Landfall - 27. Dropped the Phone

Remarkable how well I slept last night—and how much I miss waking up to Bubba. A real luxury to have a bed buddy. He'll be back late this afternoon, so I'll get to indulge tomorrow morning.

Gonna stick with the schedule of taking my pill at night. Rested well, no drug-hangover this morning. Enjoying coffee on the balcony with a smoke, planning the day isn't a chore. Although it's not that early; already 8:30 am, need to get rolling with the day.

Meeting with a refrigeration guy to work on the bar's icemaker at 10:30 am. On its last legs—or maybe just needs a thorough cleaning—barely keeping up with the bar's needs. Will check email to make sure the accountant didn't come up with issues from the upload I did yesterday. Loose ends for the rest of the day, may spend some time at the hotel pool, then make groceries; be kinda fun to have a dinner in tonight as a surprise for Bubba. And yeah, you “make” groceries at the grocery store; it's a unique New Orleans expression, but somehow it fits.

Cleaned up, grabbed an Egg McMuffin to go with the third cup of coffee, and head to the bar. It's only a little after 10 am, and the refrigeration company truck is parked there already. Nice. Solid service.

Youngish guy walks over, introduces himself. “Mornin'. I'm Donnie, understand you're having a problem with your icemaker.” Mid- to late- 20's, 5'8” or so, wiry body, shaggy blonde/brown hair, work shirt open halfway to his waist with his name on an embroidered patch and company name screen printed on the back, work shorts, work boots. He's dressed for the heat here just like I am in t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Hell, it's already 87 degrees and 90 percent humidity—hot as hell in this area during the summer.

Shake hands, introduce myself. “Yeah, just not producing ice like it should. Let me get the place opened up, and I'll turn you loose on it.”

Once inside, show him the machine. He grabs a flashlight, hits his knees, and starts crawling around to look at the backside and compressor on the underside. “I'll be back in the office, let me know what ya find.”

I'm online checking emails when he comes back 15 minutes later. “You got a few minutes to take a look at the machine with me? Got a couple of things going on with it.”

Walk back up front to the bar. “Two things happening here, Mr. Evans. First, it's low on Freon. Easy enough to fix. But second, there's a restriction in the water flow—look.” He's back on his knees, pointing to the water line going into the unit, using the flashlight to highlight the open line.

Get down on my knees beside him, he points the flashlight, at the line. “Here's the problem—the line's got scale built up inside, it's restricting the water flow.” While he uses one hand with the flashlight, the other hand goes on the small of my back, not exactly pushing me forward—just resting there like he's hosting me into his home, urging me closer for a look. “See, that's half the problem. Rather unusual to find, but not unheard of. This is an older place, happens with old pipes from time to time.”

Look at it for a few seconds, in that time he barely moves—but moves his hand slightly. It's a small movement, but smooth, easy.

He hitting on me?

“Yeah, I see. This place was on a well up until about three years ago, then they switched to the local water co-op. Maybe residual from the well water? Anyway, what do we need to do to fix it?”

Moves his hand away as I pull back. “Two things will fix it; first, replace this old section of pipe. That'll eliminate some of the scale that might come loose and clog the machine. Second,I'd recommend installing a filter. Any sediment in the line will be trapped, and the water will still flow at a normal rate.”

“Sounds good. Go ahead and fix it.”

“Ok. I need to run back to the shop, pick up a filter. Got pipe on the truck I can use for the replacement. You gonna be here for a little while? Takes maybe thirty minutes to get to the shop and back, then another 45 minutes or so to install the filter and replace the pipe.” He's scratching the patch of blonde hair in the center of his chest as he talks, looking me in the eyes.

“Yeah. That'll work. Got some paperwork to do.”

“Great, I'll be back in a few minutes, Mr. Evans.” He reaches over, kinda squeezes my upper arm/shoulder like we're old friends. “I'll knock on the back door of the office when I get back.”

He heads out, I'm back in the office, sitting rather bemused.

Must be misreading him, but sure felt like he wanted to go further.

