15. Easton

Chapter 15

Easton

Despite more than a decade of friendship, sometimes Easton didn't know what to make of Royal's moods. Total enigmas. While he was left pondering at the moment, he knew something was off—very off—this afternoon. However, he couldn't put all the blame on Royal. He felt off too. It wasn't like he hadn't had off days in the past—although this felt different—but previously he'd been able to talk to Royal about it. He could talk to Royal about anything… except this. When had that started? Him not being able to confide in Royal? It was another question that required answering but something he'd have to sort through later. Showtime.

Easton slapped on a plastic smile that he hoped passed muster and didn't make him appear too goofy and stepped onto the podium, the camera lights nearly blinding. He paused to allow the photographers to his right to snap a few shots before turning to his left. Fulfill the duty. He counted to ten and then took his seat at the judges' table. Out of all of the promotional events he'd been asked to participate in, this was hands down the most uncomfortable and absurd.

Balor Adder, one of the tour's promoters, had warned them all that this stop would be unconventional. However, even in the most remote regions of his imagination, Easton wouldn't have ever guessed that Balor would assign him to be a judge in a beauty pageant of all things. Easton hadn't been aware that beauty contests even existed anymore. Correction. He'd been instructed by Balor to refer to it as a talent competition, but Easton didn't constitute strutting down a makeshift catwalk in five-inch heels and a string bikini as talent. Then again, he'd never attempted to walk in stilettos. He had to admit, it did look a bit daunting. However, that was neither here nor there. While four of his other tour companions delighted in the opportunity to be judges, having gleefully slapped one another on the back and made more than one inappropriate comment, Easton couldn't help feeling icky about it. Sure, if the pageant contained a bona fide talent segment, Easton would have felt better about it. But the talent portion consisted of a group line dance in Daisy Dukes and colorful tank tops. The only thing missing was a water hose. And that would have been okey dokey if that had been all there was to it. Of course it wasn't.

What disturbed Easton the most was that he'd gotten wind that some of the participants were as young as sixteen. What parent would allow grown men to rate their teenage daughter in a bikini? Who? Why? The whole thing felt gross. To boot, the prize for winning would barely cover the cost of a burger and fries at the festival.

Easton looked at the audience with disgust. Where were the protesters now? Why was no one saying anything about this?

Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Royal standing on a landing and watching. He bore an equally appalled expression, and Easton felt a need to apologize. Royal's intentions had been to return to the RV and take a nap. He'd changed his mind and only had come to be Easton's moral support after all the pig, cattle, and horse manure hit the industrial fan with Balor.

"You're going to love this," Balor had proclaimed, chewing on the end of a fat cigar. "Everyone does. It's a town favorite, the highlight of the festival."

"No. This has nothing to do with bull riding. I'm not doing this, Balor."

"Now, Easton, don't be unreasonable. It's wholesome, clean fun."

"How is it wholesome? Look at what they're wearing!" Easton waved a flyer that had been attached to the door of the judges' check-in booth. "Hand them a tray with a malt liquor and it's a titty bar. Look, the decision for anyone who wishes to participate is theirs to make." He waved his hands. "Knock yourself out. But I shouldn't be compelled to make an unethical choice about something that isn't morally in line with my values."

"Morally in line? This hasn't anything to do with morality. No one's dying. That's what's wrong with you young people these days. You're too sensitive. I don't want to pull rank here, but…."

Hosh-ah-fee, hosh-ah-fee, hosh-ah-fee …

From that point onward, Easton had tuned out. However, he must have had one of those expressions on his face, because Royal stepped in then to do the heavy lifting by having a conversation with Balor and the other promoters. It had been all in vain, though. A diametrically opposed chasm between what promoters considered acceptable as to what Easton found copacetic remained worlds apart. He had been set to bow out but decided against it after Balor had made it clear that the pageant was supported by local businesses. If the pageant didn't occur, all donations and sponsorship funds would have to be refunded, which, in turn, would mean the festival couldn't break even. Therefore, the festival would close immediately. For some families, the festival was their source of income that would allow them to survive during the winter. They needed this pageant. Thus, his participation was needed for the greater good. The ick factor was smeared all over this.

