Chapter 2: Beneath His Stetson
1478 Words
Chapter 2: Beneath His Stetson
Turtle Bay Apartments
Naples, Florida
6:42 P.M.
“You’re desperate,” Melanie said, touching up her dragon-red lipstick in my third-floor apartment looking out over the Gulf. She looked like a blonde bombshell, but she had an award-winning quarterback’s junk between her muscular legs. Someday Melvin “Melanie” Banks would take the plunge and have her gender-change operation. I still sometimes caught myself thinking of her as a man—my best friend since childhood and someone I considered my blood, no matter what.
But I’d long since found her sassy push-up bras, satin blouses, four-inch heels, and expensive handbags normal. She was always a lady when I needed some heavy-duty girl talk. I never judged her, never embarrassed her about her long process of gender morphing, and never doubted her ambitions. Hell, if she wanted to be Oprah Winfrey or Taylor Swift, I was fine with it. Whatever.
“Do you really think I’m being desperate?” I asked, lounging with a longneck on the couch. Kenny Chesney was playing, echoing off the stucco walls. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows was the sleepy Gulf: blue with a rising tide and a bruised sunset, all spectacular and Kodak-perfect.
“I think you’re just chasing a cowboy again. You’re good at that. This’ll be your third one in as many years.”
“Fourth,” I corrected her. “You’re forgetting Tag.”
She rolled her eyes at me, blushed sweetly, and said, “Tag is forgettable and doesn’t count. Neither of us knew he was into little boys. That’s a sin, you know.”
“I know, Mel.”
“And I’m not talking eighteen-year-olds, either. Elementary boys with rosy cheeks—sickens me to this day. That man was a Carl Sandusky all the way, and a monster.”
“Let’s not get into this again. You’ll rant for the next hour and get filthy drunk.”
She agreed, nodding. My friend of friends tucked her lipstick into her faux leather handbag, took her apple martini from the glass end table, and said, “We should toast your desperation.”
I sort of chuckled, enjoying her humor and friendship to the fullest. “Don’t you mean to ‘cowboy chasing?’”
“Whatever you want to call it, darling.” She kicked one bare knee over the other, pulled her Chanel skirt down just a little over her freshly shaven thighs, and downed half the drink. She batted her crystal-blue eyes at me and asked, “What’s this cowboy’s name again?”
“Cord Wallace Darringer.”
“Like the gun?”
“It sounds the same, but it’s spelled differently.”
“Details,” she said, waving dismissively at me. “As long as he has a gun between his legs, it doesn’t matter how his last name is spelled.”
I rolled my eyes, shook my head, and said, “Be a lady.”
Melanie ignored me. “He’s wealthy, right? He owns a company that makes belt buckles.”
I nodded, letting my eyes roam around my apartment: leather reading chairs and a matching sofa from a secondhand store, Steve Walker prints on the walls, two egg-shaped floor lamps, skinny kitchen to the left, bathroom and one small bedroom to the right. “I’m not chasing him because of his money.”
She let out a sigh of discontent, re-crossed her legs, and said, “Obviously I haven’t taught you well.”
I took another swig, shrugged, and said, “I just have a thing for cowboys. I don’t care about their money, what they do for a living, or their families. I’m just drawn to them.”
She chuckled at me with a wide, white grin. “You know they’re not role-playing, right? Every cowboy you’ve met has been a real cowboy, Bradley. Who are you fooling?”
“My psychosis.”
“Good luck with that, girlie-girl. All of us like to get off our own way.”
I was about to tell her that she was wrong, but my cell phone chirped and I looked at the number. “It’s him.”
“Don’t just look at it, answer it.”
Nervously I pressed the Talk button and said, “Hello.”
“Bradley Hull?”
“This is he.”
“I just parked my truck. You’re in Apartment Three, right?”
“Are you coming up?”
“Like any gentlemanly cowboy would,” he said. “I’ll be there in less than two.”
I pressed the End button, slipped the phone into the front pocket of my jeans, and glared at Mel. “What?” I said, my voice an octave higher than usual.
“Do I get to meet your stallion?”
I didn’t know how to answer Mel’s question and shrugged again.
“This should be exciting. I may have to refill my drink.”
“You can just sit there and be a lady. Don’t embarrass me,” I said, pointing at her.
“I wouldn’t dare,” she said, playing at sounding old-Hollywood-dramatic.
“Melanie,” I hissed between my clenched teeth. I wasn’t about to tolerate an uncomfortable scene once Cord arrived.
