Live for the Day

by Sarah Masters

  Steven smiled. “I just might have grown the set of balls I need overnight.”

  Michael nodded absently. “So much is going to change.” He’d worry even more while Steven was away now. His love for him had grown since yesterday, the elixir that it was maturing like decade-old brandy, flowing through his blood and making him drunk.

  “But it’s good change.” Steven rubbed his thumb across the back of Michael’s hand. “And nothing we can’t handle.”

  Relief spread through Michael. “That’s great to hear. So you feel you can get through whatever the future holds now? Even if it means serving out your time?” He paused, wondering if he should say what was on his mind. Would I have said it before, when we were just friends? Yeah, he would have. “Even if you don’t get lucky enough to leave—let’s face it, I can’t see them discharging you because of a broken leg and wrist.” His words were straight to the point, but he knew Steven was used to that from him.

  “But the thing is, the nightmares—they were bad while I was in hospital. So bad that…” Steven paused. It was as though he had something to admit but didn’t think he could.

  “Just tell me, man.”

  “I mentioned stir crazy, didn’t I?”

  “You did. And?”

  “I might not be able to go back because of my mental state. That’s what the meeting will be about. I… The nightmares, the daydreams—they come without any warning sometimes.”

  “I understand. So that means?”

  “That I may be put on the Permanent Disability Retirement List.”

  Michael let that sink in. Let himself hope. “So it might mean…?”

  “Yeah. That I get to stay here. But, the question is, can you handle me?” Steven’s expression—eyes imploring, his mouth downturned—was heart breaking. “I might never stop having the flashbacks. And the nightmares might get worse, my counselor told me that. Every awful thing I’ve ever seen out there might come out of the woodwork and wreak havoc in my mind. Can you deal with that?”

  Michael didn’t have to think about it. “I’ll handle whatever I have to if it means we’re together. Stand by you every step of the damn way, you got that?”

  Steven smiled a wobbly smile. “It might get tough.”

  “I don’t care about that. All I care about is you. I love you so hard, buddy.”

  Steven stood, gesturing for Michael to walk into his open arms. Michael obliged, snuggling close and pressing his lips to Steven’s neck.

  “We’ll live for today, every day,” Steven said. “Just like you said.”

  Michael shifted his mouth from Steven’s neck and planted his lips on Steven’s. Steven responded, taking the lead. They kissed for a long, long time, Michael pouring every emotion into it.

  And Michael didn’t want to be anywhere else, doing anything else. He and Steven were exactly where they were supposed to be.

  For today.

  Also available from Pride Publishing:

  Trust

  Sarah Masters

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  ‘I bet there’s always that worry, isn’t there, that you’ll never find a lifelong partner?’

  That’s what Nancy, my only friend at work, had said to me the other day. And yeah, there was always that worry, especially when I didn’t go anywhere or actively try to find someone. I didn’t see the point—since I’d come out, it seemed everyone treated me like a leper. Down in the bloody dumps, that’s what I was and, I had to admit, maybe enjoying that a bit too much. It was something to occupy my mind.

  Buck up, you silly bastard. Put a smile on your face.

  All well and good, but my face didn’t fancy stretching into a grin any time soon—and I didn’t know how to make that happen anymore.

  I left the office block, this tall, monstrous building constructed more from glass than anything else, and headed across the street. Shops—consisting of a bookies, launderette and a Tesco Express—stood in a row as though leaning against one another for support. I kind of understood their need—except I didn’t have anyone to lean onto.

  I frowned, crossing the road, annoyed at myself, because I’d slipped right back into negative thinking without, well, thinking about it. Something had to give, and as I reached the opposite pavement, I reckoned I should make a concerted effort to get happy again. So what if I didn’t have a bloke or any mates other than Nancy? So fucking what?

  On the corner, beside the bookies, the sandwich shop I bought my lunch from every day belched out the scent of fried bacon. I entered, engulfed in the coolness the air con pushed down from a ceiling grate. My skin dried, giving much welcome respite to my neck. My shirt and tie was a bitch to wear in the summer.

  I placed my order for a ham salad baguette, and while I waited, turned to stare outside. A stream of workers in the process of leaving the office block parted, forming a two-deep line in front of the curb. Any second now, half of them would cram themselves into the sandwich shop, the other half in Tesco.

  Such was lunch hour.

  I paid the weathered-looking old woman behind the counter then took my baguette outside. All right, I’d get hot and uncomfortable again, but that was preferable to being squashed inside among a load of starving people. Turning left, I walked down an alley, making my way to the terrace at the back of the shop. There were a few tables and chairs out there, and this groovy fountain in the middle of the patio that half-heartedly squirted water out of a lion’s mouth at random intervals.

  A bit like me, really, that lion. Spurts of happiness and nothing in between.

  “Fuck off,” I said, annoying myself.

  “That aimed at me, was it?”

  I snapped my head up—I’d been staring at the floor again, my usual habit lately to avoid eye contact—and glanced around to see who’d spoken. The terrace only had one person on it apart from me—that wouldn’t last long—and it was some bloke I’d seen a few times before, here and at work. I thought he was in admin, the office down the corridor a bit from the huge room I spent my days in, stuffed inside a cube answering calls from irate customers.

