Calvin’s Cowboy

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

“Brock?” Calvin stared after the man as he ran out of the bathroom stall. He heard the outer door being wrenched open and then slammed closed. Well, I’ve heard of wham, bam, thank you, man, but this is ridiculous.

Then Calvin realized his soft—and still damp—d**k was hanging out of his pants. Tucking himself back in, he went to the row of sinks, washed his hands, dried them, and slowly made his way out of the bathroom. He felt strangely depressed. He guessed he should have expected Brock to get an attack of What the hell have I done.

Emerging from the ER exit, Calvin blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to the bright sunlight. Turning right and walking along the sidewalk, he remembered they’d come in his car, Brock’s truck still being at the bar. Despite feeling jilted, Calvin worried how Brock would get home. However, on approaching his car he saw Brock leaning against it. Normally Calvin’s first thought would have been about possible damage to his paint job, but instead he felt relieved that the guy hadn’t run away completely.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Brock mumbled, scuffing the toe of his cowboy boot on the asphalt.

“Okay.” Calvin wanted to say more, but knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“Would you drive me to the bar so I can pick up my truck?” Brock still wouldn’t meet Calvin’s eyes.

“Sure, no problem.”

They both got in the car; even KITT’s usual greeting failed to improve either of their moods.

* * * *

The ride to the bar was made in complete silence. Calvin thought about turning on the radio, but given his current luck they’d probably be playing Stand By Your Man on the country station, or there’d be some asshole preacher ranting on about sin and damnation on the religious station. So his hands remained on the wheel. He slid the occasional glance over to Brock, whose expression stayed closed-off and unreadable.

Pulling up in the bar’s almost empty parking lot, Calvin shut off the engine, but Brock made no move to get out. They sat in silence.

“Thanks,” Brock eventually said, “you know…for today.”

“No problem.”

“My daddy died in that hospital.” Brock’s voice cracked.

“I’m sorry.” Calvin wanted to reach out and at least touch the guy, but was pretty sure the gesture wouldn’t have been welcomed.

Brock let out a breath and ran a hand over his face. With the engine off, the temperature inside the car was starting to rise.

“What did he die of?” Calvin asked when it looked as though the conversation had stalled.

“Cancer.”

Calvin winced. It made him feel even more of a fool for his over-reaction about Brock’s supposed melanoma.

“The doctors gave him three months. He lived—if you could call it living—for nearly seven.”

“Shit.”

“There was this medicine that the doctors said might give him extra time. Daddy didn’t want any of it, said they should just take him out to the corral and shoot him,” Brock laughed humorlessly, “but I had to try anything that’d keep him alive, you know?” Brock turned an anguished gaze to Calvin.

“Yeah. I’d have done the same.” Even though they weren’t especially close, Calvin shuddered at the thought of losing his own father.

“But all it did was prolong his agony, as well as stack up some fuckin’ huge hospital bills.”

“Ah.” Calvin remembered they didn’t have health insurance.

Brock slammed the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. Then he brought both hands to his face. Calvin could see the man’s shoulders shaking. He ached to comfort Brock, but they were in a public place in Podunkville, and the site of two men hugging—no matter the circumstances—would probably get both their asses handed to them on a plate.

“I’m real sorry, Brock. Your daddy was a good man.” Calvin handed him the last of the Kleenex.

“Thanks.” Brock sniffed. “Shouldn’t cry. Men don’t cry.”

“One thing my own daddy taught me is that a real man is one who can cry in front of another man. So you go ahead and cry if you need to, and I won’t judge you.”

“Thanks.”

Brock took a few minutes to compose himself.

“Feel better now?”

Brock nodded and settled lower in his seat. “I’m sorry.”

Calvin shook his head. Strangely reluctant to let Brock leave, but knowing he couldn’t keep him any longer, Calvin let out a breath and said, “Well, I guess you’d better go and start pricing up materials.”

Brock looked at him. “You still want me? Even after I freaked out like I did?”

“I thought we agreed not to talk about that.” Calvin sure wanted to, but…

“Thanks, man.” Brock’s smile did something to Calvin’s insides that he wasn’t willing to examine too closely.

“Go on. Git. Give me a call when you’re ready to start work. And in the meantime I’ll press your shirt.”

“You’d make someone a great housewife.”

“f**k off.”