Cowboy (The Busy Bean)

by L. B. Dunbar

  “Damn,” Canyon mutters.

  “I see her,” Clayton replies.

  “Wowza,” Blade adds.

  “Fuck off, all of you,” I quickly say. “Settle your dicks.” We’re like our own lonely-hearts club at fucking forty-something, and it sucks. However, these guys are hornier than rabbits most days.

  Canyon shakes his head again. “Bull, man, seriously. Here’s your shot. One night. Just buy her a drink. That’s the only commitment. One drink. No rings.” He speaks like I’m carrying around diamonds in my pocket. Here’s one for you, and one for you, and another one for you. I’ve actually never proposed with a diamond ring.

  “Keep it slow. No big words like love, marriage, and a baby in a baby carriage,” Blade adds as if I need coaching from the other eternal bachelor.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter. The guys chuckle at my expense, and I get it. I do. I’ve been standing at the end of an aisle too many times. “I’m not doing this.”

  “Bull, dude. She keeps looking over here. Just say hi. That’s not a commitment either. It’s a way to start a conversation,” Clayton encourages.

  “Hardy-har, boys.” These guys are such assholes. I know how this night is going to go. The more they drink, the more they razz, putting them almost on par with Redd and Dillard.

  Look at Bull, dairy king handing out another ring.

  Our waitress brings another round that I don’t remember ordering. It doesn’t stop me from chugging down the additional beer, though, before Clayton throws out a challenge.

  “Milk time for a week.” He tips his head toward the redheaded beauty I keep taking glances at. “Just a drink.”

  “For a week?” The boys know I don’t actually mind milking. It’s a repetitive process, and the soft lulls of the cows let my thoughts run their course before the rest of the day needs my attention. I wouldn’t even know how to sleep in as I’m so used to getting up at four in the morning. Still, I double his challenge. “Two weeks.”

  “Done,” Clayton says, reaching over the table and shaking my hand.

  “Maybe she’s your four-leaf clover. A lucky charm,” Blade adds, rubbing his hands together, and right there, I know he’s jinxed me.

  “Hey, Rita.”

  My eyes leap to her tablemate and then back to her. Rita has dark hair with faint lines of white, giving away her age a bit.

  “Hiya yourself, handsome. How are you tonight, Bull?”

  Reaching for the back of my neck, I nervously scratch.

  “Just thought I’d come over and say hi.” I glance back at her friend, unnerved by the dark depths of her eyes.

  “Uh-huh.” Rita takes a sip of the cola in her glass. “Bull Eaton, this is my friend, Scarlett Russell. Scarlett, Bull.”

  Our eyes meet, and I swear my heart does a two-step dance. Struggling to keep myself in check, I slip my hands into my back pockets and rock on my boot heels. I’m a fucking teenage mess looking at her with those large coffee-colored eyes.

  “My friends dared me to buy you a drink.” The words rush out, bursting forth like hot air in a balloon. Scarlett laughs, looking like she’s already had a few.

  With a large smile curling those purple-painted lips, she says, “Well, I’ll see your hello and one-up you. How about taking me home, Bull?”

  “Pardon me?” I stammer, unbelieving my ears.

  “I said, I’ll see your hello and raise you to . . . take me to bed, partner.”

  I blink. I look at Rita. I glance back at her friend. It couldn’t be that easy.

  “How about that drink?” I nod toward her glass.

  “Had plenty already,” she states, staring up at me with saucer-sized eyes. Damn, she’s so pretty.

  “You drunk?” I have to ask. She shakes her head, and Rita leans over, saying something to her that I miss while taking in the light dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks. She glances at Rita and then slips off the stool.

  “Lead on.” She holds out a hand before me.

  Taking her hand, I don’t look up at the guys as I pass them, but I’m certain their mouths are hanging open. Somewhere in the bar, I hope Redd and Dillard are watching. Holding up my hand, I give a raised V salute over my shoulder to whomever might be watching me.

  Two weeks, buddy, I intend for Clayton. Or victory, however, they want to read it.

