9. Easton

Chapter 9

Easton

Easton stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. His first shower had been to wash off the stench of bull, dust, and sweat. The second had been to rid him of smelling like a side-hustle after-hours clinic. Staring at himself in the foggy mirror, he sighed, his breath more aperiodic than he'd expected. Despite the heat, his muscles were beginning to stiffen. However, on a better note, his headache had faded to an intermittent thump. And while he was recovering physically from the evening, his nerves continued to oscillate, and his thoughts spun to make heads or tails of any of it. But lately, when had anything made sense? Perhaps a good night's rest would put everything into perspective by the morning.

He padded out of the bathroom to the main room and crawled between the king-size bedsheets. He'd grab his pajamas in a minute, but for the time being, he merely wanted to stretch out and enjoy the pillow-top mattress. Well, it probably was more like a foam eggcrate special from the dollar discount, but Easton was afraid to look beneath the fitted sheet to find out. Then again, why should he? If Baby Jesus lay on straw, who was he to complain about a ratty convoluted polyethylene topper? He'd bite his tongue and count his blessings.

Circuit life could be costly, especially when one wasn't winning or the turnouts were lackluster. Budgeting was key because Lord knew winning streaks could turn on a dime. In the time it took to manage a thought, the fate of a ride could be decided—whether he'd be leaving the arena with bank or in the back of an ambulance.

Most nights, Easton stayed in Marcel's RV with his uncle, two cousins, and Royal. But sometimes, they all needed a break from being cooped up in such a small space with one another. Easton was glad tonight was one of those nights.

Truthfully, they could afford more—much more. But Marcel argued that just because they didn't have to scrape together three quarters and a dime to buy a Moon Pie from the vending machine didn't mean they should be boastful and shove how well they were doing in the other riders' faces—especially when so many of his comrades were struggling.

"Humility grows character," his uncle preached. Easton agreed with this philosophy and didn't mind. The RV was homey, and sharing hotel rooms kept him bonded with the others. Besides, a serious injury could eat through savings faster than Pac-Man could chomp through power pellets.

As usual, Easton had booked a room with two queens to save money by splitting the cost with another cowboy on the tour. Tonight, though, the hotel computer said otherwise and decided to flip him the middle finger. Easton had been too tired to argue with artificial intelligence and the human whose actual fault it was. Of course, no one ever wanted to assume responsibility for fuckups. Inevitably, a drawn-out segment of round-robin and finger-pointing would have ensued. With the day he'd been having, Easton had preferred to forgo the drivel, accepted the king-size, and would foot the entire bill.

Seconds after closing his eyes, the door beeped and then creaked open. From the sounds of the familiar shuffling, he deduced Royal had drawn to be his roommate. Or maybe Royal had simply asserted it, removing himself from the room assignment drama. Although his group had whittled the process of room determination down to a science, it could be a hassle some days, since science wasn't always exact. Dalton snored like a lawnmower, and Sullivan suffered from night terrors that usually ended with someone running from the room. No one wanted to bunk with either of them, and rarely did fate twist so that they roomed with each other. As a method of decision-making, the group drew playing cards with the lower card values gaining the first choice of roommates from those who had reserved rooms. But tonight's additional scientific hitch was of a king-size nature.

"Well, I take it we're not going out tonight," Royal huffed, dropping his duffel bag on the floor. "There's a decent—depending on your definition—band playing tonight. I thought after you rested up a bit, I could convince you to change your mind and we go have a listen."

"No one's stopping you."

"I'm not getting stuck with babysitting Upton all night, and that's exactly what will happen if you're not there."

"He's going through a rough patch is all. Sadie's pregnant."

"Again? Damn."

Easton peeled open his eyes and stared at Royal. "Don't judge."

"Uh-huh. Maybe this time, it'll be his." He looked around and waved his hands as if in a showroom. "What's this? Where's the other bed?"

"What do you mean, where? Do you think I ate it? It didn't come with one."

"There's no pull-out? Nothing? Just two chairs?"

"Your counting skills continue to amaze me."

" Brasse mon cul ," Royal murmured.

Easton chuckled at Royal's mock insult of kissing his ass and realized he should have apprised the guys of the situation so they could have adjusted room selection. Should have. However, his mind had been all over the place during check-in, and the thought hadn't crossed his mind until now.

"Then quit bitching. There's plenty of room. There's not a problem unless you say there's one." Not exactly true, but Easton decided to stick to that story, since he'd uttered it for some reason. He was bound to have one huge, protruding problem. At least in the dark, the problem would be hidden.

"Fine," Royal huffed. "I'm going to shower."

"Don't forget to wash behind your ears," Easton teased in his best motherly voice.

Royal slapped his own rear. "Kiss it, I said."

* * *

Royal

Oi-vay!

