Let It Beatle Box Set - 7 Gay Romance Stories

by J. D. Walker

  René’s grandmother smiled hugely and held out her arms for a gentle hug from her grandson. They held each other for a long while, and the love there was beautiful to see.

  “How are you, sweetie?” she asked, her voice slightly shaky but strong.

  “I’m fine, Gramma.” He turned to greet the other woman in the room. “Greta, Gramma been behaving?”

  Greta rolled her eyes. “Not even close. She beat me in Parcheesi not ten minutes ago, and I had to argue with her to rest and watch a movie for a while.” Her voice was fond.

  “Sounds typical.” René grabbed my hand, pulling me forward. “This is Serge Zumpano, my boyfriend.”

  I tried to mask my gasp with a cough, not sure if I succeeded. Since when was I his boyfriend? I greeted René’s grandmother with a handshake and a quick “hello,” but she pulled me into a strong hug, too.

  “I never thought I’d see the day when this boy of mine would find someone to love.” She patted my cheek and I blushed.

  “Well, I don’t know about that, ma’am,” I said, “but—”

  “It’s true. I can tell. You will, too, soon enough.” I looked at René, but all he did was smile enigmatically.

  We spent the next few hours together, Gramma Glass sharing stories about how naughty René had been as a boy. Greta had known him since he was little, too, and had babysat from time to time. So she could concur.

  During the time his grandmother napped, René took me on a tour of the little house, showing me pictures of himself with her and all the places they’d traveled together.

  “We never had much,” René said as we stood in backyard, more dirt than grass visible, “but Gramma made sure we had fun. She worked so hard for so long, it took a toll on her body. Her mind is still sharp, though, and she was my staunchest supporter when I told her I was gay, when she encouraged me to get good grades so I could get a scholarship, and when I decided to pursue pastries. I owe her so much.”

  I held his hand, feeling it was the least I could do to support him. “I made assumptions about you and your background and shouldn’t have. You’re a good man, René, and I’m honored you shared this with me.”

  He turned to look at me, taking my hands in his. “I wanted you to understand. Sure, I live and work in a world that has a certain gloss to it. I earn a lot of money. I’m well-known, blah-blah. At heart, though, this place, this house…this is who I am. You are a good man, too, Serge. We all had to start somewhere. Do you get that?”

  I leaned in to kiss me. “I do. Thank you.”

  After a few more hours, during which I helped René make dinner, then clean up, we said our goodbyes.

  “It was wonderful to meet you, Gramma”—she’d ordered me to call her that now—”and I’ll do my best to keep René in line.”

  She laughed. “Good luck with that, my dear. You have a safe trip and you’re welcome to visit anytime, with our without René, though I’m sure he’ll always be with you.”

  I kissed her cheek. “I will. Thank you.”

  I went outside to the car, leaving René to make his goodbyes in private. He joined me soon after.

  “Where next?” I asked as we headed out of town.

  “There’s a little bed and breakfast nearby that I hope you’ll like. It’s a way of spending time together, just us, without the madness of work, family, and friends as distractions. You game?”

  I smiled and squeezed his leg. “Always.”

  THE END

  He’s So Heavy

  Spring is my favorite time of year, though it tended to be a bit cool in these parts until late May. Most of the other seasons I could take or leave. Winter sucked, but I didn’t mind it, not really. Most of my friends bitched and moaned about it, and my coworkers at the bookstore—Shirley in particular—spent the months until summer came around again begging for warmer weather nonstop.

  Maybe the fact that I’d lived on the streets for a long time back “home” tempered my attitude somewhat. I knew what bone-chilling cold was like, huddling with other people around a fire in an attempt not to freeze to death; jacket never thick enough; thin gloves gone missing; guarding the sleeping bag that “fell” out of someone’s truck at a gas station with my life. I never talked about that time with anyone. Why would I?

  I never knew my father. My mother died when I was eight and I went into the system, having no other relatives to take me in, willingly or not. When I aged out, I quickly discovered how hard it was to survive in the real world on my own, a hard lesson well-learned.

