Country

by Jeff Mann

  “Naw. I think you should take more of those pills and stay in bed.”

  “Do you know what kind of helpless old man that would make feel like? At least let me come along. Are you gonna install all that yourself? In this shape, I ain’t gonna be much help.”

  “Grace is handy that way. So’s my buddy Ray, the guy you met at the restaurant in Helvetia. He’s unemployed right now. I’ll give him a call, promise him a little money. You sure you don’t wanna stay in bed?”

  Brice shook his head. Stiffly, he rose. “Nope. Let me take a few pills and get dressed, and we can head out. I’ll treat us to breakfast in Buckhannon.”

  FEELING SUPERANNUATED AND WORTHLESS, BRICE spent the overcast afternoon in an overcast mood, sitting on the tailgate of Lucas’s truck, sipping coffee from a travel mug, while Lucas, Ray, and Grace installed first the gate and then the electric fence.

  At day’s end, after Ray’s departure, Grace invited Brice and Lucas down to dinner in the big Victorian she and Amie shared. The two couples spent a quiet evening drinking red wine, telling coming-out stories, and enjoying Amie’s fried chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, fresh yeast rolls, and homemade Boston cream pie. The men said good night early, since Lucas was visibly exhausted and Brice’s back was acting up again. Back at Phagg Heights, they went straight to bed and cuddled close all night.

  The next day was blessedly uneventful. That morning, Lucas drove Brice down country back roads to the county seat of Elkins. There, they picked up more pain pills and a heating pad at the pharmacy, opened a bank account in which to deposit the latest residuals from Brice’s ex-label, and made an appointment with a chiropractor. They shared a fancy lunch in Graceland, the vast nineteenth-century mansion converted into an elegant inn and restaurant that overlooked the town. That afternoon, back at Phagg Heights, while Brice napped atop the heating pad in the great room, Lucas roasted a chicken with oatmeal stuffing and made a big salad with blue cheese dressing. After some Scotch by the fire, they retired early yet again, medication and alcohol having made Brice drowsy. They watched CMT videos in bed till Brice drifted off to sleep in Lucas’s arms.

  The next morning, Lucas was in the midst of grating Cheddar for a cheese-and-mushroom omelet and Brice was frying bacon, sipping coffee, and feeling very content with the easy togetherness he and Lucas had come to share when the phone rang.

  “Couldn’t be anyone but Uncle Phil, Grace, Amie, or Mommy,” Lucas said. “No one else has the new number.”

  He picked up the phone. “Hello. Yep. What?”

  Lucas listened. Lucas frowned. Lucas rolled his eyes. Lucas groaned. Lucas chuckled.

  “Yeah, sure. Bring it on up. We can all enjoy it together. Hell, I’ll even do a dramatic reading. Yep, okay. Bye.”

  “What the hell?” Brice said, anxious again.

  Lucas hung up the phone, his mouth twisted into a sardonic grin. “That was Amie. Latest issue of the Star is out.”

  “And?”

  “And now…it looks like you gotta share your celebrity status with me.”

  “Oh, no. You mean…?”

  “Yep. Front cover. Scandalous headlines. Lots of photos. The two of us together. A shot of me in nothing but gym shorts screaming at the guy.” Lucas shook his head. “It’s kinda funny, really.”

  “It isn’t funny! Now folks are gonna be hounding you too.”

  Lucas shrugged. “They’re already hounding me, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Yes, they are, and it’s because you were kind enough to protect me.”

  “Well, Brice, buddy, you’re gonna have to get used to that. Like I said the other day, we’re in this together. We’ll protect one another. So, Amie’s coming up with the magazine. She’s gonna stay for breakfast. Would you get some biscuits out of the freezer, wrap ‘em in foil, and stick ‘em in the toaster oven?”

  Outside, snow flurries speckled the dead grass of the lawn. Inside, the three friends sat by the fire, drinking coffee on the couch and poring over the cover of the Star.

  As Lucas had warned, the issue sported provocative headlines: “ANOTHER BRICE BROWN GAY LOVE NEST EXPOSED!” and “COUNTRY STAR SHACKING UP WITH TRUCK-STOP HUSTLER!” Two large color photos featuring the two men filled in most of the cover. In one, Brice was gesticulating on the porch of the lodge, his lips set in a snarl, with Lucas by his side, looking equally furious. In another, Lucas stood on the doorstep of his cabin, wearing nothing but gym shorts and ball cap, mouth open in mid-shout, one fist clenched in the air. In the bottom right-hand corner, a tiny close-up of Amie accompanied a question set in smaller type: “MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY! MÉNAGE À TROIS?”