Finish up emails, including reviewing a couple of new properties Rex's auto-notify program had shipped. One was a place just north of here, rural farmhouse sitting on 20 acres, fenced and cross-fenced with a pond; it'd been set up for running horses and cattle. Nice place, updated inside, some woods on part of the property, and the owners had installed a pool. In our price range, too.

Bubba might like to play with some horses. This one may be an option—hafta schedule a time to see it; maybe this weekend?

The refrigeration guy knocks on the office door. Let him in to work on the icemaker. Print out the house to show Bubba; shoot Rex an email asking for a time to look at the farmhouse, but ask him to hold off until Friday before booking an appointment; there may be other properties that pop up between now and then. Plus, want to go back and look at the treehouse.

Go to a couple of sites looking at boots and hats for Dave's birthday. It's only a month away, so need to be looking now.

Guess I spent more time online than planned; refrigeration guy is back in my office. “All done. I waited 15 minutes, and it's dropping ice already. How do I make out the invoice?”

Tell him just to make it out in the bar's name, and I get out the bar's checkbook while he's writing it out. “What's the total due?” He gives me the figure as he completes his invoice, and I complete my check.

I glance up at him a couple of seconds after he finishes writing the bill, and he's checking me out. He's put his invoice clipboard on the corner of my desk as he scratches that patch of chest hair again.

“Can I ask you something?” He's got one eyebrow cocked up, questioning.

“Sure....Shoot.”

“This place really a gay bar?”

“Yeah, but it's really as much an alternative bar as anything. Everyone's welcome here; gay, straight, bi. Young, old. Women, men. Black, white, yellow, purple—doesn't matter. Everyone here is friendly, everyone gets along. It's just a cool place to hang out, and no one gives a shit about who you are, just as long as you're a good guy.”

“You know, I've always wondered what it'd be like with a guy ..., “ as he reaches down to grope his crotch, outlining a big bulge in his work shorts. He's hardening up, and gives the mound a good squeeze. “You gay?”

“Yeah, I am.”

That's a first. And feels right.

“Sweet. Maybe you and I can play a little; it's just us, and I like you. Figure you're already good at keeping your mouth shut, so no worries about this playtime getting back to my girlfriend.” He smiling, eyebrow still arched up over one eye, still fondling the now larger cock in his shorts. And yeah, he's a good-looking guy.

“So whatdaya say? How about some playtime?” He's grinning and reaching to unzip his shorts with one hand, the other hand tugging at the remaining buttons on his shirt.

“Uh...thanks, but no thanks, Donnie.” Hafta look at his name on his shirt. “First of all, just because I'm gay doesn't mean I wanna play with every guy out there. I mean, I'm sure you're a nice guy and all, but it's not always 'let's fuck just to fuck' for me. And, second, I'm in a relationship, and I'm kinda a one-man man.”

Bubba's gonna love this.

He's got a combo look of “why'd you drown my kitten?” shock and “oh my God I'm naked in front of everyone in my church!” embarrassment. He's looking at the floor, won't look me in the eyes.

“Look, Donnie, it's ok to wonder about this shit—everyone does. But if you're gonna satisfy your questions, you need to take your time, select the guy that's gonna give you the best experience possible, not just a fast fuck to see how it goes. After all, the best sex you've had with women has been with those you've had more than just a chance encounter with, right? The quickies can be fun—trust me, I've done plenty of those—but it really is better with someone you know.” He's nodding slowly, absorbing everything.

“Look, do this: make some time, come out here one afternoon after you're off work, meet some of the guys here, take your time. You'll find some great folks, and if the timing is right, maybe get to satisfy your curiosity, and make it good for you. Hell, I'll buy ya a beer, and we can always talk—anytime you want, ok?” Wrote the bar number and my cell number on the back of his copy of the invoice.

He looks up at me and smiles a weak smile. “Thanks, Mr. Evans. I appreciate it, and I'm sorry I ….”

