13 comments/  17568 views/  35 favorites

When Love Takes Over Ch. 01

By: fuzzyNOLA



It was a perfect ass, everything an ass should be. High, tight, round, plump, it pushed out the worn denim that clung to it, a faded seam disappearing between the luscious mounds. Looking at it, all I could think of was the phrase a half-forgotten bar acquaintance from my long ago partying days used whenever he was faced with such a work of art, "I bet that ass tastes just like filet mignon." 

"God, I could tear that up," I thought involuntarily. I even stunned myself. I mean, I am versatile, but I've never considered myself an asshound; but in this case I could make an exception. All I could think of was holding down the slim, young tile layer, Rico, that the perfect ass belonged to and sticking my tongue up that same perfect ass until....

"Brandon" I thought I heard my name. Then louder," BRANDON"

I came too with a start, as if woken from a dream. Oh shit, I wasn't alone, I was at work on a jobsite and had been staring at a sub contractor with my tongue out like some dirty old troll at a strip club. I could feel my color rising, and prayed to god that my dark sunglasses had hidden the direction my eyes were focused.

"I'm sorry. Did you say something?" I turned to Ben, the lead architect on the project. "I was...um,um," I have never been good at lying, especially on the spot, "thinking about the tile layout in the foyer," I managed.

"Really? It looked more like you thinking about laying Rico."

Busted. "I...I...dammit, I never could hide what I was thinking. Reed always said I had an anti-poker face. He made me stop going to investor meetings."

" Well, I'll give you this---Rico IS pretty distracting," Ben laughed. "Anyway, what do you think about changing the door from a double one to a single with one with sidelights? I'm concerned about the swing."

That's the great thing about being an openly gay man, working with another openly gay man, in a city that, by and large, is gay friendly. If you're caught ogling the hot male help, you're usually forgiven, even if it is embarrassing. Ben and I talked about another couple of minor changes, and then I headed off the site.

My partner, Reed, was in real estate development, and since I had a degree in interior design and was used to working on renovations, I was his man in the field, picking finishes, working with the architects on the design schemes, and being the contractor liaison. This latest project was one of our largest to date, the renovation and conversion of an all but collapsing mansion on the edge of the French Quarter into condos. The plus and minus of the situation is that the interior had been basically stipped off most of it's original detailing, so while that gave us leeway to reconfigure the interior in ways best suited to modern living, it had been a challenge to do so while trying to convey a sense of the flavor and history of New Orleans. I was proud of the work our team had done, and it had certainly been well received. even though we were still several months out till completion, 3 of the 6 units had already been sold.

I was still embarrassed that Ben had caught me checking out one of the workers. It was just so unprofessional, and I always tried to maintain a certain level of professionalism, even working with friends like Ben, whose partner usually made up our fourth on social outings. I also couldn't believe I was thinking about a 22 year old's "filet mignon" ass when I had somebody like Reed at home. I kept thinking of Paul Newman and that famous quote of his about fidelity, "Why go out for a hamburger when you have steak at home?" And Reed was definitely some prime, USDA beef, tall and dark and lean, with legs and cock for days. I was attractive enough I suppose, at 5'10 with a naturally muscular, stocky build. And I know my broad, hairy chest and blue eyes had always gotten compliments, though not as many at 38. But Reed. Reed was truly gorgeous. 

I still remember the first time I saw him. It was on a rainy Monday in November, 2007, and I had just celebrated my 31st birthday. At the time, I was working for a crazy designer who had a studio/showroom on Magazine Street. Her building, luckily, had survived major damage during Katrina, and she had managed to reopen by December of 2005. We had been very busy with the first waves of people returning to rebuild, but by the fall of 2007, things had slowed down considerably. And in fact, when I heard the chimes signalling someone's entering the shop, I started a little since it was first person, besides the mail guy, who had been in all day. It was around 3:00 pm.m, and I was up on the second floor mezzanine level doing some busy work with the fabric samples which always seemed to be in a mess and counting the minutes until I could close up at 5. 

"I'll be right down," I shouted, brushing some lint off my dark jeans and heading down the stairs that curved along one side of the building. As I made it about halfway down the staircase, I could see a man's back, looking toward the artwork hung on the back wall of the showroom. He was tall, definitely over 6 feet, and slender, but with broad shoulders, and those shoulders and his hair were dark with rain. As he heard my approach, he turned around.

Thank goodness I was holding the railing, because when I saw his face, I think my knees may have buckled slightly. I may have even left out a small whimper. Here's the deal: I've never really been big on "types" and looks. Up to that point, my various tricks and quasi-boyfriends had been all over the place; I had dated (and slept with) bears and pretty boys, African-Americans and Latinos, nerdy guys and professors, thin dudes and fat guys, tall guys and short ones, etc. All they really had in common is that they thought I was cute and I thought that they were pretty nice. That said, there was one look that had always buttered my bread: the tall, lean type with a swimmer's build, a dark complexion, silky black hair, dark eyes, and an angular face. Honestly, I didn't think that such paragons existed outside of models and movie stars, like Gregory Peck or Keanu Reeves. At least, I had never seen one in the wild. But apparently they did. And apparently they like shopping for furniture on Magazine Street in the rain. Thank God for that.

"Please let him be gay....please let him be gay and single....please let him be gay and single and into 31 year olds with hairy chests and blue eyes...." began running through my head in an endless loop as I pulled myself together long enough to launch into the usual customer greeting

"Hi, I'm Brandon. Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"I'm Reed. Not really. I just bought a house and was looking for ideas." I swallowed hard when I heard his voice--deep, rich. 

"If there is anything I can do to help you, please let me know. Anything." As the last word let my mouth I could tell I had said it far too loudly and emphatically. I could feel my face turning scarlet. 

He laughed a little, I couldn't tell if at my offer or my blush, or both. . "Let me look around a bit, and I'll let you know if there's anything you can do."

I slunk away to my desk as unobtrusively as possible and tried to concentrate on paperwork, but I kept alternating between stealing looks at him and planning our future wedding. I was debating the merits of eloping (that way I could have him all to myself) or having an extravaganza so every bitch who had ever been mean to me could turn pea green with envy when I walked down the aisle with Reed. I had made it to debating our honeymoon plans, trying to decide if I wanted Reed in a speedo on a beach or naked on a bear skin rug in an Alpine lodge, or both, when I realized someone was calling my name.

Reed had come to a stop by a small group of abstract painting. "Can you tell me about these? I love the color combinations and the compositions. Who's the artist?"

I walked over with what I could feel to my chagrin was a huge smile. "I can tell you anything you want to know about him. I painted them/"

"Really?" I nodded. "Well, they're beautiful. I'd love to have one, but honestly, they're out of my price range. This whole store is, but it's been great to look around. Thanks." He turned to go.

"Wait," I said, again a little too loudly, but dammit, I wasn't going to let Reed walk away that easily. He swung back around with brows raised. "Look, it's started pouring down since you came in and the store is dead. Why don't you come up stairs and have some coffee. Tell me about your house and maybe I can give you some ideas. I'd much rather talk to you about your new house than dick around with fabric swatches."

"I don't want to impose."

"You're not, trust me. If I didn't like to talk about decorating houses, I wouldn't be a designer. Come on up."

"Well, if you really don't mind, I'd appreciate some help."

Upstairs, in addition to Donna's work space and the sample wall, there was a small kitchen and a seating area set up like a living room, complete with working fireplace. I took Reed's damp jacket and got him settled before making the coffee. Unfortunately he chose a chair instead of the sofa so sitting beside him was out, but I was willing to take what I could get. The fireplace was gas, so I lit that. I may have also dimmed the overhead lights slightly on the way to the kitchen. A little ambiance never hurts.

Once I came back with the coffee, and we started talking, we connected instantly. It didn't take long to determine that Reed was, in fact, gay and single. He had moved to New Orleans from upstate New York to work on his doctorate in political science, and had so loved the city, that after graduation he had decided to accept a job here and settle down. He had used a small inheritance to put a down payment on a flooded house that he was planning to restore and live in. As the day wore on, we talked and talked. We talked about his house, my art, the city. We talked about work, books, movies. We just talked. Five o'clock came and went. At some point, he migrated from his chair to a spot beside me on the sofa, close enough for his leg to touch mine. Eventually we got hungry, but luckily there were leftovers, including wine, in the fridge from an event we had hosted on Saturday night so we that could have a bit to eat without leaving and continue to talk in this bubble that seemed to surround us. Our talk never got too personal or romantic, though it was definitely flirty at times, but I sensed that he was interested in me, and the touch of his leg to mine, even through the layers of fabric separating us, and the scent of his spicy cologne was enough to make my cock hard and leaking. And a couple of surreptitious glances at his crotch indicated that he was in a similar state.

At some point, though, we realised how late it had gotten.

"Oh my God," Reed said, glancing at his watch. "It's almost 10. I need to go; I have an early class tomorrow, and I haven't prepared my lecture yet."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he said. "I can't remember the last time I did something like this---talk for hours. I guess I can safely assume you'd like to have dinner with me later this week. Is Wednesday too soon? "

I wanted to come up with something witty, but I was too excited by him and too happy with how the evening had gone to be anything but perfectly upfront. "You are right, I would like to see you again. And Wednesday isn't soon enough, but I'll take it/" This earned me a grin.

He helped turn out the lights and insisted on helping go through the closing routine before he would leave. We were at the front door when he leaned down to kiss me. It was meant to be a soft kiss, a good night kiss, but once his lips touched mine, it ignited something. As he moved away, I instinctively grabbed his head and pulled his mouth back to mine, devouring him.

I heard him moan, then he tossed the jacket he was carrying to the side and crushed me to him, wrapping his muscular arms around me, squeezing me so hard I could barely breath, I pulled away just long enough to push him on the nearest horizontal surface, an enormous sofa. I was on him in an instant kissing him and tearing at his shirt. I was acting on instinct. It was if I had to feel his naked skin against mine now, right now. . He clearly felt the same way; I could feel him fumbling at my sweater. Straddling his hips, feeling his erection pressing up against mine through his jeans, I sat up, pulling the sweater over my head. As I did, I noticed a shaft of light falling across my arms from the street light outside and realized that we were right by the front window, and even with the lights off inside anyone looking in would see us. Right at that moment, Reed managed to undo my pants and grip my aching prick and I decided that I didn't give a fuck if anyone watched me and threw my sweater over the back of the sofa.

With a bit more effort on Reed's part and enthusiastic help on mine, I was soon naked. Too impatient to unlace his heavy boots, I contented myself with pushing his pants (he was going commando---so hot) down to his ankles. I lay on top of him, continuing to kiss him and relishing the feel of my hairy body next to his smooth, silken flesh. His torso appeared to be naturally smooth, and it felt so good next to my wiry body hair.. But what felt even better was my cock, wet with what seemed like a perpetual stream of pre-cum, rubbing against his. I had been right; he, too, was rock hard and wet, and when I pulled his jeans down, I felt a huge damp spot that had been concealed by the dark indigo dye. 

I reached between us to grab both our cocks in a hand. Oh my God. When I felt how big he was, I actually stopped kissing him for a second so I could pull back, sitting on his thighs, so I could take a look. He was huge. I've never been a size queen. The vast majority of my sexual partners had been a nice-sized average (which coincidentally was what I was personally packing), and that had always perfectly satisfied me. I did have a brief moment of concern, thinking to myself, "what exactly do you plan to do with that?". Before I could run through too many of the fantastic options that had flashed into my mind, he had pulled me back on top of him, kissing me like I have never been kissed before, his powerful arms holding me tight against him. At this point, I had no coherent thoughts--I was all flesh feeling, his warm lips, his tongue in my mouth, his arms around me, and above all, his monster cock sliding underneath mind. Finally, after a final frenzied motion, I was cumming, bucking on top of him, as I fired hot streams between us. I felt him clench, and knew he, too, had climaxed. I collapse on top of him for a moment, drained. Then, reluctantly, I pulled myself off of him and stood by the sofa, concerned I was too heavy. I looked down on him, his beautiful tawny face flush, cum smeared over his torso. 

"Wow," he said. "I haven't cum like that in a long time. And it's been an even longer time since I've cum from making out and...well, I was going to say dry humping," he laughed running his hands through the mess of our orgasms on his chest, "But I guess this is more wet humping than dry humping."

I giggled.. And then, as usual, I said the first thing that came into my head. "Thank God that's a leather couch. I won't have to call the cleaners." 

He shot me a glance and burst out into even deeper laughter. I joined in, mainly from relief that he showed no signs of immediately pulling up his pants and running out the door. "We do pride ourselves here at NOLA Interiors on providing our clients with full service." I looked around for something to clean up with.

In tune with me, he reached for his shirt on the floor beside the sofa. "We might as well use this. I think you popped off all the buttons when you ripped it off of me. I can just wear my jacket home." I flushed bright red, and still naked, I could feel it from my head to my toes.

Laughing, he wiped as much cum off his chest as he could before handing it to me. "You look so cute when you blush," he said. "I'll have to see how often I can make that happen. But it will have to be later. I really do need to go home. You will let me make it to my car without molesting me this time, won't you?" he said, with a grin and twinkling eyes. He stood, pulled up his pants, and shrugged on his jacket.

"I'll try to control myself," I said, still blushing. In fact, his molestation joke had caused it to deepen. 

He leaned down and kissed me before he left. "Goodbye. And I'll call you tomorrow about dinner." 

"Goodbye." I after I locked the door behind him, I walked over the window so I could watch him walk to the car which was parked right in front of the store. As he got in, he noticed me at the window and waved. Right then, a couple of young women walked by. Noticing Reed's wave, they instinctively turned to see who he was waving too. It was only after that they both threw thumb up signs in my direction that I realize I was still naked, covered in cum, and standing in the window. I quickly looked over to see if Reed had noticed the girls. By the look on his face, as he sat, shoulders hunched, shaking in laughter behind the steering wheel, I realized he had. I could hear his laughter in my head, as I shot the girls a quick military style salute, hastily gathered my things, and made a quick retreat to the restroom with a huge smile on my face.

When Love Takes Over Ch. 02



I planned on going straight to the office after leaving the job site, but after thinking about my first meeting with Reed (and, if I was willing to admit it, a bit horned up by the luscious Rico), I decided to go home first. 

I knew Reed planned to work from home this morning before heading out of town on a business trip, so I hoped I could catch before he left and maybe, just maybe, convince him to give me a quickie. Sadly, I wasn't certain of the later as I had been in earlier days. Lately, we had both been so distracted and stressed by business and our various social commitments and responsibilities that our once active love life had become pretty lifeless. 

As I sat in traffic waiting for a train to pass, I made a vow to change that. I mean, there was a time when we couldn't keep our hands off each other, and I wanted that back.

******

Seven years ago, when Reed walked out the door, leaving me naked and covered in our cum, I was scared. Scared because I had never felt such a sudden strong connection with someone, scared because I could already feel myself falling for him, and scared because I had been left too many times before with promises of "I'll call," I wasn't sure he really would. 

But he did call me the next day, and after talking a bit about where to eat, I decided to ask him over to dinner at my house. He had been intrigued by the stories of my childhood on a farm in rural Louisiana, so I wanted to treat him to a hardcore Southern dinner of smothered pork chops, fried okra, collard greens, and homemade biscuits with my step-mother's homemade Mayhaw jelly made from Mayhaw berries gathered on the farm. Plus, I wasn't quite ready to share him with anyone else, including strangers in a restaurant; I wanted him for myself only.

I had come out in my mid-twenties when I moved to New Orleans in 2001 and had embraced the gay scene after growing up in rural Louisiana and going to a local college only 30 miles or so from home. 

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't the awful ordeal it could have been. Sure I got called "sissy" a bit growing up and I was far from popular in high school, but I wasn't ostracized or a complete outcast. Part of it was my build. I wasn't tall-I topped out at 5'10" my senior year, but I had always been husky, and helping my father around the farm had made me pretty muscular. I was sturdy enough that everywhere I went during high school and even in my first year or two of college, people regularly asked if I was on the football team. 

In fact, the football coach, who also taught history, had pleaded with me to join the team. It was a small school and every bit of brawn helped, but I needed to focus on my studies-my father had made it clear that a scholarship would be necessary for me if I wanted to go to college, and for reasons that weren't exactly clear to be at the time, the thought of being alone with the rest of the team in the locker room made me very uncomfortable. Besides, as I told the coach. "I might be big, but I have as much athletic ability and coordination as a tackling dummy." And as he had taught me P.E. for years, he was forced to acknowledge the truth of that statement. 

I ended up earning a full scholarship to a nearby college, part of the state university system. It was in one of the larger town in North Louisiana, Ruskville, but with a population of around 30,000, not including the 10,000 or so students at the college, it wasn't exactly a metropolis. However, considering how tiny my hometown was, especially since I lived on an 80 acre farm 5 miles from it, I was okay with going to school there, especially since my scholarship included living in a dorm. 

My first couple of years there, were much like high school since so many of the people from class ended up going there since it was so close. Gradually, especially after I switched majors to Interior Design, I began meeting some different people, including gay guys who became friends, and I was able to gradually come to turns with being gay. 

