5. Chapter Five
Joe
I stared out the window of the parlor Sylvester used as his study. The sun had already set, in this early November gloom. Leafless branches marked the changing season, usually my least favorite time of year. Mr. Ford didn’t like using seasonal hands, didn’t want to count on newcomers every spring. For years, he set it up so me and Carlos and Jordy and the rest worked six days a week all through spring, summer and fall, and then got four days a week off in winter when there wasn’t much to be done. He paid us the same year round, so that kept us all going.
Some of the guys had kids— Carlos had five. They liked getting the time off around Christmas. But most years, I was left at loose ends, November through January. Sometimes I’d take a long weekend in Boulder or somewhere, go to gay bars, pick up a man or two. Mostly I wandered around the ranch, fixing stuff, mending tack, painting the bunkhouse. Doing a lot of chores I also did when I was on the clock, because I needed to be busy.
I’d never had anywhere better to be.
This year was different. Having four days a week for Sylvester and the Circle K was a pleasure. Literally as well as in general.
I shivered as Sylvester came up behind me and slipped his arms around my waist, his chin on my shoulder. “What are you thinking about, staring out the window, cowboy?”
My cock perked up just at the sound of his voice. Joe Junior was turning into Pavlov’s dog around Sylvester. You’d think I’d be old enough to control wayward body parts, but apparently not. “I’m watching the guys,” I lied, waving off to the left.
The end of what had been the Circle K bunkhouse was visible, where a construction crew worked to get new windows in place before the cold was supposed to hit tomorrow. Sylvester had decided to turn the bunkhouse into a home for himself. The big house would be the guest space. He’d said early on, when we were lounging around in his master suite, and I asked if he planned to keep living there, “We always lived in the hotel. We had a section of the second floor that was for family, and I had the whole hotel to hang out in, including the pool and weight room. Living on premises meant Mom and Cassie were right there if they were needed.”
I’d asked him, “Did you like that?”
He’d wrinkled his nose. “It made a lot of sense. But, I don’t know, it felt like Cassie was never really off work, unless they went away on vacation.”
Perhaps I was flattering myself, but my suggestion of, “Maybe build yourself a real home that’s not so close to the guests,” had made Sylvester smile and seemed like it dropped a bit of weight off his shoulders.
He’d just said, “Maybe you’re right,” but he’d had his architect start drawing up plans to convert the bunkhouse the next day.
Now they’d gutted the interior and the exterior was almost done with bigger windows including a bay off the kitchen, and a new roof. It was still a long, low box of a building, but the changes made it prettier. The crews would move to the inside soon, turning a space where up to a dozen men had bunked into three bedrooms, two baths, everything brand new. Having money was wondrously fine. I wondered how that felt, to want something and be able to wave and say, “Make it so.”
“They’re doing a good job,” Sylvester noted, watching the crew over my shoulder.
“They’d better.” He’d hired local firms but emphasized that there were other options if the work wasn’t up to standards. First time I saw him put on the powerful executive mask was when Nate Corso suggested cutting corners on the roofing. Sylvester set him straight in a few icy words. Got me hard, to be honest. I shifted my feet, remembering.
A clatter on the stairs behind us reminded me we weren’t alone in the big house either. Sylvester let go of me and stepped back at a knock on the door. Rick Morales, the head contractor on the guest remodeling, stuck his head around the door at Sylvester’s, “Yes?”
“We’re going to call it a day. We’ve got the plumbing roughed in for the new bathrooms and started putting the drywall up. Back tomorrow at eight?”
“Sounds good, thank you.”
Sylvester and I waited, staring out the window, as the sounds of the folks working overhead petered out and were gone. Voices out front faded as trucks and cars pulled away. A worker at the bunkhouse window waved to someone unseen and then unbuckled her toolbelt. Looked like those guys were packing it in too.
I turned to Sylvester. “Hey, want to go out to eat or should I make something?” I guess living in a hotel meant he hadn’t had to learn to feed himself. If we weren’t in the mood for scrambled eggs and toast, I mostly cooked.
Sylvester shrugged stiffly. “I’m thinking I might skip dinner and go to bed.”
I dropped my voice. “Oh, yeah?” Maybe he was on the same page as my dick.
Sadly, he didn’t smile back. “I’m not going to be much good to you tonight.”
