by V. L. Locey
“You sure he’s looking forward to it?” I jerked my thumb at the irate special teams coach.
Dan threw a quick look over his shoulder. “Ah yeah, he is. Ring when you’re ready to roll. We’ll meet you at the gazebo by the dock.”
“Thanks kindly.” I gave Dan my hand to shake.
He smiled, shook, and then made his way back to his husband. They had a few words and then, amazingly, Dan moved in for a soft kiss that made me yearn for that kind of relationship. Well, maybe not one where my mate was that volatile, but one where two souls could have a spat over banjos and end up kissing like young lovers.
“Right. Stop gawking, you dirty old man.” I tore my sight from the two men embracing each other and hurried to back out of my parking slot. Driving home with some Marshall Tucker Band playing, I found myself getting excited to be having a day out with some of the team. Sure as hell beat going by myself.
Saturday came in with a light shower bright and early. I was up with a cup of coffee to greet the day. We’d beaten the Broncos last night; Mitch’s second shutout of the series was well-earned because Binghamton had come to play. They’d reconfigured a couple of their lines and hit us with everything they had. One goal had been the deciding factor. One goal. Forty-six shots on goal from us and forty-one for the Broncos. Both goalies had been exemplary, but Mitch, bless his cartoon-loving heart, had been just that little bit better. Tomorrow afternoon’s game would be an all-out battle. The Broncos were now desperate. They had to win or be eliminated. We were already talking about putting up certain defensive pairs to face certain aggressive players. As much as we were trying to coddle Mario, this upcoming game was his kind of game. He’d be happy to beat the grits out of someone if we let him off the leash. Time would tell if our Scottish/Italian bulldog would be turned loose or not.
My back had been giving me some trouble, nothing huge, just some tightening when I’d lay in one spot too long. It was an old injury and tended to flare up with damp weather. Thankfully, the shower passed quickly, and the sun rose over the lake, a glowing golden ball that made the water shimmer like a sequined dress Betty used to have. From my vantage point overlooking the shore, I could watch the trucks from local wineries and eateries pulling down onto the wet grass. People scurried around like worker ants, setting up booths and flags and tents. The soundstage had been in place for a few days, but now it was a hive of activity as musicians hustled here and there. Lights and sound systems were checked. I smiled into my coffee. This was going to be a great day, I could feel it in my bones. Even the achy ones in my spine.
I stepped out onto my porch, the wet boards cool on the soles of my feet. The rain clouds had moved off and the air was sweet with that clean, fresh smell a shower brings. The temperatures were supposed to drop a wee bit today, mid-seventies with low humidity. A perfect day for what appeared to be one hell of a jamboree. Tossing back my coffee, I then grabbed a shower, got dressed, and walked to the arena, my jug of sweet tea in hand.
Morning skate was, at its core, me and Dexter, the goalie coach, babysitting twenty-some adult males. We ran them through some faceoff drills because we still weren’t thrilled with our win-loss ratio, and then the team basically took over for itself. Kalinski sat on the bench, fiddling with a notebook and stats. I thought to go over and offer to help, I knew numbers fogged him up a bit, but stayed put after some thought. If he were struggling he’d look mad, and he didn’t. Last thing that man would want was me going over to help him. I’d likely skate off with that tablet rammed up my ass. Best to observe.
Skate wrapped up quietly. Dexter stayed behind with Mitch to work on fine-tuning his glove work. I spent about forty minutes getting my thoughts down on my laptop then I sent them to Dewey. He’d gather up all the assistant coach’s input—goalie, defensive, special teams, and mine which tended to be mainly the forwards—and get everything fed into his head.
“Got to get things lined up in my noggin,” he’d say when inundated with stats and numbers. “Just slow down and let my brain take one thing at a time.”
When I stood and stretched, my back popped loudly. I winced, then sighed at the flare up. Damn my stupid adolescent ass for being a showoff.
