Cowboy by J. M. Snyder Read online

  There's a leg in the horse stall.

  A human leg, denim clad, ending in a strong, bare, pale foot. For an instant I think it's Kent but he's gone and the jeans are a faded blue like the sky above, not his signature black. I think of the possum, the blood that time, staining the hay. I wonder if coyotes will drag a body to hide it. I wonder if coyotes attack humans and what the hell am I going to do if there's a big-ass dog sitting on a dead hitchhiker in that stall? Where the hell is Kent when I need him?

  Before I can take a step in either direction, the leg moves, I hear the rustle of hay, the slight moan of someone asleep. Asleep. Relief floods through me, asleep. Cautiously I cross the barn, lean on the washtub as I peer over the side of the stall, and on the hay spread out along the floor lies a man. A boy, really, all angles, much thinner than Kent and slimmer than me. A cowboy hat hides his face and he huddles into his shirt, his knees pulled up to his chest, his jeans ragged around the ankles and shiny with wear across his butt. Sneakers half-hidden in the hay, socks tucked in them to keep out scorpions and snakes, and the missing bag of chips rolled shut against them. A boy.

  As I watch, he takes a shuddery breath, hugs himself tight, mutters something and falls silent. Still asleep. Quietly I edge around the washtub and into the stall, tiptoeing so my boot heels don't wake him. He's long and thin, and there's something about him that makes me think he's been on the road awhile. I have pictures of boys like this, their belongings tied in a bandanna slung over one shoulder, shirts open to show bare chests beneath, the band of their briefs snug at their waists while their jeans droop down, thumb out to hitch a ride. I've dreamed of boys like this, with these narrow legs, these slim hips, these sinewy arms holding me tight. He has thick ankles, I like that, and long toes that I want to thread my fingers through. Nice feet. I like that a lot.

  And nice hands, I can see the one gripping his elbow where his arms are crossed -- long fingers, an artist's hands, even nails despite the dirt rimmed beneath them. Dusky skin, a farmer's tan, nothing like what Kent has but darker than me. He probably has dark hair, then, and dark eyes, hidden beneath that cowboy hat. Reaching out, I pick up the brim of the hat, just to see ...

  Purple eyes like pansies stare back at me.

  Startled, I drop the hat and skid back into the corner of the stall, heart racing. Holy fuck, he's not asleep --

  Like an animal waiting to pounce, he's up, scrambling for his sneakers as he scurries for the door. "Wait!" I call out. Those eyes burn in my head, the deep color of violets in bloom, purple. "No, wait, don't go --"

  He stops and sulks back against the opposite end of the stall, hat pulled low to hide those amazing eyes and shoes hugged to his chest like a shield. "Wait," I say again, gently, oh so gently. Please, I pray, holding one hand out towards him. Please don't run away. "It's okay," I murmur. He stares at me balefully and my hand closes into a useless fist before dropping to the hay. "It's okay."

  He glances at the door and sniffles, rubs his feet together with a dry, soughing sound that makes me think of limbs lying twined together in bed. I want to say something to make him come closer so I can see his eyes again. "It's okay," I tell him. "Believe me. I'm not going to hurt you."

  "You snuck up on me," he mutters. He sounds like a little kid. I can hear the pout in his voice.

  "I didn't mean to." I start towards him but he moves for the door again, so I stop and he does, too. "What's your name, boy?"

  For a moment I don't think he'll answer. He glares at me like I'm evil, waking him like I did, as if this isn't my barn but his and I'm the trespasser here, not him. But then he sniffs again, rubs his nose so hard that I think he'll rub it off, and he mumbles, "Luke. And I'm not a boy."

  Bullshit, I think, but I'll bite. "How old are you, Luke?" I ask. I wonder if Luke's his real name.

  "Twenty." He pushes the hat back and I catch a glimpse of light brown hair cut short across his forehead before I'm lost in his eyes again. Royal and deep, the color of kings. Purple. Beneath them his nose is a little too big for his face, his mouth a little too wide, his cheeks pinked with excitement or fear and his lips full and red and pretty like a girl's. Kissable lips. Suddenly I want to kiss him. "Who are you?" he wants to know.

