It does?
Just messing with you…but yes.
He probably shouldn’t be messing with Austin, who while fully grown was quite reserved, sometimes withdrawn. Clay had to work at the friendship, maybe harder than he’d worked at any other friendship. But then, nobody else on the ranch, let alone in any bar, drew him the way Austin did. Being with him while hauling sacks of molasses-laced grain or putting together a puzzle with way too many cowboys on it, it did not matter.
Especially last night. Everything had seemed to slow down to a walking pace, rather than the brisk way Clay went about things, flirting at the first hello, getting fucked at the Rusty Nail by the first guy who showed any interest.
Maybe the slowing had come from the fact that Austin was an accountant, and had looked so nerdy and glum standing in the rain at the Motel 6. Austin, who even after he’d started wearing that pale blue pearl-snap button shirt buttoned up to the neck, looked like he was hiding beneath his clothes, not wanting anyone to see.
Surely there were freckles on those shoulders to go with that hair. Surely those muscles in his arms and legs were as long as they seemed to be because when Clay had bumped into Austin, more than once and yes on purpose, those muscles had been hard as iron, in contrast to his scholarly air. Kind of like a monk who’d trained to fight any Vikings that might raid his village.
Which made Clay the Viking in this scenario, which wasn’t right. He wasn’t tall enough, for one thing, didn’t have that regal air Austin did, didn’t hold his chin high enough or walk so tall, like Austin did. Even taller now that he’d taken to wearing cowboy boots all the dang time, which tilted his hips and made his butt a sharp blue denim-covered curve.
Gah. He needed to stop torturing himself like this. And probably he needed to figure out whether he wanted to keep flirting with Austin to see where it led, or back off and just have a good friend in his life, without worrying about which of them was the monk and which the Viking.
He was late to lunch and so missed Austin yet again, and groused to himself as he ate Levi’s terrific BBQ meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and smiled as Brody came up to his table, tray in hand.
“Hey,” said Brody as he sat down. “Levi and I are going to Chugwater, to the Stampede Saloon, tonight. You in?”
“Sure,” said Clay with a nod, his mouth full of meatloaf. “Mind if I ask Austin along?”
“No problem,” said Brody. “Levi’s Volvo will fit four easy. Austin doesn’t look like that kind of guy, though.”
“What kind of guy?” asked Clay, ready to defend the object of his flirtatious affection.
“The kind of guy who’d step into the alley for a quickie first chance he got.” Brody laughed under his breath as Clay bristled like he was affronted.
“Well, he’s not,” said Clay, absolutely sure of this. “I just figured maybe he’d like a night out.”
“Well, you’re welcome to ask him,” said Brody. “Levi figures we’ll leave at seven.”
“What’s he all antsy about?” asked Clay, for Levi usually was more casual about their Saturday night rendezvous.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Brody as he stirred the BBQ sauce into his mashed potatoes. “Something he saw on the news, I think. Something about Terrytown.”
“Oh.” Clay nodded. Terrytown was where Levi hailed from, but other than that, he was a closed book, at least to Clay. “Well, seven it is then.”
Finally, at the end of the day, after grooming horses, shoveling horse shit, and carrying baskets and bags of laundry, he caught up with Austin at the dining hall.
“Hey, stranger,” said Austin as he stepped to the side, making room for Clay in line. “I’d almost forgotten what you looked like.”
“How could you forget this face?” Clay gestured to his own face, putting on an expression of woe to be so forgotten. “How could you forget these dimples?”
“I couldn’t. I didn’t,” said Austin brightly, though his mouth closed over the words like he was surprised he’d said them.
“Hey, listen,” said Clay, his hand on Austin’s arm to draw him close as they shuffled forward in line for the buffet. And yes, those muscles beneath the white button-down shirt he was wearing again were solid as marble. Solid enough to lift a truck or maybe just befirmwith Clay— “The guys are going to Chugwater for some Saturday night fun. Do you want to come?”
“Tonight?” asked Austin, his eyebrows arching, as though Clay had asked him to fly to the moon. “I was going to get out my paint box and get reacquainted with it.”
“A paint box?” Clay picked up a tray and silverware and moved along to where he could see the warming dish of lasagna. “What’re you going to do with that?”
“Paint,” said Austin, giving Clay a little nudge with his elbow so he could get at the lasagna too. “It’s a promise I made to myself. That I would pick it up again after Mona—that is, I’m not very good. Mostly landscapes and suchlike.”
“Well, a promise is a promise,” said Clay. “Wouldn’t want you to go back on something like that. Maybe you’ll show your stuff to me sometime.”
“Maybe.”
The word came to Clay low and cautious, like Austin had either never shown his paintings to anyone or had never been asked. Either way, as they went to the long table and settled in to eat, it was pleasant to think about. Austin in a room with an easel, paint smudges on his fingertips, his hair wild from all that creativity, like Clay had seen in the movies. He’d smell like paint and dark French coffee, and maybe he’d let Clay kiss him, just once, for luck.
