CHAPTER TWENTY Benedict

T he noise from the bar was audible from the end of Main Street, where I walked on my way to the party. The revelry of the crowd was evidence of a packed house. That, and there were more four-wheel-drive trucks than you'd find at a monster truck rally parked in front of the local businesses.

My reflection in the window of the lone bank in town proved a point. I was overdressed. I wore a tight black T-shirt, tucked into a pair of expensive Gucci jeans, folded once at the bottoms, creating a stylish cuff, and above a pair of soft leather loafers, also Gucci. No belt, of course.

Hesitating at the door to the bar, where music and voices competed for airtime, I sucked in a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

"Doc!" a minimum of fifty voices yelled out in unison when I entered. All eyes turned to me and a hush moved across the room like a tornado had sucked all the air from the room. Everyone looked at each other and grinned. "Welcome," they all cheered, turning back to me and raising various types of beverages into the air.

I sheepishly raised my hand and acknowledged their greetings, taking in the bar's interior. I'd only read about and seen on TV what was in front of me. There were two pool tables, a large dance floor, and four dartboard machines that twinkled in one corner. The prerequisite jukebox, neon signs for beer brands, an elk's head, two bison heads, and several stuffed bird species, also hung on the walls. Even though I'd only been to exclusive New York City clubs, the smell in the bar was familiar somehow. Not bad. Not good. Just sort of… expected.

"What's it gonna be, doc?" asked an elderly-looking man behind the bar. The corners of his eyes looked like dozens of rivers meeting on a relief map. "We have a few beers on tap and the usual bottled stuff. Or do you fancy yourself a cocktail?" he asked, smiling broadly, one hand on the beer tap.

"Stella," I ordered.

"I don't know her," he replied. He turned to the crowd. "Stella? Anyone seen a Stella?" I felt fire spreading across my face. I hated being embarrassed or made the center of anything. "I'm just joshin' you, doc. Domestic only in our town. Unless you'd like a Corona. We're willing to go south of the border, but not much to the European stuff." He pointed to a small dish of sliced limes. "Could add a twist of lime if you want to get fancy."

"Yes," I answered. "With lime. Like you suggested."

I pulled out a credit card and laid it on the counter before Charlie Brewster came to my side and laid his hand on the card. "No plastic in this joint either, Slick," he stated, handing my card back to me. Charlie smelled great, surprising me. Tom Ford, if I wasn't mistaken. At two-hundred-and-forty a bottle, I was shocked and yet pleased.

I stared into his eyes. Visions of him bent over the exam table immediately flooded my brain, so I turned away. All my mind could think of was his firm bubble butt, and him shuddering in orgasm as I examined his prostate. I quickly gathered my composure. "I don't carry cash," I said, looking around nervously. "I didn't know."

"Don't worry ‘bout it, doc. I got you," Agnes's sexy grandson said. "Might require you to hang out with me all night if I end up buying, though."

After the scene at the clinic, that choice made me uncomfortable and I think he could see that. "Well," I began, before he smiled.

"That's a joke too. Have Smitty start a tab for you like the rest of us," he advised, leaning into me. "Just pay yours more regularly than I do."

"I doubt I'll be in here much," I said. "I mean, not that there's anything wrong with it if I did."

Charlie moved his eyes to my feet, assessing my shoe option, studying me while he made his way back to my face, where our eyes met. "Sorta figured, doc," he agreed. "Your fifteen-hundred-dollar jeans and the twelve-hundred-dollar shoes cost more than the rest of the guest's clothing combined."

"How do you know how much my jeans cost?" I asked, sort of impressed.

"Gucci's Logo Patch, straight-legged, organic cotton, jeans, are hard to miss," he stated. "And without a belt. Someone read the November issue of GQ magazine ."

I moved away from the bar. He followed me. "How?" I asked, turning my palms up in question.

" How what?" he parroted, continuing to tease me. "How does a gas-station-owning, country bumpkin know shit about fashion? Is that your question?"

