CHAPTER TWELVE Van
The older woman was smiling and nodding along with him. My mom’s voice came through loud and clear.
“Are you out of your mind, Vance? You can’t stay with some random man you met two minutes ago.”
“I don’t even know your names,” I stated, figuring if I had their names, they’d have to be normal people.
“Bertie Baxley,” she said, touching her chin and pointing at him. “And he’s Chip Winlock. He owns this establishment and is very trustworthy.”
“I’m Vance, but my friends call me Van,” I offered, noting she’d said Chip was trustworthy. Don’t all murderous clans say things like that?
“Then let’s be friends, Van,” the lady said.
They both gave the impression of being nice.
She seemed bossy, but in a pleasant way.
I instantly liked her take-charge attitude.
I recognized I was naturally a follower, so I’d probably go along with anything she said.
I also had a soft spot for elderly people.
She may have been elderly, like she appeared, but this woman was spunky.
“I’m going home early,” she announced, untying the apron she wore. “He’s closing soon, so you boys take the rest of the chicken and jo-jos home for your supper.”
“I will,” Chip said, nervously looking between me and her.
Chip was all man. I wasn’t positive he was my type of man, but he was definitely a man.
His Levi’s were threadbare in all the right places.
I had a difficult time not staring at his well-worn crotch.
The denim was faded over an ample bulge and caused me to swallow hard, wondering what was behind the metal buttons.
A blue flannel shirt accented his blue eyes perfectly.
He wore a cream-colored Henley under the shirt, the shirt open.
A belt buckle the size of a saucer had a bucking bronco design and was attached to an old and weathered leather belt.
His boots were scuffed beyond any cobbler’s ability to repair and had leather laces tied in a double knot.
He stood exactly as one would expect a ranch hand to stand.
Like a total dude. Dirty blond hair was messy and lacked any particular style.
I imagined he’d just removed a cowboy hat but not bothered with his hair.
Yet, the entire package exhibited a porn-worthy, stud-like, super straight, man-esque hunk, who had zero idea he’d just invited a homo to stay the night. So not my taste, though.
Who was I kidding? Chip was a tall, lean drink of water.
And I was thirsty as fuck. Of course, even if he liked men, he wouldn’t like a man like me.
And even if I liked him, I couldn’t be with a man who had such a disregard for how he appeared in public.
He was too casual, too uncaring concerning his clothing choices, too much of a dude, and probably too straight to give a rat’s ass about my criticism.
“I have a dog,” he said out of the blue.
“I like dogs,” I replied.
“My spare bed is actually in a loft,” he added. “The ladder is old and difficult to climb.”
“Are you sure you want me to stay?”
He realized he sounded like he’d just delivered reasons to talk me out of staying. “Yes! For sure!” he exclaimed, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “I have plenty of room, and Pooch likes guests. We don’t ever have any, but he likes people. He likes strange people, too.”
“Strange people?” I asked.
“Strangers!” he quickly corrected. “People he’s never met.”
“What’s his name?”
“It’s Pooch,” he answered. “Like I said.”
“Your dog’s name is Pooch?”
“My ex named him Pooch,” he claimed. “It’s weird. I know, but the name fits. You’ll see.”
“Your ex named him? She sounds fun.”
“He,” Chip immediately corrected. “My ex is a he. Was a he. Well, he’s still a he, but he is my ex.”
“You’re gay?” I asked, wondering where the lady had gone. I felt exposed now that he’d told me he was gay, and we were unchaperoned. “That surprises me.”
Suddenly, a sleepover seemed unwise. I wasn’t sure why I had that thought, considering the setup seemed like a steamy plot for a porno. Now I was nervous about staying with the stranger.
A flash of anger crossed his face. “Yes, I’m gay,” he stated. I recognized he may just be concerned that I had an issue with gay people. “Is that an issue?”
“No. Of course not,” I stated. “I’m gay too.”
“Well, that’s good,” he said, now looking around for the lady as well. “Did you see Bertie leave?”
“I didn’t,” I chuckled, realizing we’d moved on from the topic of our sexuality. “She always so stealthy?”
“Hardly,” he scoffed. “Normally, she’d be up in my business about right now. She maintains a keen interest in my love life.”
“I think that’s sweet,” I said. “I wish I had someone keen on my love life.”
