Calvin’s Cowboy

by Drew Hunt

  “No chance, buster.” Calvin crossed his arms.

  Brock noticed Junior had given up all pretence of reading.

  “I’m sure he’s good at many things,” Calvin continued, “but he can stay being good at them in Texas. You understand?” He glared at Brock.

  “Yes, darlin’.” Brock smiled. He sure loved pushing Calvin’s buttons. Still feeling playful, Brock leaned in and whispered, “Pedro is good, but you’re even better. You’re the only man this ole cowboy wants.”

  “Aww, that’s so sweet,” Junior said, causing Calvin to laugh and Brock to blush.

  “You know,” Calvin continued, “with your good looks you could have your own TV show. We could call it ‘Brock’s—”

  “No we couldn’t,” Brock interrupted, but his grin was back. Calvin sure was on a roll this afternoon.

  * * * *

  “Andrew, it’s great to see you again.”

  “You, too. It’s been too long.”

  The first thing that struck Brock was the man’s English accent. Brock began to wonder if Calvin had made a mistake by bringing them here. Everybody knew the English couldn’t cook worth a damn.

  Because Junior was out at a party with Maggie and her friends, Calvin and Brock found themselves with a free evening. Brock was given the choice of spending the time in bed, or going out to the hole-in-the-wall place Calvin had mentioned a week or so earlier. It hadn’t been an easy choice, but eventually Brock’s stomach had won out over his dick. However, Brock was hoping the meal wouldn’t take all evening, so they could go back home and…

  “Yeah, sorry,” Calvin was telling the English guy, “I had to go back to Texas to fix up the parents’ place and try to sell it.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “It’s on the market. But there’re no takers yet.”

  “It’s not easy to shift property at the moment,” Andrew observed.

  “Nope.” In an obvious attempt to change the subject, Calvin asked, “How’s Matthew?”

  Brock saw that Andrew’s face—which no one could describe as handsome—softened at this other man’s name. “Amazing as always.”

  “Oh, you two.” Calvin smiled warmly. “Like I said on the phone, I brought someone with me. He’s missing the tastes of home.”

  “We can’t have that,” Andrew said, seeming to acknowledge Brock for the first time. ”Let me show you to your table.”

  The place was surprisingly small; there were only six tables. The oak-paneled walls had various prints on them. Longhorns, the hill country. The picture above their table was of the Enchanted Rock.

  “I’ll be back in a mo with your starters,” Andrew said.

  Brock sat and placed his Stetson upside down on the chair next to him. Watching the waiter leave, his unease grew. What was this place? And they hadn’t even given the guy their order, and he was already talking about bringing out their food.

  Calvin lit the candle on their table. Brock wondered why the waiter hadn’t done it.

  “Relax,” Calvin said, taking Brock’s hand on the table top.

  Instinctively Brock pulled away, shooting a quick glance around the room at the other diners. Three of the other five tables were occupied, each by men.

  “This is New York, beautiful. It’s okay,” Calvin soothed.

  It felt so alien to be able to hold hands in public, but Brock was beginning to realize that in some parts of this city he could, indeed, be as God had intended him. It was liberating, but still frightening.

  Slowly he inched his hand back to the middle of the table. Calvin interlaced his fingers through Brock’s, and gave him a little squeeze.

  Brock felt his face heat in embarrassment. He took another quick look around, but no one seemed to have noticed. In fact, the couple at the next but one table was also holding hands. Brock stared at them.

  “Stop gawking,” Calvin murmured.

  “Sorry, it’s just—”

  “Here we go,” Andrew interrupted. “Matthew said he’d be out later to see you. He’s just a bit busy at the minute.”

  Brock made to pull his hand back, but Calvin held on. Andrew didn’t seem to even notice. He placed two plates of black-eyed peas, red onion, and salsa on the placemats in front of them.

  “Enjoy,” Andrew told them.

  “Thank you.” Looking at the food, Brock began to believe he probably would enjoy. The steam rising from the plates caused his mouth to water.

  Calvin let go of Brock’s hand and picked up his fork. Brock immediately missed the contact.

  “Did you bring any drinks?” Andrew asked.

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” Calvin said, dabbing at a smear of vinegar on his chin. “A six-pack of beer.”

  “I’ll fetch you some glasses, then,” Andrew said, before walking away.

  There was something not right about that guy, Brock thought, but the sight of the food distracted him from pursuing it.

  He tucked the large cloth napkin into his collar. Salsa would be a bitch to get out of his silk shirt if he spilled anything on it.

  “Oh, my, God!” Brock moaned through a mouthful of food. The taste was rich, full, sweet, salty…he didn’t know. This was the best darn Texas caviar he’d ever tasted.

