Jacob Michaels Is... The Omnibus Edition: A Point Worth LGBTQ Paranormal Romance Books 1 - 6

by Chase Connor

  “Rob’s fine.” I rolled my eyes since her back was turned. “Water, please.”

  “I’ll call you whatever the Hell I want.” My grandmother waggled her head as she faced the stove, plate in hand. “I wiped your ass and nose, I’ll call you Robbie ‘til the fucking cows come home.”

  “Okay.” I put my elbows on the table and rested my head in my hands.

  “You must be tired from the trip.” She snorted as she shoveled food onto the plate in her hand. “Giving up that easy.”

  I just made a humming sound in response.

  My grandmother worked at the stove for a minute, doling out portions of food onto the first plate, then another. Finally, she came over to the table and slapped one of them down in front of me. Upon the plate sat a single Bratwurst, one spoonful of the potatoes and peas, and a small portion of the cabbage. Her plate held twice as much food as the one she had practically slammed down in front of me. She sat down in the seat across from me and glared at me.

  “What?” I asked it more roughly than I had intended.

  “Maybe you won’t puke it up if you don’t eat too much.” She growled back. “What the Hell have you gotten up to? You look like a goddamn corpse, and that uppity looking sweater isn’t hiding shit from me. It doesn’t cover your goddamn face.”

  “It’s a cardigan.”

  “It could be a goddamn tarp and I’d still know you weigh fifty pounds less than the last time I saw you.” She snorted. “You been on that stuff?”

  “That…stuff?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me.” She picked her fork up aggressively. “You know what I’m talking about. You been doing them drugs?”

  “Not for over a year,” I replied evenly.

  “Mmm.” She appraised me. “Ya’ sick? You got that HIV or something? Shooting up can do that. All that unprotected sex…”

  “I’ve never shot up anything, and I’ve never in my life had unprotected sex.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ve been tested every six months since I was twenty-years-old and my doctor put me on PrEP five years ago. Not that I need it right now, so that’s moot.”

  “Now, I’ve heard of that.” She jabbed her fork at me. “The boys over in Toledo at the center were telling me about how you can get it for free if you do this voucher program.”

  I nodded.

  “You still volunteer at the LGBTQ center?” I asked, picking up my fork.

  “Have been since before you left.” She shook her head like I was an idiot for thinking otherwise. “Like an asshole in the middle of the night. And it’s LGBTQIA now.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “But don’t change the fucking subject.” She skewered a potato and crammed it in her mouth. “Why the Hell do you look like Death warmed over, Robbie?”

  I used my fork to cut a bite-size piece of bratwurst off and tentatively shoved it in my mouth. It was delicious. And I wanted to puke. But I chewed it and swallowed, managing to not grimace.

  “I’m tired,” I replied. “I’m…I’m just tired, Oma.”

  “Well, tired calls for a nap.” She snorted once again. “You look like you’re ready for the dirt.”

  It wasn’t my intention, but I dropped my fork on my plate and put my head to the table. And then the tears came. Silent, but big and wet, rolling out of my eyes onto the wood directly beneath my face.

  “Put your napkin under your face, so you don’t ruin the finish.” My grandmother stated blandly.

  I just did as I was told and slid the cloth napkin under my face. For what seemed like forever, I cried exhausted tears, wondering how I had let myself get to this place physically, emotionally, and mentally. How was I back at my Oma’s house in the middle of nowhere, looking skeletal, all of the life I had completely gone. When the tears finally stopped, I sat up, puffy faced, surely, with red eyes, absolutely, and picked my fork back up.

  “I hope you didn’t come here for sympathy.” She eyed me. “You’re welcome here as long as you want, Robbie. But I’m not going to sit here and play the ‘poor pitiful me’ game with you. You just had to rush off and act a damn fool, you sit there and suffer.”

  “Thanks, Oma.” I sniffled wetly and cut off another piece of sausage. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “Count on me?” She scoffed. “Who the Hell got up in the middle of the night when you called last night and made up a room with fresh sheets, aired out the room, and made it livable again? Damn right, I’ll take your thanks. And whatever gift’s in that bag, ya’ little asshole.”