And even though coming out as gay was still difficult for me, most of the reactions, even from family, consisted of some variation of the following: 

"Duh."

"You've decided to tell people now? Good for you."

"Oh course you are. I've known that since you were 3 years old"

And after I switched my major from Accounting to Interior Design, it was even easier. I know that even in large cosmopolitan areas, most people assume a male designer is gay. In rural Louisiana, the moment I answered someone's question about my major by stating that it was interior design, they invariably paused, digested the info for a moment, raised their eyebrows and said, "Oh" in an appraising manner. It didn't bother me, in fact, I appreciated that it saved time and awkwardness. 

At any rate, I didn't mind the area I grew up, and in fact spent a couple of years after graduation working for a local designer, I eventually got anxious to leave for greener pastures. And boy, after the deprivation of North Louisiana, the pastures of New Orleans were as green as the Emerald City of Oz. 

Now, it's not fair to say that I entered a slutty phase when I hit New Orleans at 25, still a virgin except for a bit of heavy petting with guys and girls, though, as new meat, I managed to keep my dance card full for a while. I was a late bloomer and was very inexperienced when I arrived in the City of Sin. 

I still remember the shock and awe of my first roommate (who never actually left his slutty phase and is still, to the best of my knowledge, in the middle of it) when he discovered my virgin status. In fact, he used to refer to me as "The Virgin" to his friends, and I think he was secretly disappointed when I surrendered the goods in one of my first relationships after moving. 

I had held out on going all the way partly for romantic reasons-I had been waiting for The One, but honestly, it was more the slim picking in North La. I didn't mind so much if it wasn't The One, but I didn't want it to be just anyone. Anyway, in the ensuing 6 years, I had dated plenty of guys, a couple for enough time to be considered boyfriends, but nothing serious. At 31, though, I had had enough fun and was ready to settle down, and I really hoped Reed was the one. I did know that I had never felt the same sort of connection I had with him, which felt so strong in spite of our very limited interaction.

To say I was useless at work after his call on Tuesday would be an understatement. Donna, my boss, who was as almost as thoughtful as she was batshit crazy, could tell I was distracted, and since we weren't particularly busy, let me leave at lunch. Since I worked on Saturdays, Wednesday was one of my days off, and I spent the rest of Tuesday and all of Wednesday in hardcore date preparation.

First, I had to clean my apartment; I was not exactly neat-Hell, I was down right messy. Luckily it was a tiny attic apartment in the French quarter, and after I had lost most of my possessions during Katrina, I had kept my new home minimal. I loved that apartment: spare white walls, angled ceilings, light pouring in through dormers from all four directions at once. That said, I did hate cleaning it, and was glad that that long delayed chore only took a couple of hours. 

I know that the stereotypical homosexual is neat and orderly, but as stereotypically gay as I could be in some ways-after all I was an interior designer -I had missed the neatness gene. I also preferred watching football, especially my beloved Saints, more than musical theater, and had driven a pickup, the bigger and more banged up the better, since high school. In case you're not a fan of country music, there is a whole category of songs devoted to describing the impact of pickup trucks on women and how they turn the ladies on. Let's just say, pickups work on gay men too. More than once, I had noticed a distinct increase in a date's interest after he saw my truck, especially after I made sure to walk him around to the passenger side, open the door, and help him up. Momma wasn't entirely successful, but she had tried to raise a gentleman.

To be honest, it wasn't the prep for the date itself that took so long to prep-a couple of hours of cleaning, including fresh sheets on the bed which I hoped would be called into action, a quick trip to the grocery store and a stop by the liquor store-I knew from our conversation that Reed wasn't a big drinker, so I had high hopes that it would only take a bit of bourbon to lower his inhibitions, though, to be fair, based on my previous experience, his inhibition bar didn't seem to be set too high. 

And as far as cooking the meal, no problem. My mother had died when I was a teenager, and until my father remarried, I was in charge of the cooking, the cleaning, and the laundry. Neither of us particularly cared about the cleaning and the laundry, but with both liked to eat, so I learned how to cook. After a few lessons with my Aunt Shirley, widely acknowledged as the best cook in the Ark-La-Tex, and a little bit of experience, I was a wiz in the kitchen, especially with the Southern basics: fried chicken, fried okra, fried fish (are you sensing a theme), homemade biscuits, homemade gray, etc. The only thing that took a lot of time was getting the lighting right. 

As a designer, I know the importance of lighting to set a mood, and I spent a lot of time on Tuesday night fiddling with lamps, candles etc. trying to get everything just right. I was going for that perfect level of bar lighting, where everyone looks good. In the words of Amy Sedaris, I wanted the lighting to say, "Can I get you another drink? not "Do I need to get you a cab?" So, no, prepping the house and cooking dinner wasn't a big deal, it was prepping me that took hours and hours.

Tuesday night, instead of meeting my friends for my usual weekly hit of karaoke and drink specials, I turned in early, trusting in the power of beauty sleep. 

It had mixed results: I was so excited about my coming date and so horny, that I tossed and turned for hours. Only after jerking off to a fantasy involving twins that looked remarkably like Reed, was I able to settle down and get some sleep. Okay, maybe I had to jerk off twice. I finally dozed off around 3 am, still horny. After I woke on Wednesday, cranky and with bags under my eyes, instead of my usual late breakfast of eggs Benedict and Bloody Marys, I decided to go for a run along the Mississippi. 

I wasn't really that much of a runner, and there were definitely long stretches of walking, but the magical river soothed me as always. Even though it was the end of fall, the fickle New Orleans weather had decided to stop raining, and by 10 am, the sun was high in the sky, and the weather balmy. I decided to take advantage of the sun, and spent a bit of time by the pool in the courtyard of the building that housed my apartment- a bit of color had always brought out my eyes and highlighted my sandy hair-I was careful not to stay too long. After last night's beauty sleep debacle, I was afraid of ending up looking like a boiled lobster. 

Afterwards, I called my friend Robin who owned a salon and begged him to work me in for a haircut. I usually buzzed my own hair, but had a tendency to be careless about it, leaving random tufts, especially in the back. I usually had a "if I can't see it, it doesn't matter" attitude toward it, but I wanted to look as good as possible for the god I had a date with. 

By the time it was reasonable to expect Reed to arrive, I was basically a nervous wreck. I never gotten so worked up over a guy before, and I had just enough sense of humor left to laugh at myself primping in the bathroom mirror like a high schooler on prom night, and I realized that the average First Lady probably spent less effort in picking out her gown for the Inaugural Ball than I did deciding what to wear. 

Nothing is harder than trying to look fantastic while looking like you put no effort into looking fantastic. As often happened to my best laid plans, I was still in my bedroom debating the merits of my low rise calvin klein briefs, a jockstrap or going commando when I heard a knock on the door. 

Shit! it was Reed. I momentarily debated opening the door naked and seeing how that worked out, but decided that I didn't want to look desperate. To save time, I went the commando route, grabbing the last outfit I had tried on, some paint splattered olive work pants that I had cut into shorts that ended a few inches above my knee and a ancient denim western style shirt with pearl snaps that I had had since college; I had washed it so often, it was as smooth as melted butter and the faded blue matched my eyes. 

I threw the pile of discarded outfits back into the closet, slamming the door. I was already so excited by the nearness of Reed, even through a door, that I had to be careful zipping up the shorts. To be fair, they were kind of tight, and especially flattering to my ass, which was why they had made it to the final selection rounds, since my ass was one of my better features. It wasn't quite a bubble butt, but it was firm and round and as one of my friends once described it, one of those "thick, Louisiana butts that you can only build with beans and rice." 

"I'm coming," I called racing to the door, trying to snap up my shirt straight. My heart was pounding, and not just from my last minute exertion. I opened the door, and there he was, looking even better than I remembered.

"Hi"

"Hi," he said in reply. And just like that, everything was okay. All the feverish preparations, all my anxiety-it didn't matter. he was here, and it felt right.

I opened the door, stepping aside to let him in. He paused looking around. "This is a great apartment. Here, I brought you something." He handed me a large gift bag.

"Thank you. You didn't need to bring anything."

"I know, but I wanted to, especially since you were going to the trouble of cooking."

I sat the bag on the dining table, and looked inside. Sweet! A bottle of Taittinger champagne, my favorite. "I remembered you mentioned how much you like it," he said, answering my smile. "I got you something else, too."

I looked back inside. In the bottom of the bag was a small cardboard candy box, printed in a mix of vibrant colors. It was Turkish delight. I looked back at him with what I'm sure was a stupid grin. It wasn't the candy itself-it was because he had really been listening to me on Monday night. Among the various things we had talked about were books, and we had spent a lot of time talking about childhood favorites, especially our shared love of the Chronicles of Narnia. I remembered I had mentioned that I had never actually had Turkish delight, the enchanted treat that bewitches Edmund in the story, and that I had always wanted some. And he had remembered. 

Dinner was under control, so I suggested with break open the champagne and have a toast while I wanted for the biscuits to cook. Somehow, though after a few sips, the champagne and the biscuits were forgotten, and I had Reed naked and bent over the sofa, with my tongue worshipping his ass. It was intoxicating, the sweet taste of his smooth olive butt, the deep low moans issuing from his throat, the way his body shivered under my assault.

"Oh God, fuck me... fuck me...fuck me," he moaned over and over. And my mama did always tell me to give guests what they wanted, so I fucked him. After slipping on a condom, I eased a lubed finger into him. He was so wet from desire and my rimming that he opened up like a flower. Still, I tried to slide in slowly, but he was infused with lust, and frustrated by my slow pace, he flung his body back into mine, pushing my dick deep within his hole. I almost screamed when I bottomed out, his silky heat intense even through the lates. I grabbed his slim hips with my hands and thrust wildly into him. I was so lost in his sweet heat that I had no thought for finesse. Obviously, though, I was doing something right, because Reed was moaning and muttering things like "oh god, oh god, oh god, that feels good...oh god..."

Finally, he shuddered, his hole clamping down on my dick as he shot an enormous load onto the sofa. The sensations his tensed hole sent shivering down my cock took me over my own edge. My legs turned to jelly, and I collapsed on him, pinning him down to the sofa. He managed to pull off me, and pulled me in for a kiss. "Sorry about the sofa," he said, sheepishly. 

I laughed as I staggered up, and went to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and get a warm rag to clean up. "Don't worry. It's slipcovered, so I can wash the cover tomorrow. But considering our track record with sofas, if this relationship works out, it looks like I'll need to invest heavily in Scotchguard."

We went on several more dates, and of course I ended up helping him design and restore his house; in fact, after a childhood spent on a farm and a couple of summers working on a construction crew during college, I had enough D-I-Y skills to do a lot of the work myself, surprising Reed. Gay guys are just as bad stereotyping each other as some straight people, so I wasn't shocked he thought an artistic, decorator type with a manicure and blond highlights didn't know a jigsaw from a caulking gun. 

But after the first weekend I came over to his house in my pickup with a collection of power tools, he was impressed. In fact, he was so impressed and turned on after an afternoon of watching me demo walls and frame new ones that he stripped me of everything but my boots, gloves, and tool belt, bent me over the work table and ate my sweaty ass until I was screaming for mercy. Then he threw me down on a pile of drop cloths and fucked me for the first time. Normally, I need to ease into bottoming, but after that rim job and a day of watching him swing a sledgehammer in a skin tight tank top, I was as turned on as he was. He must have been planning this, because he pulled a condom and a lube packet from his pocket, but honestly, I think at that moment, I would have taken him raw with nothing but a bit of spit. 

I groaned as I felt the huge head at my ass, and he paused, not wanting to hurt me, but I needed him. I wrapped my muscular legs around his waist, and used the force of my booted feet on his ass to drive him in deeper. I thought I would die as he ripped into me, but I couldn't stop. I needed him in me like I had never needed anyone before. I bucked and shivered beneath him, but started screaming for him to fuck me. The smell of his musk, the feel of his smooth, silken, sweat soaked skin. Too, too soon, between his monster cock rearranging my insides and the feel of my wet cock trapped between my hairy belly and his, I was coming without touching myself, As I shivered in orgasm, my poor battered hole tightened around him, and he groaned, tensing in pleasure.

That was only the first of many times we christened the house, because as it was nearing completion, he asked me to move in. It was my first time to live with a boyfriend, and I loved the feelings I had when we shopped together to stock it, I felt like a young newlywed building a life with my Prince Charming. And after our hard work, the house turned out great. 

In fact, it was so striking that we won a restoration award from a local group and the house was featured in a local design magazine. Not long afterwards, Reed received an offer to buy that was almost twice what he had paid. I had some minor regrets when he accepted the offer since we had had such great times there, but I love design and restoring houses, so I was eager to move on to another challenge. 

With his proceeds, Reed bought two houses, one to live in one to rent out, and my work began again. I had been able to work on one house and maintain my day job at the showroom, but there is no way I could work on and supervise subs at two sites and still work, so after some long conversations with Reed, I decided to quit and focus on the two new houses.




When Love Takes Over Ch. 02



"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked. "I know you bitch about your job sometimes, but I know you love it. And I know you love working on Magazine."

"Yes, I guess. But I have been there almost 5 years, and I'm burned out. I love working for Donna, but she can be exhausting. Besides, I've always planned to eventually start my own design firm and I like more time to work on my art. The potential profit from these houses is much more than a couple of year's salary, and if things work out like last time, I'm sure to get a lot of good press from these. Plus, she's still going to carry my paintings, and I make a decent bit of money from my art. Not enough to live on, but a nice income boost. Besides, I feel like this way I'm working toward our future."

"Whatever you want," he said, pulling me in for a kiss. After two years together, I still felt it down to my toes when he kissed me like that. In fact, I never quite lost the nervous twitch in my stomach when I walked into a room and saw him and realized that beautiful man was mine. 

Those two houses again garnered quite a bit of attention after we finished them, and in the emerging excitement surrounded the rebirth of New Orleans, Reed ended up selling both of them for major profits. 

As the years moved on, Reed became so excited about restoring properties and so energized by the changes in our city as it recovered from Katrina, he left teaching to focus on real estate. I continued to oversee the design of the renovations, as well as acting as project manager, though I stopped doing any of the physical work. It was fun, and I enjoyed it, but it did lack the magic I had felt when I was working on our own first home. 

I was so busy, that I never did take on any private design clients; however, I managed to find enough time to continue to paint, though never as much as I would like, and the paintings sold well enough for Donna that she was continually asking for more.

As our own personal homes became larger and more elaborate and Reed's property development business grew, I also fell into being kind of Reed's social liaison. 

At this point, Reed had been in New Orleans for a number of years, but as a Northerner used to directness he was still baffled by all the various rules and customs of the South. 

I had been raised in Louisiana, and though I came from small, rural, unimportant town, I had been raised by ladies, so I was taught all the archaic rules and regulations. Before I met Reed, I had largely rebelled against them, and my early years living in New Orleans, I had embraced it's bohemian and tawdry appeal much more than it's decayed gentility. But since he had decided to move into a professional area that required moving among the city's elite, I brushed off my childhood knowledge and put it in practice. 

I traded my vintage jackets, graphic tees, and paint stained jeans for seersucker suits and linen shirts. I taught him the difference between fish forks, oyster forks, salad forks, and ice cream forks. I taught him how to navigate a place setting that included a bewildering array of plates, cutlery, and stemware. I taught him about mint julep cups and milk punch. I taught him about "Bless her heart," and the proper usage of "y'all." I started using the approved Uptown decorating conventions in our own house, and the "right" restaurants, and the "right" stores to shop at. 

Honestly, none of this was my thing, but he loved it. And when I would stand at yet another one of our cocktail parties, bored out of my mind talking about various Uptown scandals, I would look over our tastefully decorated (if boring) living room and see Reed, so tall and lean, so proud of his accomplishments, dressed in a white linen suit that accented his black hair and olive complexion, holding his sweating mint julep in its silver cup wrapped with a linen napkins, and talking animatedly to our new acquaintances, and my heart would swell with love and pride. What's a little boredom on my part, if a stupid cocktail party makes his face shine like that?

The years went on, and it's now 7 years since we met. Reed, the bastard, still looked as gorgeous as every, with only a handful of lines around those fine dark eyes to mark the passage of time. He worked out regularly, and his careful diet had preserved his lean figure. 

I must admit that I was not so disciplined. I had always relied on physical work to keep me fit, and as Reed's success grew, I was doing less and less. We now had contractors and subs working on our projects, landscapers and gardeners working on our yards, and I no longer relied on the streetcars and walking to maneuver the city. At the same time, I always seemed to be picking finishes or meeting with the architects or checking on a job site or, perhaps worse, schmoozing with potential clients and investors over lunch, dinner, or drinks. By the end of the day, working out just seemed like too much. 

I also had learned to love to rewind with a couple of Manhattans or some good Scotch at the end of the day, and while I hated the schmoozing, I can deny that I enjoyed eating at the city's great restaurant. At any rate, while I was still fairly muscular, thanks to genetics, the muscles were slowly being covered by a layer of fat. I honestly wanted to grow my beard, buzz my head, and just embrace being a bear, but Reed preferred a preppy look, so I kept my face shaved, my body hair trimmed, and my hair in a conventional hair cut. If that's what he liked, I was okay with it.

