by Jerry Cole
“You work in media, don’t you?” Isaac returned, not bothering to answer his question.
“I do,” Wyatt said. “I’m a journalist.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Isaac responded.
“I suppose so,” Wyatt said, chortling. He glanced back toward camp, his heart squeezing with apprehension. “I was reviewing the food scene in New Mexico, if you can believe it.”
“Lots of tacos,” Isaac returned.
“Oh, God. Yes. I don’t need another taco in my life,” Wyatt said, surprised to feel laughter bubbling up in his gut. He swallowed hard, trying to reroute his mind. Isaac’s eyes were steady, sure, almost black as night, and he felt ten inches shorter than his normal height in Isaac’s presence.
He hadn’t felt like this before.
“Anyway, I was there in New Mexico, when I saw these people. They were fighting in the middle of the street. All my alarm bells went off, you know. If I’m meant to be a journalist, then I need the alarm bells.”
“Sure,” Isaac offered.
“Sure. But anyway, it’s funny, what happened next. I had barely anything written for the New Mexico assignment. But I just knew I had to come out here with them, to see what would happen next.”
Isaac’s thick eyebrows crept up his forehead. “Did you expect all this?” he asked.
“I think I expected just the four of them to do acid in the desert or something,” Wyatt murmured, his cheeks red. “This is beyond my wildest dreams.”
Tension brewed between them. Wyatt took a slight step toward Isaac, wanting to take stock of his smell, to glimpse the stubble upon his neck, to acknowledge the weight of his lower lip. How he suddenly craved kissing it.
“Why are you here, then?” Wyatt asked, his voice soft.
Isaac pressed his lips together. His eyes raced back toward the field. It was perhaps seven-thirty, and the sun had begun to trek toward the horizon line, casting orange and pink light. The cult had begun to build up their tents, many of which reflected back the light, glowing at the end of the day.
“Hey, you wouldn’t want to grab a drink, would you?” Isaac asked, swallowing hard. “I mean, I know you probably need to get back. All your journalistic duties are calling.”
Wyatt knew Isaac was avoiding the question. Something in the back of his mind burned, demanding an answer. But Isaac seemed a rather pure vessel, beyond this initial avoidance. And Wyatt’s cock demanded something of him, something that drew him closer to Isaac, close enough to whisper, “Of course. Do you know a good bar around here?”
Chapter Five
Isaac
For the second time that day, Isaac pressed against the saloon doors, stretching his legs into the dark cigarette haze. Wyatt the journalist marched in behind him, a good five inches taller—almost Scandinavian looking—with glittering blue eyes. Isaac drew his shoulders back, trying to remain conscious of his posture, despite the strangeness of the situation, the growing lateness of the hour.
His brain ticked with the knowledge that he had yet to visit his father. His phone remained off. Monica and Trudy were surely having a colossal breakdown, marveling at how wretched their brother truly was. When he finally did get around to going to reckon with his father’s life, his father’s death, he sensed Trudy would smack him across the face, hard enough to leave harsh white lines. She’d certainly done it before. It was simply the Texan way.
Isaac and Wyatt slipped into stools near the back of the bar. Strangely enough, several more members of the ghost town had joined in the evening hours, making Marcia toss herself about in a flurry. She poured beers with a mania, her eyes flashing.
“So, I tell him, I tell him—why can’t he go someplace else?” Marcia hollered, seemingly half-drunk herself, telling the story of Everett McLean. “And he rears up, like he might smack an old woman! And you know what, this kid. Thomas Baxter’s kid! He just comes up and—oh! There he is.”
Marcia’s face glowed. She smacked a firm palm across the counter in greeting, as though she and Isaac hadn’t just said their goodbyes about ten minutes before, when she’d guided herself back to the saloon, saying, “Conrad ain’t gonna be able to serve all those assholes himself.”
“There he is! That’s Thomas Baxter’s son!” she cried. “And he gets to drink on the house, if he wants to. All night long!”
Isaac’s cheeks burned. He glanced toward Wyatt, who gave him an incredulous look.
“Thomas Baxter?” Wyatt asked, arching his brow. “Is that a famous name around here?”
