The Shearing Gun (7 page)

P
AUL
IS
three years older than me, and I had always looked up to him, followed him around, and loved being with him. Our mother had died of an undiagnosed brain aneurysm when I was five, leaving just Dad, Paul, and me. As I got older, I always thought I was the lucky one. My memories of Mum were hazy. Paul’s were more solid. He always felt her death and loss more than I did.

The night Dad found out I was gay and threw me out of the house, Paul argued fiercely in my favor, telling Dad he was being stupid and that he would regret it. Dad had found my porn stash and hit the roof, raging at me and even throwing a couple of punches. Paul had taken it so well that I always wondered if he found the mags before Dad and kept quiet about it. I’d never had the guts to ask him, not wanting to relive that terrible evening.

When we were alone, we talked about it some—the queerness, I mean, not the night that I was thrown out. Paul didn’t shy away from it anymore. So it didn’t surprise me that once the dinner dishes were all washed and we were sitting down in front of the telly with our beers, he brought up the subject.

“So, do you have something going on with the Doc then, Hank?”

“Huh?” I asked, surprised at that line of questioning.

“You seemed really chummy with Elliot. I was just wondering if you two had a
thing
?”

I shook my head. “Me and the Doc? Nah, mate. You know that I don’t do that sort of stuff around home. I keep my dick in my pants unless I’m in the city.”

Instead of looking relieved as I thought he would, he actually looked sad. “So, do you have a friend, then?”

“You mean a lover? ’Course not, mate. I couldn’t bring anyone out here and I only visit the city every couple of months. No one wants that kind of long-distance relationship, even if I did have anything worth waiting for. I swear the wethers out there in the paddock get more action than I do.”

“So it’s just one-night stands?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He shook his head at me. “You need to think about your life, Hank. You can’t still be trawling for boys in nightclubs when you’re sixty. You should really think about having someone special in your life. You know, despite Dad’s reaction, being gay isn’t that bad anymore. Isn’t that guy on the Target ads gay? And that queer family on that US TV show?”

I choked on the beer I was consuming. “What the fuck, Paul? Where’s this shit coming from?”

He sighed and began to peel the label off his beer. “It’s just—I know that I agreed with Dad at the start, that you should be hiding your sexuality and everything, but I’ve had years to think about it. It’s just—” He tried again. “I’m thinking of asking Narelle to marry me.”

“Shit! Congratulations, mate!” I was out of my chair and pumping his arm enthusiastically. “That’s great news!” Paul and Narelle had been on-again, off-again for years. I’d thought it was off-again, but I was happy to be wrong.

He had a broad grin on his face along with a sheepish expression. “I still have to ask her and she still needs to say yes, but hell… I can’t think of any life I want that doesn’t include her.”

I crooked an eyebrow at him. “Is my big brother in love?”

“Old news, Little Bro. I fell for her ages ago. And that’s what got me thinking. It’s not like you… chose to be gay. So does that mean you have to be alone for the rest of your life? Farming’s not an easy business, and I’ve seen how Dad struggles without Mum around. I’m not talking about an extra pair of hands. I mean that one person who you can celebrate with when things are great and cry with when they go down the shit hole. That sounding board and emotional attachment. Are you going to do this, day-in, day-out, for the next sixty years, all alone? Even if you don’t go around telling everyone that you have a thing for guys, you still need to have someone special. Whether it be here or in the city. You can’t end up alone, Hank.”

I worked my jaw and stared out the black window to the front veranda. “I don’t have any choice about it, Paul. This place doesn’t pay enough for me to quit shearing, and I don’t know any boss who would willingly hire a gay shearer.”

“That’s bullshit, Hank. Maybe some of the older bosses would have a problem with it, but the new generation coming through is going to be mostly fine about it. They’re desperate for quality shearers these days. I betcha they’d take you even if you brought along a pair of high heels and a pink teddy bear.”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “But I’m not really willing to find out. I’m sure that Dad is just waiting for a chance to see me fail, and you know that the only reason I can afford this place at the moment is because of the money Uncle Murray gave me. Now, I know he told me I didn’t have to pay it back, but I’m not just going to waste his gift.”

