact of life.
“Generally New Yorkers steer clear of the big tourist areas if they can.”
“Want to go home?”
Brock surprised himself by calling Calvin’s condo ‘home.’ If the now genuine smile on Calvin’s face was any indication, he hadn’t missed the

reference, either.

“Nah,” Calvin shook his head. “Junior’s loving it, and all of this,” Calvin stretched out his arms, “is just as much a part of New York as

anything.” Calvin’s smile remained. “Honestly, I’m having a great time showing you guys around. Where do you want to visit next?”

“The Empire State Building!” Junior turned round to say.
Clearly the boy had been within hearing range. Brock would have to be more careful in future.

* * * *

The lines outside the Empire State Building were long. Brock didn’t particularly want to wait, but knew going to the top was something Junior

would really enjoy. However, they didn’t have to wait. Calvin said he knew someone, money changed hands, and they went to a different entrance
and got into the elevator.

The view from the observation deck on the 86

th

floor was amazing. It was surprisingly breezy so far up. Brock was right, Junior loved it,

asking Calvin a seemingly endless stream of questions about everything he could see.

“That’s enough,” Brock eventually said, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “Calvin isn’t a tour guide.”
“I don’t mind,” Calvin was smiling broadly. “I’m glad he’s enjoying himself. There’s a smaller observation platform on the one-hundred and

second floor, but it’s totally enclosed. We could go up there if you want, or there’s the New York Skyride on the second floor.”

“What’s that?” Junior tore his gaze away from the cityscape to ask.
“It’s a simulated aerial tour of the city.”
“Sounds cool. Let’s do that.” He turned to Brock. “If that’s okay?”
Brock smiled. He was sure the attraction would cost extra, but this was Calvin’s treat. Despite his earlier comments about the crowds, Brock

knew Calvin was having fun. And, Brock had to admit, so was he.

* * * *

“Bagels?”
“With lox and cream cheese,” Calvin added.
Brock couldn’t have put more disdain into the stare he was giving to the object on his plate if he’d tried, and he was trying! Was the fishy stuff

actually cooked?

“Were you expecting grits, biscuits and red-eyed gravy? This is New York.”
Junior snickered.
“And that’s enough from the peanut gallery,” Brock grumped. “It’s just, come on. A man can’t live on bagels, cream cheese and raw fish. It’s

just not…not—”

“The cowboy way?” Calvin offered.
“Exactly.”
Junior snickered again. Brock shot him a look, which resulted in the snickering turning into outright laughter.
For the past few days Calvin had either made them breakfast here in the apartment or they’d gone out to eat. And then, before that—back in

Texas—Calvin had usually cooked breakfast, too. But this was the first time Brock had been given…this. He gave the bagel another hard stare.

“Okay. Maybe I was trying too hard too fast to acclimatize you to New York cuisine. Sometime soon I promise I’ll take you to a special hole-

in-the-wall place that serves the best Texas food this side of…the Mississippi.”

Brock felt his mood rising. “Really?”
Calvin gave him the look. Brock so wanted to kiss him, but Junior was there and…
Brock broke the intense gaze and looked down at the fuckin’ bagel.
Junior sighed. “Oh, just kiss each other.”
Brock turned to face his son.
“Go on, I know you both want to. And I’m cool with it.”
Brock transferred his gaze to Calvin, who looked shocked, hopeful, and…Brock didn’t bother to analyze further. He leaned in and pecked

Calvin on the lips.

“That was pathetic!” Junior scoffed. “You’re not kissing Aunt Betsy.”
“Smart ass.” Brock made to cuff Junior’s ear, but the boy ducked. Brock was uncomfortable at being given kissing advice from his thirteen-

year-old son.

“Heck, look at the time. I’m gonna be late,” Calvin said, getting to his feet. “Meet you both at lunchtime?” It had become their usual practice

for Calvin to work at the office during the morning, Brock and Junior meeting him for lunch. Often Calvin was able to take the afternoon off, ‘one of
the perks of co-owning your own company,’ and then they’d do more of the tourist thing.

“Yeah, darlin’, we’ll be there.”
Feeling a little more comfortable about showing affection to his man in front of his son, Brock also stood and pulled Calvin into a hug. Laying

a wet, soppy, and loud kiss on Calvin’s lips, Brock said, “Love you.”

If Calvin was surprised at the change in his boyfriend, he did well to hide it. Kissing Brock back, he said, “Meet you both about one?”
“Counting the seconds, darlin’.”
Junior made gagging noises. “Okay, okay, you made your point.”
Both adults laughed, gave each other a final squeeze, then separated, Brock having to sit quickly to hide his erection.
Moments later Brock heard the door to the apartment close.
“Calvin’s a great guy. He makes you happy.” Junior picked up the last of his bagel. But before taking a bite he asked, “Have you thought any

more about us moving here, like, permanently?”

Brock had thought of little else. But it was a big step. “What about all your friends back in Parish Creek?”
Swallowing, Junior said, “I can make new ones here. Maggie said she was gonna take me to a party next week and introduce me. I think she

likes me and wants to show me off.”

Brock smiled and shook his head at his son’s confidence. But hadn’t he been like that at his age? The moment Junior had met Tim and

Felicity’s daughter, Maggie, Junior had turned on the charm. The girl—maybe a year older than Junior—had admitted she liked cowboys.
Immediately Brock had detected a deepening in Junior’s Texan drawl.

Taking a sip of coffee, which he discovered had gone cold, Brock said, “Would mean a new school.”
“I’m moving up to high school this year anyway, so it’d be a new school whatever we did. So this would be a good time to transfer.”
“I guess.” Taking a bite of the bagel, he chewed—it wasn’t as bad as he feared—Brock swallowed, then asked, “What do you think about

moving?”

“I want whatever will make you happy.”
Brock had to swallow again. What did he do to get such a fuckin’ amazin’ son?
As the days had passed, Brock had felt an increased pull toward moving, but…could he do it, was he ready to live in a big city? As Calvin

had told him when they were still in Texas, New York was a whole different world. But was it a world Brock could live in?

“Thanks, son. I’m still thinkin’ about it.”
Junior gave Brock a hug, then stepped back. “Come on, I want to try a burrito from that food cart we saw yesterday,” he said, lightening the

mood.

“You don’t like bagels, either?” Brock sounded aghast, but he knew his son could tell he was kidding.
“They’re growing on me,” Junior admitted with a chuckle.
Both Brockwells having visited their respective bathrooms—Brock realizing how useful it was to have two—they met in the hallway and

reached for their matching Stetsons. Brock had been so proud of his son when, in the western clothing store, Junior had insisted to Calvin he
wanted a hat exactly like the one his daddy was getting.

“Ready, Dad?” Junior asked after checking his reflection in the mirror.
“Lead the way, pardner.”

* * * *

With the exception of an emotionally-moving visit to Ground Zero, Calvin, Brock and Junior had confined themselves to fun tourist type

places. So one morning—Calvin at work—Brock thought it wouldn’t do Junior any harm—or himself for that matter—to take in some culture and
education. Brock remembered Calvin saying the posted rates for entry to the Metropolitan Museum were actually suggested donations, and you
could just pay whatever you liked. Despite this, Brock felt obligated to hand over the recommended amount.