  Brice sighed, kneading his scalp. “Amie, I’m so sorry you’ve been dragged into this.”

  Amie’s smile was broad and bright. “Actually, I’m enjoying the fifteen minutes of fame and the intoxicating perfume of notoriety. Grace is already calling me ‘Mysterious Beauty.’ I’m surprised they haven’t dug up my burlesque past.”

  “Oh, hell. What if they do?” Brice slumped back into the couch.

  “It won’t matter. Most people around here already know about it. They figured out years ago that Grace and I are together, and that hasn’t made much of a difference. Other than a couple of preachers trying to get their parishioners to boycott our business—and that failed miserably because we’re the only restaurant around here—locals have been pretty friendly. It’s not as if their opinions matter all that much to me anyway. Wasn’t it Oscar Wilde who said something like, ‘The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about?’”

  “Yeah, I don’t much care what folks think either,” Lucas said, handing Brice the magazine before rising to put another log on the fire. “I figure every person in this county knows about me being a cocksucking hustler and ex-con. A few folks I’ve run across have been nasty about it, but lots more have acted afraid of me, which is actually kinda cool, since they leave me alone and stay the hell outta my way. Fuck ‘em. I care what Mommy thinks about me, but she wrote me off years ago as a hell-bound sinner.” Lucas crossed his arms and hung his head, looking grim. “Nothing I can do about that. I ain’t gonna change, and she ain’t gonna change her mind. Maybe when she hears about this article and finds out that Brice and I are together—”

  “We’re together?” Brice interrupted, smiling.

  “Yeah, we’re together. Didn’t you read those headlines? They may be printed on the cover of a scandal sheet, but they’re dead on anyway.” Lucas looked at Amie. “He can be mighty dense sometimes.”

  “So you two are a couple? This is glorious news,” Amie enthused. “You’re adorable together. Your uncle will be pleased, Lucas. He’s been hoping you’ll find someone to take care of you.”

  “Yeah, I figure Uncle Phil will be happy. He likes you real well, Brice. But Mommy…. I kinda doubt it.”

  “I’m sure part of her wants you to be happy,” Amie said. “If only she weren’t poisoned by that swinish pastor of hers and his hateful dogma. Reverend Davis, that corpulent poltroon. In my dreams, I sometimes have the pleasure of shooting him through the head.”

  “You know him?” Brice asked.

  “Oh, yes. He was one of the preachers who unsuccessfully encouraged the members of his church to boycott our store. So, Lucas, how about that dramatic reading you promised me?”

  Lucas chuckled. “Sure y’all don’t want a shot of Bailey’s in your coffee first? This might be pretty rough.”

  “No need for liquor,” Brice said, handing Lucas the periodical. “Who cares what those jackals have said about us? We know the truth. Go ahead, Lucas. Read it.”

  “Okay. Here we go.” Lucas sank into the armchair and flipped to the relevant pages. “The official title of this piece of no-doubt priceless prose is ‘THE COUNTRY SINGER AND THE HILLBILLY HUSTLER,’ written by none other than that Robert West guy. The one you drove away with your pistol, thank you very much.” Lucas flashed Amie a brief smile before continuing.

  �
��‘Where’s Brice?! Folks have been asking: Whatever happened to country-music star and infamous homosexual Brice Brown? Now we know! He’s been caught cavorting with a young hillbilly hustler in the remote mountains of West Virginia!’

  “‘BIG GAY SCANDAL! Last November, as the astute reader will recall, Nashville guitarist Zac Lanier came forward with a shocking story: he and Brice Brown had conducted a clandestine homosexual affair while Lanier was still a member of Brown’s band and Brown was still married to beautiful socialite Shelly Brown. Soon after this shocking and unsavory revelation…’.”

  Lucas broke off long enough to interject, “Unsavory? I think you’re pretty savory myself. Anyway, ‘…Brown fled Nashville in disgrace and hid out for weeks in his hometown of Hinton, West Virginia. There, the Star caught up with him, discovering that he had apparently seduced a married man, Wayne Meador, a hot-tempered construction worker who physically attacked our reporters. Hinton locals told the Star that Brown and Meador were most probably high-school sweethearts rekindling their affair.’