“I think everyone’s famous in a ghost town,” Isaac offered. “Strangely enough, my daddy has lived here for the past, oh, twelve years, I guess. Came out here after he left my momma. I have barely seen him since.”
In the midst of this brief explanation—one that very frankly left out the majority of the information, along with why on earth Isaac had found himself all the way out there in the midst of all this hubbub—the many drinkers of the smoky saloon turned their thick cheeks toward Wyatt and Isaac, assessing them.
“Which one?” one man hollered to Marcia.
“The black-haired one. You know Thomas had black hair. They’re spitting resemblances of each other,” Marcia called back. “You probably got that all the time, growing up.”
Isaac had, of course. He and his father had both resented it. He spread his finger out beneath his nose, rubbing at his growing mustache. Perhaps he would at least resemble a cowboy, like his father always wanted. Perhaps that would be the last image his father ever had of him. It would seem more like a fever dream, maybe.
Isaac gave them all a flat-palmed wave. Marcia busied herself, pouring him and Wyatt two whiskeys—neither of which they ordered. She tapped them before them, spreading her hands wide and drawing her nose to the sky.
“Quick! Who am I?” she asked, her eyes glittering. “Tell me! Tell me who I look like!”
“Just like Everett McLean,” Wyatt offered, seeming to try to force himself to laugh. Isaac appreciated this a bit—that he was attempting to play by the “rules” of the saloon. His instincts were right.
“That’s exactly right. I don’t suppose you’re one of those soul seekers out there, are ya?” Marcia asked, dropping her chin to greet Wyatt. “I don’t know if I’ll allow ‘em in my saloon, although I know they’ll have a hankering for drink.”
“I’m not really one of them, no. I’m a journalist,” Wyatt returned.
Marcia’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “Oh? A journalist? Like for television?”
“Kind of. Print. Erm. For the Internet,” he said.
He nearly lost Marcia, then. She spun her eyes to the rest of the saloon, seemingly counting the drinks, those that were half-finished, those that needed re-boosting. She clucked her tongue, muttering, “The internet,” over and over again, as though it was a completely foreign word—something from Ancient Greek. “Well, reckon you’re gonna write something about this Everett McLean, then?” she finally asked, seemingly finding her train of thought all over again.
Wyatt shrugged, his cheeks turning a strange, sallow shade of green. “I’m not sure, but there does seem to be a story brewing.”
“Yes, well. You best interview the Martians when they make their way here,” Marcia said, snapping her fingers. “My goodness, ain’t never heard anything sillier in my life. But I reckon they don’t seem too dangerous. I know Isaac here got out in front of me mid-way through my bickering with Lord Everett McLean, but I know I could have handled him. Isaac, you should have seen the sorts of old men I used to put away in my time. If you’re the type of woman who can hold down a saloon in the likes of Rhode’s Pike, then you’re the kind of woman who can do whatever it is she puts her mind to.”
Marcia took this last monologue as her exit, ducking back toward the bar. More stragglers entered, popping their knuckles atop the counter in greeting. Isaac watched Wyatt’s eyes as they scanned the dank room, the wood panels and the glowing neon beer signs.
Isaac had been off the
dating market for years and years. He found himself internally frozen, his mind ambling from one idea for a topic to another. Wyatt blinked at him twice and brought his whiskey glass upward, seemingly demanding Isaac to clink. He did. What were they toasting to? They hadn’t bothered to name it.
“I never thought I’d meet anyone in the middle of West Texas,” Isaac finally offered, his tongue all-but throbbing after his sip of whiskey.
“I never thought I’d be in Texas, period,” Wyatt said.
Isaac’s stomach lurched, knowing this was probably the time he was meant to explain his father’s situation to Wyatt. His nostrils flared out. Instead of administering the greater truth, he spewed, “I just went through a pretty nasty breakup in New York.”
“Oh?” Wyatt said, tipping a bit forward in his stool. “Is that why you’re here? Spend some time with your dad? Break out of the rhythm of the city? Man, I never did make it to New York. Once I started my career in Los Angeles—I mean, after trying and failing at the whole acting thing—I never really had enough vacation time. It sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”
Isaac was grateful they’d burned into normal territory. That they could leap-frog over the issue of his father’s soon-death and begin to mold into conversation that would unite them, knit them together, even if only temporarily. Sex, everything to do with it, hung heavily on his mind.