  “Could you not…”

  “No, I cannot.” She stopped me. “And if you weren’t so goddamn special now, you’d have remembered your manners. You left here in the middle of the night, sixteengoddamnyearsold, without so much as a word, and I haven’t seen an inch of your skin more than three times in the decade since.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Oma, but…”

  “And I don’t give a good goddamn how special you are in Hollywood—or all over the world. You’re here. You’re only going to hear the truth from me, Robbie.”

  “Rob.”

  “Thought you’d been going by ‘Jacob’?” She waved me off. “Of all the dumbass things. Like Robert Wagner is such a bad name.”

  “Of course it’s not bad.” I shook my head, shoving another piece of the sausage into my mouth. “But, surely, someone of your age is aware that there’s already an actor by that name?”

  She waggled her head again.

  “Still better than ‘Jacob Michaels’.” She replied. “Sounds like a goddamn rock star or porn star.”

  “Well, I have been known to put on a concert,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah, yeah.” She waved me off. “I saw that on T.V. Royal Albert Hall—aren’t you fancy? Okay. So, that show was pretty good. But you’re not as special as you think, Robbie.”

  “I played Carnegie, too. Twice.” I looked up at her.

  She couldn’t help herself, she chuckled.

  “I don’t think I’m special, Oma.” I sighed, sliding my fork into the potatoes. “I’m just tired now. Nothing else.”

  We ate in silence for several minutes, casting glances at each other from time to time, trying to find some middle ground.

  “You ever at least get your GED?” She asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I got it when I was twenty-one and had a break.”

  “Well, a postcard or something telling me as such would’ve been nice.” She said. “Or, ya’ know, you could’ve called or told me on one of your brief visits.”

  “Oma. I’m sorry.” I said, totally devoid of energy. “Can we finish this fight tomorrow? I just don’t have it in me.”

  “I doubt you’ll be up before Monday.” She rolled her eyes. “But you can bet your ass we’ll fight then, too.”

  “Great.” I spat. “Can’t wait.”

  “What’s in this goddamn bag?!” She growled, yanking the gift bag out of the chair at the side of the table.

  My grandmother yanked the paper out of the top of the bag and pulled out the box holding her gift. The ladies at the store had wrapped it for me. I had done the shopping myself, but I’d paid for gift wrapping. When you drop nearly so much money on one item, you may as well splurge and get the item professionally wrapped. I didn’t try to get the purse for free or even at reduced cost directly from Balenciaga. If they found out I was just giving it to my grandmother, they wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. My grandmother pried the box open violently, then stopped suddenly, her face going blank.

  “Do you like it?” I asked blandly.

  “It’s a purse.”

  “It’s a Balenciaga,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t know what the Hell that is…but this is goddamn gorgeous is what it is.” She mooned over the bag inside. “How much this set you back?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, if it cost more than a hundred bucks, I’ll beat the Hell out of you.”

  “Then it cost fifty,” I replied.

  �
��Fifty my cellulite-riddled ass.” She laughed suddenly, yanking the bag out of the box and turning it over and around, looking at it from every angle. “Black goes with everything.”

  “Balenciaga goes with anything.”

  “I’ll tell people it’s a Coach bag.” She nodded, making me cringe. “No one knows what the Hell Balensiatcha or whatever is. And no one knows how to pronounce that.”

  “People in Spain might disagree, but whatever makes you happy, Oma.”

  “You went to fucking Spain for a handbag??”

  “No.” I laughed loudly. “There’s a shop in Beverly Hills.”

  She waggled her head again, but her spirit wasn’t in it. The bag was just too exquisite for her to pretend she wasn’t impressed. My grandmother examined the bag inside and out, getting more and more impressed the longer she looked at it. Then, suddenly, she seemed to have a thought.

  “The boys at the center will love it.” She beamed. “You don’t know him because you haven’t been here in forever, but Carlos, he’s a drag queen, and he’s my favorite of all my boys—he loves fashion. He’ll be jealous as shit. You think we could order one for him?”

