by Max Hudson
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
“Take a Chance on Me”
M/M Gay For You Romance
Max Hudson
© 2017
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 (2017.07.18)
http://www.maxhudsonauthor.com
Special thanks to the following volunteer readers who helped with proofreading: Scotty Z, Ann Attwood and those who assisted but wished to be anonymous. Thank you so much for your support.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter One
“Shit!”
Blood flowed from the wound Jake had just inflicted on himself. His thumb throbbed. Dammit! Just what I need right now! Dropping the knife on the counter, he held his injured thumb under the running tap and then wrapped it in a clean paper towel. Going to the drawer where he kept supplies for kitchen emergencies, he withdrew the analgesic anti-bacterial ointment and a large adhesive bandage, and once he was done, he washed the sink, the counters around it, and the knife with hot soapy water and bleach. Then he finished his task on the cutting board which he retrieved from its spot on the wall.
It had been a while since he had cooked anything from scratch for anyone, including himself, but this evening’s dinner was important, both professionally and personally. Had it only been two years since he had been bound to a hospital bed, no memory of what had brought him there, no feeling in his legs…no leg on the right side below the knee? Panic and rage had warred in him then, with a heaping helping of bitterness and guilt on the side. Before his discharge, Purple Heart medal tucked in with his skivvies, former Army Captain Jacob Pratt had been a respected leader among his peers. He still kept in contact with the few to whom he was closest, the men who had stuck by him in all those dark months, after he had returned to the U.S., his body broken from a surprise enemy attack in Afghanistan. He couldn’t even wipe his ass back then, or blow his nose, or feed himself. He’d growled and snapped at anyone who refused to let him lick his wounds alone.
And when his memory returned, he’d snarled out his furious grief for the men he should have saved, drowning in his guilt over their deaths in almost rabid PT, determined to be the man he was before. Before his life spiraled out of control in the hot dusty streets of a war-torn village half a world away. But those who knew him best had rallied around him, even when he raged at them. Finally, he had given in to their persistence and sought counseling, bitching and screaming inside the whole time. It infuriated him that he couldn’t manage his emotions like the tough-as-nails soldier he was supposed to be.
As he finished prepping the chicken breasts and made the stuffing, he remembered the first time he had gone to see the therapist. Next to Jake, the man was small in every way, except in his personality, which took no prisoners. He had handled Jake’s hostility with calm finesse, shaking his hand in a strong grip, looking him in the eye despite the height difference between them, not backing down when Jake spat out his fury and impotence in their sessions. He pushed Jake, goaded him, forced him to consider his emotions, to separate raw feelings from hard facts, to see what his heart wouldn’t let him forgive himself for knowing…that he couldn’t have done anything to save his men. That the power had not been his, that it had not been his time to make the ultimate sacrifice.
And Doug had done it all without making Jake feel more like a fool than he already had done for needing to talk out his issues with a stranger. He knew he would still be in that dark place, with no light in sight, without someone who he could bare his soul to. Now, Doug Wilder was a friend, which made it more difficult for them to keep their professional relationship. But Jake figured he had learned enough to make it on his own, and he knew Doug would have his back if he needed to vent.
It was Doug who had helped him figure out that he didn’t want to go into security, like so many of his Army buddies had done when they ended their time in the military. He’d had enough of guns and war, of being responsible for the safety of others. His nightmares, which had become less and less frequent over the past two years, were filled with the violence of his former profession. He had saved many but, in the end, he had failed to save his team. He couldn’t in all good conscience ask anyone to trust him to secure them or their possessions ever again. He couldn’t trust himself…that right there was the naked, galling truth. He ground his teeth at the idea that he had lost his nerve, his confidence in himself as the protector. But there was nothing he could do to change the way things were.
Instead, he drew on his other strength. He was an artist, and had always been. If he had time, when his men needed relief from the heavy weight of war, he had entertained them with sketches and cartoons. Sometimes he took candid shots of them on his phone, of the landscape, war torn and poignant, and shared them with whoever wanted them. And every time he was stateside, he had chosen to frame the five he liked best and discard the rest. These days, his paintings and photographs were bringing in unexpected financial returns, and had been over the last few months. Now he was poised to start his own business.
Doug had encouraged him to explore his talents, to enter competitions, to send his work out to publishing houses and museums, to set up a website to display and sell them. That had partly been a therapeutic move…if Jake were busy working, he’d be too busy to stay in his head, and the deep grief and guilt would have little to feed on. The strategy had worked remarkably well, enough that when they decided to end their professional relationship, Jake had kept it together with just his immersion in his work. And starting a new business was a whole different kind of challenge for him, one that he welcomed and surprisingly enjoyed.