I downed two Advil and went home, walking with a little less speed than normal. The closer I got to Cayuga Lake, the louder the music grew, and the more people I saw heading to the water. There were cars on both sides of every street I strolled down. The parking lot of the Methodist church and the fire hall a few blocks back had been full. Families, kids, and dogs moved past old grandpa here, many with blankets and beach chairs. The excitement was contagious. I ran into my old ranch home, tossed my tea jug into the sink to be washed later, and hurried off to change.
Denim cutoffs, a sloppy old Allman Brothers Eat a Peach tank top, and creaky leather sandals were my festival outfit. Out of the back door I went, my phone and my wallet in my back pockets. I paused on the porch, drinking in the first performers who had hit the stage. They were a classic folk band, the harmonies of the men and women in the group, perfect. I locked the back door and checked the sliding door to make sure it was locked as well.
Then I ambled down the rather steep hill to the boat ramp, the waters of the lake lapping at the shore. Hands in my front pockets, I walked along the lake’s edge, smiling at kids rushing past with balloons and whirligigs. The tent flaps and booth awnings rustled along with the thick green leaves that lined the lake. I sniffed as I got closer to the huge gazebo that sat in the middle of the lakeside park. My stomach rumbled at the smell of onions and green peppers frying. I’d not had much of a breakfast, or any breakfast, to be honest, so I stopped at a small booth, the first in the maze of local food, wine, and crafts and purchased a sausage sandwich loaded with onions and peppers. The mustard was sharp and zippy, the sausage sweet, and the onions and peppers just a little bit firm. I took another bite, bought a glass of blackberry wine and made my way to the gazebo, chewing in beat to a lovely rendition of the Mama’s and Papa’s California Dreaming floating over the crowd. I lingered on the steps of the gazebo, sitting and eating, until I was joined by Mario and Miss Lila. I rushed to stand, my fingers still a little greasy from my sandwich, and bowed low over Lila’s offered hand.
“Such a vision on a summer day,” I murmured over her soft knuckles. I got a playful swat with a program from the beautiful black woman in white.
“Oh, you Southern men are sinful,” Lila laughed, then took the plastic glass of white wine from Mario. “Did you stop by the booth for the local LGBTQ advocacy group?”
“No, I got a little sidetracked by food and wine, and a beautiful woman of course.” I patted her hand.
“Okay, chum, go find your own woman to slobber over,” Mario said, then removed Lila’s hand from mine and placed it on his arm.
“You two do know how to bolster a lady’s fragile ego. I think we should all make an effort to visit the advocacy tent.” She waved her program at the purple tent with the rainbow flags snapping in the wind. “They’re handing out condoms and trying to drum up support for a proposed youth center where the old dollar store sits. Lord knows, this community could use somewhere for our youth to go and simply be in peace. If I had had access to such a place as a gay youth center, I’m sure my rocky road from Joseph to Lila would have been far easier.”
“Amen, baby,” Mario said around his wine glass.
“I’ll make sure I stop and visit,” I assured Lila.
She inclined her head, took a sip of her wine, and then leaned into Mario’s side. His arm came around her protectively. It warmed my heart. I sucked down a bit more wine and went off to find the rainbow booth, stopping at every artisan tent to browse, chat, and buy some early birthday gifts for my kids. A woven bracelet for Charity and a hand-beaded bookmark for Charles. I spent several minutes at the LGBTQ booth, talking to organizers and signing up to volunteer over the summer. It was wonderful to see the majority of the festival goers visiting with the LGBTQ coalition. Of course, there were quite
a few people who glowered at the sight of condoms on display, as well as at young gay people laughing and holding hands. Fuck them. I had little patience for that type anymore. It was because of stilted hateful prigs that I’d spent half my damn life miserable.
Maybe some of the fault was mine, actually more than some. I could have been stronger, braver, less fearful. I left the tent feeling a mishmash of emotions. The stage was right in front of me, the bands changing. Knowing I should go back to the gazebo to spend more time with my friends, I lingered by the stage, dropping my ass to the soft ground. A small group of men stepped out to a large round of applause. The trio consisted of a drummer, a bass player, and a stunning man on lead guitar. I pushed to my feet, my shorts damp from the spongy soil.