But did he still like it? That's really the question, isn't it? That's the thing that had been bothering me lately. Because the reason that I was so horny that I was ogling 22 year old Latinos was that Reed and I hadn't had sex, besides the occasional drunken groping after a long night out or an increasingly disinterested hand job in months. 

I had chalked it up to our being busy and distracted by business. Bigger projects bring bigger rewards, but also bigger stresses. And yet, was that the reason? All I knew was that I loved him and our life, even if it wasn't exactly what I had pictured. 

I had planned for a life of us together in our first small cottage with me painting in the converted garage in the back and him grading papers on the back porch, potlucks with our neighborhood friends, and trips to the gay bars in the quarter. But somehow, life had had different ideas, and now we lived in an Uptown showplace, with cocktail parties for 100, and only went to the French Quarter to eat with the Uptown crowd at Galatoire's. Those weren't my favorite things to do, but I did them with Reed, so that's what mattered. 

*****

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the train passed. I head toward Uptown and Reed, excited to see him again before he left. I had given him a goodbye kiss earlier, but now I was ready to give him a proper send off, something for him to remember while he was out of town, a send off that would remind him of the love he had waiting at home...



When Love Takes Over Ch. 03



Author's Note:

It's so easy to become what you despise. 

Over the years that I've read stories at various websites, one thing I've learned to hate is when I start reading a story, especially one that hooks me, only to have it stop suddenly. I recently started one that I was really enjoying, only to be horrified that it ended so abruptly. And it was one of the rare stories that I both really connected with and couldn't predict the ending to, so I felt horribly...betrayed is really the only word I can come up with. When I decided to start writing, I vowed to never be that author. 

I originally intended to complete the story, When Love Takes Over before posting, but after starting writing again and spending so much time thinking and daydreaming about this story, I was too excited to wait and posted Chapter 1 soon after beginning Chapter 2. Besides, I reasoned, I did have the whole story outlined. What could go wrong? 

Obviously a couple of things. One was a personal issue, the sudden illness and death of a family member. Another was something I had heard of, but didn't really believe until I had personal experience. I had heard authors talk about how characters they thought they had completely decided on can morph and change during writing, sometimes to the point of pushing against the original plotline. I am ashamed to admit that I thought that just meant they were undisciplined. "That wouldn't happen to me,: I thought smugly (and incorrectly as it turns out). At any rate, Brandon and Reed didn't behave exactly as I had planned, and it has taken me more time than I realized to reconcile their unexpectedly independent behavior with the story I had planned to tell. The intriguing thing is that though I've reconciled their personalities with my original storyline, I'm no longer 100% sure how it's all going to pan out.

I am sorry for the delay in Chapter 2, and I will endeavor to do my best to furnish the remaining chapters in a timely manner. 

*****

I made my way through the tortuous maze of one way streets that make up New Orleans' Garden District, a labyrinth made even worse by the proliferation of pot holes (some large enough to swallow small cars whole) and the never ending street construction. My friends all tease me about driving like a little old man, but even I was impatient with the snail's pace I had been forced into by the various obstacles.

If I didn't get home soon, Reed would already have left for the airport, even though his flight wasn't until several hours. I've personally never been one of those waiting to the last minute, rushing through the airport types, but he had even me beat. I'd leave for the airport two hours before the flight. He wanted to actually be at the airport at the 2 hour point. In fact one of our few really major fights had occurred early in our relationship when I had offered to take him to the airport on a trip home to see his family. I had been held up at work and got to his house late; he was already pissed and upset, but then when we hit bad traffic, he lost his shit. I still made well before the 45 minute cut off, but he was furious, and threw himself out of the car without even a "goodbye" the moment I came to a stop. He called immediately upon landing to apologize and even sent flowers to me at work to say he was sorry, but I made sure never be in charge of his airport travel again.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally dodged the final traffic hurdle, one of the many college aged students on bikes that blanket Uptown, one (without a helmet, of course) that was texting, wearing earbuds, and seemingly unaware that she was on an actual street and not one of the bike paths in Audubon Park, and pulled into a parking spot on the street in front of the house. Like many of the houses in this older part of town, it didn't have a separate garage, and we parked in the street or the circular brick paved drive in front of the house. 

Reed's car, a black Mercedes convertible was parked there, as was the small black Mercedes SUV I normally drove (I was torn about the matching cars-with my eye for design detail, I had to admit the two black cars looked great in front of the red brick house with traditional white trim and matched the black front door and shutters, but I couldn't get past thinking they were pretentious at the same time). Today though, since I had been delivering some tile and various other supplies to the jobsite, I had been in my trusty old pickup, the same one I had had since first dating Reed and usually parked on the street. In addition to our cars in the drive, though, was a third car, also a black Mercedes, but this time a sedan ("God," I thought rolling my eyes at the row of similar cars as I got out of the truck and walked to the front door, "could Uptown people be anymore like sheep." Then it occurred to me that I was one now, and I promptly stopped the eye rolling) 

Our house wasn't on St. Charles, but had a desirable spot a block or two from it. It wasn't one of the great mansions or antebellum gems that line much of that street, but being built in the 1920s, its red brick facade had a lovely patina, and it was graciously proportioned, though far too big for just the two of us. It was handsome, though, I had to admit as I walked to the leaded glass front door. Built in the Neoclassical style popular in the twenties and thirties, it had a perfectly symmetrical facade. 

It was a center hall style, with a hall wide enough for a seating area across from the staircase, and the french doors that opened to the back yard were positioned so that you had a direct view of the courtyard, pool, and pool house from the front entrance. To the right, an opening led to the huge dining room that had a table that could accommodate sixteen. Beyond that was a butler's pantry, a large kitchen, and a breakfast area.

To the left was a large room, that I had reconfigured into a library/office, with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Behind it was tucked the graceful stairs that curved to the second floor; I had replaced the bulky wooden railing with a much more refined metal one that had been silver leafed and glazed (by yours truly) to a soft silver gilt. The back of the house had an enormous sunken living room with a built in bar tucked into one corner. All the rooms were decorated in the approved Uptown style-polished pale marble floors, creamy neutral wall colors except for the library which had been lacquered in a deep blue-green, a mix of antique furniture and plush upholstery which had been slipcovered in Belgian linen, all mixed with contemporary art and accessories. 

It was beautiful, but honestly, I found it all a bit cold. I had much preferred the BoHo comfort of our first house, but I had agreed with Reed that our house's decor needed to reflect the kind of interiors our potential clients wanted, and this was it. The bedrooms upstairs were more of the same, except for the pair of battered brown leather armchairs (they had been my first purchase for my apartment after Katrina and my first major furniture purchase ever) tucked into the guestroom. The sinfully comfortable chairs were about the only furniture that had survived the various moves over the years. 

The best part of the house though, and the only part I truly loved, was the courtyard. Except for the perimeter planting beds, it was paved in red brick that had been bleached by 100 years of sun. The same brick made up the walls that surrounded it, but they had been covered by vines of creeping fig. The same creeping fig crept up the small pool house that served as our primary guest quarters since it contained a small kitchen and full bath in addition to a large bedroom/ sitting area. But the best part was the the small, but serviceable pool. Here was where I spent much of my time, either in the pool or lounging in the shaded porch off the guest house.

Today, though, I wasn't spending much time thinking about the decor. I was anxious to see if Reed was still here (he sometimes took cabs to the airport, so his car still being in the drive was no indication he hadn't left) and wondering who the other car belonged too. It looked familiar, but since Uptown was littered with very similar black Mercedes sedans, only vaguely familiar.

Upon entering, I heard voices in the library. They stopped when they heard me entering. I heard Reed say, "Hello?"

"It's me," I answered, stepping toward his voice. When I entered the room, I stopped for a moment and stared at him for a bit, as I often did. He was just so handsome. And he liked dressing up, even for travel, so with his expensive, dark washed jeans, he wore a slim cut jacket over a button down shirt, accented with a knitted tie. His sartorial elegance made me painfully aware of my own paint stained jeans and battered work boots. His luggage, a Louis Vuitton duffle and hanging bag in charcoal canvas lay on the sofa. I went over and gave him a quick hug and kiss. I was disappointed he had company ("There goes any chance of a quickie," I thought), but was glad to at least get the chance to give him a proper goodbye, since I had been in such a rush this morning.

"Oh, hi, John," I said recognizing the guest. John was the realtor we had been working with recently, another gay team member, and a very handsome one. He was in his early 30s, and a tall, thin brunette with classical features, and piercing dark brown eyes. Looking at his well put together outfit, I felt even worse about not bothering to at least find an unstained pair of jeans to wear.

"Hi, Brandon," he replied, somewhat stiffly. Noticing the clipped tone in his voice, and Reed's own stony face, I got the feeling I had interrupted something unpleasant. "Well," he continued, "I need to be going. Reed, I meant what I said. You need to make a decision, and soon." With that he turned, and walked out, slamming the front door.

"What was that all about?" I asked, turning to Reed.

He sighed. "I really meant to talk about this when I got back."

"Talk about what?" I said cautiously. I could feel my stomach knotting. "Does it have to do with what you and John were talking about?"

He sighed again. "Yes. I'm planning to sell the house."

"What? You've decided to sell the house, and you're just now telling me? I mean, I don't love it, but shouldn't I get a say in this?" I knew as soon as the words let my mouth I had handled it wrong. I mean, I was pissed, but after years, I knew that he did not handle criticism well, and immediately went on the defensive.

He flinched, a look of guilt flashing across his handsome features before they settled into a look of anger. "Technically, it's my house. My money bought it, my name is on the deed, and I can do what I want with it." He saw the look of shock on my face and immediately put his hands over his face. I was too stunned by the vitriol in his voice to do anything, and a moment later he removed his hands, and the look of anger was gone, replaced by one of sadness.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to talk to you like that." I stood still staring at him. I noticed that despite what appeared to be genuine apology in his voice, he didn't move closer to give me a reassuring hug or touch. "But I do want to sell the house. I know you've never cared for it, and I'm not sure it's what I want anymore. The market's hot now, and if I put on the market soon, I know I can get the asking price, maybe more."

I still felt on uneasy ground, hesitant to put a foot wrong. "I should be used to moving by now. I've almost lost count of the places we've lived." I tried to laugh, but even to my ears, it sounded hollow. "So where now? We've tried MidCity, the Marigny, the Bywater, Uptown--I've always wanted to live on Bayou St. John."

"Brandon," he said, then stopped and moved toward the luggage on the sofa, turning his back toward me. "I've decided on a condo on Tchoupitoulas Street."

I tried to ignore the increasingly sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. "The warehouse district would be new," I said.

He sighed again, dropping his shoulders and turned to face me. "The condo isn't for us. It's for me."

I felt the blood draining from my face, seemingly from my body. I went cold, so cold I thought I would never be warm again. My voice, too was ice cold, though strangely calm, as I said, "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"I need to be alone. I need to sort some things out. I just don't know what I want right now."

"And where I am supposed to live while you "find yourself"'?" The ice continued in my voice. And indeed, the cold emptiness inside my was being filled with a blue white rage. 

In most ways, I was like my father: pretty happy go lucky. Sure I got mad, sometimes easily, but it always passed quickly; a brief flare like kindling. But deep inside, I had some of my mother's temperament. She had been what they used to call high strung, and what I suspect was an undiagnosed bipolar disorder. She had died when I was a teenager, but I clearly remembered the tantrums, the plates and glasses being flung across the room, the slammed doors and squealing tires as she drove off from whatever innocuous comment of my father's that had enraged her. Witnessing the destruction her anger had left behind at family gatherings holidays, I had vowed never to left my anger control me. And on the few occasions it had threatened too, I removed myself from the source, fleeing to some dark corner to hole myself up alone like a wounded animal, until the rage had passed. And I had always been amazed that this towering anger was such a cold one, so unlike the brief heat that flared when someone cut me off in traffic or I realized that Reed had eaten all of the ice cream. This time, I let it fill me. I welcomed the icy rage.

"We'll talk about it when I get back in a few days. I'm really sorry...I didn't mean to lay this on you right before leaving. I promise you we'll work it out when I get back. I would never just throw you out on the street."

As the blue white rage rampaged through me, everything clarified.

"You're seeing somebody, aren't you? Who? Somebody I know?" His eyes widened, and he involuntarily glanced to the door. In some sort of divine flash, I realized who his whore was. "You're fucking John." It was a statement, not a question.

"It's not like that."

"He's fucking you, then? Is that what it's like?"

He looked down without answering.

"Was that why he was here, some ultimatum? Some sort of "Pick him or me" type of thing?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

"Anything else you need to get off your chest? Are you screwing the pool boy? The gardner? Our friends?"

"No," he said, still looking down. "Except for him, there's never been anyone else."

"How long have you two been fuck buddies?"

He finally looked up. "Honestly, it's not like that. We have been working so close together, and it just happened," he paused, "It's only been a few times, but I feel something for him, something more than just sex."

"Do you love him?" The question physically hurt to ask.

"I...I... I don't know...I feel something when I'm with him, but I'm so confused...I'm sorry."

The vase struck the bookcase beside him with a force that dented the wooden trim before falling to shatter on the marble floor. "Jesus!" he said, jumping back. "You could have hit me!"

"I was trying to, " I said. "Unfortunately, I've always had shit aim."

He looked at me uncertainly, as if trying to figure out if I was serious or joking. I had habit of joking at tense times to relieve pressure. I always preferred laughing with sinners to crying with saints. This time, though, I wasn't joking.

"You need to leave now," I said. "You need to take your things and go before I really try to hurt you. Because I want to, I really do." I saw something in his eyes as he stared at me that I had never seen before and never wanted to see. I saw fear, and that look of fear pierced my heart, shattering the ice that had formed inside me. An empty shell without my anger, I stood staring straight ahead as he grabbed his luggage and fled. Only after hearing the door close, did I drop into the closest chair. 

I'm not sure how long I sat, but at some point, I came too. I had no idea where I was going and certainly no idea of what I was going to do when I got there, but I couldn't stay here any longer. Upstairs, I packed quickly, taking only what I needed. I ignored my own set of Louis Vuitton luggage that had been Reed's last Christmas present to me, instead pulling out a battered leather duffle that had been a college graduation present and an old backpack. The backpack was one of my hurricane evacuation tools and held my important paperwork, birth certificate, family photos, etc. and was always ready to go. I just added my pad, laptop, and some jeans and t-shirts to the duffle and was finished within minutes. There was nothing else I wanted out of this house. I did pause for a minute and pick up the silver framed photo that stood on my nightstand. It was a picture from early in our relationship. We were at a local music festival and looked so young, so happy, and so in love. I stared at it for a moment, and put it back down. 

I took a moment to look through the duffle and backpack to make sure I had everything I needed for the time being, and headed downstairs. I paused in the hall, to take the key to the house and the SUV off my ring and leave them on the console. I didn't need them any longer. At the door, I stopped and looked around at the house I was leaving. So beautiful. So cold. So empty. As I reached for the door, I noticed the watch on my left hand. It was a stainless steel Rolex. 

A Rolex watch, despite the other trappings of luxury I had come to live with, was the only status symbol I had ever really wanted. I still don't even know why owning a Rolex had mattered, but it had. And Reed, as he often did, had paid attention to me and my conversation. When he sold the first house for such a massive profit, he had bought the watch as a surprise for me. I still remember the shock of opening the box, the excitement, and then the joy as I read the inscription "I love you. R." I had worn it almost everyday since then, and it was scratched and a bit battered. Reed had tried to get me to let him upgrade it countless times, until I had finally convinced him how much the watch meant to me. That it was a symbol of his love, not an expensive watch to me. He had pulled me closed and kissed me when he realized how much his gift had really touched me. 

I stared at it and stroked it with a finger. I had worn it for so long, it felt like a part of me, and the brief times I had to remove it for working on a project or to have it repaired, I always felt strange, naked. Like a part of me was missing. I closed my eyes, brought it to my lips and kissed it. I then took it off and flung onto the hard, marble floor. I heard the crystal shatter with a satisfying crunch. I opened the door and walked out.



When Love Takes Over Ch. 04



Sorry this chapter took so long. I ran into a bit of writer's block, and this story has kept developing in ways I was not prepared for.

*****

When I got in my truck and drove away, I had no destination in mind. I just knew I needed to be alone. Anger is not the only thing that makes me want to be alone; though I'm not really shy, I am an introvert and I like to be alone to do my healing. So I didn't want to call friends or see them. In fact, my phone was off; while I was packing, text messages from Reed had already started coming in, but I wasn't ready to read them or talk to him. In fact, I wasn't sure I ever wanted to see him again. Part of me knew that wasn't really true, but it's how I was feeling right now. 

After driving mindlessly for a bit, I realized I was heading for the French Quarter, which didn't surprise me. I love the quarter, and had even been lucky enough to find an apartment there in the years immediately after Katrina. But even before living there, it was where I had headed during my days off or when I was down or bored; walking those ancient streets, feeling the breeze off the river, losing myself in the crowds had always been magical for me and soothed me when I was feeling low. 

