Rogue Affair

by Rhys Everly

  Although it felt wrong to refer to Nathan as that.

  He was more to me than just a sexual favor. He was my everything. And he was afraid I’d break his heart, or that he’d break mine.

  Could I write a letter to him? For the competition? A letter I could do. It was all I had practiced on for my GED.

  No.

  Writing a letter of heartbreak when he hadn’t done it yet might jinx the whole thing.

  And I’d already had all the bad luck one could have. I didn’t need to dig my own grave.

  Was I seriously considering participating in the competition?

  It seemed my mind was already made up because I immediately sat down on the grass under a tree outside the library, took out my notebook, and wrote a letter to someone else.

  Someone who had broken my heart a long time ago.

  Twenty-Six

  Nathan

  “Dear Mom,

  It’s been eleven years, six months, and three days since you left me.

  There hasn’t been a day I haven’t missed you.

  There hasn’t been a day when I didn’t wonder what you’re doing.

  There hasn’t been a day when I haven’t pictured you coming back.

  Reason tells me you abandoned me. You left me with a jerk, to fend for myself, to fend for my emotions, to fend for my heart.

  Reason tells me I shouldn’t miss you. You don’t deserve to be missed. That I shouldn’t crave the connection.

  Reason tells me you should mean nothing to me.

  Reason tells me you’re not a mom. A mom never leaves her child behind. A real mom is there for her child when he needs her the most. A mom gives her love unconditionally. A mom sticks around.

  Reason tells me a lot of things.

  But who said the mind has reason?

  Do you ever think about me? Do you regret your actions? Do you miss me? Do you ever feel sorry?

  Sometimes I wonder if you’ll ever come back to save me, to tell me you love me, to tell me what I did wrong.

  Then sometimes I wonder what life would be like if you took me with you?

  Who would I be today if I didn’t become momless at ten?

  Who would I be with you?

  That’s what I wonder.

  That’s what reason tells me I should wonder. Not if you love me or if you left because I wasn’t enough.

  Who would I be with you?

  Because who I am without you is lost.

  Dear Mom,

  Where are you?

  Dear Mom,

  Why did you leave me?

  Dear Mom,

  Are you ever coming back?

  Your sweet dumpling.”

  I took deep breaths and tried to compose myself before I unearthed my face from behind the notebook.

  Why had I agreed to read this?

  Oh, yes. Because I was Hudson’s tutor, and I was supposed to be helping him with his GED.

  And it was my fault.

  I’d told him he could write, and I should have seen it coming that he’d eventually ask me to read something he’d written.

  I was hoping it’d be good. That I wouldn’t have to lie to him.

  I didn’t expect to have a tearfest right before his very eyes. Well, minus the notebook I was hiding behind.

  Poor Hudson, his mom had done a real number on him. I never even knew.

  And it wasn’t as if I couldn’t relate. Only I’d had my mom for most of my life. And she never abandoned me. And even when she passed away, I had the support and love of my family around me. Something Hudson never had.

  It wasn’t anything magnificent, his letter, or anything literary, but it had its own sort of poetry. A sad, depressing kind of beauty in it.

  What was I going to tell him? I was supposed to give him feedback. To edit it and correct it so that he could submit it to the college paper for a chance to win fifty bucks.

  I took another deep breath before I put the notebook down, ignoring the tears that had dried on my face and my snotty nose, and buried my deep gaze into his eyes.

  He was looking at me expectedly. Biting his lower lip, tapping his fingers on the desk, huffing and puffing.

  “Is it crap? It’s crap, isn’t it?” he asked.

  The urge to reach across the table and bury my nose in his hair, my hands on his back, my lips on his crippled me.

  I wanted to tell him I was sorry, and that it was all going to be okay. I wanted to make him feel better.

  “Your silence is only making me more anxious,” he said.

  I laughed.

  Who cared about the stupid article when his heart was breaking?

  “It’s not crap. You can relax,” I said through snuffles.

  “So you’re not crying because it’s so bad?” He smirked.

  “Oh, I am.”

  Maybe humor would be the way to go with this. Maybe it would help me get through the turmoil inside me.

  “Ass,” he bit back.

  “What do you think I’d be doing reading this? Laughing my ass off?” I asked, punching his shoulder.

  “Well yeah. If it’s bad,” he said.

  “And what exactly would you do if I was laughing?”

  “First, I’d ask you how to fix it. Then, I’d punch you in the face,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I nodded my head in agreement.

  “Touché,” I said.

  He dropped his gaze to the notebook and paused for a minute before he spoke again.

  “Seriously, though, what do you think?”

  I looked at the notebook and skimmed over the words I’d just read.

  “It’s good. I told you. There are things you can fix, but the majority is pretty good.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s very repetitive. And probably very basic,” he hummed.

  I reached my hand across the table and touched his hand.

  “That’s stylistic choice. That’s not what I meant needs fixing. Why won’t you believe you’re good at this?”

  “Because I’ve never even as much as thought of writing as a hobby, and all I’ve been thinking about lately is writing as a career,” he said.

