Chapter 1: The Out-of-Towner

Summary: A tall, dark, and mysterious stranger passes through Sinopa...

[excerpt]:

This was Sinopa. You don't drive to the local bar with your sleek and slant-nosed SUV and park it in a line of well-used Ford and Chevys. You don't wear your ebony hair long and tied in a bun, or decorate the fleshy lobe of your ear with jewelry, like a girl. You most certainly do not wear jeans that easily cost at least a week's worth of an average Sinopan's wages, ones so skinny and form-fitting they look to be painted on, or flash your tattoos and a smile so warm and sensual that it could only be perceived as an invitation for sex.

~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~

Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through…

— Robert Frost, A Servant to Servants

.~o~.

"Woooh, 'twas another scorcher today," Phasma exclaimed. Condensation clung to the sides of the longneck as she pressed the amber glass against her face, the droplets trickling onto the valley of her neck and intermingling with her sweat.

Hux smirked as he lit a cigarette. The end of the Marlboro hissed and flared. He replaced the lighter into the pocket of his jeans and leaned back against the weather-beaten wood of the building as he inhaled, the rich and strong smoke curling into his lungs as he welcomed the faint buzz.

"Every day's a scorcher, Phasma. If you haven't noticed, it's the middle of August, and all of Idaho's stuck in a drought."

Phasma set her bottle down, twisting it back and forth several times as it created an expanding indentation into the dried dirt. She reached up and attempted to gather her hair into a bun, grimacing as the short strands slid out from the thick, elastic grip.

"Come here," Hux muttered, dangling the cigarette from between his lips as his nimble fingers reached up into her golden locks, deftly twisting them into a neat knot at the nape of her neck.

"Thanks. You know this is why I keep your sorry ass around," she teased.

Hux stared out at the Sawtooth Mountains which lay to their west. The lowering sun was already casting long shadows across the lesser ridges, and the sky was turning a glorious orange-pink. There were few things that he liked about Sinopa, but the majesty of the surrounding landscape and his friendship with Phasma were some of the things he did.

He took one last drag as he spied the familiar rectangular grill and the straight, white paneled lines of the Styleside bed as the rusted pickup rumbled its way down the gravelly street.

"I'll go in and get ready, boss," Hux said, stamping out the glowing end of the butt as he ground it into the dirt, the dust promptly coating the front of his shoe. "Looks like old man Tarkin's right on time."

Phasma nodded, picking up her bottle and flicking off the small pieces of wet loam which had accumulated around the bottom before bringing it back to her lips.

"Yup. Like clockwork, that one. I updated the playlist, by the way. Put in some of your recommendations." She drained the last dregs of her beer and basked in the rays of the setting sun. "I'll be in in just a bit."

Hux gestured his thanks as he entered the small kitchen, the screen door squeaking open loudly before being batted against its frame. He knew that the clientele who frequented First Order wouldn't care if they heard the same ten songs day in and day out—it was not like they came in to the bar for the ambiance, anyway. But it made the hours that he had to spend in that small space, serving the same drinks to the same people and making the same talk, a little more bearable.

Hux tied an apron around his waist as he rinsed out a glass with cold water and brought it up under the tap. The half-inch foam crown was still sitting on top of the pale lager as Hux placed it at the end of the long counter.

A weathered and wiry hand grasped the curves of the pint glass, while another shoved three worn singles towards Hux.

"Thanks, Hux," Tarkin said, taking a long swallow as he sat.

Hux wiped down the wood in front of him, grimacing at the sticky rings from night before. He reworked the surface, his rag gliding over a knot in the wood, the years of grime and dirt having turned the once light wood into a dark brown.

"How are things going, Tarkin?"

"This Goddamn drought," Tarkin grumbled. "Looking at half the normal yield for the Spring Wheat harvest, never mind the problems it's going to cause for next year's crop. It's enough to make you want to sell it all and call it a day."

Hux took a look at Tarkin's face, noting the deep creases around his eyes and the hard lines which set off the hard press of his thin lips. The daily hours in the sun had baked his skin into a leathery brown, and his body and arms were shaped and hardened by a lifetime in the fields. Despite his protestations, Hux knew that Tarkin would live and die on that farm.

