Foothills Pride Box Set

Chapter 1-2

I peered up at him. He was still scowling, but this time he looked gorgeous.

“You’re beautiful.” I brought my hand up to his bearded face.

He reared back as if I were going to spit on him.

“Oh, no you don’t, Jimmy. Not until you’re cleaned up and sober.”

He straightened me to nearly standing and pushed me along, letting me stumble away from him and back into the sink area of the bathroom.

He turned on the water and grabbed a couple of paper towels. After wetting them, he ran them over my face. The cool water felt wonderful. So I purred again. When I opened my eyes, his n*****s were rigid. This time I didn’t try to touch them, though.

He tossed away the paper towels without looking at me, grabbed another couple, wet them down, and ran them over his face, then his chest.

Before I could say anything, he was marching me out of the bathroom to one of the tables. The bar had only a few people left in it. The quiet of closing time sounded weird.

“Sit, Jimmy.” He pushed me gently into a chair.

I did. Or maybe I collapsed. I was so tired. So very, very tired.

“Stay, Jimmy.” His voice came from a long way away. He put my arms on the table.

I tried to nod, but my head thunked down onto my arms. A nap. A little nap seemed like a good idea. I wasn’t going anywhere, not until after a little nap.

* * * *

Is there anything worse than waking up with a really bad hangover? The answer, I found out that morning, was a solid yes. My particular hell was waking up in a strange bed with someone lying next to me, who was snoring away so loud I was surprised the neighbors weren’t complaining. What made it all worse was I had to pee really, really bad, and I didn’t have a clue where the bathroom was.

I lay on my back taking stock. I was naked, covered with a beige sheet and navy blue comforter in a huge bed, my head taking up most of the California king space.

Where the heck was I? I had no clue. I really didn’t care because I was hurting so badly, it’d probably be better if whoever lived here would just shoot me and put me out of my misery.

Still, I had to pee, so I slowly swam to the edge of the bed, trying not to move any body parts. Which was a complete failure. I ached all over. Had someone beaten me up?

As I reached the side of the bed and peered over the edge at the floor a few stories below, I groaned. Where was the ladder to climb down to the carpeting? I clutched the edge of the bed with one hand and rolled to my side.

“Hey, where you going, Jimmy?”

I hadn’t noticed the snoring had stopped until the voice boomed in my ear.

Carefully, I turned my head.

The Stonewall Saloon bartender with the nametag of Alex last night was peering at me over his chest of hair. His eyes were squinted. A slender beam of light from a gap in the curtains was aimed at his face.

“Bathroom. Pee.” I sighed. “Gotta pee.”

“Right.” He groaned and caused a tidal wave on the mattress even though it wasn’t a water bed.

My body reacted to the seismic quake and my stomach protested. I swallowed back the rising pain even though I knew my gut had nothing left in it to come up.

I felt large hands under my arms.

“Right this way.”

His voice clanged from one of my ears to the other.

He turned me, and we marched to a doorway and into the bathroom. Carefully, he lowered my nude body down onto the toilet.

“No spilling.” He turned away and walked into the hallway.

I pushed my limp d**k between my legs and did my thing, not spilling a drop on the bathroom floor or the toilet seat. Then I rested my arm on the sink counter next to the toilet and put my head on my arm.

“Nope, no snoozing here.” His voice boomed. “C’mon. It’s way too early for this shit.”

Again arms lifted me. After I balanced myself, one hand left. The toilet roiled. The hand returned.

“We’d usually wash our hands,” the voice murmured through me, “but I think we’ll skip it this time.”

Back in bed, covered, dry mouthed, I decided it was again nap time.

* * * *

The next time I woke, I was awake. Awake awake. Oh my God, where in the hell am I awake. s**t, I’m in big trouble awake. Where are my clothes awake.

I took inventory. No pain in the ass. That was a relief. No smell of semen. Check, and another sigh. No aches and pains that weren’t directly related to way, way too many shots and beers, check. No clothes. No clothes?

I was okay, pretty much, other than naked, hungover, and in a stranger’s house.

Damn it, I was thirty years old, naked in a stranger’s bed, with only a hazy recollection of what happened after my now former boyfriend Alex stranded me at the Stone Acres’ historic saloon.

I had a hazy memory of the bartender helping me to the bar bathroom the night before and this morning. So was I at his house? If so, how’d I get here?

“Um,” I tried to say, but my mouth was glued shut.

I reached over to feel the side of the bed. Still there. Then I reached over to the other side. Nothing. No one.

Okay, I was alone in a strange bed as my memory filtered back online. I had been an ass, and the bartender with the faux name of Alex had taken care of me anyway. I owed him my firstborn child, should such a thing happen to me now in my boyfriendless state. I owed Alex the bartender everything, including my pride and gratitude.

What I really needed to do was apologize for causing him so much trouble.

Slowly I sat up and then stood. My knees protested, so I sat back down and then tried again. This time my knees cooperated.

