The Cowboy

by Molly O'Keefe

  This was going to work just fine for both of us.

  I slipped my fingers under the top of my panties because I liked the way that looked. Dirty and secret. Like I didn’t know he was down there. But I didn’t want to be seen. I was a teenager with my hands under my desk and he was a teacher who shouldn’t have been looking.

  No. I didn’t like that one and quickly pushed it aside.

  My knuckles rubbed up against that wet spot and I could smell the musty-sweet scent of my arousal in the air.

  Could he? Did he like it?

  He still hadn’t moved. That forearm of his was rock solid so I knew he didn’t have his own junk out. He was just watching. Just waiting. To see what I would do.

  I was a fucking queen, that’s what I was. And he was some lowly soldier who could have his eyes taken out just for seeing me this way. But he risked it…because I was amazing.

  Something about this turned my crank pretty hard and when my thumb hit my clit I saw sparks. It was like every blood vessel in my body was dilating past what I could stand. The orgasm was coming fast and it was going to be hard.

  “Fuck,” I breathed, stroking my thumb over my clit again, just the way I liked it. A little harder on the downstroke. Faster. I bent my head, braced my foot against the railing. I watched the sweat drip down his arm and I stroked myself until I came so hard, I closed my eyes and saw stars against the back of my eyelids.

  But when I opened my eyes and looked down, he wasn’t there. I couldn’t see him anywhere in the yard.

  Suddenly cold and just a little embarrassed I closed my legs.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  And then he was back, he took a step to the side and I saw that forearm again, the navy-blue sleeve of his shirt hugging his biceps. His hat was in his hand and I saw some blond hair.

  “You’re…fucking beautiful,” he said.

  I laughed with the magnanimous humor a good orgasm could give a girl. “You want to tell me your name?” I asked.

  He was quiet for a long time, and it was just the wind in the oak tree and the sound of my heavy breathing. I wondered what secret he was keeping and why he wanted it kept. But frankly I wasn’t interested in telling him my name, either. Nothing like the name King in this town to ruin a flirtation. Shit got weird when boys found out they might be able to fuck a King.

  “No names,” he said. “No faces. No talking. I’ll be back here tomorrow morning.”

  And then my cowboy voyeur was gone.

  2

  BEA

  The Bar’s actual bar from end to end was roughly twenty feet by four feet. It was beat-up mahogany and the hard wood was soft and gray in places. The soda gun was mostly clogged and the ice machine worked intermittently.

  And five days a week for the lunch and happy-hour shifts, I was the only one back there.

  Which made me queen.

  Queen of the worst shift in a dive bar in a nowhere town in East Texas.

  And I honest to god loved it. That twenty feet for roughly six hours Wednesday to Sunday was the only place I wanted to be.

  Jack’s bar was pure dive bar. Nothing but fried food and beer coolers full of Abita and Shiner. The nicest thing we stocked was a California pinot grigio for the entirety of the white wine drinking public—namely, Sabrina. It’s how I was being nice to her, having that wine and dramatically overcharging her for it.

  I wasn’t very good at being nice to her.

  There was a Kentucky bourbon that I’d introduced Jack to. Sometimes after my shift on Friday afternoons I made us manhattans and we sat at the bar like Don Draper and gave Kimmy behind the bar a hard time.

  Which—for those keeping track—also happened to be the extent of my social life.

  It was the end of a quiet shift on Wednesday, which was a good thing because I was constantly talking myself out of asking Jack questions about the demo guy he’d hired for next door.

  I had a hard time keeping my mouth shut on my best days, today the effort felt superhuman.

  You’re so fucking beautiful. He said that to me; he’d been real and not a figment of my imagination.

  And I am not going to ask Jack about him. No names. That was his deal.

  I wiped the last of the glasses and made sure everything was stocked for the night shift. Cherries for the bourbon sours I showed Kimmy how to make (with regular bourbon—not my good stuff). A cold bottle of pinot grigio in case Sabrina and Garrett came in for their weekly date night.

