Cowboys Don't Come Out: A Coming Out, Must-love-kids, Two Step Dancing, Hawaii for the Holidays MM Romance

by Tara Lain

  Oh crap! The bull twisted and kicked sideways in a belly roll. Danny’s ass slipped; he tightened his grip on the rope and struggled for balance.

  Beeeeeep. Music to his fucking ears. The horn signaled the end of the ride, and Danny loosened his hold. For a breath he waited for the bull to turn his spin the opposite direction, and then Danny kicked away, managed to land on his feet, and backed toward the gate as the rodeo clowns, aka bullfighters, ran forward to distract the bull and risk their own lives for the hell of it.

  The sight of the clowns gave him a little shiver. No worries. This rodeo is too small potatoes for him.

  The crowd jumped up and yelled, applauding wildly as the announcer blasted, “Great ride for Danny Boone, folks. Give him a huge round of applause. He’d make his namesake proud.”

  Danny shuddered. Okay, yeah, he’d been drunk the night he made up his name—and he’d been living with the aftereffects ever since. Danny Boone. Seriously?

  A couple of cowboys slapped his butt as he walked by. He grabbed a piece of straw, stuck it between his lips, leaned on the fence, and watched the last two riders in the round. He wouldn’t mind having an extra thousand to stash in his bank account, but he had to get back to the ranch soon. He’d been gone three days, and his boss, Rand, needed him. Maybe not as much as he had before he married Kai, but Kai had gone back to school to finish his degree, and the other full-time ranch hand, Manolo, had family, so that put Danny at the head of the pack.

  Danny focused on the action in the arena. The rider who followed Danny, Worthman, had picked a bull not quite as feisty as Danny’s but still a handful. The bull decided he was a bronc, leaped in the air, and did a break in two. Worthman lost it, and that was the end of his ride.

  Okay, one down. Next up—Maury Garcia, by far the top bull rider in the competition. One of the best in the world. He pounded out of the chute on a bull more flash than substance, but he managed to look damned good hanging on for an easy eight. He even threw in a couple more seconds before he slid off. Sauntering toward the fence, Maury waved his hat at the crowd and walked straight toward Danny, grinning, as the bullfighters did their work behind him. Apparently Señor Flashy Bull got pissed at Maury’s attitude, because he broke away from the clowns and headed straight for Maury’s ass with horns at the ready.

  “Maury! Watch!” Danny waved his hat toward the bull to distract him.

  Maury glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widened, and he jumped toward the fence but didn’t make it and fell flat on his face.

  Without thought, Danny leaped over the fence and waved at Flashy Bull with his hat, whistling. The big black turned, saw Danny, snorted, and headed toward him as two clowns dragged Maury from the arena.

  Danny held his hat to the side and executed a pase natural, as the Spanish bullfighters called it, leading the bull around his body. The crowd went nuts. Well, all righty, then. He stepped back and pulled his Resistol in front of him like a damned small cape. Flashy shook his head and charged. Danny twirled out of the way in a classic veronica move. Shouts, cheers, stamping, and yelling.

  Two bullfighters hopped in front of Mr. Flashy. Danny nodded and stepped back. The audience kept cheering, so he took a small bow and then disappeared behind the fence. Two of the other riders grabbed him. Earl Westerman said, “Fuckin’ A, man. Maury’s sure glad you showed up.”

  Larry Flores pounded his back. “That was the coolest thing I ever saw.”

  Danny grinned. “Thanks.”

  He started walking toward his camper, parked in the fairgrounds lot. Larry stopped him. “Hey, Danny, you won, man. Get out there.”

  “What?”

  “You won!”

  Well, no shit? A couple of other guys started waving at him, so he slipped out through the fence, took a big bow to the screaming crowd, and tossed his piece of straw onto the arena dirt. Then he walked up to collect his prize money.

  When he got to the announcer, the guy said, “Congratulations, Danny, not only on a great ride, but for risking your neck for another rider. That’s what the cowboy spirit is all about.”

  Danny accepted the trophy and the envelope that would add another little cushion to his ranch-and-school fund. “Thank you, sir. Most honored to receive it and grateful to the judges. I had some stiff competition.” He pulled his hat brim in that gesture he associated with Rand. Women loved that cowboy shit. Men too. He grinned. That part he wouldn’t mention.

  He waved again at the crowd, then walked off the back of the podium. Earl Westerman grabbed his arm. “Hey, man, come have a drink. Maury wants to thank you personally.”

  Danny nodded. “No thanks needed.”

  “Come on, man. Maury’s really grateful.”

  Hey, a chance to meet a hero. “Okay, I appreciate it. I don’t have long, but I can stay for one beer.” He snagged a straw from a hay bale as they passed and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.

  Earl slung a heavy arm around his shoulders for a second, but Danny was so much taller it made walking awkward, so he dropped it. “That was some show you put on. Where’d you learn that shit?”