  "Marcus." I'm staring at his lips, I know I am, and I shouldn't because I have a lover, I have Kent, I don't need to be wanting for this boy. It's one thing to ache for the guys in the magazine ads because they're not real, they're models and I'm in no danger of actually meeting up with them ... but these eyes watching me, this boy, he's real, he's here, watching me because I can't stop looking at him, and I'll be damned if he's a day over seventeen. Twenty my ass. He's jailbait, plain and simple, and he's on the run from someone, his folks or the law, boys like him don't just hole up in a barn for the night for the hell of it. I have Kent -- "Why are you sleeping here?" I ask.

  He shrugs. "Just passing through," he whispers. Picking at the laces on his sneakers, he frowns and doesn't look at me when he asks, "Are you gonna tell him?"

  "Who?"

  "That guy." Luke nods at the door, then glances at the bag of potato chips and sighs. "The one you live with? I saw you two last night. Him."

  "Kent." When I say the name he looks at me and nods, and I shake my head. "He's gone into town." I see the way he eyes the chips again and ask, "Are you hungry?"

  I get an indifferent shrug in reply. "I can make you something to eat," I start, rising to my feet, but he skitters against the wall and I stop, half-erect. "It's okay," I tell him. "I'm not going to hurt you, it's okay." At the disbelief in his eyes, I add, "Kent's gone all day. I can make you some eggs, how's that sound?" I creep closer -- he watches me, wary, but doesn't bolt this time. He's waiting to see what I'm going to do. I'm curious about that one myself. When Kent finds him ... I won't think of that. I keep talking as I move closer. "And some toast," I say, yes, toast is good. "I have some juice, fresh fruit, too. What do you say we take this inside, okay? I'll fix up something for us to eat. You're hungry, aren't you?"

  His gaze shifts from my face to the chips, then back to me again, and this time the fear is gone, his eyes lighten and his lower lip trembles as he nods. "A little," he tells me. "All I've had was that burger last night."

  Another step and I'm in the middle of the hay, still tamped down where he slept. "I figured that," I say, giving him a bright grin that he doesn't return. I'd love to see him smile. Holding my hand out, I prompt, "Come on, Luke. Breakfast, then." When he looks at my offered hand and doesn't take it immediately, I whisper, "I'm just as scared as you, kid, trust me. I thought you were dead --"

  Now he laughs, and his smile is everything I thought it would be, wide and beautiful, and his laughter fills the barn until the bats above flap their wings in disgust. "I did!" I laugh, too, and he lets me take his elbow, help him to his feet. His arm feels thin and strong in my hand, delicate like an eagle's wing. "I found a possum in here once," I tell him, just to fill the silence between us. "And I saw your legs and was like oh please Jesus, don't let him be dead, you know? The last thing I need is a dead body in the barn and Kent in town. What the hell would I do then?"

  Luke lets me lead him to the door and the bright sunshine beyond. "He your partner or something?" he asks, holding his sneakers close to his chest. I notice the gravel doesn't seem to bother him as we cross the yard and head for the house.

  The way he says partner makes me wonder if he means what I think of when I say the word. "This is his place," I say carefully. In my mind I hear Luke's voice, I saw you two last night, and then, All I've had was that burger ... did he see us through the open screen door? Me gripping the recliner, Kent thrusting into me, did he see that? "He runs the produce stand," I tell Luke, "and tends to the fields. I sort of do everything else." And sometimes we fuck, I add silently. Not as often as I'd like, and God knows it's not much.

  But I don't tell him that.

  He eats like he hasn't had food in days -- leaning over the plate, shoveling eggs and toast and pancakes i
nto his mouth as he looks around the kitchen with wide eyes. Every time those purple depths pass over me, flames of desire lick across my groin. I've never seen eyes like his, ever, and I find myself wondering what they look like first thing in the morning or last thing at night. Without his hat, I see that his hair is short and an almost mousy brown, bleached colorless at the top from long days in the sun, but it's getting shaggy near the back, curling over his collar and around his earlobes. Luke. I like that name. As he eats, I ask, "How old are you really?" When he looks up at me, surprised, I grin. "Twenty? You're joking."

  "In two months," he says, indignant. Swallowing another mouthful of food, he tells me, "It's soon enough. How old are you?"

