by Max Vos
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Blurb
Trademark Acknowledgement
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
About the Author
More from Max Vos
Going Home
Max Vos
About The Book You have Purchased
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously to further the plot in this story. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by: A. J. Corza
website: www.ajcorza.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any persons depicted on the cover are models.
Editing and Formatting by: All Indie Publishing Services
website: www.allindiepublishingservices.com
Thank you for downloading this eBook. This purchase allows you ONE LEGAL copy for personal reading on your devise of choice. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution by any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law. Violators of same are subject to criminal prosecution, and, upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to: photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the express written permission of the publisher and/or author, and where permitted by law. Reviewers and/or Bloggers may quote brief passages in a review or for promotional purposes, only. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact the author directly.
Going Home
Copyright © 2014 Max Vos
www.maxvos.com
ISBN-13: 978-1502846570
ISBN-10: 1502846578
Going Home
Journalist Carter Roberts was required to interview Carl Foltz and Matt Evans for an article on their lives. It was not an assignment he relished: he just wanted to get there, get it done and get out. Thinking about the subject matter made his stomach churn.
The interview reveals as much about himself as about the two men, and for the first time, Carter learns what a real home feels like. He never would have expected that meeting the two men would change his way of thinking – and his life – forever.
Word Count: 46,761
Genre: Gay Contemporary Romance / Taboo
Warning: This book contains graphic language and sexually explicit content. Intended for adult audiences only. Not intended for anyone under the age of 18.
If you have any reason to think that you cannot or will not tolerate any type of mature subject matter, please do not continue. If you have any issues with any type of taboo, or what you may consider taboo material, please do not read. If you have a closed mind about any sexual activities whatsoever, please put this book down or delete it now. If you truly believe that love is love, then by all means, continue.
TRADEMARKS ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following word marks and names mentioned in this work of fiction:
Trademark – Copyright Holder
Ford Motor Company
Heineken Beer
Jose Cuervo
Coca Cola
JC Penny
Google
American Kennel Club
Dedication
I’d like to dedicate this book to all those who keep reading my stuff. Those who let me keep pushing all their buttons, incinerating the envelope, and allowing me to write what I want, or feel needs to be written. To all of those who truly believe that love is love.
Thank you.
Chapter 1
I HATED ASSIGNMENTS like this—where I had no choice in the matter. There were fellow colleagues of mine who told me how lucky I was, because most of the time, I had the privilege of picking my own stories to write. Only occasionally had I bowed before the powers that be, and completed a story that I had to do. This, however, took the cake.
While most of my graduating class was still out looking for work in journalism, I was getting ready to celebrate my second year with an internationally known magazine, writing featured articles. Of course, it was a gay publication, and most would consider that not real journalism. However, I would wager that those who said that had never read it either. And while they were shacked up with their parents, sending out resume after resume, I was pulling down a decent paycheck, usually with an article in print every month. I shouldn’t be complaining. Right?
Thinking again about the subject matter and where I was headed made my stomach churn. I remember having a professor lecture on being objective to any article and not letting personal beliefs get in the way of telling the true story, but I bet he'd never had to deal with this subject matter. I personally thought it was disgusting, perverted, and so far out there that no one would want to read about it for those very reasons. I tried to put myself in the same situation, and it made me so sick to my stomach this morning that I couldn’t even eat breakfast, it so turned me off. Hell, it was all I could do to get some coffee down.
I flew into Louisville, Kentucky, the night before so I could get an early start this morning. I hoped I would be able to do this interview quickly, getting enough information so I could pump out a decent article—at least decent enough to keep my editor happy. Then getting the hell out and away from here was my goal. So here I was, in a rental car at seven a.m., following the GPS to some Podunk place in Indiana, just over the border of Kentucky. From what I could find out during my research, this place wasn’t even in a city. The closest town was twenty-five miles away, and calling it a town was being generous. The closest decent sized city was Louisville, and that was almost one hundred and fifty miles away. What kind of life could a gay man have that far from civilization? Didn’t take me but a minute to understand that, because of the life this couple lived, they would want to be secluded—would have to be.
Plugging my iPhone into the car’s stereo system, I cranked up the tunes. My mind drifting, I started thinking of my family and growing up. I snorted. What family? I was thirteen years old before I finally figured out it was distain on my mother’s face when she looked at me.
It was while at my Aunt Louisa’s house during summer vacation. Her house was a mansion compared to our house, and she had a swimming pool, which is why we were there that day. I knew growing up that Aunt Louisa was rich, which in part was why I hated visiting.