  “It cost over fourteen-thousand dollars,” I said evenly.

  “Well…shit.” She held the purse to her chest as she stared down at it. “Can you get him something nice—but not that nice? Maybe some nice high heels or something?”

  “I’ll order something for Carlos, Oma.” I just agreed so that I wouldn’t have to argue. “What size high heel does Carlos wear?”

  “How the Hell should I know?”

  “Well, I thought maybe you were loaning him some of your items.”

  “You’ve still got a goddamn smart mouth.” She snapped, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

  “Find out his heel size, Oma.” I waved her off. “I’ll order him some Louboutin heels. If they come in his size.”

  “Those the one with the red soles?”

  “Yes.”

  She squealed and hugged her purse.

  “You sure got over being mad at me.” I cocked an eyebrow at her.

  Even that hurt.

  “I’m happy for Carlos and me. You’re still a fucking asshole.” She snapped again. “But…thank you, Robbie.”

  “Of course.” I nodded before shoving a potato into my mouth.

  After I managed to finish the scant amount of food that my grandmother had put on my plate, drank a big glass of water, and helped her put things away, I was allowed to grab my bags and make my way upstairs. Oma was on my heels as we climbed the stairs together, her steps much steadier and spry than my own. At the top of the stairs, I was slightly out of breath, and she dashed around me down the hall. She dashed past what used to be my room when I was a teenager and went to the end of the hall.

  “What?” I pointed at my old door.

  “Turned it into a sewing room.” She answered. “I’m going to put you in your mom and dad’s old room. So, you’ll have your own bathroom.”

  “Okay.”

  I ventured further down the hall and let her open the door for me. Inside, the room was immaculate, smelled fresh, and there was nothing but the furniture to remind me of my parents. Not that being reminded of them was particularly hard on me. The furniture was all still the same—heavy, dark wood, well-made. But all of the linens were different, the pictures on the wall were bright and cheerful, the curtains were gauzy with heavier drapes pulled to the side. Early Spring sunlight streamed through the windows, making the room look absolutely cheerful.

  Oma watched as I sauntered over to the bed and set my bags down at the foot of the bed. I looked around the room, spotting the door to the bathroom off to the side. It was a relatively small bathroom, but it was private, and it was clean. That’s all that I cared about. It had a large claw foot tub and a hand-held shower head, a pedestal sink, medicine cabinet, it would be more than enough. The room itself was large, with enough room for a chest of drawers, a king-size bed, two bedside tables, and a sofa. This was almost like going for an extended stay at a B&B.

  “Don’t you smoke those cigarettes in here.” Oma snarled.

  “I’ll go outside when I smoke.”

  “And don’t do any drugs in here.”

  I glared at her.

  “I don’t do drugs.” I snapped. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “You ain’t got any on you, do you?”

  “Only prescription.” I squinted at her.

  “Anything good?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just Paxil and Nexium.”

  “Damn.” She shrugged.

  My grandmother wasn’t going to take pills that weren’t prescribed to her, so I don’t know why she was posturing. Of course, she might have just been curious about what good drugs she thought a celebrity from Hollywood took.

  “Why the Hell are you on Paxil for fuck’s sake?” She asked. “Dropping fourteen-grand on a purse take it out of you?”

  “Can we discuss it later?”

  She rolled her eyes but relented.

  “Well, get them clothes off, and I’ll get them washed.” She said, heading towards the door. “Probably have to wash every-damn-thing you brought the way you smoke.”

  “The bags were in the trunk.”

  “Well, I’ll wash your sweaters and jeans if you want.” She said. “And your underbritches. Just leave them in the hall there.”

  “It’ll all have to be dry cleaned.” I shook my head.

  “Even your underwear?!?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Well, I’m not just washing a pair of underwear. Throw ‘em in the hamper.”

  “I can do my own laundry, Oma.”