  Danny shrugged. “Watched the bullfighters, mostly. They’re the real professionals.”

  Earl grinned. “If you say so.”

  The most popular bar in the area stood right across the street from the rodeo grounds. Danny trotted next to Earl as they crossed the busy road and then stepped into the semidarkness of the cowboy hangout.

  Somebody yelled, “Hey, Earl, over here.”

  Earl led Danny toward the back of the bar. As Danny’s eyes adjusted, he saw a group of eight or ten cowboys, some of them bull riders and some from other specialties, clustered around a couple of tables that had been pushed together. Pitchers of beer already looked well used. Maury Garcia sat at the center of them. One of the most popular and talented bull riders, Maury usually competed in the big-purse Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association and Professional Bull Riders Association events, but since he was from California, he’d show up in some of the smaller, regional rodeos to give the crowds a thrill. He waved a hand. “Danny. Come sit here.” He pushed a chair out across from him with his foot. Danny slid into the seat and knocked back his Resistol.

  Maury leaned forward and offered his hand. Danny took it. Maury was probably a good seven or eight years older than Danny’s twenty-four, but in bull riding, if you didn’t die, experience made you better. “You saved my ass, cowboy. I’m in yer debt.”

  “No big. You’d have done it for me.”

  “Get this thirsty man a drink.”

  Someone pushed a clean glass in front of Danny, and another guy filled it from the remains in two pitchers.

  Danny raised the glass. “Obliged.” He shifted the straw to his shirt pocket and took a long drink. Cold and wet. Tasted good.

  “You’re a damned good bull rider.” Maury slowly turned the glass in front of him in a circle. “Haven’t I seen you ride before?”

  “Might of.”

  “You PRCA?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you don’t ride the circuit?”

  Danny shook his head. “Not regular.” Time to go, sports fans.

  A young guy who Danny’d seen ride earlier said, “Where’d you learn that bullfighting shit? That was rad.”

  Danny shrugged. “From the clowns, mostly.”

  Maury narrowed his eyes. “You know a lot of clowns?”

  “Some.” Danny drained his glass. “I better get going. I have some driving to do tonight.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Small spread near Chico.”

  “Your place?”

  “No such luck. I work for a guy.”

  “You riding in the PRCA event next weekend down in Chico?”

  “Nope.” Way too close to home.

  “Native?”

  “What?”

  “Californian?”

  Danny pulled down the brim of the straw hat. “No. From Wyoming originally.” He stuck out his hand again. “Good to
meet you. I’m a big fan.”

  Maury took it—and held. “I ever see you ride under a different name?”

  Oh shit. “Not likely.” He eyed the eight or so tough men clustered around. This could be damned painful if the conversation continued.

  Maury didn’t let go. He speared Danny with his dark-eyed gaze. “You’re a damned good rider—and, it appears, a damned good man. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.” He released Danny’s hand, grabbed a napkin, and snapped his fingers at Earl, who produced a pen from his pocket. Maury wrote a number on the napkin, then pushed it to Danny. “You got a raw deal.”

  Son of a total bitch. He knows. Danny swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

  “You want to start riding for big money again, call me.”

  Danny nodded.

  “And change your mind about the Chico event. There are some good riders. I’ll be there. You’d like it.”

  “Too late to enter.”

  Maury grinned. “Nope. Besides, I got connections.”

  Danny glanced quickly around the group, grabbed the napkin, and tried to not look like he was running toward the door.

  A few steps away, he turned a corner out of sight of Maury’s entourage, but he heard Earl say, “That’s Eldon Jones’s boy, ain’t it? What’s the name? Sawyer?”

  Danny slowed his steps.

  Maury replied, “Yep.”

  “One of the best bull riders I ever seen.”

  Somebody else said, “Wait. Sawyer Jones. You mean the fag?”

  Maury’s voice snapped like a bullwhip. “Shut your piehole, Sam. That fag saved my life.”

  Danny’s heart beat like a tom-tom—a little fear, a little anger, a lot of gratitude. Shit, Maury Garcia just stood up for me. Even if he did call me a fag.

  Danny stepped out of the bar into the still blazing heat of the late afternoon. He felt the napkin in his jeans pocket. What a seriously weirdass day. He’d beaten Mauricio Garcia at bull riding, then heard the man say Danny’d gotten a raw deal. Man. Somebody snap your fingers and wake me up. He shrugged and ran back across the street toward his beat-up camper. Yeah well, that phone number and twenty bucks would buy him a bottle of bourbon.

  He started up the rig, pressed the accelerator, and headed toward home.

  About halfway back to Chico, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. Frank. “Hey.”

  “Hey, babe. How’d it go?”

  “I won.”

  “Son of a bitch. Congrats, man.”

  “Yeah. It was interesting. I even rode against Maury Garcia.”

  “Tough competition. I thought it was just a small-town rodeo.”

  “It is, but you know how Maury shows up locally sometimes? There he was.”

