by Drew Hunt
“I figured you needed your beauty rest, so I let you sleep. And has anyone ever told you that you hog the blankets?”
“My ex-wife.”
That at least earned him a raised eyebrow. “Is that why you’re her ex? She got fed up with being cold at night?”
“No, I divorced her if you want to know.”
This got another raised eyebrow, but Brock wasn’t going to say any more. Mary Ann and he got married only because a condom had split one time, and when she’d become pregnant, their two daddies had made them both do the right thing.
“How’s the head?”
Brock rubbed the top of his head. “Like a fuckin’ army of jackhammers are at work demolishing the town.”
“Hmm, if only. Say, is Miguel’s on 4th and Patterson still in business?”
“Huh?” Brock didn’t understand.
“Miguel’s,” Calvin repeated slowly, like as though Brock were a third grader. “Used to have the best Mexican food this side of the border.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I think they’re still there. Why?”
Calvin gave him an exasperated look. “Because I was going to buy a truck load of drywall from them.”
“What?” Had Hal slipped something into his JD last night?
“Okay, I’ll make it simple. Miguel’s menudo is the best hangover cure I know of. I’m assuming he still sells it?”
“Uh, yeah, I think so.” In truth Brock hadn’t eaten there in years, he couldn’t afford to. He silenced the little voice inside him that told him he could eat there if he didn’t spend what little money he had on liquor.
“Good, so once you’ve gotten dressed, that’s where we’re headed.
Brock reached for his pants. He doubted he had enough money to…
“My treat. Miguel’s is about the only decent thing in this Podunk town. Your jackhammers are welcome to the rest of it. Oh, I managed to get the puke out of your shirt, but it’s not dry yet. See if you can find something to wear in my suitcase over there.”
Brock rolled off the air mattress, conscious he was only wearing boxers. Crawling over to an expensive tan leather suitcase, he studied the closed top. “I ain’t gonna find no gay sex toys or shit like that in here, am I?”
“Do you want to?”
Fuck! He really shouldn’t tease Calvin like this; he always ended up the worst for it.
Calvin huffed, got on his knees and unzipped the suitcase. Searching through the clothes, he said, “Not much of my stuff will fit you.” He looked up and gave Brock a close examination, making Brock flush. “Maybe this sweatshirt might be baggy enough. Though in this heat—”
“Thanks, it’ll be fine.” Brock stood up, snatched the offered clothing from Calvin and headed for the door.
“And just so you won’t be embarrassed in being seen out in public wearing a fag’s clothes, we can swing by your house before Miguel’s so you can change.”
Brock remembered the mess his place was in. “No, its okay, I’ll manage with these.”
Calvin shrugged. “Do you remember where the bathroom is?”
Brock closed the bedroom door without replying.
* * * *
Brock had to admit the menudo was excellent. He could have used a second bowl, but with Calvin paying he…
“Hey, Miguel,” Calvin called out to the over-weight, middle-aged Mexican, “can we have two more bowls?”
“Sure.” The man waddled off and soon returned with a tray. Brock eyed the new bowl hungrily. Amazingly, his appetite had returned.
“You too thin. Need to eat more,” the man said, setting a bowl in front of Calvin. “All that New York Jewish food.” Miguel shook his head and made a tsking noise with his tongue.
“I know a bistro owner in New York who would sell his grandmother to get his hands on your recipe for menudo.”
Miguel laughed. “What would I need with his grandmother?”
“Sorry, Matthew, I tried,” Calvin said, dipping his spoon into the steaming soup.
Brock was already halfway through his bowl.
Miguel ambled off, muttering something about how he already had enough old ladies in his family to support.
“So,” Calvin asked, “When can you start work on the old homestead?”
Brock swallowed his mouthful of soup. “I haven’t even priced it up yet.”
“I know, but I’ll still choose you, whatever your price.” Calvin’s look had Brock fidgeting in his seat.
Brock knew the guy was only trying to wind him up, and Brock was beginning to realize he’d never get the best of him, so it was better to ignore his teasing.