Images of potential sex with Wyatt simmered behind his eyes.
“The whole acting thing? I love the way you say that,” Isaac said. “Frankly, I’m surprised that you didn’t make it. You’re absolutely, well. You look—”
“Swedish,” Wyatt offered, seemingly not allowing too much of a compliment to slip from Isaac’s lips. His cheeks burned just the tiniest bit pink. “I get that all the time. And frankly, I was terrible. But I was able to act a bit on the route here. After the hippies picked me up in New Mexico, I had to kind of playact as one of them. They’re probably waiting for me now, building up a bed for me in one of the abandoned buildings. They’re quite taken with me.”
“I imagine so,” Isaac murmured.
It was frankly true that Isaac was further using Wyatt as a sort of excuse not to go see his father. He could fold himself into this false reality.
Funnily enough, that seemed to be precisely what the members of the cult were doing, even now, rushing headlong away from their ordinary lives, their ordinary commitments, and finding some sort of peace in the desert.
Perhaps he was no better than any of them.
“What do you think is Everett McLean’s deal, then?” Isaac asked, drawing a bit tighter over the table. He inched his hand across the wood, which had been sanded terribly, so that bits of wood scrunched up, biting his skin. “You think he’s just arrogant? Wants to make a mockery of them? Or is he actually insane?”
Wyatt shrugged. He inched his hand a bit closer, as well, so that the very tips of his fingers aligned with Isaac’s. Isaac’s pulse quickened. The touch was fantastic, sending adrenaline pumping up and down his spine.
“That’s one thing I plan to find out,” Wyatt murmured.
The candle between them flickered madly, as though their attraction had bolstered it. Isaac licked his lips. He hadn’t the energy to dive back into his whiskey.
“You’ll interview him, then,” Isaac asked.
“Of course. He’s the sort who will want to have all the fame he can possibly gather,” Wyatt said. “And I can give him that platform. As far as I can tell, I’m the only journalist in the world who knows anything about this. Why not milk it for all its worth?”
“You sound like a New Yorker, now,” Isaac said, chuckling.
“Perhaps just all city people are alike,” Wyatt said.
“You really lucked out,” Isaac continued. “It’s like being a writer at a natural disaster. You’re just there, perhaps having some sort of vacation, and suddenly—”
“An enormous wave comes out of nowhere,” Wyatt continued, leaning a bit closer. Their lips were only a few inches apart.
It was a funny thing, for Isaac, knowing that his father was a mere few blocks away. It titillated him, made him feel as though he was a teenager again, trying to sneak about, ensuring he wasn’t caught. It seemed that everyone at the saloon was a bit too messed up, fizzing with drink, to turn their attention toward the queer not-yet-couple in the corner. Isaac had never hungered for someone like this, not since he’d first met Marcus. Who could even remember that far back?
“Are you really going to make a move like this? In the middle of Rhode’s Pike?” Wyatt asked him, his voice gruff, a whisper.
Isaac tipped his nose directly into Wyatt’s. He felt a genuine smile creep across his face. How reckless he felt, knowing full-well his sisters were waiting for him, his father could be minutes, nay, seconds from drawing his last breath.
When he inhaled Wyatt’s lips, he felt a spark surge through him. He closed his eyes. His ears remained filled with the sounds of the bar that stirred around him, the volatile cheers of the men who watched the sports game on the television, the tired grumbles of the men and women who’d surely sipped brews at that saloon for the previous ten, perhaps fifteen years. He wondered briefly if they’d ever rushed with such apprehension, such excitement, for a thing that might never be. In this case, that thing was Wyatt—just a journalist he’d essentially plucked from the center of a cult. A cult lurking outside his father’s ranch, where he’d run to after abandoning his family twelve years before.
Wasn’t life a ridiculous thing?