  Lucas paused to give Brice an inquiring glance. “Who’s this, huh? I remember reading that article last December. He was a real good-looking guy, from what I could tell from the photos. I’ve been meaning to ask you about him.”

  Brice rested his elbow on his knee and his forehead in his hand. “Wayne’s an old friend from my high school days. I’ve always been a little in love with him.”

  “I’ve got competition?” Lucas’s tone was joshing, but Brice thought he could detect barely veiled concern.

  “Glad to see you’re jealous. No, no competition. He’s straight, and he’s married. He lives in North Carolina. He was in Hinton for the holidays and came down to my house to offer his support. When that damn article was published, I told him to keep his distance, and he has.”

  “Okay, sorry. I ain’t got any right to be possessive.”

  “I think it’s cute that you’re possessive, actually. Go on.”

  “Okay. ‘Lost and Found! In late January of this year, Brown left Hinton for parts unknown. Star reporters based in Nashville have since discovered that his recording contract has been canceled, his agent has dropped him, his lovely and long-suffering wife is divorcing him, and he’s had to sell most of his properties. Many have speculated that Brown left the country rather than face further shame. But a few days ago, thanks to an anonymous tip, this reporter found him hiding out high in the wilds of Randolph County, West Virginia, in remote, forested Brantley Valley, not far from the tiny town of Pickens! He’s apparently found erogenous escape from his troubles in the arms of a much younger man, an ex-con with a trashy, sleazy past!’”

  “Trashy and sleazy? Oh, great.” Lucas chuckled. “Here we go. The truck-stop whore achieves fame at last. ‘THE SODOMITE STAR, THE HOMO HUSTLER, AND THE GUN-TOTING VIXEN! Yes, as if we need any further proof that Brown’s perverse erotic appetites are insatiable, only weeks after his cozy time snowed in with Wayne Meador, the Star has discovered the shameless sodomite singer, age forty, shacking up with Lucas Bryan, age twenty-seven, a boy young enough to be his son and a homosexual hustler at that!’”

  Lucas paused. “Huh! Young enough to be your son? Even I know that math is off. Anyway, ‘The Star caught the two cohabiting in a large compound of log cabins—the former Lost Creek Guest House, now owned by a wealthy lawyer, Philip Rogers, and managed by his nephew, the aforesaid Bryan. When this reporter expressed his interest in interviewing Brice Brown so as to give the disgraced singer a chance to tell his side of the story, Lucas Bryan initially lied, claiming that Brown was not in residence. Later, Brown revealed himself, fell into a profane rage, and threatened this reporter with physical violence. Soon thereafter, a glamorous femme fatale in their company drew a pistol from her purse and fired, driving off this beleaguered representative of the Star! Was this bewitching madwoman merely a friend, or do Brown’s sexual proclivities lean toward the infamous ménage à trois?!’”

  “Lovely. Said femme enjoyed the target practice immensely,” Amie interjected. “If only circumstances had allowed her to be more fatale.”

  “You’re telling me! Okay, here’s the rest of that section. ‘A few days later, this reporter returned to the compound, determined to give his readers a more in-depth glimpse of Brown’s indecent adventures, only to be met at the door by Brown’s nearly naked lover. Who knows what bed of pederastic passion the well-muscled Bryan had tumbled from? The irate young man drove off the Star’s representative with many a vulgar and graphic threat.’”

  Lucas scratched his chin. “Well, that’s true. I told him I wanted to take a maul to his balls, grind the tiny lil’ thangs up in a blender, and feed the grainy paste to the hawgs.’”

  “Well done,” said Amie. “I’ve always admired the deftness of your profanity.”

  Brice laughed. “He got another detail right: well-muscled. The headline ought to read ‘Torso of the Year.’ Now everyone can see what a fine body you have. With that hot pic of you on the cover, horny gay guys are going to be pouring into Brantley Valley, wanting a piece of you.”

  Lucas raised an eyebrow. “I think I’m pretty much taken at this point. Their coming a’courtin’ would be a waste of everybody’s time.” He gave Brice a warm glance before resuming.

