break point: a m/m romance novella

by Daya Daniels

  Yep, definitely ghosted.

  Laughing, I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the faceplate.

  This is clearly the correct telephone number but there seems to be no chance in the world that who I need to speak to will ever pick up. A frustrated breath leaves me before I tuck the phone away, amble back over to the bar and take a seat on one of the stools.

  It’s just after eleven o’clock at night.

  I’m sitting in the lobby of The Beverly Hills Hotel and adoring all the pink and green which surrounds me.

  This world-famous L.A. institution and historic landmark is my temporary home until I buy a new one and land a new job. Technically, I could just live in this overpriced establishment while I’m here, retire early maybe, then lounge around and fill the rest of my life with endless days spent on the golf course and even more afternoons playing tennis. But it isn’t my style. I love what I do for a living. And I plan to stay in this profession until I’m too old to lecture because my voice has gone or until arthritis has settled in my fingertips preventing me from turning the pages of the books I hold so dearly.

  Tonight, the sky is full of twinkling stars and the famous Hollywood sign looms over the city. The moon sits low, still lovely. But not as pretty as it seemed whenever I looked up at it from where I was standing on the pavement in London.

  I miss home already.

  Nevertheless, this Pink Palace is my home again.

  Honestly, I should stop thinking about London since I won’t be going back there anytime soon.

  Ella Fitzgerald’s “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall” floats from the speakers set around this lounge that’s filled with endless old school charm. The melody is sweet, and the lyrics sing to my life at the moment, capturing me.

  A young woman leans against the bar who is sipping an apple martini and is eyeing the light scattering of patrons here. I’m pretty sure she’s a high-class whore. A group of young men are huddled together at a table across the room in a corner. They’re tossing back shots of vodka, bragging about penis size and who went down on them this week. I cover my mouth with a hand and groan when I realize these are exactly the type of men Channing likely hangs out with. Just listening to them causes my soul to die just a little for this generation. But, occasionally, they discuss in depth the fluctuations of the Dow. So at least some brains. Some indication that they just might be firing on all four lobes. And, in the opposite corner of the room to a small table sits a man who is reading a book. Not a title on a Kindle. Not a newspaper. But an actual, physical, leather-bound book.

  Quickly, I throw my glasses on and find that I can’t stop staring at that book. A little gasp escapes me when my vision clears and the title which is embossed in gold script across the front of the book the man holds comes into view—Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin.

  I’ve read it a million times.

  My chest swells with pride.

  The gentleman’s eyes connect with mine. He tips his head forward in my direction and smiles. I do the same. Then he gets back to reading his book and sipping from the rock glass set out in front of him.

  I take a moment to search through my email cringing at my ‘to do’ list which is basic but feels like it’s a million miles long. After just a minute of doing that, I log out and sigh. The music is still playing. I’m still humming to it. Life goes on…Shutting my eyes, I breathe, absorbing the reality that I’m sitting here alone. It never used to seem so bad but tonight it does.

  My thoughts drift…

  Still, despite his flaws, I enjoyed Channing’s company earlier today. Is that so wrong? Maybe not. But unexpected it is. A man like me has nothing in common with one like that. Except for tennis.

  We’ll always have tennis.

  I run a hand through my hair and sink into the memory of the glorious events of today.

  The filth.

  The lust.

  The rawness of it all.

  I find myself smiling, growing hard, wanting more even.

  “Good evening, sir. What can I get you?” Roan, the bartender as the silver name tag pegged to his vest tells me, approaches, smiling.

  I regard him for just a beat—gray hair at the edges, brown eyes, professional demeanor.

  “Macallan 25 on the rocks.” I run a hand over my jaw.

  He points a finger at me, holding it and waggling in my direction, as if I had just said something incredibly amazing. “Good taste.”

  Smiling, I focus on the window out to the city. The French doors at the opposite side of this lobby are open and the chlorine from the pool gets carried off with the breeze and hits my nostrils. Just for a second, I shut my eyes and get carried off and into a memory. The laughter. The joy. The unmistakable soundtrack of people having fun. Togetherness. I know what that used to be like. To have a family…

  “Here you go, sir.” Roan sets the tumbler down in front of me.

  “Thank you.”

  He lingers. “It’s good to have someone actually come in here tonight and order a real drink.”

  Holding the glass, I stare into it. “Oh yeah.” I laugh.

  “Yeah, definitely. All I get on my shifts these days are college kids asking for pina coladas and shots of Jager.” His laugh is hearty.

  “I can believe that.”

  Leaning forward, his eyes narrow. “Your accent…”

  “English.”

  His brows arch. “Born and bred?”

  “Yes.”

  “So glad you aren’t from here originally.” He chuckles.

  So am I.

  “So, new to town then?”

  I groan. “Not exactly.” I take a long chug of my drink.

  “I see.” His eyes rove over me. “Usually people who leave this place never come back unless they have a good reason to.”

  “I know the feeling.” I knock back the rest of the scotch in the glass and place it down.

  “Another?”

  “Absolutely.”

  My phone buzzes once but when it happens a second time, I find myself staring at it.

