Timeless E-Book

Patric Michael

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 86

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2009

Beschreibung

Out since he was a freshman in high school, Nate meets Andy, who is gorgeous and unfortunately straight. They're best friends through thick and thin until a practical joke leads Nate to a surprise revelation:  If I had known just how thoroughly it would turn my world upside down, I would never have kissed Andy in that damned banquet room. I would have kissed him a hell of a lot sooner. A part of the 2009 Daily Dose Set, To Have and to Hold, which includes 30 M/M romance stories providing a glimpse of the many forms of love: love at first sight or a love for the ages, wedding bells or engagements, or that inexplicable something that makes you think "I do," the men in these stories are all touched by its spell.

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Timeless

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Timeless

by Patric Michael

Out since he was a freshman in high school, Nate meets Andy, who is gorgeous and unfortunately straight. They're best friends through thick and thin until a practical joke leads Nate to a surprise revelation: If I had known just how thoroughly it would turn my world upside down, I would never have kissed Andy in that damned banquet room. I would have kissed him a hell of a lot sooner.

IF I had known just how thoroughly it would turn my world upside down, I would never have kissed Andy in that damned banquet room.

I would have kissed him a hell of a lot sooner.

ANDY and I had been best friends since high school. Given our widely divergent personalities, you would not have thought our paths would ever cross, much less intertwine so closely. He was outgoing, personable, and popular. I was a nerd.

“You’re too bookish, Nathan.” It was my grandmother’s favorite complaint.

I was tutoring English after school, trying to earn extra credit one dismally gray February day in my senior year when the door opened, and Adonis walked in. Had to be Adonis, because this guy was too gorgeous to be anything but a god. Honey-gold curls framed his square-jawed, boyish face.

I had been explaining the difference between an adverb and an adjective for what felt like the hundredth time to a sophomore named Kelly, who spent most of her time sighing and writing the name “Joseph” in the margins of her notebook when I wasn’t actually hovering over her shoulder. I kinda felt sorry for the guy, whoever he was.

“Hi. You’re doing the English thing, right?”

“I’m Mr. Barclay’s student aide, yes.” I tried to be nonchalant. I really did. The words were right, at least, but the glazed look that had to be on my face stole whatever detached professionalism I had been hoping to achieve.

“Cool. You’re supposed to help me graduate, I guess.” He handed me a slip of paper. I looked at it, noted the counselor’s name at the top, Barclay’s name at the bottom, and general notes in between.

“Uh, sure. No problem. Grab a seat, and I’ll be right with you.”

“’kay.” He grinned, and dimples, which were as deep as wells, pierced his cheeks. I think my heart actually stopped right then. He flopped into a chair opposite my sophomore, stretching his long legs out into the aisle.

I turned back to Kelly and knew right away that Joseph was ancient history. By the way he was looking back at her, I also knew it would be me doing the sighing from then on.

Why are all the cute ones straight?

With the help of his coach, several teachers, one counselor—who had developed a pronounced facial tic by the time we were through—and me, Andy graduated with a GPA high enough to get into State, as long as his parents’ pockets were deep enough. I went with him on a partial academic scholarship. By then we’d become best friends.

My chief attraction to him, aside from his killer good looks, was his unconditional acceptance of my sexuality. It couldn’t have been easy for him, and it certainly wasn’t easy for me, but I had been out of the closet since I was a freshman in high school, and I had no intention of crawling back in, even though that made for some remarkably unhappy times for the next few years. I know kids teased him, but he settled the worst of them with affable mayhem and remained loyal throughout. Though I never needed him to fight my battles, most of which were long since won or lost by the time we met, I was always grateful for his uncomplicated, unwavering support.

Once when we were standing around during the dress rehearsal for graduation, I asked him why he had put up with all the crap over the past year. Andy said nothing. Instead he reached to adjust the zipper of my gown. When I looked down, he tagged my nose and gave me that patented, golden-dimpled grin. Marginally funny, but it didn’t answer my question. When I pressed, he shrugged his varsity-sized shoulders and told me I was “just too cool.” I never asked again.

Andy and I slogged our way through college; we partied way too much, helped each other with courses, and even roomed together during our senior year. Naturally, we observed the time-honored tradition of hanging an article of clothing off the doorknob whenever we brought a date home.

“Yuck. Is that a jock strap?” It was more gray than white and had obviously seen better days.

“Yeah. It means Andy’s got a girl in there,” I said, doing my best to suck a hickey on Alex’s neck as we stood outside my dorm room. We were both hammered. “I told you we should have left sooner.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, I know. Come on. We can go back to your car, and you can fuck me into the floorboards.” I decided to try for a second hickey on the other side as encouragement. Alex stared at the filthy thing, bleary-eyed and stoned, while I made wet, smacking noises. When I finally stuck my tongue into his ear, he shook all over and dragged me down the hall. It wasn’t until we were sloppy and sated and smoking a joint in the backseat of his El Dorado that Alex bit at my nose and said, “A jock strap?”