The lead guitarist smiled at the crowd. All the air left my lungs. He was beautiful. Tall, stocky, short hair, and a smile that bedazzled. The black man began to speak, his voice smooth and masculine with a strong northern inflection. What he said at first I didn’t know, I was too spellbound by his perfect face and wide shoulders. Smitten. I was smitten. Majorly so.
“Thank you for having us here. We’re The Studebaker Foxes. That’s Leon Draper on drums.” The gangly white guy held up his drumsticks. “To my left is Luis Cooper on bass.” I made myself stop staring at the gorgeous man front and center to peek at Luis and clap politely. “And I’m Townsend Harris. We’ll be here for the next hour, so settle back and enjoy some rhythm and blues under a beautiful New York baby blue sky. We’re going to open up with a little something from John Lee Hooker.”
The trio ripped into Boom Boom, and my soul left my body when Townsend began to sing and play. I’d not seen a man put so much passion into an electric guitar in ages. The rhythm and blues music infected the crowd. They were up and moving in seconds, clapping their hands over their heads. And then, Townsend Harris sang, and my soul—which was hovering somewhere above the stage—soared right up to Heaven. His voice was strong and smoky, sensual and gritty. I had heard my daddy preach about the rapture, but I had never thought to experience it while wearing an old Allman Brothers band shirt and creaky sandals.
3
Was it too outrageous for a forty-one-year-old man to linger around the backstage area like a teenage girl at a K-pop concert? Shameful perhaps? Yeah, I knew it was, and yet there I was, mouth dry, pulse skipping a little faster than normal, trying my best to work up the courage to actually go over and speak to Townsend Harris. Sweet Lord, the man was beautiful. I wished I had my jug of tea, or more of that wonderful Finger Lakes region wine to wet my whistle. Townsend was talking to the other performers as he packed up his electric guitar. The band on next gave him and the rest of the Studebaker Foxes—what an unusual name—high fives then ran out to loud applause. That applause was due to Townsend and his band mates. They’d electrified the crowd with rocking blues tunes ranging from First Love to The Thrill is Gone and I’m a King Bee, that had me and everyone else on the green shaking our asses.
When he snapped his guitar case shut, I felt compelled to move forward, slide around the other musicians and newspaper photographers, and say something to him. That was the sticking point. But, even with a mushy brain and no clever words on my tongue, I pushed my way past a large man with a camera and found myself looking into deep brown eyes that would linger in my dreams for a lifetime.
“Hey,” Townsend said, guitar case in his left hand.
“I love your music and your eyes. Please come have a glass of wine with me?” Oh, sweet baby Jesus. The corners of his mouth twitched, pulling his plump lips up into a playful sort of smirk. “Forgive me. I’m usually much better spoken than that.”
“It’s fine. You’ve got pretty eyes too. Usually I like to get the name of the man asking me to have wine with him before I indulge.” He extended his right hand. “Townsend Harris, but you can call me Town. Everyone does.”
I wiped my hand on my shorts and pressed palm to palm. His grip was firm. “Lancaster Hart, but you can shorten that any way you like. Most drop it down to Lan, because it is a mouthful.”
“Is that a family name?” he asked, still holding, and shaking, and looking at me with those eyes of his.
“Yes, sir. Goes back over several greats to Lancaster Brownlee, who was part of the 6th Georgia volunteer infantry that mustered out of Atlanta. He was part of Colquitt’s Brigade and…well, you don’t give a tinker’s fart about my musty old family tree.”
Town smiled fully. Good thing he was holding my hand, or I might have swooned.
“Actually, I find genealogy pretty damn fascinating. Maybe we can chat about old Lancaster Brownlee over that wine?” His eyes were asking something of me, and I thought I knew what it was, but I’d not been at this thing long. Maybe I was reading his gaze incorrectly.
“You’re saying you’d like to have wine and talk with me?”
“Yeah, I’m saying that.” He still held my hand. I might’ve been pretty virginal at this whole out gay thing, but I did know that most handshakes didn’t go on for over two minutes.
“Okay, well then…good.” He released my hand. I shoved it into my front pocket. “There’s this tiny booth over yonder that has some nice fruity wines to sample if you’re into fruity things.”