  Channing: Did you really mean what you said about finding a new instructor?

  I press my lips together.

  Where’s he going with this question?

  Has he been thinking about this?

  Jesus fuck, so have I…

  When do I ever go back the things which I’ve said?

  Annoyance sizzles through me.

  Me: How did you get my number?

  Channing: The same way you found out my age and all my play stats.

  The application form…

  I chuckle.

  Me: Yes, of course, I meant it. I’m not the type of bloke who doesn’t mean what he says.

  Channing: So, when you asked, “Is this all you’ve got?” you meant that too then?

  My eyes linger on his words.

  Me: I did.

  Channing: I’ve realized it isn’t. In fact, I’d love to show you the rest of what I’ve been saving up.

  Me: The only place I’ll be seeing you, Channing, is on the tennis court.

  Channing: Agreed.

  Me: Next week. Monday, seven a.m. on the nose. Don’t be late or fucking hungover. You’ll need you’re A game. And we don’t want you to die out there under the sun so make sure you’re hydrated.

  Channing: Deal. See you there, good ol’ chap.

  Once again, I’m fixed on the words, especially the ol’ part. Growling, I shut the phone off, grab the second scotch placed in front of me and head over to the man with the book in his hand.

  His eyes connect with mine and he smiles as I approach.

  I extend my hand. “I’m sorry, but I just had to come over when I saw the book in your hand.”

  “I see.” He blatantly regards me from my loafers to the collar of my Polo shirt. “You’re a literary man.”

  “Yes, a teacher.” I nod. “A professor actually. I’m Rupert.”

  “A professor?”

  “Yes.”

/>   “Might I ask where currently?”

  I lean back. “I’ve actually just finished up a long tenure at Oxford.”

  “Impressive.” He pauses, lips parted.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “A Brit?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  We shake hands and then he sits forward and gestures toward the chair. “Please sit. I’d love to discuss this book with you. It’s hard to find someone to talk literature with around this place whenever I’m here. Usually half of the folks I bump into barely know how to find a word in the goddamn dictionary.” He frowns dramatically. “Noah Webster would be so disappointed if he were still alive today.”

  I crack up laughing at the very dry joke.

  “Please sit. I insist.” He sets the book down and signals for the waiter.

  “Are you sure?” I hesitate.

  “Yes, absolutely, I’m sure.” He grins.

  Slowly, I take a seat.

  The stranger smiles and cants forward. “I’m Bartholomew, very pleased to meet you.”

  channing

  WE’RE PARKED BENEATH THE Hollywood sign. The nine white forty-five-foot tall letters loom high above and the view from here of the city below and its bright twinkling lights is incredible.

  My head lulls to the side.

  THUMP.

  It finally hits the window.

  I exhale a breath, exhausted, since I’ve spent the last hour listening to Harper talk about nothing.

  Harper Brian Cooper—twenty-three years old, sushi fan, super smart, owner of an impressive head of mahogany curls and the humblest brown eyes, son of a pair of “fuck-ups” as he calls them who he isn’t close to by a longshot and who he addresses by their first names—a mother who is a super bitch and can’t do without her daily dose of Xanax and a father who’s never been around—university student, spoiled brat—like me, and a boy who I fell deeply in love with the day he purchased me a Steve McQueen belted trench coat as a gift because he said he thought of me as soon as he saw it shining brightly on a rack in Neiman Marcus.

  He’s currently gazing out the window, sad expression on his face, yet none of his words reflect it. His cellphone is buzzing away, buzzing, buzzing. I snatch it up and toss it in the glove compartment and then I’m back at the window.

  Harper’s communication skills are exhausting…

  Ask Harper a question and you get another question. Ask Harper how he’s feeling and he encourages you to guess. Ask Harper what he wants to eat for dinner and he tells you to go with whatever you want.

  The lack of direction is enough to drive a dude fucking mental!

  Sigh.

  I’m more direct.

  I say what I want, how I feel, what I don’t like, what I need.

  Communication is such a simple thing when it’s direct.

  It’s people who complicate it.

  So many fucking games.

  Harper and I have been together for a month now, not long. But I love him…I think.

  No, I’m sure of it.

  Fuck.

  Was Rupert right about that shit about how I’m still figuring myself out?

  The white Audi R8 coupe idles and Billie Holiday’s “Crazy He Calls Me” drifts from the stereo.

  Reaching out, I place a hand on Harper’s shoulder. Instantly his eyes meet mine and I can’t help but focus on his pretty mouth. “What’s really the problem?” I shift in my seat, my dick solid as a steel peg. If I knew that after dinner tonight would be like this, I can’t say I’d be sitting here right now, unexpectedly finding myself in couples’ therapy without the therapist.

  “I don’t know, Channing, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I can’t tell you the number of times Harper has almost told me about all the details about his life. Each time, he gets cold feet and tells me it’s pointless, too depressing and makes him too sad. So, I move on.

  “Then why did we come out here?”

  His mouth twists. “Because I like the spectacular view.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Yeah.” My fingers weave their way into his hair and settle there, then I play with the strands. “I’ve missed you.” I really have. “I guess I thought after all this time you’d be ready, Harper.”