As expected, Junior lapped it all up, reading as many information panels as he could, and looking critically at the exhibits. They both

particularly enjoyed the Egyptian section. A temple there had been shipped brick-by-brick to the States.

They got so caught up in what was on display, they were almost late for their usual lunch appointment with Calvin.

* * * *

“Howdy, guys,” Tim said when Brock and Junior entered the reception area of Calvin’s firm. “Cal’s in a meeting, although he shouldn’t be

much longer. Y’all want to set a spell and wait?”

Brock nodded. Tim was okay, but his attempts to talk Texan just sounded…strange. Brock looked at Junior, who was biting his lip, trying not

to laugh.

“That’s mighty kind o ya.” Brock tipped his hat.

Two can play this game, buddy.

Junior coughed, no doubt to disguise his laugh, and from the corner of his eye, Brock saw the woman who sat behind the reception desk

stifle a grin.

“Monica, would you get something to drink for Mr. and Mr. Brockwell?” Tim asked the woman.
“Uh, not for me, thanks, ma’am.” Brock took off his Stetson.
“Or me, thank you,” Junior added, also removing his hat.
“Okay. Like I said, Cal should be free soon. His meeting is running a little long, but I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
“It’s okay, we’re not in any hurry,” Brock told him.
“If you’re sure.”
Brock nodded.
Tim seemed to dither a moment before retreating into his office. Brock got the distinct impression—despite Tim’s outward friendliness—

that he didn’t trust Brock. And, to give the man his due, he had a point. Less than a month ago Tim wouldn’t have ever heard of Brock, and now here
Brock and Junior were, staying with Calvin and maybe…

One of the doors leading to the reception area opened and Calvin emerged, followed by another man in a suit and a woman Brock thought

he recognized…but it couldn’t be.

“Julissa Hudson,” Junior said a bit too loudly.
Brock shushed him.
The woman—dressed in a simple dark skirt and white blouse, but still managing to look stunning—smiled and came over to the two

Brockwells who were both on their feet, Stetsons in hand. “You must be Brock and Junior.” She smiled a perfect smile. “Calvin said what a fine
couple of men he had in his family, and oh, my, he wasn’t exaggerating.”

Just for a second Brock panicked that Calvin had outed him to a movie star, but then realized she didn’t know anyone he knew. His next

reaction was embarrassment at her words, mixed with pleasure that Calvin had talked about him and Junior to this famous person.

Julissa held out a perfectly manicured hand to Brock, who took it. Was he meant to shake it or kiss it? He opted for the former.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said, bowing his head slightly.
“You, too.” Her smile increased when she turned her attention to Junior, who looked as though he was completely star struck.
“I…I’ve seen all of your movies,” Junior gushed and took her offered hand. “Sorry,” he recovered. “You must get people saying that to you all

the time.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “It’s nice to have one’s talents recognized. Which is your favorite picture?”
Junior and Julissa talked for a couple of moments. Junior’s questions seemed intelligent, and his answers to hers were brief but polite.

Brock had no idea his son could be so calm and composed talking with a celebrity, when he himself was shaking in his boots.

“Well, we must go,” Julissa said, glancing at Calvin who stood quietly, a small smile teasing at his lips.
The other man spoke for the first time. “Thanks, Calvin, for the update on the ad campaign.”
“Yes,” Julissa said, “I’m really excited about this one. It helps that I actually use the product range, so I won’t have to lie through my teeth

about them.”

Calvin laughed. “We needed a well-known face to front the ads, and thanks to you we’ve got it.”
“Pleasure. Let Gary know when you’ve worked something up, and we’ll take things from there.”
“Will do.”
Calvin and Julissa air kissed, then she said goodbye to Brock, and finally Junior.
“Wonderful meeting you both,” she said before she and the man left. A faint cloud of pleasant—and no doubt expensive—perfume remained

in her wake.

“Sorry I was busy when you came in,” Calvin said, but Brock was still staring at the door through which Julissa Hudson had just exited.

“Brock?” Calvin asked.

“Uh?” Brock turned back to his lover, who was smiling at him. “Wow, I didn’t know you knew famous people like her.”
“They’re just people. Though Julissa is one of the nicer celebs we deal with.”
“She’s awesome,” Junior piped up.
“And so were you, bud,” Calvin said. “I could tell Julissa and her agent were very impressed with you. Wouldn’t surprise me if they ask for you

to be part of the ad campaign.”

“Ha!” Junior said.
Calvin shrugged. “You two ready to go be tourists?”
Before Brock could put his hat back on, Calvin touched his hair.
“Getting kinda long,” Calvin observed. “I like it, though.
Brock didn’t. He knew he should have visited the barber before leaving for New York, and told Calvin as much.
“There’s a great salon I go to on Seventy-Second Street. I’m sure they’ll be able to fit you in. Want me to give them a call?”
Brock guessed salons were expensive places, but as he didn’t know of anywhere on his own, he swallowed his unease and nodded his

agreement.

“Great, I’ll give them a call now. Then we can grab some lunch.” Calvin rubbed his hands together, obviously pleased to be able to do

something else for Brock. As if the guy didn’t do enough.

Brock was still uneasy, but he was rapidly coming to realize this was Calvin. And part of Brock admitted he liked being taken care of.
The barber’s appointment being made for that evening—things sure weren’t like that in Parish Creek—Calvin hustled them out of the office.
In the elevator, Calvin asked Junior, “Shall we go see the Statue of Liberty?”

* * * *

“Want an early night? Calvin glanced at Brock as he loosened his tie and tossed it aside.
Brock—imagining blowjobs, hand jobs and/or frottage—immediately sprang wood, but Calvin’s serious expression had him softening a

little.

Calvin ran his hands down Brock’s arms. “Let’s get undressed and into bed, then we can talk.”
“Okay.” Brock became edgy. He went totally soft.
In the bedroom—the drapes open as usual—Calvin snuggled chest-to-chest with Brock, who felt tense.
“Hey, beautiful, it’s nothing bad, but…” Calvin kissed him.
Did Calvin want to fuck him? Brock hadn’t allowed them to have full anal penetration with Junior’s room just across the hallway.

Speaking quietly, Calvin asked, “Have you thought about what sort of work you might want to do if you moved here?”
“I figured I could try and get hired by a construction firm in one of the boroughs.” Brock wondered where Calvin was going with this.
Calvin put his left arm over Brock’s body and pulled him in close. “You won’t like what I’m about to say, but please hear me out, okay?”
“Uh, okay.” Brock felt his pulse rate increase.
“I love you. I’m so fucking in love with you I want to wrap you up in cotton batting…and protect you from everything…and keep you safe…and

not let anything bad happen to you ever again.”

Calvin’s powerful words helped to reduce Brock’s tension, but he was obviously building up to something big, and…
“But I know I can’t do that. You’re a man. A strong, proud, capable, independent man who needs to make his own decisions.”
Brock sighed. Look where his pride and his capabilities had gotten him. Bankruptcy.
“I want to set up a construction company for you.”
“No.”
“Brock,” Calvin’s tone stayed calm. “You promised you’d hear me out.” Calvin kissed him. “I wouldn’t be doing this just for you. It’d be for us.

For my family, the men I love.”