  “So here’s the last segment of it. ‘THE COUNTRY HAS-BEEN AND THE JUICY JAILBIRD! TRUE LOVE AT LAST? Since these frightening incidents, researchers at the Star have confirmed several disturbing facts: Lucas Bryan began frequenting West Virginia truck stops and offering oral sex in exchange for money as early as age seventeen. Having stabbed a trucker he was attempting to rob, he was sent to prison at age twenty on charges of prostitution and malicious assault. Sources inside the penitentiary indicate that Bryan, thanks to his youth, handsome features, and athletic form, was quite the popular item among his fellow inmates there. Bryan was released on parole in May of 1997. Now, apparently, his boyish charms and seedy sexual talents have won the heart and groin of washed-up country singer Brice Brown. The Star wishes them the best in their high hillbilly homo hideaway! Hopefully, at some point in the near future, Brown will give the Star the interview we’ve all been waiting for and share with our readers all the salacious and unseemly details of their forbidden romance!’”

  Lucas laughed low in his throat. Rising, he tossed the periodical on the coffee table. “Lord, lord. So this is what fame feels like.”

  Brice groaned. “Oh, Lucas. Oh, Amie. It’s all my fault. Christ. I should never have come here.”

  “Bullshit,” Lucas said. “Mizz Amie, do you agree?”

  “I do. Bullshite indeed, Mr. Brice. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you, a man I’ve admired for many years, and I do believe I’ve never, ever seen Lucas here any happier. Besides, I’ve always dreamed of being an infamous, gun-toting madwoman, à la Thelma and Louise.”

  “See? You belong here, big Daddy.” Lucas offered Brice a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Okay, it’s time for that ménage every Star reader is wondering about. Except, instead of sharing our bodies, I think we’ll opt for a big breakfast instead.”

  Brice squeezed Lucas’s hand and kissed him on his bearded cheek. “That’s one thing you two fine cooks have reminded me of: good food’s a helluva consolation in times of trouble.”

  “One of my many mottos,” Amie said, finishing her cup of coffee. “Since Lucas got back to Brantley Valley, he’s become a fabulous chef.”

  “I’ve had good teachers: you and Uncle Phil and Doris Ann. Let’s head down to the kitchen now. I’m famished. We’re gonna have biscuits, bacon, and a nice cheese-and-mushroom omelet. Plus I got a few store-bought tomatoes we can slice. They’re half-decent for February. Nothing better’n tomato and mayonnaise on top of a hot biscuit.”

  “SO YOU HAD FUN HIKING today?” Lucas said. He propped a hand against the wall of his cabin’s narrow shower stall while Brice scrubbed his muscular back with a loofah.

  “I sure did,” Brice said, patting one of Lucas’s buttocks
. “Helped me forget all that Star shit. The landscape was nearly as magnificent as this one here I’m feeling on.”

  “Sweet talk’ll get you everywhere. Yeah, this is an awful pretty part of West Virginia. That view today from Dolly Sods, the snow lingering in between the rocks, the way the wind shapes the spruce into green flags….”

  “Yep. And all that space in Canaan Valley. The wetlands, the view from Bald Knob. I needed the exercise, after the great meals you’ve been feeding me.”

  “We’ll get back to lifting together once your back has gotten better. You were walking pretty well today. Want another back rub before bed?”

  “I’d love that,” Brice said. “So tell me the truth. You really aren’t upset about that Star article?”

  “Naw. I’ve sorta had to make my peace with being a notorious homo whore and convict. Most folks in this state, except for the real religious types…well, okay, there are lot of real religious types, but…most mountain people are into ‘Live and let live’ and ‘Don’t mess with me and I won’t mess with you.’ So I don’t think that article is gonna make much difference in terms of day-to-day living around here. Plus, shit, I’m proud to be named as a country star’s boyfriend! Coolest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Boyfriends. Amazing. I guess I’ve never had a boyfriend. Not really. Zac was the closest I’ve ever gotten.”

  Lucas turned around and wrapped his arms around Brice’s waist. “Yeah, Eric has been it for me. Boyfriends. Lovers. That’s what the tabloids say. And since every scandal-rag reader now thinks we’re lovers, I guess we should act like lovers, huh?” Lucas nuzzled Brice’s mouth.

  “Really? You mean it?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Then I think you’re absolutely right.” Brice nuzzled back, squeezing Lucas’s wet ass-cheeks. Both of them grew hard, kissing and embracing.

  “I’ve been wanting to get you naked all day,” Lucas murmured, kneading Brice’s beefy pecs. “It’s like I been fighting back this…hankering for you, this crazy need for you…for weeks, and now all of a sudden, it’s all broke free, and I….” He dropped a hand to Brice’s prick and gripped it. “God, Brice, I want….”