Chapter Six
Sully
“I thought you said this was a diner?”
Sully nodded, following Dean’s gaze around the Wagon Wheel as if seeing it for the first time.
Nightly dinner specials written in chalk along the slate walls, roughhewn wooden booths beneath swinging wagon wheel lanterns, cute little menus in Wild West cursive printed on thick tan paper with burnt edges and fastened to little clipboards at each place setting, like individual treasure maps for each table. “It is. Don’t you like it?”
Dean wore an incredulous expression. “I love it. I mean, it’s like something we might have on Sable Street back at school.”
“Yeah? That’s a good thing?”
“Sure, they should open one up there, it’d do gang busters. All those trendy coeds looking for someplace new to sit around and talk about sorority hazing rituals together.”
Sully rolled his eyes and put down his menu. “Spoken like a true City Slicker.”
“What? Why?”
“This here is our little diner,” Sully explained, waving a hand at the bustling waitresses and standing room only crowd of locals milling around patiently in the front lobby.
“Let us have it and you can keep your gastro pubs and cafés and speakeasies and whatever the hell y’all are into up there at your fancy college. ”
“Speakeasies?” Dean chuckled.
Sully did, too. A quick, strong burst of unexpected, almost giddy laughter that was far stronger than any 40-proof rot gut he served back at Pappy’s Pub.
“You know what I mean,” he said as they both shared a soft, quiet moment, face to face in a quiet booth in the back, far from the prying eyes back in Pistol Creek.
“Sadly?” Dean agreed, gently inching back against the leather booth behind him. “I actually do.”
The waitress came over then, flashing them both a cheeky little smile as she set down a Mason jar filled with spiked sweet tea in front of each of them.
“Careful now,” she teased, flashing merry dimples in her barely legal cheeks, bedecked with too much blush.
“There’s a three drink maximum here at the Wagon Wheel so, pace yourselves. ”
Sully nodded quietly, basking in the anonymity the Wagon Wheel provided.
Back home, he would have known the server, her father, her mother, what number she wore on her basketball team jersey for the Pistol Creek Pistons and, probably, a whole lot more.
Here? He was as anonymous as the rest of the patrons, good old boys and girls driving in from neighboring counties to treat themselves to something a little fancier than the steak and potatoes blue plate specials back home.
“I’m Calamity,” she announced with a cute little curtsy thing, flipping the ironically picnic table checkered pleated skirt she wore to match her sleeveless denim blouse. “Care to put in an order while you sip your drinks?”
Sully did so, blurting out some cutesy names on the list of appetizers and getting appreciative nods from both Dean and Calamity. He hoped that was a good sign? “Good choices,” she said, noting them all on her little spiral notepad before drifting away in a twirl of denim skirt and cowboy boots.
“When was the last time you were here?” Dean asked, staring at his spiked tea as if preparing to summit Mount Everest.
Sully chuckled. “Are you asking if I date a lot?”
Dean blushed, quickly, readily, easily. “I mean, that would imply this was a date, so ... obviously not.”
Sully sighed, hoping Dean wouldn’t hear the quiet strains of disappointment he felt every time his “date” ignored the fact that he was trying to seduce the ever-loving shit out of the sexy little fucker. “Obviously.”
“So?” Dean pressed.
Sully winked and hoisted his glass. “Can we toast first?”
Dean nodded, clinking dutifully. “To what?”
Sully didn’t have to think twice. “To surprises, obviously.”
Dean’s blush made it clear Sully had made the right toast. “Indeed,” he said before sipping his drink. “Jesus!” Dean’s face made an involuntary cringe, like perhaps he’d sucked on a lemon while simultaneously stepping on an eight-pronged child’s toy.
In bare feet.
“Not a big drinker?” Sully asked, hoping the spiked tea might distract Dean from his more direct line of questioning, to say nothing of his loaded eye contact and the way his foot kept sliding closer under the table.
“Not really,” Dean said before setting his drink down with a scowl, as if perhaps it had just run over a fresh litter of kittens. “And before you remind me, yes, I know, I’d probably be a functioning alcoholic by now if I’d stayed in high school a little longer.”
Sully took another sip to quiet his nerves before setting the drink down. Dean glanced over expectantly. “So ... your last date? Here, I mean, your last time here?”
Sully felt a glimmer of hope at the slight slip of tongue. “Fine, Jesus. You’re not at school this week, you know? Spring break, remember?”
“And? Your point?”
“I’m not some term paper you have to turn in next Monday, that’s all.”
“This isn’t for school,” Dean insisted, risking another sip of the moonshine laced sweet tea before wincing predictably and setting it back down. This time, it looked, for good. “It’s for me.”
“What about you?” Sully flirted. Trying desperately to look like he wasn’t flirting. Failing miserably, probably. Despite his country boy swagger and big leather boots, he was terrible at this kind of thing.
“I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Curious about my ... dining habits? Here at the Wagon Wheel?”
“Sure. Yes. That.”
Sully couldn’t deny the sudden impulse to spill his guts. After all, he hadn’t been lying when he’d told Dean there weren’t that many (read, zero) understanding guys to talk to in Pistol Creek or, for that matter, all of damn Clay County.
“Last year,” he blurted before pausing to swig another bracing swallow of spiked sweet tea to steady his pinball bouncing nerves and drown the squadron of butterflies zooming in tight little formations deep down in his gut.
“Must have been toward the end of summer because I remember there were Fall specials on the drink menu.”
Dean nodded encouragingly, subtly pushing his drink to one side and reaching for his glass of water instead. So much for getting him just buzzed enough to lower his inhibitions, Sully thought ruefully.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Dean said encouragingly.
He needn’t have bothered. Sully found himself warming to the tale.
And, of course, the opportunity to see how receptive Dean was to it.
Or, at the very least, the hidden implications of it.
“Some brand spankin’ new beer salesman came into Pappy’s one random weekday,” he began, hand around his Mason jar but not taking a sip.
“The boys hadn’t come in yet, the lunch crowd was gone and it was just the two of us.
He sat himself down at the empty bar, pitching me on all these fancy drinks I’d never be able to sell in little old, boring Pistol Creek.
Still, he was kind of cute so I let him.
You know, boring day, no one around, I drifted into some dream state and let him prattle on about IPAs and craft beers, small batch bourbons and marshmallow and lavender flavored vodkas.
He was a little disappointed when, at the end of his pitch, I had to let him down easy. So to make up for it, I suggested...”
Sully paused, taking a sip after all. Dean smirked, as if not at all that shocked by the fact that Sully was letting him know, not too subtly at that, which team he played for. And, sadly, how rarely.
“Lemme guess. Dinner at the Wagon Wheel?” Dean asked, smirking.
Sully gave a little gunshot finger point with his free hand, savoring another sip of the stinging tea before he, too, slid the jug aside in favor of water.
“You got it, City Slicker,” he said, admiring the predictably flared nostrils and arched eyebrow of Dean’s response.
“He was staying nearby and I told him I’d meet him here at 6:00.
I was pretty eager,” Sully admitted. “It had been awhile, you know? So I got here early, saved us a booth for two, watched him walk in about half-an-hour early himself, all nervous like, dressed to the nines and...”
Sully’s smile wavered softly, glancing past Dean at the front door behind him, as if reliving that very moment. “He looked as nervous as I felt and, like a damn fool, I stood up when he approached the table.