Calvin’s Cowboy (20 page)

“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!”