Cowboy Sandwich

Cowboy Sandwich By Drew Hunt Chapter 1 Barry Logan’s day had started out crappy and had gone downhill. He sat, beer in hand, in a back booth in Rick’s Bar and Grill in Springs—a bumfuck town in Colorado. The place didn’t look all that clean: the tables were in desperate need of a good wipe down, the plastic covering on the bench seats felt sticky, and the music was too loud. Barry looked down at his half-eaten meal of baked potato and fried chicken. He let out a soft burp. “And the food is too greasy,” he grumbled. Fearing he’d been overheard, he took a quick look around. The noisy crowd made him nervous. Small towns often meant small minds. Barry picked at the soggy coating on his chicken but pushed the plate away; he’d lost his appetite. He missed the fish and chips of home—the batter crunchy and golden, the chips crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Barry’s spirits lifted when he spied two hot cowboys come in and head for the bar. At least six feet four, both men had broad shoulders and torsos that tapered to narrow waists. Both men wore black Stetsons and western-style plaid shirts—one red, the other blue. Now those I could eat, Barry thought, licking his lips. From the brief glimpse he’d had of their faces, he thought them to be brothers. He’d done many wild things in his time, but never two brothers. First time for everything, he thought and snickered. Barry adjusted himself as he admired the way the faded Wranglers caressed the pair of tight butts. His mouth watered and his mind teemed with possibilities. A shout from over by the dartboard diverted Barry’s attention. Two drunks, who couldn’t be far out of their teens, were squaring off over something and it looked like it could get ugly. The barman—probably the eponymous Rick of Rick’s Bar and Grill—quickly restored order and the two would-be dart players were sent to opposite ends of the bar. Barry was surprised they hadn’t been ejected entirely. Maybe Rick knew their dads and would have a word with them later. This was a small town after all, and didn’t everyone know everyone in such places? Barry forced himself to turn his attention back to his meal, which looked even less appetizing. Beads of fat were oozing down the sides of the chicken and were beginning to congeal on the plate. He took a swig from his beer to try and fight down the bile. Someone put some money in the jukebox and Josh Turner’s signature song “Your Man” was pumped into the room. Barry closed his eyes. He loved this song, but it gave him too many ideas, had him wishing for things he thought he once had though turned out he didn’t. He’d embraced the old adage that the best way to get over a man was to get under another. But he’d been under a number of men, many of them cowboys, during his road trip across the States, yet his heart still felt empty. He knew once his trip took him to California, he’d get on a plane and go back home to England, his tail between his legs. Sighing, he sank lower in the booth. Barry had been awakened early that morning by someone shaking his shoulder, urging him to get dressed and leave. Turned out the ranch hand Barry had spent the night with was married and his wife was coming home unexpectedly early. Barry had been bundled out of the guy’s trailer without breakfast or even a peck on the lips goodbye. His day had gotten even shittier when his car, a second-hand Honda Civic that had seen him through four years of college and three years of life in upstate New York, died on what had to have been the most deserted stretch of highway west of the Mississippi. The day’s crapiness quotient had increased when Barry had discovered there was no cell service and he’d had to trek up the side of a mountain before his phone showed a single bar. Thankfully he’d kept up his membership at triple A, but the overly-perky female dispatcher at the other end had said she’d need more than “at the bottom of an empty valley in the middle of bloody nowhere, Colorado” as his location. She’d asked if he had a smart phone. Barry confirmed that he did, then he’d had a slap hand against forehead moment when he remembered the phone had a GPS app. He was—or had been—a mobile games developer. His phone revealed his location and Ms. Perky had told him she’d send a tow truck as soon as possible. Barry had shut off his phone to preserve the battery and trudged back down to his car to await rescue. As he’d walked he’d hoped for someone tall, dark, and handsome. Maybe the guy would be a little grease-stained, but that would only add to his hotness. Barry had read plenty of erotic stories of hapless motorists being rescued and ravished by hunky tow truck drivers. Back at the bar, Josh Turner was replaced by the younger but similarly sounding Scotty McCreery. His blue and red shirted hunks were still at the bar where they’d taken neighboring stools. Barry’s hopes rose when he saw that Blue’s right and Red’s left booted feet were touching. Barry shook his head and allowed his mind to drift back to earlier and the shattering reality of the tow truck driver. Far from being the stuff of jerk off stories, Slim was fat, short, smelly, and the wrong side of sixty. Most things Barry could forgive—he used to carry a few extra pounds himself—but Slim tested those limits, as well as the seams of his filthy overalls. Barry had no problem with older men. Heck, he’d had an amazing roll in the hay with a mature horse trainer when he’d passed through Michigan a couple of months earlier. Despite his age, the hunk had had a trim waist and a ripped chest and had given Barry quite the ride. But Slim, with his tobacco-stained