I didn't go there much anymore; it had never been Reed's favorite place-he thought it was a little too grimy, especially since we had been hanging out with the Uptown crowd who considered going to the quarter as slumming. I was drifting down Canal Street when the sign for the Ritz-Carlton caught my eye.

I had been to the Ritz for the spa once or twice as well as for various other reasons, but had never actually stayed there. Reed and I had always talked about spending a weekend there and being tourists in our own town, but never actually did it. Something always seemed to come up; something more important. 

"Why not?" I thought. I knew I couldn't afford to stay there more than a couple of nights, but if I were going to crawl into a den to lick my wounds, why couldn't that den be in a luxury hotel at least for a night or two? I pulled in and handed my keys to the valet. He was too well trained to say anything, but a single manicured eyebrow was raised over my old and battered, if well maintained, pickup and my stained jeans. 

The attractive blonde at the front desk had much better training and managed to keep a poker face as she followed my request to look for an available room.

"How many nights, sir?" she asked.

"Two, I guess."

"All right. We have some singles available. How will you be paying?"

I opened my wallet and looked for my bank card. As I was searching for it, I noticed the American Express card Reed had given me to use for business expenses. I had meant to leave it on the entry table with my keys. I smiled, pulled it out, and handed it to the woman. "I'll be using Am Ex. And can you see if you have any suites available? By the way, make it for three nights."

The smile was long gone by the time I had been shown to my room and my few possessions had been settled in. After the bellboy left, I had taken a long shower, noting that it was a definitely a shame Reed and I had never stayed here. The suite had what I can only call a pornworthy shower. Big enough to host an orgy in, with multiple shower heads, a built in bench and body sprays. 

"We could have had fun here," I thought sadly. And if I were honest, which I had to admit I didn't particularly want to be right now, Reed had pushed for it several times; it was usually me who had decided we were too busy or had too many obligations. I always figured there would be a next time.

Clean, smelling like expensive lavender body wash, and wrapped in a luxurious white terry robe, I sat on the sofa, thoroughly depressed. I like to have plans. I like to make lists. I often ignore those plans and lists, but making them soothes me. I like to have projects. I like to have things to do. I like to know what I'm doing next after my current project ends. I like order and hate change. And for the first time in a very long time, I had no idea what I was going to do next. Or even worse, what I wanted to do next. 

There were the important questions I was trying to settle: Where would I live? Where would I work? Did I want to even stay in New Orleans? But while these thoughts circled my brain endlessly, the really important question writhed below: What was I going to do about Reed? I decided that raiding the mini-bar for a couple of tiny bottles of bourbon would help me figure out the answers. 

While in many ways I am happy go lucky and try not to sweat the small stuff, I tend to overthink some things and have the kind of mind that is never still. Even in quiet times, it's working. Sometimes on work projects, sometimes composing mental essays, sometimes playing the "What If" game. 

And one "What If" game I had played that I imagine most people play who are in a relationship is "What would I Do if He Cheated." I hadn't spent lots of time thinking about it; I can be jealous, but not in that way. And before today, I hadn't thought that 

Reed actually would cheat. But I had wondered every now and then how I would handle that scenario. I didn't have an immediate answer. I decided to see if another mini bottle of bourbon would help with my decision making ability.

Unfortunately, even after that last bottle, I still couldn't come up with a definitive answer. When I was younger and more innocent (or more naive), I would definitely have declared, "He cheated. It's over. Period." Now older and with more mileage (though not necessarily wiser), I didn't think it was that black and white. And now that the "What If" game had become the "He Did It" game, I was seeing things in very many shades of gray. 

If it had been a drunken mistake, I think I could deal with it. Shit happens. And though I had never cheated over the the past 7 years, there had definitely been a few times that if I had had three drinks instead of two (or if I'm honest, 4 drinks instead of 3), I might have given into temptation and answered "yes" to the various propositions I had been offered.

Still though, in this case it was different. Not only had there been apparently multiple meetings (at this point I had to stop playing the "He Did It" game and spend several minutes imagining a glorious fantasy where I manage to rip off Reed's right arm and beat him death with the bloody stump before hunting down that slut John and repeating the procedure), but there was the lying. 6 months of lying. 

Could I trust that what he was telling me about John was the truth? Was there more Reed had kept from me? Did they play safe? Jesus, I had been so mad I hadn't even thought ask if they used condoms. 

I don't know if I could ever trust him again. Could I? I got off the sofa and went back to the mini bar to look for more tiny bottles of bourbon to help with these questions, but there weren't any left.. 

At this point, I realized it was after 7pm. I thought idly about ordering dinner and did manage another weak smile imaging the look on Reed's face when his assistant asked him about the room services charges and listed the totals when she went over the credit card statement with him, but I couldn't eat. And I had too much of my Baptist upbringing still in me to order food just to waste it. 

Instead, I decided to move on to drinking all the little bottles of scotch from the bar fridge. and staring blankly at a Golden Girls marathon on tv until I eventually fell asleep. Or passed out, if I insisted on accuracy. 

The next morning, I opened my eyes actually hoping for a hangover, hoping for a pounding in my head to replace the anger, questions, and fear circling inside, but no luck. In fact, I had woken up disgustingly early and without even the slightest headache. I sighed and got up and dressed. 

It was only 8am or so, but the walls of the hotel room were starting to close in on me, so I decided to go walking in the quarter. I wasn't hungry ("Maybe there was upside to all of this, " I thought. I had heard of the "Divorce Diet" and had wanted to take off a few pounds for a while. 

I mean, it's almost worth having your life ruined if it means fitting back into a 33" waist pair of jeans, right?), but I did need coffee. Clutching my coffee, I walked up and down the quarter, from Canal St. to Esplanade Ave., from Rampart St. to the Mississippi. 

Around noon or so, I tired of coffee and walking, and decided I was ready for drinking and sitting, so I ducked into one of the convience stores that dot the quarter for a pint of bourbon and headed to back the river. It was a gray day, overcast and drizzling by the time I reached the stairs that lead from the Moon Walk down into the murky brown water of the great river. 

If I'm honest, I have to admit I was almost enjoying the melancholy of it all; walking alone in the rain, heartbroken. I could almost see myself as a character in some movie, but I every time I starting trying to figure out what sad song I wanted on the soundtrack to my life, I would remember that this was much more than the sad sequence in a romantic comedy. 

I sat in the light rain, staring across the rippling water like the answer to my questions were waiting somewhere on the Westbank, but the only insight I achieved was the realization that I was becoming no wiser, only increasingly wetter and drunker. 

I didn't want to go back to the hotel yet, so I tossed my bottle into the nearest trash can and headed back into the quarter. The quarter usually empties out during the rain, so I had the narrow streets to myself. 

I crossed Jackson Square and found myself walking down St. Ann to the gay section. I had spent many happy days and nights here during my single days, and Reed and I still came here for the big holidays like Mardi Gras and Decadence. 

I sighed. It had only been 24 hours, and I was already sick of thinking about this. I wanted to put off thinking about this, to think about tomorrow or some other day, but I couldn't stop my racing mind.

By now I was hungry, but still restless. I grabbed a couple of slice of pizza from one of Bourbon's many Pizza/Daiquiri shops (I always did think that was the weirdest combination) and walked as I ate. 

It was early afternoon, by now, and I was in the mood for a little company. I wasn't ready for close friends, but I did need to spend some time with someone who would be supportive, someone who would try to cheer me up, someone who would agree readily and wholeheartedly with me that Reed was the world's greatest shithead without trying to make me see his side.. That someone was Charlie, my favorite bartender.

New Orleans' reputation as a hard partying city is well earned, and I learned early upon my arrival here that among the personal professionals that were considered by its inhabitants to be indispensable, such as primary care doctors, dentists, barbers, accountants, etc., few were as important as having a favorite bartenders.

Bars are everywhere here. Neighborhood bars, strip clubs, martini lounges, private clubs; no matter what your predilection, there is a bar that caters to you. I, after the deprivation of living in the Bible Belt, had readily sampled the bounty of the various gay bars, most of which are in close proximity in the quarter. Making the rounds among them is referred to as "walking the Fruit Loop." 

And again, there are many gay bars for many tastes: The Pub for the pretty boys and those who like to look at them, Rawhide and the Phoenix for those who like it a bit rough, The Corner Pocket for those who love the go go boys, and a couple who vied for the nickname "God's Waiting Room" that catered to older gay men.. I had at various times patronized them all, but I definitely had favorites, and my favorite of all was The Hardy Hole. 

The Hardy Hole was, like Rawhide and Phoenix, officially a leather bear bar, but honestly, unless you ventured into the shadowy recesses of the back room late on a weekend night, it was primarily a neighborhood bar. A place to just hang out and talk. And a huge part of its appeal was the bartenders, at least for me, who never, even in my single days, had wandered into the backroom. 

Most of the bartenders had been there for years, and kind of like Sam, Coach, and Woody at Cheers, they always remembered your name, as well as your favorite drink. And while only one or two were hot, at least in a conventional way, unlike the hot bartenders at the more popular and happening bars down the street, they always had time to talk, especially if you were feeling down. 

Charlie was one of the hot ones; well at least if you liked tall, dark, prematurely gray Latino daddies with bulging biceps and an eye patch (trust me...on Charlie, the eye patch only added to his hotness, giving him a rakish, pirate like air). He had moved to New Orleans about the same time I had, and we had hit it off. 

He had listened sympathetically to my various 'woe is me tales" through the years, given me romance advice, and had put my drunk ass in a many cabs when it was time for me to go home. I hadn't seen him nearly as much in the years since I was with Reed. The Hardy Hole was, to put it mildly, not Reed's kind of place.

I took him there on an early date for a nightcap after dinner. The bar was just down the street from my apartment and conveniently located for "one last drink". On the steps of the admittedly seedy looking entrance he looked at the sign. 

"The Hardy Hole?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"It's a blacksmith reference. You know how popular blacksmith stuff is here because of Jean Lafitte. Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, the flame and forge at Cafe Lafitte's."

"What is a hardy hole then?"

"Ummm" I hesitated. "Well, it's part of an anvil."

"Part of an anvil? Anvils have parts? I thought they were just metal blocks."

"Well...yes, but they have holes in them, they're called hardy holes."

"What are they for?"

"Ummm..." I stuttered, buyings some time as my face reddened. "You stick tools in them."

"Oh, Jesus," he said rolling his eyes. He opened the door, "Let's get this over with."

We had stayed for only one drink. It had been busy, much busier than I had anticipated, and the action hadn't been confined to only the back room. A couple beside us at the bar had decided to take their relationship to the next level right then and there, and the patron on the other side was wearing nothing but boots and a jock strap. Reed was very uncomfortable, and I judged it wise to get him out of there as soon as possible. 

After that he refused to go, and I could tell he didn't like me going. So, I curtailed my visits. I would go when I had friends in town who wanted to bar hop through the quarter, pop in during the big festivals like Mardi Gras and Decadence, and occasionally stop by for a beer before going home if I was working on a project near the quarter. 

Even with my curtailed visits, I had still maintained my friendship with Charlie, mainly through Facebook these days, and I had been thrilled watching his rise from bartender to manager to owner. 

Drenched, I pulled open the door to the bar and was hit by a wave of nostalgia. Even through the fog of pain that surrounded me, I got a sense of comfort. It had been over seven years, but how many times had a come here to cry on Charlie's shoulder over some guy who had done me wrong. Charlie was actually working behind the bar that day, and he glanced up as I walked in. Catching a glimpse of my face, the smile that had automatically lit his face faded. 

"Oh shit" he said. "What happened?"

With the rain and general dreariness of the day, the bar was empty except for Charlie behind the bar and a young bearded guy sitting by the bar. Within seconds of entering, I was blubbering like a twelve year old girl who had just found out about One Direction's breakup. Soon I was seated on a stool between Charlie and the cub who were making murmurs of support and simultaneously pouring me shots of bourbon.

"He's an idiot," the young guy said, leaning toward me. . "You're so hot. I'd never cheat on you." 

"He's right," Charlie whispered in my ear, wrapping his arms around me. I slumped back against him, letting his broad chest support me. "Reed is a fucking idiot."

Many hours later, I opened my eyes, or at least tried to. What hangover I had avoided yesterday was here this morning and had brought reinforcements. Everything ached, including my eyelids, so I shut them and lay there praying for the world to end. Where was I? I decided I didn't care, just as long as Death could find me. A sound and movement beside me worked through the pounding in my brain. I wasn't alone. "Oh shit," I thought, right before I felt darkness overtake me.



When Love Takes Over Ch. 05



After a few more hours of sleep, I came to again. This time the agony in my head, though still soul destroying, was bearable, just. Moving extremely slowly and carefully, I opened my eyes and turned my head, praying the that the sound of someone else in bed with me was just a dream. Alas, that was not the case.

When I finally managed to look beside me, I wasn't sure what (or more properly who) I would see. The last thing I remembered clearly was walking into The Hardy Hole. What I wasn't expecting was see someone so young. Oh God, it was the 24? 25? 26? (please dear God let it be 26) year old cub I had met yesterday at the bar. His big brown eyes were open and he was smiling at me.

"Hi," he said. "Good morning."

"Hey" I tried to say. It came out as a groan. A painful groan.

"Last night was wild, right?" He giggled. Oh Jesus, he was a giggler. I'm not sure, but I think I may have t-shirts older than him.

"Wild," I agreed, using every ounce of strength in me to raise my torso to a sitting position. He looked at me expectantly, and I searched my battered brain desperately trying to remember his name. Ryan? Brian? Fred, I suddenly remembered. His name was Fred. "Um, Fred," he looked at me and smiled. Thank God, his name WAS Fred. " Why don't you call room service and order us some coffee...and some ibuprofen...and anything else you want. I need to go...ummm. freshen up." 

I started to get up, but paused when I realized I was naked under the sheet. I looked frantically around the room trying to locate my underwear. I finally found my briefs. They were hanging from the chandelier. Shit. Oh well, why be modest at this juncture, I thought, staggering naked from the bed to the bathroom. 

"What's the room number," he said, looking up from the phone.

"612."

"Thanks. And be the way, my name is actually Frank." Fuck, I thought. 

After what seemed like a journey of a thousand miles I made it to the bathroom just in time to be violently ill. Though honestly at the rate the day was going so far, actually making to the bathroom before puking seemed like a major win. Laying there on the floor of the bathroom of my suite at the Ritz-Carlton, I tried to process the events of the past few days, but honestly all I could think of was how cool the marble tile was against my cheek. That is until I happened to glance over at the huge walk in shower and notice the used condom on its floor. Actually make that the multiple used condoms on its floor. That's when the memories of last night came flooding back.

Well, I thought, laying there, at least I now know for sure that the shower could comfortably hold two people with room to spare. In fact, I now knew it could hold three people with room to spare. Flashes of consciousness kept coming as I remembered Fred, shit, Frank, his name is Frank, and Charlie and I in various combinations. I remembered the overwhelming sensation of wet fur pressing against my chest and back simultaneously, I remembered the overwhelming orgasm that occurred when Frank sucked me as Charlie filled me. I remembered the even more overwhelming organism as I sank my own aching cock in Frank's tight, tight hole as Charlie pushed into my own once more. 

I even, if I searched my hazy memories even further back, remember Frank on his knees between my legs at the bar sucking my cock like it was the tastiest treat in the world as Charlie pressed himself against my back. Oh well, I thought, I guess I can now cross "doing a three way" off my bucket list. I hadn't managed one before Reed, and as I had no interest in dabbling in an open marriage, I figured it would have to live in the realm of fantasy for me. I guess the world works in mysterious ways.

I eventually managed to stand and, after pausing a minute to see if any more of last night's attempt to drink All The Bourbon In The World was going to come back up, I staggered over to the sink to brush my teeth and splash some water in my face. I avoided looking in the mirror; I had a pretty good idea of what I looked like: 20 miles of bad road. I had no desire to confirm it. I took my morning piss, out of delaying tactics, decided to face Frank again.

I snagged a towel to hide my nakedness and walked back into the room. The food had come, but more importantly, the coffee and painkillers. I poured myself a cup, took a couple of pills, and sat as far from the food as possible. The smell of pancakes was making me even sicker.

I looked over at Frank and had to smile. He was wrapped in a terry cloth robe, and his hair was sticking out all over. He was inhaling pancakes and bacon like he had never eaten, though his sturdy frame indicated that he did, in fact, enjoy sustenance on a very regular basis. He sensed he looking at him and turned to smile at me, his teeth very white against his dark brown beard.

"I love breakfast," he said, snagging another piece of bacon. "Do you want some? I ordered plenty."

My response was a visible shudder. He giggled again. "Guess you're not a morning person."

"Good guess," I said. The coffee was beginning to make me feel, if not quite human, at least like one of the higher primates. "Look, about last night..."

He interrupted me. "Dude, it's cool. You just got out of a relationship." I started to speak; he stopped me with a gesture. "Let me finish. I mean I really dig you, and I'd totally like to date you, but c'est la vie." He shrugged. "Anyway, last night was major. You and Charlie...wow! I was in cub Heaven." I blushed so hard it made my head ache even more. Seeing me turn red, he giggled again. "Too bad Charlie had to leave. We could have gone for round two...No, that's not right. Round six?" He giggled again. Thank Heavens for small favors; at least I didn't have to face Charlie, too, this morning. I'm not sure I could have handled that.