Tonight’s dinner was to network with a couple of small independent publishing houses, specializing in science fiction and fantasy and LGBT novels. They were looking to hire new artists for their cover designs, and Doug kn
ew someone who knew someone in one of the companies—his boyfriend was a web content manager in one of the two houses. Rather than take them out to a fancy restaurant, where he would have to lay out a lot of money with the possibility of little or no return, Jake had invited them to dinner at his farmhouse just far enough away from New York City to be considered exclusive without being quite rural.
He finished the prep and began to cook. The wine was chilling—he wasn’t one of those people who thought wine shouldn’t be chilled beyond room temperature. It was the height of summer, and he’d rather not offer his guests lukewarm wine. He had also bought some beer and a few bottles of flavored seltzer for people who might prefer non-alcoholic beverages. There was no soda, but he also had hard liquor, if anyone cared for that instead. His cell phone rang, and he closed the oven door and went to answer it.
“Jake Pratt.”
“Hi, it’s Doug. Need any help?” Doug’s voice boomed over the phone. For such a little guy, he had a remarkably powerful voice.
“No, I’m good. But if you’re looking to come out earlier, feel free. The pool’s ready for guests now.”
Doug laughed. “You know me too well. But I don’t want to leave John behind, and he’s just brought home a mutual friend we haven’t seen in a while. I was just wondering if you can handle one more for dinner. Dave’s a writer with one of the companies, and he’s looking for a cover design for the last book in his first series, so it’d be good for business.”
“There’s enough food here to give everyone a care package when you leave, so yeah, I can handle one more for dinner.” Jake considered for a moment, and then added, “And if the client’s with you now and doesn’t mind hanging out until dinner time, you can still come straight on out and enjoy the pool.”
Trying to be more sociable like Doug always encouraged him to be, he extended the invitation. If it would do his business any good, he would hobnob with anyone who was a potential client, even though his knee jerk response was to refuse. Going back to the table, he added an eighth set—dinner plate, knife, fork, and spoon, water glass, wine glass. He eyed the buffet setting. Thank God his father had insisted that he work in their restaurant as soon as he was old enough to do so legally. He had inherited his love of cooking from his chef dad and his love of art and design from his interior designer mom. He had made sure to cook every time he was stateside between deployments, and once he was discharged from hospital and could move effortlessly on his prosthetic leg, it had become the other therapeutic strategy he used to help him cope with the ever-present grief.
An hour later, he heard a car drive up and went to let his friend in. Doug led the way, walking ahead of two men who were taller than he was. One he recognized as John, Doug’s boyfriend. The other was a shockingly handsome stranger. Jake thought he ought to recognize the visitor, but when they reached the front door, he still couldn’t place him. The man was almost as tall as Jake’s own six five, as wide in the shoulders, with eyes the color of a cat’s, and a walk to match. Something all too familiar, but long unfelt, stirred in Jake at the sight of his mystery guest. His gut clenched, his chest tightening, his breath hitching in awareness when their eyes met. He swallowed and reminded himself that the stranger was a potential client.
“Jake, my friend!” Doug, whose own height still only brought his head up to Jake’s shoulder, reached in and hugged him. It had taken Jake almost a year to get comfortable enough to let anyone touch him like this, but Doug felt familiar, and safe.
“Good to see you again, Doug,” he said, ushering them all into the living room. “John, how are things?”
“Better and better, Jake,” John said, fist bumping him. Then he turned to the stranger. “David Moussa, meet Jacob Pratt. Jake, my friend Dave.”
“Welcome,” Jake said, extending a hand and bracing himself for Dave’s touch.
The younger man hesitated for just a moment, as though he wasn’t sure of what to do, before extending his own with a smile. Jake shook Dave’s hand, which was warm and hard, and fitted into his own with ease. He loved Dave’s firm grip, and had to will himself to let go. It shouldn’t be so difficult, and he neither understood nor liked it. He clenched his fist, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his jeans to lessen the feeling. Instead, he turned away, saying as he did so, “Help yourselves to drinks, unless you want something else. I have beer and seltzer in the kitchen.”
“I’ll sort out drinks,” Doug offered, eyeing him knowingly. “You go ahead and finish up.”