  I laugh -- he shifts the conversation away from himself so easily. "How old do you think I am?" I ask, suddenly coy. He makes me feel young and flirty again. God, has it been so long since a boy's looked at me the way he does, with such openness in his face, such unabashed interest? Or am I just so unused to kindness that I'm reading too much into him?

  He shrugs and turns back to his plate. "Twenty-three," he declares, and I have to laugh again. With a shy smile, he asks, "What?"

  I look much older than twenty-three. I know, I've seen myself in the mirror. Some days I look ancient. "You're just saying that to be nice," I say, and that makes him laugh. "I'm not that young."

  Eating his eggs, he shrugs again. "You could be," he tells me. "You're not as old as your friend."

  "Kent." I've noticed Luke won't say his name. "He's only thirty-two."

  Another shrug, like that's no concern of his. "He looks like an old fart," he says, and so nonchalantly that I burst out laughing, I can't help it. "What?" Luke asks, confused. "He does. Drinks like a fish and can't fuck worth a damn --" My laughter dries up instantly and he ducks his head to keep from meeting my gaze. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I didn't mean that."

  My voice sounds like it comes from miles away when I reply, "It's okay." It's the truth, isn't it? And I don't know what hurts worse, hearing the words out loud or knowing that it took a stranger to point them out to me. Can't fuck worth a damn ... softly, I whisper, "I'm twenty-eight."

  Luke nods, his purple eyes looking everywhere but at me as he finishes his breakfast. "That's not old at all," he says. Spearing a strawberry with his fork, he rolls the fruit in the sugar bowl and then holds it out to me. "You still hungry? Open up."

  My mouth pops open on its own, and I watch his face as he guides the fork towards me, his eyes never leaving the strawberry perched on the tines. When the fruit touches my lips I taste sweet sugar, cool juices, and a heady, ripe scent envelops me. He still watches the fork as I close my mouth over it and bite off the strawberry, then he pulls it through my lips slowly. His eyes are dark in the overhead light, the color of deep bruises, and his lips are parted slightly, so damn luscious and I want to taste him, I have a feeling he'll be a hundred times sweeter than the strawberry, a hundred times juicier and more ripe. "You want some more?" he asks, his voice throaty and low, and part of me knows he's not talking about the fruit anymore.

  Outside, a car horn toots, spoiling the moment. Kent. I rise from the table a little too fast and almost knock my chair out from under me. He's back, I think, even as I hurry around the table to the door, and I know that's not right, he won't be back for hours. But what am I doing here? Flirting with this boy I hardly know like I'm single again and this isn't my lover's kitchen. "Marcus?" Luke asks, concerned. "Is it --"

  "No." It's a customer, an older man helping his wife from the car, a couple of kids climbing out of the back seat. I push open the screen door and wave. "Be right there!" I holler, my voice carrying across the flat land easily. The man nods and I let the screen door slam shut behind me. "Just some customers," I tell Luke as I gather the dishes up from the table. "I've got to get to work but you're welcome to stay if you want."

  "Why?" he asks. I reach for his plate but he stops me with a hand on my wrist. I look at him and he's staring up at me, those eyes like faceted jewels in his face, that beautiful, that precious. Before I can ask why what?, he wants to know, "Why are you so nice to me? If it'll get you in trouble with your friend ..."

  "It won't," I assure him. Sure, Kent will be mad, but we're not doing anything here, right? Luke will move on in a day or two, and I hate myself but I already know I'll think of him the next time Kent sticks it to me. I'll remember those eyes, these hands, this brief touch and that bit with the strawberry, and I won't need my folder of ads to get off then. I'll have this.

  But Luke persists. "I can pay you," he tells me. "If you want."

  "I don't need any money," I say. I'm sure he only has a handful of bills, if that.

  This time when I try for the plate, he holds me tight, and his fingers stroke along the tender spot below my thumb. "I don't mean money," he whispers. I look into his dark eyes and see the same thoughts that swirl through my own mind, images of the two of us naked in the hay, or rolling beneath the covers of my bed, or right here against the table and that makes my throat swell shut with an unbidden lust. He wants me, and in his eyes I see the promise of release, a fulfillment I haven't had in years, a completion that would leave us both satiated and --

  Kent.

  I shake my head, clearing the images away. "No, really," I say, and he lets go of my wrist, lets me take his plate. "I'm with ... I mean, I can't --"

  "Do you love him?" Luke wants to know.