Royal shuffled into the compact bathroom and kicked the door shut with his heel. One bed? He'd attempted to play it cool, but an unexpected flurry of nerves had struck him the instant his eyes had landed on Easton's form snuggled beneath the quilted duvet. Nothing about this was new. He'd seen Easton tucked in bed more times than Sesame Street 's Count von Count could count. So, what was different tonight? Why did he have this bizarre—was there even a name for it—coiling in his belly? All he could do was hope he'd been careful not to allow his voice to give away his emotions as he chattered on about… what had they talked about? What had he said? Probably something idiotic. That was usually how it worked when he suffered conversation amnesia—almost the equivalent of a cheap tequila blackout sans the alcohol.

He twisted the water knob in the shower as far as it would go to build up steam and listened to the splashing water echo off the subway tiles and a shower curtain that looked as if Norman Bates would pop out and yell, "Hey, honey, I'm home." Perhaps a hot shower would cleanse the atmosphere and wash off whatever demon's breath had latched itself onto him.

What a weird fucking night.

But there had been one positive. Maddox hadn't been in the room when Royal returned. Perhaps Easton had sent him packing. Hit the road, Jack .

Naw, not East. He's too nice. But I would have. I'd have heaved that incendiary out on his ass. No, I would have never allowed him in. Feed a stray once, and they are bound to come back.

Royal studied himself in the mirror that was beginning to fog. What do we have here ? The reflection staring back seemed foreign. Liar , it mocked. Such a liar.

Despite his reluctance to admit it, Royal knew the problem. He'd known for years. He was a gay man pretending to be—no, masquerading as sounded less duplicitous—someone else. He wasn't simply in the closet. He was in a fucking cellar with the dead bolt latched. Coming out should be simple, especially in this day and age. At least that was what many people would assume. But it wasn't simple. For all the wokeness, talk of social justice, and disillusioned folks with their heads in the it's-all-in-the-past-so-don't-mention-it sand, hate still existed in the world in terrifying ways—microaggressive boxes of candy-coated sweetness. And for Royal, it would mean fighting a battle on multiple fronts—something even more people wouldn't understand. Sure, a gay man these days wouldn't turn many heads—usually. In certain communities and cities, a synthetic magnetic eyelash wouldn't have been batted. A gay cowboy, well, that was a horse—or in this instance, bull—of another color. Cowboys were expected to be rough, rugged, and straight. Yes, it was an antiquated stereotype, but not one easily shaken.

Okay, he was a gay cowboy. That wouldn't be too difficult to manage, right? Perhaps had he been a ranch cowboy, it would have been less formidable. But one riding bulls…. Many sponsors wouldn't go for that, and the Lord knew how many people peeped him any given day of the week. There were always reporters, photographers, and promoters lurking around stalls and vending machines. Regardless of what one may have thought, lucrative endorsement required more than winning. Winning all the gold belt buckles in the world didn't mean a damn thing without the proper image. Bull riding was associated with masculinity. And while many gay men were the epitome of masculinity—and this also depended on the definitions—the stereotype remained that gay men were effeminate, based on outdated heteronormative gender roles.

In Royal's mind, a man who went to work daily, provided for his family, showed compassion for his fellow man, and could be fair without being judgmental were the qualities of masculinity. How much a man could bench-press, demand attention like a screaming two-year-old with diaper rash, grow a knoll of unkempt facial hair, beat his chest, scrape car grease from beneath his nails, manifest controlling asshole syndrome, and exhibit other toxic behaviors had absolutely nothing to do with it. Men could care about their appearance, cook gourmet meals, sew, dress well, be tidy, and all that other stuff without losing masculinity points. Some would deem these traits to be resourceful. But not in his world, his reality. No, he'd be dropped like a porcupine experiencing a psychogenic attack. He dared anyone to wrap their head around that.

So much of his livelihood depended on sponsors. He didn't expect he'd be kicked off the tour, although that could happen. Bias that obvious would make the tour susceptible to discrimination and civil rights violation lawsuits.

Sponsors, conversely, could be sneaky-snake slippery about reasons for withdrawing endorsements. They could drop him or not renew without giving cause. All they needed to say was that they decided to go in a different direction. Case closed. End of story. Point-blank and to the period. No one would question the direction. It wasn't like any commission was whipping out its morality GPS. Besides, knowing something and proving something were two different things.

Plus, who would fight them? Big sponsors had money, power, and hotshot attorneys to squash any litigations brought against them. They created "give-up" culture. In reality, lawsuits were negligible. The industry would simply pay off greedy ambulance-chasing attorneys to settle for what was mere pennies, allowing itself to continue business as usual. Knick-knack paddywhack, toss the casualties a bone.