Brock felt railroaded. This was huge…too much…wrong.
Calvin started to rub Brock’s back. Continuing to speak softly to him in the near darkness, he said, “You know I’d never do anything to hurt

you or Junior, don’t you?”

Brock nodded and tried to relax, but it wasn’t easy.
Maintaining his soothing tone, Calvin went on, “It would be an investment. An investment in you…your skills.” Calvin found Brock’s hands

under the sheets and rubbed them with his thumbs. “I know—because I’ve seen with my own eyes—what wonders these hands can do when they
are put to work fixing and building things.” Bringing the knuckles to his lips, Calvin kissed them. “I believe in you, John Brockwell. I know you could
make a go of such a company.”

Despite himself, Brock smiled. If there was one thing he knew he was good at, it was being a craftsman. But it was still humbling how much

faith Calvin had in his abilities.

“And, too, I’m hoping you’ll make us both lots of money flipping apartment blocks or whatever you decide to do. You have the skills to make

this sort of thing work, I don’t. I can’t do this without you. We need each other to make this work.”

Feeling overwhelmed, Brock put his arms around Calvin and gave him a squeeze.
Calvin resumed his steady rubbing of Brock’s back. “Just think about it. Discuss it with Junior. You don’t have to make any decisions yet.”
Brock gave his man a long, slow kiss. He hoped the gesture would say everything he couldn’t.
“I’ve only briefly discussed this with our company lawyer, because, like I said, everything depends on what you and Junior decide to do.”

Calvin paused until Brock nodded for him to continue. “He says that if you wanted to set up a construction business here, you’d have to have
someone else at the head.”

Brock didn’t understand. Then it hit him. As a bankrupt, he wouldn’t be allowed to own a company. He was grateful to Calvin for not spelling it

out.

“I thought—and again this is all totally up to you guys—I thought we could maybe set Junior up as the managing director. That way your

company,” Calvin started running his hand up and down Brock’s arm, “would remain in the Brockwell family.”

“He’d like that.” Brock smiled, unable to believe Calvin was willing to do all this for him—for him and Junior.
“Totally up to you of course,” Calvin was continuing, “but you might want to start thinking about names. ‘Brockwell & Son’ wouldn’t work, and

‘Brockwell & Father’ just sounds silly.”

Brock smiled again.
“What about Brocks ‘n’ Mortar?” Despite the gloom, Calvin’s eyes twinkled.
“Fuck off,” Brock fired back.
Calvin laughed. “Okay, maybe not. Anyway, that’s enough business talk for tonight.”
Brock couldn’t agree more. Before he could change his mind, he asked, “Fuck me?”
“You sure?” Calvin kept up the arm rubbing.
Brock nodded. He needed the physical reassurance of his man inside of him.
“Anything my cowboy wants,” Calvin kissed him, “my cowboy gets.”
Brock knew that, and it scared him more than a little.
Calvin began by kissing all over Brock’s face, neck, and torso. Before he and Calvin had become lovers, Brock had had no idea his body

had so many erogenous zones. But over the weeks Calvin had sought them all out and stimulated them frequently.

“Oh, God,” Brock moaned when Calvin latched onto his right nipple. “Shit!” they were making too much noise.
Calvin broke off. “”Want me to gag you?”

Was he serious?

Calvin got out of bed and went over to his underwear drawer. Surely the man didn’t have an actual gag?
Returning, Calvin held out a large bandana. “Ball it up and put it in your mouth. But,” Calvin kissed him, “This is just for fun.” He ran his fingers

down Brock’s cheeks. “If you get uncomfortable or scared or whatever, just pull it out. I’m not gonna tie it in or anything. This is all about making you
feel good, okay?”

Before putting the bandana in his mouth, Brock kissed Calvin. “Love you, darlin’.”
Brock’s dick was rock hard. He was getting off at the thought of the mildly kinky lovemaking that was to come.
He lay on his side, legs bent as Calvin loosened him up. As always, Calvin took his time. Gagged, Brock couldn’t tell him to just stick it in

and get on with it. Brock liked the slight pain of rough entry. But as always, Calvin was in charge. Deep down Brock was comforted by this.

“Ready to saddle up ‘n’ ride, cowboy?”
Brock groaned through the bandanna. Calvin’s phony western talk was silly, but it had become part of their sex play, and Brock wouldn’t

have it any other way.

When Calvin withdrew his fingers, Brock shuffled down to the foot of the bed, rolled onto his back and raised his legs. Always when they

made love Calvin wanted it face-to-face. It was a good thing Brock’s spine was so flexible.

“Comfortable?” Calvin asked after putting a couple of pillows under the small of Brock’s back.
Brock nodded. That was another aspect of their lovemaking. Calvin was always concerned for Brock’s wellbeing.
With the gag being in Brock’s mouth Calvin was forced to kiss his cheek, and Brock discovered he couldn’t kiss Calvin at all.
As Calvin rolled on the condom and applied more lube, he said, “Maybe next time we could get some ropes and I could tie you down. Like

that, would ya, cowboy?”

Brock moaned. His dick twitched and oozed out a pearl of pre-seminal fluid.
Slowly sinking his dick back where it belonged, Calvin whispered, “Bet you’d like to be hogtied. Ropes binding your strong arms and criss-

crossing your awesome chest,” Calvin leaned forward and ran his hands up Brock’s arms, “so you couldn’t move.”

Brock whimpered. He had never played with ropes before, hadn’t thought it was his thing. Now he wanted to try it.
“You’d like being totally helpless and at my mercy, wouldn’t you?”
Brock would. Oh, God, he would.
“Maybe I could use some of your belts to tie your hands and feet together. I’d like to see that.”
Brock would, too.
Calvin set up a slow rhythm, pushing in, holding for a mere second, then pulling out again. “I’d be able to do anything I wanted to you. Pinch

your nipples.” He leaned forward and squeezed Brock’s hard nubs.

Brock whimpered into his gag. He wanted Calvin to do it again, and began to squirm in frustration at not being able to communicate his

needs.

“And I’d be able to whup your fine cowboy ass.” Calvin delivered a stinging blow to each of Brock’s butt cheeks.
Brock yelled into the gag. He reached for his dick and began to jerk himself off. Calvin didn’t stop him. In fact, he encouraged Brock to

continue by describing a series of increasingly depraved scenes of Brock being bent to Calvin’s will.

It couldn’t last long. The lack of previous orgasms, plus Calvin’s dirty talk soon had Brock on the edge, then a single stroke later, combined

with another swat to his ass had Brock firing wad after scalding wad of semen high into the air, only for it to fall on Brock’s sweaty chest and the
disarranged sheets.

“Hang on, pardner, I’m a-comin’ with ya,” Calvin growled. His previously fluid strokes became jerky and soon stopped. Calvin fell atop Brock,

who let go his legs, which slid along Calvin’s sides until his heels rested on the mattress.

“Oh, God, Brock, I needed that.” Calvin bit at the part of the bandana that was outside Brock’s mouth and pulled back.
“Fuck!” Brock exclaimed, once the wad of cotton was removed and he’d run his tongue around his dry mouth.
“You okay, beautiful? I wasn’t too rough, too…”
Brock silenced him with a savage kiss. “I loved it. Every second of it.”
As they lay together side-by-side, trading gentle kisses, Brock knew he could never tell Calvin that he wanted him to do for real many of the

things he’d threatened to do in jest. Maybe, Brock mused—nuzzling Calvin’s neck—fantasy was better than reality.