  “Err, no.” I gave him a wonky smile—all I could manage—and self-consciously took a seat at the table farthest from him, in the opposite corner beside a terracotta plant pot filled with some flower or other. The blooms spilled over the sides, and I gave them all my attention while unwrapping my baguette from the paper bag.

  He was staring at me. I felt the burn of it on my left cheek, experienced the need to get up and walk away. Instead, I remained in place and, angling my body a little so I partially faced away from him, I bit into the bread.

  “Taste nice, does it?”

  I had no idea what to say to that. His question hadn’t been expected, and anyway, who asked a stranger if their lunch tasted good unless they were a waitress or whatever and were paid to do so? I chewed then swallowed, mulling over whether I’d give him the time of day. Maybe he was like me, lonely and whatnot, and just wanted someone to talk to.

  Or maybe he’s like most of the others around here, getting ready to start something. Bring up what happened the other week…

  “It’s not bad,” I said.

  “Nice sandwiches here.”

  What? If he wanted to talk sandwiches, he’d be better off finding someone more inclined to discuss the ins and outs of bread and the various fillings. I wasn’t in the mood for banal chatter.

  “Lovely.” I hoped he’d leave it at that.

  “Trev, yeah?”

  Fuck, he knows my name so he must know about the other week. Great.

  “Yes, I’m Trev.” I took another bite and waited for the inevitable.

  “The bent bloke, right?”

  I finished my mouthful. Sighed. “Yes, the bent bloke.”

  “I like bent blokes.”

  That was the last thing I’d been expecting, but what if he wasn’t being genuine? Some people had lulled me into a false sense of security, making out I’d be accepted, then switched it round
and given me all sorts of crap.

  I cleared my throat. “Good for you.” Standard response, that.

  “I mean it,” he said.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  The sound of numerous footsteps clattered down the alley—men in brogues and women in high heels, I guessed—and I waited for the swarm of workers to converge on the terrace. Waited eagerly, to be honest. The patio would be filled with people then, blocking that man’s view, and if I was lucky, I’d be left in peace. Round the corner they came, a sea of faces and bodies, their presence joined by the scrape and whine of chairs being dragged from beneath tables, their voices a big old ball of different tones and pitches.

  I let out a sigh of relief, glad to get on with my lunch without feeling so…looked at.

  “I’m sure I do too.” The man from admin was standing beside me.

  I didn’t look up, kept my focus on the tabletop, although I did sneak a quick glance at his midsection in my peripheral. Shouldn’t have done that, really, what with his belt being right there, the buckle peering out from the space between his jacket opening. I tensed, expecting confrontation, and thought it best that I wait it out, see what he had to say then piss off back to work.

  “Mind if I sit with you?” he asked and gestured to the seat opposite mine.

  Between a rock and a hard place, that’s where I was. I didn’t want his company but at the same time I bloody did—wanted it more than I liked to admit. It came to something, didn’t it, when being a grown man was exactly the same as being a little kid? All the feelings were there—anxiety, panic, the need to get up and run.

  “If you want,” I said. “I mean, it’s not like I can stop you, is it?”

  “You could.” He sat, placing his sandwich on the table, the paper bag acting as a plate. “And if you don’t want me here, it’s easy enough for me to get up and walk away. No skin off my nose.”

  A part of me wanted to believe he was being genuine—a sodding big part—but the rest had decided he was up to no good. I’d been through it all before, and I resigned myself to going through it again. The false hand of friendship that would quickly change to the slap of spite.

  Only this time I wasn’t prepared to sit there until he decided to strike the first verbal blow.

  “Look, if you’ve got something to say, just say it, all right?” I still wasn’t looking at him. My baguette was more interesting, ham and lettuce spilling out of it, the suspicion of a tomato just beneath the top half. Somewhere in there was a bit of cucumber, and if I was lucky and the old lady who’d made my lunch hadn’t forgotten, a few spring onions.

  “I’ve got lots to say, Trev.”

  Here we go…

  “But I’m not sure you’d want to hear it all.”

  “Probably not, but what’s one more queer-hater to add to my list of people to avoid?” Shit, I sounded a right sour fucker, but life these days had taught me to defend myself. Be on the defensive.

  “Queer-hater?” He laughed quietly.

  It unnerved me. I prodded at my baguette, tucking some lettuce back inside. “Yes, queer-hater. You know, people who don’t like gays. So just do me a favor and spew it all out—you’ll feel better afterwards, I’m sure—then we can both get on with our lives.”

  “Bloody hell, you’ve had one hell of a number done on you, haven’t you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I wouldn’t want to add to that.”

  I whipped my head up to stare at him, wanting to catch his expression and judge whether he was being sincere. Seemed he was, going by the soft smile and what I could only wish in my wildest dreams was compassion in his brown eyes. Could have knocked me down with a feather, seriously.

  “Oh right,” I said. “So you’re all right about gays, then?”

  “I’d have to be, wouldn’t I?”

  “Not necessarily. A lot of people aren’t.”