  I was twenty-three by the time I made it to this town, doing odd jobs and things I’d rather forget as I made my way across country. The first time I’d seen the ocean, I thought that I’d do anything to stay here. It was peaceful and…clean, something hard for me to be while living on the unforgiving streets.

  The people here hadn’t cared about my background or torn, faded clothing—something that had surprised me. In fact, the first person I’d met was Austin Murray, who owned the bookstore where I now worked. He had seen me sitting outside the diner the morning I arrived, dirty, tired, and starving. He’d fed me, found me a place to stay, and helped me get back on my feet, no questions asked. It was a kindness I strove every day to repay, in one way or another.

  I had always loved to read, which made working in a bookstore perfect for me. I wasn’t interested in being a manager. I was more than happy to stock shelves and double-check inventory and take advantage of the generous employee discount.

  One of the things I had hated about being on the streets—and there were many—was the lack of access to reading material. I couldn’t buy books often, and when I bought them secondhand or got them for free from some sort of charity, they would be either stolen or end up destroyed, somehow. And going to the library in my state of dress and hygiene at the time, enduring the disgusted stares of the patrons there…well, once had been enough. So, to have books at my fingertips now, it was a blessing I would never take for granted.

  The fact that I had money for shelter and food, especially, may have gone to my head a little, what with the extra I now carried around my middle. I hated that I was overweight, but the fact that I could eat enough to have that worry…Still, if anyone from my past ever showed up here, they likely wouldn’t recognize me, though my height and skin color might be a dead giveaway in a place with few people of color.

  I didn’t own a car—never learned how to drive until I moved here—and almost everything I needed was available locally, anyway. For the occasions when I had to travel, I rented a vehicle. I walked two miles every weekday, to and from my job. Trent and Shirley, my roommates, rode their bicycles in good weather and drove Trent’s car in bad weather—tiny raindrops would do—from the duplex we rented from Shirley’s dad. They both came from upper middle class families but didn’t rub my face in it, for the most part.

  And as for dating? Well, I’d had a few hookups, but no real connection. I was thirty-one and kept seeing everyone I knew getting together. My boss, Austin, was ridiculously in love with Murphy, who was a cook at the diner. Trent and Shirley had become an item recently after years of denial and my poking and prodding. They lived upstairs. The town sheriff had a beau, as did his brother; Maury, who was being groomed to manage the bookstore, was in love with Tory, who ran the local motel…the list was endless.

  I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I was happy to have a job and roof over my head. I’d been through hell and knew how to be grateful. If it bugged me that the men who slept with me did so mostly because they were desperate, I pushed that aside. It would be nice to share my life with someone, though. Maybe I just needed to get laid. It had been six months, after all.

  * * * *

  The bar I went to on Saturday night was up the coast. The mid-sized car I’d rented was comfortable enough and made the drive an easy one. When I got inside, the place was packed, as expected. I had seen men from my town in here from time to time—the sheriff, especially. Thankfully he was with someone steady now, b
ecause some of the men he used to hook up with? Scary.

  I waved down the owner and bartender once I pushed my way to the bar—Fred was his name, and one of the few African-Americans I knew of in the area, aside from me—and asked for a Guinness. Once he brought it, I paid with cash and a tip.

  “How’s it hangin’, Bill?” he asked, a wicked grin on his face, as usual. He was bigger than me, which was saying a lot. We had hooked up a time or two, just for kicks.

  “You know the answer to that, don’t you, Freddie?” I replied with a wink.

  Fred laughed. “You’re such a rascal.” Before he could say anything further, he was called to the other end of the bar. I settled in to enjoy my stout and scope out the possibilities.

  No one was looking in my direction yet, which was fine. Eventually, when the pickings were slim, I would become viable—simple attrition. Did it bother me? Not much. My only requirement for a sweet lay was that the guy was clean and not a total ass.