* * * *

The next evening Brock and Calvin were snuggling on the couch. There was a baseball game on the TV, but neither man was watching it.
Calvin lay with his back against one of the arms, Brock between his legs, reclining against his chest.
For the past ten minutes or so, Calvin had been giving Brock a shoulder massage through his T-shirt. Pausing, Calvin said, “You reacted

better than I thought you would to what I said last night.”

This was the first time either of them had raised the subject of forming a construction company since the previous evening.
Brock looked down at the “Someone in New York Loves Me” T-shirt Calvin had bought for him that afternoon. To Brock’s surprise—as well

as Calvin’s—Brock had insisted on wearing it home. And no one had said anything or given him a second look.

“I’m still thinking about it. I haven’t come to any definite decision.”
“I know, beautiful.” Calvin kissed the top of Brock’s head. “The stylist did a great job with your hair.”
“Cost a lot though,” Brock mumbled. He could admit, however, his hair looked great.
“You’re worth it.” Calvin kissed the top of Brock’s head again, before resuming his massage. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, God,” Brock moaned, only half in jest.
“Hush.” Calvin slowed his massaging. “A few years ago Tim and I set up a scheme where we provide either partial or full-ride college

scholarships to students who show an aptitude for the PR and advertising business. In exchange, the student agrees to work for us during summer
breaks and for a set number of years after graduation.”

Brock thought he knew where this was going.
“Stop tensing up!” Calvin lightly slapped Brock’s right shoulder.
Brock grunted and tried to relax.
“I know Junior hasn’t even started high school yet, but had you given any thought to him going to college after graduation?”
Brock’s daddy hadn’t had the money for higher education—nor did he believe in it—but fortunately Brock had gotten into the minor leagues,

so at the time it hadn’t mattered. But Junior would never be good enough to play sports professionally, and Brock knew well enough to get ahead
you needed a college degree.

“I know,” Calvin continued when Brock didn’t answer, “Junior is your responsibility. But do you want him to go to college?”
“Of course, but I’ll never be able to afford it.”
“It’s possible Junior could get an academic scholarship, he’s certainly bright enough.”
Brock appreciated how Calvin recognized Junior’s intelligence. Somehow it meant more coming from a guy who was both intelligent and

successful himself.

“Being sponsored by us just gives him another option.” Calvin smoothed his palms down Brock’s upper arms. “That’s all I’m trying to do

here, give you options.”

Brock lifted himself from Calvin’s chest, turned around, and kissed him. “I know, darlin’.”
“And like I said, it’ll be years before you and Junior have to think about college. I just mentioned it now because,” Calvin shrugged, “because

you’ll have time to think about it.”

“Thanks.” Amazingly, Brock didn’t feel overly pressured or railroaded by Calvin’s words. Was he getting used to the man’s not so subtle

attempts to persuade them to move to New York?

Wow,

Brock thought, when Calvin resumed his massage,

my son, the college man.

He’d be the first Brockwell in the family who had a

degree. He’d have to discuss it with Junior of course, but…

Calvin found a sore spot and, “Oh, yeah, you got it, darlin.”

* * * *

A few mornings later—Calvin’s ideas about opening a construction business in the Big Apple still fresh in his mind—Brock decided to check

out a hardware-junk store he’d seen on one of the many tourist treks he, Junior and Calvin had gone on.

“Why’re we going in here?” Junior asked.
“Thought it might be interesting.”
Junior gave him a

you’re crazy

look, but followed anyway.

Inside, Brock soon got lost in the old-fashioned fixtures, fittings, doorbells, doorknobs and claw-foot tubs. The place had everything.
The manager approached. “Can I help you two gentlemen?”
“Just looking,” Brock said, stroking a brass doorknob. “You’ve got some real interesting things in here.”
The man—mid-fifties, rotund and graying beard—smiled. “”Most of this is from old buildings that are being modernized.”
Brock shook his head. “They don’t make stuff like this any more.”
“Nope,” the man agreed. “Everything is plastic or cheaply mass manufactured these days.” The man picked up a matching fingerplate and

door handle in ivory and brass. “Things like these were built to last.”

Brock nodded, accepting the items the man held. They had weight and solidity to them.
“Not seen you before. Are you new in town?”
“Yes, sir. Daddy and his partner are going to open a new construction business flipping apartment blocks,” Junior, who had been quiet up to

this point, put in.

Brock shot his son a look. No such decisions had been made.
“That’s great. There’s so much potential for people like you here. So many buildings are left empty, crying out for someone to bring them

back to their former glory.” The man sighed. “Maybe we can be of assistance when you start up. You seem like the kind of man who appreciates
quality.” The man reached into a pocket of his shop coat and pulled out a business card. Brock took it.

Was the contact held a second too long? Was the guy coming onto him? Brock was so unused to such things.
“Thank you. I’ll mention it to Calvin, I’m sure he’ll be happy to discuss it with you.” Why did Brock confirm that he was indeed opening a

business?

The man nodded. “Maybe you and Calvin would like to have dinner with my husband Bob and me sometime.”
Brock relaxed. The man hadn’t been coming onto him. Unless he was into group sex or something. Brock winced at his inappropriate

thoughts. He needed laying. With Junior under the same roof, Brock had been uneasy about making love with Calvin. But if they were to all live
together—a scenario Brock was becoming more and more comfortable with—he realized he’d have to alter his stance, or become a monk.

* * * *

Brock wondered why Calvin had asked Tim and Felicity to mind Junior. All Calvin had said was he and Brock deserved an evening alone.

Junior certainly hadn’t minded, he and Maggie got on like a house on fire. Maggie had gushed all over Junior when she’d seen him in his new
Stetson. Was Maggie another Calvin? No, looking over at his man as they entered a comedy club, there was only one Calvin.

“What?” Calvin asked.
Brock hadn’t realized he’d been staring. The old Brock would have denied he’d been doing anything, but over the past few days a new—

more liberated—Brock had been emerging. “Cain’t believe how amazin’ you are, and how lucky I am to have you.”

Calvin shook his head. “As you’re so fond of saying, ‘You’re

loco

.’” But Brock could see he was pleased.

The evening was enjoyable, though Brock had to admit not all the stand-up comedians were funny. Some were gay, and told quite daring

gay jokes, other comedians were straight and talked about their wives, girlfriends or boyfriends, the usual comedy fodder.

As he’d come to expect in New York, the audience was a real mixed bag. Mostly straight couples, but there were a fair number of same sex

pairings, too. Some old, some in their twenties.

The woman who was currently on stage had such a thick New York accent Brock didn’t catch everything she said. Calvin—who was sitting

next to him—didn’t laugh as much as he had during previous routines.

“You’ve been a fabulous audience, thank you.” The woman bowed and was met by polite—if muted—applause.
The MC came back on stage. “Thank you, ladies and gentleman.” He waited a few seconds for the crowd to settle. “And now, please give a

warm welcome to the man you’ve all been waiting for. Fresh from his nationwide tour—” A scruffily dressed man, about six feet tall with receding
dark brown hair, and whom Brock estimated to be in his mid-forties, walked on stage and began shouting, “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, can I
have your attention!”