“I know, mate, I know. But I wish you could find someone as great as Narelle.”

“And just what am I supposed to do with this great specimen, Paul?”

Paul looked at me with a somber face. “Love him and be happy, Hank. That’s it.”

Chapter 7

T
HE
DARKNESS
of the club was illuminated with flashes of bright lights that pulsed in time to the bass thumping of the music. I could see the small blond in front of me for one out of every three seconds. He was cute and hot and—most significant—willing. Connections Nightclub was one of several gay nightclubs in the city, but the only one open on a Wednesday night. I hated Wednesday nights. It was lesbian mud-wrestling night, and the women went at it wearing only knickers, so the club was full of women who were into women, and men who wanted a perv. I waited until midnight before entering the establishment to make sure I missed the night’s entertainment. The mud pit had been cleared, and the dance floor was packed.

I didn’t care about the music or the dance floor. I can’t dance, and more importantly, I refuse to even try. When I enter the club, the only thing I’m interested in is the other people in it.

I was wearing my clubbing clothes that lived at Uncle Murray’s house—skintight, dark blue jeans, and a soft button-up black shirt—that never buttoned all the way up while I was wearing it. It stretched across the width of my shoulders, hugging the shape of my body like a glove and leaving a section of golden skin showing down my chest.

Paul had agreed to work my place for a bit while I took a trip into the city for him. He stayed at my house to help me on Sunday. Together we got the crops seeded. On Monday morning I left him to finish up the things that needed doing at my place, and drove the rams the three hours into the city to Midland markets, where they sold at a respectable price on Tuesday morning. Then I purchased stock supplies and feed, bought food, and visited with Uncle Murray.

Uncle Murray’s partner, Jimmie, fussed over me like the prodigal son had returned. After Dad kicked me out, I descended on Murray and Jimmie at the unsociable hour of 2:00 a.m., confessed, and begged for a bed for the night. Uncle Murray had been righteous in his anger, raging and threatening to knock Dad’s block off. It was Jimmie who had provided the comfort. He gave me the hugs I needed and the reassurance that everything would be okay. Jimmie had held me while I cried, had cooked me biscuits to cheer me up, and had found me things to do while I grieved. I painted, weeded, scrubbed, polished, varnished, and healed. Jimmie had been the one to take me shopping, and Murray had found me a job. I loved those two men.

And best of all? They were men and they knew what I needed when I hit the city. My clubbing clothes were cleaned and ready to go. Jimmie gave me a haircut and insisted I wear a spray of his sexy cologne. And they only smiled and made sure I had a key to get back inside the house when I left at 10:00 p.m. I hit a couple of straight bars to lubricate the arm, jawed a bit with some blokes who would open their mouths for conversation, and finally headed for my destination.

I paid my cover charge and strode in, ready to check out the stock that hadn’t been sold yet. They looked. They wanted. A couple of guys nearly ditched their dates to approach me, and I smiled. I checked out the guys checking me out, then headed for the bar. With a bottle of draft in my hand, I wandered over to the dance floor and stood near the edge, looking over my choices.

There were plenty to choose from—some barely legal, some in drag, some bi-curious. After a minute I made eye contact with a cute twink. His blond hair was artistically arranged, his jeans hugged his skinny legs, and his T-shirt had a wide neck, so it revealed most of his chest. He’d do. I smiled my encouragement, and he almost raced to my side in excitement.

“Hi,” he grinned breathlessly at me.

I reminded myself that charm didn’t cost a thing and focused my attention, smiling warmly. “Hi, Sugar. Do you have a name that I can call you, or do you just like Sugar?”

My twink shuddered lightly and moved in closer, so our thighs were brushing. “I’m Dom, but you can call me Sugar if you like. What should I call you?”