Wave off his apology for the pass. “It's ok, Donnie. And I'm Barry, alright? Other than my partner, no one else will ever know, so don't worry about that. But I'm serious about the offer of the beer, or just providing a friendly listening ear—I'm not qualified for advice.” I grin big, and it breaks the tension. “So call the bar, or my cell, see if I'm working or not, then plan on coming out, ok? Just don't call early; I'm definitely not a morning man!””

“I will, Mr. Ev...uh, Barry. And thanks. For everything.” A warm smile lights his face. “And I'll definitely call.” He reaches to shake my hand.

Stand, grab him in a bear hug, and squeeze tight. Damn, the boy's a bundle of emotions. But calming down.

How'd I know that?

After saying goodbyes, close the browser, lock up the bar, grab a nice lunch at the Mexican place a few miles away. Damn good food.

Swing by the grocery, pick up some steaks, stuff for salad, potatoes for baking,and a few cheesecake slices. That ought to be enough for a quiet dinner in. I can broil the steaks, nuke or bake the potatoes, and the salad will come together quickly. Bubba will be happy with that—definitely a meat-and-potatoes guy. Got cinnamon rolls from the store's deli for breakfast tomorrow morning, too.

But damn, the day has slipped away; it's already 2:45 pm. Should be lying by the pool.

Get back to the hotel at 3 pm or a few minutes after, and pull in my typical parking spot. Next to me is the shiniest black truck I've ever seen—paint looks three feet deep. Polished chrome wheels. And Texas plates.

Bubba's home!

Grab the plastic grocery bags, go racing into the room. Throw 'em on the sofa, I can hear whistling in the bedroom. Round the corner quietly, and there's my big lug of a lawman, his back to me. He's shirtless, black jeans, black boots, baseball cap on as he hangs clothes in the closet. There's boxes spread on the floor, lined up and stacked against the wall, clothes lying on the bed to be put in the closet or in the dresser.

“Bubba!” I head from the door to the closet, and the bastard turns, all 6'5” of him looking at me with those blue-blue eyes, two day's black scruffy growth on the face, black furry chest waiting to be held. Damn, he's a hot fucker!

“Bulldog!” And before I know it, I'm in his arms, we're doing a liplock, tongues exploring. Yeah, you can say I missed the hell out of him. And we're both breathless when we break the kiss.

“What the hell are you doing here this early? I'm so glad you're back, but damn, what time did you leave Dallas? Isn't that like a ten-hour drive?”

“Got everything done I needed to in Dallas, got in bed, and couldn't sleep. Might as well be driving, so I left at 3 am. And yeah, I'm tired—but fuckin' glad to be back.”

“Ok, what can I help with, Bubba? You got a lot of stuff here.”

“Nah, I got this,” pointing out it's just hanging clothes, plus socks, underwear and t-shirts for the dresser. The stuff in boxes can stay, and he'll need my help to get his boots, sneakers and TV out of the truck. “Can I get a beer in the meantime?”

“Sure--and you brought your TV?”

“Yeah, cleared it with the hotel manager to install it here. The screen's a little bigger than the one in our room, and got a sound bar with it—and I just didn't want to trust it to the movers. Why not enjoy it now?”

I'm off to retrieve the beer, deliver it, then back to the kitchen to put the stuff from the grocery in place. By the time I'm done, Bubba's out, beer bottle empty—he must have chugged it—ready to go to the truck.

At the truck, I'm impressed by its size and sheer blackness of the paint. Bubba's babied this truck, since the paint looks like the lacquer used on fine jewelry or porcelains. Opening the door, the smell of the softened saddle leather is both fragrant and sexy. Bubba gets me to move my car, so we can open the back door of the Ford King Ranch SuperCrew—and he starts pulling out a huge-ass TV. So fucking big, it runs the width of the cab. Bubba definitely understated it—far bigger than the TV in our room.

“Yeah, it's the best technology out there—it's got almost 400 tiny zones of LEDs behind the screen. The computer analyzes the picture, and lights or dims the zones as needed for the best picture. Dolby Picture and Dolby sound, too, on a 65 inch screen. You're gonna love it, Bulldog!”

“You thought about going into sales for this company, Bubba?” I start laughing, and he's laughing too, his enthusiasm for his toy obvious.