The audience burst into applause.
Brock tensed, thinking the guy was a heckler or something, but when the MC smiled and left the stage, he realized it must be part of the act.
Despite the baggy clothing, Brock could tell the guy was handsome: high cheekbones, dark brown thick eyebrows, chiselled…Brock

received a dig in the ribs.

“What?” He turned to Calvin.
“Stop drooling.”
Brock grinned and, surprising himself, put an arm around Calvin’s back and pulled him closer. Calvin laid his head on Brock’s shoulder.

“You’re the only man I drool over, darlin’.” He whispered into Calvin’s hair.

Brock turned his concentration back to the guy on stage. “My therapist said I should talk about it.”
This brought a few giggles from the audience.
“Growing up in California I had two influences in my life. Serial killers and the Walt Disney Corporation.”
More laughter.
“Unfortunately Ted Bundy couldn’t be with us tonight, but…” The guy opened the canvas bag he’d brought on stage with him. “Winnie could.”

He brought out a large Pooh bear and gave it a hug.

The audience ahhed.
Looking at the bear, the comedian said, “Now, Winnie, where did the nasty man touch you?”
The audience laughed.
“I tell you, it’s hard—”
A man just behind Brock barked out a laugh.
“We all know where your mind is at, honey,” the comedian fired back, causing more general laughter.
“As I was saying. It’s hard growing up in a family with nine other brothers and sisters. You soon realize if you don’t grab the food as soon as

it’s in front of you, you go hungry. I’ve been thrown out of more buffet restaurants for not staying in line and waiting for my turn at the egg rolls.”

The audience tittered.
“And coming from a large family, I had to suffer the problem of hand-me down clothes. That would have been okay, but I had two older

sisters.”

The man paused until the laughter ebbed.
“Why it came as a shock to my mom when I came out, I don’t know. ‘Oh, son, why didn’t you tell me when it happened?’” He said the latter in

a falsetto voice.

The audience laughed.
“‘Mom, I’m gay. I didn’t get hit by a truck.’”
People clapped.
“‘Didn’t the collection of original Broadway cast albums clue you in?’ I asked. ‘No, I just thought you liked singing.’”
More laughter.
“‘But all those posters on your walls. They’re of female film stars.’ She reminded me. ‘Mom, don’t you get it? Those posters are of Marilyn

Monroe, Barbra Streisand, Liza Minnelli, and Judy Garland.’”

This was met by cheers.
“Honestly, my mom is clueless. Once I ordered a vibrating dildo.”
There were hoots from the audience.
“What can I say, I wore my boyfriend out…yeah, okay, he got a puncture, and I didn’t have a repair kit.”
More laughter.
“So I left the dildo in the top drawer of my dresser while I went to the drug store for lube. And, yes, you guessed it. When I returned, lube in an

appropriately nondescript paper bag, my mom gave me the look. And I immediately knew I was in trouble. She’d been in my room putting away
clean laundry. ‘Son, why have you got one of these?’ She held the vibrator between finger and thumb.” The guy demonstrated. “I thought about
telling her it was a new design of ultrasonic toothbrush, but she’s not that clueless.”

There were giggles from the crowd.
“So I came clean and told her it was a sex toy. ‘But, honey, you’re a man. Where would you put it?’ Maybe she

would have

swallowed the line

about it being a toothbrush. I just pointed,” he followed his words with actions, “the dildo at my ass and turned it on. Unfortunately,” the man stifled a
laugh, “the dog saw what I was doing…he hadn’t had his dinner yet, and by the time I’d chased Fido to the bottom of the yard and pried the dildo
from his jaws…”

Brock had to admit—through his laughter—the man’s timing was spot on. And how cool was it that the whole audience—not just the gay

ones—could laugh about gay issues? Nothing like this would happen in Parish Creek.

* * * *

Brock looked at his wristwatch, and saw it wasn’t quite nine. Tim and Felicity had promised to mind Junior until ten. “We’ve got an hour.”
“I know, and I plan to make full use of it.” Calvin smiled up at Brock.
Brock doubted they’d have time to go back home and mess around before they had to go pick up Junior.
“Let’s do something touristy, clichéd, and romantic.”
Brock raised an eyebrow.

* * * *

Brock had heard about carriage rides in Central Park. But the reality was much better than anything he could have imagined: the twilight, the

regular clop-clop of the horse’s hooves, the slight rocking of the carriage, and his lover sitting next to him all added to Brock’s deep sense of
contentment. He didn’t even flinch when Calvin took his hand. It was dark, and the carriage driver had his back to them.

“This is wonderful, thank you,” Brock whispered.
Calvin squeezed Brock’s hand as the carriage drove into a grove of trees.
“You okay?” Brock kissed the top of Calvin’s head.
Calvin sighed. “This is the first time I’ve ever taken a carriage ride in Central Park.
“Huh?”
They emerged from under the trees.
“Ever since moving to New York I promised myself I’d do this when,” Calvin paused, and Brock felt him tremble. “When I had someone to do

it with.”

Brock put his left arm around the man’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Calvin had told Brock about his few previous lovers, though none of

them seemed to have lasted, one or two using Calvin before either dumping him or running out on him.

Brock wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask, maybe the fact Calvin had done so much for him—and Junior—but he wondered if there were

any other things Calvin could have done in the city but hadn’t because he hadn’t had a suitable man with him.

“Well, I wondered what it would be like to kiss someone at the top of the Empire State building.”
“Why didn’t you say anything when we were there the other day?”
Calvin hid his face in Brock’s shoulder. “Because it’s silly.”
The fuck it wasn’t silly. “Tomorrow,” Brock said, struggling to keep a lid on his emotions, “we’re going back to the Empire State Building and

getting that elevator right to the top, and I’ll kiss you till…till you tell me to stop.”

Brock had a momentary twinge of panic that he’d be showing affection for another man in public, but he’d just have to cope. His Calvin

deserved the world, and if he wanted kissing on top of a skyscraper, then he’d get kissed!

“I love you, John Brockwell, so fucking much,” Calvin whispered.
Filled with emotion, Brock croaked, “Oh, darlin’.” Pushing up the brim of his Stetson, Brock tilted his head and kissed Calvin on the lips. “I

love you, too.”

Brock didn’t care that the driver could hear them. Hell, the man was probably used to all manner of folks in the back of his carriage saying all

sorts of things.

Brock and Calvin fell silent. The horse’s hooves continued their steady clip-clop. Brock closed his eyes. Calvin snuggled into Brock’s side,

Brock rubbed Calvin’s left arm. This moment felt so perfect.

Brock opened his eyes to watch Strawberry Fields and the Dakota Building pass by. If only he said ‘yes’ to Calvin’s as yet unasked

question, all this—and so much more—could be his.

* * * *

Before they set out from Calvin’s office one afternoon, Calvin asked Brock if he would object to them going to have a look at a vacant

brownstone in Brooklyn. “Just to have a look,” Calvin repeated. “To see if you get a feel for the place.”

Brock’s initial response was to say ‘no,’ but Calvin had asked him in advance, hadn’t sprung it on him, wasn’t putting him under pressure.

The idea of setting up a business here had been percolating in his mind. Maybe…just maybe.