  His big eyes swing to mine. “I’m not.” He fiddles with his hands. “I’m not, Channing. I’m sorry.”

  Leaning in, I press a kiss to his mouth. “Nevertheless, I miss your mouth.”

  He smiles, blushing. “I can see that.” His focus remains on the bulge in my jeans which is begging to be let free. “I think I miss that pretty cock of yours too seeing as I haven’t seen in it a fucking week.” He pouts, looks back out the window.

  Shit.

  My brain registers his words, but my dick doesn’t.

  It never listens!

  “I’ve been super busy, Harper, I told you that, I’m sorry. Between class and work at the country club, I’ve just been flat out.”

  No lies…

  At least consider that before you brand me the bad guy.

  Harper sighs.

  I twirl his hair in between my fingers. “But whenever I’m free, you have all my time. I can promise you that you will from now on. I just need to get some things out of the way.”

  Or shall I say…a person…out of my system which I plan to, except that…

  “Do you mean that, Channing?”

  “Yes.” My tone is firm. “I mean it.” Because I truly do. “I love you.” I truly do.

  It’s just complicated.

  “I love you too.”

  I kiss his lips softly just the way he likes. My hand settles around his neck and the other fiddles frantically with my belt buckle and zipper. A strangled breath leaves me when I’m free and Harper’s hand wraps around my cock.

  My head is full of everything it shouldn’t be. My fingers itch to text. My dick is compelled to fuck, fuck, fuck. I want to scribble his face out of my brain. But the memories. Oh, the memories…The deep timbre of his voice. The sensation of his skin against mine. His kiss.

  Goddamn it!

  When Harper’s eyes meet mine, something awful and heavy lands in my stomach like a stone.

  Guilt?

  It can’t be.

  Whatever it is, it’s putrid, stinks of ill intent and the inability to stop.

  Maybe that is guilt?

  I slide further down into the leather seat and spread my legs wide. My hand remains on the back of Harper’s neck and soon I’m urging his head down into my lap. A deep appreciative sigh leaves me when his soft lips wrap around my cock. Up and down. He swallows my dick over and over. Wet. Hot. And I’m so fucking hard it can’t be healthy. Moaning, Harper’s mouth and hand slide over the length of my dick. He chokes. He’ll be fine… I encourage him to keep going with the motion of my grip on the back of his neck. I sigh in ecstasy. He picks up speed. Lips smacking. French-kissing the head of my cock like a champ. His mouth squelches along my dick. Wet. Wet. Wet. It all pulls groans and bitch-like whimpers until I’m on the precipice of howling the Santa Monica Mountains down. Harper gasps for air but still he takes me down deep and then finds the time to stop for a beat to suck each one of my balls into his mouth.

  The messy show in my lap is all I can focus on.

  What kind of man would I be if I allow my conflicted emotions to get in the way of a fantastic blowjob? I consider it for a moment but then the pleasure becomes too much.

  I’ll wait until tomorrow to answer that question.

  Too busy right now.

  But that’s only if I still care about it by then.

  rupert

  IT’S LATE AT NIGHT.

  I linger near the floor-to-ceiling window and dial the number once more.

  Voicemail.

  I set my cellphone down on the desk and amble over to the small table in the corner of the room already set up. Lifting the silver cover off the top of the only plate set there, I smile at the display of grilled fish a
nd asparagus which I find beneath it. I take a seat at the table, unroll the napkin and smooth it out across my lap.

  The faceplate of my cellphone lights up brightly: Mother.

  I swipe right. “It’s late for you to still be up.” I cut into the fish. “You should be getting your rest.”

  “I knooooow.” Gloria laughs. “I couldn’t sleep tonight, Rupert. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Me.” I chuckle. “I’m fine, Mother.”

  I glance over at the boxes which are piled up to the ceiling and line the walls of this suite.

  If only I had somewhere permanent to put them…

  She breathes. “Are you?” A chuckle follows her words. “You leave London on a whim after finally settling back here and then you’re back in Beverly Hills.” I imagine her snarling on the other end of the line. “I can’t say I understand, Rupert.”

  “It’s complicated, Mother.”

  “So is love.”

  Ah, but I knew that already…

  I laugh.

  “Well, I know love is what has sent you there. I just hope all the sacrifices are worth it, Rupert. You never fit in to that godforsaken town. I never understood how you ended up there in the first place.”

  Yes, you do.

  I continue eating my dinner, gazing out the window and at the busy city outside.

  “Well, I count the days until you return to London, Rupert.”

  “It won’t be any time soon, mother.”

  “If it doesn’t work out, I imagine you’ll be back sooner rather than later.”

  “I won’t.”

  Because I must continue to try…

  “Okay, goodnight, dear. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mother. I’ll call you in the morning.” I end the call, finish my meal and place my silverware down. I dab at my mouth with the linen napkin in my grip and think.

  I had an interesting conversation tonight with a man about literary appreciation.

  Still, though, I could only think about Channing.

  Funny thing love is with its sneak attack, hitting you from all directions at the most inconvenient of times and ultimately leaving you feeling as if your own personal compass is busted.