The Flyer
Frédérick S. Parker
©2017 Frédérick S. Parker. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Published by Frédérick S. Parker 6/14/2017
Chapter 1
Uriah
First there was a clunk, then a loud scrape. Shit! It’s late. I’m tired. I don’t want to deal with this! I was in the middle of taking off my apron when the dish machine decided to malfunction. Another long Friday night and I was alone in the back. Chris and Jenna were all that remained. The bar doesn’t close ’til 1:00am. They were stuck here for at least another two and a half hours. Right now it was 11:15pm. The restaurant shut down over an hour and a half ago and I was just finishing up the dishes. At least until the dishwasher decided to malfunction. Refastening my apron, I hurried over to the retched machine and wrenched it open. Please don’t let it be serious! Looking inside, I was relieved to see that the problem was a pan that had fallen out of the rack. Reaching inside the hot seamy interior, I seized the ornery pan and stuck it back in place. Shaking water off my hands, I slammed the door shut and the machine recommenced its whooshing and churning.
Returning to the back of the dish room, I finished stacking and organizing all the clean utensils; silverware, plates, cups, pots, pans, and whatever else the kitchen staff used. There were still a few dirty dishes on the rack, but it didn’t matter. The bulk of tonight’s load was clean. I’d leave the rest to the morning guy. Wiping sweat from my brow, I once again began untying my apron from around my waist. Now all I had to do was take out the trash and I’d be done. Apart from the dishes still in the machine. I can stack them up before I clock out. Grabbing the large grey trash can on wheels, I pulled it toward the back exit. One of the wheels gets stuck from time to time causing the trash can to abruptly stop. If I don’t pay attention, I could end up on my face. Wrestling the rubbish dispenser to the back alleyway, I hauled out the bloated black bag and tossed it into the dumpster. It made a sickening splat. I was inches away from sweeping a couple fingers through my hair when I noticed what looked like vomit dripping from my palm. Gross! The trash bag must have sprung a leak. Scraping the goo off onto the side of the dumpster, I re-entered the back of the restaurant with the now empty trash can. Placing a new black plastic bag inside, I washed my hands one last time before emptying the dish machine. Once everything was put away, I let out a sigh of relief. Finally! Making my way over to the computer, I clocked out and pushed through the employee’s only door that leads onto the main floor of the restaurant. Chandelle’s Bar & Gallery is co-owned by Chandra Peterson and Adele Brickhouse. It’s located downtown not far from the University. From what I’ve heard, the duo bought it sixteen years ago. The kitchen is to the left, overlooking the dining area. To the right is the bar. Chris and Jenna were currently moving like pros, shaking and stirring drinks.
The restaurant is divided up by appearance… or so it seems. The front of the house, which includes the bartenders and the servers, are the good-looking ones. For the most part, the kitchen contains the fives and sixes. The back of the house, aka the prep staff are primarily threes and fours and, last but not least, the dishwashers are all ones and twos with me being the one exception. According to 90 percent of the employees here, I belong in the front of the house. There are definitely some servers I wouldn’t mind working along side. But that is neither here nor there. As much as I would like to explore whatever chemistry exists between me and certain co-workers, that isn’t going to happen.
Giving both Chris and Jenna a polite nod, I was about to start toward the front door when I noticed one of the guys sitting at the bar. Despite it being a Friday night there weren’t a lot of people there. Just a few barflies sprinkled along the row. This guy was different. He didn’t look like your average boozehound. He looked young; late teens, early twenties. He was sipping on a dark drink, large chunks of ice bobbing up and down. It was hard to make out the color of his eyes in the timely lit room, but they looked pensive, distant. He was attractive… very much so. He hair was a reddish brown. Short back and sides and about two or three inches on the top. From where I stood, he appeared to be in shape. He face was slim and his arms were toned, but when he shifted in his seat, I noticed a slight gut at his midsection. The way his shirt fit him, I’m guessing that was a recent development. It must have been. The fat hadn’t progressed to any other part of his body. As my eyes wander up from his stomach to re-examine his face, I tried to guess his story. He didn’t look quite old enough to drink, but neither was I and people always assumed I was over 21. I couldn’t tell if his drink was alcoholic, but he didn’t look drunk. Still, his eyes were glazed over like he was deep in thought. Serious thought. Like he was working on the problem of the century.