Grateful for Doug’s understanding—he was shaking from the rush of emotion that had swept over him at Dave’s touch—Jake retreated to the kitchen and lost himself in the task of finishing the meal. Starters, entrees, dessert…everything was ready. He hurried through a shower after that and donned black slacks and a white button-down cotton shirt, open at the collar. He could feel the tension gathering in his limbs, and he tried to relax, knowing if he didn’t he’d be in pain by the end of the evening.
Forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply, he waited until he felt more in control before venturing back into the living room. His other guests began to arrive minutes later, giving him something to do other than focus on his breathing and his hyper awareness of Dave. The three women and one man who arrived within moments of each other greeted everyone with hugs and handshakes, and Jake called them for dinner immediately.
“Damn! Doug forgot to mention that you’re a chef as well, Jake!” Emma Stokely said, licking her lips as she ate. She was the publishing rights manager for one of the houses. “This is delicious. Can I get the recipe?”
“You can have anything you want, Emma,” he replied with a quiet chuckle, “though I would be careful how you throw the word ‘chef’ around. My dad would disagree with you completely.”
Doug and John laughed, knowing Jake’s story well, and Jake sat back and let Doug tell it, while he surreptitiously watched his unexpected guest. The younger man was quiet, though not shy. He was watching the others, as Jake was, and when their eyes met for the second time, Jake’s whole body flushed with heat. Those cats’ eyes were hypnotic, drawing him in, effortlessly seducing him to get lost in them. This man represented trouble with a capital “T.” And the last thing Jake needed was any more problems.
He dragged his eyes away, tuning back into the conversation in time to hear Doug say, “Jake’s dad owns the Scotch Bonnet restaurants. How many now, Jake?”
“If you’re counting the one he’s about to open in New York City, four.”
“I’ve heard of that place.” Dave spoke for the first time, his voice a husky brush of sound. “My parents went there for their thirtieth anniversary, and they loved it. Best meal they ever had. They both said so.”
Jake smiled at him. “Well, I’m glad they enjoyed it. Dad’s been a foodie all his life. He’ll be happy to know he made someone’s day.”
By the time he was ready to serve dessert, everyone wanted to know what was in the stuffing of the bell peppers and what the risotto was flavored with. His roasted garlic-and-onion potatoes were cheered as smoky and sweet, and everyone wanted seconds of the salad. Remembering to celebrate his victories, Jake relaxed and enjoyed the praise. He loved knowing that he had succeeded in pleasing his guests. At least he got something right, for a change.
“Get out of your head, my friend.”
Doug’s voice brought him back to the moment. He had come out to the kitchen to help Jake bring the bowls in to the guests.
“Sorry. Just remembering to accept praise.”
“Just don’t go any further than that. The food was great, and you’re impressing the pants off everyone.”
“Good to know.”
Now Jake was eager to get on with the business portion of the evening, needing to set out his work before the eyes of the assembled group. If anything was to come of all his hard work in the kitchen, it would happen when they saw what he could do out of it. He had set up the video presentation in his media room, and before long, Doug had t
hem all gathered in the space for the viewing.
Jake talked about the pieces, about the places that inspired them, the people he saw, the feelings they drew from him, losing himself in his passion for the work he had selected to share. There were sketches, landscapes, still life drawings and paintings, portrait paintings and photographs, and everyone had something to say about what they were seeing.
“Do you know any of these people in the pictures?” That question from Scott Brady, the art editor at the other publishing house.
“No. I used a new zoom lens I had just bought for those. I wasn’t even trying to get them originally, but when I saw them, I knew I had to capture them. The composition was just too perfect to pass up.”
“I only ask because you’re really good at capturing their expressions. Would you be interested in doing some work with models?”
Jake blinked. He had not expected to be asked such a question, but he recovered quickly. “Absolutely.” He kept his response short, not wanting to give away the hope that was beginning to well up inside him.
“Here’s my card. Give me a call in a couple of days. We may have some work for you.”
Keeping his expression cool, Jake accepted the card with thanks. Then the talk turned to his drawings and paintings. He hadn’t known what to expect, and he hid his worry when they asked about his experience working with novelists. Suppressing his nervous tension, he fielded their questions as calmly as he could.
“I’ve only been out of the Army for a little over two years,” he told them, “and I’m just beginning to find my feet again. I owe Doug a great deal for helping me figure out that this is what I want to do going forward. So, I’m open to suggestions for how to get that done.”
“Are you a reader, Jake?” Dave asked, startling him. He had been quiet throughout the presentation.