Leaving him to finish breakfast, I went to shower. Frank offered to scrub my back, but I declined it. Contributing to the delinquency of a 25 year old while I was drunk, I could forgive myself. Doing it while sober (or at least mostly sober), no. Leaning down to pick up used condoms while hungover was definitely the worst thing I have ever experienced. But eventually, the shower floor was clear, and the hot water worked miracles. 

In fact, remembering what I had done in that shower only hours earlier had my dick hardening, and for a split second, I considered taking Frank up on his offer, but I managed, for once, to curb my poor impulse control. Clean and wrapped in another robe that I hadn't noticed earlier, I finally emerged from the bathroom.

Frank was finished eating. In fact, he was dressed and ready to head out. He had obviously waited to say goodbye, which I found endearing. For a moment, I wished circumstances were different and almost made plans to see him again, but I knew that was too selfish. Still, I gladly gave him the goodbye kiss he asked for, and when he asked for my number I gave it to him, too. I wasn't expecting to hear from him again; but I had to admit he was a sweet boy. And a talented one.

After he left, I poured more coffee and settled on the sofa to think. Really think this time. Obviously wallowing in self pity (and bourbon, the voice in my head said...don't forget all the bourbon you wallowed in) wasn't going to be the ideal way to handle this break up. Well, I thought, realizing that I did consider Reed and I as having broken up, not just "having issues." At least that one decision. I am through. Now what. 

Well, I now knew I didn't want a post-breakup slut period. I didn't really regret last night, at least not entirely. Though I had to admit I had lost quite a bit of moral high ground by jumping into bed with someone (okay, two someones) so quickly after leaving Reed. Sure, technically we had kind of broken up, but still, my behavior had been far from classy. Moreover, I knew I didn't want a series of one night stands. Last night's acrobatics had been exciting, but I now knew what making love felt like when there was genuine love; that's what I wanted again. 

I need to leave New Orleans, I realized. Ben and his partner would let me stay for as long as I needed, but I was certain the temptation to distract myself with bars and boys would be too strong to overcome. Too many temptations, period, in this city. Plus, it held too many memories, mainly good ones, of me and Reed. So where to? 

I didn't have unlimited resources. Aside from various retirement accounts, I had about $10,000 in the bank. Luckily I didn't have a lot of bills. My credit cards were all paid off, and I didn't have a car note. I knew Reed would let me stay on the company health plan, at least until I settled somewhere (I was furious at him, but knew he wasn't a complete asshole). New York, I thought. 

I knew my friend Patrick, an old college friend, would be happy to let me camp out in his guest room for a while. And he had lots of connections from his 15 years in the city; I was confident him could help me find a job, even if was something just to get by for a while. If I didn't have to immediately spend it on housing, my tiny nest egg would last for a while. 

I finally found my dead phone and plugged it in to charge while I dressed and straightened the room a bit. I didn't want the maids to think that I had hosted some sort of debauched orgy, especially since I had done exactly that. It took a while, but I was certain I finally found all of the used condoms. I don't remember this part, but we must have stopped somewhere and bought an economy pack. And the empty bottle of lube I found in the trash held as much as a Big Gulp. Even alone, I blushed when I found it.

I spent the rest of the morning drinking coffee and looking up flights to NYC. After a couple of hours, I judged the phone to be fully charged and turned it on. I was immediately assaulted by a series of beeps alerting me to text messages and missed calls, most from Reed. Lots of "Please call me" and "Where are you? I'm worried" interspersed with the occasional "I am so sorry." I deleted the thread. 

I saw a couple from Ben. I wasn't quite ready to talk to him in person. I think I was afraid I'd find out that he and his partner had known about Reed and John. Instead I composed a brief email, telling him that Reed and I were finished, that I was fine, that any inquiries about the project were to go to Reed, and that I'd be in touch when I got settled. 

I called Patrick, getting his voicemail. I told him to call me, stressing the importance. I wanted to make sure I could come, and I wanted make the necessary travel arrangements as soon as possible.

With the important things, out of the way, I turned to dealing with my stepmother. She had married my father about 15 years ago (my mother had died of an aneurysm when I was a teenager ), and while our relationship was cordial, we weren't exactly close. We talked on major holidays when I hadn't come home to visit, on birthdays, etc., but she didn't call just to chat. So I was surprised to see a series of missed calls from Ruby. I figured she was calling to plan my dad's next birthday, a big one, his 80th. The last time I saw, a couple of months earlier, he was in great shape, so I wasn't prepared for what she had to tell me.

"Oh thank goodness, Brandon," Ruby said after I had identified myself. "I'm very worried about your father. He just doesn't seem like himself."

"Anything in particular?" I humored her, not yet concerned.

"Well, he's not eating. He's quit his morning visits to town. He's dizzy all the time; in fact, he fell last week. Thank goodness it was in the den on the carpet."

My smugness vanished. "I'll head right up." I looked at my watch, or tried to. I was so used to it being there that I hadn't stopped expecting to see it. I searched frantically around the room looking for a clock. "It's 10 o'clock. I can be there around three. Is his doctor still Dr. Harris?" She answered in the affirmative. "Good, I'll call and make an appointment on the way."

I then called Dad to talk to him myself. I was hoping that after talking to him, I would be convinced that Ruby was making a mountain out of a molehill. That didn't happen. He was distracted and almost incoherent. I had the horrible feeling he wasn't exactly sure who he was talking to.

I quickly packed and prepared to leave. After settling the bill with a grateful thought that I didn't have to see the look of judgement on the face of the poor maid who had to change those cum covered sheets (I left an enormous tip), I asked for a stamped envelope, put the American Express in it with a brief note and mailed it to Reed's office. I then headed for home.

On the way, Patrick called. He was shocked when I told him about Reed, but concern for my father, not my failed relationship, was foremost on my mind. Patrick agreed, as I knew he would, that I could come start over in his guest room. "Call me when you have everything sorted out with your father. I'll start making some inquiries for you...professional and personal." 

"Patrick," I laughed. "Professional only, I'll take care of personal." 

"If you insist," he said. "All joking aside, I'll put some job feelers out for you. I know a couple of designers. Email me a resume when you get the chance. And Brandon, don't worry. I'm sure everything will be okay with your dad."

I also manned up and called Ben. I was so relieved when he seemed genuinely shocked when I told him about John and Reed.

"That whore!" he exclaimed.

"Which one?" I asked. 

He laughed. "Point taken. I meant John. I knew he was a piece of work. And I had a bad feeling he was trying to sink his claws in Reed, but quite frankly I credited Reed with better sense, not to mention better taste."

"Well, what's done in done. Anyway, once I get Dad to the doctor and find out what's going on, I'll let you know. For the foreseeable future, though I'll be there. I'll email you the address and the landline number when I get there. Take care."

"You, too. I'll keep you in my prayers." He must have read something in my lingering silence. "Yes, bitch, I pray," he said, laughing. I laughed with him and hung up. That was the last laugh I had for a long time.

I got home about 3pm, and when I saw my dad, I was appalled. He had been in his 40s when I was born, so he had always seemed old to me. But he had been blessed with good health, always hale and hearty and suntanned; in fact, only a few, maybe six, months earlier, he had still been that way. But the man who greeted me with a tentative hug was a frail shadow of the father I knew. Ruby saw the expression on my face and gave me fierce hug. "I'm so glad you're here, Brandon."

Dinner was a quiet affair, and my father whose enormous appetite was legendary picked at his food. Only a few bites actually made it into his mouth. I tossed and turned in the narrow bed in what had been my room growing up and which now was the computer room. I was up early the next morning, surprised that my father wasn't up yet. He had risen by 6 as long as I had known him. He was still asleep at 8 when Ruby entered. Though still in her robe, her hair was fixed, and she was in full makeup. In the fifteen years, I have known her, I have never seen her without "her face" on. 

"How long has he been like this?" I asked.

"He started slowing down this summer, but I didn't really think anything about it. I mean, he is almost 80." Ruby was younger at 70. "But the last couple of weeks, it's like he's another man." Tears started welling in her eyes. I knew she had lost her first husband to cancer after a long battle, and I could see she was worried. "I'll go get him up. Maybe I can get him to eat something before his appointment."

I had managed to get an early appointment to see Dr. Harris, and I was sickened by the shocked look he gave my father as Dad shuffled in. Dad sat docilely as the doctor and his nurses poked, prodded, drew blood, took his temperature, etc. My worry grew. Of all things, my father hated going to the doctor, and for him to agree to a sudden appointment, to not demand to know who I was to come up and make him go, to sit calmly there as he underwent test after test and we talked around him... Well, I knew it was serious. 

We would have to wait several days for some of the results, but Dr. Harris did notice that Dad's blood pressure was very low, which was causing the dizziness, and that he seemed to have lost blood since his last check up. He was also worried about dehydration, but wasn't ready yet to hospitalize Dad and add fluid. 

He made a few changes to his medication list, and sent me home with instructions to bring Dad back in a few days to take some more measurements to use as a comparison. I tried to interest dad in a hamburger from the town's one greasy spoon, but he disinterestedly told me he wasn't hungry. Suddenly, I wasn't either.

Several nights later, it came to a head. Unbeknownst to either Ruby or me, Dad decided to take a bath. We thought he had just gone to bed; he was going to sleep ever earlier in the evening. We were sitting in the kitchen talking about everything but Dad's health. 

I was wondering if I had any bourbon left in the bottle that I had hidden in my former closet during my last visit (I was pretty sure Reed and I had polished it off) and was cursing myself that I hadn't stopped in a wet parish to pick up another bottle. Then we heard the crash from the bathroom. '

I got to him as fast as possible. He had slipped on the floor. He seemed okay, but disoriented. I couldn't tell if he had hit his head, but I got Ruby to call 911 just in case. He was naked, so I got a robe to cover him. As I was lifting his head to put a folded towel under it, I was the growth on his neck. It wasn't large, but I knew it hadn't been there his last visit, but so far during this one it had been hidden under the collared shirts he favored. I saw it and I knew...cancer.

The next few days passed in a blur. They settled him into the hospital at Ruskville and started giving him fluids to deal with the dehydration. They also checked his head for trauma, but it seemed the fall hadn't caused any major damage. 

However, the growth on his neck was cause for concern. Dr. Harris refused to make a diagnosis without proper testing and the Ruskville hospital wasn't equipped for that kind of procedure, so he located a doctor in Shreveport who was willing to do a biopsy. However, we had to improve Dad's condition enough to make the hour and a half trip and day long testing possible. Harris hoped a short hospital stay would do it. 

Honestly, I knew, even in the early days, it wouldn't happen. In the hospital 

gown, the growth on Dad's neck was clearly visible, and it seemed to grow by the hour. He still refused to eat, and Ruby was growing hysterical. She had moved from the farm into what had been her home in Ruskville before she and Dad got married. Her oldest daughter and granddaughter were living there now and were glad to have her.

I hadn't heard from Reed since the day I left the house. After seeing the seriousness of Dad's condition, I had sent him a brief email letting him know what was happening, and he had sent me a sympathetic and caring reply. 

I had avoiding asking Ben about Reed in our infrequent telephone calls, but now I needed him. I ached for him. My anger at his not being here for me was only matched by my longing for him. When there was yet another delay in the trip to see the oncologist, I broke down and called Reed.

I'm not sure I really expected him to answer. I had made it clear I never wanted to see him again, so I wouldn't have blamed him if he had taken me at my word. But he didn't. He answered.

"Brandon?"

I swallowed. It had been so long since I had heard that voice. "Reed..." I couldn't say anything else.

"What is it? Your dad?"

"It's bad...it's really bad."




When Love Takes Over Ch. 05



"I'm so sorry. So sorry."

I started crying on the phone. "I don't know what to do...Ruby's gone...I'm alone...I don't know what to do" I continued sobbing.

"Shhh," he whispered. "It will be okay in the end, I promise. You'll get through this. You always do. You're the strongest person I know."

"Not this time."

"Yes, this time. I promise," he said. And after all that had happened, I still believed him. 

"I'll be there tomorrow as soon as I can," he said and paused. "If that's okay with you."

"You don't have to."

"I want to. It's the least I can do. I want to help you and," again a pause, "he's the closest thing to a father I have."

I hadn't thought of that. HIs father had died when he was an infant, and his mother, if not quite disowning Reed when she learned he was gay, made it quite clear that she had no real interest in pursuing a relationship with a "deviant" son. So when my dad and stepmother, if not exactly overjoyed with a gay son and a yankee "son," were at least polite and hospitable when we visited for holidays and special occasions, he had been touched. 

My father, in fact, had come to like Reed quite a bit, and Ruby never failed to inquire how my "friend" was doing whenever we talked on the phone.

"That would be nice," I said. And I almost meant it.

"Is there anything you need. Anything you want me to bring you?" I almost automatically said "No." But there was something I wanted, something I regretted leaving behind, though it hurt to admit it. My pride was almost too strong, but after witnessing how fragile life really was, I decided, for once in my life to tell pride to go fuck itself.

"Yes, actually there is. I..." I couldn't quite say it.

"Okay," he said. "What?" The silence stretched.

"You know the picture I kept on my night stand. Please bring me that." God, that was hard.

"Of course. I know which one you mean." He voice was thick with emotion. "Brandon...I'm so sorry. So.."

"I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow." 

Needless to say, I didn't sleep that night.

It was another endless day sitting at the hospital. Dad had, over the past couple of weeks, had a steady stream of visitors, but not today. Today, it was just me, Dad who kept drifting in and out of consciousness, and lots of bad basic cable. Nothing to keep me from thinking about losing Dad and Reed and wondering what I had done to piss off the gods. I felt terrible for worrying, even just a little bit, about something as unimportant as my ex when my father was dying. I was also conscious that I looked like complete shit.

I had quit shaving...with a long commute to and from the hospital to the farm, the last thing I wanted to do was worry about shaving. The same for cutting my hair, already in desperate need of a haircut when I left New Orleans, it was out of control. Between the beard and the hair hanging down in my eyes, I looked like I was getting ready to audition for the traveling musical version of fucking Duck Dynasty. 

Plus, a couple of weeks of convenience food and hospital snacks meant that my small spare tire was becoming a massive inner tube. Oh well, at least I still have my sparkling personality, I thought sourly. I had gotten a text from Reed letting me know he was close, so I was on edge waiting for him, trying to determine how to approach him: gracious? haughty? angry? coldly polite? Of course all my plans went out the window.

The minute the door opened and I heard his tentative "Brandon?" I had launched myself across the room and into his arms, sobbing hysterically on his shoulder. He managed to put down the orchid and the small bag he was carrying and then wrapped me into his arms, whispering calm words into my ears until I had cried myself out. Eventually, I came to, and stepped back, frantically searching for tissue to wipe my eyes (and snotty nose).

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to do that."

"There's nothing to be sorry for."

After repairing as much of the ravages of crying as I could with a box of off brand tissue, I managed to actually look at Reed. Well, that's good I thought. At least I'm not the only one who looks like shit. 

Of course, Reed's version of looking like shit meant he had lost weight, not gained it, and the resulting hollows under his cheekbones meant he looked even more like a model. Still, his clothing hung distressingly off his frame, and his eyes were deeply shadowed. He turned to my dad. I saw Reed wince at his wasted form. 

He leaned over to talk to Dad, who grasped Reed's hand in one of his own feeble ones. Tears welled in Reed's eyes as he kissed Dad on the forehead. Immediately after, Dad closed his eyes and drifted off into his drugged sleep.

Reed came to me and enfolded me into his arms again. I stayed there for a bit, enjoying the warmth and smell of him, but after a few minutes, pulled away. 

"He'll be asleep for a while. Let's go for a walk. I know... we can go walk around campus for a bit. It's break so it will be empty."

We didn't talk during the short car ride, and once we got to campus, conversation was light. I had shown him around before of course, but he patiently listened to my college tales again. We were sitting in one of the concrete benches in the Quad, enjoying the beautiful old oaks. It was winter, but still warm, and the sun was bright.

"I hate to bring this up now," he said, looking genuinely troubled, " but I need to talk to you about the house. There's a serious offer."

"It's yours. Do what you want with it.

"I didn't mean it when I said that. I want to give you a percentage of the sale. It's only fair."

"Reed," I said firmly, "I mean what I just said. Do what you want."

"We can talk about the actual house sale later. It's really the contents I need to talk to you about. I just want to know what you want. The buyers actually want to buy a lot of things, like the window treatments and the dining table; I know you don't care about those, but I want to make sure you have anything you want. I know you can't deal with it now; I'll have it put in storage till you're ready. I've taken some things for my condo," he looked embarrassed at the mention of the condo, "but again, if you want any of them or the art, just let me know."

"Honestly Reed, I don't care what you do with any of it."

"I didn't think you did." He looked a little sad as he said it. "But I didn't want to make any decisions without at least asking you."

"I appreciate it." I meant it. But then I couldn't help myself. "Did you give John a chance to pick out what he wanted?"