I guess I stared a moment too long because his eyes wandered over to me and they lost their reverent air. He studied me for a moment then looked away. But he didn’t just avert his eyes, his whole body shifted away. Did I offend him? I didn’t mean to stare, I just found him intriguing. Then again, I’m easily intrigued. Shaking my head, I continued out of the restaurant. Silly me. What am I doing checking out guys in the restaurant where I work? I don’t even know if he’s gay. Not that it matters. I have more baggage than an international airport. My past relationships speak for themselves. So, pushing the cute stranger from my mind, I headed around the restaurant to the back alley. The same one where I’d dumped the trash. I could easily head out back at the end of the night, but I always choose the front exit. Mainly to let Chris and Jenna know I’m off.
Stopping near the dumpster, I was halfway down the alleyway. It was almost pitch black here. People passing on the sidewalks would have trouble seeing me. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, I flexed my shoulders. I still had plenty of time, but they wanted to be free. I could sense it. Closing my eyes, I relaxed my muscles and let my wings out. Long, pale blue feathers emerged from my back and the alien fibers of my shirt retracted to make way. I felt the longest feathers brush my arms as the plumage continued to surface. Farther and farther my wings stretched until the tips reached well over fifteen feet to either side of me. It only took a moment for them to spring forth and I held them at their full extent for a second, letting them adjust to being free. While most of my plumage is light blue, there are a few white and sliver feathers sprinkled in. Taking in another deep breath, I straightened up and beat the air a couple times, preparing my muscles for flight. Sticks and leaves scattered and a rogue plastic bag danced. Bending my knees, I brought my arms to my side and kicked off the ground. I prefer a running start, but in the cramped alleyway, that wasn’t an option. Within seconds, I was high above the city, the wind caressing my ears and ruffling my hair. Apart from the streetlights, the city below was dark. I could see the occasional car edging down a lonely street or the rare pedestrian chancing the night alone. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to enjoy the warm night air, but something was missing. As my lids slid shut, that curious stranger at the bar glided back into my thoughts. What’s his name? What’s his story? Why is he so fascinating? My eyes snapped open. It doesn’t matter. It never does. He’s not the first person to catch my eye. I see beautiful and mysterious people all the time. Hell, I work with beautiful people, but I’m not allowed to go near them.
Until now my body was rigid, streamlined, but as I prepared to land, I relaxed. I extended my arms out to my sides and increased the beating of my wings. As the ground approached, I brought my feet down ready to greet it. Right before I touched down, I repositioned my wings. Instead of up and down, I pounded
the air in a forward/upward motion. I hovered like this for a moment and then touched down. With the Earth to support me, I brought my wings closer to my body, though, they remained slightly raised to ensure that the longest feathers didn’t brush the ground.
It was almost eleven thirty and I was tired, but a soft rumble from my stomach told me it wasn’t bedtime yet. I don’t eat at work. For me, washing dishes on a full stomach is like attending Thanksgiving dinner then jumping in the pool. Especially on busy nights. I don’t eat directly after getting off work either because flying with a full belly is equally uncomfortable. No worries. My mother always leaves something warm in the microwave. Before heading inside, I retracted my wing and climbed the front steps. Just as I predicted, the inviting aroma of barbecue ribs filled the air. Sitting alone at the kitchen table, I stuffed my face while my mind once again wandered back to the boy with the copper-colored hair. I’d been trying to decipher the look in his eyes and now I think I know what it was. Sadness. He looked sad. But it wasn’t your typical “had a bad day” sad, it was something else. Something deeper.