Easton couldn't explain why, but for whatever reason, Balor insisted Easton be a judge. It made no sense. Easton had never expressed any indication that he'd be interested in this sort of thing. Yet here they were. Balor then had uttered some drivel of an excuse that a substitute judge couldn't replace him since Easton's name had been used in advertising. It sounded like gobbledygook bullshit to Easton, and he didn't understand how his agent had dropped the ball, screwed the pooch, and allowed this to slither past. Who thought he would be on board with this? He questioned if promoters would rather shut down the festival than allow someone to take his place. That's when he'd consulted Royal, and Royal had seemed nervous.

"I don't know if we can risk it," Royal had said. "Balor's being a real hard-ass. We agreed to promoting, and Balor is sliding this under the guise of a promotional event. But if you want to refuse, I got your back."

Of course he did. There was never any question about it. No matter what type of disagreements they had, at the end of the day, Royal was always there for him. Whatever snit Royal had been in earlier, Easton had witnessed it disappear the instant he'd been informed of the assignment.

Oh yeah, Balor had been wise not to inform him in advance of the specifics of the itinerary.

This town! Easton shook his head.

Technically, no laws were being broken. Being hypocritical—to proclaim to fight for animal rights but not human rights—wasn't illegal. All participants—reportedly—were consenting, and no one was being steered around on dog leads. An entire town openly cosigned a misogynistic culture of silence and disguised it as some customary artistic expression—a method of hiding in plain sight. The mayor along with the city's aldermen, supervisors, sheriff, and chief of police were all in attendance, sitting a couple of hundred feet from him. There was no one to complain to and nothing to be done. And even if there had been, in a few days, Easton would be long gone. Who would follow up? Besides, it seemed to be a paradox of power. The more he pushed, the harder the promoters would push back. There was no way to win.

The best he could do was to get through it because it was his job—at least for the time being. Grin and bear it, as the idiom went. He planned to keep his eyes on his score sheet and look up as little as possible. Then he would not think or speak of it again. This fight ended here tonight.

A twinge of nerves coiled like barbwire in his stomach, and he glanced at Royal for an extra dose of reassurance. His tentative scrutiny was met with a nod. The small gesture caused a calm to begin spreading through him.

Soon, music began pouring from overhead speakers, and a line of contestants filed onto the stage. Thankfully, they were covered in tasteful—well, mostly tasteful—costumes. The featherless ostrich costume was a bit strange, and the jar of wax costume, he didn't get in the least. Other than that, they were all fine. Many of the contestants winked and blew kisses at him and the other judges to entice additional points. Little did they know, he deducted for such behavior. He knew he should be at least a little turned on, but everything in him remained flatlined.

However, that hadn't been the case last night in bed, had it? In effect, thinking about it now stirred…. No, no, no. Not again. He shifted in his chair. And that was the real problem, wasn't it?

"Who doesn't like looking at pretty girls?" Balor had chastised almost accusingly.

The question transported Easton to his grammar school days when a helmet had been crammed on his cranium and his body shoved onto a peewee football field. "Oh, look at how cute," football moms had crooned.

How cute indeed. Easton huffed at the memory. He'd been scrawny then, his protective pads weighing nearly as much as his body. The other players had dwarfed him. His first play in, he'd been tackled so hard—because even at that age, flag football wasn't a thing in the South—that for a brief moment, his world went black. It wasn't because he'd been knocked unconscious. No, that would have been merciful. In that scenario, he would have been carted off with "Awws" and "Poor dears" by the onlooking mothers and fed ice cream for his troubles. But that wasn't what had happened. No, he'd tumbled right off the field and rolled under the draped water stand on the sideline where the chinch bugs, cutworms, and boll weevils were hiding. The impact had tipped the table over, and Easton was left looking like the Wicked Witch of the East after meeting her demise with a farmhouse. Only his cleats and striped tube socks had been visible. Needless to say, the coach benched him. That was when the real humiliation began.

Due to the compact area, Easton had been forced to sit on the bench behind the cheerleaders for the duration of the game. "Who dat talkin' 'bout beating those giants? Who dat? Who dat?" It had been one of three cheers the squad had learned. Over and over, Easton had had to endure listening to the chirping voicers chanting the cheer. For the next twenty-eight minutes that felt like a lifetime to a seven-year-old, he'd had rustling pom-poms and flapping pleated skirts waggling in his face.