We wrestle the TV in, set it up on the small console that housed the other TV. “Now, only the boots and sneakers left—won't take but a minute, Bulldog.”

Back to the truck, the back floor is filled with boots—cowboy mostly, with a pair of tan lace-up workboots, plus a couple or three pairs of sneakers. While there, he grabs his hat from the “hat rack”. It's a giant chromed “U” up over the center front of the headliner, with the “U”s projections holding the hat upside down by it's brim against the headliner in the space between the windshield and sunroof. We both laugh about a truck so fully equipped it's got a hat rack—but admit I'm amazed; it's a clever touch by an aftermarket company.

Get the boots inside, lined up on the closet floor. Perfect. I can sneak a peak later and get Bubba's size for the pair I'm gonna get him. Although he's got boots in black, cordovan, brown, and blue (!), figure he'll appreciate an additional pair.

He finishes the closet, heads back to hook up the TV to the hotel's cable, “I thought I'd fix some steaks for dinner, Bubba, you ok with that?”

“Still need to shower, and wanna relax with you; you can fill me in on how things are going. How about a pizza or Chinese delivery instead, and we can chat?”

“That'll work.” He finishes the TV hookup, turns it on, does some programming setup while I get us another round of beers. Come back in—and it's amazing. Picture better than any movie theater, and it's covering half the wall in the small sitting area. Sound is great too. “Don't watch that much TV, Bulldog, but when I do, I want it good.” With this TV, even the damn commercials are interesting.

“I'm hitting the shower, Bulldog, back in a few.” He chugs his beer, and starts to unzip his jeans as he heads to the bedroom and bath.

Debate about joining him in the shower, but he's been on the road for 10 hours—he'd probably appreciate a long hot shower just to unwind, despite how much I know we'd both enjoy the sex there. Oh, well, there'll be other times for that.

Did have time to look at his boots while he's in the shower. The brown boots are Luchaisses, supposedly the best boots out there, so get their size. He's wearing 13 1/2's wide. You know what they say—big feet … big shoes. And he's a big guy.

He's back, in a pair of gym shorts, shirtless, barefoot, retrieving another beer from the fridge, with the Chinese scheduled for delivery in a few minutes.

“So what's happened while I've been gone? Anything fun?” Dave pulls down a slug of the cold brew.

“Definitely interesting, Bubba.” Started filling him in on the few days he's been gone.

“Talked with Doc, found out I'd been over-medicated.” (Bubba's summary: “You'd definitely slowed down, just figured you were less stressed, getting settled in to being here.”)

A call from the front desk tells us dinner delivery is here. We fix our plates, and I pick back up with the details of my days.

“Talked with Sid, got the financing details I needed, and the loan officer called; got a pre-approval letter for us to give to Rex. But still convinced he's covering something up with us.” (“Good—one less thing to do. And we both felt something was going on when we were in Florida; guess that'll come out soon enough, whatever it is.”)

“Got everything submitted to accounting with no problems.” (“Great. Another housekeeping thing out of the way.”)

“Had a interesting lunch with Rex. He's got what he calls his 'spidey sense' when he feels emotions or insights into people and situations—and he's convinced I've got it, too.” (“Sounds kinda nutty at first, but you've always seemed to know instinctively the exact the right thing to say or do. Who knows? Not gonna discount it.”)

“Donnie, the refrigeration guy, made a pass at me after working on the icemaker.” (Bubba grins. “Just confirms what a hot lover I've got.” Although he's protective, he's not jealous. He trusts me completely—and kissed me a hard hot kiss after I'd told him the whole story.)

“Rex sent a few new properties by email today. One of 'em you may like—it's a farm house on 20 acres, ready to run horses and cattle, has a pool.” (“Yeah, it's a great fantasy, but let's be practical—you're running a bar, working all hours, and I'm slammed at the office, plus an hour a day total commute time. Would we really have the time or energy to play with a small ranch?” When I mentioned the idea of hiring hot ranch hands, he just play-fisted my arm and made a face. “Now I know—no ranch hands around you!” he laughs.)