She made the phone sign with her right hand, thumb at her right ear, pinkie at her red lips. Then she said, “I’m sorry, Miss Banks is currently out of the office until Tuesday of next week. If you would care to leave a message after the beep, I’m quite sure she will get back to you in three snaps.”
“Melanie!” I barked at her.
She laughed.
I laughed.
The doorbell buzzed, startling us both.
* * * *
Melanie decided to leave me alone with Cord and climbed out the kitchen window, her heels and purse in one hand. She pattered gracefully down the fire escape; it wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last. Frankly, I was glad to get her out as soon as possible. She would have said something embarrassing about me in front of Cord, something that my date wouldn’t need to know any time soon, if ever. It wouldn’t be the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.
In the meantime, I went to the door, opened it, and just about fell in love on the spot. Cord Wallace Darringer stood there in his worn-at-the-knees jeans, blue-red plaid shirt, worn leather boots, and his Stetson—the icing on his cake that made him the sexiest cowboy I’d seen in a long time. His top three shirt buttons were undone and I had a partial view of his hairy pecs. I imagined his firm n*****s, ripped abs, and navel that I wanted to run my tongue into with selfish pleasure.
“You showed,” I said, with raised eyebrows.
“You didn’t think I would?” he asked, smiling at me.
“Never said that.”
“A real cowboy always shows and is never late.”
“You must be a real cowboy, then,” I said, sounding like a smartass without really meaning to.
He laid his hand nonchalantly over his star-shaped Buckling Broncos belt buckle and asked, “You going to let me in?”
I stepped aside and welcomed him into my world. I noticed that he removed his Stetson. As he passed me, I couldn’t help but check out his ass, snug in denim, well-rounded, and perfectly acceptable.
The Stockton County man checked out my place from wall to wall; thank God it was tidy. I’d always wanted to have someone clean it regularly, like Mr. Hepburn on the seventh floor, but I didn’t have the bank account for it. K&D Design paid well, but not that well. Besides, it really never got that dirty, truth be told. I never was a sow, and had no plans to start acting like one any time soon.
“Nice hacienda you have.”
“Home sweet home.”
He strayed to one of my bookshelves and looked at the titles. “You like to read?”
“Mostly Louis L’Amour, Zane Grey, Larry McMurtry, and anything on the American Indians.”
“That’s some fine reading, Bradley.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“You’re a bit of a smartass, aren’t you?” He pulled a vintage novel from the shelf, admired its spine and covers, and placed it back respectfully.
“Shame on me.”
“Don’t be ashamed. I kind of like it. It says you have some kick to you.”
“Just imagine my bite,” I supplied, already feeling warm and fuzzy inside, and nervous as hell at about our evening.
He turned away from the bookshelf and faced me. “I rather like a city boy who knows how to bite.”
“Stop flirting with me.”
“It’s a cowboy’s right to flirt.”
Indeed it was. Thank God again.
* * * *
During the next half hour we shared some intimate conversation over Rolling Rock longnecks, which I’d learned that he liked while Googling. We sat on opposite ends of my worn sofa and talked about our lives.
Cord: born and raised in Tulsa; never settled down with a guy; had a thing for city boys with blond hair and blue eyes; saw himself falling in love with a guy and settling down with him, growing old together; adored his mother, Deidra Marilyn; never smoked; liked to drink; stayed away from drugs; had always wondered what it would be like to live in New York City; wasn’t really crazy about Naples, but didn’t hate it; liked my swimmer’s frame and wanted to take a swim with me in the Gulf.
Me: I’d had a thing for cowboys since I was a young boy; thought about buying a property in the Midwest and running a ranch; never really saw myself living along Florida’s beautiful coast because I didn’t appreciate it enough; felt as if I were trapped in Naples, under K&D Design’s lock and key; lived carefully so that I was financially secure; healthy because I tried to watch what I ate and enjoyed my daily swims in the Gulf; had very little baggage, if any; relished long walks in the company of a great guy, specifically one who just happened to look like Cord Darringer.
After our conversation and beers, he suggested, “Should we hit the trail? You can take me to your favorite guy-bar and we can dance, drink, and have some fun together. What do you say?”
“I’d say we’re going to have a great time with each other, man.”
He put down his empty bottle, returned his Stetson to his handsome head and tipped it, then gave me a dashing grin that just about melted me. “Let’s pony up then, partner,” he drawled.
And pony up we did.
- Writer