  I’m not that crass, though, and once outside, I gently grab her upper arm and swing her toward the exterior of the bar.

  “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, darlin’,” I say to her, leaning in and sliding my hand above her head. As she’s several inches shorter than me despite high heeled boots, she looks up at me, biting the corner of her lip, and I swear I want to look into that swirling chocolate gleam as I enter her repeatedly, but I take a deep breath.

  “Darlin’?” she mocks, grinning a little broader. “Seriously?”

  “Don’t like that one? How about baby girl?”

  “Oh no, not that one.” She laughs, and the tease in her tone tickles down my spine like a featherlight caress. My balls tighten, and I slide my hand down the exterior wall, bringing my body closer to her. Leaning in for her neck, I’ve never worked this fast before. I’m worrying I’m about to blow it as my nose glides up the side of her floral-scented skin, and I inhale.

  “How about sweetheart?” I whisper, elongating the endearment as my lips brush the shell of her ear. Her breath catches, and her breasts heave, softly dragging against my shirt.

  “That’ll work,” she whispers, and I slide my cheek against hers.

  “Sweetheart it is, then,” I say, my exhale hitting her lips like a kiss. Only I’m ready for the real thing, so my mouth takes hers. She’s quick to respond, giving back to me what I’m giving her. Soft sucks and tender tugs, then tongues seek, and I’m pressing firmer against her. She tips her head as I’m quite a bit taller than her. Hands slip up my chest and around my neck, latching onto me, and she uses her elbows at my shoulders to leverage herself higher. The next thing I know, her legs are around my waist, and I have her pinned to the exterior wall.

  “How about that bed?” she says against my mouth.

  “Anything you want, sweetheart.”

  Her lips smile against mine, and we return to kissing for another minute.

  Yeah, I’ll be giving this woman anything—for one night and one night only.

  Two Mornings After

  Scarlett

  “Well?” Rita asks, elongating the word and waiting on details. It’s been two days since my one-night stand, and I don’t know what to say.

  “What do you want me to tell you?” I impishly ask, lifting my large coffee mug of dark roast. My eyes lower to the maple syrup walnut muffin on the marble coffee table before me. Rita and I sit on a plush peach couch in the Busy Bean Café, a local coffee house on the same property as The Gin Mill.

  “Girl, I am living vicariously through you. Give me all the details,” Rita says with a good-natured laugh. I’d love to tell her everything, but for some reason, I won’t. I can’t tell her how Bull took me against the door, over a desk, and on the bed, twice. How his thick fingers, wicked mouth, and amazing penis brought me to climax five times in twelve hours. How looking at that maple muffin on the table reminds me of the maple syrup sample in my rental at the Green Rocks and how Bull used it on me, making me a human muffin of sorts. Or how I woke alone in the morning torn between satisfied and disheartened.

  “It was . . . fun.”

  “Fun?” Rita sputters, spraying a bit of her black coffee from her lips. “Going to knitting club is fun. Listening to kids laugh is fun. Watching a hockey game is fun. Bull Eaton is not fun. That hunk of a man is seriously hot and hung. I mean, I imagine he’s hung. I have no idea if he is, but he has to be. His name is Bull.” Rita’s voice rises in exasperation at my lack of facts, causing me to laugh.

  Rita is my oldest friend. We met in college and formed an instant connection with one another. I hate that life got in the way for both of us aft
er graduation, meaning we haven’t seen as much of each other in the past two decades. I’ve missed her. In a weird fluke of the cosmos, she called me on the day my life crumbled, and I’m so grateful I answered the phone. It’s like some higher power knew I needed a friend, and there Rita was, encouraging me to come to Vermont to visit her.

  “Would you keep your voice down?” I chuckle again, looking over my shoulder. The Busy Bean Café is a quaint establishment. Quirky and eclectic, it’s the definition of fun. The place has large, leaded glass windows overlooking the Winooski River, wide pinewood floors, and walls in a warm brick color. Heavy beams painted in black chalkboard paint are decorated with cartoon figures of coffee drinks and sayings like “May the odds be ever in your flavor.” Cute pun. Furniture like this plush peach couch is just a part of the novel collection of tables, chairs, and easy furniture arranged for maximum socializing. The coffee bar itself is topped with a thick zinc counter and holds a glass display case with various pastries. It’s wacky, warm, and wonderful in here.

