It's 10 days until the release of "Hung Up", so to whet your appetite for cocky cowboys and grouchy veterinarians, here's a sneak peek at an excerpt from Chapter One!
He arrived in town five minutes shy of
a thunderstorm, and, all things considered, Billy Valentine figured that was
the story of his life.
After pitching up the trailer at the fairground, he took refuge from the
deluge in the cab of his truck, where the heater and the radio blared, and the
letter he’d picked up that morning sat on the pile of junk in the passenger
seat. He glared at it through three songs straight, as though that might
influence the contents.
Get a fucking grip, Billy…
Despite the soothing drum of the rain on the windshield, the sound of
paper tearing jangled his nerves. Unfolding the neat, letter-headed paper
inside the envelope, he scanned the impersonally polite letter until he got to
the part that began, "Unfortunately, your application was not successful."
Of course it wasn’t. Crumpling up the letter and the envelope, he shoved
both into the pocket of his jacket.
It was probably for the best, anyway. Reed would have pitched a fit if
he'd known, and Billy was more than okay with avoiding that particular
shit-show. If he performed as badly as he did last time out, then dealing with
Reed this weekend would be bad enough already.
While he waited for the rain to stop, he watched the familiar comings and
goings of the fairground: the trucks, the horse trailers, and the convoys of
cowboys that made up the rodeo this weekend. As dusk fell and the lights came
on, the puddles left by the rain shone and shifted like diamonds. No one seemed
to mind the way the passing storm turned the concourse into a wading pool; this
was the life they’d chosen, after all. It’d be pretty fucking sad if they were
only here because they had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do.
He caught his reflection in the rear-view, and made himself smile at the
pathetic loser staring back at him. Sadder still if they were sitting around
feeling sorry as shit for themselves.
The evening air smelled clean when he got out of the truck, the ozone and
petrichor chasing the day's heat away, at least until the morning. Behind
fragmented clouds, the quarter moon was a hazy glow, and he knew the bar down
the block from the fairground wasn’t busy when he could actually hear his boots
crunch the gravel as he crossed the parking lot.
For a guy that made no bones about his belief that routine was a terminal
condition, Billy had fallen into this particular habit with a terrifying ease.
He’d hit the road around noon, so that he could blast along the highways to
make up for lost time. He’d find the venue, take care of any outstanding
business, and hang around long enough get a feel for the place.
Then he’d find a good bar.
The bar had seemed so much more promising when he drove by earlier that
afternoon, the parking lot teeming and the music so loud he could hear Chris
LeDoux blasting above the distant rumbles of thunder.
A couple of old cowboys propped up one end of the bar where they must
have taken root decades ago. They were watching last week’s ball game on a
small TV in the corner, in between trading jokes with the bartender. Billy took
a seat at the other end of the bar, and, as soon as the bartender acknowledged
his presence, ordered a beer.
"In town for the rodeo?" The bartender set the bottle of Bud in
front of him.
"Yeah." There wasn't much to indicate any sign of life – the
only other thing in here besides Billy that had been made after the seventies
was the beer – so he relented and asked, "Is it always this quiet?"
The cowboys sent him a look, but the bartender chuckled. "It’ll pick
up over the weekend, but for now…" He inclined his head, indicating the
old guys and the TV. "Welcome to the social whirl, kid."
"Yeah…" He tipped the bottle in mock salute, holding the smile
until the bartender turned back to the old guys. "Thanks."
Five minutes in and he was already about ready to call it a night. But
one beer turned into three, and when the door opened he’d been engrossed in a
segment on the local news about how this summer was going to be a good one for
tiger beetles in south Texas
Oh. Well. Maybe there was still
something to salvage from this wreck of an evening after all.
"Martini." The newcomer nodded at the bartender, no preamble. "Thanks."
To their credit, the two old cowboys did a bang-up job of stifling their
laughter as the bartender wiped what must have been years of dust from the
cocktail glasses that graced the shelves behind the bar. They'd probably been
there for display purposes only, no one able to imagine the day a customer
would order anything that actually required serving in them.
Especially not a guy with a brusque, distinctly non-local accent who
seemed to think the place was some fancy wine bar.
Billy liked him already.
He studied the guy as the bartender prepared the drink, miraculously
enough without having to consult a cocktail instruction manual. Around Billy’s
age he guessed, at most a year or two older. Maybe that was an illusion created
by the uptight sophistication in the drink choice, in the neatly cut, thick,
black hair, in the dark turtleneck sweater and the narrow, wire-rimmed glasses.
Not his usual type, that was for sure, but only because he didn’t usually
find this type in backwoods bars. Or, well, anywhere.
Billy was so busy scrutinizing, he didn’t immediately notice that he was
being watched just as intently in return. Some flicker of reproach in the look
almost made him turn away, feeling guilty as a school kid caught peeking. He
didn’t get the chance; the other man averted his gaze first, but that unspoken
accusation irked him. If anyone was going to scowl at him as though he’d done
something outrageously indecent – especially this early in the evening, come
on…! – he damn well better have earned it.
Then the guy looked back. This time the frown was one of clear annoyance
that he’d caved to temptation.
Heh…gotcha.
The bartender returned with his drink, and the new guy promptly picked it
up and strode over to one of the booths lining the rear of the room. Billy
enjoyed the view, admiring the way the guy filled out strategically faded
skinny jeans that were too new, too stiff to ever have actually been within a
mile of a saddle.
Well, you didn't get anything if you didn't try, right? Maybe this guy
was into slumming for fun, who knew? Maybe he was into having something rough
wear the newness out of those designer jeans.
Picking up his beer, Billy followed him.
