Twisted (16 page)

“Night, buddy.”

“Night, Jeffy. Oh, and thanks.”

“For what?”

“I like it when you get all rough and order me around.”

“Good night, buddy.” I kissed the back of his neck. We were asleep in an instant.

T
HE
new day dawned clear. I could tell it was cold from the number of times the heat had gone on. We got dressed with sweats and T-shirts and heavy socks. Our bedroom door was ajar. We’d specifically talked about havin’ to make sure it was closed with dudes in the house. I reckoned we had to remember just a bit better.

We headed downstairs. Nobody else was up yet. I decided to help Mike with breakfast. We were making biscuits, gravy, bacon and eggs, and fried potatoes. We now had a coffeemaker for the dudes, but Mike and I still preferred cowboy coffee. I was just getting a cup of cold water to settle the grounds, when I saw Jason heading across the yard from the bunkhouse, followed by Smitty and José. Jason actually had some boots, a decent coat, and a cowboy hat on. I reckoned he was sick of trying to prove he wasn’t affected by the cold. They all came in. I got coffee for Smitty and José.

Jason piped up. “Can I have some coffee too?”

“You sure you can handle our coffee?” I heard Mike, at the stove, laugh, and Smitty and José chuckled. Jason thought a second.

“I gotta start somewhere, don’t I?” I had to laugh at that one.

“I got dude coffee or cowboy coffee.”

“I’ll have the cowboy coffee.” He put as much sugar in it as José does. He took little sips, but he was trying. He and Smitty set the table for the dudes. Bryan and David came out of their room.

“Good morning, guys!” Both of them said the good morning in unison. We all echoed it back.

“Did you two sleep well?” Mike was looking at them.

“We did.” David actually spoke up.

“Yeah, the bed is really comfortable, and the down comforter is great.”

“Good, I’m happy to hear you’re comfortable.”

Jason looked at them. “What time would you like me to make up your room?” He was really trying hard, and he was doing a good job.

“No hurry, Jason. How about when David and I are out skiing?”

“Okay. Jeff, Mike, are you guys going skiing too?”

“We were plannin’ on skiin’ up to Winslett and back.”

“How far is Winslett, Jeff?” Bryan was looking at me.

“It’s about twelve miles.”

“Do you just ski there, or are you going for a reason?”

“I wanna talk with our friend Mary Grace. She’s a vegetarian, and Jason just loves tofu.”

Jason looked panicked. “Are you gonna get tofu recipes? If so, just don’t give ’em to Bert.” It came out a lot more timid than he had meant it to.

“Relax; it’s about the artists’ co-op. I ain’t gonna ask for any tofu recipes unless you want me to.”

“If you make them, that would be great. I like what you, Mike, and Sandy make.” Just then, AJ walked in.

“Good morning, everyone.” He looked around at everyone with a big grin on his face.

“Hey, AJ, how’d you sleep?”

“Really good, Mike, thanks. Some noise woke me up a bit after three. It sounded like someone left the TV on, or something. I thought there was a fight scene on.”

Mike turned real red. José caught it and made a big show of looking at Mike’s neck. One time before, Mike and I had gotten a bit aggressive, and he had several marks on his neck. Everyone was teasing him about a rash for a few days.

“Mike, amigo, is the boss rubbing off on you again?” That was another way the guys teased him. The first night we’d spent together, he had come downstairs in just his longhandles. I do that all the time, and they tease me about it. It was obvious Mike had spent the night with me, and when they saw him in just his longhandles, the double entendre of me rubbin’ off on him was born. Mike ignored the last question.

“Okay, breakfast is ready. Come and get it before I throw it out.” José, Smitty, Jason, and Mike carried the serving plates of food to the dining room. I followed with a tray with condiments.

“That’s an interesting way to tell people to dig in.” AJ was smiling at me, and both Bryan and David were looking at me.

“It’s an old cowboy sayin’. It’s one of the ways the trail cook used to call the guys to eat.”

“It looks and smells great. I may have to take up skiing just to work all this great food off.”

“You’re right, AJ, that’s why David and I want to hit the trail today.” AJ smiled at them and then turned to face me.

“Do you cook too, Jeff?”

“I do. I’m makin’ dinner tonight, so you can see how well I do.”

“What’s on the menu tonight?”

“Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, rolls, green beans, and salad. Oh, and blackberry pie for dessert.”

AJ was even more talkative this mornin’. “Jeff, in one of the articles about you two, the author mentioned cowboy coffee. What’s that?”