He shrugged. “Guess it couldn’t do any harm to look. Please tell me you haven’t already bought this place and you’re showing it to me as a

done…” the rest of Brock’s statement died in his throat at the hurt look he saw on Calvin’s face before the man turned away. “Sorry, darlin’. That
was wrong o’ me.”

“I probably deserved it,” Calvin said quietly. “I did ask a Realtor friend of mine to be on the look out for likely properties, but no,” he looked

straight into Brock’s eyes, “I haven’t made any deals or anything. Now you’ve said you’ll agree to take a look, I’ll call my friend, and we’ll arrange a
viewing.”

Wow

,” Brock thought,

Calvin hadn’t even made an appointment to go see the place before I’d given my reaction.

The brownstone, when they pulled up out front in a cab, looked good structurally. The place had three floors. Brock wondered how far back

the building went.

Inside, the basics were sound, but the building had suffered decades of neglect. The baseboards and the architrave around the doorframes

were coated with many layers of paint; the detail Brock knew was underneath was barely visible.

The worst crime in Brock’s opinion had been perpetrated to the staircase. Hardboard had been nailed to the banister rails. Brock bet dollars

to doughnuts behind the hardboard would be the original posts. One piece of board partway up the first stairway was loose. Brock took out his
pocketknife and pried at the opening, but couldn’t see anything as the light was poor and the opening wasn’t big enough for his hand. Fortunately
the Realtor had a small flashlight, which he gave to Brock.

“Wow!” The banister rail was held up by round turned rods.
“What?” Calvin asked. Brock moved aside to show him. “So?”
Brock explained he’d thought there’d be plain two-by-two square posts, but turned rods—which had a fair amount of detail on them—were

something a bit special.

Calvin smiled and gave Brock’s shoulder a squeeze.
Looking down the length of the banister, Brock could see some idiot had taken a saw to the newel post at the end and removed what he bet

would have been a magnificent piece of woodworking.

Then something shot past him on the banister rail.
“Junior!”
Thank God Calvin was back down at the bottom to catch the young fool. Despite the lack of a finial, the newel post stuck up a few inches,

easily enough to…Brock winced at the possible damage that could have been done to the continuation of the Brockwell family name.

“Uh, you probably shouldn’t have done that,” Calvin said quietly to Junior as Brock came down the stairs.
Looking up at Brock, and no doubt seeing the fury in his eyes, Calvin put a hand on Junior’s back and pulled the boy toward him.
“Why did you do that?” Brock asked, holding onto his temper, just.
“Sorry,” Junior said. “I just saw it and…I couldn’t resist,” he said meekly.
His anger dissipating—he could never stay mad at his son for long—Brock patted Junior on the shoulder. “It’s just we don’t know how sturdy

this thing is.” Brock banged the newel post. It remained rock solid.

“Would you care to take a look around this floor before going upstairs?” the Realtor asked.
Brock welcomed the change of subject and agreed.
As he showed them around, the Realtor explained there was one apartment on each floor.
“I remember the central stairway at school,” Calvin said in a low voice when Junior and the Realtor had moved into another room, “and a

certain someone who got detention for sliding down it.”

“That was different.” Brock said.
“How so? Was it because you’d been dared to do it by your jock buddies, and you couldn’t back out and lose face in front of them?”
Brock winced at how Calvin had hit the nail on the head.
“Sorry, beautiful,” Calvin touched Brock’s arm. “I probably shouldn’t have brought it up. Just wanted to show you how Junior is a chip off the

old Brock, uh, block.”

Brock laughed, pleased they’d moved past their minor disagreement. “Yep, he sure is.”
They caught up with Junior and the Realtor, Brock becoming more and more impressed at the high ceilings and the generous size of each of

the rooms. He hadn’t expected such in a building in the middle of a city. He saw frequent examples of modernization that just didn’t fit with a
building of the period. The biggest need for improvement was in the three bathrooms. Either the fittings were old and badly maintained, or modern
and out of place. The cork flooring in the third floor bathroom was a complete travesty. Brock had another hunch and got out his pocketknife again.
Lifting the corner of one of the cork tiles he found what he’d hoped would be there. Small black and white hexagonal ceramic tiles. He’d have to rip
up all the cork to check if the original flooring was intact, but he was fairly confident it would be.

“So…what do you think?” Calvin asked.
“Hmm,” Brock said. He had to admit Calvin had been patient. They’d visited every room in the place and his man had managed to hold his

tongue. Brock guessed he shouldn’t keep Calvin waiting any longer. “It has possibilities. I think the building would be at its best if we combined an
old-fashioned look with modern functionality.”

“Oh?”
“A heated towel rail in here for example.” Brock walked to the wall and stretched out his hands. “It would provide both heat to the room, which

faces north, and would also warm towels of course.” Brock walked around some more. “Yes, that would work,” Brock thought out loud. “The building
is heated with steam, which is typical for here.”

“Yes.”
“There’s plenty of space in here.” Brock did a three-sixty turn in the bathroom. The wall tiles would probably have to be replaced: too many

were cracked or discolored.

“That’s true,” Calvin put in, but Brock was too deep in his visions of what the bathroom would look like when he’d finished with it to pay him

much attention.

“There should be a cast iron claw-foot tub, and, yes, with antique polished brass fittings.” He looked over at the toilet. Would one with an

elevated water tank and a pull chain be in keeping? Brock didn’t know. He’d have to give that more thought. The existing sink would have to come
out. Something with a pedestal…yes, that would work. A large sink with a shelf behind and around it. Matching brass fittings of course. Brock
nodded. Yes, he could picture it. A mixture of concealed wall-lighting, plus a central ceiling light—he looked up—would really set the room off nicely.

Brock caught his reflection in a mirror. He was smiling and nodding. Had he found his niche?
They took another quick look around, thanked the Realtor and set off for the subway. Calvin had offered to call for a cab, but Brock knew they

were expensive, and they’d all bought subway cards a few days before which were due to expire shortly. Brock wanted them to get their money’s
worth.

“Should we put in an offer?” Calvin asked when they had seated themselves on the subway train.
Brock found it interesting how Calvin was deferring to him.
Seemingly reading his mind, Calvin said, “You’re the expert here.”
Brock shrugged. He had really liked the place, but… “Depends on how much they’re asking.” He had no idea about the cost of property in

New York.

“It’s quite reasonable, and I think I can beat them down a little more.”
Even with Junior present, Brock had to ask. “Surely you can’t afford to buy such a place outright?”
Calvin laughed. “Heck no, but the bank can. We could get a loan, fix the place up, sell it, and make a profit and pay off the bank. Then look

for another place, and repeat the process.”

Was it really that simple? Brock doubted it. “It’s too big a job for just me.”
Calvin smiled. “I know you’re good,” in a lower voice, which Brock just managed to hear over the noise of the subway car, he added, “very

good indeed.” Calvin licked his lips, making Brock squirm. “But I know you’re not Superman.”

Brock looked around. No one was paying them any attention. Junior—who sat on the next seat—was reading a book.
“Obviously Building Brocks would have to contract out much of the work, and—”
“We are not calling it ‘Building Brock’s,’” Brock said.
Junior snickered.
“’Brock’s Bricks?’”
“No!”
“‘Cowboy Construction?’”
Brock shook his head and crossed his arms. He knew he was wearing a shit-eating grin. He loved it when his man was being goofy. If we

set up a company we’ll call it “‘Brockwell Construction’ or something like that.”