  “And that’s a problem why?”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  I looked down at the notebook, started to say something about the letter, but he interrupted before I could finish.

  “I’m not even talking about the letter. Anyone can write a letter. I want to write a book.”

  “I’ll repeat my previous question, what’s the problem with that?”

  “What right do I have to write a book? What knowledge or skill do I have?”

  He was so sweet to be worried about these things. I could see where he was coming from. I’d had endless talks with Nicky, a.k.a. Mona Wood, and I’d gone to various conferences and conventions with her since I met her.

  What Hudson was describing was what the majority of the writers were describing when they were starting out.

  And who could blame him?

  He’d been deprived of career options. He’d been ostracized. Looked down on.

  And now, all of a sudden, he had a dream. Did he even know how to have a dream without thinking it was a nightmare?

  “It doesn’t matter if you’re good at it now. You’ll get better. Practice makes perfect. And it applies to writing, too. As long as you have a story to tell, you’re a writer and you have every right to do this,” I told him with a smile.

  “Do you really mean that?” he asked.

  As soon as he did, a thought hit me right in the gut, and instead of answering him, I pulled my phone out to send a quick message.

  “Are you just going to leave me hanging?” he asked, and I smirked just as a response came across.

  “Yes, I really do mean it,” I told him and grinned. “But don’t take it from me. I want you to meet someone.”

  “Who?” he asked, looking around.

  “Pack your stuff,” I told him. “If you’re not going to believe me, I’ve got ju
st the right person to talk to.”

  Hudson hesitantly picked up his notebooks and stuffed them in his backpack, then followed me out of the library.

  We walked across campus, past all the outlets and buildings and the dorms, until we came out of the university campus and approached an apartment block.

  “If you wanted to do naughty things to me, we could have done them in the restroom,” Hudson said when we were buzzed in.

  “Shut up,” I told him, and we took the elevator to the penthouse.

  “You’re being really weird. Where the hell are we going?” he asked again.

  “Have you no patience?”

  “You’ve met me, right?” he smirked.

  Flashes of the blow job he gave me in the restroom the week before invaded my mind as the elevator doors opened.

  Before we even got to Nicky’s apartment, she opened the door and smiled at me, extending her arms to hug me.

  “You son of a bitch. You disappeared. Not even a call.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but she rushed to interrupt.

  “No excuses. You literally live across the road,” she said with a laugh.

  I put my hands up and pouted.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “And who is this handsome beast?” she asked, turning to Hudson.

  “I wouldn’t exactly describe me as a beast, but thanks,” he said and shook her hand. “I’m Hudson Bell. A friend of Nathan’s.”

  He cast a giddy glance at me before returning his full attention to Nicky.

  “Nice to meet you, friend-of-Nathan’s. I’m Nicky,” she said and shook his hand. “What are you guys doing here? You said you wanted to talk?”

  The last part was directed at me, and then, as if she realized how rude she was being, she opened her door wider and ushered us into her spacious, open-plan, not-so-humble abode.

  Hudson looked around him at every detail of Nicky’s stylish home, from the perfectly laid out magazines under the glass coffee table to the erotic paintings hanging off the walls.

  “Hudson is very good at writing,” I told her, taking a seat at her red, lip-shaped couch. “And he’s interested in becoming an author. But he doesn’t think he’s got what it takes. Or that he can do it.”

  Hudson’s head snapped in my direction, then he looked toward Nicky and his face opened wide.

  “You’re Mona Wood?” he asked her, and Nicky smiled.

  “I am. Do you know my work?” Her lips pulled further to one side in a sneaky grin.

  Hudson sat close to her on the other red-lipped couch and nodded.

  “I’ve read your entire Call Boys series. And I just started your Nymphohodriac trilogy,” he said, and both Mona’s and my jaw dropped.

  “You have?” Nicky asked.

  Hudson nodded and looked from her to me, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

  “I-wow, I don’t get male readers very often,” she said. “You like them? Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t think I wanna know.”

  Hudson laughed.

  “I love them. They’re good and sweet and the right amount of raunchy.”

  Nicky narrowed her eyes, looking at me before she turned back to Hudson.

  “Wow. Thanks. So, you want to be an author? Why do you think you can’t?” said Nicky, always a woman ready to get down to business at the drop of a hat.

  Hudson sank into the sofa, shrugging.

  “I’ve never written a thing in my life. I wouldn’t know where to start. Well, I can start. I don’t know how to keep going,” he mumbled.

  Nicky nodded.

  “What sort of thing do you want to write? Like, when you picture yourself with a book, what is it? Crime, fantasy?” she asked.

  Hudson bit his lip again and looked away from both of us, choosing to stare at the Vogue Magazine under the coffee table.

  “Romance,” he said.

  Nicky’s neck pulled back in surprise and the smirk was back on her lips.

  “Really? That’s great. Any particular pairings you want to focus on?” she asked.

  “Pairings?” He looked at her with a questioning grimace.