  And—because it was Texas in the middle of summer—enough beer to put down the beer drinkers of Dusty Creek.

  All in all, I was leaving Jack’s bar better than when I found it. The night crew worked late and left the place in ruins. But I kind of liked that part of the job, too. Cleaning up, putting things to rights. After a lifetime of messing shit up, it was fun being on this end of it.

  Jack sat at the end of the bar, nursing a cup of strong coffee and cutting checks. He did this every Wednesday, and every Wednesday I lingered, waiting for my pay. He was a handsome guy, with dark hair that he wore just on the right side of too shaggy and dark eyes. A sarcastic grin that could take his face from little boy to serious man in point-five seconds. He’d opened The Bar a few years ago and he took it seriously.

  Dusty Creek was probably a lonely place to be a gay man, but he never complained.

  “This is ridiculous, you know?” he said.

  “Which part?” I asked.

  “You waiting for a paycheck for…” he glanced at the amount on the check. “Three hundred bucks.”

  “Three hundred bucks is real money, Jack.”

  “You’re a King, Bea. You have more money than God.”

  I had more money than God, one third of a giant spread just west of town, and a top-drawer stable of horses. The only thing I did to deserve it was get born a King.

  Which wasn’t a recommendation for anything.

  “No. I’ll have the tips I’ve made and three hundred bucks when you give me that check.” He sighed and handed me the check. But then didn’t let go of it.

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  “If you’re hell bound to pretend you’re not a King for a while, you know you’d make more money working at night,” he said, for roughly the eight-hundredth time.

  It had been years since I lived in this town and I didn’t advertise that I was back here, other than working at the bar. But everyone had long memories around here.

  At night and on the weekends, there were too many people. Too much gossip and sideways glances. Too many assholes who hated my daddy who wanted to get a dig in on his daughter.

  No thanks.

  “I’m making good money working lunch and happy hour.”

  Now it was his turn to roll his eyes at me. Jack was a good guy. As far as bosses went he was easily in the top five I’d ever had. “I’m trying to give you a promotion,” he said. “With the addition next door I’m going to need help. Real help. You have more experience running restaurants and bars than I do. You could manage—”

  “For the hundredth time, I don’t want to manage shit,” I said and tugged on the check. Again, he didn’t let go. “You’re ruining my good mood, Jack.”

  “Don’t want to manage? Or don’t think you can do it? Because—”

  “Jack,” I said. “We’ve been over this. I am excellent at exceeding expectations only when they’re set really low. Expect more from me and I will fail you. And I like you. I’m not interested in failing you.”

  “It’s a bar, Bea. It’s the same fucking bar you manage during the day. Like a fucking boss, I might add. Why do you think you’re going to fail me?”

  Because it was what I did. It was my one true skill.

  I was a fuck-up. Ask anyone. Ask my sisters. Old boyfriends. My father if he wasn’t already dead. Trust me with something and I would ruin it. It was my own very special gift.

  “I need to get home to the dogs.” This time when I tugged on the check hard enough to threaten ripping it, Jac
k finally let go.

  “I don’t know how you’re surviving in that tiny apartment with those animals of yours.”

  No lie, Thelma, the mastiff, made it tricky. But it was Louise, the Chihuahua, who was making it impossible.

  Jesus, I thought. Jack you fucking ruined my good mood.

  “We manage,” I said and tucked the check into the back pocket of my shorts. Today I was wearing my cutoffs, my bright pink cowboy boots, and a thin black tank top with a hot pink strappy bra underneath. I’d dressed this morning for my cowboy carpenter. My backyard voyeur. If he knew who I was, he didn’t let on. But I got the sense he had no idea it was Bea King up there. Just like I couldn’t guess who he was.

  He was blond and he limped. He was pretty jacked, or at least his arm was. He was oddly polite and careful with that little throat-clearing system. And he turned me on like a blowtorch.