I walked around the room, looking for my clothes. Even my underwear would do. Seeing nothing and not wanting to open the drawers of the chest against the wall, I snuck to the doorway. I heard a faint rustling sound from down the hallway. I shuffled toward the noise as quietly as I could.

Alex the bartender was sitting on a huge leather couch looking at a magazine. He wore sweats but no shirt and looked so damn hot I had to blink.

“Good afternoon,” he drawled. “How’re you doing?”

“Thank you so much.” I wondered for a second if I was getting my words backassward. I continued anyway. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I can repay you. I’m really sorry. Thank you. Thank you.” I looked down since he was staring at me with rapt attention.

I was still naked. My hands went to cover my junk, but it occurred to me that he’d obviously seen all of me. So what was the point? Instead, I stood as tall as I could, given the hangover headache. I probably looked like I was facing a firing squad.

“Thanks. I owe you big time.”

“Yeah, not really.” He put the magazine on the coffee table in front of him. He stood, making me flinch back and hang onto the wall. “You don’t look like you feel so good. How about something to drink?”

“Water?” my reedy voice pleaded. “Coffee?”

He gave me the once-over, a little smile hanging around his lips and eyes.

“Yup, water. Lots of water,” he answered. “Maybe a little electrolyte boost, too. Let’s see what I’ve got.”

He walked past me, grabbed something, then doubled back to wrap me in an afghan. While my shivers subsided, he helped me sit in a huge Papa Bear recliner. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and heard him rustling around in the kitchen behind me.

As I sat there and relaxed, memories of the night before began to flood my mind. All the hazy images filled out and bloomed in living color. I saw Alex dump me for some beanpole stranger. I saw the guy sitting on the stool beside me telling the bartender I was about to hurl. I felt the bartender whisk me away to the bathroom so I could upchuck there and not on his vintage bar. Finally, sitting at a table and putting my head down on my arms. Then nothing until I woke earlier this morning.

I was thankful, very, very thankful. If it hadn’t been for the bartender, I don’t know what I would have done last night. My supposed boyfriend and I were sharing a two-bedroom place neither of us could afford to rent as a single person. The apartment overlooking the pool would have to go. I had to find a one-bedroom for myself. Not in that pretentious location. Maybe somewhere in town here. A small house to rent maybe.

I opened my eyes and looked around the bartender’s place. Minimal but nice. He was into modified Harley guy living. He had a huge screen TV, a leather couch and matching recliner, a coffee table, two end tables, a rag rug, a couple of lamps, all the necessities. His bed was really big and really comfortable.

My apartment in San Francisco could have fit in his living room.

At the repeated sound of clinking glass, I clutched at the afghan and stood up. I shuffled into the kitchen, looking around, and collapsed in a chair at the table. Again, the room was minimalist but nice. Older appliances, wooden table, four chairs, and an outdated coffeemaker.

A great looking butt was in the air as the bartender dug through his refrigerator.

I still didn’t know the guy’s real name. It annoyed me even though I knew I didn’t have a right to be annoyed by him. He was my savior after all.

“Um, yeah. I hate to be a bother.”

He snorted like he was holding in a laugh, but he didn’t stand up.

I was staring at his sweat pants-covered butt crack and getting just a little hard. I had a thing for bears, and he was the most luscious one I’d seen since moving to the foothills.

“Look, I was wondering if you have any French dark roast? Actually, French pressed would be better.”

He stood, turned, and stared at me.

“I shoulda known. You’ve told me enough times you’re a barista.” He handed me a cold bottle of water. “I can’t find any power drinks. You’ll have to start with this.”

“No French roast?”

“I don’t know. Does your coffee shop deliver?”

I laughed. “I’ll put that on the list of things to do. Thanks for the water. You really don’t have to do this. If you’ll just tell me where my clothes are, and my phone, I’ll get dressed and call a cab.”

“A cab? Here in Stone Acres?” He laughed. “Good luck with that.”

He looked down at my d**k as it made the afghan rise. He grinned a wickedly sinful smile.

“Kinda like your reaction there. I guess you’re starting to feel better.” He walked toward me, and I knew I was in the best kind of trouble.

I gulped down the bottled water, liking where I thought his intentions were going.

I’m not against hook ups—at least I hadn’t been a couple of years ago in the city before I moved out and started hunting for love instead of lust. So far love hadn’t worked out. Maybe I should be going back to lust for a while?

I gave him the once-over again. I stood, letting the afghan fall.

“See anything you like, baby?” he asked.

I c****d my head as my d**k pointed to its preference on its way up to full mast.

“Yeah.” I peered at him from eyes to crotch and back again. “But you don’t want this body until it’s showered and my teeth are brushed.”

He looked momentarily surprised. But his d**k seemed to be taking everything in stride, filling out the front of his sweats and then tenting them.

“Okay,” he said in a voice that challenged me, “you’re on.”

And we were.