Seconds later, he felt a firm grip upon his shoulder. He yanked his head back from Wyatt’s, blinking into the grey haze. Before there table stood Marcia, a single, drawn-on eyebrow high upon her forehead, creating a whole symphony of wrinkles toward her hairline. She ticked her head to the left, then to the right. Her expression was difficult to read, but her eyes glowed, seemingly basking in the beauty of—whatever it was she saw.
At least, that was how Isaac chose to interpret it. Her hand remained latched upon his shoulder.
“You know, you boys can do as you like. In fact, I want ya to. The world is about as rough as it needs to be. The least we can do is—well. Whatever.” Her eyes turned glossy and she tossed them back. “Regardless, some of the gents in this establishment ain’t too proud of the brand spanking new rules in this country, although as far as I’m concerned, it’s every man, woman, and Martian to themselves.” At this, she chuckled, cutting her little brown teeth from her mouth. She peered once more at Isaac, seemingly trying to dig into the nether regions of his soul. “You’re really Thomas Baxter’s kid, you are?” she asked.
“Since the day I was born,” Isaac offered. He reached further across the table, gripping Wyatt’s hand. Wyatt held it back, his grip intense.
“Very well. Off you go,” Marcia said, tilting her head toward the door.
But as they shifted from their stools, she added, “But remember to come back and see me. In the midst of all this hullabaloo, it’s gonna be good to see some familiar faces. I already had a few of them cult-y people coming in here a few minutes ago. I told ‘em if they have real money to pay with, then I ain’t no fool. I will take it. But.”
She paused for a moment, biting down hard on her lower lip. It showed a small droplet of blood. “I don’t know. I reckon it’s gonna be difficult, with all these changes. Suppose they stay?”
“They can’t,” Isaac offered, feeling, somehow, responsible, as though he had to mend the wound of this strange town. “They’re just twenty-somethings, a few stragglers. They’re going to get hungry and they’re going to get bored and they’re just going to want to get some sleep somewhere cool. I say we can all ride it out together.”
Marcia’s chin grew crinkled, as though she was about to pitch herself into a crying fit. But she held strong—a woman of the desert, a woman of ancient tradition. She took another big step back, watching Isaac and Wyatt as they moved the rest of the way toward the door.
“Night, boys. You come ba
ck now.”
Isaac burst from the saloon, drawing his hand back to latch it to Wyatt’s once more. His eyes burned with adrenaline. They surged down the main street, and he buzzed with ideas of all the grand ghosts that ambled down the very same path. Cowboys and prostitutes and bankers and men and women beneath the law. Night had fully fallen, draping itself over the desert like a wet blanket. They strutted past Isaac’s car, ambling toward the far corner, where an old sign read, “HOTEL.”
When they burst in, the door cracked from its frame and fled to the ground. Wyatt cracked up, casting his head forward, and drawing his hand across his belly. Admittedly, it was hilarious, the sort of thing difficult to imagine happening until it did. Both spun to acknowledge the door as it knocked against the ground, shattering the last of the window in the center. Isaac turned quickly back to the front desk, but found it empty, the dust thick.
“It seems like no one has worked here for a billion years,” Isaac said.
“At least that,” Wyatt returned.
“Do you want to see what’s upstairs?” Isaac asked. He gave Wyatt a funny look, one he thought might be rather whimsical.
Wyatt responded with a coy smile. He followed behind Isaac when he spun round, finding the stairs and surging up, gripping the railing. He hadn’t moved so quickly in years.
He was grateful to find that many of the rooms still had their mattresses, that they were unlocked. The cult hadn’t yet discovered it, although he felt sure they would soon.
“What about room twelve?” Isaac asked, knocking his knuckles against the hard wood.
Wyatt peered in, his eyes searching through the darkness. Isaac clicked at the light, but it didn’t send any sort of illumination at all. Without waiting a moment more, Isaac wrapped his hand around Wyatt’s shoulder and tugged at him, bringing his face toward his once more. This kiss was more insistent, more wanting, and it led to them falling back on the mattress. Thankfully, it wasn’t dirty; the room lent no ominous smell, either. It was simple, clean. The sort that had allowed travelers to come through and then disembark, over and over again, for countless years.