  I turn towards the sink as I answer so I won't have to see disappointment cloud his eyes. Do I love Kent? The man I see when I watch him from the window? The man I want when I want him? "Yes."

  For a moment I think that's it. I turn on the faucet, begin to fill the sink, and from the window I watch the man and his wife, threading through the daisies and mums to get to the vegetable stands. One of the kids, a little boy, picks a potted daffodil and hands the flower to the woman, who scolds him until he sticks the stem back into the soil, as if it will grow again. From behind me, Luke clears his throat and asks, "Then why are you like this to me?"

  He means flirtatious. He means so damn nice. I don't know, I should say. You look like what I came west to find, I could tell him, but he doesn't need to know that. You're everything I want in a boy, and I may love Kent but right this instant I want to love you. I want to hold you and thrust into you and kiss you, and I think maybe it'll be more than sex, even though we just met. You're not too drunk to come and you're young enough to keep up with me, I could use something like you to remind me how great two men can be together. I think with you, sex could be phenomenal and real once again. I can't say that. Just say that I'm doing the Good Samaritan routine, then, simply being neighborly, isn't that what the west is all about?

  But when I open my mouth, I surprise myself by saying, "I like your eyes. They're very pretty."

  His only response is another question. "Does he love you?"

  Startled, I drop the dishes into the sink, the clank of porcelain on stainless steel muffled beneath the rushing water from the spigot. Does he love you?

  I don't reply because I don't know the answer to that.

  Before he left this morning, Kent unfurled the tent flaps, removed the tarps from the vegetable stands, and watered everything down. He's all about watering those plants, he'd do it all day long if the customers didn't bother him. The hose is still wound through the make-shift aisles, between plants and over stones, and when Luke wants to know if there's anything he can do to help out, the first thing I ask is if he'll coil the hose back up. I don't need someone tripping over it and suing me because they didn't see the damn thing.

  We get a meager turnout today -- half the women who stop come straight up to the register beneath the tent to ask me where Kent is. "In town," I tell them, and their eyes light up like they're actually going to go looking for him when they leave here. Check the bars, I should say. I'm sure he's already spent that twenty in his pocket, and I just hope he had enough sense to make the deposit before he started hitting the bottles or he'll go t
hrough that money, too.

  As I fan myself with a receipt book, I watch Luke -- he moves the way I wish Kent would, fluid and quick, and when he's done putting away the hose, he gets out a watering can, starts walking around the small lot, pinching dead leaves and wetting the wilting flowers. Sometime before noon, it gets too hot for him and he slips out of his shirt, and his chest is slim and young and muscled, what I want Kent's to be. His battered cowboy hat is brown, not black, and his worn jeans match the cloudless sky, but from where I sit, he's just as beautiful as Kent is when he's moving through his greenery. Moreso, if that's possible, because Luke's skin isn't burnt and when he passes by me, a miasma of alcohol and sweat doesn't follow behind him, and every single time he looks at me, I don't bother to look away. I'm staring at him, I know I am, but in the shade of the tent I can pretend he doesn't notice, and from this distance I can tell myself that's not a hint of a smile I see on his face, in his eyes. I'm just looking, is all. There's nothing wrong with that.

  And there's plenty to look at, too -- Luke is easy on the eyes, soothing the way a watercolor painting is, all soft strokes and muted colors, familiar even if you've never seen it before just because it makes you relax. He makes me feel like I've known him forever, with his quick laugh and his regal eyes. I've seen his wide mouth and narrow hips in dreams, I've tasted every inch of that darkened flesh while I slept, and by the time the last customer leaves the lot a little after five, I've already made love to him a million times in my mind, in a million positions. Tonight when I lie down alone, I'll touch myself and think of him.

  The choppy sounds from the customer's motor fade away in the late afternoon sun as I total out the register and start to count the money we've made. Not much -- not as much as we get when Ken's here, that's for sure -- but Luke had his fair share of interested women today, especially once that shirt came off. I wasn't the only one watching him. I saw one lady go so far as to slip her hand into his back pocket, but he stepped away blithely enough. It's because he's so young, I tell myself, counting out the bills. If he were older, if he were Kent, she would've kept her damn hands to herself.