  That was it.

  There was a chance I’d walked by him a million times and just never noticed him. I could have served him, right here every day, but I just couldn’t believe that. I was sure if I saw him outside of that yard again, I’d recognize him.

  My body would. Like a magnet and true north.

  “Hey,” Jack said when I was halfway to the door. “Demolition started on the building next door.”

  “No kidding?” I laughed. “You know when knowing that would have been helpful?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yeah. Any reason why it’s happening at dawn?”

  “Because my contractor has another job he has to get to.”

  “Contractor?” I said it so casually. Sooooooo casually. I almost believed myself that I didn’t care so much about his name.

  “Cody.”

  Cody? My entire body went to attention.

  “His name is Cody?” Shit. I couldn’t help myself.

  “Yeah, good guy. Really keeps to himself so don’t—”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Harass him.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him.

  His name was Cody. My cowboy voyeur’s name was Cody.

  I put that name away like a secret.

  “Hey,” I said. “Could you…just don’t tell him my name?”

  “Why would I tell him your name?”

  “I don’t know. You just let his name slip pretty easy.”

  “I didn’t think it was a secret.”

  Oh my God, I am making this so weird.

  “I just don’t need someone with a grudge against my Daddy-“

  “Cody does not give a crap about Hank King.”

  “Great. Okay. So, what happens after demolition?” I asked, changing the subject because I could feel my face getting hot.

  “Construction. For about two weeks.”

  “Are you closing down The Bar? Because staff needs to know—”

  “Hold on there, management,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll let the staff know when I know. I’m hoping not to have to close down. But I have to see what my architect says.”

  “Right,” I said, grabbing my purse from behind the bar. “That sounds like a problem I’m glad I don’t have to worry about. Since I’m just an employee. See you tomorrow.”

  The front door of Jack’s swung open, letting some of the bright Texas afternoon into the murky bar. And three big guys came in with the blinding sunlight and the three-hundred-percent humidity.

  Danny Kincaid’s red hair and freckles stood out against his pale skin and I stepped to the left to give him a wide berth. “Hey there, Bea,” he said, stopping when he saw me. “You leaving?”

  “Shift’s over,” I said, giving him no smile. Because the guy could manufacture encouragement out of thin air. Give him a smile and the asshole got handsy. I’d had more than enough of Danny Kincaid in my time behind this bar.

  “Come and have a drink with us, honey,” he said, and my stomach curdled at the endearment. The man could take a sweet word like honey and make it rotten.

  “Gotta go,” I said.

  His friends had walked on and he lurched sideways into my path. “You fucking King girls,” he murmured. “Always acting like your shit don’t stink.”

  “What can I say, Danny?” I curled my hand into a fist. The thing with assholes like Danny is that they expected a smack or a knee to the balls. What they didn’t know was that I went right for the throat. One solid punch just under his flabby second chin and he’d be on the floor. Honest to god, I hoped he’d give me a reason. “We were actually blessed with shit that doesn’t stink. A gift from our mother. I could bring you some, tomorrow morning—”

  “Your money don’t make you special,” he hissed.

  “You’re right. But my tits do. Get out of my way, Danny.”

  Yeah, yeah, my mistake for bringing attention to my tits, but they were spectacular. His eyes took a long slow walk over my chest and I cocked back my fist ready to put him on the floor. But Jack was there and I gave Jack a whole lot of credit—he ran this place right.

  “Danny,” he said. “We’ve talked about this.”

  “I didn’t touch her,” he said, putting his hands up. “We were just talking.”

  “Don’t try that bullshit with me,” Jack said. “Go have beers some other place.”

  I blinked but I wasn’t surprised. Not really. Jack was a good guy.

  “Fuck that,” Danny sneered. He tried to rally the guys he’d come in with, but Kimmy was already bringing them fresh, cold pint glasses of beer and the boys weren’t moving.

  “Your friends are choosing their beer over you,” I laughed. “That must feel great.”