"John?" He said in a questioning voice. Before I could scream, "Yes, John. You know, John, the home wrecking whore you fucked for six months? That John," Reed said, "That's over. There is no John."

I didn't know what to say. After that was silence and awkwardness. He insisted we stop on the way back for "a decent meal." When we got back to the hospital, he kissed Dad again and whispered some quiet words in his ear. The awkwardness of the afternoon was gone, and we sat together again in companionable silence for a while. Dad even perked up again as the afternoon turned into evening, and he and Reed had a real talk. Finally, Reed got up to go, and gave me a last hug.

"Do you want me to stay?" he said, eyes searching mine. "Give me the word and I will."

"No," I said. "Go...but thank you." He looked at me a long time and then leaned forward. I braced for a kiss, trying to decide if I wanted it or not, but he bypassed my lips and kissed me gently on the forehead. "I'll be thinking about you," he said and then he left.

I sat in silence for a long time, listening to Dad's light snores. Realizing the lateness, I gathered my things to leave for the day, and saw the bag Reed had brought. I opened it and pulled out the picture of us in our happiest days. Looking at it still hurt, but not in the same sharp way. I then noticed there was a box in the bottom of the bag. I pulled it out, curious, and opened it. It was my watch; the crystal had been replaced, and it had been completely refurbished, the bracelet polished and shining like new. I turned it over to read the inscription I knew so well. It had been changed. It now read: I still love you. R.



When Love Takes Over Ch. 06



Author's Note

I want to apologize for the chapter taking so long. I was out of town for most of July and didn't have easy access to a word processor or the internet. I also want to apologize for those of you who have emailed me. I had forgotten that I created a new email account tied directly to my Literotica profile; I thought I had used my regular email. It was only very recently when I happened to be looking at my profile information that I noticed which email was active for Literotica users. I apologize again and will answer them as soon as possible.

*****

I didn't know what to think about Reed's gift or the inscription. When I arrived home, I was convinced that I was through with our relationship, and then Dad's condition had absorbed my focus. But if I were honest with myself, I missed Reed and realized how comforting and supportive his presence had been over the years. Especially at night in my childhood bedroom, I yearned for his arms around me. His visit had only strengthened these yearnings, and yet I didn't know if I could ever get past his dishonesty.

I would forgive him...Hell, I already had, but I couldn't yet trust him. I did, however, find comfort in putting my watch back on; my wrist had seemed so naked without it. It served as a talisman during the long days in the hospital. While I was still uncertain as to my future with Reed, I was very glad that we had made at least some reconciliation. He called and texted me daily to check on me during my grim vigil, and I always felt better after talking to him. I was always glad to hear his voice, and the knowledge that he cared did ease my sense of being alone. I loved him, still, but I didn't know if I could ever have the same relationship. 

In fact, I was grateful to many people. Ben and his partner, and Patrick also kept close tabs on me and Dad; even Frank the cub surprised me by texting me. His texts started with a simple "woof," but when I explained where I was and what was happening, he made it his mission to keep me cheered up. Considering his idea of an appropriately cheering message was to send me a text consisting of inspirational quotes superimposed over photos of hot men in various states of undress, I learned to open his messages only when others weren't in the room. 

Over the next weeks, Dad's condition continued to deteriorate. On the day he was finally cleared to visit the oncologist in Shreveport, they removed his catheter. When he attempted to use the restroom, he fell, hitting his head against the wall badly enough to dent the sheetrock. I had been the one helping him; it happened so fast. I'll never forget the horror of seeing him sitting sprawled on the floor, his legs side apart, the glazed look in his eyes. I rushed to get a nurse, and he was quickly taken off for more tests.

They discovered a hematoma, but the doctor was uncertain if it had resulted from this fall or a previous one. More disturbingly, the scans had revealed at least one of his reasons for not eating; the valve in his throat was malfunctioning and food was going into his lungs. At this point, the prognosis was grim. Dr. Harris recommended that we forgo aggressive treatment and focus on providing hospice care .

After discussing matters with my stepmother, we had him moved to the nursing home portion of the facility and set up hospice care there. Ruby was a wreck. She seemed to have aged twenty years in the last couple of months. She had been staying at her former home with her daughter, and the three of us agreed that it would be best to make that move permanent. Ruby had never particularly cared for living so far from town on the farm, and even now before the final end, declared that there were too many memories for her there. I helped my step sister and her boyfriend move Ruby's things to Russville, glad for the distraction.

My days had an unvarying routine; I'd wake up in what had been my old bedroom and have a solitary breakfast of a pot of coffee in the silent house. Ruby had never been much of a homemaker and, aside from converting what had been the guest room into her personal den, she hadn't made that many changes to the house over the years. But still, with her ceramic rooster collection gone and without her ever present piles of thrillers she loved to read, the place seemed even emptier. I'd then drive the 30 minutes into Russville and spend the day sitting by dad, whose periods of lucidity were ever shorter. He had a constant stream of visitors.

I found it somewhat surreal chatting politely with visitors about mundane things like my life in New Orleans and the weather while we sat beside a dying man, but it was nice to see now many people cared for my father. When I was alone in the room with him, I kept regretting spending so little time with him since my move. My only visits had been fleeting and somewhat begrudgingly made. 

As the holidays approached, Dad continued to slip away. Over my protests (and I was so glad that they had ignored them), Ben, his partner Don, and Reed made the trip up to Russville to spend Christmas Day with me. Ruby, too distraught to stay long, and my step sister and her daughters also came by. The same friends and relatives who had already been by to pass their respects also stopped in, bearing treats and words of comforts. Their visits did comfort me, and I think Dad somehow also sensed their presence. In any case, early in the morning of December 26, he peacefully passed away.

While Don had to return to New Orleans for work, Ben and Reed stayed to help me plan the services. I made sure to include as many of Ruby's wishes as possible, but except for choosing a few favorite songs, she left most of the decisions to me. I tried to make sure the services were more a celebration of life rather than a mourning, and I insisted on the flowers on the casket being John Deere green and yellow. As a farmer, my father had always had touch up paint for his tractors and equipment in those two colors. In fact, since those were the only two paint colors guaranteed to be in stock on the farm, I had, over the years, ended up with many, many items painted those colors. The ladies at the local flower shop ran with the idea, and produced a beautiful spray that not only included the requested yellow and green flowers, but a miniature John Deere tractor. 

The funeral occurred only a few days after Dad's death, and I was very grateful for Ben and Reed's help. They were staying at a hotel in Russville, but came back to the house every evening to keep me company and to help clean and prep for the lunch planned for after the funeral. There was no need to cook; however, the good ladies of the community kept arriving in waves with cakes, pies, casseroles, and enough fried chicken to feed a continent.

The service was simple; one cousin, who after a wayward youth had become a pastor gave the service. Dad's cousin Red, who gave the eulogy, did inject some degree of lightheartedness into the proceedings since his speech mainly consisted of telling us how my father had gotten the nickname "Tomcat" in his youth. Let's just say it involved sneaking nursing students out of a dorm via ladder. The soloist further contributed to the levity by walking down the aisle of the chapel with the back of her black dress tucked into her white Spanx. Embarrassed, she recovered to give a beautiful performance of the classic country hymn "Will the Circle Be Unbroken." Then, on a clear December day, under a beautiful blue sky, my father was laid to rest beside my mother.

The rest of the day passed in casserole and reminisces, and, at least in my case, nips of bourbon from the rather large flask I had filled that morning, feeling the need for some liquid courage. By 7 or so, the house had cleared out, the food was put away, and the dishes washed. Ben had gone back to the hotel and Ruby had gone back to her daughter's house. I had drained the flask and had graduated to drinking Maker's Mark straight from the bottle; Reed had stayed to keep a concerned eye on me, but I was holding up well, I thought, considering. I was just so tired, but not ready to sleep. I'm not sure when he put me to bed, but I woke up sometime before dawn.

It took me a minute to get my bearings since Reed had put me in my father's bed instead of the twin in the computer room. When I felt someone stirring beside me, I had a moment of horror flashing back to my morning of shame at the Ritz, but I suddenly realized I had my clothes on, I remembered last evening, and that the person beside me was someone I knew well, my former boyfriend.

I relaxed, but quickly tensed when I felt Reed moving beside me. His strong arms suddenly wrapped around me and pulled me to him. Even through my clothes, I could feel his hard chest and even harder dick pressing against my back and ass. It felt like it had been forever since I had felt a lover's touch, and I shuddered as his lips moved by my ear.

"I love you,baby," he rasped in a low, sexy voice. "Let me make you feel good."

His hand started moving underneath my shirt, stroking my hairy torso. I moaned and leaned back against his shoulder. Almost every part of me was aching to surrender, to let go, to go back to what I used to have. It would have been so easy to do it. So easy to turn in his arms and kiss him and tell him everything could be like it used to be. But I knew that would be a lie. I wasn't the same, and I couldn't pretend it was. I still loved him and had forgiven him, but I wasn't ready to go back.

I pulled away and got up from the bed. He left me go, falling back with a sigh. I went toward the kitchen, expecting him to follow me, but he didn't. Discovering it was close to 5am, I decided to make coffee. I'm not sure how much later it was when he finally joined me, but the first rays of sunrise still hadn't made an appearance. I was sitting on the sofa in the living room, well into my second cup of coffee which I had fortified with a stiff shot of bourbon. Maybe 5 am was a little early for a shot of bourbon, but I had just buried my father and turned down my first shot at sex in months. I figured I had earned it.

"There's coffee in the kitchen," I said.

"No thanks," he replied. He curled up on the sofa in a fetal position, his feet hanging over the arm, his head in my lap. His eyes were closed, and he looked sad and exhausted. Without thinking, I started smoothing his dark, silky hair and rubbing a finger on the furrows between his finely drawn brows. He let out a sigh, but his face did relax. He looked like Errol Flynn in some pirate movie after a particularly grueling battle.

"I never went to Dallas that day, you know," he said, head still in my lap, his eyes still closed.

"Dallas?"

"The trip I was taking the day we fought..." he paused, "...the day you left. I went to the airport, but I just sat through the boarding. They keep calling all the zones, they made the announcement for the final boarding, but I couldn't leave. Not like that. I went back, but you were already gone. I tried calling and texting...but I couldn't reach you...I couldn't find you." he started crying and put his hand over his eyes. I continued stroking his hair.

"I knew I had fucked up, but until I walked in and you were gone..." his voice was strained through the tears "...I didn't realize just how bad. I saw the watch, and you wouldn't answer, and I knew it was over. I knew I had thrown it all away."

"What about John?" my voice was surprisingly steady. Honestly, with everything that I had happened in the past few months, I didn't have any anger lefta. Actually, I didn't have much of anything inside me these days; I felt like an empty vessel. In fact the only thing I was feeling when I asked the question was a mild curiosity.

"John?" he said, pulling up. He settled into the opposite corner of the sofa with his feet pulled up to him, his arms wrapped around his knees. 

" You said you loved him. Or at least thought you loved him."

"I feel so bad about how I treated him. I had convinced myself there were feelings there." 

"But now you don't think so?" I said, having a soothing sip of bourbon spiked coffee.

"Honestly?" He sighed, lowering his chin to his knees, "I think I was lying to myself. I didn't want to admit I was just getting my rocks off, so I told myself that it was something more than sex, that it meant something. At any rate, even though it was too late, in the end I chose you."

"Look," he said, uncurling himself from the sofa and moving to kneel on the ground in front of my with the kind of graceful movement that had always taken my breath away, "I was a fool. What we had...have...is special. It's just, I don't know, the last year or so, we seemed to be drifting apart. You seemed so distant, and every time I tried to talk, there was always some dinner we had to go to, or you wanted to talk about work not us, or you were already three bourbons in by the time I got home. He made me feel special. Hot. Wanted."

I couldn't say anything. Considering how often over the last two months, hell, the last 24 hours I had medicated myself with Maker's Mark, I couldn't complain. I did like to go through life comfortably numb, distracted by unpleasantness with a joke, a good meal, a good book, a fun project, or a cocktail. I put down the spiked coffee, suddenly sickened by it.

"Well," I said, "I guess we've been like Scarlett in Gone With the Wind throwing away happiness with both hands."

"We don't have to be." He looked up with shining eyes. "We can have it again. What we had."

I wanted to say yes. To fall in his arms. God, did I want to. But I was too tired.. Too drained. I didn't have the energy to start over. I only had enough in me to exist, barely.

"I can't right now. I don't have it. I'm empty."

"Are you saying never or just not now?" Reed pressed.

"Not now, but ..."

"Then, I'll wait," he said rising to his feet.

"I can't ask you to do that."

"It's not your decision to make," he said, leaning down and kissing me. Then he left.

I spent the rest of the morning sitting there on the sofa drinking unspiked coffee. I had poured the rest of the bourbon down the sink. I didn't even think. I just sat there sipping the hot liquid, thinking about nothing in particular. I don't know how long I would have sat here in a fugue state if the doorbell hadn't sounded. I was so startled I spilled the last of the coffee down my shirt. Considering it was the same one I had slept in and that the coffee joined some stains left by last night's casserole supper, it didn't seem like that big of an issue.

I walked to the door, staggering a little because my joints had stiffened from sitting so long, and wondering, in the words of Dorothy Parker, "What fresh hell is this?" Luckily, it wasn't actually a fresh hell, it was Ben, stopping by to say goodbye before heading back to New Orleans. Saying he wanted to go ahead and get on the road, he refused my offer of coffee. Considering that with my shaggy hair, untrimmed beard, sunken eyes and stained shirt I looked more like Rasputin than Martha Stewart, I can understand why he was doubting the current state of my hosting skills.

"Look, I just wanted to say goodbye before I left, and find out when you're headed back to New Orleans."

"I'm not sure. I'll some estate stuff to settle. That will take a couple of weeks at least. After that..." I made a vague hand gesture.

"Well, I understand if you don't want to work with Reed, but I have plenty of clients who would be thrilled to work with you. I'm pretty sure that if you don't want to go independent, I can get you a consulting position at the firm."

"That's great, but I'm really not sure what I'm doing after I'm finished here."

"Fair enough," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you knew there were options. And I know everyone says this, but I really mean it: if there's anything Don or I can do for you, please let us know."

"I appreciate it, " I said, giving him a hug.

"Oh," he said "I almost forgot. Reed wanted me to give you something." He ran back to the car, opened the door, and grabbed a large manilla envelope off of the seat. I gave him a final hug and a final goodbye, and then he was gone. I was alone. Completely alone.

I actually felt more peaceful than sad about that though. The solitude felt good, and the brief talk about working for his architectural firm and clients had sparked something in me, something I hadn't felt in a while. Hope.

I walked back inside, examining the envelope curiously. I wasn't quite ready to open it, so I set it aside and made another pot of coffee and a breakfast of leftovers. After eating, I poured a fresh cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table to open the envelope. It contained a sheaf of papers clamped together, a sealed envelope with my name written on it, and a handwritten letter.

I started with the letter. It read:

Dear Brandon,

All I can say is that I am sorry for what I have done and how I have behaved. Not only in regard to John, but other things. I realize that I have never fully expressed how I felt about you. Not in loving you, but considering you my full partner in life and in business. Though I feel, it is too little too late, I want to do as much as possible to rectify that situation. First, I have enclosed a check for your portion of the profit on the sale of the Uptown house. I was only able achieve my selling price because of your design. 

I have also had paperwork drawn up making you an official partner in the business. I have had my portion signed and notarized. To make the partnership take effect, you need to do the same and mail it to my attorneys. 

I, of course realize that you may not want to work with me, and there is a provision that will allow you to be a full, but silent partner. I am also willing to offer you a cash buy out for your portion; however, I will be blunt. Currently, most of our capital is invested in a project in the French Quarter, the Degas Cottages. However, I anticipate completion and sale of that property to be finished by the fall. With the projected profit, if you wait to be bought out until after that sale goes through, I will be able to offer you a buyout price of approximately $1,500,000. 

I, of course, hope that by then you will again be my partner in life. However, I will do as you wish. 

I love you,

Reed

I sat there stunned for a minute, then I opened the smaller envelope. It was a certified check for $250,000. Again, in the space of a moment, my life had changed. Just that morning, I had felt like a husk, but now I was filled with possibilities. The $250,000 plus the modest estate my father had left me after his legacy to Ruby was a decent nest egg in and of itself. Since the farm had been in the family for over 150 years, he had left it solely to me. When he had retired, he had put most of the acreage in a government program where he received a subsidy to grow trees. It was less than $10,000 a year, but it was enough to pay the bills, including taxes for the farm. With the check from Reed, the farm was safe, I didn't have to consider selling it.

I hadn't really thought a lot about the farm over the years, but it was a piece of me, and I was pleased that it was now secure. With a bit of work, if I settled back in New Orleans or even Dallas, it was close enough that I could use it as a country retreat. And no small part of me was pleased and excited that Reed had recognized my contributions to his success. As for the partnership and the buyout...that was a bit too much to contemplate just yet.

I still hadn't made my mind up about Reed, but with $1.5 million, even after taxes, I would have options. Lots of options. I made some mental calculations; fall was about 9 months away. If you can gestate a baby in nine months, maybe you could grow a future. I made a decision; I would stay here through the summer. The house and grounds needed some work, and I had enjoyed the peace and quiet. Our closest neighbors were over a mile away, and solitude felt good right now.




