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“Callous. Shit. I came here feeling bad because you didn’t get invited to the big house and—”
“As if I wanted to be invited to the big house. Please, Kyle, I couldn’t care less what people here think of me. This ranch, this job, and this thing between us is nothing but a means to an end. In another month or so I’ll be gone and you can go back to hating me.”
Ugh, pompous Shep had returned so he must really be feeling something scary. “Hating you?” I coughed out to hopefully ease him out of this ugly spat we were having. “I don’t…I don’t feel hatred for you. Not anymore.”
“Well, now is the time to start building it back up. Go. Take your stupid pity and give it to someone who needs it. I want nothing from you.”
“Good! Then you’ll get nothing!” I shoved an arm into my coat, the taste of his spunk still on my tongue, and stalked out the open door. It slammed shut behind me, and I threw a snowball at it. That felt good, so I pummeled that oaken door with more snowballs. “Fuck you, McCrary!” I bellowed, my shout bouncing off the frozen lake. My truck was cold again, but I was hot enough under the collar to not even notice how icy my feet and hands were until I pulled into the parking lot of Marble Mary’s in Elk Corner. It took me a bit to shake off the concern that had appeared when I realized I’d driven for over forty minutes and didn’t remember a fucking thing. Christ. That wasn’t good. Neither was my temper. Somehow I’d just blown up my relationship with Shep.
No. It wasn’t a relationship. He’d been so kind to point that out, the shithead. What a jerk I was to think that reading, laughing, talking, and whispering secrets in the dark of the night with a man you just made love to was something more than shoving a dick into an asshole. Fucking McCrarys were all loathsome, unfeeling bastards. The neon lights beckoned.
I shoved my keys into my front pocket. Fuck, I still had on my suit jacket and best jeans. After I stripped off the jacket and threw the stupid bow tie to the snowy driveway, I blew into Marble Mary’s like a man with nothing to lose. The place was packed with sinewy cowboys, some bikers, and a man at the bar entertaining a blonde woman who looked like she was staying close to his side by the sheer will of God. She was having some issues with balance and rocked like a boat on a rough sea. I rubbed at my eyes and Morgan McCrary’s face came into sharp view.
Oh hey! I think I see someone we need to say hello to. With our fists.
“I think you’re right,” I mumbled and made my way to the bar. Giggly blonde gal trying to get into Morgan’s lap saw me coming—or perhaps she was seeing three of me if her blinking gaze was any indication—and smiled as only a drunken barfly can smile. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said as I moved her to the side, then drew back and punched Morgan right in his smirking face. The jolt of the punch shot up my arm. Morgan tumbled off the barstool, hitting the floor with a roar and a nose gushing blood. Things then kind of got a little out of hand all around us.
I jumped on Morgan. He got a solid punch to the side of my head that made me see stars before I drove a fist into his gut.
“That’s for throwing Shep out into the snow like an unwanted shoe,” I snarled as the sound of breaking glass and shouts erupted all around us.
“One fag sticking up for another fag,” Morgan ground out before he kicked me in the balls. The room sort of dimmed as my face kissed the filthy floor. Breathing became difficult. Fucking McCrarys. I should have known they’d fight dirty. I’d thrown down with Morgan before. Seemed I’d have been on guard for a nut shot. Lying on my side, gasping and trying not to vomit, I witnessed the bar brawl taking place. Men fighting men, women fighting women, dogs and cats living together. Mass hysteria. A chuckle wanted to break free, but I couldn’t breathe well enough to chortle. Funny how the mind slips back to movie lines from classic flicks when your balls had been driven up to your sternum. Mother. Fuck. That always hurt.
Morgan punched me in the back. I grunted in pain, rolled over, and flailed to find the leg of the barstool. When I did, I swung hard. It caught him under the chin. Back he flew to his ass. I pushed up, balls aching, and fumbled my way around two chicks ripping and clawing at each other’s tops—oops there’s a bare boob—to get my hands back on Morgan. He looked a little dazed, but I fell on him anyway, jabbing at his face with a wobbly right hook.