And then there was the obvious. Royal was a man of color—half Creole with a prominent African heritage and half Brazilian. The tone of his skin drew instant hate from some people—people he didn't know or had ever met. Despised for breathing and having been born. Told to leave the country that his mother's ancestors had been born in and helped build since 1734. But for Royal, it went even further than that. Because of his Brazilian heritage, he wasn't fully accepted by the African American community. And because of his African American heritage, he wasn't fully embraced by the Hispanic community. Even within the Creole community, he was rejected by some for having too dark a skin tone for their liking. Racially and ethnically, he was displaced. His sexuality, he could hide. His race, he couldn't. Every day, he awoke with the hardships race brought.

Being a gay person of color took matters to an entirely different stratosphere. Unless one had been there, it wasn't something Royal could explain. The LGBTQIA+ community had its own hierarchy and pecking order. Once again, race issues reared their ugly, atrocious head. Even in the gay community, some looked upon him as inferior.

There was only so much hate a person could take.

Each day, he fought hate—some blatant, others hidden. Did he sometimes get scored lower in rounds because of the color of his skin? Sure. Could he prove it? Nope. Would anyone admit it? Absolutely the fuck not. And what good was bringing it up? He'd only be told that he was paranoid or a sore loser or felt an incessant need to place everything beneath a microscope to bring in the race card. People didn't care for the truth unless it suited them. Therefore, Royal lived with it on the daily. He wouldn't address it, but it didn't mean it didn't affect him. It didn't mean he didn't feel it. He accepted the shit because if he didn't, he would spend most of his time dealing with it and nothing else. Besides, when the people in charge of resolving issues were the ones causing them, there was no recourse.

Some things were a part of everyday life. They didn't disappear because they were unpleasant or made someone uncomfortable. There wasn't always a "manager" to call and air grievances to. Sometimes a person had to suck up all the bitterness through a straw and swallow. Doing so didn't demonstrate weakness. On the contrary, it required self-discipline and strength. Thus, as the proverb went, when life gives lemons, make Tom Collinses. Well, maybe that wasn't exactly how it went but close enough. However, fresh lemonade required straining before consumption.

But Royal wasn't done tacking on the bullshit. His coming out would affect other people's livelihoods. He had crew members who worked for him. Plus, he sent money to his mama. Well, not directly to her. She would never accept a cent from him. Royal had an arrangement with her oncologist to pay for her chemo treatments. As far as his mother knew, her medical bills were being paid by a special hospital grant. It was another lie, but one he imagined would be forgiven. How could he in good conscience jeopardize any of their situations? Because that was exactly what his coming out would do.

And lastly, there was perhaps the largest consideration of all: Easton. Not only could Royal potentially end his own career, but he could also place Easton at risk. People would question the nature of their relationship. And even if they didn't, there would be people who would pressure Easton to turn his back on him. Easton wouldn't, of course.

Would he? No, not Easton. He wouldn't care if I'm gay, although he might care if he knew I'm crushing on him. More than crushing. Not the point.

If Easton was pressured to turn against Royal and didn't, Easton's fans and sponsors could potentially turn against him. Royal couldn't allow that. He wouldn't. He could never directly or indirectly hurt Easton, and he wouldn't allow anyone else to either, which was why Maddox sniffing around perturbed him. Okay, so that wasn't the only reason, but a problem was a problem.

Oh sugar-honey-ice-tea! What a colossal pile of foulness.

At the end of the day, week, month, and year, it was Royal's prerogative and no one else's which battles he picked and chose to fight. The notion of him deliberately choosing not to address these matters was beyond comprehension by the people who generally were accepted and embraced in most settings. They had the luxury to kick back with their feet propped on a hassock, complain about the unfairness of life while eating Persian Osetra and sipping Lafite Rothschild, and attempt to dictate his behavior because of what they expected and wanted. While they didn't have to live his life, they still thought they knew how to best live it.

As the captain of his ship, Royal wasn't required to please every crew member. He didn't aim to. And even if he tried, he'd fail. There was no pleasing everyone, but he could satisfy himself, and what satisfied him most was keeping Easton safe. That was his focus among all the other noise when it cropped up. And oh, it would crop up. It always did. Through it all, Easton had always been there with his kind eyes, shy smile, and faint speckle of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Granted, he didn't always understand Royal's plight, but he damn sure tried. Royal respected and appreciated that. How could he not? Easton was a person who sought the good in everyone, who searched high and low to find one redeemable quality in even the worst of people. It was a great quality to possess, except it made him vulnerable and susceptible to those with ill intentions.

Royal watched as the mirror completely fogged and his reflection became nothing more than a blur.

Calm yourself. Act normal.

He had to get through sharing a bed with Easton tonight. Of all nights to have a single bed. Who had he pissed off in a past life to deserve this type of torture? What the fuck? Not to mention, he couldn't bring himself to think about the brouhaha earlier in the arena. How did he begin to wrap his head around that shit?

This town!

But it wasn't only this town, was it?

He released a long breath before stepping into the shower.