When Love Takes Over Ch. 06



I looked around the dingy room. The house was a small, modest ranch house built in the late 1960s like many of the homes around here. There was a great room, consisting of open kitchen, living room, and dining area, large utility/craft room, and three bedrooms with two and ½ baths. It still had the original honey pine paneling, poured epoxy floors, and formica countertops, but the bones were good. 

At some point, my mother's simple early American furniture had been replaced and augmented by various garage sale finds, and I had taken some things which had been wiped out by Katrina, so the furnishings were pretty fleabitten. Plus, both Dad and Ruby had been pack rats, so there were stacks of old magazines, paperwork, etc. Still, a bit of elbow grease and some paint, and it could be a retreat. Besides, I needed a project, and decorating was my favorite kind. I wasn't going to do anything extreme. I still needed to pay taxes on the house profits, and the buyout money was still hypothetical, so I didn't want to spend a lot on fixing up the house. But it was in good shape, with a new roof. The appliances were also relatively new and in working order. And there were a lot of cheap fixes, including a good scrubbing, that would make a huge difference.

First things first, though. I needed to go the bank and the lawyer's office. I decided to use the local ones Dad had used instead of driving all the way into Russville, and both had available appointments this afternoon. After a quick shower, I headed to town where I was able to deposit my check and sign my paperwork. After that, I turned south to Russville to pick up paint, primer, and supplies. 

I spent the first week or so just cleaning out crap. I brought bags and bags of clothes to Goodwill. I hated the dinette set, but it was in excellent shape, so I brought to a consignment shop in Russville where I traded it for credit on a simple, rusting iron bed frame and a long narrow wooden table that reminded me of the one from the Weasley farm in the Harry Potter movies. My only other purchase was a new mattress. I wanted to move from the room I was using to the master, but the current mattress was too big to fit the iron bed and in shitty shape to boot. I was able to sell the various recliners, sofas and loveseats that dotted the large room created when my stepmother had the wall between living room and den removed on Craigslist to college students. But still, there were stacks and stacks of magazines to be discarded. Desk drawers to go through. Hall and linen closets to purge. But after a lot of hard work, empty spaces emerged. 

The guest room had already been empty when Ruby took her things, but I managed to clear everything out of the master as well. I moved one small chest that had been my mother's into the room's walk in closet, put the matching dresser in the guest room, and the hope chest in the living area to use as a side table. I kept the twin in the computer room, which I planned to use as an office, moving in my father's massive wooden desk from the utility room. I had plans to strip and refinish it. 

I had sold, given away, and donated everything that was in decent condition. I had recycled as much as possible, and I had made innumerable trips to the parish dump. Still though, before I could completely clean things out and start fresh, I was left with piles of debris. One of the good things about living so far in the country is that the trash burning laws didn't apply to our farm. In fact, one of my regular chores as a child had been to bring the trash out to burn in one of the metal barrels my father had for that purpose. I couldn't imagine the parents of my acquaintance sending their 8 year old out with a box of matches to purposefully set something on fire unsupervised. Probably for the best as I had spent one summer with a nasty burn mark on my thigh from getting too close to the hot barrel.

On a crisp, clear day in January, I dragged the last piles standing between me and priming out to the area my father had used for burning, where three almost empty barrels stood in a spot of bare earth. I had a water hose handy, a lawn chair, a book, and a thermos of coffee. I really wanted a large Solo cup of bourbon and Coke, but I hadn't had anything to drink since the morning after the funeral. I had decided to give the whole charity thing a try, but I wasn't really loving it. Oh well.

I was making good progress on my trash and my book, evidenced by the large plume of smoke rising to the sky when I noticed a truck driving up. It was a large four door one, pretty new, big and butch, but not one of those ridiculously large ones that make me think the owner must be compensating for a tiny penis. It pulled up to the house, the door opened, and a man got out.

A hot man. Even from a distance, I could tell he was hot. Not young, but with one of those tight bodies that scream military man. As he walked closer to me I realized who it was, though I hadn't seen him in twenty years. Chance Bruce. He was a couple of years older than me, but three years ahead of me in school since my parents had held me back from starting due to a childhood illness. He, his older brother, and parents had been our closest neighbors, about a mile up the road. We had played together a bit as kids, but his dad's farm had been a much bigger operation, and Chance had started working full time there after school and during the summers as a preteen. And three years behind him in school had seemed like much more.

Still, he had always been really nice to me in high school, and I know he had helped shield me from hardcore bullying. 

I had always thought well of him. In fact, I had a vague notion we were friends on Facebook, though I couldn't remember seeing anything he posted. Chance had definitely been my vote for the cutest boy in school. He had had a nice body then, though not as impressive as the muscular one he was sporting now, with thick tawny hair that had been almost the same color as his dusky tan complexion which had really set off his most striking feature, bright, clear aquamarine eyes, 

He still had the tan, but the tawny hair was definitely not as thick. However the close crop he had chosen to deal with its thinning only emphasized the chiseled planes of his face and those incredible eyes. He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt tucked into worn jeans and looked like walking sex.

I, of course, looked like shit. I still hadn't bothered to trim my beard or get a haircut. In fact, to get the hair out of my face, I had actually pulled the bangs and top into a man bun like some tragic aging hipster wannabe. Hell, I lived miles from most people and wasn't expecting to be seen until my weekly trip to the Piggly Wiggly for more frozen pizza. I had also complemented my man bun with tattered jeans and a mexican blanket I was using as a poncho. A poncho for God's sake. Mr. Sex was walking toward me, and I had a man bun and a poncho.

"Brandon?" he said, a questioning look on his face. I didn't know whether to be upset he didn't recognize me or relieved he seemed to realize this wasn't how I normally looked.

"Hi, Chance. Long time, no see," I said, trying to be casual as I unwrapped the pancho. I wasn't as successful in my equally casual attempt to remove my man bun. In fact, the elastic caught in my hair, causing a knot, which in turn caused me to yelp.

"Here, let you help," he said, stepping closer. I quivered in humiliation standing there as he untangled my hair. He smelled so good...woody and spicy and manly. Oh my God, I thought. Did I even shower today? Yesterday? 

"There you go," he said smoothing my hair down and handing me the elastic. "I saw the smoke and wanted to make sure everything was okay."

"Just burning some trash."

"Sorry about your dad. Mom and I would have like to have gone to the funeral, but, you know..."

"How is your mom? Still in the hospital, I suppose." Miss Pauline, a tiny birdlike woman in her late 70s had fallen in a parking lot and had broken several bones, including her shoulder and pelvis. She was still in the hospital, and would be there indefinitely.

"How do you know about Mom?" he asked surprised.

"Are you kidding? I've been here for three months or so. I know everything. Dad had a constant stream of visitors and everybody who walked in the door had some gossip. The intelligence gathering in the town is amazing. The CIA and KGB are nothing to these people. Hell, I haven't lived here in years, and I know Miss Pauline fell at a rehearsal dinner in Hot Springs where her son's sister was getting married."

"That is impressive," he admitted.

"So how is she?"

"Getting better. Terrorizing the hospital."

"That sounds like Miss Pauline. Would you like some coffee?"

"Sure." He followed me toward the house. "I'm actually surprised you're still here. I figured you'd be headed back to New Orleans as soon as possible."

"Well, I have some stuff to take care off first."

"Where's everything?" he asked as he walked in and noticed the empty room.

"Just doing some redecorating. But there are still bar stools." I gestured to them as I walked to the kitchen to start a fresh pot of coffee. 

"I can't stay long," he said as he took one. "But I'm glad I caught you. I don't want to come off like a vulture, but I'm interested in buying some of Mr. Tommy's equipment. I'm planning on doing a bit of farming, and Mom sold most of our stuff when Dad died."

"Sure. I can't really do anything until the succession is final, which should be in a couple of weeks, but I don't see why not."

"Cool. If it's okay, I'll stop by tomorrow afternoon when I have more time and I can show you what I'm interested in and we can discuss price."

"I'll be here most of the day, so that good. Here, let me give you my number." We did the number exchange, and I poured him a cup. He also took his black, which was a relief, as I had neither sugar nor milk, something that had not occurred to me when I had offered coffee.

"One more thing. It's still a ways away, but do you have any plans for the Mayhaws?"

"Mayhaws?" I'm sure my face looked as blank as my mind. Mayhaws...who the fuck were the Mayhaws?

"Mayhaws. You know, the berries. The ones you make jelly with. Your dad has a bunch of Mayhaw trees. They'll be ripe in a couple of months."

The light clicked on. It had been years since I had thought about Mayhaw jelly, though it was delicious. "I really need to let Ruby have first dibs, but if she's not interested, sure you can have them. But will your mother be up to making jelly by then?"

He laughed. "For a gay guy, you're thinking in stereotypes. I'm the one who will be making the jelly."

"You cook?" 

"That's what I did in the navy. I started out cooking on ships, but I was working on banquets and big events by the time I retired."

Something he had said earlier registered. "How did you know I'm gay?"

He gave me a pitying look. "Are you serious? You just told me how good the intelligence is here. Even if you hadn't come out at a university only 30 or so miles away, you've brought your boyfriend here on multiple occasions. You even held hands at the funeral. Besides, you're friends with a lot of people from high school, including me, on Facebook. And, dude, your Facebook is really gay."

I opened my mouth, and then closed it. I had never, since coming out, been ashamed of being gay, but I had really thought I had been discreet during my visits home. But come to think of it, there had definitely been a particular inflection when people visiting dad had asked about my friend. "Touche'" I said.

"So how is your boyfriend. Is he okay with you staying up here?"

"Well...it's...it's complicated. I guess officially we're...I don't know...separated?"

"That's a shame. Well, I need to be heading on."

As I walked him to the door, I had a brainstorm. The new mattress was coming tomorrow, and if Chance helped me load the old one in my pickup, I could drop it off at the dump and avoid the hefty removal fee from the mattress store..

"Before you go, could you help me with something in the bedroom? I promise it will be quick."

Chance turned and gave me an odd look with a raised eyebrow. "Exactly what kind of bedroom problem are you having, and what makes you think I can help you with it?"

It took me a second to catch the double entendre of both his and my questions, and I blushed so hard it physically hurt. And then, I started freaking out a little. I mean this was where I was raised, and I didn't think it was some sort of bastion of homophobia, but I couldn't pretend being gay in the rural south didn't have its potential dangers. What if he really thought I was propositioning him? Was he one of those straight guys that snap and beat up queers and then claims the gay panic defense? 

"Dude," he said noticing my distress. "Dude, I was just joking. What do you need help with?"

Ashamed of my freakout, I explained I needed help with removing the old mattress, and it only took a few minutes before it and the box springs were secured in the pickup.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem. I do want to know though, what happened in there. You were fine, and then I made that bedroom crack, and you looked like you were about to freak out."

I blushed again. Embarrassed, I haltingly explained myself. He actually laughed, which put me at ease.

"I can assure you that I don't as a general rule go around beating up people, gay or otherwise. Besides," he said, his eyes twinkling as he leaned closer to me, "who ever said I was straight?"

He laughed again as my jaw dropped, and then turned and walked to his truck.



When Love Takes Over Ch. 07



I never did have great gaydar, so it wasn't a big surprise I hadn't pegged Chance as playing for our team. But I can honestly say I have never been happier to discover another guy is gay. And I did spend a couple of happy moments imaging making out with Chance on a warm summer night in a truck parked in the back of a field (the preferred place for hooking up in the country) that afternoon as I, man bun and poncho back in place, finished burning the remaining trash. 

But I knew, even as I enjoyed imagining what he looked like underneath that plaid shirt that it was nothing more than just an enjoyable daydream. Even at my best, he was way out of my league, and my mental state was much worse that than my physical. I definitely wasn't over Reed yet, though I hadn't contacted him since the day after the funeral. And I as a long time practitioner of the wisdom of not shitting where you eat, I couldn't imagine anything worse than trying to hook up with the closest thing I had to a neighbor and having it all blow up in my face..

I did, however, shower, trim my beard, apply cologne and make sure I was wearing something presentable the next day in anticipation of his visit to talk about the equipment purchase. Unfortunately, my preparations were in vain; he texted a little after lunch saying he would have to postpone coming over indefinitely. I have to admit I was somewhat crestfallen; while I liked solitude, I was a bit lonely and any visitor, especially one that easy on the eyes was welcome. In fact, when they guys came to deliver my mattress later that day, I found myself chattering away at them like old people do when someone calls.

I had managed to prime and paint the bedroom, so I was able to go ahead and set the bed up. I had painted the walls a warm white; with the drab, dark paneling painted, the room looked so much brighter and larger. I planned to use the same paint color through most of the rest of the house, including the trim and ceilings, but in here, I painted the ceiling a beautiful soft robin's egg blue. I had actually liked the rusted patina of the iron frame, so I had stabilized the rust so it wouldn't deteriorate further and then sealed it so the rust wouldn't rub off on linens. 

I went with crisp all white cotton bedding. It was the first time I had used white sheets and a duvet cover in a long time. Reed didn't like them, feeling they weren't practical and stained easily. Considering that the only contribution he had ever made to any household cleaning was to write the check for a housekeeper (after we were able to afford one), I had always wondered why he cared if they were difficult to care for. It hadn't been a big enough issue for me to make a big deal over it, but I really enjoyed climbing into that pile of sweet smelling white bedding that I had dried in the sun, and I felt that stretching out over the full surface of the queen sized bed was Heaven. 

Privacy wasn't an issue, and I actually liked sunlight waking me up in the morning. However, I knew the sun would be much stronger in the warm months and I didn't like the black holes the windows made at night, so I made simple relaxed Roman shades of unlined, unbleached cotton that softly filtered the light. A floor lamp and a wooden straight chair used as a side table made the room functional for now, but with the bed in place, I was anxious to finish it. I did want it to be a retreat as I worked on the rest of the house and the overgrown grounds.

Looking around, I tried to picture the missing pieces. I didn't want to add a lot more furniture. The room wasn't large, and I honestly didn't need much more. All my clothes fit in the closet, and I didn't plan on having a tv in my bedroom. After the increasingly elaborate houses Reed and I had lived in, I felt like embracing minimalism. Still, I wanted a large side table for a better reading lamp and to told the piles of books I tended to accumulate, not to mention my laptop, tablet and other electronics. And the wall across from the bed, the only really large expanse of wall unbroken by doors or windows was crying out for a large piece of art.

I had the two perfect pieces, I realized. One of the few pieces of furniture that had survived the flooding of my apartment was my grandmother's table. Once it dried, it was as good as new except for the rusted castors. I guess it's not surprising it survived since family legend was that my grandfather, with the help of some friends, had fished the solid maple top out of the Mississippi after a flood and had built a new base for it. It was large, but would definitely fit in the space between the bed and the corner. Plus I missed using it.

As for the art, one of my favorite painting I had ever done was a very large, 6 foot by 6 ½ foot diptych, an abstract view of Lake Pontchartrain done in the watery blue/gray/green tones I preferred. I had painted it for Reed's first house, but it had moved from place to place. The problem was, of course, that those pieces were in New Orleans in storage.

I had told Reed that I didn't care what happened to the things I had left behind, but I suppose even then I knew that wasn't really true. I didn't want a lot, but as I left the master bedroom and wandered the house making notes of the furniture I needed, I realized that I did miss some of my things. In addition to the table and painting, I wanted the two leather chairs that I bought for my first apartment after Katrina; they had been the first real adult pieces of furniture I had ever purchased, and even with my employee discount had been hideously expensive.

The were made in the U.S., with hand tied springs and down cushions. They weren't huge, and had sleek lines. But the distressed brown leather recalled the classic club chairs of the 1930s and 1940s, and the down cushions insured that sitting in them was extra comfortable. At the same time I bought the chairs, I had also purchased a platform bed from the same company, dark wood with an upholstered headboard. With the chairs, it had also moved from my French Quarter apartment to Reed's first house and then the subsequent others. And there were some other things, books, favorite cookware, etc. that I missed. When I got a bit further along, a trip to New Orleans to the storage unit to retrieve at least some of my possessions seemed inevitable.

Even without the final bedroom touches, I had a comfortable bed and a serene space to head to at the end of the day. Now, I was ready to tackle some more ambitious projects, like, the kitchen. 

I had no intention of doing anything too major. The cabinets, solid wood stained to match the paneling, were still solid, and I even liked the retro look of the Early American style hammered hardware. I hated the dreary stain, though, and painted them to match the Walls, but in a glossier finish. The stove, dishwasher, and refrigerator were relatively new, and since they were white, fit well into the new scheme.

I did remove the row of cabinets that hung from the ceiling over the kitchen peninsula. Even as a kid, I had felt they looked heavy and they blocked the open feel of the room. Removing them wasn't that difficult, but I did have to be careful not to damage the cabinets they joined, and the ceiling required patching. Electrical work, except for the most basic kind, intimidated me, so I called my old decorator boss in Russville for the name of an electrician and got him to install simple glass pendants over the bar. While Blake, the electrician, was there, I got him to replace the dark, dated fans with sleeker models. Since the new fans didn't have light kits, I got Blake to install some simple recessed lights. With the new white paint, those small changes had a huge impact in making the room look much more modern.