“S’okay,” I said. “I don’t love you just for your dick.” The quality of his silence made me run back through those words. “ Like you, I mean.” But I’d never been a good liar. “Ah, hell, you gotta know I’m falling for you, city slicker.”
“I…” He paused. “Sorry, I can’t think straight. I tweaked my back somehow, and it’s killing me. I just want to lie down flat for a while.”
Well, I didn’t say those words to hear them back. “Oh no, that sucks.” I opened the door for him. “Come on, let’s get you horizontal. I did that one summer. Most miserable week of my life. You want a warm pack or ice?”
He seemed less tense, maybe relieved I didn’t push him. Maybe just at the prospect of bed. “Heat, I think. I have a microwavable pack in the cabinet of the downstairs bathroom.”
“You gonna be okay with stairs? I could lug a mattress down here.”
Sylvester touched fingertips to my forearm. “You’re a good man, Joe. I should be okay with the stairs. It’s not that bad.”
When I’d microwaved the pack and brought it up to him, dodging the tarps and debris in the hallway, he was stretched facedown on the big bed. He hadn’t bothered to undress at all, just lay there with his face in the pillow. I eased the heating pad onto the small of his back and he groaned like I’d taken his dick in my mouth. “That the right spot?” I asked.
“Perfect. Thank you.”
I moved to the foot of the bed and eased off his shoes and socks, rubbing the arches of his long feet with my thumbs. His feet were way prettier than mine, no matter what weird knobby-toe fetish he had. I switched to a gentle massage of his ankles and calves, nothing he’d have to shift an inch for. His jeans defeated me when I tried to go higher. I tugged a hem lightly. “You want these off too?”
“Mostly I want to not move and let this heat do its thing. Thank you.”
“You got some ibuprofen? Maybe something stronger?”
“Got some in the bathroom cabinet.”
I hadn’t peeked through his things before but now I had the invite. And yeah, I liked to pretend Joe McNeil was one-hundred-percent standup guy, but I had my curiosity, same as lots of folks. He didn’t have much, though. Some PrEP which was outdated. He told me he’d stopped taking it a few years back, offered to go back on it but we were exclusive these days so it made no difference to me. I maybe shoulda been on it myself, given the guys I let pick me up. Probably should. Made no difference now.
I set the bottle down and checked the rest. He had ibuprofen, and a couple of tabs of Vicodin in a prescription vial with a faded label. I brought both bottles to the bedside. “The mild stuff, or the way outdated good stuff?”
He huffed a hint of a chuckle. “How old?”
“Looks like ten years.”
“Oh, yeah. Was my back that time too. I’m not sure I trust it. Give me the ibuprofen. Except I don’t want to move to take it.”
“Hang on.”
I ran down to the kitchen and got a water bottle with a straw attachment. Brought it back and told him, “If you’re good at pills, I can pop one in your mouth, then you suck some water to swallow it.”
“Fuck, I’ll try anything.” He turned his head just enough and opened his mouth.
I popped the first tablet onto his tongue, then held the water for him. Followed it up with two more, but he balked at the fourth one. “How much are you giving me?”
“Four tabs. You don’t want to keep doing that much, but to get ahead of the pain, it’s a good start. Once it hits a bit, we’ll try to get some food in you to cushion it.”
“All right.” He closed his eyes and opened his mouth again. The level of trust in that hit me like a brick.
I carefully got the last tab in him and held the water for him to chase it well. “You let that take effect. I’m going to go make you some broth you can take through a straw, at least.”
“You don’t need to go to this trouble.”
“I’m opening a can, not cooking it up from scratch. You stay put.”
When I brought him up the broth off a can of chicken noodle, with the noodles and veggies blendered so it would go through a straw, I wondered if he was asleep, but he murmured, “Smells good.”
“Here you go.” I sat on the carpet by his head so I could hold the mug and straw for him.
He drank in small sips, then sighed deep. “How’d you learn to take care of an incapacitated guy so well?”
I thought about blowing the question off, but a little conversation might take his mind off the pain. And to be honest, I wanted him to know me. Not many people I let see the Joe McNeil under the surface, but I wanted Sylvester there. “My mom died when I was ten.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. My dad was a gambler and a drinking man. He held a job, but he was hungover more often than he was straight with the world. He’d go off to some poker game, sure he was going to turn our fortunes around, and come home smashed. It was my job to feed him pain killers and fluids when he woke up too rough to move.” And clean the puke bucket, but that was one truth more than Sylvester needed.
