by Max Hudson
“Be Mine”
M/M Gay Romance
Max Hudson
© 2019
Max Hudson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is intended for Adults (ages 18+) only. The contents may be offensive to some readers. It may contain graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations. May contain scenes of unprotected sex. Please do not read this book if you are offended by content as mentioned above or if you are under the age of 18.
Please educate yourself on safe sex practices before making potentially life-changing decisions about sex in real life. If you’re not sure where to start, see here: http://www.jerrycoleauthor.com/safe-sex-resources/ (courtesy of Jerry Cole).
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Products or brand names mentioned are trademarks of their respective holders or companies. The cover uses licensed images & are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are simply models.
Edition v1.00 (2019.02.06)
http://www.maxhudsonauthor.com
Special thanks to the following volunteer readers who helped with proofreading: Chris F., E.W. Gregg, Bob, Jon Niehus, Penny T. and those who assisted but wished to be anonymous. Thank you so much for your support.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Free Book “A Tale of Two Quarterbacks”
Chapter One
A dramatic burst of light shot through the glass double doors, barreling into the front room of the El Paso Word, which hosted an assortment of activity. Phones rang intermittently in between hushed chatter, as the sounds of papers rustling and keys clacking filled the rest of the space. Within a few minutes, the room was awash with natural light, interrupting the flickering incandescent bulb that hung directly over a mopey-looking cartoonist's desk.
Mark let his eyes wander up to that pesky rectangle at the same time that the sun began spilling further into the room. He squinted at it, cursing it silently while his lower lip twitched with annoyance. As his gaze fell back down to the blank paper underneath his hand, he gripped the felt pen between his left forefinger and thumb before pressing it determinedly to the paper.
“Cursed deadlines,” he grumbled. “Why did I agree to you?”
He was a cartoonist, a writer, a creator, and an existential-crisis-always-at-the-ready sort of man, with a sour demeanor that crowded his handsome features. He stroked his mustache and trailed his fingers along his goatee thoughtfully, allowing his facial features to relax for but a second before finally plunging his pen upon the paper. A series of lines erupted, connecting together seemingly without organization until most of the picture became evident. The black lines shined strikingly bright in the new day's sun that filtered through the windows.
It was a goofy shark holding a newspaper.
He grimaced.
Just as the picture nearly came to completion, he snatched up the paper and crumbled it up to toss into the overflowing bin next to his chair. This wasn't his usual spot. In the back—the far corner where the lights weren't consistently blinking—was a collection of peeled drywall covered in plastic tarp that desperately needed replacing. His boss had said this week would be when it was completed, but he had a grim feeling that it wouldn't get done until after Valentine's Day.
With his pen at the ready, he plucked another sheet of paper from the neat stack at the corner of his desk and began scribbling once more, feverishly applying pen to paper in an effort to create something of value, something to fill the space in the newspaper that was his very own. As much as he wanted to draw something utterly sadistic, he knew better than that. People liked laughing these days. There wasn't a single person in his job that appreciated his dark humor—not in the way he enjoyed it.
He stopped drawing abruptly. “Curses.”
He tossed the paper into the trash, not bothering to crumble it up as he had with several others before that one. For a moment, he regarded his surroundings with minimal interest, sending a brief sneer in the direction of his boss's office. Clive was likely tapping away on the other side of the door with his phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, ranting about next week's headlines that needed to get done today.
“Selfish trash.”
Mark rolled his eyes and redirected them to the front, noticing the way the stream of light bent against the double doors that were opening. The light struck his vision. He squinted against it and raised a hand, guarding himself from the evil rays that dared invade his creative space. When they settled, he rested his eyes upon a tall, ginger-haired man with a sweet and hopeful grin.
Well, that was different.
The man was taller than Mark by comparison and he carried with him a brown briefcase that had a perfectly good handle, but that he kept tucked under his arm. It appeared to be treasure that he was guarding—likely a great news scoop that he had found under a rock that no one had noticed yet. A camera was slung over his shoulder—so the man was an artist, too.
As the man raised his gaze to Mark, Mark found himself stunned in place. He had his pen perched against the page, but nothing came out. His shoulders tensed up toward his ears as if he had been poked suddenly in the center of his back, feeling a strange, fiery sensation forming in his gut.
The man's ginger red hair fell over his forehead in a stylish way with the rest of his hair shaved down to a professional cut. His eyebrows were much lighter than his hair, looking almost nonexistent. With broad shoulders and a confident stance, the man looked statuesque, but carried himself humbly. As the halo of light engulfed his body, Mark felt like a prophet seeing his very first angel, the one that would bring forth the good news to share with the rest of the world.