After the game, his father had clamped his huge hand on Easton's shoulder and grumbled, "Well, at least you got to watch some pretty girls, eh? Wasn't that fun?"

No! Just as he didn't find his current situation appealing. Who dat indeed, Balor ?

Even if it could be proven that every pageant contestant was of legal age, Easton wouldn't have enjoyed watching them. If he dug a little deeper—which he didn't relish doing—there were aspects in his life that he never thought about, or rather, never allowed himself to consider. Why had he never had a girlfriend? Dates, sure, but never a girlfriend. Why? His standby answer was that he was focused on training and his career. He didn't have the time. But was that the truth?

If he lied to himself, he could make it the truth.

How could he get to his age and not question? Because in a lot of ways, the excuses he deluded himself with were true. He had focused on training and his career. Hours were spent working on ranches and riding mechanical bulls. He had plenty that kept him more than busy. It was easy to hoodwink himself and selectively ignore any contrary evidence. Plus, when he spent nearly every waking moment with a person who got him and was his other half, what need was there for him to want more? His life was full. He didn't have to think about certain things, didn't have to question. Didn't have to look any deeper than surface level. But if he did, he'd have to admit that he didn't have time for a girlfriend because he didn't make the time for one. What's more, he had never wanted to.

As the participants paraded around the stage, doing pirouettes and fouettés, Easton reflected on how he'd gotten to this emotional stage. When had the circumstances changed between him and Royal? If he'd been marched in front of a firing squad and told to answer to save his life, he would have been riddled with bullets. He contemplated for another moment. Perhaps the when didn't matter. Perhaps the why didn't matter either. Maybe it was an issue of mindfulness where he needed to transcend attempting to analyze his thoughts and simply go with them without question. Because frankly, trying to understand it was getting old. He continuously hit the same walls. Origins could possibly be overrated. He didn't remember learning how to walk or speak, yet he had. Not remembering hadn't affected his language or mobility. But then…

One afternoon, a normal day like so many others and much like today, he'd noticed for no reason at all. Hot and tired from cleaning stables, he and Royal needed to clean themselves up before entering Marcel's kitchen for lunch. As always, they strolled to the side of the barn to use the water hose to rinse away the grime and some of the stench. Royal had peeled off his sweaty T-shirt, revealing bronze skin and rippling muscles like a Michelangelo sculpture, only with a much bigger cock and gleaming with sweat.

At that moment, Wade, who'd also come up from Maringouin to work on the ranch, snatched Easton by the arm, nearly dragging him off balance. "What are you doing?" He'd sneered.

Startled, Easton had grown pale, his voice shaky. " Quoi? What are you talking about? I'm going in for lunch."

"You were staring." He'd jerked his head toward Royal, who was bent over with his back to the pair, water dashing over his head from the hose.

From the splashing of the water and the passing tractor, Easton assumed Royal didn't hear Wade's accusation, as he never turned around.

"I wasn't," Easton had denied.

"It sure looked as if you were. You'd better be careful, or people will start to think you're some kind of weirdo."

That evening, he'd asked Jolie Troye to the movies. She'd squealed in acceptance. He'd taken her to the movies and the Dairy Barn after, where they'd ordered vanilla shakes and cheeseburgers. Most ranchers went there on dates. Royal had been there with some delectable cutie on his arm whose name Easton hadn't bothered to ask. He'd purposefully not glanced in Royal's direction, draped his arm around Jolie, and leaned in close. He'd done all the right things, all the things he was supposed to do. He'd even kissed Jolie, for what it was worth. He'd shown the world, fooled everyone—including himself.

Easton had rammed that memory down and slung it into the vault of repressed memories. Now Balor's words had it lurching, clawing its way to the surface.

I won't do this. Not today. Not now. It was nothing.

* * *

"Those were some hot babes," Wade commented on their way out of the pavilion. "That number twelve had a nice ass."