"Hey." He smiled his most inoffensive smile, and slid into the
other side of the booth before asking, "Mind if I join you?"
The guy raised a brow, and shrugged slightly. "Be my guest."
"Thanks. I swear I was ageing a year a minute, sitting there with
those old coots."
"Really?" The guy sounded like he would have been more
interested in the tiger beetles than anything Billy had to say. Swirling the
clear liquid around his glass, he inclined his head towards the bar. "They’re
not friends of yours?"
"Nah, I think they’re permanent fixtures. I’m only passing through.
You’re not from around here either, are you?"
"Excuse me?"
"The accent." Billy nodded by way of explanation.
"Oh. No, I’m not." It was a small acquiescence, but it was a
start.
"So, what brings you here?"
"Work."
Well shit. He’d had easier rides from ornery broncos than this
conversation.
"Yeah, me too." Somehow he doubted that talking about being a
rodeo cowboy in debt up to his balls would mean a thing to this guy, so he
didn’t bother elaborating. Predictably, his companion didn’t ask either. "I’m
Billy, by the way."
"Spencer."
"Like the old movie star?"
Sometimes he found the perfect center of gravity on a crazy-ass horse, or
found the perfect trick for breaking an unruly colt. And sometimes he found the
damned perfect thing to say, even if he had no idea why.
He hadn’t expected the soft chuckle, quiet and husky as though it didn't
happen all that often, but it was all the nicer for it.
"Yeah, like the movie star. My mother loved his movies, so… I
usually go by Spence."
"Well, Spence," Billy leaned closer and chinked his beer bottle
against the side of the martini glass, "good to meet you."
"Yeah, you too."
"So…" Billy sat back, one hand on his beer, the other arm
stretched out along the top of the seat. "I’m drinking alone 'cause I’m
drowning my sorrows and picked a really shitty bar. What’s your excuse?"
Twisting the glass by the stem, Spence took his time answering, "The
people I work with were driving me crazy. I needed a break, so actually, this
being a really shitty bar works for me." He took a long sip of his drink
as if to emphasise the point. "What about you, what sorrows are you
drowning?"
Mesmerized by the fidgeting of those long, slender fingers, Billy spoke
without thinking. "No big deal. Didn’t get a job I didn’t really want, so,
y’know, everyone’s happy."
Spence frowned, seeming for all the world like he was ready to argue that
point. Billy was grateful when he seemed to think better of it. He wasn’t
looking for a psych evaluation tonight, and he doubted Spence was looking for a
charity case to analyze. At least he hoped so; those kinds of guys barely shut
up even when he had their dicks in his mouth.
Instead, Spence half-shrugged. "Yeah. Sometimes that kind of thing
works out for the best."
He spoke with so much conviction that Billy almost wanted to ask what had
worked out that way for him lately. Almost. Spence seemed about as eager to
talk as he was, so he figured he could at least return the favor. He gestured
toward the old men at the bar with a slight tilt of the head.
"Bet they’re gonna have a field day just ‘cause I came over to talk
to you."
"Why?" Spence's smile suddenly turned tight around the edges.
"Because I don’t have a hat and boots?"
Goddammit, was he having a spectacularly off-day, or was this guy intent
on making him trip over himself for it?
"No. ’Cause you’re not some cute little cowgirl in a hat and boots."
He couldn’t tell if Spence caught his meaning. The light was glinting off
his glasses at the perfect angle, obscuring his eyes with a reflection of the
generic print of a galloping horse that hung on the wall above Billy’s head.
"Can’t argue with that," Spence said. "Although I’m sure
they’d look a lot better on a cute cowgirl than they would on me."
Billy took a swig of beer, then murmured softly enough that Spence could
ignore it if he chose. "Don’t count on it."
Spence kept his gaze averted, but the faintest flush of color touched his
cheeks.
"'Sides," Billy went on, emboldened, "those jeans do more
for you than a hat or boots ever could."
That earned him another of those rusty laughs. "Wow. If that's the
best you can do, no wonder you're hanging out with the senior citizens. At
least they can't hear how awful your plays are."
"Really, now? You don't wanna find out what 'the best I can do'
might be?"
"I’m not sure if that’s a threat or an advertisement. Does this…
whatever this is, usually work out well for you?"
Well hell, Spence was damned near grinning now, and Billy began
re-evaluating whether the best he could do tonight was getting this guy to
laugh like he meant it.
"Dunno. Don’t usually need to break it out that often."
"Is that right?" Spence leaned back, and for the first time Billy
thought he had his full attention. He wanted to shiver under the sudden focus. "Guys
just fall at your feet, huh?"
Billy held eye contact, and shook his head. "Nah. Usually I’m the
one falling at their feet. If you catch my drift."
Judging by the way his eyes darkened, going from deep to midnight blue in
a breath, Spence absolutely did. And maybe the way his tongue darted out,
sweeping a quick, almost nervous lick across his lower lip was instinct, or
reflex, but something tightened pleasantly in Billy’s gut all the same.
Every sense he had was telling him this guy was a mistake. After barely a
fifteen-minute conversation, Spence had him curious, had him concerned about
whatever was going on behind those blue eyes. Concern wasn’t anywhere on the
list of things he should be worried about when it came to a random hook-up.
Whether the guy was gonna be an asshole about using a condom? Fuck, yes.
Whether the guy was happy in his everyday life? Not so much.
He still couldn’t stop himself from leaning closer, elbows on the table.
"Does this work any better for you: wanna get out of here?"
Spence slid the martini glass away from himself, a decisive gesture if
Billy had ever seen one, and nodded. "Yeah."
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