  “Beating him’s no small deal. You should be proud.” Frank was the best kind of friend with benefits. Long on the friend.

  “I drew a better bull.”

  “Meaning one more likely to kill you?” Frank laughed.

  “Kind of. Not so much in this case. It’s a long story.”

  “You gonna tell me over a couple beers and a roll in the hay, or you too tired?”

  Am I? His cock stretched. Okay, but not so much for what Frank offered. “I’m kind of whipped, and I need to get back to work tomorrow. We’ve got a ton of students, plus some new guests checking in. It’s gonna be a bitch. Maybe later in the week?”

  “Sure. Hell. My good right hand can use the exercise.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, babe. I know how rodeoing takes it out of you. Hell, I think it brings up your daddy issues.”

  “Maybe.” Danny clenched his teeth.

  “So sleep good. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. And I’ll look forward to hammering your ass sometime after Wednesday.”

  “Yeah. Talk soon. Thanks, Frank.” He hung up. His interested party below the belt now stood at full attention. Okay, shit. I just gave up a chance to bottom in favor of—well, you know what it’s in favor of. Frank didn’t exactly know that Danny’s agreement to bottom went way beyond the luck of the draw. He also didn’t know who Danny really yearned for. Not that Danny couldn’t have told him. They were just friends and very nonexclusive. But Danny didn’t tell that secret to much of anybody. Unfortunately, that meant he spent a lot of time not getting what he wanted.

  On the outskirts of Chico, he turned sharply off the highway and wound his way to the backstreet bar he’d spotted last time he drove through. I’ll give it ten minutes. If I don’t find anybody, I’ll do without.

  He parked a few blocks from the club, left his hat on the passenger seat, and walked slowly toward the cheesy, pink blinking sign. He’d never been here before—but he’d heard a few rumors. Two men rushed past him, and damn if they didn’t look a lot like Danny—jeans, boots, Stetsons. Both were husky and one sported a full beard. Not promising. Studly guys he could find anywhere. Frank was as alpha as they came. So much so he had trouble convincing guys he was gay. That was one of the things that threw them together.

  Maybe I should turn back and go home?

  His cock bounced in protest.

  Okay, one look inside.

  He sidled up to the entrance and opened the door. Wham. Lights, music, perfume, feathers, and—queens, baby. More than a dozen of them. From adorable twinks to full-on drag divas, the feast spread out before him, outlined in glitter. Danny smiled and strolled to the bar, then grabbed a stool as a big bear of a guy left.

  A slick, dark-haired Hispanic bartender leaned toward him. “What’ll you have, handsome?”

  Danny nodded. “Thanks, and I’ll have a beer. Whatever you’ve got on tap.” He didn’t plan to drink for long.

  He turned and leaned his back against the bar. The femmes weren’t in the majority, but they stood out from the cowboys like flowers in a plastic vase.

  A big biker type with tats and two days’ growth of beard slid in next to him at the bar. “Hey, can I buy you a drink?”

  “Kind of you, but I’m waiting for someone.” Danny leaned behind him and grabbed the beer the bartender had served him.

  “Sorry to hear that. If he doesn’t show, I’ll be right over there.” He pointed toward a corner table where a couple of other men, who likely kept Harley in business, sucked on longneck bottles.

  Danny nodded and the guy ambled back to his table, flashing a lot of ass muscle as he went. Danny’s timeline just got compressed. If he didn’t find somebody quick, that dude would be back.

  He glanced around. A pretty redheaded drag queen held forth in the corner, surrounded by her sisters. Too hard to extract her from the bevy. Motorcycle Guy would notice she wasn’t “waiting” for Danny. Who else made his cock dance the two-step?

  He sipped his way through the rest of his beer and could feel Motorcycle Guy’s eyes on him. Shit. Better go. He glanced at his watch, then slid some money on the bar.

  The bartender smiled at him. “You have to go, handsome? I get off at two.”

  Danny smiled back. “That’s damned tempting, but I’ve got to work early.”

  “Cowboying?”

  He nodded.

  The bartender leaned closer. “Is there a chance I’m just not your type?”

  “You’re great-looking, man. No issues.”

  “But you still didn’t answer my question.”

  “Why’d you ask it?”

  “I just seen you looking at the pretty ones. That what you want?” He cocked his head. “Because if you wait about three more minutes, you’ll meet my cousin, Pedro, and I’m guessing he might light up those green eyes of yours.”

  Danny raised his eyebrow. “You’re all heart.”

  “Yeah, a regular saint. But Pedro has to eat too.”

  “So he’s—?” He waved his hand.

  “Let’s just say he likes presents.”

  “That’s nice and all, but I doubt I have enough, uh, presents to interest Pedro, and I’ve got to get going.” He added another couple of dollars to his tip and slipped off the
stool.

  As he stood, Motorcycle Guy pushed back his chair at the same time the bartender waved. “Hey, Pedro. Over here.”