Calvin’s Cowboy (5 page)

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.