“Yeah. That’s Andy.”

Give him one thing: he’s original.

BY the time we’d graduated,I was on general staff for a small newspaper, writing a variety of articles. By small, I mean severely understaffed, which meant the traditional divisions between freelancers’, clerks’, and reporters’ regular duties were more than a little blurred. Since I was the newest, which I found out later meant I was least likely to complain, I covered the local “activities and events” and handled obituaries. It was mind-numbingly boring, but what else was I going to do with all that English under my belt? Even then I wasn’t angst-ridden enough to be a writer.

Since Andy and I stayed local, we had more than one occasion to cross paths, and we always kept close tabs. He called me one Friday night from a bar, by the sound of it, and shouted over the noise.

“Nate, buddy! Grab your cutie and get your ass over to the Square. I wanna celebrate!”

“What are we celebrating?” I asked, chewing on my bottom lip and trying to think of a synonym for supercilious that didn’t sound so… supercilious. I was writing a piece on street crime, and if my editor approved it, I might finally be able to crawl out from under the never-ending stream of dog shows, weddings, and dead people.

“I signed the deal with Direct, man. Ain’t that great?”

Like everyone else at the time, Andy had wracked his brain over how to take advantage of the burgeoning growth of the Internet. He had decided that rather than adding to the mess, he would jump on the search engine bandwagon. With one of his math geek buddies and pestering me about things like lexicon, syntax, and structure, he had developed a unique approach to cataloging the ever-increasing, multi-tentacled monster known as “Web content.” The site became popular enough to be noticed by others with similar goals, and he had been approached by Direct with a buyout option. Andy wanted to buy in, however, and had begun earnest negotiations to take the purchase price for his concept as stock in the company.

“Andy, that’s great! You’ve been working on that deal for months!”

“No shit. Now get your cute butt down here and help us party, will ya?”

“Is Monica with you?”

“Of course. Where else would the finest lady in town be but right beside me?”

I heard a scuffle, a shriek, and then lots of feminine laughter. I rolled my eyes.

“Uh, I don’t know, man. I’m right in the middle of a story, and I don’t want to lose my steam.”

I had met Monica once before, and we didn’t exactly hit it off. As we used to say when we were kids, “The vibe just wasn’t there.”

“Oh, hey, you gotta come, Nate. Wouldn’t be the same without you, buddy. Please?”

The last word was spoken in a high-pitched wheedling whine that was impossible to resist. Especially when he combined it with big, sad puppy-dog eyes. Adonis begging for a cookie. Even over the phone I could picture his face, and I grinned in spite of myself.

That whining “please” had gotten us into more damned trouble….

“Okay, bro. I’ll be there in a half-hour.”

“Are you still seeing Tony?”

“Oh yes.” Tony. Just thinking about him made my butt sweat.

“Cool. Bring him along! We’ll make a night of it.”

I laughed and said I’d call him. Tony agreed to come. We were new enough together that we really couldn’t keep our hands off each other anyway, so I didn’t have to beg too hard. Especially after I tendered a few promises involving chocolate, lots of lube, and a certain double-ended, glow-in-the-dark dildo with batteries after we got home.

ITS full name was “Square Peg,” which was about the worst name for a bar you could imagine until you understood that it served a wide variety of tastes and sexualities. It also had an unofficial “Don’t show, won’t tell” policy and lots of dark corners. I had no doubt in my mind that Andy chose the place for my sake.

Tony and I arrived twenty minutes late, somewhat breathless and more than a little disheveled.

“What took you so long?” Andy said, lifting Monica out of his lap to stand and give each of us a hug. She laughed, but I thought I caught a glint in her eye.

“Sorry, man. We had a slight, um, electrical problem,” I said, giving Monica a hug which she returned perfunctorily; then I introduced her to Tony.

“Rule of thumb. Always keep fresh batteries in the house,” Tony said as his opening gambit, and he began making cow eyes at Monica. She looked a bit startled. Tony was an equal-opportunity flirt, which is how I met him. It didn’t bother me in the least, as long as it was a girl on the receiving end of those long, batting eyelashes.

“Batteries?” She looked more than a little confused.

“Trust me; you don’t want to know,” Andy said, giving Tony a hairy eyeball and pulling Monica closer. Tony and I looked at each other and laughed like loons. Monica bit her lip, obviously trying to decide if she were the brunt of a joke.

Andy kissed her scowl into submission. “Don’t worry about it, baby. My boy here is an outright perv.”