“Cowboys like their coffee strong. So when we make it for ourselves, we put the coffee into the pot and boil it for a while. Then we add a bit of cold water to settle the grounds. It should be strong enough to float a spoon.”

“This coffee isn’t all that strong.”

“No, that’s from Mr. Coffee.”

Smitty jumped up. “I’ll get you guys a bit to try.” He went into the kitchen and returned with three half-full mugs. AJ, Bryan, and David each took a sip. David started coughing and sputtering. Bryan got a look on his face like he tasted something folks weren’t meant to taste. AJ shuddered.

“You guys really drink this stuff?”

Mike, José, Smitty, Jason, and I all answered in unison. “Yep.” Everyone laughed.

“Well, now I understand the article. Mike, is it from the coffee you got all the hair on your chest?” AJ looked at him with a teasing look in his eyes. Mike’s shirt and longhandles had the top two buttons undone, showing some of the blond fur on his chest. Mike just laughed. Breakfast continued real friendly-like. We had just finished, and José, Smitty, and Jason were cleaning up, when the phone rang.

“Lucky Jeff Ranch, Jeff speakin’.”

“Morning Jeff, Sheriff Johnston here.”

“Mornin’, sheriff, what can I do for you?”

“I’ll get right to the point. Mike’s dad is here. I arrested him this morning. I’m releasing him, but I need someone to release him to. He asked for you and Mike, if he’ll come.”

“What happened?” I knew I musta sounded shocked as hell.

“Reverend Spencer and some of his ‘Christians’ were picketing the artists’ co-op with signs about witches and gays. Mike’s father took offense. Words began to fly, and then a fight started.”

“Is he okay?”

“Mike’s dad? He is. Nothing a little bit of Mercurochrome and time won’t heal.”

“Okay, sheriff, we’ll head on to town.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

“What’s up, Jeffy?”

“Let’s go in the other room for a minute.”

Mike followed me into the office.

“Buddy, your dad’s in jail.”

“What?”

“Apparently Spencer and his lemmings were picketin’ the artists’ co-op, and your dad got upset, they argued, and then got in a fight. Sheriff’s gonna release him, but has to release him to someone. Your dad asked for me and you if you’ll come.”

“I’ll go. Let’s get dressed.” He turned and headed upstairs. I followed. We were dressed in a flash and off to Winslett. Mike was quiet for most of the drive.

“So he got in a fight with Spencer, eh?”

“That’s what the sheriff said.”

“Well if that don’t beat all. I hope he kicked the shit outta Spencer.”

R
EVEREND
S
PENCER
was the pastor of a local hate group down in Pateros. He was one of those monsters who picket funerals and stuff carrying on about God hates fags, and God hates this, and God hates that. He has a particular dislike for me. The one time he asked me to come to his church, I asked if gay people were welcome. The hatred and viciousness I received in return gave me all the answer I needed.

“Jeff, you know why they were picketin’ the co-op?”

“Who knows? We both got stuff on exhibit there, so it coulda been that, ‘God hates fags’, bullshit. Mary Grace is Wiccan, so it could be God hates Wiccans, or some such garbage. With Spencer, who knows?”

We got to the sheriff’s office pretty quickly. It hadn’t snowed in a couple of days, so the roads were clear. We parked in front of the office and headed in. Sheriff Johnston greeted us as we stepped in.

“Mornin’, boys. Sorry to have to call you about this, but I’ve got to release him to someone.”

“What happened, sheriff?” The sheriff looked at Mike.

“Spencer and his goons were outside the co-op with picket signs saying, ‘God will punish fags’, ‘suffer not a witch to live’, and that type of bullshit. Your father walked by and apparently took offence and began telling the good reverend he was mistaken. Things escalated, and Spencer spit on your father. Your father decked him.” I looked at the sheriff.

“Sheriff, isn’t getting spit on enough provocation to throw a punch?”

“Spitting on someone can be considered assault. As I see it, Mike’s dad was defending himself.”

“What if one of his crazies tries to do something to Mary Grace, based on what he says?”

“I’m checking with the county prosecutor on that. Let’s head back and get your dad, Mike.” We followed the sheriff into the back. There were three small cells there. Mike’s father was in one and Spencer was in the other. Spencer had the beginnings of a nice shiner. The sheriff unlocked Mike’s dad’s cell.