“’Stucco On Cowboys?’” Calvin persisted. “We could have the tag line, ‘We’ll fix ya’ll up.’”
Junior laughed.
Brock rolled his eyes and repeated, “’Brockwell Construction.’”
“Well, whatever we call it, the company would contract out certain tasks for the length of the job, and”—Calvin’s voice lowered again—“it’ll be

overseen by the most beautiful man in…uh…”

“The solar system?” Brock offered at normal volume, causing Junior to look up from his book.
“Had we got up to that?”
“No, but it’s the next step.” Brock couldn’t believe he was indulging Calvin with this silly conversation, especially in front of Junior.
“That’s true. Well, this guy will be in charge. And as he can speak Spanish, he’ll be able to hire from the Latino community.”
“I wonder if Pedro would move up here? He’s very good.” Brock teased, knowing Calvin thought the roofer had had designs on Brock, and

had been jealous. Brock wondered what Calvin would say, given Junior’s presence.

“No chance, buster.” Calvin crossed his arms.
Brock noticed Junior had given up all pretence of reading.
“I’m sure he’s good at many things,” Calvin continued, “but he can stay being good at them in Texas. You understand?” He glared at Brock.
“Yes, darlin’.” Brock smiled. He sure loved pushing Calvin’s buttons. Still feeling playful, Brock leaned in and whispered, “Pedro is good, but

you’re even better. You’re the only man this ole cowboy wants.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet,” Junior said, causing Calvin to laugh and Brock to blush.
“You know,” Calvin continued, “with your good looks you could have your own TV show. We could call it ‘Brock’s—”
“No we couldn’t,” Brock interrupted, but his grin was back. Calvin sure was on a roll this afternoon.

* * * *

“Andrew, it’s great to see you again.”
“You, too. It’s been too long.”
The first thing that struck Brock was the man’s English accent. Brock began to wonder if Calvin had made a mistake by bringing them here.

Everybody knew the English couldn’t cook worth a damn.

Because Junior was out at a party with Maggie and her friends, Calvin and Brock found themselves with a free evening. Brock was given the

choice of spending the time in bed, or going out to the hole-in-the-wall place Calvin had mentioned a week or so earlier. It hadn’t been an easy
choice, but eventually Brock’s stomach had won out over his dick. However, Brock was hoping the meal wouldn’t take all evening, so they could go
back home and…

“Yeah, sorry,” Calvin was telling the English guy, “I had to go back to Texas to fix up the parents’ place and try to sell it.”
“How’d that go?”
“It’s on the market. But there’re no takers yet.”
“It’s not easy to shift property at the moment,” Andrew observed.
“Nope.” In an obvious attempt to change the subject, Calvin asked, “How’s Matthew?”
Brock saw that Andrew’s face—which no one could describe as handsome—softened at this other man’s name. “Amazing as always.”
“Oh, you two.” Calvin smiled warmly. “Like I said on the phone, I brought someone with me. He’s missing the tastes of home.”
“We can’t have that,” Andrew said, seeming to acknowledge Brock for the first time. ”Let me show you to your table.”

The place was surprisingly small; there were only six tables. The oak-paneled walls had various prints on them. Longhorns, the hill country.

The picture above their table was of the Enchanted Rock.

“I’ll be back in a mo with your starters,” Andrew said.
Brock sat and placed his Stetson upside down on the chair next to him. Watching the waiter leave, his unease grew. What was this place?

And they hadn’t even given the guy their order, and he was already talking about bringing out their food.

Calvin lit the candle on their table. Brock wondered why the waiter hadn’t done it.
“Relax,” Calvin said, taking Brock’s hand on the table top.
Instinctively Brock pulled away, shooting a quick glance around the room at the other diners. Three of the other five tables were occupied,

each by men.

“This is New York, beautiful. It’s okay,” Calvin soothed.
It felt so alien to be able to hold hands in public, but Brock was beginning to realize that in some parts of this city he could, indeed, be as

God had intended him. It was liberating, but still frightening.

Slowly he inched his hand back to the middle of the table. Calvin interlaced his fingers through Brock’s, and gave him a little squeeze.
Brock felt his face heat in embarrassment. He took another quick look around, but no one seemed to have noticed. In fact, the couple at the

next but one table was also holding hands. Brock stared at them.

“Stop gawking,” Calvin murmured.
“Sorry, it’s just—”
“Here we go,” Andrew interrupted. “Matthew said he’d be out later to see you. He’s just a bit busy at the minute.”
Brock made to pull his hand back, but Calvin held on. Andrew didn’t seem to even notice. He placed two plates of black-eyed peas, red

onion, and salsa on the placemats in front of them.

“Enjoy,” Andrew told them.
“Thank you.” Looking at the food, Brock began to believe he probably would enjoy. The steam rising from the plates caused his mouth to

water.

Calvin let go of Brock’s hand and picked up his fork. Brock immediately missed the contact.
“Did you bring any drinks?” Andrew asked.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” Calvin said, dabbing at a smear of vinegar on his chin. “A six-pack of beer.”
“I’ll fetch you some glasses, then,” Andrew said, before walking away.
There was something not right about that guy, Brock thought, but the sight of the food distracted him from pursuing it.
He tucked the large cloth napkin into his collar. Salsa would be a bitch to get out of his silk shirt if he spilled anything on it.
“Oh, my, God!” Brock moaned through a mouthful of food. The taste was rich, full, sweet, salty…he didn’t know. This was the best darn Texas

caviar he’d ever tasted.

“Glad I brought you here now?” Calvin asked after also tucking in his napkin.
Brock was so moved by the culinary spectacular, he reached out and took Calvin’s hand. The gesture wasn’t lost on his boyfriend.
Even when Andrew returned with their glasses, Brock didn’t make a move to separate. Andrew didn’t bat an eyelid as he wished them ‘Bon

appetite,’ and withdrew.

The excellent food, and Brock’s need to ingest more of it than he could comfortably do with one hand, finally persuaded him to let go of

Calvin, who smiled warmly at him, causing butterflies to briefly take flight in his insides. The man sitting opposite was everything Brock could have
ever wished for: kind, generous, and sexy as sin.

They ate in almost total silence, each too intent on their food to talk. Brock then noticed there was music playing softly in the background;

George Straight was singing one of his honky-tonk numbers.

“Want a drink?” Brock asked.
Calvin nodded, his mouth full.
Brock lifted the six-pack from the floor, pulled out a couple of bottles, screwed off the caps, and poured the contents into the glasses.
“Cheers,” Brock said as they clinked glasses.
“To us.”
Brock nodded. For the past couple of weeks Calvin hadn’t exactly been subtle in his attempts to persuade Brock and Junior to move to New

York. But never had he actually come out and asked them to stay.

Brock had to admit the Big Apple had a lot to offer. Calvin had the connections, he’d already shown him that. Brock, as Calvin had said

many times, had the construction skills. Together they could make a real go of flipping apartment blocks, providing decent homes for folks.

“Earth to Brock, are you receiving me?” Calvin asked.
“It’s a big step.”
Calvin nodded, knowing what Brock was talking about.
What was holding Brock back from not agreeing there and then to move? Lord knew there was nothing for him or Junior back in Texas.