“Get off…you queer ass faggot,” he snarled, then spat blood into my face. That served to gross me out and piss me off. My fist found his jaw. His fingers clawed at my face. We rolled back and forth on the floor as whiskey bottles and tables crashed to the floor around us. “What do you care what happens to Shepherd?” he asked while trying to drive my face into the side of the wooden bar. I reached back to grab his crotch, figuring that would make him release my hair. It did. “Or did he come crawling to you because he knew all you sickos would welcome him with open arms? Bet he’s right in bed with you now. Or maybe he’s wiggled tight between that fag Indian and your pansy-ass brother.” The leer on his bloody face had to go. I took a swing, missed, then drove my knee into his gut. That took the sneer away.
Someone leaped onto my back as I was reaching for Morgan to kick his capped teeth in. A female judging by the weight of her. A drunken female judging by the stench of booze wafting off her. I spun around, trying to shake her off, but she clung tight like a burdock. That was when the sheriff, Mark, rolled in with his deputy. People ran for the exits like rats fleeing a ship. I tripped over some dude who was lying passed out on the floor. I went to my ass, dislodging the woman on my back, but not in time to avoid her puking down my side. Morgan jumped on me, connecting with a sloppy haymaker. I saw stars but managed to reach back to scoop up whatever the redhead had vomited and flung it into Morgan’s face.
Things kind of went downhill rapidly after that. Several patrons were cuffed and escorted to waiting squad cars—all two of them—and they jammed me into the back with Morgan and some other dude, who was roughly the size of the Tetons. Mount Muscle was between us.
I sat back, wincing at the pull on my shoulders, and listened to Morgan telling Mark off as we rolled away from Marble Mary’s toward the Copper Falls sheriff station. He was pretty sure someone would post his bail before he even arrived in town. Probably so. Reeking of booze, puke, and cheap perfume, I mulled over who I would call with my lone phone call and what had happened to my hat. It was a good hat. Nothing costly like a Stetson, but still a good, all-purpose hat that fit my head well.
“…lawyers will be up your ass faster than that fag sitting on my right!” Morgan spit. And I mean spit. He was a moist speaker.
“McCrary, shut the fuck up,” Mark snapped.
“Fuck off, Copper!” Morgan yelled.
Me and the massive dude in the torn flannel snickered. “Copper. What a douche,” I tossed out. “What is this, a Jimmy Cagney movie?”
“Abbott, I’m going to address the same command to you,” Sheriff Mark barked, then threw me a glower in the rearview.
Me and Mount Muscle chortled all the way to town. Getting into a good fight and then being arrested wasn’t generally something a man found amusing but seeing Morgan’s busted nose coated with dried vomit was mighty entertaining if I did say so myself. Sitting in a cell with Morgan and Mike aka Mount Muscle for over an hour while the sheriff sorted shit out was less entertaining.
Morgan was even more obnoxious when he was dealing with those in authority than he was with those he felt were lesser. Which was kind of hard to believe but there it was. His mouth ran full bore, spittle flying, as he paced the cell, flinging every kind of taunt he could come up with at everyone he interacted with. Aside from Mountain Mike, which showed that even a hateful douche like Morgan McCrary had an iota of sense.
“You gay?” Mike asked after he returned from being fingerprinted.
“Bi,” I replied from my seat on one of two cots. Morgan was hanging off the cell door shouting at Mark and his deputy for his freedom while peppering his demands with slurs about Enrique’s Hispanic bloodlines. How the young deputy didn’t come back and punch him in the face I had no clue. He was a better man than me. Or would it be I? Shepherd would know since he had that fancy paper from Vassar.
“Cool. My twin sister is bi.”
“Dirty dyke,” Morgan muttered. Oops. Guess I overestimated Morgan’s intelligence. I sat on my bunk, smiling, as Mike shoved Morgan into a corner and hit him several dozen times. Mark and Enrique came rushing back and broke it up, hauling Morgan out of the cell to have his face cleaned up while Mike and I high-fived.
“You could have called for help,” Mark snapped as they wrestled Morgan down the hall.
“I didn’t need help,” I called, which made Mike snigger while he dabbed at his bloody knuckles with the expensive cowboy shirt he’d ripped off Morgan’s back.