Phasma stepped in, clucking sympathetically as she leaned over the bar. Hux smiled knowingly as Tarkin's eyes glanced appreciatively over Phasma's ample chest. The guy was pushing his mid 60's, but he certainly wasn't dead.

"No rain in the forecast, then?" Phasma asked.

"They said there's something brewing from out West," Tarkin replied. "Don't think it's going to make it to us through the mountains, though."

"Doubt it." Piell slid in the seat next to Tarkin, as several more of the regulars filtered into the bar. He nodded at Hux as Hux poured a helping of Old Grand-Dad into a whiskey glass. He added a splash of water before handing it over to Piell, the older gentleman tipping his head in appreciation as he sipped the dark liquid, relishing the combination of sweet notes followed by the burn of the spicy rye.

Hux settled into his usual routine, filling and refilling drinks and making polite chatter. The sun outside had nearly set, as the neon "Open" sign hummed and flickered to life against the grimy window.

Phasma suddenly let out a low whistle. "Out-of-towner," she said as she spied a black Porsche Macan pulling into one of the painted stalls out front. "Damn. And a tall drink of water, to boot."

Hux turned, gaping at the man who was walking in. The noise in the bar dimmed at his entrance. It wasn't just the fact that he was a stranger, or that he was ridiculously tall and undeniably broad and strong, or that he commanded one's attention with his loping, long-limbed gait.

This was Sinopa. You don't drive to the local bar with your sleek and slant-nosed SUV and park it in a line of well-used Ford and Chevys. You don't wear your ebony hair long and tied in a bun, or decorate the fleshy lobe of your ear with jewelry, like a girl. You most certainly do not wear jeans that easily cost at least a week's worth of an average Sinopan's wages, ones so skinny and form-fitting they look to be painted on, or flash your tattoos and a smile so warm and sensual that it could only be perceived as an invitation for sex.

The interloper came up and directed his wide, 1000-watt smile at Hux.

"Sorry," he laughed sheepishly. "I'm a bit lost. My GPS isn't working, and there's no lights on the streets. Just want to know the best way to get to Shoshone from here."

Hux looked, fascinated by the varying angles of his face, the smattering of moles which decorated his cheeks and the stubble which darkened the slope of his chin. He flushed as he realized he was staring, and wiped the now-clean counter once more to cover up his discomfort.

"Shoshone's another fifty miles northwest of here," Hux answered. "But parts are pretty steep and windy, and if you're not familiar with the area-" he hesitated, taking a look at the Porsche outside. "It would probably take you two, maybe two and a half hours to get there. If you don't ruin your ride in the process, that is."

Tall, dark and handsome laughed again, this time with a warmth which caused an unfamiliar heat to develop in Hux's belly and settle uneasily in his chest.

"Yeah," he admitted ruefully. "It wasn't the smartest choice. That's the last time I'm leaving my car rental arrangements up to my assistant."

Hux fought the urge to roll his eyes. Assistant. Figures.

"You know any place around here where I can find some lodging instead? That doesn't involve me driving hours around in the dark, and probably off the side of a cliff?"

"Not here in Sinopa," Hux replied. "I think there's one about half an hour north of here in Little Falls. It's not in the same direction, but it's your best bet. They do dude ranch tours for vacationers, but I think they'll also give you lodging for the night." The guy oozed money, and he was sure that there were plenty of people in the area who were willing to help him part with it.

"You sure there's nothing else closer around here that can put me up for the night?" The stranger leaned forward and rested his tattooed forearm on the bar, the movement causing his hips to tilt in a languid and suggestive manner.

"None," Hux answered, his tone quick and harsh as he scanned the room. Luckily, everyone had already returned to their own conversations. Hux turned as he refilled Tarkin's glass, glad for the distraction. When he finished, the other male was still standing, waiting.

"OK," he said at last. "Little Falls it is. Help me out with some directions?"

