Hoyt #2
“I like them all.” Which was no lie. I’d read all their works over and over again while I fiddled about in the dark of night trying to pen prose as glorious as the names Aubrey had just mentioned.
Hiding in my trailer writing poetry. Hiding my queerness.
Hiding the failure of my life from the world. Seemed I did a lot of hiding…
“Yay!” Aubrey flashed a smile that lit up the somewhat overcast day. “Let me see what’s come in. Please, have some coffee. I don’t have cream. The old fridge in the back room is dead so I need to buy a new one but I do have powdered creamer.”
“Thanks.”
He stared at me for a long moment then dashed off like a rabbit spying a pack of beagles coming round the corner.
Moving around the shop, I finally found the coffee pot—a Mr. Coffee drip machine, which felt right here in this shop surrounded by books from centuries past. The only new thing I could see within this space was the cash register and shelf of romance novels with some very sexy man chests on display beside the checkout area.
I poured myself some coffee, vanilla-scented which worked for me, in a brand new store mug.
The brew was hot, sweetened, and washed down a tablet with ease.
A few bangs and curses floated out of the back room as I waited, reading over the back jacket of a gay historical romance.
After a moment or two Aubrey burst through the dusty curtain blocking the store room from view of the customers, four or five books in his arms. His pink sweater had slipped from his shoulder to show off a fucking sexy as shit clavicle.
“You’re in luck! I do have some writing journals in stock.
” He passed a small leatherbound journal over to me after I placed the romance back on the stand.
“They’re very nice. The woman who makes them lives in Alaska.
” I gave the journal a long look, enjoying the stained-glass wildflower motif.
“She’s a wonderful painter. The watercolors are hers.
It’s a well-bound journal as well with space for daily reflections. ”
“Mm, yeah, it’s nice.” I gave him a weak smile. His eyes flared then his ears grew red as a radish.
“Nice, yes, pretty.” He stared up at me for a moment then shuddered like a wet cat.
“I’m uh…I’m trying to only sell items from small businesses and artisans here.
Although sometimes you just cannot avoid having to order things from the big publishers and such, like these books.
They’re very nice collections of some of the older poets of the West like we touched on but have some additions of newer works from the likes of Wanda Coleman, Robert Hass, and of course Allen Ginsberg.
Some people say they dislike his use of long lines like Whitman but I rather enjoy his style.
And he was not afraid to touch on the taboo subjects of the time like drugs and sexuality. ”
“I’ve never read any of his work,” I confessed, lifting the Ginsberg book from his hand with care. “I tend to stick to the more conventional poets Fletcher or Barker. Campfire tales and cowboy life, that sort of thing.”
“Sure, those are great! There’s so many wonderful works from the American West that are always overlooked by the masses in favor of the British poets like Byron, Keats, Tennyson, and the like.
And I love their prose, truly I do, but there are so many wonderful tales and poems of life in this country that need to be read. ”
“I agree.” I smiled down at him. He smiled back, then that deer in the headlights expression reappeared. “I’ll take the Ginsberg book and the notebook. Maybe once I get healed up I’ll get back to making my own poems about roan ponies and dusty trails.”
“Yes, I saw the sling. I hope it heals quickly. And if you find you dislike Ginsberg for whatever reason you can return the book to me, in good condition, and I’ll find you something less beatnik.”
“Much obliged.” He studied me closely then nodded, slipping around me with great care taken to ensure no part of him touched any part of me. “Coffee is good.”
“Thank you.” He slid behind the register, nervous as a hooker on nickel night. “I like vanilla.” He placed my purchase into a cloth bag with the store name imprinted on it. “Cash or debit?”
“Oh, uhm, cash.” I had a few bucks in an account in Oklahoma but I needed to hang onto whatever funds I could now I was behind the eight ball in terms of income.
I paid for my books then passed my now empty cup back to Aubrey.
Our fingers slid over each other’s at the hand off.
A tingle of attraction coursed through me at the contact. “Guess I’ll see you around town then.”
“You a newcomer like me?” He carefully handed over my tote. No touching took place.
“No, no, I’m from Chance. Just coming home to rehab,” I explained for no reason other than hearing the sound of my own voice being answered by another voice.
His attention flittered to my neck, which was badly bruised and swollen from the break and the surgery.
The discoloration had even crept up to my jaw.
“Yeah, broken clavicle. Bull stepped on me.”
His pretty eyes went round as a manhole cover.
“Thanks again.” I rubbed at my nose, the itching starting already, and eased out of the bookstore with a twinge of regret.
Sitting around discussing poets with him seemed a whole lot more fun than what I was facing next.
There was still time to change my mind. Just keep driving until I hit the Arctic Ocean.
Maybe I could live with the polar bears.
Eat seal. Scare people. Play on the ice floes.
Eating raw seal sounded way more enjoyable than seeing Abel but reality was one cold mother fucker so I climbed behind the wheel of my beater truck and headed to the ranch, my pink trailer rattling along behind me.
If Lady Luck were with me I’d fall asleep at the wheel then all my worries would be over. Tree meet Hoyt. Hoyt meet tree.
Lady Luck was a cold-hearted bitch.
I didn’t crash once. The meds had me feeling a little soft in the head but I’d somehow managed to keep in my lane until I couldn’t then I pulled over to sleep it off.
Upon waking I found it to be two hours later.
Cotton mouth had set in but I had nothing to drink.
Again. I did find some stale gum in the glove box so I chewed on that until I reached home.
Home.
That word should have been filled with Norman Rockwell oil-painted emotions.
Instead it filled me with dread. Easing the truck to park in front of one of the barns I sat there, Dodge idling, unsure if I should cut the ignition or floor it.
I was leaning towards gassing her when Jesse stepped out onto the front porch of the main house.
The dwindling daylight fell on the porch.
He appeared older, which no shit Hoyt, but his eyes were big and bright like I recalled.
Big man, strong, rugged, handsome. Wearing jeans, a Carhartt coat, and a wariness that translated perfectly across the distance from porch to truck.
He lifted a hand. I did the same. My gut was tight as a banjo string as I killed the engine.
Guess we’re staying.
Like we had anywhere else to go.
I eased myself out and down, feet stepping onto land they had not trodden for over twenty years. Jesse came down the front steps, hands at his side, his face unreadable.
“Hey,” I called just to put something out in the air other than the lowing of cattle.
Another guy stepped out onto the porch. Stranger, good-looking, with a protective aura about him. Slim, shorter than Jesse, curls.
“You got taller.”
Jesse nodded. “You got older.” His gaze went to the purple and black bruises. “You look bad.”
“I know.” We stood about three feet apart, brothers who had drifted so far apart we might as well be on separate continents. “The bruising will fade. The ugly is here to stay.”
“Stupid,” he mumbled and it took me right back to when he was a little guy who possessed about a dozen words. Stupid and Hoyt two of his favorites. “You were never ugly. Just stupid.”
That made me chuckle. He moved in fast like a rattler, to throw an arm around me in a fumbling hug that made me wince and groan.
“Sorry, shit.” He released me quickly as the guy on the porch moved closer.
“It’s fine.” My gaze went to the stranger. Twinky for sure now I had a closer look. Maybe gloss on his lips. Wow. That was…unexpected. Who exactly was this dude? I wanted to ask who he was but that was none of my business. Not now anyway.