How the hell had he ended up out here? What had his father said two days back, how had he manipulated him into facing Mr. Grayson this morning?
“…be staying here? I mean here in Noble?”
He turned his mind back to the man who sat across from him on the matching swivel recliner. “Um, well, sir, at least until my folks get back from Chicago. “
Brew tried to settle back in the worn Naugahyde recliner, Mr. Grayson’s answer to guest comfort, and found his Calvin Kleins sticking to the rubbery upholstery. Then he shifted his legs slightly and leaned forward, looking at the older man, wishing he were someplace else.
Roy Grayson was probably around the age of his own parents, somewhere shy of fifty. He was not a small man. Brew figured he stood somewhere around six-foot-two. He had a round, pleasant face, pale blue eyes and straw-colored hair. He shifted a toothpick from side to side as he spoke, and his eyes had a habit of boring into Brew’s. It was both interesting and nerve-wracking. Those eyes looked pretty deep.
“And your father said you needed work.” Mr. Grayson had his hands nested in front of himself as he bent toward him, his elbows on his knees. His Lees were well worn, his boots deeply creased, like the man’s furniture. His mind flicked briefly to his own father’s office as he remembered it, with its centuries-old oriental rug and the straight-backed antique chairs.
“Yes…” He should have kept his mouth shut a few days ago when he and Dad were discussing his sudden departure from L.A. He’d told his father he was close to finding a job, that he needed to hurry back. A goddamn lie. He just wanted to blow Noble, putting it firmly in his rearview mirror. Classes were over until fall, but he sure as hell didn’t want to spend time in a place he’d fled from years ago. He’d get a job later maybe, but now he could live on Dad’s dime for a while.
“My son and I can use a hand. The spring thaw has come and gone, and we need cattle tanks cleaned and filled, calves rounded up, fence posts repaired, new ones set in. The usual.”
“The usual?” This guy acted like Brew knew something about tanks, posts, cattle. All the stuff the good old boys busied themselves with. He hadn’t a clue about any of it. In fact, he’d always made it a point to find work behind a desk somewhere. His hands were made for more creative tasks than mending fences.
Mr. Grayson leveled his eyes on him, and he stopped shifting forward and back, nonplussed by the man’s quiet manner.
“Yes. Ranch work. I don’t expect you to be an expert. But it ain’t rocket science.”
How the hell was he going to get out of this? He silently cursed his father, the manipulative weasel. He had barely acknowledged Brew Monday afternoon when they finally met again. After four years of being apart, the elder Lloyd had tentatively stuck out his hand, and Brew had grasped it quickly, then turned to sit. A long, embarrassed silence followed, while each man had sucked in the strained air, searching for something to say.
The last time he remembered Dad smiling at him in real joy was the night of high school graduation, when he’d delivered the welcome address. That was back when he still thought Brew might become his partner at the law office. Back before Brew disappeared one night during that long summer, writing a month later to his father that he had to find his own way, and could he please send tuition money for CCLA?
“No. Of course it’s not rocket science. Sir, I’m not, ah…I’m willing to do almost any kind of work, Mr. Grayson.” He’d almost said he wasn’t afraid of hard work. But he was. He wanted work where he could sit, use his brain, and tell other people what to do. He was on the verge of telling this guy about the mythical job waiting for him back in California.
“Good, son, because I have ‘almost any kind of work’ around here. Me and Chase seem to have our hands full right now. And your father highly recommends you as a hard worker.”
Chase. Chase Grayson? Brew flushed suddenly, remembering a high school football player with that name. He’d never associated “Chase Ranch” with the guy he went to school with. This must be his father. His cock began to get interested in the conversation, and Brew shifted position yet again.
“Well, Mr. Grayson, I need to be home every night to take care of the place while Mom and Dad are in Chicago.”
“So? Ain’t asking you to live here, son. Just to put in an honest day’s work.”
“Ah…yes.” Brew was absolutely stuck for words, something new to him. He’d been captain of the debate squad, named the school’s Best Public Speaker, Senior Thespian and all-around glib gay guy. So why was he speechless?
Chase Grayson. It was a memory that he could feel even now, back in his throat, tasting of sweat and leather jacket. He and the football star had never spoken, never even met. But he’d played a big part in Brew’s fevered mind and midnight masturbations.
The big guy was his ideal of a man. Tall and muscular, slender hipped, quiet, smart. Damn. A guy like that could learn every inch of him—fast or slow, it didn’t matter. And Brew had imagined, way back then, he could make the football star forget all about the cheerleaders and groupies.
Later, he’d cursed himself for his infantile fantasies. The wisdom of retrospect had taught him that guys like Chase don’t fall in bed with skinny queers. Now he was pissed again. How self-absorbed was he, anyway? Until a few seconds ago, he had never once associated old rancher Grayson with the muscled, strawberry-blond hunk of heaven named Chase.
