“Man, they make ‘em fine in Wyoming,” was the cheesy one-liner yelled in my ear where I leaned against the bar of one of the only gay clubs I knew was open in a hundred-mile radius on a Sunday night. I sipped on a whiskey neat. I didn’t plan on getting drunk, just a little buzzed.
I looked over my shoulder, then down a bit to see a guy with a nondescript face and uninspiring body to match smiling at me. I guess he’d had to stand on his toes to get to my ear.
“That right?” I replied, not showing much interest. I’d been here for hours and had yet to feel a spark with anyone. In fact, the pickings were slim tonight. Or maybe, I just wasn’t in the mood. I kept thinking of Bulldog and Sam in a fight, technically over me.
In another world, maybe I would have been flattered and even vindicated