"Sorry," I said. "I'm just surprised, is all."

Charlie held out his well-manicured hand for me to shake. "Three years in New York City as a runway model. Got bored after always being hired to be the dumb surfer dude in a barely there swimsuit."

I could totally see him as he just described himself. "No menswear? No collections?"

"Once. Tom Ford, spring collection 2016," he answered. "You probably noticed the cologne?"

I had noticed the expensive fragrance and now it all made sense. But I still denied knowing anything about how scrumptious he smelled. "Hadn't noticed," I lied.

"Bullshit," he challenged, leaning into my neck. "Any man who wears Chanel Bleu for men can recognize my scent."

"You, Charlie Brewster, are a strange person."

"Why?" he asked, inching to my side. "Because I don't seem like a hick among the hicks in this sleepy town?"

"I wouldn't refer to people as hicks," I corrected. "But… you seem, kind of…"

"Like you?" he interrupted. "Like there's life outside of this place?" I casually examined his clothing options. He noticed. "You're wondering about the Wranglers and country shirt, right? Maybe the shit-kicker boots, too?"

"Sorry," I mumbled. "No offense."

"None taken, doc. This is me fitting in," he confessed. "I grew up here before college at NYU, and before I was discovered in Central Park tossing a football around with a weekend lover."

"You went to NYU?" I asked, suddenly seeing Charlie in a different light than originally. "You didn't attend NYU for the arts, did you?"

"Business major," he said. "Between modeling and being a whore." His nonchalance at referring to himself as a whore was shocking. He had to be joking. "No, I'm not joking," he stated, somehow reading my mind. "In case you're wondering."

"Whore?" I asked, needing a glass for my beer but afraid to ask for one. Charlie noticed me staring at my bottle and grabbed a glass from the back of the bar and held it for me to pour my beer into. Once the bottle was empty, he placed the lime on the glass's rim. I had to admit, I liked how attentive he acted.

"I was an escort, actually," he stated, looking nonplussed by his remark. "Paid for college and helped me buy Skeeter's gas station. Skeeter is my nickname," he reminded me.

I rolled my eyes, convinced he was pulling my leg. "Whatever," I remarked, looking past him and noticing the Sheriff and his gal pal, Jill, across the room watching us. "You? An escort?" I asked, quickly looking away when I locked eyes with the Sheriff, a man I'd recently been rude to at the diner.

He pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. I was surprised it fit in his pocket, considering the jeans looked sprayed on, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Not that I needed to imagine his male parts. I'd seen them. No wonder the main attraction was evident in his jeans. He was hung.

He held the phone up to my face. "That's me," he said. "Every single inch of me."

Yes, it was. I swallowed hard at the images. The logo for Rentboy.com was above each of his photos. There was no doubt it was him. "Wow," was all I could say, and pushed his phone away from me.

"I was always safe," he stated matter-of-factly. "In case you want a free sample."

As much as I tried not to look at the Sheriff, I failed. I was basically just offered free sex from a bona fide stud, but unfortunately, Hunter Copeland had my attention now. We locked eyes again. This time, a slight smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

I turned back to the sensual man beside me. "You're a patient of mine, Charlie," I reminded him.

He faced me, moving his hips into me. "And look where that got us earlier this week, doc. You fucking turned my crank in case you didn't notice the jizz show."

"Stop," I insisted, pushing against his well-developed chest. "We're in public."

"My truck has a crew cab, and it's parked around back," he growled, pressing his mouth directly against my ear, causing my dick to wake up. "I'll let you do anything you want to me, stud. And I do mean, anything ."

I stepped back and glanced to where the Sheriff had been, but he wasn't there now. I scanned the room, praying he wasn't witnessing Charlie's behavior. Charlie was being obscene, and I hated to admit that there were a few things I'd love to do with him. I'd seen his cock, and trust me, I had a place for him to put it. I wondered if he knew I was primarily a bottom. I'd assumed he was a top when I first met him, but now wondered after the examination at the clinic.