Washing my plate off in the sink, I headed down the hall to my room, rubbing my comfortably full belly. I may not be able to eat at work, but man can I put it away at home. My stomach gurgled softly as I released a satisfied belch. Sliding out of my shoes and stripping off my over shirt and jeans, I crawled onto the mattress and collapsed. Usually I let my wings out before I go to sleep, but tonight I was too tired. That’s fine. They’ll come out on their own. I was out the instant my head hit the pillow. I didn’t wake up until I felt warm sunlight graze my cheek. I ascended from unconsciousness to a racing heart. Interesting. Recalling last night’s dream, I had a flashback of that cute stranger. We’d been going at it like wild animals. Raw and raunchy. The lewd memory caused my dick to jerk and the next thing I knew I was cumming.
“Shit.” Still half asleep, I clumsily freed my morning wood and began frantically jerking it. I groaned as the early-morning orgasm raked through me. My manhood twitched repeatedly, spilling my seed onto my belly. During one particularly powerful spasm, a creamy jet went rogue and landed on my left wing. When my muscles finally relaxed, I struggled to catch my breath. Wow! I’ve had countless sex dreams featuring girls, but this was the first time a guy had entered the equation. Weird. That was also the most intense orgasm I’d ever had.
When my heart slowed to normal, I gingerly sat up. A few pale feathers stuck to my skin as I examined the semen dripping from my left wing. This isn’t the first time that’s happened and it probably won’t be the last. No matter. My wings are easy to clean. What I don’t like is having to maneuver them indoors. I don’t like for my plumage to touch anything. Of course, in my cramped bedroom, that’s unavoidable. I’ve asked my mother on several occasions why we can’t get a bigger house. It’s not like we can’t afford it, but her answer is always the same. We can't raise suspicion.
Crawling out of bed, I went across the hall to the bathroom. Standing under the shower, the water washed away the cum and the details of last night’s dream. I still couldn’t believe I’d had a sex dream about a guy. I might have been embarrassed, but I was too intrigued. I found myself wondering if I’d ever see him again.
Stepping out of the shower, I dried off before retracting my wings and taking a piss. Once I was in some clean clothes, I joined my mother at the kitchen table. She’d made ham and eggs.
“Good morning, honey.” she smiled sweetly at me as I piled a mountain of food on my plate. “Wow, your appetite has really grown.”
“I’m a growing boy,” I replied, fetching a fork and digging in.
“That you are.” Mom sipped at a small cup of tea for a minute or two before speaking again. “That or maybe I feed you too much.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Never mind.”
We both fell silent. Well, she was silent. I wolfed down my breakfast like there was no tomorrow. When I was halfway through thirds, my mother suddenly began to speak, her voice soft. I’d been so focused on my food, I hadn’t noticed her nervous air.
“So, uh, sweetie, do you have any plans for today?”
“Nope, just work at six.”
“Good. I was thinking about going back… through the portal.”
This stopped me mid-bite. My mother re-enters the portal every few months and it's always a nerve-wrecking experience. For both of us. Though I’ve never accompanied her on any of her trips, we both know there’s a very realistic possibility that she may never return. Suddenly I wished I hadn’t eaten so much as my stomach clenched nervously around my large breakfast.
“How long are you staying?”
“Just a few hours, but I thought I might give you a ride into the city before I leave. It could give you some time to go shopping or something.”
Ignoring the last forkful of eggs on my plate, I turned my full attention on my mother. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine, but you know the drill… if I don’t come back?”
“Of course.” my stomach tightened again and I feared my breakfast would make a surprise return.
“So, do you want a ride?”
“I, I guess.” It was either that or walk the thirty miles into town if she didn’t come back. Man, I hate it when she leaves. My mom and I have had our differences, but the prospect of never seeing her again always upsets me. If she gives me a ride into the city, I won’t know if she made it back ’til I get off work tonight.
“Honey, it’s going to be okay,” Mom whispered, taking my chin in her hand and kissing me on the cheek. “I’ve done this dozens of times.”