  “Don’t I know it, but it’s how you deal with it that matters.” His smile widened. “Sticking two fingers up at the world works wonders. Oh, and shaking your arse at straight men is another. Scares the fuck out of them. Makes them think you want them.”

  I frowned. He’s gay? Was I going to fall for what he’d said? Was I fuck. “If this is just another tactic I’ve so far not experienced, where you make out you’re bent then admit you’re straight, get a move on with it, will you?”

  He pursed his lips. I took a proper look at him then. Average fella, someone you wouldn’t glance twice at. Brown hair, a bit shaggy and in need of a trim, brown eyes, slim nose, rounded chin. Some would say he needed to lose a few pounds, but not me. He had a nick from a razor on his neck. All in all, just a bloke.

  “Been put through the wringer, haven’t you?” he asked then bit into his sandwich. Tuna mayo, heavy on the mayo.

  I sniffed, my stomach growling, reminding me that my baguette was sitting untouched. “Whatever.” Yeah, I sounded rude, but that was self-preservation for you. Ward them off before they got the chance to wound and all that.

  “D’you fancy going out after work?” he asked.

  I widened my eyes at that. Come on. Asking me out was going a bit far.

  “Where to?” That wasn’t what I’d intended to say, but the words were out now and there was no taking them back. Oh, I could get up then walk away, leaving what I’d said behind, but, perversely, I wanted to stay and see this through to the end. Even if I did get hurt. He’d wind me up, set a time and place, and I’d go there, standing alone while waiting for him to appear. And he never would. Tomorrow, there’d be sniggers at work, everyone knowing I’d been stood up. It would only be the second time it had happened.

  I was a glutton for emotional torture, me.

  “Okay,” I said, sighing the word to let him know I was well aware of his game. “Where d’you want to go?”

  He shrugged. “Not bothered. You choose.”

  Well, that was a first. Last week they’d picked the location, with several vantage points for other people to hide and watch the show. As far as me standing there like a lemon could be a show. Yeah, I really had been put through the wringer. All the joy squeezed out of me, my mind a limp rag.

  “I have no idea what you like doing, so me picking somewhere to go…” I shrugged.

  “So I’ll tell you what I like doing, shall I, then you’ll have more idea of where we can go.”

  “If you want.”

  “I do want, otherwise I wouldn’t have suggested it.”

  This man was either a bloody good actor or he was being earnest. I couldn’t make my mind up which it was.

  “I like walking,” he said. “Just walking, not knowing where I’m going and letting my feet take me there. I love reading—same kind of scenario. I pick up a book, having not read the stuff on the back, and find out where the book will take me.” His eyes seemed to light up. “I like art—boring but true—and visiting galleries so I can play this game I always play. Nerdy game, but I enjoy it. I try to imagine what the artist was thinking while they were painting. A bit like people-watching, where you invent lives for them, knowing your scenarios are probably so far removed from the real thing but doing it anyway.” He lifted one shoulder, tilting his head toward it, as though he felt sheepish.

  He was genuine—out and out bloody genuine.

  And I had no idea how to deal with that.

  He’d spoken so—what was the word?—effortlessly, like what he’d said had come straight from inside, not fabricated to match the moment or convince me to like him. When I thought about it, he’d admitted to being what some people would think of as boring. I thought he was downright fucking brilliant to like doing those things—I liked the same shit. Weird, that.

  “Okay,” I said, planning what I was about to say next. I fiddled with a strip of lettuce that I hadn’t managed to poke back inside before. “What about The Atrium?” I wanted to test him, see if he’d heard of it.

  “The best choice. You ever sat in the seating area there and just watched a
ll the people as they come in?”

  “No, but I gather you have.” So he knew exactly where I was on about—a good sign. The Atrium was an art gallery tucked away behind the high street, hidden from general view and, I supposed, only known about if you were into art.

  “Many times.” A faint blush crept onto his cheeks. “Well, more than many. I don’t have much else to do but visit places like that.”

  This bloke… I told myself he was the real deal, someone I might be able to hang around with once in a while. A friend, a person who shared my interests. I let my mind wander, imagining us doing all sorts of things, knowing that if we did my life would be a lot richer. Less lonely.

  Fuck it. I’d take the chance.

  “Seven o’clock all right with you?” I asked. “By the statue of the naked lady in the foyer?”

  “Yep, that’ll do me.”

  “Good.”

  I stood, a tad abruptly, and grabbed my baguette. I stumbled away from the table, acutely aware of the stares from the other workers. Shit, had they been watching me with that man?

  That man. Christ, I didn’t even know his name.

  Order your copy here

  About the Author

  Sarah Masters is a multi-published author in three pen names writing several genres. She lives with her husband, children, and three cats in an English village. She writes full time and is also a cover artist and blog designer. In another life she was an editor. Her other pen names are Natalie Dae and Charley Oweson.

  Sarah is busy co-authoring with Jaime Samms. They have several books in mind so will be writing for a couple of years to come! She also needs to finish her M/M novel, the tale she’s dubbed The Book That Doesn’t Want To End. She’s at the last chapter but is afraid to open it in case that last chapter isn’t really the last chapter…

  Email: emmyellis@live.co.uk

  Sarah loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.pride-publishing.com.