Chip started to walk away, so I followed after him. His butt should have been a criminal offense, the way his Levi’s hugged the two mounds of muscle. A slight sag in them only made my desire to see flesh even more debilitating. I sensed my crotch stirring.
Once behind the counter, he pulled out the drawer from the cash register, handing me the bills. “Count that, please, while I do the credit card receipts.”
His carefree nature in handing a stranger a wad of cash surprised me. He wasn’t uptight, that was for sure. And I found the act of familiarity attractive. He was showing me that he trusted me.
We counted in silence, occasionally checking on the other with a glance and a smile. Up close, Chip was quite handsome. His facial hair was only visible from this distance because, like the hair on his head, the five o’clock shadow on his face was blond.
His lips were slightly chapped. I wanted to offer him my ChapStick, but it was in the SUV. He’d probably make fun of the cherry flavor. My thoughts about myself became critical as usual. I looked fussy. I was too gay acting. He admitted to being gay, but probably only liked manly men like himself.
“Give me your keys. I’m gonna park your rig ’round back in a locked and fenced lot,” he said, holding out his hand.
He used words like gonna, rig, and ’round back, all at once, and in one sentence. Unlike any gay man I’d ever met, he appeared unconcerned with how most people would perceive his choice of grammar.
“Thank you,” I said, yanking keys out of my pocket. “I’m sorry I hit your trash can and nearly your business.”
“I’m not,” he replied.
And with that, he walked out the front door, hopped in my SUV, and drove around the back of the store. After he’d left, I had an opportunity to check out the mercantile. I only knew to refer to it as a mercantile because the unusual word was in the name printed on a wall. Missile Mercantile.
The front windows had lit up beer signs and posters for local events. Fishing gear and the heads of dead animals were mounted on the walls. Behind the counter was a rack full of cigarettes I found unusual. You couldn’t have cigarettes displayed that way in a grocery store in Seattle.
A handwritten sign said fishing licenses and deer tags were available for purchase.
The smell of greasy food came from a hot case that was full of fried chicken and potato wedges.
I think Bertie referred to them as jo-jos.
I also remembered she’d recommended the food for our supper. Supper, another odd word in my opinion.
I wandered along the walls that were lined with refrigerated glass cases full of mostly beer and wine coolers.
Soda and water were in one case, outnumbered severely by the alcohol selection.
Perhaps living in a town this size required being inebriated.
White Styrofoam coolers were collecting winter-time dust above the coolers.
The two short aisles had basic food supplies.
Canned goods, a few sundries, and bread.
Eggs and milk were in a different cooler, opposite the booze cases.
Hostess had a large display at the end of one aisle.
I reached out and touched a cellophane-wrapped package of Twinkies. I loved Twinkies and Ho-Hos the best.
“That’s some good stuff there,” Chip said from behind me.
I shoved the Twinkies back in place and spun around. “I love them,” I admitted, feeling six again.
“Grab us each a pack,” he said, grinning like a fool. “We’ll have those for dessert after the chicky.”
Once again, he used a made-up word, shortening the true spelling of chicken. I realized it sounded charming coming from someone authentically from a small town like Missile. This man was country.
The thought hit me hard and fast. Oh my God! He’s country personified.
“You look like you just saw a ghost,” he quipped. “You okay?”
I gazed at him for too long. To the point he glanced down at his clothing, like maybe he had mud or something on it. After a quick check of his clothes, he turned to look behind him in case someone was there.
“I’m sorry. You know, for staring so much.”
“And I’m sorry I look like this,” he confessed, touching various spots on his body. “You look all nice and stylish like, and I… well… I don’t.”
“You look nice like that,” I stammered, losing my voice to the bullets of nerves shooting holes in my heart. “I mean, I think you’re cute.”
“I’ll take cute,” he quipped, not acting surprised or judging my use of a silly word like cute as a descriptor.
I moved closer to him. “Are you sure you want me to stay overnight? I mean, maybe the lady influenced you to volunteer a bed?”
“She did influence me, but only because I wasn’t recognizin’ someone in need.”
I can’t say exactly why his words caused me to tear up, but the waterworks always showed up at inopportune times for me.
His act of kindness reminded me of earlier, when I was going through my laundry list of imagined qualities I liked about country boys.
I’d conjured up a stereotypical appraisal of how country folks lived, and here he was living the typecast.
“I am in need,” I admitted. “Stupid too. I shouldn’t have just shown up like this. Now you feel obliged because of pressure to help me.”