  “Glad I brought you here now?” Calvin asked after also tucking in his napkin.

  Brock was so moved by the culinary spectacular, he reached out and took Calvin’s hand. The gesture wasn’t lost on his boyfriend.

  Even when Andrew returned with their glasses, Brock didn’t make a move to separate. Andrew didn’t bat an eyelid as he wished them ‘Bon appetite,’ and withdrew.

  The excellent food, and Brock’s need to ingest more of it than he could comfortably do with one hand, finally persuaded him to let go of Calvin, who smiled warmly at him, causing butterflies to briefly take flight in his insides. The man sitting opposite was everything Brock could have ever wished for: kind, generous, and sexy as sin.

  They ate in almost total silence, each too intent on their food to talk. Brock then noticed there was music playing softly in the background; George Straight was singing one of his honky-tonk numbers.

  “Want a drink?” Brock asked.

  Calvin nodded, his mouth full.

  Brock lifted the six-pack from the floor, pulled out a couple of bottles, screwed off the caps, and poured the contents into the glasses.

  “Cheers,” Brock said as they clinked glasses.

  “To us.”

  Brock nodded. For the past couple of weeks Calvin hadn’t exactly been subtle in his attempts to persuade Brock and Junior to move to New York. But never had he actually come out and asked them to stay.

  Brock had to admit the Big Apple had a lot to offer. Calvin had the connections, he’d already shown him that. Brock, as Calvin had said many times, had the construction skills. Together they could make a real go of flipping apartment blocks, providing decent homes for folks.

  “Earth to Brock, are you receiving me?” Calvin asked.

  “It’s a big step.”

  Calvin nodded, knowing what Brock was talking about.

  What was holding Brock back from not agreeing there and then to move? Lord knew there was nothing for him or Junior back in Texas. However, Brock still wasn’t comfortable about Calvin paying for everything: the setting up of a construction company, sponsoring Junior through college, buying them both clothes, the list seemed endless. But, Brock reasoned, if he could make the construction business a success, he’d be able to pay Calvin back.

  “Ready for the main course?” Andrew’s voice brought Brock back to the present.

  “Uh, sure. Say, they were mighty fine beans. Please pass on my compliments to Matthew, did you say?”

  Andrew’s face lit up again. Brock wondered if he showed a similar reaction whenever anyone mentioned Calvin to him.

  Andrew made to take the plates. Calvin moved quickly to pick up their half-full glasses. Brock shot Calvin a confused look. Calvin mouthed, “In a minute.”

  “Yo
u’re in luck tonight,” Andrew said. “It’s Matthew’s famous smoked brisket and ribs.”

  “Oh, man. I swear, his smoker is like a magic portal or something,” Calvin said.

  Andrew laughed.

  “You still have that rolling reservation for the fire department?”

  “Yes, every Friday night at eight.”

  Brock’s confusion must have shown on his face.

  “The fire department was going to ticket them for having a smoker on the roof, this being a city and all,” Calvin began.

  “But Matthew invited the bloke to come back that evening and try his smoked pork, on the house. He did, even brought a friend with him, and after one taste the bloke asked us for the ticket and ripped it up in front of us. He said that we’d never get another ticket so long as we kept a table free for them every Friday. They insisted on paying the bill when they left, and gave me a big tip, too.”

  “Amazing,” Brock said. He didn’t think such cozy arrangements would go on in the big city.

  “We had to turn a few patrons away this evening when word got out that Matthew had run the smoker yesterday. You were lucky we managed to fit you in.”

  “Thanks. From both of us,” Calvin said.

  Andrew departed, and—after remembering their earlier unspoken conversation about moving the glasses—Brock raised an eyebrow. Calvin must have remembered, too.

  “Andrew is blind.”

  “Huh?”

  “The two of them decided to open up this hole-in-the-wall, Matthew doing the cooking, and Andrew waiting tables. It gives Matthew a reason to cook, he’s originally from a large family, and it also gives Andrew a job, one he’d never be able to have in any other establishment. By day Matthew is a licensed massage therapist, and Andrew is a book editor.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re just a small operation. There’s no menu, you get whatever Matthew has cooked that day. They don’t advertise, there’s no need, it’s all by word-of-mouth. Everyone who eats here knows the score. We make sure no accidents occur like what almost happened just now. Andrew’s a smart cookie. He will have known I moved the glasses, but it’s understood I won’t say anything, and neither will he.”

  “Wow.”