  I spent an hour watching the mating rituals of men in heat. It was amusing. The tall, good-looking, buff guys got most of the attention in the meat market. Clothing mattered, too. It had to showcase the goods, after all. I wore faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, untucked. It was my usual attire, the length of the sleeves varying only with the weather. It played to my strengths while de-emphasizing my middle.

  There was this one guy who caught my eye, someone I’d never seen here before. He was almost too skinny, looked to be in his early twenties, might come up to my shoulder in height. His outfit fit him like a glove. He was pale, with wavy reddish-blond hair almost to his shoulders, and I was sure there were freckles somewhere and wished I was close enough to see them. I wondered what his skin would look like next to my own dark tones. It would be like night and day.

  He seemed to be popular, and everyone wanted to dance with him. And why not? The man was practically boneless, every move mesmerizing. I never once caught his eye, but I couldn’t keep mine off him.

  Fred came back my way after he served yet another thirsty customer. I asked, “Who’s the new kid?”

  “Name’s Thorn Blackstone,” he replied while wiping down the bar. “Started coming here a month ago. He’s a regular now, and everybody’s been panting after him. He chooses a different guy ever night, and he must be a great lay because they always want more, but he never leaves with anybody twice, that I’ve seen. Doesn’t seem to have a big wardrobe, ‘cause I’ve seen that outfit a lot over the past month. Not that I care. He looks good, no matter what he wears. Don’t know if he’s a rent-boy. Haven’t heard anybody say anything about that.”

  “Huh.” I narrowed my eyes as I watched the young man, how easily he reeled men in, gave them a little taste, then moved on to the next guy. He didn’t seem to really enjoy it, though he put on a good show. His actions were a bit frantic, almost…desperate. Like he had to do this in order to…

  Oh, no.

  I suddenly understood. And then all hell broke loose.

  A fight was going down on the dance floor between Thorn and this bruiser of a guy who apparently didn’t take rejection well. The brute was using Thorn as a punching bag, though Thorn gave as good as he got. I knew where that kind of rage and fear came from, and it made me angry and sad at the same time.

  Fred came around the bar and joined me to help break up the men, since all the other guys were simply standing there, shouting encouragement for one man or the other. Fred pulled Thorn away from the idiot, then we showed that fool the error of his ways before tossing him out of the bar.

  When I returned, Thorn was sitting on the floor, one arm wrapped around his ribs, face battered, and shirt ruined beyond repair. I kneeled next to him, careful not to touch, and waited for him to look at me.

  “I want to take you to the hospital,” I said, trying to catch my breath as eyes so pale and translucent stared at me in disbelief. Then the anger set in.

  “I don’t want your fucking charity,” he said, snarling like a bear.

  I sighed internally. “It’s not charity, man, it’s common sense. You could be bleeding internally, or even have a broken rib or two. You might even need stitches, and even if you’ve got a car or whatever, you’re in no shape to drive. So, what’ll it be?”

  Thorn sneered, and I’d never seen anything sadder in my life in someone so young. “What, you think you’ll be my fucking knight in shining armor and I’ll ride your big black cock in gratitude? Fuck off.” Yup, lot of anger there. And fear.

  I stood and held up my hands. “You’re scared and hurting. I get that. I used to be like you, and I know what you’re going through, is all I’m saying. If you don’t want to go with me, can you at least call someone to take you?”

  The look of shame and despair was fleeting, but I’d seen it. “I can take care of myself just fine,” he retorted, but his voice didn’t have the same heat as before.

  I shook my head. “Sure, you can. While you’re taking care of yourself, how about I help you into a chair or something? You can’t be that comfortable on the floor.” I didn’t wait for his answer, but simply bent my knees and slid my arms under his neck and legs before standing and carrying him to one of the booths, where I carefully set him down, Thorn bitching the whole way to cover the fact he was in pain, physically and otherwise. I refused to think about how good he felt in my arms, and how fragile. Definitely not the time or place.

