Chapter 17 Jackson
Jackson
Jackson picks at the label of his icy Michelob, wads the gummy paper into a tight ball. A compulsive habit of his. Some folks smoke, while Jackson fidgets with paper: napkins, beer-bottle labels, receipts.
The Texas Rangers flicker on the screen above him, and for not the first time tonight, he wishes he were in Dallas, watching the game live with his friends.
But at least he’s at his favorite watering hole in town, Sullivan’s, perched at the bar with a decent view of the TV. Nolan Ryan’s on the mound, winding up, preparing to strike out another Astro.
Sullivan’s is just a dive bar, really, a sawdust-on-the-floor beer joint on the outskirts of town, but that’s precisely why he likes it so much.
He can come here to unwind. It’s blue-collar types who frequent the place—farmers and oil-field workers, who mainly keep to themselves.
None of his ritzy clients would come here; Charleigh and her ilk wouldn’t dare cross the threshold, so, for the hours he spends here, it’s as if Jackson gets to escape Longview for a bit.
“I don’t know why you insist on going to that shithole,” Charleigh said to him once.
It’s near her childhood home, right off the highway by Seven Pines. “It feels like real Texas to me, I guess.”
“Whatever that means.” Charleigh rolled her eyes.
Jackson does not wear his pink IZOD shirts in here, though. He’s careful to dress in a button-down and jeans, even going so far as to don a pair of cowboy boots.
So far, no one has fucked with him.
But Ginny, the owner and barkeep, wouldn’t allow that anyway.
She’s tough as old leather and doesn’t suffer any rough play in Sullivan’s.
Even though she’s married, Jackson has always suspected that she’s gay.
And he feels like she can sense that he is, too, and that’s why she keeps extra watch on him.
“You want another, cowboy?” Ginny asks, tilting her cowgirl hat toward him.
“Sure, why not?”
Ginny fishes a cold one from the cooler—an amber bottle flecked with ice flakes—and sets it on a fresh coaster.
Fills a paper tray with roasted peanuts, placing it next to Jackson’s beer.
His heart melts; this is more of Ginny’s mothering him, making sure he has something in his stomach to help sop up the alcohol.
He digs his wallet from his back pocket, peels out an extra five, slides it over to her.
“Thanks, hon.” She winks at him, then slams the cash register drawer shut with her hip.
He pries open a peanut, pops one in his mouth. Then another.
A man saunters over to the bar, eyes the empty barstool next to Jackson.
He’s dressed like he’s from another time, like the 1800s or something, in a button-down Henley, a pair of leather suspenders snapped to his pants. The top trio of buttons on his shirt are undone, exposing a triangle of tanned flesh.
“Do you mind?” He gestures to the barstool, flashing a gleaming lopsided grin at Jackson. The man’s hair is honey blond, his eyes pools of caramel.
Jackson’s stomach capsizes. “Be my guest!” he replies awkwardly, hoping the man doesn’t think he meant that literally.
“What’re ya havin’?” Ginny asks him.
“Whiskey. On the rocks, please.”
Jackson tries to train his gaze back toward the Rangers game, but all he can sense is this person in his periphery. He risks a glance. This man is gorgeous. Hot buttered rum in a glass. Tall, lean, but muscular. His sleeves are cuffed above his forearms, which are whittled, sculpted.
A man who works with his hands, Jackson thinks with approval.
He watches as he downs half his drink in one swallow and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
He swivels in his barstool toward Jackson. Beams that smile at him again. A smile that oozes mischief.
“Come here often?” he asks Jackson.
Jackson gulps. It almost feels like a come-on, but he spies a gold wedding band on the man’s ring finger. “Yeah, actually I do.”
Thank God I’m on my fourth beer, Jackson thinks, so his nerves aren’t in overdrive.
“It’s the only place in this town where I feel like I can clear my head, ya know?”
The man laughs. “Yeah, I hear ya.”
“And you?” Jackson asks. “Come here often?”
“Nope. First time.”
“I mean, th-there’s fancier places downtown, of course,” Jackson stammers, wanting to keep the conversation going, “and then there’s the strip clubs, but I don’t have much of an appetite for titty bars—” Jackson pauses. He can’t believe he just blurted that out.
But the man holds Jackson’s gaze with his toffee-brown eyes, cocks his head to the side. “Yeah. Neither do I.”
Jackson doesn’t know if he’s saying this because he’s clearly married…or if it’s some kind of code. The thought is almost too delicious to think.
“Ethan. Ethan Swift.” He offers his hand to Jackson.
Damn it.
In his tipsy state, it hadn’t dawned on Jackson that this must be exactly who this man is.
The enemy.
He takes Ethan’s hand, shakes it. “Jackson Ford. Pleasure to meet you.” He tries to steer his tone to cold, professional.
“Pleasure’s all mine.” Ethan slings back the rest of his drink, lifts his glass at Ginny.
She pours him another.
“I’ll have one, too,” Jackson tells her. He needs something stronger than beer in this moment. But what he really needs is to get the hell out of here. He can’t, though. He’s mesmerized by Ethan.
A grin forms across Ginny’s lips, but she bites it back, fixes Jackson’s drink.
The whiskey scorches the back of Jackson’s throat, making him shake his head.
Ethan chuckles. “Not used to the strong stuff?”
“If I’m being honest, no. I usually cut it with Coke.”
“Will you get my new friend here a Jack and Coke?” Ethan asks Ginny.