A hand on my shoulder interrupted my fantasy of being topped by Charlie in a pickup truck. I'd be sure to recall it during my jack-off session later that night. There wouldn't be any local men that I'd be fucking while on my short stay in Hicksville, but there were plenty of redneck men around here to build fantasy scenes in my imagination. I had a thing for powerful- looking men, those a bit on the rough side. Straight appearing got bonus points. Tonight, two of them were within feet of me.

"Hey, doc," a very masculine voice spoke. I turned to face the man I'd been searching for a second before. "Charlie," the Sheriff added, tipping his head toward the guy I'd just imagined drilling my ass.

"Hello, sheriff," I answered. "Nice to see you."

"Get lost, Copeland," Charlie hissed. "I'm working this territory."

Sheriff Copeland ignored Charlie like he'd had plenty of experience doing just that. "I'm Hunt, in case you forgot," he said, offering his hand. "And I'm sorry about the diner thing."

Charlie scowled while I held the Sheriff's hand, unknowingly forgetting to let go of it. The uniformed sheriff was a tall drink of water, but I was unprepared for what this man, Hunter Copeland, private citizen, looked like out of his uniform. Don't get me wrong, he was hot as Hades in his uniform, but this was a whole level hotter than I'd anticipated.

"I apologize as well, Hunt," I said, still holding his hand. He had a presence I hadn't noticed before. Perhaps the uniform had convinced me that my first attraction to him was to just that, his uniform. But he seemed even more commanding out of his sheriff's attire.

"Can we start over?" Hunt asked. "Perhaps let me buy you another beer?"

I'd forgotten Charlie was still there. Somehow, the Sheriff, who I had immediately dismissed upon first meeting, had me mesmerized. I tried to remember the last time a man had this effect on me. Rocco , my mind reminded me. It was Rocco. Run!

"I'm the fuck outta here," Charlie said, shooting a nasty glare toward Hunt. "Offer still stands, doc," he added, leering at me before shifting his eyes back to the Sheriff. If only looks could kill.

"Where's your date?" I asked, remembering seeing him with Jill.

"You mean my sister? Your number one fan," he corrected. He pointed to the dance floor where Jill was in the arms of a man who could be her grandfather. "She's keeping Mr. Pickford happy right at the moment. He's a good dancer, but his normal dance partner had a hip replacement."

"Jill is your actual sister?" I asked.

"My sister-in-law," he explained. "But like a real sister. She's the sister of my husband."

I watched as his eyes filled while he nervously twisted his hand around the neck of his beer bottle. A person didn't have to be clairvoyant to know he was carrying a load of hurt. I didn't need to clarify if he was married. I knew his husband had died. Agnes had made sure I knew that tragic headline the day I arrived in Plentywood.

"I'm sorry about Mark," I said, dropping my eyes. The pain in his was almost too much to bear. A macabre thought entered my mind. I wondered if anyone would miss me if I suddenly died. This man was obviously consumed with grief, so I knew how much his lost love must've meant to him. "Agnes told me his name," I revealed.

"Of course she did," he chuckled. "Agnes Brewster is this town's newspaper."

"I thought you already had a paper," I joked, searching the room for Agnes. Hunt didn't reply. "Seems my picture ran a couple of weeks in a row before I arrived," I added, slightly embarrassed I'd brought it up now that he remained silent. "Put me at a slight disadvantage the day I showed up at a full clinic."

"Your picture is why the clinic was so swamped, doc."

"Ben," I corrected, wanting him to see me as a real person for some reason.

"Ben it is," he said, smiling and revealing incredible teeth. Hunter Copeland had actually smiled at me. A first, I thought. He leaned closer. "We were all so… so…" he couldn't finish his sentence.

"You were all so what?" I asked, encouraging him to finish.

"Your picture was just so handsome," he said, clearing his throat and looking away. "Everyone thought so, too."

"Well, in that case, everyone is being kind."

"I thought so as well."

Oh fuck!