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, and make sure you say Ma’am and Sir, and for God’s sake don’t touch anything!” It was my mother’s mantra. She said the same thing every time in the car while driving over.
On that particular day, my cousins, Brent, who was two years younger than I, and Margot, who was four years younger, had been swimming most of the morning. After lunch, while waiting the pre-determined time before we could get back into the pool, Brent was playing his new video gaming system while he allowed me to watch. It wasn’t different from any other time; Brent never let me touch any of his things. What Brent didn’t know was that some friends of mine had the same system and I had played it plenty of times. With that particular game, I mentioned that if he jumped at a certain point he could get the golden ring.
&n
bsp; “What do you know about it?” He snarled. “Mom says you’re so stupid you don’t even know how to wipe your own butt!”
I sat there stunned. Brent had always been kind of nasty towards me, and I knew Aunt Louisa didn’t like me much, but never had Brent been so vicious.
“Mom said that if it weren’t for you, Aunt Bridget wouldn’t be stuck married to your loser of a father.” Brent must have seen the surprise on my face and laughed. “Yeah, you were a big mistake, Carter. You’re the reason why Aunt Bridget had to marry your old man. He knocked her up, and now she’s stuck with you just like she is with that pathetic bean-counter dad of yours.” He was laughing now, knowing he had gotten to me.
From that point on, I noticed the way other families interacted compared to my own. It was true; my mother hated me.
My father, on the other hand, looked at me like I was some sort of science experiment. He watched but rarely interacted. He was an accountant at a law firm downtown—the quintessential nerd. I never saw him in anything other than a white shirt, black or blue necktie, and black or grey suit. Thick black-rimmed glasses hid his most striking feature, his light brown eyes. One Father’s Day, I got him a red necktie. He wore it once, and I never saw it again.
That summer was very confusing for me. The first thing that turned my world upside down was the realization that neither of my parents seemed to love or care about me. That simple fact shattered my small world, forcing me to see them for what they were. Second issue was when puberty hit me full force. Wet dreams started, followed by the discovery of masturbation, and then learning about homosexuality. To my horror, I found myself fantasizing about other boys while I masturbated. It was yet another reason for my parents to hate me.
The week before school started, my mother and I got ready to go shopping for school clothes, as we had done every year that I could remember. I hated shopping for clothes with my mother. She always complained about having to shop at what she considered ‘second rate stores’, stating that JC Penny was so blue collar. “Louisa never has to do this; she has her kids’ private school uniforms made each year.”
That year was significantly different however. She pulled up in front of the shopping mall, handed me $300.00 and told me to make sure that I got enough to last the year.
“Carter, you’re old enough now that you don’t need me to hold your hand while picking out clothes. Make sure that you get everything that you need,” my mother stated flatly. She never looked at me, never took her hands off the steering wheel other than to hand me the money, nothing, no emotion. That was the last time I would ever see my mother. She'd simply left and never came back.
One would think that things would drastically change at home, but they really didn’t. Instead of my mother opening up cans for dinner, I started doing the cooking. The biggest change in my life was that I discovered that the library was my lifeline to survival. It was at the public library that I was able to teach myself how to cook, learn about my sexuality, but most importantly, I fell in love with the written word. The world of books was my new world, and I embraced it fully.
The day I turned sixteen, I got the job of my dreams. I started working at the public library. There were many upsides to this. First, there was the money. More than anything, I wanted a car. What sixteen-year-old doesn’t? Then, there was the added benefit that I would be out of the house and away from my father, and I was able to spend time in the place I most loved. Mrs. Henderson, the head librarian, was very supportive, and became more of a mother to me than my own mother ever had been.
Even though I was working at the library, I was still able to get home, cook dinner for my father and me, and maintain a 3.8 GPA, as well as do most of the household chores. It wasn’t that I wanted to; it was just part of surviving. Everything was pretty routine. Dad got home at six, and he’d watch the evening news. Dinner was at seven, and then dad would go and watch TV while I’d clean the kitchen, then go to my room to do homework on the second hand computer my father got me. There was little, if any, communication between my father and myself. He would complement me on dinner. Once a week, he would take me to the grocery store while running other errands. Other than that there was very little for us to say to one another. We had nothing in common other than sharing a house, and, of course, genes.
One Sunday, when I got home from work, I knew something was up as soon as I walked in the door. My father was sitting in the living room, the TV turned off, no lights on, only silence. Sundays we normally went out to eat, since it was the one day I worked late. The air in the room felt heavy and still, like just before a major storm.
“Are you a faggot? And don’t you lie to me either.” My father’s voice was eerily quiet, never looking at me.
