Page 8 of Muscle Cub

Austin led me to a covered veranda at the corner of the deck with fairy lights, bench seats, and a view of the moon over the nearest blue ridge of mountains. The walls of the bar muffled the music from inside, leaving the spot feeling quiet and intimate, not exactly romantic because there were so many others out here with us, but it felt familial and special. Like I was backstage or beyond the velvet rope.

“Give me that.” Austin snatched the can out of my hand and threw it into a recycling bin tucked beneath a built-in counter. “I’d like to claim they serve some of these beer brands ironically, but I wouldn’t stake my reputation on it. Between you and me, I see no evidence to suggest there’s any good reason for it other than just being cheap. Lemme get you taken care of. Ryan!” His sudden shout made me jump. “I’m raiding your cooler, bro. The Prof needs a decent beer.”

A young guy who looked like a slightly smaller, heavily tattooed version of Austin nodded. Ryan seemed unconcerned with whoever the hell the Prof might be, even though I felt a need to justify why I deserved access to his special stash. “Y’all can have whatever.”

Austin strode over to a corner, where the deck and the building converged against the mountainside, a rhododendron spilling over the railing almost to the boards, creating a natural screen. He motioned me to his side to peer into the rollaway cooler where bottle necks peeked from a bed of crushed ice. “We’ve got some Blue Moon, Corona, and looks like a sampling of local IPAs.”

“Blue Moon would be great. I wouldn’t have minded paying for one at the bar.”

“Oh, they don’t sell these. Something about the beer license. You can brown bag liquor but not your own beer because they sell it. I don’t know. I’ve never understood it. It’s one of the great mysteries of this place. It’s probably all a bunch of cobbled together, grandfathered licenses from back in the day when the original owner was still alive.”

“Shit. I didn’t know you couldn’t bring your own beer.” I lowered my voice. “I have a full cooler down at my campsite.”

“Are you inviting me to your campsite already?”

“What? No, I-I was just hoping they’re not going to throw me out.”

“Nobody’s going to throw you out.”

A voice boomed close behind us. “Well, what the hell do y’all think you’re drinking?”

I startled.

It was the big guy from the front office who’d checked me in earlier. I guessed he was about my age, maybe a little older, midforties. Hard to tell through his makeup. He was dressed in something that resembled both a nun and a mime. “This is entirely against the rules, boys. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to report you to Sawyer.”

“Go ahead!” Austin sassed. To me, he explained, “Sawyer’s the owner. Big, handsome, mean-looking motherfucker behind the bar with no costume because he has no sense of humor.” I cringed, wondering how I was getting by on my flimsy halo. “And for the record, this one here’s just fucking with you. This is Jim Savage, the general manager,” Austin continued, “and apparently one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.”

I had no idea what that meant, although I felt like I should. It was surely a gay cultural reference that went over my head as so many of them did. I made a mental note to ask someone later at a more appropriate moment.

“I am not technically a member of the Order. But I probably should be.” Jim looked me up and down. “Jim Savage.” He placed a big paw on my forearm. “Honey, I know it’s your first time here, so I haven’t learned your name yet.”

“This is the Prof,” Austin said unhelpfully but with great enthusiasm.

I offered my hand to Jim. “I’d prefer to be called Paul.” I shot Austin a pointed glare, aware that it might backfire and only goad him into doubling down on the nickname. After seeing what happened as a result of declining to dance with him, I had good reason to be wary.

“You having a good time so far, Paul?” Jim asked.

I found it noteworthy that he didn’t immediately want to know what subject I taught or to tell me what he’d majored in as so many other people did at parties when they heard what I did for a living. I was grateful for the simple acknowledgment that I was on vacation.

I assured him I was indeed enjoying myself, surprised to find that was truer than I would have predicted when I’d left home this afternoon in a state of dread.

“So what you boys getting into?” Jim asked.

“We just came out here to talk,” Austin said.

“Talk?” Jim’s raised eyebrows put air quotes around the word. “You? Okay, honey, we’ll go with that.”

Austin groaned and jutted out his chin, making a shooing motion at Jim.

Jim acted offended, but he shot me a wink before fading into the crowd farther along the deck.

“Jim likes to bust my ass, but he’s cool. He’s kinda family to me. Like an adopted gay uncle.”

“He seems nice,” I said. “He has good energy.”

Austin considered me for a moment, then nodded slowly. “He does.”

We stared at each other, his grin mirroring the one I felt overtaking my face. Neither of us seemed to know what to do next.