  Jack glared at me and Danny turned bright red.

  “Come on,” Jack said. “Head on out before things escalate.”

  Danny finally left and Jack spun to face me. “You always need to have the last word like that?” he asked.

  “It’s a genetic condition,” I said.

  He shook his head at me, not charmed in the slightest. “One of these days that mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble.”

  It already had. More than once. My other great skill—not learning lessons the first time around. Or the second. Or the tenth.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you out. Just in case Danny is sticking around.”

  I protested that I was just going upstairs where I had a mastiff as a roommate, but Jack insisted.

  “Hey,” he said, once I got my door open. “I get why you don’t want some stranger to know you live up here alone. And that you’re a King. The wrong kind of guy would see that as an invitation to be an ass. Cody is not that guy, but I’ll respect your privacy.”

  “Thanks Jack. You really are one of the good guys.”

  He tipped an imaginary hat and walked away. Not once had that guy hit on me. Or on any waitress. Or patron, now that I thought about it. In fact, I had never heard a single rumor in town about him with anyone.

  Strange.

  The dogs heard me coming and I climbed the stairs to my apartment listening to their claws on the hardwood as they scrambled to greet me at the door. Once I unlocked that door, it was total Armageddon. Thelma and Louise battled to get petted first. Thelma was bigger but Louise was louder, and in the end I just sat down in my doorway and scratched and rubbed both of them.

  “I missed you, too!” I cried, accepting their licks and body wags. When they calmed down slightly I got to my feet to see what the damage was this time. One eviscerated pillow. A knocked-over ficus. And Louise had peed on the dining room table, because that girl knew how to make a point.

  Neither one of them, sitting side by side, tails swishing across the floor, even managed to look guilty. “What am I going to do with you?” I asked them.

  Louise woofed. Thelma whined.

  “You want to go see Oscar?”

  They jumped up with delight. My heart sank to my feet.

  They loved Oscar. And Oscar lived on The King’s Land.

  Which meant I was going home.

  I couldn’t c
ount the number of times I’d taken Old Flagg Road out as far as it could go and then turned left until it hit The King’s Land. When Veronica, Sabrina, and I went to high school in Dusty Creek, Veronica drove and Sabrina and I battled it out for the passenger seat.

  God, that seemed like a million years ago. And yesterday, all at the same time.

  The top was down on the Jeep and the dust and wind and sunlight whipped my hair into a rat’s nest but the dogs sat in the back and loved it. They closed their eyes, let their tongues out to taste the air, and just basically lived their best dog lives.

  I needed to get a bigger place.

  But what if I bought a house and decided in a few weeks I wanted to go to college? What if I got a new apartment and in a few weeks decided I hated Dusty Creek? What if I made a decision and it was the wrong one?

  “I’m sorry,” I said to my dogs. “Honestly, guys. It’s just for a few more weeks.”

  But I’d been saying that for the better part of a year. They didn’t even respond, like they knew I was lying.

  I turned left off Old Flagg Road toward where the gates to The King’s Land crossed the gravel a few miles later. The gates were open, and as I pulled around the circular driveway to the front of the mansion I saw a sporty red Porsche SUV and smiled.

  Ronnie was here. And wherever Ronnie was, Clayton followed.

  I loved my sister. And I’d even grown to like my new brother-in-law, largely because his devotion to my sister was profound

  But the questions about what I was going to do with my life were doubled when Clayton was around. Clayton and Ronnie really liked answers and my current lack of them made them very antsy.

  It would have been entertaining if I wasn’t on the other side of it.

  The car was barely in Park before Thelma had leaped out the back. Louise, the chicken, barked to be picked up and set down on the dirt. Which I did. Because Louise was my queen.

  The house was a beauty, despite my father and my stepmother’s efforts to ruin it. Brick and columns and two wings swinging off to the sides. It was a Texas-size mansion. Inside it was hideous, but the outside looked like something on a TV show.