As if his own fertile imagination had called him up, he heard another man’s voice cut into the silence of the room.
“Pa, introduce our guest.”
Brew turned his head toward the sound. There he was, framed in the doorway. A fucking Greek god, an Adonis come to earth. Chase Grayson was even more fine looking now than Brew’s memory had conjured up. He had red-gold hair, a little past his ears, and a cobwebby rust-colored stubble. His eyes, the green of Chinese jade, gazed straight into his own. His mouth was full, his chin prominent. His even tan seemed to glow in the overhead light.
And his body. Jeezus. His chest almost tore the wife-beater, swelling with muscle. His waist was slim, his hips slender, like Brew remembered. He wished fervently he could see the man’s ass. And then he was glad he could not. He knew he’d be unable to keep his face expressionless, or his prick quiet.
Somehow he managed to stand, his jeans still clinging to the Naugahyde. He held his hand out. “Brew. My name is Brew. I’m, ah…”
“Brew is our new ranch hand.” Mr. Grayson sounded deeply amused, and Brew glanced in his direction. The man had been leaning forward in his chair, but now he had settled back, one leg across his own knee.
Chase took his hand. Brew felt the muscles tighten just enough to feel strong and warm. The handshake was prolonged enough to feel genuine. He tightened his own hand in response, letting the sudden spark become a slow fire. The man’s eyes were still fixed on his.
“Yes. I start— When? In the morning, Mr. Grayson?”
“Suits me.”
Brew had not taken his eyes off Chase since his brief glance at the older man.
The golden statue spoke. “Good. Because I’ve got a post needs setting.” Chase dropped his hand and sat on a small love seat between his father and Brew, his eyes still looking deep into his.
“Oh. Good. I mean, I’m good with that. I’m good, um, good to meet you.” He cursed his own thick tongue. What the fuck’s wrong with me?
“Brew. I like that name.”
The man sounded sincere, straightforward. Brew sat without looking behind him, his eyes still locked onto Chase’s, not noticing the chair seat had swiveled some distance from where his ass had last been. He almost missed the seat, stumbling backward a little before sitting—hard—into the bowels of the phony leather.
Neither Chase nor Mr. Grayson smiled at his near pratfall. He cleared his throat, hoping one of the men would speak first. Both men were equally taciturn. Like father, like son. Full of silent stretches to make a man all nervous, waiting for another shoe to drop.
“When? I mean, when should I show up tomorrow?”
“Anytime.” Chase’s eyes still homed in on his.
“Oh. Okay. My folks already left, sometime in the middle of the night. To get to Vegas. So I could show up by seven or eight. Or earlier if you want.”
“Good. Early is good.” Then, seeming to catch himself embarrassing his guest, Chase broke eye contact with him, glancing at his father. “Okay, Pa?”
“Perfect.”
Brew did not want to leave. He most assuredly did not want to lose the spark of a connection that he suddenly seemed to have with the sexiest man he’d ever laid eyes on.
“The day is…is young. I mean, you could show me some stuff now before I leave.”
“Don’t you want to know about the pay, son?”
Only then did Brew look fully at Chase’s father. “Oh. Sure. I figure it’ll be a fair wage, so I’m not worried about it.”
And then Mr. Grayson grinned, shifting the toothpick from right to left, rolling it along his upper lip and then into one corner of his mouth. He stood.
“Why don’t you two boys get acquainted? Chase, take him to the perimeter and show him the spread. You can catch up with me later.”
Brew barely heard him. Show me the spread, Chase. Yes, show me the spread. Suddenly, he felt like ten million bucks, like he hadn’t felt in years. He watched Chase, waiting for his chance to stand and leave with him.
Mr. Muscles-in-a-Wife-Beater watched his father leave the room. Then he spoke. “Brew, I do remember you. You were a few years behind me at Sloane County High. But I remember the young guy with the golden mouth.”
“The…the golden mouth?”
“That’s how I thought of you. You were an actor, a speaker. You could do everything I couldn’t. I wanted to be you about a million times.”
Suddenly, the breath seemed to leave Brew’s chest altogether. What this man was telling him couldn’t be true. And yet he spoke so honestly that it must be true…some of it, anyway.
“You? Wanted to be like me? But you’re the one with the—the goddamn golden body. That’s how I thought of you. That’s funny. The golden mouth and the golden body. Each one wanting to be like the other.” No, not “like” you Chase. In you. As deep in you as my prick would reach. In your mouth or your ass. Or merciful holy shit, you in me.
Then Chase stood, and Brew drew a long breath, sucking in the man’s muscled glory.
“Yes. Funny. Let’s go. Let me show you The Chase.”