  “Look, if I can’t live through you, what is the purpose of my life?” Rita teases. While that might have been true when I had the lush apartment, the sexy husband, and the energizing job, it’s no longer the case. No one wants to live through me, not even me.

  “You don’t think badly of me?” I hesitate. “I mean, it’s only been a week since I left Boston.” While I probably should feel a little more guilt that I so easily slept with a virtual stranger one week after leaving my husband, I don’t. He slept with someone else first, but it’s not as easy as tit for tat. Shelton and I have been distant for longer than I was willing to recognize. The reality of our waning closeness has weighed heavily on my mind this past week.

  “Girl, I would never think badly of you. We all make decisions for a variety of reasons. Falling into bed with a hunky man doesn’t seem like the worst to me. You deserve a reckless night once in a while.”

  “But I’m still married,” I remind her.

  “Which your husband seemed to have forgotten long before the other night.” Rita’s correct, and my guilt subsides a little more. There’s no reconciliation in sight for Shelton and me. I don’t want to go back to who we were or who I was.

  “What I really want to know is when will you see Bull again?” Rita asks.

  “I won’t.” I shrug. Bull was more than fun but waking up without his number was a good reminder I’m not really a one-night stand kind of girl. On the other hand, I’m not looking for a relationship that involves any kind of commitment.

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t leave me his number.”

  Rita stares at me, blinking behind red-framed eyeglasses. They’re fun. “He didn’t leave his number?” Rita’s expression matches her incredulous voice.

  I shake my head. “Maybe it’s normal for someone like Bull to have one-night stands. Love ’em and leave ’em style.” Even as I say the words, I don’t think they’re true. Bull wasn’t so cavalier unless he’s a damn good actor and lover, which he was damn good on the lover level. He was generous. God, was he generous. He made sure I came first and often, and then when I was finished, he made certain I was satisfied before moving forward. Unlike Shelton, who typically came first and offered me assistance second, Bull was attentive and considerate. I’d hate to think his generosity was a performance on his part.

  “Honey, that does not sound like Bull Eaton. Not one iota.”

  I stare at my friend, waiting for further explanation.

  “Rumor has it he’s asked five different women to marry him. He has commitment written all over him. A man who makes engagements does not forget to leave his phone number.”

  Apparently, Bull did not want commitment from me. But I’m not in a position to start a relationship anyway.

  “Five engagements? That sounds a little desperate, and since when do you believe rumors?” Rita’s an attorney. She thrives on facts, not hearsay.

  “Since it’s all I have to live off as you won’t share details.” We both laugh at her emphatic answer. “I’m not saying the rumors are true. It’s just . . . Bull doesn’t seem like a one-night stand kind of guy, even if I did push you in that direction.” Rita’s voice softens, expressing her concern and compassion for my situation.

  “You didn’t push me. And thanks again for coming out with me to The Gin Mill. Was that difficult for you?” My friend is a recovered alcoholic, and going to a bar might have been the last place on her list of good times.

  “Not my first choice of hangouts but also not the most difficult place to hang. I know my limits, and I’d have let you know if I reached them. Did my own stud finder scope out while I was there.”

  “Stud finder?”

  “You took the bull. I need a stud.” A moment passes before I catch her meaning, and I bend at the waist, laughing a good hard laugh. I have really missed this woman.

  “I promise we will get you one the next time.” Although, I’m not certain there will be a next time. I don’t know how to do the day after, or in this case, two days later, when I don’t know how to find Bull.

  “I could get you Bull’s number. Quick little social media check or database search.” Rita wiggles her brows.

  “I don’t want to hunt him down like some stalker, and I’m going to ignore the fact you mentioned database searching. You shouldn’t abuse your attorney privileges.” I wink at her. I’ve done my own sleuthing like that in the past, seeking the next great gossip before it broke wide, but those days are over now. “I’m not in a position for long term. I have bigger issues, like finalizing my divorce with Shelton, finding a new job, and deciding what’s next for me.”