“I don’t want to remind you of your father.”
“Ah, hell, no. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, that’s where I got some skills. You know, nothing feels better than using something Dad taught me in a far finer cause.”
“Was he… hard on you?”
“If you mean, did he hit me, nope. Of course, I wasn’t out back then, so who knows how that would’ve played out. He wasn’t a mean guy.” Might’ve been easier if he was. Probably not, though. “He just had problems.” A thought occurred to me. “Maybe that was part of why I was sympathetic to Frankie Morse.”
“Huh?”
“His dad taking the money he’d worked for. See, I left school and started working for Mr. Ford when I was sixteen. He paid me into a bank account, and of course my dad had access, since I was a minor.”
“Oh, no.”
“At first, he said he’d just take a bit if we were short on rent. It was me paying my way, you know? Seemed fair. Dad had a silver tongue. Opposite of me. Could make everything seem like he was right.”
“You do pretty well with your tongue, cowboy.” Sylvester’s attempt at a sexy drawl made me smile.
“The one place I beat my Dad. No wait, eww, not thinking about that.” I coughed. “Anyhow, about a year in, he drained every penny I’d saved and took a trip to Vegas. He was going to win our fortunes, of course. Left me a note.” I’d raged around the place, breaking things I couldn’t afford to fix, because I’d thought he was doing better. Living without a microwave for months afterward was a reminder about keeping my temper. “’Course, he came back broker’n ever.”
“What did you do?”
“I moved out. Begged Mr. Ford to let me live in the bunkhouse, got my dad to sign permission for it when he was drunk.” I was doing most of the cooking and cleaning. He’d have refused, sober. “Asked Mr. Ford to pay me in cash, minus the deduction for room and board, and he was obliging.”
“That should’ve worked,” Sylvester said. “Your face says not really, though.”
I shrugged a shoulder, like the old wound didn’t still sting, somewhere inside. “I hid the cash in my room at the bunkhouse. One time, when we were out on the trail moving cattle, Dad came to the ranch drunk, wanting to borrow money. When he realized I wasn’t there, he tossed my room, found the cash.”
“Stole it?”
“Yeah. I mean, he probably thought he had the right. I was still under eighteen.”
“That’s not how the law works, though. Teens are entitled to their own wages, and their parents can’t just take them.”
“So I coulda taken him to court.” I chuckled, though it wasn’t really funny. “With the money neither of us had, to collect the money he couldn’t pay back because he lost it at the track.” I shook my head. “Didn’t mean to make it a sob story.”
“It’s okay.” Sylvester bent his elbow enough to lay his palm against my cheek. I nestled into his hand foolishly. “I want to know what makes you tick. That stubborn independence that won’t let me pay you any wages for all the work you’re doing here came out of your history.”
“I don’t want your money. I don’t want us to be like that.”
“I know.” Sylvester stroked my cheekbone with his thumb. “That’s why I’m not fighting you on it for now. Until you need a living wage, I’ll pay you in shares of the business, like partners. I’m keeping track.”
“I didn’t mean that—”
“Shh. You can’t change my mind on this. Cowboy?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I’m falling for you too.”
I turned my head to nip at his thumb. “You don’t have to say that to keep me around.”
“I know. My dick and abs would be enough to do that.”
I blinked, then laughed. A gift, after thinking about my dad. “They sure would.”
We sat for a while. The thin rug was hard under my ass. Sylvester’s breathing eased and his hand slipped to dangle off the bed, maybe the meds taking hold.
I said, “I’ll go sleep on the couch tonight. Wouldn’t want to jostle you.” All the other rooms were stripped for remodeling.
“I hate to say yes, but thank you.”
“Want to try to get your jeans off first?”
“Sadly, no. I’m going to lie here like this and remember how to breathe.”
“Aw.” I stood, then bent and kissed his cheek. Taking his phone from his back pocket— sadly, the only touch on his ass he’d welcome right now— I set it on the nightstand within his reach. “If you need anything, like more meds or reheating the warm pack, or help getting to the john? Text me. Promise?”
“I’ll be fine. You don’t have to baby me!”
“Not a baby to take help when you need it.”
“Sorry.”
“I was a bitter touchy bastard when I broke a couple of ribs and had to hobble around for weeks. I get it. Promise?”
“Damn. All right.”
I’d almost closed the door behind me when I heard his voice. “Joe?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a hell of a good man.”
“Takes one to know one.”