“Yeah and each one could be your last.” My voice came out dry. The thing is, my mother and I came here from another world. We’re members of a race known as the Antomolites and we journeyed here when I was eight years old. The history of my home planet is long and complicated, but suffice to say there are portals connecting our two worlds. These bridges or gateways are extremely unstable and could collapse at any minute. They are appearing and disappearing all the time. Some stick around for centuries while others only last an hour. So far, the portal my mother and I used has stuck around for almost a decade, but that could change at any moment. I don’t even know where it is. My mother refuses to tell me.
“I was hoping to leave by ten,” Mom said, her soft voice slicing into my thoughts.
“I’ll go get dressed.” I was only half aware of the words coming out of my mouth, just as I hardly noticed as I got up and went down the hall to my room. Five minutes later, my mother and I were in the car, heading to the city. The drive was in silence, but I was sure we were thinking the same thing. Will she make it back? Will the portal finally close, separating us forever? Of course, Mom had a contingency plan. Should she make the journey and the portal closes behind her, I was to wait one year while she and Dad looked for a new portal. If they were unsuccessful, she wanted me to live the rest of my life here as a human. There were a few hitches in this plan, but it’s what we’d come up with so far.
My mother pulled up to the curb downtown. Coming around the front of the car, we shared a long embrace. I could feel her heart thundering against me as I’m sure she could hear mine with her ear plastered against my chest.
“I love you, honey,” she choked out, squeezing my tightly. “No matter what happens, I will always love you. You know that, right?”
“Of course, Mom.” She delivers this speech before each of her trips. “I love you too.”
After giving me one last squeeze, she pulled away. The moment my mother disappeared, I started looking for things to distract myself. I checked out the Candy Mill, swung by the park and perused several shops. I even took in a film at the small downtown theater, but nothing could distract me from the fear looming in my chest. What if I never see her again? Can I really survive on my own? There are so many obstacles. I was excited when six o’clock finally arrived. A busy Saturday night is just what I ne
eded to get my mind off things.
Just as I’d hoped, when I entered the dish room, it was already overflowing with dirty pots and pans. For the next three hours I worked hard to catch up. I was so focused, I actually lost track of time. I didn’t realized what time it was until one of the prep cooks called out, “Hey, Uriah, aren’t you late?”
“What?” I looked up from the sink. It was Zach and he was pointing to the clock on the wall. It currently read 9:03. It was only then that I noticed the throbbing in my shoulder blades. Sometimes when I’m working extra hard, I confuse the pain. Wiping off my soapy hands, I scrambled to remove my apron. While I fumbled with the knot behind my back, the prep cooks laughed. It wasn’t mean laughter, but it still irritated me. Since I started working here two years ago, it’s been a running joke that I’m extremely regular. The thing is, I can only keep my wings caged for about three hours at a time. After that, my back starts to hurt. If I try to keep them in too long, they come out on their own. I did not want that to happen. Finally getting my apron off, I made a mad dash to the employees only bathroom in the back corner of the restaurant. While everyone else thought I was moving my bowels, I was actually letting my wings breathe. If I let them out for five minutes, the pain goes away and I can safely retract them.
Locking the door, I took a deep breath. The employees only bathroom is worse than my bedroom. There’s barely enough room to turn around in here. It’s impossible to keep my wing from touching the walls. They were currently begging to burst free, but I wanted to control their arrival. Slowly relaxing my muscles, I allowed the feathered appendages to emerge. They ached to fully extend, but I had to keep them close. When they were all the way out, I tried to remain as still as possible. Having my feathers ruffled, especially the longer ones, is akin to having your fingernails bent back. Getting a feather yanked out is even worse. Once my wings are out, all I can do is wait. When the throbbing in my back disappears, then I know I can retract them. Not a moment sooner. It usually only takes about five minutes, but it also depends on how long I kept them caged after the throbbing begins. This time it was eight minutes before I was completely pain-free.
The Flyer (The Flyer Series Book 1) Page 1