  “You don’t know how to work my machine.” She waved me off. “I don’t know that we have a dry cleaner in town. But we can run your fancy ass clothes over to Toledo when I go to the center one day next week.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. “Or I can do it myself.”

  “I bet you haven’t seen the inside of a dry cleaner or a washing machine since you were eighteen-years-old.” She snorted. “Probably wouldn’t know what the Hell to do. Probably got an assistant for all of that.”

  “She doesn’t do my laundry.”

  She was waggling her head again.

  “Just, leave me be, please.” I waved her off. “I’ll take care of my laundry.”

  “Fine.” She turned up her nose and screwed up her mouth. “I’ll bring you some dinner later.”

  “I just want to sleep.”

  “I’ll bring you some fucking dinner later, Robbie.” She stated loudly. “You can wake up to eat it and go back to bed. Then, in the morning, I’ll bring you some goddamn breakfast if you don’t feel like coming downstairs. Then you can go back to sleep. You seein’ a pattern here?!? I gotta put at least ten pounds on you before I can take you anywhere or people will think I’m living with a goddamn zombie. People around here already call me a fucking witch due to all my herbs. Don’t need them thinking I know fucking Voodoo.”

  “Fine.” I held my hands up in resignation. “Wait. What?”

  “Oh, those goddamn bastard kids of the Kelly’s?” She rolled her eyes. “Been telling their friends that I’m a witch ‘cause I live out here all alone and got my garden. One time I might’ve shot at ‘em when they came up on my property. So, they have to spread their rumors.”

  “You…shot…at children?”

  “They’re fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen.” She shrugged. “And they were too far away for the shotgun to do more than pepper ‘em. Sonsabitches sure knew to scatter when they were being shot at, though. If you talk to Sheriff Dennard, I didn’t tell you that. He’s still all kinds of pissed off.”

  “The Kelly’s are still having kids?” I asked in disbelief. “They were ancient when I was a kid.”

  “They aren’t Clancy’s and Darby’s, you idiot.” She laughed. “Their son took the house over when they moved down to Florida and moved his pug-u
gly wife and kids into the house with him. They’re all butt ugly. Hair the color of a baboon’s ass. I’m telling you. If ugly was a crime, they’d all be on Death Row. I know they were trying to see if I had potatoes in my garden.”

  “I know they’re white—but that’s still racist.” I frowned.

  “Fuck those ugly Irish assholes.”

  I sputtered for a few moments, then finally gave up.

  “Okay.”

  Oma seemed to give up as well when I didn’t have anything in me to say to such things.

  “Well, so, I’ll see you at dinner time.” She nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Oma went to the bedroom door and exited, pulling the door shut behind her. However, before the door was closed, she popped her head back inside the room.

  “Take a shower before you lay down.” She snapped. “Don’t stink up my fresh sheets. I don’t change them but once a week. This isn’t a goddamn resort at Disney World.”

  “Okay, Oma.” I waved her away with a sigh.

  Like I’d go to a resort at Disney World.

  I took off my cardigan and sweatshirt and hung them on the back of the bedroom door from the ancient old clothes hook. The same happened with my jeans. Then I took off my “underbritches” and threw them in the hamper inside of the bathroom. The hot water in the house still managed to expel water near the temperature you’d need to boil eggs, but it felt good against my skin and on my joints. I used the handheld shower nozzle to knock off the first layer of filth from my body and hair, then filled the tub and submerged my body. I laid in the near boiling water until I was beet red, then scrubbed myself with the lye soap in the basket hanging off of the tub. Next, I scrubbed my hair and scalp with the lavender shampoo Oma made herself. I gave my face a good scrub with the washcloth and lye soap, then sat in the tub until it was drained.

  I rinsed myself off with ice cold water, a tip I’d learned from several other people in the business. Helps close the pores and keep out dirt and grease after a good scrubbing. When I lifted myself from the tub, I looked down at my body, sighing at my knobby hips, prominent ribs, knobby knees. I got my toiletries out of my bag and brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, and applied fresh deodorant. Then I applied moisturizer liberally from the tips of my toes up to my neck. Can’t have dry, messed up skin.