Pistol Creek, 2
TV cowboy Nash Remington (not his real name) was born and raised in Pistol Creek, Kentucky. Well, not really. He had a distant cousin (twice removed!) who went to Pistol Creek High for a few semesters (before getting expelled for truancy, that is). But that’s about as big as his connection to this small Kentucky town goes.
All the same, his TV studio is turning it into a big deal (renewal season, anyone?), having Nash open up the new Guns A Blazin’ Arcade in Pistol Creek’s newest, high-falutin’ strip mall, the Galloping Galleria. Along for the ride is his browbeaten publicist Chet Forrester, who’s worked his way up from mail room clerk at Wild West Studios in sunny Burbank, California, home to Nash’s hit TV show, Smoking Guns.
Chet has arrived in Pistol Creek ahead of Nash and his entourage, meeting with Grady Palmer, a realtor for Palmer Properties (well, intern is more like it) whose firm manages the new Galleria and is helping coordinate its Grand Opening. Both Chet and Grady are in way over their heads, but with plenty of youth, pluck and enthusiasm, the two twenty-something rookies do their best to pull off the Grand Opening without a hitch. But can a big city publicist and a small town realtor open their hearts as well??
Be Warned: m/m sex
Excerpt:
“One veggie omelet, no peppers, double mushrooms, grits, and biscuit on the side.”
Trixie slides the plate in front of me, steaming, colorful, and most welcome. I savor the familiar smells of egg and cheese, mushroom and onions, a single pat of butter still slithering across a generous heaping of thick, lumpy grits as an oversized biscuit, three inches high if it’s an inch, towers over the impressive meal.
“And for you, Stranger,” Trixie teases with a lurid wink in my direction, sliding the small, souvenir belt buckle plate in front of Chet. “The Ranch Hand Special.”
“Is this…” He glances behind her, as if someone might be following her with his real meal in tow. “Is there more coming?”
“No, Sugar,” she teases wickedly, never happier than when shining on some fancy city slicker who thinks his shit doesn’t stink. “But the good news? You get to keep the plastic belt buckle underneath as a souvenir of your time here at the Cracked Egg Café this morning. Bon Appetit, you two!”
With that, she wriggles away, big bootie shaking thunderously beneath her faded blue waitress uniform. I watch her walk away, struggling to hide a snicker at our little inside joke.
Chet merely stares at the small serving of scrambled eggs paired with two bacon strips and a stack of silver dollar pancakes. “Is this the diet special?” he asks, suddenly forlorn.
I chuckle, cutting my omelet in half and sliding a giant scoop of grits onto my bread plate. “It’s the kiddy meal,” I explain, sliding the extra plate his way. “You said you wanted low calories.”
He spies my heaping offering and scoops it closer without a second thought. “I thought you came here to apologize,” he insists, sliding a fork through his grits like a damn fool amateur as half of them slide right through the tines.
“Jesus, Chet, use a spoon and … who said anything about apologizing?”
“You did,” he insists, switching utensils and savoring a liberal spoonful of rich, buttery, salty grits as his eyes do little jackpot swirling motions behind his fluttering lids. “You know, when you literally apologized just now?”
“Oh that?” I tease, slathering the bottom half of my biscuit with strawberry jelly from the little stack of containers against the wall and the top half with orange marmalade. “That was more like … an explanation than an apology.”
“Could have fooled me,” he mumbles around a mouthful of omelet, literally making his “O” face—one would assume—as he moans and groans his way through half of my breakfast.
I sigh and admire his small, delicate hands on the spoon, the perfect match for his compact, gym-toned body. He’s sleek and practically shiny in his tailored charcoal grey slacks and vaguely darker shade of pullover sweater, the sleeves slid up to mid-forearm, the zipper pulled down just so, and the collar accentuating his broad, toned shoulders.
“What?” he asks around a bite of silver-dollar pancakes.
I blush, caught in the act. “Oh, nothing, I was just thinking … aren’t you hot in those dress clothes?”
“Dress clothes?” He rolls his eyes in that big city way of his. “This … this is my traveling outfit.”
“It is?”
“Why?” he asks, slowing down his nonstop grub fest to peer back at me with vibrant hazel eyes beneath his tousled black curls. “What do you wear?”
“When I travel?” I chuckle. “You mean, all the way to … Kentucky Eastern?”
His typically unlined brow furrows deliciously. “Not a big traveler then?”
I frown. “We can’t all be high-falutin’, jet-settin’ Hollywood types like you, Chet.”
He notes the dripping sarcasm as I begrudgingly pour my coffee over the ice. In return, I note his vaguely triumphant little smirk. “Real talk?” He sighs, pushing his licked-clean plates away as if he might be tempted to bite into the actual porcelain if they were any closer. “This is my first out-of-office gig.”
“Really?”
“You couldn’t tell?”
“I mean, I just figured you sucked at your job, so…”
His surprised snort is everything: rich, deep, raw, and genuine, perhaps the first real emotion he’s shown all day. “Yeah, well, right back at you, pal.”
I smile at the sudden opening. I mean, I wasn’t expecting this little piece of heaven to drop into my lap this morning, but now that I’ve caught a gander of his small, agile fingers and soft, thick lips and piercing hazel eyes? I … I’m not entirely opposed to using a little southern charm to lure him into my bed before the week’s over.
“So let’s just chalk it up to first-timer’s disease and … start fresh?” His expression is vaguely accepting as I offer my hand across the table.
“We … we’ve already shaken hands,” he reminds me.
I roll my eyes. “Are you always so literal, Chet? This is me, this is us … starting over. Remember?”
He takes my hand tentatively. I accentuate the size difference, squeezing his small hand harder than I normally would in my much bigger one, using all five fingers to practically swallow it whole. “Clean slate?” he offers an addendum, as if we’re negotiating some big Hollywood contract high atop Wild West Studio’s corporate HQ in Beverly Hills, probably.
“Clean as a whistle,” I ooze, dialing up the cowboy shtick all the way to eleven. “You in?”
He sighs, sliding his hand free as my eyes follow it back onto his lap. I wonder, idly, what his pecker might look like. Not small, I imagine. He’s too cocky for that. But not big, either, judging from his pretty little hands. Smooth, no doubt, lotioned and lathered every night before bed, probably. Some routine he no doubt read about in the complimentary copy of Men’s Grooming in his manicurist’s salon on Rodeo Drive. I smirk to picture his little landing strip of a bush, carefully tended and plucked until it glistens with its high, satiny gloss, resting just above his smooth, satiny, veiny little but not too little cock.
That is, if he isn’t shaved completely.
I wriggle at the thought of him, smooth and shapely, curled up against my sweaty, panting chest after some robust, sexy times in my loft above the—
Snapping fingers brings me back to life. “Bro, where’d you go?” His face is genuinely curious, but also? Slightly blushing, as if maybe he knows exactly where I just went but is just too polite to mention it.
“Sorry,” I blurt, shaking my head as our eyes meet across the cluttered table. “I just … I’ve never met anyone like you before, Chet.”
- Series:
- /series-pistol-creek/
