Peyton sent her an emoji with its tongue out and put his phone on silent.
Forty-five minutes later they arrived at the ranch, which was surrounded by an unusually tall fence made of solid wood rather than a few strands of barbed wire, as if the ranch were more worried about keeping people out than animals in. Above a sturdy iron gate, “The Bars and Stars” had been spelled out with what looked like sticks.
Peyton held his breath as the gate swung open, but on the other side was a ranch as ranch-like as anything he’d ever seen on TV. The large pink house with the wraparound porch was familiar from the brochure. That was the guest house, where he would have a room to himself.
Smaller buildings surrounded the guest house—barns and sheds, enclosures for animals. Bales of hay were arranged like props—or furniture—but no one sat on any of them. The people he could see were all busy, and most of them wore cowboy hats, which he hadn’t brought one of. He wondered if they had a gift store. He wasn’t sure about giving himself hat head, but his neck was long enough to pull off a wide brim. Maybe in black, to match his chaps.
Over by the corral, a guy wearing a brown cowboy hat, matching cowboy boots, a pair of dusty jeans, and absolutely no shirt was chopping wood, swinging the ax like he had something against the log he was splitting. Peyton wasn’t sure why the ranch needed firewood when it was at least a hundred and ten out, but he approved of the process of making it.
The ax-wielding cowboy had a fine back, topped by an impressive set of shoulders. With every swing, his biceps bulged and his ass bunched. Peyton would happily sit there all day watching him except now that the driver had shut off the engine, the temperature inside the cab was quickly climbing to exceed the temperature outside the cab. Which meant that if he didn’t open the door and get out, he would soon be a roasted duckling.
Unfortunately, opening the door meant facing… whatever was out there. An impatient driver wondering why he wasn’t collecting his luggage, for starters.
Peyton stepped down from the cab and immediately became drenched in sweat. He staggered under the combined weight of his three suitcases—which the driver didn’t offer to help carry—up the porch stairs and through a screen door into a lobby which was thankfully as well air conditioned as the Range Rover. Maybe he would survive.
He was checked in by a cute twink, given a printed schedule detailing his plan of action for the next two weeks, and directed to a wide set of curving stairs. Juggling three suitcases, his room key, and the printed schedule, he managed to make it up the stairs and down the hall to room 201, which featured a canopied bed covered in a patchwork quilt, a blocky wood dresser, a closet about the size of a refrigerator, and a view of the guy chopping wood.
Unsure what he was supposed to be doing next and afraid to check the schedule because then he would find out, Peyton stood for several minutes appreciating the view. That cowboy could really swing an ax. Peyton imaged he could pound an ass just as hard, given the power in his thighs which met in a prominent bulge showcased by a pair of Levi’s 501 button-fly jeans. Classic. Peyton wanted to peel them off with his teeth, dust be damned.
The sound of a gong echoing down the hall startled him from his ogling. The gong probably meant something, and the secret to its meaning was probably on the piece of paper he’d thus far refused to look at.
Dinner.
Okay, that wasn’t hard to deal with. He knew how to eat. If someone tried to make him chop wood after dinner, he would just… tell them he preferred to watch. He was the customer, after all, and the customer was always right.
According to the brochure, dinner was served family style, which meant platters of food on round tables covered in blue gingham tablecloths with vases of fresh daises as centerpieces. Peyton took the first empty seat he came across, next to a heavyweight guy sweating through his t-shirt. The dining hall was air conditioned, but the guy was big enough he would need a freezer to stay cool.
“Howdy, pardner,” the guy said, in what was clearly a faked drawl. He took a break from forking chicken cutlets onto his plate to hold out a hand. “I’m Ambrose.”
“Peyton.” Peyton accepted the plate of chicken cutlets from Ambrose and served himself one. “Have you been here long?”
“Just got in today,” Ambrose said around a forkful of roasted potatoes. “I’m on the weight plan. You?”
“The, uh, get-my-shit-together plan, I guess you’d say.”
Ambrose laughed. “We could all use that one. That’s why we’re here, to get whipped into shape.” He patted his stomach.
Peyton wished his own problem was so visibly obvious because Bettina was right about his goal not being very concrete. How would he know when he was done?
“At least there’s plenty of eye candy to enjoy,” he said as he glanced around the room at the circulating waiters. Every one of them was a nine or a ten, either as cute as the twink at the front desk or as stacked as the guy out front chopping wood. “They understand their clientele. The place isn’t so much a boot camp as a booty camp, if you get what I mean.”
The Bars and Stars was a dude ranch for dudes. For gay ones, in particular. Peyton had made sure of it. Whatever might be wrong with him—and it was a long list—being gay wasn’t on it. The stand he’d been prepared to take back in his teens about being gay now and forever was the one hill he was still willing to die on.
“Maybe if they give my eyes enough to feast on, I can avoid feasting on all this food,” Ambrose said with a sigh, because damn if there wasn’t a whole lot of food. It was all reasonably healthy but way plentiful.
“I suppose they’ll work it off us,” Peyton suggested.
The brochure had made it sound like they would be getting exercise in the form of learning how to rope and ride, which Peyton hoped would be more fun than jogging or doing burpees. His track record with those activities wasn’t great.
“I could stand to firm up myself.” He squeezed his midsection.
He wasn’t as soft as Ambrose, but he was nowhere near as toned as the wood-chopping cowboy who he intended to jerk off to before retiring for the night. He’d often thought it would be nice to have abs like that, but one set of sit-ups always changed his mind. If he ever had trouble attracting men, that might be enough motivation to get him moving, but for now his face and height, both of which he’d lucked into rather than earned, did the work for him.
“It’s not so much about losing weight,” Ambrose said. “It’s more about changing my habits and, I don’t know, my general approach to life.”
“Exactly.” He pointed at Ambrose with his fork. “An overhaul. Mental, physical, the whole deal. Here’s to a brand new us.” He raised his glass and gave Ambrose’s a clink, then took a sip to finalize the toast. “Shame it’s only water.” He glanced around for the bar. A carafe of wine? Something?
“Don’t bother,” said a man easing himself into the empty seat on Peyton’s other side. He winced as his ass made contact with the chair. “There’s no alcohol at The Bars and Stars.”