  Rita nods, accepting the hard truth of my messed-up life. “What do you think should be next?”

  As it will take three to four months to finalize my divorce in the state of Massachusetts where Shelton and I resided, I just have to wait out that time. I can’t think about a new job just yet, uncertain the entertainment industry is right for me anymore, which leaves me with my final decision.

  I look around the coffee house and take a deep breath. It’s been roughly ten days since I left Boston.

  “I think I’d like to stay in Vermont a little longer. I’ve checked with the rental office at Green Rocks, and I can keep my place until May first.” It’s mid-March, and the continued rental gets me through April.

  My friend’s brows lift. “That’s wonderful.” Her genuine smile reassures me of my plan. “Can you afford it?” Then she laughs. “Of course, you can afford it, what am I saying?”

  Not only was my husband the lead heart surgeon at Boston General, but I have financial stability in my own right from my career, and it might be time to splurge a little on me for once.

  “I’d still like a job. Just something to keep me busy, and in the middle of people. I don’t think I’ll be good company with myself.” It’s not that I can’t be alone; it’s that I don’t want to be alone. I’ll spend too much time self-evaluating, wondering where I went wrong in my marriage and career. Admittedly, I have negative self-esteem issues from my parents who laid the groundwork, so I don’t need the self-demoralization.

  As I look around the room, I notice a sign in the front window. Help Wanted. Like the phone call I received from Rita on the day I lost both my husband and my job, I feel like this is another message from the universe.

  “I could work here,” I say, glancing back at Rita.

  “What do you know about making coffee?”

  “Nothing, but how hard can it be?”

  More than a month later, I still don’t quite have the hang of it, but the owners Zara Rossi and Audrey Shipley are more than patient with me. The café is busy, and another warm body actually helps out. I don’t mind the menial work of wiping off tables and straightening chairs, restocking the pastry case or even washing out coffee pots. It gives me a chance to talk to people, and I love a good gossip story.

  The other thing about me is I’m timely. I have nothing else going o
n in life, so why not take any shift offered, even the ungodly early ones. My divorce is proceeding as we aren’t contesting anything. I don’t want the apartment especially after my delinquent doctor husband moved his little pregnant med student into our home, and Shelton isn’t disputing that he pay me my share of the property. It feels like dirty money to me, but I just want to be done with him. Happy ex-wife equals happy life. I should write that on the chalkboard beams.

  I am happy, mostly. I spend time with Rita. I explore Vermont, and steer clear of where I think Bull Eaton might be. No more The Gin Mill. No Dunham where I’ve learned his family owns a dairy farm. Dunham is a small community, and I vaguely recall the name from a story I reported on a while back. Something about cows, as a matter of fact, but I can’t remember the headline. As if my thoughts conjure the only dairyman I know, Bull enters the café.

  With a woman.

  Blinking to clear my vision, making certain it’s really him, I drop behind the peach couch, falling to my hands and knees. Crawling to the edge of the furniture, I watch Bull place his hand on the small of the woman’s back—a possessive move if I’ve ever seen one. He strokes up her spine, and I feel a little sick watching him touch her so intimately. Actually, I’ve been feeling a little sick a lot lately, and I chalk up the current nausea to the upheaval in my life.

  The woman orders and then turns to Bull, offering him a sweet gaze as though she’s totally smitten with him. She also looks about fifteen years younger than him. The strange part is, he doesn’t seem to notice her looking up at him with hearts in her eyes. He just keeps his eyes forward and places his order.

  Please let it be a to-go order. I send up my silent prayer to the cosmos but have no such luck in it being honored when the two pick up plates with muffins on them and cross the café to the couch I’m hiding behind.

  Frick. Frick. Frick.

  I need to get out from behind this couch, but I’m trapped. I’m working with Audrey and Roderick today. Audrey has the patience of a saint with me and that Astra coffee machine that looks like something from outer space. It makes three cups of coffee at once, but I’ve only mastered black and pointing at the cream and sugar counter.