  I left him there for a moment and went to the bar, took a few of the hand towels Fred tossed at me, and a couple bottles of water I paid for in cash. When I returned, I placed all the items on the table in front of Thorn, who looked to be two seconds from crying, though he put up a brave front.

  “Being stubborn never helped anyone in the long run, you know,” I said.

  He glared at me, but his wet eyes took away the sting.

  Lowering my voice, I added, “I was homeless for many years, Thorn—no, don’t try to deny the truth,” I said when he attempted to cut in. “I had to do things that would make even you cringe, Mr. Tough Guy, in order to survive. I never had anyone to help me or show me the way, or cut me some slack. I had to figure things out on my own until I moved here. But you don’t have to, and if you ever need a place to stay or someone to talk to who might understand, Fred knows how to get in touch with me.”

  I wanted to cup that stubborn chin and kiss his bloody, split lips, wipe his eyes…anything to take away that haunted look. I didn’t.

  “You take care now, son.”

  I left the bar and drove home, one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do in my life.

  * * * *

  “Bill Cascade!”

  I blinked at Shirley, waving her hand in front of my face for some reason. The only time she said my name like that was when she was irritated. “What?”

  She sighed. “Trent and I have been asking what your plans are for Memorial Day weekend for the past five minutes. What’s up with you?” Shirley was a sweet girl, mostly, but she could also be brash, pushy, and opinionated.

  “Nothing,” I lied. I got up from the table to refill my coffee cup. They had their own kitchen upstairs, but we were used to eating together. “You and Trent going up the coast to a festival or something?” The couple liked to travel as often as they could.

  “Wine festival,” Trent replied, a grin on his face. “We’re planning to spend a long weekend getting drunk and frisky.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said before walking to the kitchen window to stare at the beach and water beyond. “I’ll be working, as usual. I have a few books to catch up on, too.” There was a teetering stack on my bedside table.

  “That’s all you do every holiday—hang around here,” Shirley said, and I could hear the exasperation and slight sneer in her voice. “Don’t you ever want to explore, see new things? Find a boyfriend? What about where you’re from? Didn’t you have friends you hung out with or something? Or were you this boring even then?” And yes, Shirley could be a little bit cruel, too.

  “Shirl
ey!” Trent snapped.

  My body tensed. “It’s nothing I want to remember.”

  “Why not? You don’t ever tell us about your life before you came here. It’s like some big secret or something. What, you commit a crime or something?” Trent looked two steps away from strangling her.

  “Or something,” I muttered. Loudly, I declared, “I’ll be fine. I need to get ready for work. Excuse me.”

  I left the kitchen and headed for my bedroom, ignoring Trent calling after me and the argument that began after that. When Shirley got the bit in her teeth about something, she rarely let it go. I liked her well enough, but I could take only so much, depending on her mood. Trent must be a saint, or the nookie was that good.

  She would never understand about my past, and I didn’t want to think about that because it would bring up thoughts of Thorn, and I should let that go.

  It had been a month since the altercation at the bar, and I wondered how he was, where he lived, if he was screwing his way up the coast just so he’d have a bed to sleep in at night. I kept thinking that I should have done more—insisted he come with me to get help—something.

  But I knew I couldn’t force Thorn to do anything. It was up to him to figure things out, and Lord knew I hadn’t been much better way back when. I hadn’t been back to the bar since the incident, and I hadn’t heard from Fred, either. Was all this worry pointless? I sighed and finished getting dressed.

  Memorial Day was six days away, and I would be working that whole weekend and Monday since the bookstore would be short-staffed. Business picked up a little during the holidays, what with the tourists in town, but it wasn’t unmanageable. A lot of our sales came from online purchases since this bookstore was the only one for miles, and people around here liked to buy local. Not everyone bought stuff from Amazon.

  Most folks who visited this town were interested in the beach, the occasional fair or parade, and cute shops. Maury would be the manager-in-charge since Murphy was taking Austin on a motorcycle trip down the coast. It was all he’d talked about for weeks. It was almost adorable to see a man in his fifties acting like a kid about it.