I smiled when I spoke to Mike’s dad. “Al, I hear that wizened old troll spit on you.” Mike’s dad nodded, and Spencer began to rant.

“Evil all hangs together. It stands to reason you’d be involved with this, Connelly. God hates sin, and he says suffer not a witch to live. God will judge you and your fellow evildoers.” I glanced at him.

“You’re pathetic. Hey, Al, if that thing spit on you, you probably should make sure your tetanus shot’s up to date. You might need a rabies vaccine too. Tetanus for sure. You see how filthy its teeth are. You don’t want to take any chances.”

“I’ll be sure to follow up on that, Jeff.” He laughed and so did Mike. They headed up front with the sheriff. I loitered behind. Just after they were out of hearing range, I turned to Spencer.

“Listen and listen good, you fuckin’ hypocritical piece of shit. If any harm comes to Mary Grace because of your hate mongerin’, I’m gonna come huntin’ you, and after I’m done with you, your hell is gonna look pretty good to you.”

“Are you threatening a man of God?”

“Of course not, asshole. There ain’t no man of God here anymore. He went out front with the sheriff and his son.”

“You’ll get yours, fag. God hates trash like you, Connelly.”

“Spencer, you sound like a broken record. Why don’t you go back to whatever filthy hole you slithered out of and let decent folks alone?”

“God hates fags!” I just laughed. He got even madder and started babbling in anger.

“I guess my advice to Al was pretty spot on, Spencer. Maybe you are rabid. Sure looks like you’re foamin’ at the mouth.” I continued laughing as I walked out. As I came to the front, the sheriff was just saying goodbye to Mike and his dad. Mike looked at me.

“Dad’s comin’ back to the ranch with us.”

“Okay, well let’s head back then. Thanks, sheriff.”

Chapter Seven

I
T
WAS
almost lunchtime and we were back at the ranch. Smitty and Jason had fixed boxed lunches for Bryan and David, who were off skiing, and for AJ too, who was off somewhere. Mike, his dad, and I were in the living room. Al had wanted to wait to get back to the ranch to tell the entire story about his little altercation with Spencer. He and Mike would occasionally start laughing together about my comment on his needing a tetanus shot and rabies shot after being spit on by Spencer.

“I’ll tell you what. How about if I make us lunch, and then we can eat and hear all about this morning’s events.”

“Sounds good to me. Do you need any help, Jeffy?”

“Thanks, buddy, I’m fine.” I headed into the kitchen. We had a couple of leftover steaks in the refrigerator, and a couple of baked potatoes too. I peeled the potatoes and made potato salad. I fried up some onions, sliced the steak real thin, and cut open a long loaf of French bread from Rick’s bakery in Winslett. I cut the bread into three pieces, and then I added the sliced steak, fried onions, and some sliced cheese. I mixed some hot mustard and mayo and made a dressing for the sandwiches. I wrapped each sandwich in foil and put them in the oven. By the time I had dug out some pickles, they were gettin’ pretty hot. I took some paper plates, silverware, and the potato salad and sandwich sauce to the dining room. By the time I’d taken the pickles and some iced tea out, the sandwiches were hot.

“Okay, guys, come and get it before I throw it out.” They came in from the living room.

“Thanks, Jeff. I know I said it before, but I appreciate you coming to get me, you too, Mike, more than I can say.” Before I could say anything, Mike had a kind of an embarrassed, aw-shucks attitude.

“’Tweren’t nothin’.”

“Mike’s right, Al. It was nothin’.”

“It was quite a bit, actually. Neither of you”—he looked at Mike when he said this—“has any reason to be there for me, yet you both were. I appreciate it.”

“So what happened?” Mike was gazing at his father.

“Well, I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to go uptown and have breakfast. I ate breakfast at the restaurant your friend Sandy works at sometimes. After I was done, I just walked around town a bit. When I came to the artists’ co-op, there were several people out front holding signs quoting Exodus twenty-two, verse eighteen, ‘thou shall not suffer a witch to live’, and things like, ‘God hates sin’, ‘fags and witches will go to hell’, and all sorts of garbage like that. I told the ‘leader’, who was Reverend Spencer, that he was seriously misinterpreting God’s word. He began to call me a pagan, and a fag lover, and a Satanist, that sort of nonsense I told him, ‘Let he that’s without sin cast the first stone’, and he spit on me. He reminded me of how I used to be, and I lost it. I slugged him. He punched at me a few times, but I backed off. By then the sheriff was there, and he arrested both of us.”