Hux pulled out a piece of paper and started writing. The newcomer looked around, taking in the small and dark surroundings, and the thin music which blared from Phasma's tinny four speaker system.

"First Order, huh?" he said conversationally as Hux continued to write. "Interesting name for a bar."

"Yeah, well funny thing about that. We don't get many people coming through here who aren't local unless they're looking to use the facilities or ask for directions," Hux smirked, remembering the moment the name had come to Phasma in a drunken moment of inspiration. "So my boss came up with it. As in, First, Order."

The other male laughed. "Ahh, sorry to hear that I'm so predictable. In that case, I'll have a Rochefort Trappistes. Bottled, please."

Hux winced. "We don't carry that. If you're looking for something dark and somewhat fruity though, we carry Grand Teton Black Cauldron. It's an Imperial stout, made around these parts. It's really good." He wanted to add that it was the kind of drink pretentious tourists ordered when they wanted to savor something local, but refrained.

"One Black Cauldron it is, then," Mr. Handsome agreed. He stuck out his hand. "Ben Solo, by the way."

Hux shook his hand, marveling at how his own was dwarfed by it. "Armitage Hux. But everyone calls me Hux."

Hux pulled out a bottle of Black Cauldron and a snifter. "May I?" he asked, indicating the glass. "It's better served this way."

Ben nodded. Hux poured and Ben brought it to his lips, sipping slowly. He tasted the notes of chocolate and coffee on his tongue, followed by that of dried fruit and the earthy and woodsy flavor of the smoked malt.

He lifted his eyebrow in surprise. "Wow, that is good!" he exclaimed.

Hux smiled, nodding knowingly as he glanced down the bar towards the other customers. Everyone's drink was at least half or nearly filled, and Phasma was keeping the conversation going about the orders for the upcoming harvest.

Ben cocked his head as he listened to the strains of Come On being played in the background.

"Ray Lamontagne," he commented. "Nice. I only got three stations coming in on the drive up, and they all seemed to be partial to the likes of Dierks Bentley and Garth Brooks. Not that there's anything wrong with that," he added hastily.

"Actually, we've got four stations, but the last one's not music and probably not to your tastes, unless you're into sermons about Biblical truths and the importance of marriage and family. Not that there's anything wrong with that," he added, supressing a smile.

"Yeah. Well, I'll be sure to rent a truck with satellite radio the next time I'm out here," Ben replied.

Hux looked at him quizzically, surprised to hear that there would be a 'next time.'

"What are you doing around here, anyway?"

Ben sipped his stout slowly, as if weighing his options. He set the glass down, his tongue peeking out as he unconsciously licked the bit of foam off of his upper lip.

Hux's breath promptly caught in his chest.

"I'm looking at a piece of property over in Heinmot," he replied, looking down at his glass, not meeting Hux's eyes.

Hux knew the place. The ranch had been sitting on the market for years, as the sellers refused to let is go to the developers. They've had their share of prospective private buyers, but the acreage was too huge and expensive to easily maintain. It was a financially weighty proposition for those who were looking to make a living working the land, and for those wealthy out-of-towners-well, once the romantic notion of communing with nature faded, the hard truth of living in this region tended to scatter those buyers away, too.

Hux knew the type: city folks, typically from the East or West coasts, who fell in love with the rugged Idahoan landscape while skiing in Sun Valley or rafting down the Snake. They would leave at the end of their weeklong vacations with fantasies of coming back and becoming one of the locals, of living that American mythology of the idealized cowboy way of life. But for those who had viewed the Heinmot property with such dreams in their heads, not a single one had visited twice.

See, the thing is, despite it's beauty, Sinopa and the surrounding area had its share of problems. The nearest airport was several hours away, the roads were at times rough and winding and slow, and there was not a Starbucks or yoga studio to be found. Many parts of the mountain range to the west were off the grid, and the wheat fields and prairies towards the east colored the roadways for mile upon endless mile. The drought had made the situation worse, painting everything in monochromes of yellows and browns, occasionally punctuated by the green of stilled machinery, or the graying shells of the weather-worn barns, or the single-storied churches with their rusted signs and Jesus figures and the subject of their weekly sermon spelled out in big, bold letters.