However, Brock still wasn’t comfortable about Calvin paying for everything: the setting up of a construction company, sponsoring Junior through
college, buying them both clothes, the list seemed endless. But, Brock reasoned, if he could make the construction business a success, he’d be
able to pay Calvin back.

“Ready for the main course?” Andrew’s voice brought Brock back to the present.
“Uh, sure. Say, they were mighty fine beans. Please pass on my compliments to Matthew, did you say?”
Andrew’s face lit up again. Brock wondered if he showed a similar reaction whenever anyone mentioned Calvin to him.
Andrew made to take the plates. Calvin moved quickly to pick up their half-full glasses. Brock shot Calvin a confused look. Calvin mouthed,

“In a minute.”

“You’re in luck tonight,” Andrew said. “It’s Matthew’s famous smoked brisket and ribs.”
“Oh, man. I swear, his smoker is like a magic portal or something,” Calvin said.
Andrew laughed.
“You still have that rolling reservation for the fire department?”
“Yes, every Friday night at eight.”
Brock’s confusion must have shown on his face.
“The fire department was going to ticket them for having a smoker on the roof, this being a city and all,” Calvin began.
“But Matthew invited the bloke to come back that evening and try his smoked pork, on the house. He did, even brought a friend with him, and

after one taste the bloke asked us for the ticket and ripped it up in front of us. He said that we’d never get another ticket so long as we kept a table
free for them every Friday. They insisted on paying the bill when they left, and gave me a big tip, too.”

“Amazing,” Brock said. He didn’t think such cozy arrangements would go on in the big city.
“We had to turn a few patrons away this evening when word got out that Matthew had run the smoker yesterday. You were lucky we managed

to fit you in.”

“Thanks. From both of us,” Calvin said.
Andrew departed, and—after remembering their earlier unspoken conversation about moving the glasses—Brock raised an eyebrow.

Calvin must have remembered, too.

“Andrew is blind.”
“Huh?”
“The two of them decided to open up this hole-in-the-wall, Matthew doing the cooking, and Andrew waiting tables. It gives Matthew a reason

to cook, he’s originally from a large family, and it also gives Andrew a job, one he’d never be able to have in any other establishment. By day
Matthew is a licensed massage therapist, and Andrew is a book editor.”

“Really?”
“They’re just a small operation. There’s no menu, you get whatever Matthew has cooked that day. They don’t advertise, there’s no need, it’s

all by word-of-mouth. Everyone who eats here knows the score. We make sure no accidents occur like what almost happened just now. Andrew’s a
smart cookie. He will have known I moved the glasses, but it’s understood I won’t say anything, and neither will he.”

“Wow.”
The smoked brisket was every bit as amazing as Calvin had said it would be. Sure enough, the all-important pink ring was there. The thinly

sliced beef just melted in Brock’s mouth. The ribs were dark and smoky and rich and…the mashed potatoes were like fluffy white clouds. The
collard greens were perfect, too. Brock had a hard time deciding which he liked the most. Ultimately he gave up—it was all good.

“I can’t eat another thing.” Brock pushed away his still partially filled plate and loosened his belt.
“Andrew will pack up the rest of our food, and we can take it home. No one ever leaves here without leftovers. It’s a tradition.”
“More brisket and ribs tomorrow. I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Brock belched softly.
“And there’s still dessert,” Calvin said.
Brock groaned. “I can’t.”
“And another tradition is that no one ever leaves here without having eaten dessert,” someone said. The speaker came closer. “Tonight it’s

pecan, chocolate, and bourbon pie.”

Brock assumed this was Matthew, a fairly easy guess given that the guy was dressed in kitchen whites, blue and white checked pants and a

floppy chef’s hat.

“There’s also some peach cobbler from yesterday, isn’t there?” Andrew approached and turned to Matthew, who kissed him on the cheek.
“Sure is, hon.”
Andrew settled against Matthew, laying his head on the broad shoulder of his partner. Even for someone unused to seeing two men being

affectionate with each other, Brock could tell the two were very much in love. The look of serene happiness on Andrew’s face as Matthew gave him
a one-armed hug almost brought Brock to tears with the absolute rightness of the gesture.

Brock just had to get up and shake Matthew’s hand. “Thank you. This was a revelation. It was, amazing, awesome, as good as, hell, better

than…” He realized he still had hold of Matthew’s hand, so dropped it, blushing in embarrassment.

Matthew laughed. “Come here.” Brock was enfolded in a bear hug. “Thank you. I like when folks say they’ve enjoyed eating my food.” Letting

him go, Matthew looked Brock up and down. “My, Calvin,” he said to the still-seated Calvin, “you got a tall drink of water here.”

Brock’s blush increased. He wasn’t used to getting compliments, not from other men, at least.
“Hands off, I found him first,” Calvin said.
“No worries. I got all the man I could ever want right here.” He reached for and gave Andrew a squeeze.
“You daft bugger,” Andrew laughed.
“I’ll get your dessert in a minute.” Matthew didn’t wait for a reply before moving on to the next table, exchanging a few words with its

occupants.

Brock sat down and looked over at a happily smiling Calvin, the candlelight glinting in his green eyes. They held hands until their dessert

arrived. One enormous plate with pie and cobbler, as well as a healthy serving of iced cream. There were two spoons.

“It’s what we do for every new couple who dines with us,” Andrew told them.
Brock, now so comfortable in this special place—where men could openly show their affections to other men—had no hesitation in picking

up a spoon, loading it with pie and lifting it to Calvin’s lips.

Calvin looked momentarily surprised, but recovered in time to accept the food.
He reciprocated and fed Brock some cobbler. Again the food was excellent; the ice cream tasted homemade.
After finishing, Brock continued to sit there, just enjoying the feeling of holding Calvin’s hand in public. Without really being aware he’d done

so, Brock realized he’d made his decision.

“If you’ve got room in your apartment and your life for a bankrupt cowboy and his son, then…” he swallowed. “Then I’d like to move in

permanently.”

“Hoo yeah!” Calvin yelled.
Everyone in the small restaurant looked over at them. Brock started to panic, but then realized he was with Calvin, the man he loved, and this

was New York. “It’s okay, y’all,” Brock said to the room. “I just asked this amazin’ man if he’d share his home and his life with me an’ my son.” Brock
raised Calvin’s hand to his lips. “An’, as you heard, he said yes.”

The room erupted into applause, everyone came up to them, one-by-one, to offer their congratulations.
Brock felt warm and welcomed by the city, by the occupants of the restaurant, but most of all by Calvin, who smiled from the other side of the

table at him.

THE END

ABOUT DREW HUNT

Having read all the decent free fiction on the net Drew could find, he set out to try his hand at writing something himself. Fed up reading

about characters who were super-wealthy, impossibly handsome, and incredibly well-endowed, Drew determined to make his characters real and
believable.

Drew lives a quiet life in the north of England with his cat. Someday he hopes to meet the kind of man he writes about.

ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including gay erotic

romance, fantasy, young adult, poetry, and nonfiction. We are an invitation-only small press. Short stories and novellas are available as e-books
and compiled into single-author print anthologies, while any story over 30k in length is available in both print and e-book formats. Visit us at

jms-

books.com

for more information on our latest releases!