“Here, allow me.” He grabs Jackson’s drink, tilts his head back, empties the rest down his throat. Smiles that crooked smile at Jackson.
Jackson feels overheated, as if his clothes are suddenly too tight.
When Ginny passes him his drink, he takes a long pull, tries to cool himself off.
What the hell am I doing? Jackson thinks. Followed by Fuck it.
“That better?” Ethan asks, his voice cutting over the clacking of pool balls and bar noise, smooth as maple syrup.
“Much!” Jackson manages to reply.
Ethan drums his hands along the bar. Long, elegant fingers. The kind Jackson can imagine nibbling on. But that wedding band.
Like Jackson, Ethan seems fidgety. A live wire. Jackson wishes he could say something smart, clever, but his tongue feels like a brick in his mouth.
Perhaps because of the awkward silence, Ethan fishes something out of his leather satchel.
Jackson nearly gasps when he sees what it is.
A palm-sized Bible.
What the…?
But Charleigh did tell him they were religious nuts.
Jackson divorced himself long ago from any ties with the church. Aside from the handful of Methodist churches in Dallas and Houston that openly welcome gays, Christianity is a foe to his community.
But he can’t pry his eyes off Ethan as he leans over the bar, that lock of golden hair now dangling across his forehead, luscious fingers paging through the battered-looking Bible.
Through his straw, Jackson sucks in more Jack and Coke, savoring the sweetness of the soda mixed with the bite of the whiskey. He flicks his eyes back to the Rangers game, but then they rove—of their own accord—back over to Ethan.
As if sensing this, Ethan closes his Bible, turns to Jackson. “I know it might seem odd, but I like to take this wherever I go.”
Jackson nods, his brain incapable of forming a reply.
“I know religion isn’t for everybody.” Ethan says this in a low voice, almost conspiratorially, as if he’s all but saying he’s well aware that Jackson is gay.
“And organized religion isn’t really for me.
But this,” Ethan adds, tapping the Bible, “the pure word, meant to be read in both churches and places of ill repute, by everyday men, is almost poetic to me. Especially the Psalms.”
Ethan licks a finger, flips through the tissue-like pages. “I waited patiently for the Lord. He drew me up from the pit. I delight to do your will, O God. My heart fails me, but you are my help.” He closes the book, slips it back in his bag. “It’s almost like a country song, you know?”
Jackson nods again. Say something clever, he thinks for the second time this evening. “Yeah, I don’t go in much for the church—”
“I bet you don’t.” Ethan’s eyes move over him.
Trickling down his chest, to his jeans. Jackson feels like he’s being lit on fire.
“And hey, I’m not trying to convert you—there’s nothing worse than a man pushing his own beliefs on another.
I just wanted to explain why I take my Bible to the bar. Helps keep me on the right path.”
But the way Ethan’s looking at Jackson, it’s as if he wants to be led right off that right path.
“Gotcha.” Jackson takes a nip of his cocktail. “So, what line of work are you in?”
Jackson knows the answer to this, of course, but the time has long passed for Jackson to admit that he’s already heard all the dirt on the Swifts from his catty best friend.
“Woodworking,” Ethan says, winking at him.
The double entendre isn’t lost on Jackson; he chokes on his drink. “What kind of…woodworking?” Jackson can play this game, too.
“Mmmm…” Ethan moans. “Custom stuff. High-end furniture. One-of-a-kind pieces. Like, really, anything a client wants. Credenzas, tallboy dressers, sideboards. You name it. But I really only like to work with the choicest woods.”
“That’s really fascinating!” Jackson says too brightly. But it is. Finally something they can talk about. “I’m a designer. Interior design. So I’m genuinely interested.”
“I knew I liked you for a reason.” Ethan’s voice is husky. He inches his barstool closer to Jackson’s. “What’s your specialty?”
“Kind of like yours. I work with high-end clients. Scouting for everything from antiques to the latest pieces from the showrooms in Dallas. That sort of thing.”
“Wanna come see my stuff sometime?” Ethan combs his bangs back into place with his hands. “I mean, no pressure. But my shop’s out on my land.” Ethan juts his head toward the exit. “Not far from here.”
Don’t say yes, don’t say yes, Jackson thinks. Cut this off right here. Nothing good can come from this. The man is married, and Charleigh will skin him if she finds out he talked to Ethan even this much.
Jackson’s mouth hangs open, trying to form words. “I’d love to,” he finally says, stomach spinning.
“I’m about to head out. Wanna come outside, exchange cards? Mine are in the glove box.”
Jackson’s boots crunch over the white gravel as he trails Ethan through the parking lot. Above, the sky is clear, the moon a pale quarter dangling above them.
Ethan’s truck is parked next to Jackson’s convertible.
“Nice signage,” Ethan remarks about Jackson’s magnetic sign on the side of his car that reads, Ford Design.
“Yours, too,” Jackson says. And it is nice. A vintage-looking font, perfectly painted in white, that reads, Swift’s Custom Furniture.
“Thanks. Painted it myself.”
Of course you did, Jackson thinks. As if he needs another reason to have a crush on this man.
As they swap cards, Ethan’s hand brushes Jackson’s, sending electricity zipping up his arm. Jackson turns to leave, cracks open his car door, lowers himself inside. Before he closes it, Ethan says, “Hope to see you soon. I bet we have a lot more in common than you think.” Ethan winks at him again.