“You know, I do like fruity things.”
“Oh hell,” I muttered when what I’d said sunk in. Good Lord. “I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded.”
Town laughed. “You’re adorable. Let me stash this bulky thing in the trunk of my car and we’ll go have us some fruity wine.”
I nodded like a dullard. “Would you like someone to accompany you to your car?”
“That’s not necessary, I won’t get lost. I live four blocks from here.”
He did? How in God’s green earth had this beautiful man—who I was pretty sure was gay and had no ring on his finger, because I’d checked umpteen dozen times over the past hour and a half—not stepped into my radar?
“How have we not laid eyes on each other before now?” I had to know how fate could be that cruel to a lonely old boy like me.
“Do you spend much time at the mayor’s office? I live two doors down from there.” He had long legs which kept him and me on an even pace, although I was a few inches taller than he was.
“Where’s city hall?”
“No, there’s no city hall, the mayor’s office is attached to the fire hall, I work there as Ben Knapton’s aide.” He gave me a peek as we made our way up the bank and to the street. “How long have you lived here?”
“Little less than a year.” He nodded, the climb up the knoll making us both sweat a little. He looked fit and leggy. I’d always been a leg man. Men in kilts were the stuff of fantasy for me. Hopefully, Mario would never find that out or I’d be getting thigh flashes for the rest of his time on the team. “I don’t get out much. Hockey takes up most of my time.”
“Yeah, your team is bringing all kinds of attention to our village. Revenue too. Everyone in the mayor’s office sure appreciate both the media interest and the money the Cougars are adding to the city coffers.”
“We’re happy to oblige.”
We ambled along until we came up to a blue Ford Fiesta, a newer one, and he popped the trunk and placed his guitar into the trunk gingerly, taking care not to bump the case as he wiggled it in.
“So, you’re one of the mayor’s aides,” I offered up in an attempt to keep my eyes off his ass. The cargo shorts he was wearing pulled tight when he bent over to throw a blanket over the guitar case. “You tucking that guitar in?”
He stood up, closed the trunk, and turned to face me. I wasn’t sure which view of the man sent more blood to my cock, the front or the rear. Both were sinfully attractive.
“A man should treat his Les Paul and his lovers with the same gentle care,” he informed me, his voice as smoky as side of bacon. I had to glance away before I did something unseemly, like grab him and pin him to the car while I licked deeply into his mouth. “Hey, did I just step over a line
? I was reading things between us right, wasn’t I?”
My sight left a robin flying overhead and returned to him. His brows were tangled in confusion. I tried to push my hands deeper into my front pockets, but there was no room.
“No, you were reading right. I just…” I was glad to see the confusion lifting from his face. “I just, well, I’m a little…I was married.”
“You’re not now though, right?” And his sleek brows knitted up again.
“Oh no, nope. Divorced about two years ago. I just…it’s been a long time since I was out playing the field. Things are different this time around.” A foursome of young girls in swim suits ran past, giggling like only teen girls could giggle.
“How long were you married?” He indicated we should walk with a wave of his hand. I fell in beside him.
“Twenty-one years, nearly. She’s still one of my best friends and—”
“She?” He stopped cold. I nodded. “So where are you coming at me from here, Lancaster? I’m picking up some strong gay vibes but…”
“Yeah, I’m more than a little awkward. I’m gay, been gay since forever, but back in Billow Ridge, Georgia, the son of the preacher did not chase boys. Or marry them.” I paused when another gaggle of teens raced by, boys and girls this time. “Betty and I have two children. I’m out now, happy for it too, but I’ve not actively pursued many men since I came out.”
“Have you pursued any men?” he asked, his tone lighter now.
“Counting you? One.”
His face, which I’d noticed was quite expressive as he’d played, showed just how surprised he was. Then a slow, sensual sort of burning smile played on his lips.
“I’m honored to be the one to pop your dating bubble,” he said, but his words held a different meaning, in my ears at least. Dating bubble hell, I wanted this man to pop more than a dating bubble. I wanted him to pop everything I owned that was poppable.
