Chapter 2
Back at the bar, Josh Turner was replaced by the younger but similarly sounding Scotty McCreery. His blue and red shirted hunks were still at the bar where they’d taken neighboring stools. Barry’s hopes rose when he saw that Blue’s right and Red’s left booted feet were touching.
Barry shook his head and allowed his mind to drift back to earlier and the shattering reality of the tow truck driver. Far from being the stuff of jerk off stories, Slim was fat, short, smelly, and the wrong side of sixty. Most things Barry could forgive—he used to carry a few extra pounds himself—but Slim tested those limits, as well as the seams of his filthy overalls. Barry had no problem with older men. Heck, he’d had an amazing roll in the hay with a mature horse trainer when he’d passed through Michigan a couple of months earlier. Despite his age, the hunk had had a trim waist and a ripped chest and had given Barry quite the ride. But Slim, with his tobacco-stained teeth and his unerring accuracy of being able to time his farts with the hitting of every pothole, had done nothing to turn Barry’s crank.
Even if the guy had worn a Stetson Barry couldn’t have fancied him, and Barry liked cowboys…a lot. He’d grown up watching western movies with his grandfather. Secretly he’d always wanted the lead cowboy to ditch the girl at the end and ride off into the wild blue yonder with his partner—Barry imagining himself as said partner. It was those Sunday afternoon westerns that had been one of the reasons why he’d applied for and managed to get a scholarship to an American university. He’d pictured himself studying during the week and riding the trails with his cowboy lover on weekends. Alas, he very soon discovered the streets of his Providence, Rhode Island college town were totally devoid of cowboys.
Barry’s classes had taken up much of his attention, and what free time he’d had left had been spent with Robert, a guy he’d met during the second semester of their freshman year. Their shared passion for video games had spilled over into the bedroom and Barry had put aside his cowboy fantasies.
On the jukebox, Scotty McCreary gave way to Johnny Cash, and Barry tried to rid his thoughts of Robert. The arsehole had made his choices, ones that hadn’t included Barry.
Lifting his bottle of Bud Light, Barry discovered it empty. He hailed a passing waitress.
“Not hungry, hon?” she asked, eyeing his plate.
“Uh, no, sorry. But it was lovely.” Barry dipped his head. Even though he’d lived in the States for seven years, he still couldn’t shake off his English quirks of never complaining about restaurant food no matter how terrible it was.
The waitress made some remark about how his English accent was cute, took away his plate, and asked if he wanted dessert.
“No, thank you. But I’ll take a second beer if it’s not too much trouble.”
She laughed. “Oh, you’re so polite. Wish the guys around here were more like you.”
Barry cursed himself for blushing.
The waitress moved to the bar and Barry looked around for the dual cowboy eye-candy. He soon found them at the pool table. Blue Shirt was chalking his cue stick and assessing the balls while Red Shirt did his best to distract Blue by pulling faces. Barry imagined there was banter between the two but the distance and the jukebox prevented him from hearing the details.
“Here you go, hon,” the waitress said, returning with his beer.
He smiled, nodded and took a long pull from the bottle.
After wiping his mouth with a napkin, Barry looked around at the other patrons. The place was filling up. It was Friday evening after all, and Barry guessed there was little other nightlife in such a small town.
Tapping his fingers to the beat, he remembered the rest of his drive to town. Slim had kept up a steady chatter, telling Barry all about his various ailments, his no-good kids, his cheating wife, his…Barry had then tuned the guy out, his only concern being how quickly his car could be repaired, allowing Barry to move on to the next big town. He’d quickly discovered on his journey across America that it was safest to hunt for cowboy cock in the larger towns.
The cherry on top of Barry’s craptastic day had come when Slim had told him the town’s only repair garage was closed because of a death in the family. It seemed Bill, the garage’s owner and sole mechanic, was out of town and wouldn’t be back until Wednesday.
Directing Barry to the town’s only guesthouse, Slim had recommended a couple of places to eat, which was how he’d ended up at the wonderful melting pot of fine culture and haute cuisine that was Rick’s Bar and Grill.