“Well, I’d have to look in my workbook, but I think I’ll be able to squeeze you in—”
“Cut the crap.” Suddenly Calvin had turned all stern and businesslike. “I know you’re struggling for work. This town is barely holding its head above water. Folks don’t have money to have repairs or renovations done. What they can do themselves, they do.”
Ain’t that the truth, Brock said to himself.
“So let’s make a deal. You give me a fair price and I’ll accept it. You do the work quickly and well, and I’ll throw in a bonus.”
Brock didn’t have a problem with that. He did good work, and, given that he didn’t have anything else on, he could start pretty much immediately.
“Deal.” He held out his hand to shake on it, just like his daddy had taught him. Something else his daddy had taught him was that you could learn a lot from how a guy shook your hand. Calvin’s was warm, firm, yet not designed to crush the bones in your hand.
The shake, however, went on for longer than Brock was expecting.
“What’s that on your wrist?” Calvin asked, using his free hand to raise the cuff of Brock’s—or rather his own—sweat shirt.
“Uh,” Brock was getting panicky about two men holding hands in public. He looked down at his wrist and saw something black, granulated, with irregular edges. The thing was about the size of a quarter. “It’s nothing.”
Calvin touched Brock’s wrist. “When I saw it earlier I thought it was a birthmark, but now—”
That was the last straw; Brock pulled his hand out of Calvin’s.
“I said it’s nothing. I probably caught it on something.”
Calvin eyed him. “Last year my company did a promotional campaign to raise awareness of skin cancer. What you have on your wrist looks just like a melanoma.”
Brock’s mouth went dry. His daddy had died from liver cancer. Okay, the two weren’t the same, but didn’t cancer run in families?
Meanwhile Calvin was busily pressing buttons on his fancy cell phone. “Here.” He thrust the phone at him. “That’s a picture of a melanoma.”
Brock stared at the image, then at his wrist. He couldn’t deny they looked similar. “It’s nothing,” he bluffed.
“Does it itch?”
Brock could hardly tell him it didn’t, as his question occurred in mid-scratch. “It’s nothing,” he repeated, hiding his wrist under the table.
“The fuck it isn’t.” Calvin’s voice was getting louder. Folks were beginning to stare at them.
“Shh. I’ll go to the doctor’s office in a few days if it doesn’t clear up.”
“You’re going now! This can’t wait. Every hour leaving melanomas untreated can be fatal.”
Way to make him feel better.
Calvin snatched back his phone. “Who’s your doctor? I’m gonna make an appointment right now.”
“No.”
“You’re right. It’d be quicker just to show up. Who are you with?”
“I, uh,” Brock stared down at the remains of his soup, his appetite absent again. “I, uh, don’t have insurance,” he mumbled.
“What?”
“When dad set up the company, he looked into health insurance, but the premiums were too high. He figured whatever we’d have to pay out for one-off things would be less than the premiums. Only he got sick and—”
Calvin let out a brea
th. “Okay, we’re going to the emergency room. They have to treat everyone there.”
Brock didn’t want to go; he had hated hospitals ever since his daddy had spent the last months of his life in one, but Calvin wasn’t giving him any choice.
Calvin called for the check, paid and left the diner, Brock following along behind. Dead man walking.
* * * *
The ride to the hospital seemed to take an age, but in reality Brock knew it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. He sat quietly as Calvin drove, Brock’s truck still sitting in the bar’s parking lot. At least Brock assumed it was still there. No one in their right mind would want to steal the heap of rusting junk. Plus everyone in town knew him—and his truck—so he figured it would still be there later…If there was a later.
Thankfully Calvin stayed quiet during the ride. Brock wasn’t up for much meaningful conversation. At thirty-five he was too young to die; he still had most of his life ahead of him. And who’d look after Junior? Junior and he were a family and…
Brock hadn’t realized they’d arrived until he felt Calvin taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. It must have been a mark of how spooked he was because Brock welcomed the reassuring touch; he didn’t automatically pull away or check to see if anyone was watching them.
