Calvin’s Cowboy (4 page)

“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.