“Ye-yes,” I stammered, being completely caught off guard.
“You are no son of mine.” Without another word, still not looking at me, he got up and left.
It didn’t take me long to figure out how he found out. His computer was on the fritz so he got onto my computer to check email or something, and he must have looked at the history. Of course, he would see the gay porn sites that I had checked out, leaving no doubt as to my orientation.
Once again, I thought things would drastically change, but they didn’t. The biggest difference was that he would take his dinner into the living room to eat instead of eating at the kitchen table like we normally had. He didn’t look at me unless he had to and spoke even less. Of course, he didn’t refuse to eat the food I cooked, or decline the clean laundry I did every week.
That was the way things went for two years, until I went to college. Thanks to Mrs. Henderson, I was able to get a full scholarship to a good school. She was even able to help me get a job at the library there. The day I left, my father never said a word to me. Looking back, I wasn’t surprised or upset. The way I saw it, it’s just the way things were. I was used to it. After all, it was almost that way my entire life.
Following the GPS, my destination fast approaching, the apprehension settled heavier on my shoulders with each passing mile. Amongst seemingly acres of endless cornfields and cow pastures, I spotted a mailbox with two last names and turned down the dirt and gravel drive. I immediately slowed down to take my time on this driveway-road. There were several huge potholes, large enough to bottom out the rental I had. Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw a cloud of reddish-brown dust billowing out behind the car so thick I was unable to make out anything behind me. The road was narrow on both sides, outlined with barbed wire. On one side, I could see cows in the distance and on the other, rows and rows of cornstalks about four feet high. There was a slight curve ahead so I could see nothing but cows and corn, not much deviation from the last thirty minutes of my drive. I was starting to hear dueling banjos in the back of my head as I broke out in a cold sweat.
As I rounded the curve, I could see a house in the distance. Looking at the odometer, I saw that I had already been off the main road, if you could call it that, for almost a mile. Twenty-three minutes later, I pulled up in front of a red brick and stone single story, rancher style house with a large porch that looked as if it wrapped all the way around. There were several rocking chairs out front. There were hanging baskets, some with flowers and some with ferns. A large maple tree in front provided shade from the afternoon sun.
The drive widened out quite a bit and to the right of the house was an obvious parking area outlined by railroad ties. I parked my rental car, grabbed my satchel, and opened the door only to instantly start coughing, my eyes blinded and watering. Fighting my way out of the dust storm the car had caused, I was able to make it up the stone sidewalk, still hacking, almost sightless, tears running down my face. I made it to the front step, before I heard him.
“You Carter?”
With my eyes still watering and my mouth full of dust, I managed to look to the far left and see who had asked the question. I saw a man, but just barely. “Yes, I’m Carter Roberts,” I choked out.
“Nice to meet ya. Com
e on in the house and let me get you something to drink. Been a bit dry here lately, so the dust’s real bad.” The voice was a low baritone, the kind that vibrated through your chest if you were standing close enough. The surprising thing was how quiet it sounded, almost like a whisper. It made you want to lean in close to make sure you heard it. It made you want to hear it.
I coughed and cleared my throat. “Thanks. That would be greatly appreciated.”
Through teary eyes, I followed the voice into the cool of the house. I succeeded in walking into a large open room, without bumping into anything, with a black wood stove in the far right hand corner and a large leather sectional sofa. The oversized sectional dominated most of the living room area. An entertainment center with a huge flat screen television was mounted on the outside wall, and just beyond that, there was a hallway that must lead to the bedrooms. Off to the left was a dining room area and beyond that, a substantial breakfast bar and large country style kitchen. All in all, it was one long room. The ceiling was open to the rafters making it seem much larger. Overhead were several slow turning ceiling fans. The motors made a soft whirling noise that was almost hypnotic. The first thing I noticed was how simplistic everything was, but also how clean it was. I didn’t know what to expect, but for some odd reason I never quite expected this.
“We got ice tea, lemonade— I made this morning— some orange juice or water. Also got some beer, so what’s your pleasure?” the voice asked.
“The lemonade sounds great, thanks,” I responded.
I finally was able to focus on the person that went with the voice. I am glad he was busy setting about getting the lemonade so he didn’t see my mouth fall open. Moving around in the kitchen was a large man. I don’t mean as in heavy, I mean as in at least 6’5 with shoulders as wide as the refrigerator he was opening. The dark blue T-shirt he wore was snug, the sleeves straining, riding up the large muscular arms, exposing the hardened biceps and triceps. His waist seemed impossibly small compared to the shoulders, but his butt was a work of art.