Like that would ever happen, he thought with a snort.
A smell invaded his nostrils—sage. It was a delightful scent mixed with a hint of vanilla, a warm and comforting assault on his senses that he welcomed with vigor. It was like the man was greeting him without any words, like the man's presence was enough to prompt Mark to react. Mark felt his body twitch and he shifted in his seat nervously.
And then he saw the man's eyes. They were a radiant amber leaning more toward a shade of copper with black irises that fell on Mark immediately. The man grinned.
Blushing, Mark returned his curious gaze back to the paper beneath and noticed that he had marked the page without thinking. There was a jagged shape where the pen had fallen, marking the center and rendering the paper useless. Frustrated, he crumbled it up and tossed it to the bin while keeping his eyes on his desk. A shadow passed over him. The man must have walked by.
When Mark looked up, he saw that the ginger man was making a beeline for Clive's office, walking confidently inside without even knocking. Through the wind
ow, Mark studied Clive's body language, noticing it was much friendlier and more amiable toward the ginger man than it had ever been toward Mark. A scowl took over Mark's lips, a jealous one.
His determination to develop a highly-accepted piece was renewed. Whether the gods above had sent a muse of sorts to his desk or whether he had been struck over the head by a piece of wood was unclear at this point. Did he smell toast? Was this a stroke?
Despite his strange compulsion to look back into the office, he resisted and resumed his cartooning, finding his hand was much more willing this time to create something. Something about that man had resonated with him. In fact, he could still smell the lingering whiff of sage and vanilla circling around his desk, coaxing him to look over, check the ginger man out, and get to know that body and face.
“I must be dying,” Mark mused. “Because no one ever interests me—not like this.”
Chapter Two
Tristan extended his hand to the sun-washed door, studying the way his reflection moved with him as he yanked the door open. The sound of journalism washed over him; the sound of business. He absorbed it as he stepped inside and smiled at the surrounding people working diligently at their desks.
This was his home.
With his briefcase tucked under his arm and his camera hanging down from his shoulder, he paused for a moment as his eyes wandered across the room, noticing the renovation in the back that would soon be as polished and lovely as the rest of the room. It was an innovative newspaper, one he was proud to work for, that was always improving itself with every article and each journalist.
After looking over the dismembered wall covered in plastic, his eyes fell on the man at the front desk. That was strange—he had never seen this man before. Perhaps he had worked in the back and was only here by chance. The man looked a bit disheveled, stubble sitting along each cheek with a mustache and goatee decorating his mouth. His eyes were dark, nearly-black, obsidian pools that instantly admired Tristan as he stood there.
Well, that was something Tristan definitely hadn't seen in a while. Those eyes were curious, almost inviting Tristan in, acting as a beacon through which to speak even though no words were spoken. Tristan searched them for a moment. The man had thick brows sitting above his eyes and brown hair with sandy streaks that was combed back to reveal a wide forehead. The sides of his head were shaved down originally, but were now growing out, it appeared.
There was something rather handsome about his messy appearance, Tristan noted, like an artist who was something of a chaotic mess and would get flustered with a fresh idea. Tristan noticed the pen, the paper, and that slightly frustrated expression often carried by men of artistic inclination. Tristan knew that feeling.
Though the man was thin, he looked to have some muscle definition, at least in his arms, which were visible beneath the faded black shirt. A red pumpkin sat underneath the band name in an unreadable brush-like font, and below that was the desk. Tristan's eyes flitted back up for a second to study the lock of hair that had fallen over the man's wide forehead, giving him a bit of a suave appearance for a second before the man's lips dove downward and his hands compacted the paper.
Right—there was business.
Tristan walked straight for Clive's office and entered without knocking. Clive stood promptly from his chair and greeted Tristan with a wide grin and a friendly handshake. “Ah, the exact face I want to see on a Monday!”
“I've got a wonderful article for you, Clive. I think you'll enjoy this one.”
“Another piece on the market? Well, I don't mind that. We've been looking for a few more juicy stories lately, but this will do for now.”
“Actually, this one is about the protests in Virginia. I dug deep this time. I'm sure you'll find it insightful and alarming.”
Clive perked up, his face lit with curiosity. “I do like alarming.”
“Only when it concerns exposing corrupt individuals, right?”
Clive nodded. “Of course—we want the most out of our stories in order to keep our readers coming back for more. We're one of the few papers that really digs out into the rest of the country here.”
“For a small business, Clive, you've sure done a great job of expanding into new territory. I commend you for that.”
Clive gestured to the chair behind Tristan and Tristan sat down, comfortably crossing one leg over the other.