Got several ideas for the bar: a 'movie night' on Tuesday, karaoke on Wednesday, gay bingo hosted by a drag queen on Thursday, country night on Friday, keep the drag show on every other Saturday, with alternate Saturday nights trash disco, Sunday on the patio with a jazz combo and beer specials. Plus special events, like a cookout on Labor Day.” (“They all sound good, Bulldog, except movie night. Most folks go to bars to socialize, I don't know they'll want to sit and be quiet for a movie. But go for it—nothing ventured, etc.”)

May sound like a fast discussion, but took more time than I'd thought to fill Bubba in. “Now you've heard about my time alone, how about yours? What all went on in Dallas?”

“It was a good time, Bulldog. Went out for dinner Sunday night, went to the Roundup, a country-western dance bar. Ran into old friends, had a few drinks, danced a little. Back home fairly early—that's when I'd texted you. Up on Monday morning, headed to the office, packed it up in a couple of hours. I'll go back for a goodbye party later. Back home, got stuff sorted, then packed the rest of the day. Other than breaking for dinner, spent the whole time at the townhouse. Finished up around 9pm, decided to hit the sack early—but when I didn't sleep well and woke up at 2am, finished loading up the truck, then headed here at 3am. Thank God, the pool guys were cleaning the pool that early in the morning—got one of 'em to help me get the TV in the truck.”

Bubba had curled up on the sofa, leaning his head on my shoulder as we settled into a comfortable silence. Been watching TV for a few minutes, realized I was hearing steady, loud breathing—Bubba's sound asleep on my shoulder. Totally expected after the long drive and long days he's had. Woke him up, we both stripped down, crawled in bed by 10 pm; didn't even watch local news.

Bubba sets the alarm on his phone for 10:30am. “Gonna be working late tomorrow night on a job, Bulldog, so get to sleep in tomorrow morning.”

Sleep overtakes him quickly, and I'm mere moments behind.

Wake around 8am the next morn, fix coffee, enjoy a couple of cups and a few smokes on the balcony. Watched the morning news and weather. At 10am, decided to check on Dave; Bubba's kicked off the sheets, lying on his side but hips twisted almost flat, sporting a big hard-on. Close enough to alarm time, stripped off my boxers, crawled in between his legs and proceeded to give him a “wake up” blowjob.

After a few minutes, there's a low groan from above me, and his body squirms. A few minutes later, there are hands on my head, not pushing, but encouraging me plus an increase in the moans and groans.

A few more minutes, it's “Fuck, I'm cumming!” And just as he cums, the cell phone alarm goes off. I take all his load, lick the last dribbles to clean him up, then move up beside him. Really feel like I've taken a good part of the man he is. Very satisfied, very complete.

“Good morning, Bubba. You cum every time your phone alarm rings?” Really trying not to laugh at the joke.

“Mornin', Bulldog! Helluva way to wake up—I'll take those any day! And it wasn't the phone that made me cum.” He grins as he kisses me. “Now it's my turn,” as he starts to lift himself off the pillow.

“Nope, that's my pleasure. You lie back, relax, I'll get ya coffee.”

Back a few minutes later, he's sitting up in bed as I bring in coffee and a microwave-warmed cinnamon roll. After the roll is inhaled, he sips the remainder of the coffee. “Guess I better get rolling, gonna be a long day and night. Probably won't be in until after 2:00am tomorrow morning. Your plans for the day?”

“Gonna get the laundry done, go to the bar later this afternoon/evening, check to see what paperwork I need to be doing. May have a couple of drinks tonight. Nothing big.”

“Good, just relax and enjoy your day, I'll try not to wake ya when I come in.” With that, he's heading to the bath, to get cleaned up. He's kissing me goodbye at the door, and gone by 11:15am.

Get cleaned up, laundry sorted and bagged. Head to a nearby laundromat. A little over an hour later, everything is clean and on hangers or folded. Load up the car, stop at a deli and grab a sandwich to kill the growling stomach. Back to the pool at the hotel for a couple of hours.