  The smoked brisket was every bit as amazing as Calvin had said it would be. Sure enough, the all-important pink ring was there. The thinly sliced beef just melted in Brock’s mouth. The ribs were dark and smoky and rich and…the mashed potatoes were like fluffy white clouds. The collard greens were perfect, too. Brock had a hard time deciding which he liked the most. Ultimately he gave up—it was all good.

  “I can’t eat another thing.” Brock pushed away his still partially filled plate and loosened his belt.

  “Andrew will pack up the rest of our food, and we can take it home. No one ever leaves here without leftovers. It’s a tradition.”

  “More brisket and ribs tomorrow. I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Brock belched softly.

  “And there’s still dessert,” Calvin said.

  Brock groaned. “I can’t.”

  “And another tradition is that no one ever leaves here without having eaten dessert,” someone said. The speaker came closer. “Tonight it’s pecan, chocolate, and bourbon pie.”

  Brock assumed this was Matthew, a fairly easy guess given that the guy was dressed in kitchen whites, blue and white checked pants and a floppy chef’s hat.

  “There’s also some peach cobbler from yesterday, isn’t there?” Andrew approached and turned to Matthew, who kissed him on the cheek.

  “Sure is, hon.”

  Andrew settled against Matthew, laying his head on the broad shoulder of his partner. Even for someone unused to seeing two men being affectionate with each other, Brock could tell the two were very much in love. The look of serene happiness on Andrew’s face as Matthew gave him a one-armed hug almost brought Brock to tears with the absolute rightness of the gesture.

  Brock just had to get up and shake Matthew’s hand. “Thank you. This was a revelation. It was, amazing, awesome, as good as, hell, better than…” He realized he still had hold of Matthew’s hand, so dropped it, blushing in embarrassment.

  Matthew laughed. “Come here.” Brock was enfolded in a bear hug. “Thank you. I like when folks say they’ve enjoyed eating my food.” Letting him go, Matthew looked Brock up and down. “My, Calvin,” he said to the still-seated Calvin, “you got a tall drink of water here.”

  Brock’s blush increased. He wasn’t used to getting compliments, not from other men, at least.

  “Hands off, I found him first,” Calvin said.

  “No worries. I got all the man I could ever want right here.” He reached for and gave Andrew a squeeze.

  “You daft bugger,” Andrew laughed.

  “I’ll get your dessert in a minute.” Matthew didn’t wait for a reply before moving on to the next table, exchanging a few words with its occupants.

  Brock sat down and looked over at a happily smiling Calvin, the candlelight glinting in his green eyes. They held hands until their dessert arrived. One enormous plate with pie and cobbler, as well as a healthy serving of iced cream. There were two spoons.

  “It’s what we do for every new couple who dines with us,” Andrew told them.

  Brock, now so comfortable in this special place—where men could openly show their affections to other men—had no hesitation in picking up a spoon, loading it with pie and lifting it to Calvin’s lips.

  Calvin looked momentarily surprised, but recovered in time to accept the food.

  He reciprocated and fed Brock some cobbler. Again the food was excellent; the ice cream tasted homemade.

  After finishing, Brock continued to sit there, just enjoying the feeling of holding Calvin’s hand in public. Without really being aware he’d done so, Brock realized he’d made his decision.

  “If you’ve got room in your apartment and your life for a bankrupt cowboy and his son, then…” he swallowed. “Then I’d like to move in permanently.”

  “Hoo yeah!” Calvin yelled.

  Everyone in the small restaurant looked over at them. Brock started to panic, but then realized he was with Calvin, the man he loved, and this was New York. “It’s okay, y’all,” Brock said to the room. “I just asked this amazin’ man if he’d share his home and his life with me an’ my son.” Brock raised Calvin’s hand to his lips. “An’, as you heard, he said yes.”

  The room erupted into applause, everyone came up to them, one-by-one, to offer their congratulations.

  Brock felt warm and welcomed by the city, by the occupants of the restaurant, but most of all by Calvin, who smiled from the other side of the table at him.

  THE END

  ABOUT DREW HUNT

  Having read all the decent free fiction on the net Drew could find, he set out to try his hand at writing something himself. Fed up reading about characters who were super-wealthy, impossibly handsome, and incredibly well-endowed, Drew determined to make his characters real and believable.

  Drew lives a quiet life in the north of England with his cat. Someday he hopes to meet the kind of man he writes about.

  ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

  Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including gay erotic romance, fantasy, young adult, poetry, and nonfiction. We are an invitation-only small press. Short stories and novellas are available as e-books and compiled into single-author print anthologies, while any story over 30k in length is available in both print and e-book formats. Visit us at jms-books.com for more information on our latest releases!

 

 

 
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