  “Well, there’s MF, MFM, FMF, FF, MM, Reverse Harem, Poly. The options are endless.”

  “I have no idea what you just said,” Hudson said, and Nicky went on to explain.

  As it turned out, he wanted to write romances with gay pairings, a need that had clawed out of him after reading Nicky’s books and feeling like he was missing something, or wanting two male characters to fall in love instead. But he was struggling with language, descriptions, and things happening.

  He also admitted to having written three chapters to three different stories, but because they led nowhere, he just stuffed them in a drawer and forgot about them.

  Why did he insist on becoming more and more endearing? The rock solid, bully I’d come to know in high school had never been real, had he?

  The best friend he used to be was still there, but Hudson, this Hudson sitting in front of me, was a different man altogether, even to that little farmer boy. Whoever said people don’t change hadn’t met Hudson.

  His mom leaving him must have changed his character as well as the course of his life.

  He had a delicate soul. A broken heart.

  And I was messing further with the pieces by playing with his emotions.

  It was always mainly the thought of stopping myself from getting hurt that held me back from leading Hudson on and taking it further with him—not that I was doing a great job—but, listening to him talk, I realized I was scared of hurting him, too. In equal measure.

  Nicky withdrew to her office space by the window with a view of the whole Harlow U and the city beyond it and returned with a load of books.

  She went through all of them with Hudson, and when we left, he was like a child at an amusement park, beaming and skittish with gifts that he was excited to open and explore.

  Nicky had insisted he take a few of the books, claiming they were clogging up her space since it’d been a while she’d had a need for them.

  Deep down, I thought she was glad to find someone new to share her passion with in real life. They even exchanged numbers so he could message or call her if he had any questions.

  “I’m gonna start on this as soon as I get on the bus,” he said, picking up a book about plotting.

  “You don’t want to catch a ride with me? I’m heading home for the weekend.”

  Hudson smirked and touched his forehead on mine.

  “Sure. I’ll catch a ride,” he said. “With you.”

  The elevator doors opened to the ground floor, and Hudson gave my butt a squeeze before he walked out, and I had to force myself to walk out despite my hard-on getting in the way. I couldn’t let the people waiting to get on the elevator see me readjust myself.

  I hadn’t even thought about “benefits” when I offered to drive him, but now it was all I could think about from Nicky’s house all the way to campus and the parking lot.

  What was wrong with me? Two seconds ago, I was talking myself out of the “benefits” of our friendship to avoid hurting him, and now I’d gone back to the horny, adolescent Nathan?

  He’s not funny.

  I tried to remind myself why I couldn’t be with him by running through my list in my head.

  Although he can be cheeky, which is sort of funny.

  Fuck. That’s not how it works Nathan! Focus.

  He’s not romantic.

  Although he wanted to write romance. And that was quite romantic.

  He’s not smart.

  Although that was a lie. He might not be smart in the traditional sense, but he wasn’t stupid either.

  He’s not caring.

  But he brings me fruit in every lesson and asks me about my day.

  He’s not good.

  But he was sweet and thoughtful.

  Agh! This wasn’t working. I needed to update my list.

  When did it get so easy to tick those boxes, anyway?r />
  Twenty-Seven

  Hudson

  “Stop it, Hudson,” he said halfway through the car journey.

  “What? Why?” I asked.

  “Because your hand on my dick isn’t helping,” he said.

  “But I want some benefits,” I said.

  “Not while I’m driving,” he said, still avoiding my gaze and keeping his eyes on the road.

  It was busy, and we’d already been stuck in traffic, although the road looked clear now.

  “That’s even more… beneficial,” I said, and finally he cracked a smile.

  He’d already done so much for me, I didn’t know how to thank him.

  Besides, I was hooked on him and his dick. Up until two weeks ago, I’d never even touched another man, and now all I wanted to do was touch Nathan.

  And I didn’t even care if he was in love with me or not. I just wanted to be with him all the time.

  I knew he saw me as one of his variables. Someone who would either hurt him or get hurt, but I wanted him to see me as more. As a person who could damn well make his own decisions.

  Which was why I unbuckled my seatbelt and leaned over Nathan’s crotch.

  “What the hell are you doing? Put your seatbelt back on,” he said.

  I couldn’t believe he introduced me to Mona Wood, and I couldn’t believe she’d been so sharing about her work.

  I might still think I had no business writing, but thanks to Mona, I’d locked that little voice in the back of my head, and with the materials she’d provided me, I was eager to start something, anything, and practice.

  She had even talked about money with me. Which was unexpected. I barely even knew what to do with myself and there she was telling me how much money I could make with the proviso I wrote good books.

  For the first time in forever, I felt hopeful for the future. If I could write and even make a tenth of what she was making, I’d be able to get out of Cedarwood Beach and away from Dad.

  But also Nathan.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that leaving Cedarwood, and Virginia, would take me away from Nathan, too.

  “Hudson, don’t—” he complained, but then I bit down on his cock over his jeans, and he shut up real quick. “Fine. You can go on,” he said.