Hoyt
Things were upside down in my head.
My intentions for the future were all sorts of skewed in good and bad ways.
My thoughts swirled as I exited urgent care to walk to my truck.
The checkup at urgent care had been promising.
If I was a good boy I might be able to lose the sling in another week.
Of course, that was followed by therapy for who knew how long.
Being older—forty was eyeballing me hard—the final steps of recovery might take months.
Which set back my plans to return to the circuit by June.
The doctor had been pretty adamant about me staying off the back of an agitated bull for several more months.
Easy for him to say, he wasn’t the one with nothing but a piddly paycheck from his little brother to keep himself fed and in decent underwear.
But I was living rent- and grocery-free so bitching about things seemed childish.
Then there was Aubrey. Aubrey with the bouncy smile, the bright brown eyes, and the soft hair that did its best to break out of any bun he tried to wrangle it into.
Aubrey. The poetry lover who had gushed over my dinky little horse poem as if it were something magnificent.
Aubrey. Sweet, kind, happy Aubrey. He made me feel things I’d not allowed myself to feel for any man ever.
You didn’t dare have emotions for a man when you were trying your hardest to be straight.
Even when you failed at keeping the real you hidden away a hookup was dicey and dangerous.
That trucker BJ coming up here had been a stupid thing to allow.
He could be out there right now telling the world Hoyt Knox let him suck his dick.
Not that it would matter. There were no sponsors left to horrify, no agents left to shame me into staying in the closet, no fans to disappoint.
I’d already done that so why was I worried about someone giving me head and the world finding out?
Returning to the circuit was a fucking pipe dream.
I knew it deep down, in the dark pits of my soul I knew I was done with the rodeo, or at least riding bulls.
But fuck me sideways, if I gave up on that dream what did I have left?
I was nearly forty with no high school diploma, no home, no horse, and no skills outside of chucking hay bales and riding fence.
What did a man in my situation do and why was I now dreaming of a cheery bookseller in a damn ugly purple suit?
“Hoyt?”
I skidded to a stop just outside the Last Chance Lounge where I’d parked. “Hoyt Knox. Hey.” I stared hard at the deputy jogging at me. Shit. Had I parked in front of a fire hydrant or something.
“Officer, I can explain…” I had found over the years that opening up with any lawman with an explanation helped diffuse things.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” Good-looking guy, about my age, with very familiar eyes. “We were in school together. Used to have gym class at the same time. Sat around staring at Polly Perkins’s boobs when she was playing volleyball?”
“Oh shit, Simon Wainwright. You’re a cop?”
We shook. He nodded then hit me with an infectious smile. I’d had some dreams about his smile back in ninth grade. Of course those were never discussed. We’d talked about bouncing boobs instead.
“Deputy here in Chance. Man, I thought you were dead for the longest time. Then I saw your name on a poster for the rodeo.” His gaze drifted down to the gold belt buckle I wore with pride. “You did good for yourself.”
“Man, only one this gold buckle once. Then the bulls got pissed off and started making me their personal cha-cha dance rug.”
That made him snicker. “Yeah, I see that. You back home to stay now? You must be close to forty. I hit that milestone in January. My wife and kids gave me a fortieth birthday survival kit with reading glasses, denture cleaning tablets, a magnifying class, and a book of dad jokes.”
“Ouch, that probably hurt worse than a bull stepping on your clavicle.”
“You married yet?”
“No, no, not married. Too many buckle bunnies to tie myself down, although now I’m old and wrinkled the bunnies seem to be hopping to younger bucks.”
Simon laughed. I felt partially sick repeating the same lies I had spewed over and over again for my whole fucking life. “I have to run. Meeting a friend for dinner. Nice to see you.”
“You too. Maybe we can have a beer sometime before you head back to the bucking bulls and buckle bunnies?”
We shook once more. “Maybe. Sure, I’d like that.”
And I would. If only I didn’t have to use this tired-ass facade of straight cowboy.
I ducked into my truck as Simon returned to his cruiser.
I sat there, waved at him when he passed, and let my brow come to rest on the wheel.
Honestly, this hiding was killing me inch by inch, day by day, lie by lie.
No bull had caused me as much agony as maintaining this fallacy.