And if the absolute, rural nature of the area wasn't a turn off, then the people occasionally were. Hux found that most city folk were taken aback by the conservative thinking of the region, opinions which invariably clashed with their oftentimes liberal and PC ideals. The eventual buyer of the Heinmot property would not only have to be someone who wasn't bothered by such sentiments, but who was also really, really rich, and who truly embraced the notion of solitude.

If such a buyer existed, they haven't found him yet, and it's been years. Hux had no doubts that Ben Solo, with his fancy clothes and his fancy car and his fancy beer, would not be returning.

Hux tried not to think about why the idea of never seeing Ben Solo again left him with an empty longing in the pit of his stomach.

"Yeah, I know the place. Good luck with that. It's a nice piece of property." As if that even made a difference.

Ben frowned, looking at the time. He pulled out his wallet as he finished his beer, scanning Hux's written directions as he fingered a twenty from within the supple leather and handed it over to Hux.

"No, keep it," Ben said as Hux reached out to give him his change. Hux raised his eyebrow even as he muttered his appreciation. The tip was enough to cover Ben's drink several times over.

"Thanks for everything," Ben added as he stood and turned to go.

Hux picked up the empty glass, trying to tamp down a sudden feeling of loneliness as he pictured Ben's long and masculine fingers curling around the delicate stem. He bent down, placing the glass in the dirty bin, only to look up to realize that Ben had made his way back to the bar.

"Hux," Ben said in a rush. "I know this is a lot to ask, but you're one of the few people around here who looks to be close to my age. I liked talking with you, even though I know you were somewhat of a captive audience, with me being a paying customer and all. But I was wondering-could you show me around tomorrow? I would pay you for your time, of course."

Hux furrowed his brow. "Kinda like a tour guide?" He didn't want to think about how else "paying for his time" could be construed.

"Exactly," Ben grinned. "I've got a meeting with the realtor tomorrow at 10, but figure I'll be done around 11, 11:30 at the latest. I'd like to know what else there is to do for fun in these parts."

Hux was questioning whether Ben would stay as committed to hanging around after viewing the property tomorrow. He also questioned why he was seriously entertaining the idea of spending an entire day with Ben. He could always use the money, he finally rationalized, as he jotted down his information and gave it to Ben.

"The top number is for my cell, and the bottom is my landline, in case you can't reach me." he said. "I have to be at work by 7:30, but I can show you around until then." He hesitated. "There's not a lot of stuff to see, though. Like, we're the only bar around, and there's just one place for groceries and a small movie theater for entertainment. Unless you want to check out Sawtooth."

"That would be amazing!" Ben exclaimed.

"Uhmmm...do you have anything more appropriate for a day hike?" Hux asked, taking in his jeans and leather hipster chukkas. "I don't think any of my things would fit you."

"Oh yeah. Forgot about that," Ben anwered, his face falling.

"It's OK," Hux said quickly. "There's a couple of sporting goods stores on the way. You can always pick up something there, if you need to."

"Sounds like a plan. So I'll give you a call tomorrow and pick you up when I'm done?"

Hux looked out the window at the Porsche.

"Nahh, I'd better pick you up. Unless you bought plenty of insurance to go with that rental."

Ben laughed, the sound sliding over Hux's skin and enveloping him in its warmth.

"Ok, Hux. It's a date. See you tomorrow, then." He gave Hux a cocky grin, his golden eyes lightening with mischief as he sauntered out of the door and into the starry night.

Hux told himself it was the extra money, and that the butterflies which were wreaking havoc in his stomach had nothing to do with the fact that he would be spending the day with a beautiful man he had only met half an hour before.

" 'Kay," he said exhaling, addressing no one in particular.

~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~

Notes:

The name of the towns in this chapter, with the exception of Shoshone, are fictional.

SINOPA: from the Blackfoot and Cayuse, "Fox cub"
HEINMOT: from the Nez Perce, "Thunder"