teeth and his unerring accuracy of being able to time his farts with the hitting of every pothole, had done nothing to turn Barry’s crank. Even if the guy had worn a Stetson Barry couldn’t have fancied him, and Barry liked cowboys…a lot. He’d grown up watching western movies with his grandfather. Secretly he’d always wanted the lead cowboy to ditch the girl at the end and ride off into the wild blue yonder with his partner—Barry imagining himself as said partner. It was those Sunday afternoon westerns that had been one of the reasons why he’d applied for and managed to get a scholarship to an American university. He’d pictured himself studying during the week and riding the trails with his cowboy lover on weekends. Alas, he very soon discovered the streets of his Providence, Rhode Island college town were totally devoid of cowboys. Barry’s classes had taken up much of his attention, and what free time he’d had left had been spent with Robert, a guy he’d met during the second semester of their freshman year. Their shared passion for video games had spilled over into the bedroom and Barry had put aside his cowboy fantasies. On the jukebox, Scotty McCreary gave way to Johnny Cash, and Barry tried to rid his thoughts of Robert. The arsehole had made his choices, ones that hadn’t included Barry. Lifting his bottle of Bud Light, Barry discovered it empty. He hailed a passing waitress. “Not hungry, hon?” she asked, eyeing his plate. “Uh, no, sorry. But it was lovely.” Barry dipped his head. Even though he’d lived in the States for seven years, he still couldn’t shake off his English quirks of never complaining about restaurant food no matter how terrible it was. The waitress made some remark about how his English accent was cute, took away his plate, and asked if he wanted dessert. “No, thank you. But I’ll take a second beer if it’s not too much trouble.” She laughed. “Oh, you’re so polite. Wish the guys around here were more like you.” Barry cursed himself for blushing. The waitress moved to the bar and Barry looked around for the dual cowboy eye-candy. He soon found them at the pool table. Blue Shirt was chalking his cue stick and assessing the balls while Red Shirt did his best to distract Blue by pulling faces. Barry imagined there was banter between the two but the distance and the jukebox prevented him from hearing the details. “Here you go, hon,” the waitress said, returning with his beer. He smiled, nodded and took a long pull from the bottle. After wiping his mouth with a napkin, Barry looked around at the other patrons. The place was filling up. It was Friday evening after all, and Barry guessed there was little other nightlife in such a small town. Tapping his fingers to the beat, he remembered the rest of his drive to town. Slim had kept up a steady chatter, telling Barry all about his various ailments, his no-good kids, his cheating wife, his…Barry had then tuned the guy out, his only concern being how quickly his car could be repaired, allowing Barry to move on to the next big town. He’d quickly discovered on his journey across America that it was safest to hunt for cowboy c**k in the larger towns. The cherry on top of Barry’s craptastic day had come when Slim had told him the town’s only repair garage was closed because of a death in the family. It seemed Bill, the garage’s owner and sole mechanic, was out of town and wouldn’t be back until Wednesday. Directing Barry to the town’s only guesthouse, Slim had recommended a couple of places to eat, which was how he’d ended up at the wonderful melting pot of fine culture and haute cuisine that was Rick’s Bar and Grill. The song on the jukebox ended and Barry could hear raised voices. He soon saw it was Blue and Red. “You asshole! You said I could if I won this game. And I won!” Blue insisted, pointing at the table and the absence of solid colors. “I said no such thing, dilweed. It’s my turn, and you’re not getting’ out of it, no way, no how.” Red stood, arms crossed, the sexiest smirk on his full lips. The insults continued, the men seemingly unaware they were drawing attention to themselves. One of the patrons stood and shouted, “For f***s sake, would you two fags quit bitchin’ and get a fuckin’ room or something and let us normal folks enjoy our evening.” Barry’s mouth fell open. Red and Blue were really gay? Okay, his gaydar was usually spot on, but he’d put the latest pings on his screen down to wishful thinking more than anything else. Blue whipped around, his fists clenched, and aimed a death glare at the speaker. Barry shut his mouth and hoped there wasn’t going to be a fight. Although the idea of nursing Blue’s injuries had a certain decadent appeal. And he wouldn’t object to tending to Red’s wounds either. Barry’s triaging skills weren’t needed because before Blue could launch himself at the smaller, pot-bellied homophobe, a female voice loudly proclaimed, “What the f**k would you know about normal, Billy Ray? Those two weren’t the ones who had to go to the hospital last spring ’cause they had an accident with their vacuum cleaner.” The room burst into hoots of laughter. Red and Blue joined in. But the atmosphere still felt strained. Even though Barry enjoyed perving on the men, he hoped they’d leave so they wouldn’t have to listen to any more stupid taunts. It seemed Blue and Red had the same idea. As they made their way to the door, they began pushing each other, presumably resuming their argument. Before he knew what he’d done, Barry had tossed a twenty on the table, left his booth, and was heading out after the cowboys. He had no idea why, or what he’d say if he caught up with them.