Go in around 3:30pm or so, shower, head to bar. Go through the vendor lists, notice the electronic game machine is the same ones here since 2010. Call “Lucky Money”, the gaming supply company, explain it's time to upgrade the machine to a newer model, maybe add a couple of machines. (Remarkably, the bar gets a nice flow of income from the machines, even though we rent the machines by splitting the earnings.) Will meet their rep on Friday at 1:00pm.

Bryant gets to the bar to open up for happy hour. Go over some of the ideas I've got, he agrees with all of 'em. Tell him about meeting the game vendor, he's encouraged by adding a machine or two. “Since you're gonna be meeting him at 1:00pm, can you hang around until 2:30pm or so? The beer and liquor distributors will be making deliveries, and it'll let me get some stuff done at home before I come in for the Friday shift?” Easily done.

Hang around, having a few drinks as Bryant works the happy hour crowd. Meet several folks: Jennay, nice gal, light brown hair, big blue eyes. Works in customer service at Best Buy. Has that unaffected “all-American girl” look going on. Easy friendly attitude, and notice that although she's not a chatter box, she's influential—when she speaks, everyone's listening. Her girlfriend, Dixie, is a tall willowy brunette every bit as friendly, but a little more reserved. She's just gotten out of the army, and is doing computer programming for a nearby oil and gas exploration company. Both are in their late 20's.

Got to chat with Clayton. He's been there a couple of the same times I have. A retired electrical engineer from the NASA site, he's reserved, very polished, feels like he's from an “old money” family with a little bit of an East Coast accent—understandable since he's here from Virginia years ago. At 62, he decided to enjoy himself after doing well on the job, and is pursuing a photography career. Distinguished, youthful looking but with silver grey at the temples of a full head of hair, I found out later he's regularly referred to as a DILF, a Dad I'd Like to Fuck, but he's single, gay, just hasn't met the right guy yet.

Met Lucius, a lanky black guy, married, with a couple of kids at home but soon off to college, late 40's. Retired Marine, he'd just started a business at the local marina, reconditioning boats. A little too eager, a little too hungry, he'd deflated after asking if I was available to maybe grab a beer in private and I'd replied with a “sorry, but I'm dating” response. Good guy, guess he doesn't get out to play much.

Before I knew it, it's almost 10pm and the crowd had both emptied out and refilled. After polishing off three drinks over the course of the evening, I was ready to get something to eat and hit the sack. Headed out, stopped by Taco Bell for a couple of tacos and a coke. Wolfed 'em down, stripped down, hit the sack by 10:30pm.

Woke at 1:45am with a start. Left arm burning, but lower half numb. Fingers barely moving. Stabs of pain on the inside of my arm, throbbing.

Heart attack?

Race to the bathroom, flip on the light. I look ok. Check my pulse and heart rate, it's slightly elevated, but no more than after a good workout, and steady. No chest pain just arm and my side, at the top of my rib cage.

Stroke?

Make faces in the mirror. Everything's moving normally. Grab my phone and record myself singing “Happy Birthday” at the top of my lungs. Play it back, it sounds normal. Sure the neighbors think I've lost my mind. Pulse and heart rate are still normal even after moving my arms and legs around with no noticeable mobility differences.

God, I'm so fucking cold—cold to the bone. Flu? A virus I've picked up? Bad food?

Despite how cold I'm feeling, I'm breaking out in a sweat. Maybe a warm shower will help.

Take the shower, but still not warming up. Pulse and heart rate still normal, and not at all nauseous, so guess the bad food is out. Crawl under the sheets and pull the blanket up to warm up. Not helping. Shaking and as cold as I've been in my life.

Lying in bed covered up, my cell rings with Bubba's ringtone.

He's letting me know he's done and on his way in a little late, since it's now almost 3am.

I'm debating about telling him what's going on with me, but answer with a “Hi, Bubba, how's it going?”

“Is this Barry Evans?” The deep voice on the other end of the call is clear and crisp.

“Yes.”

“I'm Marcus Wilde. I work with David Alexander. I'm at LSU Medical Center in New Orleans. David's been shot.”

Dropped the phone.