The Texas Rangers flicker on the screen above him, and for not the first time tonight, he wishes he were in Dallas, watching the game live with his friends.
But at least he’s at his favorite watering hole in town, Sullivan’s, perched at the bar with a decent view of the TV. Nolan Ryan’s on the mound, winding up, preparing to strike out another Astro.
Sullivan’s is just a dive bar, really, a sawdust-on-the-floor beer joint on the outskirts of town, but that’s precisely why he likes it so much. He can come here to unwind. It’s blue-collar types who frequent the place—farmers and oil-field workers, who mainly keep to themselves. None of his ritzy clients would comehere; Charleigh and her ilk wouldn’t dare cross the threshold, so, for the hours he spends here, it’s as if Jackson gets to escape Longview for a bit.
“I don’t knowwhyyou insist on going to that shithole,” Charleigh said to him once.
It’s near her childhood home, right off the highway by Seven Pines. “It feels like real Texas to me, I guess.”
“Whatever that means.” Charleigh rolled her eyes.
Jackson doesnotwear his pink IZOD shirts in here, though. He’s careful to dress in a button-down and jeans, even going so far as to don a pair of cowboy boots.
So far, no one has fucked with him.
But Ginny, the owner and barkeep, wouldn’t allow that anyway. She’s tough as old leather and doesn’t suffer any rough play in Sullivan’s. Even though she’s married, Jackson has always suspected that she’s gay. And he feels like she can sense that he is, too, and that’s why she keeps extra watch on him.
“You want another, cowboy?” Ginny asks, tilting her cowgirl hat toward him.
“Sure, why not?”
Ginny fishes a cold one from the cooler—an amber bottle flecked with ice flakes—and sets it on a fresh coaster. Fills a paper tray with roasted peanuts, placing it next to Jackson’s beer. His heart melts; this is more of Ginny’s mothering him, making sure he has something in his stomach to help sop up the alcohol.
He digs his wallet from his back pocket, peels out an extra five, slides it over to her.
“Thanks, hon.” She winks at him, then slams the cash register drawer shut with her hip.
He pries open a peanut, pops one in his mouth. Then another.
A man saunters over to the bar, eyes the empty barstool next to Jackson.
He’s dressed like he’s from another time, like the 1800s or something, in a button-down Henley, a pair of leather suspenders snapped to his pants. The top trio of buttons on his shirt are undone, exposing a triangle of tanned flesh.
“Do you mind?” He gestures to the barstool, flashing a gleaming lopsided grin at Jackson. The man’s hair is honey blond, his eyes pools of caramel.
Jackson’s stomach capsizes. “Be my guest!” he replies awkwardly, hoping the man doesn’t think he meant that literally.
“What’re ya havin’?” Ginny asks him.
“Whiskey. On the rocks, please.”
Jackson tries to train his gaze back toward the Rangers game, but all he can sense is this person in his periphery. He risks a glance. This man is gorgeous. Hot buttered rum in a glass. Tall, lean, but muscular. His sleeves are cuffed above his forearms, which are whittled, sculpted.
A man who works with his hands, Jackson thinks with approval.
He watches as he downs half his drink in one swallow and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
He swivels in his barstool toward Jackson. Beams that smile at him again. A smile that oozes mischief.
“Come here often?” he asks Jackson.
Jackson gulps. It almost feels like a come-on, but he spies a gold wedding band on the man’s ring finger. “Yeah, actually I do.”
Thank God I’m on my fourth beer, Jackson thinks, so his nerves aren’t in overdrive.
“It’s the only place in this town where I feel like I can clear my head, ya know?”
The man laughs. “Yeah, I hear ya.”
