Stockton County Cowboys Book 1: Chasing Cowboys

Chapter 1: A Weakness for Cowboys K&D Designs Naples, Florida 2:42 P.M. June 3, 20— “Who are you looking at?” I asked the tall, dark, and handsome cowboy standing next to me at the urinal. We both had our c***s out, pissing. “I know you’ve been watching me.” It was a little thrilling flirting with him here, at work. “There’s a lot to watch,” he said. I eyed his silhouette against the aqua-tiled wall—about six-two, 200 pounds, broad shoulders, cut jaw, stubble on his cheeks and chin, flat stomach, thick black hair, and black eyes. He wore tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a Stetson the color of rawhide. The guy was about my age, I guessed, thirtyish. He was Cord Darringer. I knew he owned the belt-buckle business called Buckling Broncos, and he was in Naples for only three days. In truth, I could see him riding bulls, feeding chickens, and tending a ranch. I knew that Naples, Florida, was the farthest thing from his world. He was a country boy inside and out, all the way: pure beef who liked hard work and never let his guard down enough to consider a city fag like me. “You’re a rare breed,” I said, focusing on his tight ass. He certainly wasn’t from my neighborhood of sandy beaches, sky-reaching palm trees, scurrying crabs, and suntanned lifeguards. Frankly, I was hard for his rough nature and indisputable charm. The guy was rugged for all the right reasons in my hungry opinion, and he hadn’t been shy about watching me since his arrival from Tulsa, Oklahoma, three days ago. “How am I a rare breed?” he asked. He was still pissing, holding his c**k. “Look at you,” I said in a bit of a condescending tone. “You’re rock-hard perfect. The sexiest cowboy in this city. Of course you’re a rare breed.” “I thought I was the only cowboy in this city,” he said, winking at me while managing to look totally butch, and gave his junk a firm shake. He checked me out from head to toe: blond hair and topaz-blue eyes, five-eleven, 165 pounds of muscle from my daily swim in the ocean, a tiny scar along the right side of my mouth (a small accident with a Swiss Army knife when I was ten years old), clean shaven, no pimples. No baggage. “You’re not so bad, either, if I can say so, Bradley.” Of course he knew me. He’d been watching me greedily for the last three days. He probably knew everything about me: where I liked to buy my morning cup of coffee, whom I’d last dated, where I lived, what my favorite color was. Hell, he probably had a notebook titled The Secrets of Bradley Hull and studied it like his financial reports. I ignored his comment and said, “Maybe you are the only cowboy along the Coast. Maybe not. I really don’t know. But I do know this: I like to look at your beef.” “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flirting with me, pal.” He was performing, turning my way, showing his six-inch cut c**k, his spirals of onyx-black pubic hair, and a glimpse of his hard abs fuzzed over with fine, charcoal-black hair that I found delectable. I watched him buckle up his goods and head to the vessel sinks on the opposite wall. The view of his ass pleased me. He turned the faucet and asked, “You like cowboys, don’t you?” “I’ve never turned one down,” I said, telling the truth. Cowboys were my weakness. Whether they were from Kansas, Colorado, or Oklahoma, it really didn’t matter. Give me a rugged man in denim, a Stetson hat, and maybe a Buckling Broncos belt buckle, and I was bound to fall on my knees and have my way with him—with, or maybe without, his permission. I’d bedded Land Barker, a rodeo champion, at his Topeka ranch for three years. There was Jax Temple, a smooth, quiet man who owned a horse ranch in Colorado. I’d accidentally bumped into all six-foot-two of him in his home city while buying my first cowboy hat, then I bumped into his pale bottom a number of times with my eight-inch c**k. So, no, I never turned down a cowboy. And to tell the truth, if he offered, I wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to share some man-on-man time with Cord Darringer. I watched him as he washed his hands in steamy water, pumping globs of c*m-like soap out of the dispenser. He asked, “How much do you know about me, Bradley?” “Less than you know about me.” He turned the spigot off and grabbed some paper towels. He said, “Let’s play a little game, what do you say?” “I thought we were already playing a game.” I was at the sink now, at his right side. My hands lathered the soap in my smooth, office-boy palms. He shook his head and beamed an aggressive grin that I found as intoxicating as whiskey, a grin that just about dropped me to my knees. He said, “Not yet, but I’m pretty sure we will be.” “We can play a game tonight, but only if you want.” I threw it out like rice at a queer wedding, showering his handsome frame, ready to take him on. He shook his head. “Not tonight, pal. I’m heading back to Stockton County. Your loss. You should have tried to pick me up sooner.” I think I managed to grin at him; I really wasn’t sure. But I felt the sting of his words, which knocked the wind out of my sails—and out of the other part of me that was taking an interest in the cowboy. He chuckled at my disappointment, and said, “I’ll stay under one condition.” “What condition is that?” My hope rose as he spoke. Not much, just a little, but it was still there. “You show me around town, take me to one of your favorite bars, and… be on your best behavior with me. What do you say?” “I’m game,” I said quicker than I meant to. I was agreeing to his game, his charm, and everything else that made my heart beat rapidly and my knees wobble. “Game on,” he said as he tossed the paper towels into the waste can and left the restroom, returning to his private meeting with my bosses, Kepler and Dance of K&D Designs. * * * * I returned to my cluttered desk at the design company and Googled the cowboy. Cord Wallace Darringer came from money. His parents, Deidra and Milton Darringer, had owned a feed company up till the turn of the century. Then they sold their multi-million dollar business to a farming-supplies conglomerate. They’d moved to Maui, many miles from their ranch life in Stockton County, Oklahoma. Some of the money went to Cord, and he used a chunk of it to start Buckling Broncos, which specialized in making belt buckles for cowboys and cowgirls of all ages. Long story short, Buckling Broncos was successful and Cord was making a fine living through its worldwide sales. Buckle themes included everything you’d expect: country music stars, tractor and gun-company logos, fishing, horses, and cattle. In the last seven years, Cord’s company had made twenty-seven million in profit, and it was growing every day. Business stories suggested that he was going to open a plant in Canada, which would be his first international site. K&D Design got a whiff of Cord’s money about six months ago. They immediately started courting him and he’d finally agreed to fly in for a meeting. If the deal worked, K&D Design would make some really big money—two million in the next eighteen months. The meeting in Suite Z was serious s**t. Cord had a lot of money to spend, and K&D wanted to get their share. Cord’s personal details were intriguing, too: an only child born on the Fourth of July; quarterback and prom king in high school; graduate of Oklahoma State with a business degree; never married; bought the Arched Q Ranch three years ago; on the cover of Forbes twice; Democrat; enjoys listening to Garth Brooks; drives a Ram 3500; enjoys reading, riding, and supporting a number of charities; cooks a little; supports animal rights; likes money but has his own ideas about how to make it in business. I spent over an hour Googling the man before I felt satisfied. Before I knew it, my day at K&D was over and it was time to leave. So I packed up my bag, turned off my computer, and found my way home, smiling the entire way, knowing that my life was about to change thanks to some fun with a new cowboy.