“Though I would like to make a suggestion,” he added.
“What's that, my friend?”
“I would love to update the pictures of everyone who works here. It would certainly do well for your new look.”
“That would be excellent. Let's get you started on that immediately.”
“I can get going tonight, if that's all right with you.”
Clive nodded. “And after that, I'd like you to cover El Paso's art galleries. Maybe capture a few interviews with some of the big artists who are displaying their work. There are a few nights this week with galleries opening up.” Clive shuffled the disorganized mountain of papers on his desk and hummed giddily when he located what he wanted. He extended the small square of matted paper to Tristan. “This one—Shelly Mason—she's practically the new Wallace Verner of our age with her new age paintings.”
“Well, this looks mighty fine.”
The picture on the front of the matted page held vivid colors splattered over a canvas in what appeared to be no particular order. A chaotic mass of shifting features created a face, a frowning face, as a morphed hand held a bottle just near the edge of the frame. Shelly's name was displayed in silver foil with the information for her event just below.
“You understand it better than I do, Tristan. I'm not much for art, but our readers certainly love these local art pieces,” Clive commented.
“I'm happy to help any way I can. The more projects you give me, the more I'm content.”
“You never complain—that's why I keep you around.”
Tristan waved the compliment away. “I've only been here six months. Wait until you really get to know me.”
Clive guffawed and shook his head. “You're too much, kid. Now, go get some of those photos done. I don't want you too occupied with that project.”
“Of course, boss. I'll see you later.”
As Tristan stood up, Clive gave him a nod of approval and he left the office with renewed interest in the delectable creature occupying the front desk. He noticed the man's hand scribbling frantically over the paper and came up behind him, nodding at his work.
“Excellent line work,” Tristan complimented.
The pen scattered over the page and the man jumped. “My god, really?”
“Dear goodness, I'm so sorry! I hadn't meant to startle you. I was just--”
“Looking to fuck me up?”
The man's black eyes met Tristan's and Tristan felt the icy chill of intimidation. They were much darker than before, giving them a foreboding appearance. The cartoonist looked like a demon standing behind the garden gates, waiting to tempt Tristan into the great darkness beyond, which, Tristan considered, wasn't a terrible idea, considering how attractive the guy was.
“No, not by any means,” he said quickly. “I was just...I just liked the way you were drawing.”
“Well, now it's shit, isn't it?”
The man matter-of-factly tossed the paper into the pile of papers already occupying the trash. The paper hit the top of the pile and rolled down the side, skittering over the floor and hitting Tristan's shoe.
Tristan swallowed hard. “My apologies.”
When he met the man's eyes again, they looked a little softer. He grumbled, “No, I'm sorry. I'm being a dick.”
“Need a coffee?”
“Is that an offer?”
Tristan smiled. “It sure is.”
“I could use a coffee. Are you the new clicker?”
“...Clicker?”
“Yeah, you know...clicking the shutter of your camera.” The man pointed to the camera hanging on Tristan's should
er. “Photos, man—you do photos.”
“Yeah, I do lots of things, actually.”
“Is that right?”
Tristan smiled handsomely. “I mean, yeah.”
“God, that thing is ancient.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The man pointed again. “Really...is that from the Stone Age?”
Tristan chuckled. “I prefer it. There's something significant about film that digital cameras can't capture.”
“But how do you get them up on the website? Don't you have to spend time scanning them in one-by-one?”
“Sure, but it's a nice process to me like meditating.”
“You must be patient.”
Tristan regarded the overflowing trash can. “You must be not so patient.”
“No, I'm just a genius.” He winked. “I'm Mark, by the way.”
“Tristan Hamilton—I was just thinking of booking a shoot with you.”
“Am I that handsome?” Mark posed dramatically, fluttering his eyelids. “Is it time for my fifteen minutes of fame?”
“Indeed, it is.” Tristan bit his lower lip. “How about this evening? Are you free?”
“I am.”
“Great! Then, we'll get you all set up.”
“What about my coffee?”
Tristan looked confused for a moment before the realization had dawned over him that he had originally offered Mark a coffee. “I'll get to that.”
“Consider it an act of penance for destroying my work.”
“Of course,” Tristan agreed. “Anything to appease the great cartoonist of the El Paso Word.”
As he regarded Mark with a flirtatious look, he felt a sense of camaraderie between them. It almost felt like the kind of connection that could potentially offer more and he felt slightly frightened by that feeling. But only for a moment—just a moment.
“I'll get right on that, if you do me a favor.”
Mark glanced at him suspiciously; playfully. “What's that?”