“It’ll be all right. The key with these things is to catch them early. And you say you don’t remember seeing this lesion before?”
Brock shook his head. He was always getting scraped up, it went with the job, but he couldn’t remember seeing this particular—whatever it was—before.
“Come on then, pardner, let’s go hustle.” Calvin gave Brock’s hand one final squeeze before letting it go.
Earlier, Brock had found Calvin’s pseudo western talk irritating—even demeaning—but now he knew the man was just trying to cheer him up.
“Thanks for this. I—”
“S’okay. I couldn’t have you going to the big contractor’s resting place in the sky halfway through your work on the house could I? This is just me looking after my investment. He gave Brock a reassuring smile to let him know he was joking.
* * * *
The reception area was bustling; medical staff, patients, relatives and their children milled about in what Brock took to be total chaos. Who’d have thought the place would be this busy at Saturday lunchtime?
Calvin muscled his way to the front desk. “Hello, we need to see a doctor.”
“There’s a line, buddy!” someone behind them called out. Calvin ignored him.
The receptionist kept on typing at her computer.
“Excuse me,” Calvin waved a hand in front of her. “But we need to see a doctor immediately.”
The receptionist looked up, and, with a bored tone Brock knew she must have practiced, said, “You need to join the line.”
“Look, lady, there’s an emergency here, and you need to stop playing solitaire on your computer and register this patient, now!”
“Sir, you need to join the line,” she repeated.
“Calvin, come on, let’s do as she says.” Brock hated that everyone was staring at them.
“I don’t give a flying fuck about your precious line! I need a doctor, now! If his treatment is delayed because we’ve wasted time waiting in your stupid line, then I’ll sue this hospital, you, your children and your children’s children. By the time I’ve finished, you’ll be lucky to get a job scrubbing bedpans!”
Brock wanted the floor to open and swallow him up.
“Uh huh.” Sighing, she asked, “What’s the problem with your friend?” She still sounded bored, but this was at least progress.
“He has skin cancer. Melanoma.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s on his wrist.” Before Brock could protest, Calvin had grabbed his arm, raised it, and pulled up his sleeve.
She took an uninterested look at it. “Go to the end of the line.” Turning to the next person she said, “Yes, can I help you?”
“This is not acceptable. I demand to see your supervisor! We’re not moving from this spot until we get some treatment here!”
“Calvin! Stop it!” Brock started to move away, but Calvin grabbed him.
Fortunately a doctor showed up just then. “Is there a problem here?”
“You could say that. This…this woman refuses to book my friend in, he’s got skin cancer and he needs urgent treatment.”
“Okay,” the obviously overworked doctor said. “Come through here and I’ll take a look.”
Despite the embarrassment, Brock was grateful for Calvin’s pushy attitude. He followed the white coat across the hallway and between a pair of curtains.
“Take a seat, Mister…?”
“Brockwell,” Calvin answered, following them through the curtains.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but would you please go to the desk and fill in the forms to register Mr. Brockwell, and then wait out there until—”
“No, I want him to stay with me.” Brock didn’t care how pathetic or needful that made him sound.
“Okay, let’s take a look. Your wrist did you say?”
“Yes, doctor,” Calvin put in. “The right one.”
The doctor shot Calvin a look of exasperation, but Calvin hardly seemed to notice.
Brock rolled up his sleeve. The doctor put on a pair of latex gloves, and picked up Brock’s hand to examine it.
“When did you first notice this?” the doctor shot Calvin a glare that kept him silent, for the moment at least.
“This morning. We were having brunch, Calvin noticed my wrist, he showed me a picture on his phone and—”
Calvin got out his cell. “Here, look. Classic melanoma. It could be a photograph of Brock’s wrist.”
The doctor took a brief glance at the screen, and then returned his attention to Brock’s wrist.