Easton shrugged, unable—or rather, unwilling—to respond and thankful the ordeal had ended. He hadn't been gawking at any asses. His intention had been to vote for the contestant who looked the most mature. However, with the teased hair, pounds of makeup, and padded pushups, they all had looked midtwenties plus. Eeny, meeny, miny , moe. As fate would have it, the last contestant—Statue of Liberty costume—gave a riveting answer to a rather mundane and ignorant interview question and spoke of a desire to become a mechanic. Her response hadn't won huge cheers from the audience, but it had seemed honest, unlike the others who indicated desires to be models or would donate their salaries to the conservation of mosquitos or some wacko armadillo droppings. He voted his conscience, and that was all he could have done. Now he was going to?—

"Look, they have barbecue," Maddox chirped.

"They always have barbecue," Royal uttered, squinting against the fading sun. He raised his hand and motioned to someone down the midway. "What festival do you know doesn't?"

Easton shielded his eyes with his hand and peered to see who Royal was signaling. A teenage boy trotted toward them.

"The one in L.A. didn't," Cody offered.

"That wasn't a festival. That was a…." Upton waved his hands as if air-drying them. "Well, I don't know what exactly it was, but it wasn't a festival, that's for damn sure."

"It's their version. They do it differently out west," Brown chimed in.

The teenager joined the group, and Royal stared at the paper tray he was holding. "What in tarnation is that abomination?" Royal's face twisted as if gnats were swarming his space.

"Crunchy cheese chips with ranch dip, chili, sweet relish, anchovies, and green olives."

Cody contorted as if he were nauseous. "Do the what to the what?"

The expression on Royal's face eased only the tiniest bit. "That better not be your supper. Is it?"

"Looks like an emergency-room disaster if you ask me," Brown added, pressing his palm against his chest as if making a pledge and puffing out his cheeks.

"It was the shortest line. No wait."

"I can see why," Cody mumbled.

Shaking his head, Royal took the food and tossed it in a nearby trash can. "Uh-uh. You're coming with us."

"But I have to get back to the animals. I only have thirty minutes."

"You'd be better off eating wood chips than that crap. You'll go back after you consume something halfway decent or at least FDA-approved," Royal stated authoritatively.

"But—"

"Listen, that right there?" Royal pointed at the discarded food. "That is going to require some homeowner's insurance for when you blow out a toilet a mile high. Mark one that Kaopectate can't fix. Don't worry. I'll explain it to whoever needs it explained to when you go back."

Easton arched his brow at the tone. Granted, Royal always had been good with non-adults, but he preferred to spend his time with people of drinking age—something about children being a poor emotional investment.

The boy's eyes, clouded with uncertainty, met Easton's.

Easton smiled. "Yeah, we're about to choke down some Arkansas barbecue."

"We're in Oklahoma," Royal corrected.

"Are we?"

" Oui ." Royal paused. "I think."

"This is Kansas," Wade said. "Arkansas City."

"That's what I said," Easton clarified. "Arkansas."

Wade shook his head. "Not the state. The city."

"That's all fine," Cody interjected, "but we're in Kansas City."

"So, I was right," Wade replied, pointing a finger at himself. "Kansas."

Cody shook his head. "No. Missouri."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Royal blew out a frustrated breath. "Does anyone know where the corn nuts we are?"

Brown grunted. "Does it matter? They all begin to look the same after a while."

"Careful," Cody warned. "That almost sounds like burnout."

"Naw, my flame's not going out until after I do Barretos."

"What's Barretos?" Maddox asked.

"Only the largest and toughest rodeo in the world," the teen answered.

"And you call yourself a cowboy?" Royal snorted, the veneer of any semblance of civility having vacated his tone. "Even the kid knows. But then again, it's only for real men."

Shots fired.

Maddox's lips pressed into a hard line. "Oh really? Have you done it?" His voice oozed with cynicism.

This is getting heated. Easton sensed more than witnessed the self-control Royal was exercising over his own temper. One wrong word and he's going to explode.

"No, and I don't know why he hasn't," Brown replied before Royal could. "Especially since he has people there."

Uh-oh. Shit just went sideways.

Royal's jaws clenched, and Easton could practically see Royal's breath strangling in his throat.

You just had to add that last part, didn't you? Damn you, Brown. You know better.

"Brown, don't make me break my foot off in your ass cos?—"

"That food is smelling good," Easton interrupted Royal, hoping to change the subject before the conversation deteriorated further. He glanced at his best friend and nodded. I got you too.