Sucking it up as men are supposed to do, I tapped in Aubrey’s address in my maps app, eager to leave some of the machismo bullshit behind.
Chili with Aubrey. Talking poetry. That sounded nice.
Part of me could emerge. Not all of me obviously.
Just Jesse and Abel knew that part of Hoyt Knox.
Still, even half of the real me coming out would be joyous.
I trundled along past some of the older single family homes on the outskirts of town, Cody Johnson’s “Human” playing on the radio, the lyrics hitting hard as I pulled up in front of a tiny cottage with a Pride flag flopping about in the dying wind of early evening.
Okay, well that was a good sign. Aubrey was an ally at the very least. My heartrate kicked up slightly as I watched the flag snap out then fall, my eyes moving from the flag to a big golden rooster and a cat chilling on the front porch.
I opened the door of my truck. The cat and the chicken came trotting up to me, one rubbing my leg, the other pecking at the toe of my boot as if it were a corn cob.
The front door opened and there stood Aubrey.
“I see you met the welcome committee! They’re both very friendly but very averse to coming inside the cottage.
Please come on in, I have the table set for two.
I hope you like spicy food. I may have gotten a little carried away with the hot sauce!
I hope not.” He bounced down to me; the suit having been traded for a flouncy shirt of pale green over some black leggings.
His hair was down, his glasses on the end of his nose, and his cheeks flushed.
Gorgeous. I so wanted to kiss his pink lips.
“I bought a live trap today at the mercantile,” he whispered as the chicken and cat darted off to do whatever chickens and cats did.
“I’d like to get Ruggerio fixed and all his shots.
I’m not sure what to do about Roberto. Do you fix roosters? ”
“I think if you do they’re called a capon.
Where did you get that odd couple anyway?
” I followed him back to the cabin, trying my best to not ogle his tiny ass in those leggings but failing miserably.
Funny how just being here with him made me feel less blasé.
He was a bright sunny ray after a rain storm had darkened the day.
“They came with the place. I’ll not get Roberto caponized then. Come in, please take off your boots here. And place them on the tray. I just mopped the floor. My handyman, Mr. Yates, tracked sawdust around. Perfect. Oh, do you need help?”
He dropped to his knees before me. My cock thought something hot was happening and plumped up instantly. “How rude. You can sit down on the bench there. I found it stored in the spare room so I dragged it out here for a nice place to sit and take off muddy boots.”
His dark gaze flittered to mine as I stood in his little house, in front of his little door, looking like a giant asshole. “If you sit I can help pull off your boots. They must be hard to…are you okay?”
“Fine, yeah, fine. Just…not used to such good hosting,” I coughed out then sat with a huff on the skinny wooden bench, making sure my flannel shirt covered the bulge in my jeans.
“Oh pshaw! I’d help any of my guest remove their boots if they were incapacitated.”
“I like how you talk. It’s fancy.”
Shit. His eyes rounded as his cheeks flamed. Oh man he was so pretty kneeling in front of me with pink cheeks. Would he freak out if I tucked some hair behind his ear? Probably. That was not acceptable dinner guest behavior.
“That’s sweet. I tend to glom onto words from literature that’s hundreds of years old then wiggle them into my vocabulary.
Hank hated it. Said I sounded like a little fag from some Jane Austen book.
Not that he had ever read one of her books obviously so he was forming an opinion from the interior of his posterior. ”
“He was talking out his ass?” I asked with a smile playing on my lips.
“Mm-hmm.” He grabbed my right foot and pulled. He was stronger than I’d assumed a lithe little bookstore owner would be. Thank God I had pulled on clean socks with no holes. “My goodness you have large feet. You know what they say about men with big feet?”
“No, what do they say?”
“They’re hobbits.” He gave me a wink. And just like that I was smitten. Wholly. Not just admiring his ass or his lips or the charming way he talked. But just…everything.
“Good one. Whoever Hank is he’s a shithead for putting you down. I like the way you talk. It’s lyrical and uncommon. Like you.”
Holy shit, Hoyt, please stop talking. You sound like a queer.
I am queer. Now fuck off, Abel. Just for once let me enjoy this moment.
His blush grew redder. “You’re kind. Here, let me see that other foot.”