* * * *
Storming out of the curtained exam room, Calvin’s left elbow securely held in his right hand, Brock pushed through the crowd ahead of them. He didn’t know which emotion he felt the strongest. Anger, relief or…lust. Propelling Calvin through a door into a bathroom, Brock made for the handicapped stall. He slammed the door behind them and flipped the lock. Whirling round to face a shocked-looking Calvin, Brock launched himself at the man and crushed their mouths together in a savage kiss.
Brock felt the man opening his lips, accepting Brock’s tongue, and then thrusting back with his own. Someone was whimpering, Brock didn’t know—or care—who it was.
Finally running out of air, Brock disengaged. Panting, they both looked at each other. Calvin’s lips were swollen; Brock bet his were in a similar state.
“A scab. A fucking scab!” Brock shouted, the noise echoing off the walls of the stall.
“Yeah. Who knew they could look so like melanoma.”
“You…I—” Brock couldn’t organize his thoughts. “I thought I was dying.”
“Yeah. I did, too. Honestly, it looked just like—”
Brock silenced him with another kiss, this one less crazed, more…thoughtful…more meaningful.
“I know,” Brock said when they separated, but not by much. Brock could feel Calvin’s breath on his face.
“When the doctor took that bar of soap and lathered up that gauze swab and then rubbed it on your wrist, I thought I was going to explode. I mean, what kind of quack cure was he trying to pull?”
“Yeah. But when he explained that if the thing flaked off like that—”
“I know. Sorry, man. Sorry for over-reacting like I did.”
Brock stared deep into Calvin’s eyes. He hadn’t noticed before what a deep shade of green they were. Suddenly Brock needed the guy, needed to tell him—show him—just how grateful he was for caring, for being willing to step up to bat for him. Brock didn’t know of anyone else who would have. Before he could change his mind, Brock sank to his knees and was pulling at Calvin’s zipper.
“What are you doing?”
Brock didn’t reply. If Calvin didn’t know no
w, he soon would. Zipper down, Brock reached inside and, after pulling aside the black silk boxers—something he’d have to rag Calvin about later—Brock pulled out the guy’s dick. It wasn’t easy as it was an impressive size, and hard as iron.
Licking the exposed crown a couple of times, Brock captured a pearl of juice. The flavor exploded on his tongue, but Brock didn’t have time to savor; he had to get to the main event. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed Calvin to the root.
“Jesus!” Calvin moaned, putting his hands gently on either side of Brock’s head.
This would not be the most finessed blowjob he’d ever given, but Brock tried to put all he was feeling into it, as he knew he’d not be able to put it into words. Calvin had believed in him, hadn’t listened to his bullshit about being okay. Instead he’d taken charge of everything, marched him to the ER and demanded they get treatment. Sure, it’d been embarrassing as hell standing at the desk, but secretly Brock had admired Calvin for standing up for what he believed in, sticking up for him.
“Oh, God!” Calvin groaned when Brock started to hum around the head of Calvin’s dick. “Not gonna last long.”
That was the idea. This hard floor was hell on Brock’s knees.
Pulling off a little to take a breath, Brock put his tongue to work by rolling it around Calvin’s shaft.
“Jesus, man.”
Brock redoubled his efforts to make it good for Calvin.
“Oh, man, gonna…gonna…!”
Brock felt his mouth fill with warm pungent sweetness. Levering himself up with the aid of the toilet seat, he stood.
“Wow. I—”
Brock silenced him with a kiss, feeding Calvin’s seed back to him. They swapped spit for a minute or so, before the enormity of what he had just done began to dawn on Brock.
“I sure wasn’t expecting anything like that,” Calvin said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.
Brock froze when he heard the outer door open and close. Footsteps echoed in the tiled room, then came the sound of a stall door being latched. Suddenly the stall he was in felt too small, the lights too bright, the smell of disinfectant too strong. What had he done?
With shaking fingers, Brock unlatched the door and fled. This should have been about saying thank you to Calvin, but his good intentions were crowded out by images of other blowjobs given—and received—in other bathroom stalls. Those had all been about getting off, relieving an urge. Brock felt cheap…dirty.