“Hank.”

His hands lightly crawled up my chest until they were on my shoulders, and Dom snuggled in. I smiled and placed my hand on his hip. He was so close now, I could see the blueness of his eyes. “Hank,” he purred. “I like it.”

“Can I buy you a drink, Dom?” I asked politely. It was only fair that I bought at least two drinks from the establishment. After all, they had provided my fuck buddy for the night. I pushed over to the bar and grabbed myself another draft and a Smirnoff for my new friend.

Dom asked me to dance, and I shook my head with a small smile. “Sorry. I don’t dance.”

He was plastered to my side and was checking out my chest with his hands. “So what do you do then, Hank? I mean, for a living? I haven’t seen you in here before.” His hands had reached my belt buckle and were teasingly fingering the leather. I wrapped an arm around him and placed my hand firmly on his pert butt.

“I’m a farmer. I’m just in town for a couple of days and was hoping to find someone cute like you to spend it with.”

Dom melted into my side. “Oh, God. Do you wear a cowboy hat?”

I laughed. “For you, Sugar? I’d wear anything you want me to.” His hand had dropped lower than my belt buckle, sandwiched between our bodies where it wasn’t as obvious what he was doing. I had seen a lot of public displays in the club in the past, but I usually wasn’t one to put one on. I quickly scanned the crowd to make sure we weren’t under scrutiny.

My eyes immediately crashed with hazel—angry, mad, hazel eyes that were circled by long lashes that I shouldn’t have noticed.
Fuck!
Doc Elliot stood against the bar with his arms crossed, glaring at me in an accusing manner. I stared back at him while my blond twink gently squeezed my hardening dick.

I didn’t know what to do, but Elliot was already stroll-striding over to me, halting an arm’s length away. He didn’t stop the glare. Dom suddenly realized that we had company and turned to look at the interloper. Elliot ignored him and kept his arms crossed. “Hank,” he growled.

My secret was out, but if Elliot thought I was going to apologize for anything, he had another thing coming. “Quackle,” I acknowledged with a nod of my head.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Ah, duh! I’m drinking a beer and letting a cute twink feel me up in public. What did you think I was doing?
With an insolent look in Elliot’s direction, I deliberately drew Dom in closer to me and dropped my head to kiss him. Dom responded enthusiastically, tilting his head so I had easy access to his lips and mouth. He was gorgeous and turned me on, but Elliot was watching, so I gave myself one last feel of his delicious butt and regretfully pushed him away. “Sugar, I think I’m going to have to take care of this. I’m sorry. Another time?”

Even without looking at Elliot, I could feel his tension balloon at my words. The guy was going to burst in a second—and an educated doctor like him should know that what he was doing was not good for his blood pressure. Dom pouted and threw a sulky look at the Doc. “Lover’s tiff?”

“Nah, mate. More like an accidental outing.”

Dom shrugged and produced a white business card from somewhere on his body. “My number. That is, if you want?” With a resentful scowl at Elliot, Dom pushed the white card into my front jeans pocket and lingered a moment before withdrawing from our company and melting into the crowd.

I sighed as I watched him leave and turned back to Elliot. “Hey, Quackle. Imagine meeting you here!”

I tried to lighten the mood with humor, but it fell awfully flat.

“What the fuck, Hank?” He was yelling, and I cringed as I heard him swear. He wasn’t a happy camper by the sound of it.

I tried to bluff it out. “What do you mean?”

He thrust his hands on his hips. “Perhaps a few words like, ‘Hey, I’m gay too,’ when someone comes and apologizes to you and begs you not to tell anyone. Shit! No wonder you took it so well. Were you laughing at me the whole time?”

I frowned. “Of course not. You’re gay—so what? It doesn’t have anything to do with me. Just the same as my queerness is none of your business.”

“None of my business!” He almost detonated in front of me. “You’re a total arsehole, Hank.”