The song ended and Jill headed our way, interrupting what I thought was the beginning of something with the handsome sheriff. "You're up next," Jill said, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm. She turned to me and smiled. "You're simply going to die when you hear this man sing," she said, reaching out and touching my arm.

Jill was a warm person. You could instantly tell why she was everyone's sister, everyone's… something. I was drawn to her immediately, and I didn't have the familiarity of a female friend. Well, honestly, if I were to admit the sad truth of it all, I didn't have any friends.

"You sing?" I asked, turning to Hunt. By then he'd blushed and swiped at his forehead where a few tiny beads of perspiration had settled. Maybe he was just as nervous talking to me as I was talking to him.

"And he plays the guitar. A regular star in this town," Jill bragged, squeezing his arm and fixing her admiration on him.

She loved this man, and it was as obvious as the nose on his face. I didn't feel a creepy vibe about her affection either. It was simple and actually beautiful to witness. I could only wish another human looked at me the way she looked at her former brother-in-law.

"She's partial," he remarked. "Biased, too," he added, kissing the side of her head when she leaned in.

My eyes were locked on the man in front of me. The Sheriff was way more of a man than I'd given him credit for at first sight. His goodness was so obvious that I felt shitty about my original opinion and how I'd acted at the diner.

Hunt oozed a subtle kindness and protectiveness over Jill, and I'm not going to lie, I was a tiny bit jealous of their relationship. Shockingly, I wanted him to make me feel the way I knew she had to feel. This was a good man.

Someone tapped on a microphone sitting on a small stage from across the dance floor. A friendly voice came live over the sound system. "Alrighty, folks. I know you've all been waiting for me to call his name out." The crowd went ape-shit, and the announcer hadn't even identified the person he was referring to. "Your very own sheriff. Hunt Copeland!" he yelled.

The place erupted, Hunt grinning and waving his hand in embarrassment, doing his best to show his humility. Jill leaned into me. "Get ready, doc."

I watched as Hunt made his way to the stage, the crowd still on their feet and shouting as loud as they could. His backside was stunning as he walked to the stage, and his stride literally made my gay senses go weak. He was total man. Actually, that wouldn't suffice as a descriptor. He was the man. His Wranglers hugged his ass cheeks to perfection. An old saying I'd heard somewhere popped into my mind. Wrangler butts drive me nuts . That they did.

I actually giggled as I watched him walk to the stage. I was the schoolgirl whose panties were damp at the sight of him moving through the crowd, people parting and touching him as he went by. Who the fuck was this man?

"Thank you, everybody," he began, chuckling at the crowd and still grinning like a Cheshire cat. He grabbed a guitar that had been leaning on a stool near the mic and strummed it a few times, adjusting the tuning sounds that only he could hear.

He waited for the crowd to calm down. "One of your faves," he said, adjusting the mic stand to his height. "And this one's for our new town doctor, Ben."

Charlie came to my side, but I was so transfixed by the Sheriff that I barely acknowledged his presence. However, when I did turn toward him, I noticed a haunted look on his face. He stared directly at the stage and a sadness I hadn't detected before that moment was clearly evident. Like me, he couldn't take his eyes off Hunt either.

The first chords from the guitar gave away the recognizable classic rock hit, ‘ Hotel California, ' by the Eagles. Don Henley sounded incredible when he sang the original. Hunt began to play, watching all of us, a serious and distant look on his face; like he was remembering someone or something.

The crowd quieted down. Jill squeezed my hand. I hadn't even remembered she was still standing on one side of me or holding my hand. Charlie on the other. The warmth of her hand holding mine sent love straight to my heart. There was no other way to explain it.

After a beautiful guitar entry, Hunt began to sing. " On a dark desert… " His voice was a wonderful tenor of masculinity. His eyes took each and every one of us on his journey as he swept us away with his voice.

Jill reached for my face, swiping at a tear I hadn't felt release from my eye. My heart ached in a way I simply did not recognize. It hurt, but not a typical sad hurt. It hurt because I wished he was singing to me.