The peninsula had originally been designed with an overhang for seating, but my stepmother had requested my dad add more cabinets in that space with doors that opened into what was the den. I tore those ought as well, restoring the peninsula to being a breakfast bar. After removing those, I was ready for the challenging part of the project: creating a concrete countertop. It was something I had never attempted, but I had always been interested in trying. Dad had every tool known to man in his large shop, and it didn't take me long to assemble the things I needed for the wooden form for the concrete. Before I started, I called the artisan in New Orleans who had made some for me on various projects; he gave me detailed instructions and tips, and then I read and watched every tutorial about it on the web.

It wasn't easy, and I especially struggled with getting the new stainless sink set right, but in the end, I was thrilled with how they turned out. They weren't perfect, but after being sealed and polished, the natural gray glowed softly against the white cabinets. 

With the living room being opened into the former den and kitchen, an awkward situation had been created by now having redundant doorways from the hall into both the kitchen and the former living room. I removed the one from the kitchen, luckily finding some sheets of paneling that matched the existing well enough, especially after painting. Instead of having an eating area beside the kitchen, I had placed a large, rustic cabinet on that wall. It was covered in several layers of peeling paint that looked good next to the crisp white walls. Dad and Ruby had used it for storage on the covered patio outside the house, and it had taken a lot of effort to get it inside by myself, but I am very stubborn.

I removed the door to the hall, preferring just to having an opening. I also increased the size of the opening as much as I could to bring the light from the living area into the dark hall. Other changes including having the long table I purchased at the consignment store delivered, and I ordered some industrial style wood and metal bar stools from World Market. The long harvest table was placed in what had been the den. Even after the furniture was added, the great room was a bit empty, but looking very much better than it had just a few short weeks ago.

It had been about two weeks worth of absorbing work, and I had been so involved with the project that I had completely forgotten about Chance. So I was very surprised when I answered a knock on the door from the carport to find him standing there. I was in the middle of priming the hallway and hadn't been expecting anyone. In fact, since Blake's visit last week, I hadn't seen anyone expect the clerk at the library and the checkout girl at Piggly Wiggly.

It was good to see him, and if anything, he looked even better than I remembered. We were having a bit of a warm spell, so he was wearing a t-shirt instead of a flannel button down. And let me just say, he was doing that t-shirt a favor by wearing it. I had luckily taken a shower that morning and was wearing neither a poncho or a man bun, but that was about as far as I could compliment myself since I was wearing a dingy t-shirt, paint splattered overalls, and a bandanna as a headband.

"Hey," he said. "Sorry to stop by unannounced. I tried calling and texting, but didn't get an answer. I saw the truck was here, though, and figured you were around. Hope it isn't a bad time."

"Shit," I said. He gave me a strange look. "I just realized my phone is dead and I forgot to charge it. In fact I'm not sure the last time I used it."

"Going all hermit n me? Not planning to become next Unibomber I hope," he said with a grin. God, he looked sexy when he grinned.

"Nope. At least not yet. Come on in, " I said, opening the door wider and stepping inside. "I just made some fresh coffee." I turned and headed to the hall to drop the paint roller I was still holding into the roller pan.

"Wow," he said looking around as I poured his coffee. "This looks amazing. I can't believe you did this in what...two weeks"?"

"Thanks," I said,i pleased with the praise. But except for the countertop, it wasn't that big a deal, mainly paint. And I had an electrician do all the lights for me."

"Did you do this?" he asked, running his hands along the concrete counter. 

"Yes."

"Impressive. I didn't know you were this handy."

I shrugged. "I haven't been hands on in a while, but I did a lot of the work myself in the first couple I houses Reed and I had. I'm no master builder, but I can do a lot of the basic DIY stuff."

He sat silently for a minute, lost in thought. "I hate to do this," he finally said. "But, I have a favor to ask. Mom's going to be released in a few weeks, but she'll be in a wheelchair still for at least a couple of months. I need to do some things to make the house more wheelchair accessible for her. I've been trying to find a handyman to help, but no luck. If you could help me out, I'd really appreciate it."

He looked so good, so earnest with aqua eyes pleading as he asked for help for his invalid mother. I would have agreed to do anything to help him right then, including removing my kidney myself and handing it to him.

"Sure. What do we need to do?"

"Tomorrow's Sunday. Why don't you come to lunch, and we can talk about what needs to be done and get a plan together."

"Sure. What time?"

"Church gets out at noon, so by the time I get home and put the finishing touches on about 12:30 or so."

"You're going to church?" I don't know why I was so surprised.

"Of course. Momma may be in the hospital 90 miles away, but she would tan my hide if she found out I skipped church. And you know she has one of those old biddies keeping tabs," he laughed. "Besides, it nice. You should come."

I opened my mouth to refuse, but thought better of it. Why not? I had grown up going to the small local Baptist Church, and I had actually liked it. The music, the fellowship. It hadn't, at least then, been a hateful bigoted place. I had gone a few times in recent years during visits and had been pleasantly surprised by the current preacher, a young man who was more interested in preaching love thy neighbor than hellfire and damnation.

"Sure."

"Cool. I'll pick you up about a quarter to eleven. Do you want to go look at the equipment now?"

It didn't take long to identify the pieces he wanted, and within 30 minutes he was gone, refusing another cup of coffee. He did insist upon writing a check right then, and I was surprised to find out what the equipment was worth. I realized that after I finished painting the house, I needed to focus on selling the rest of the equipment and tools I didn't want. If it could fetch decent money, I would go ahead and do some of the more extensive renovations I wanted, like re-tiling the master bath.

The next day, Chance was prompt, just as expected from a military man. Though it had been a long time since I had attended church services regularly on Sunday, it somehow felt nice. It also felt nice contemplating the way Chance filled out a pair of khakis; I'm not sure if his ass looked better in jeans or in slacks. This was a subject, I felt, that needed much more intensive research.

In some ways the service was surreal. The church was exactly the same in many ways that it had been in my youth. And many of the faces in the congregation, though noticeably older, were also the same. But even as it all felt familiar, I was aware of all the things that had changed in the world, as well as in my own life. I even enjoyed the sermon, which focused on Ecclesiastes, the only book of the Bible I liked without reservation, and I loved singing the familiar hymns. I loved to sing and had always visited the same piano bar every Sunday before I met Reed and before our Sundays began revolving around our shared interests.

Chance obviously loved singing, too, and his bass voice was deep and powerful. Unfortunately it was also very obviously off-key, a fact that didn't dampen his enthusiasm. I found it kind of endearing, actually. After the service, we had to run the gauntlet of old women who wanted to wish us well, and Chance also had to endure the enthusiastic greetings of the few single women in the congregation. Obviously his preferences were not common knowledge, and I found his discomfort amusing. 

We had almost made it back to his truck when we were stopped by Miss Lenora. Miss Lenora was as old as the hills and had taught us Sunday school, as she had countless other children. She was wearing the same dark brown pageboy wig she had worn as long as I could remember. 

"Brandon, Chance. How nice to see you."

"Hi, Miss Lenora," we spoke in unison.

"I'm so glad to see you're still here, Chance," she said. "How long till you go back to New Orleans?"

"Not for a bit," I said. "I'm actually planning to stay through the summer."

"How nice. Do you still play the piano? I remembered that you used to play so beautifully."

"I don't practice as much as I should, but I still play."

"Wonderful," she said. "You're an answer to a pray! Denise can't play next week because she's going to a wedding out of town, and our usual substitute will still be on vacation. I'll let the music director know you will play!"

I shot Chance a pleading look. He shrugged, indicating that this was out of his hands. I opened my mouth to come up with an excuse; nothing happened.

"Remember, choir practice is on Wednesday night at 6. What is your number?" she said, opening her purse and pulling out a small notebook and pen. "I'll have the music director call with next week's hymns so you can start practicing right away." 

"This is your fault!" I mock glared at Chance after she walked away. 

"I had nothing to do with it," he protested. "It was clearly God's will. "You are..." at this point he began snickering like a 12 year old, "'an answer to a prayer'."

"Asshole."

He pretended to be shocked. "Such language! And at a house of God. For shame."

I shot him the bird. He snickered again, but then his eyes shifted left, and a look of horror overcame his features. I followed his eyes, and realized that one of the true "old biddies" of the church was witnessing my flipping him off. I blushed, knowing that she would be burning up the phone lines telling everyone about that "heathen" Watson boy and his behavior at church. I dropped my hand and turned back to Chance who was doubled up with laughter at this point. "Fuck," I said and walked to the truck.

Even if I had actually been angry with Chance, the moment I smelled his cooking when he opened the door to his house, I would have forgiven him. 

"Oh my God, that smells amazing," I said. "Ham?"

"Yep. I put it in a low oven this morning at five. We're having that and potato casserole, yeast rolls and roasted brussel sprouts."

"You can make Miss Pauline's yeast rolls? Marry me, " I said.

Lunch was just as amazing as it smelled, and I scraped my plate. He complemented it with a crisp Sauvignon Blanc. For desert, he had made shortcake, topped with strawberries in brown sugar, a balsamic vinegar glaze, and fresh whipped cream.

After we ate, we went around the house making notes. We definitely needed to move out some furniture, including Miss Pauline's bed to make room for a hospital bed Chance planned to rent. We also needed to roll up some rugs, remove the carpet in the den and her bedroom, build a ramp for the step up into the house, and to demo the bathtub/shower in her bathroom; Chance had made arrangements to have one of those pre-formed bathtub/shower combos with a built-in seat and a door installed, but we needed to make room first. The real problem was that we had no where to store the removed furniture. The closest storage rental was 40 miles away, and Chance didn't think his mother would want her things stored off site.

The best option was a nearby storage shed, but it needed work to be weatherproof. We would have to replace the shingles and do a raised floor to keep the furniture safe. Chance made a list of needed supplies, he planned to be at the Russville Lowe's as soon as they opened, and I would meet him at 8:30 to start.




When Love Takes Over Ch. 07



It took us a couple of days to fix up the shed. But the weather was in our favor; for February, it was very warm. In fact, Chance was soon sweating and removed his shirt.

"Wow," I said involuntarily. "You must work out. A lot."

"I do. I set up a weight room in one of the sheds." 

I looked from his ripped body and down at my own less than Adonis-like figure. "Hmm. Maybe I should do that. I think my old weight bench is somewhere in Dad's shop." 

"I'll be happy to help. Glad to give you some pointers."

After the shed was finished, we started clearing out the extra furniture, making sure to wrap it securely. I know I didn't want to have to explain to Miss Pauline why her antique bed was scratched or how moths got into her wool rugs. Everything, including building the ramp went smoothly until we came to removing the carpet.

The carpet and pad came up easily enough, and the floor underneath was the same poured epoxy floor as in the rest of the house. In fact, most houses built in our area during that period had a similar floor. And it was in good shape; however, removing the carpet revealed the giant loops of glue that the installers had used. Removing those glue marks was a bitch. After some internet research and a call to my favorite installer in New Orleans, we finally found an industrial solvent that would work, but the fumes were unholy. Luckily, I found a couple of respirator masks in my father's stock of tools, but after we finished the house still reeked. 

I insisted that Chance spend the next couple of days with me while the house aired out. He helped me unearth my high school weight bench and the weights and showed me a basic workout. He also helped me find someone to auction off the tools, equipment, and old vehicles. 

With the work at his place finished, he spent the next couple of days helping me trim bushes and trees and clean up the overgrown vegetation. And at night, he cooked up more fantastic meals. I still didn't have much furniture, including a tv, so after dinner, we piled on my bed to watch Netflix on my laptop. Even though I didn't think of Chance as anything other than a friend, I have to admit, I did get a charge from sitting so close to such an attractive man, and when we occasionally brushed up next to each other, I may have chubbed up just a bit.

Not long after the smell of the solvent cleared, it was time for Chance to go pick up his mother to bring her home. Very soon after she had gotten back and settled, she insisted that Chance have me over to dinner to thank me for the help I had given.

I was relieved to see that, while still obviously in discomfort, she was in generally good shape and good spirits. She was as alert as ever, carefully dressed and with her thick hair its usual unnatural black. Once at church, one of the "old biddies" had asked, "Pauline when are you going to stop dying your hair black?" Miss Pauline had replied, "When I'm too feeble to lift the bottle over my head."

"Chance told me how much you helped getting the house ready for this darn fool thing," she said indicating the wheelchair.

"It was no trouble, ma'am."

"It's such a shame about your dad. How's your stepmother doing?"

"Okay, I guess. I haven't really talked to her lately."

"You should check on her," she said, making it clear that this was an order and not a suggestion.

"Yes, ma'am."

Chance had made another one of his amazing meals, this one a roast with all the trimmings and homemade biscuits. He had left the dining room to go whip the cream for dessert, a peach cobbler.

"This is so good," I said, sopping up the last of the gravy with a biscuit. "He is talented."

"I know," she said, with a pleased look. "He's very special. I've always been so proud of him. I know he thinks highly of you, too."

I must have given her an inquiring look, because she continued, "In the last month or so, everytime he came to visit me in the hospital or called, he's talked about you and how talented you are. He used to do that in high school, too. I remember when you painted the sets for his senior play, he went on and on about them."

"Really? I had no idea."

"Well," she said, "now you do."

I continued to go to church with Chance and, now, Miss Pauline on Sundays, always coming back to their house for lunch. I substituted for the pianist now and then for choir practice, and even played for a function at the high school after one of my old teachers asked for help. I continued working on the house, finally finishing painting what seemed like miles of paneling. And after the successful auction of father's tools and equipment, I decided to splurge on installing wood flooring and redoing the master bath.

With Chance's help, we installed the wood floors. It was tedious, but not really difficult. Applying the perfect stain, a mix of Jacobean and ebony was the hardest part, and after finally completing the last room, we both vowed never to do that again. 

I also decided to redo the master bath. I was okay with the Nile green and white tile in the hall bath, especially after painting the vanity and the floor white. Luckily the fixtures were also white. I had a new countertop installed, white Corian to replace the original faded and scratched Formica. Those small changes were enough to make the room feel new, but the master bath was a different story.

In the master bath, the wall tile was pink. And not just any pink, a particularly ugly pink. There wasn't a tub in there, just a small walk in shower. I had the wall tile replaced with plain white subway tile, but took it all the way to the ceiling instead of ¾ up the wall like the original tile. On the wall facing the door where the sink was, I removed all of the tile and had the entire wall mirrored. And for the vanity, I removed the existing built in, and decided to use an industrial metal and wood cart with a white porcelain vessel sink. I painted the floor white and painted the ceiling the same robin's egg blue as the adjoining bedroom.

It was time to get the furniture and things I needed from New Orleans. It would be the first time I talked to Reed since the funeral, and I wasn't sure if I wanted or didn't want him to renew his declaration of love. What I did know was that I was being a coward by not calling him, and I didn't like that feeling.

He seemed surprised by my call, but happy to hear from me. After a bit of chatting and catching up, we agreed on a convenient date for me to come pick up the furniture and things I wanted.. He had the things at a warehouse in the Bywater that we had used to store building supplies, furniture, etc. for our projects. I decided to drive in on a Friday, we would meet on Saturday so I could sort out what to take, and then i would load up Uhaul trailer and leave on Sunday morning. "I look forward to seeing you again," he said.

I called Ben to let him know I was coming into town. And he insisted that I stay with he and John. "You're not getting a hotel, and that's final," he said to my protests. "It will be fun to have you stay here. We can stay up all night talking about boys and braiding our hair."

When I mentioned my upcoming trip to Chance and Miss Pauline at lunch on Sunday, she said almost immediately, "Chance, why don't you go and keep Brandon company on that long drive? And he might need some helping loading things."

"I'd love for you to go if you'd like to. I'm staying with some friends, and they're a lot of fun," I said.

"I don't know. I hate to leave you alone," he said to his mother.

"Nonsense, I won't be alone. I'll have Luann," she said, referring to the lady who provided her home health care. "I'm sure she can stay all weekend."

"I don't know," Chance said, still uncertain. "I'll think about it." He got up, taking the dirty dishes to the kitchen.

"Please, please convince him to go," Miss Pauline said urgently, putting a frail hand on my arm. "I need a break. He's driving me up the wall. Ever since I got home from the hospital, he's been like a mother hen, and it's making me crazier than a betsy bug."

It took some effort, but in the end, we managed to convince him to come. I called Ben to make sure bringing another guest was okay. "Sure. I'm happy you're bringing a man with you, " Ben said.

"He's just a friend."

"A man friend," Ben purred, emphasizing "man."

"Behave," I said.

Ben and John had plans to see a show on the Friday we arrived in New Orleans, so after dinner at their house, the four of us headed to the French Quarter. They went on to the House of Blues, and we hit the area of gay bars called the fruit loop. After we had gone to Lafitte's and Good Friends, Chance wanted to go to the Hardy Hole. 

"I haven't been there since Fleet Week about 10 years ago."

"I don't know," I said, thinking about Charlie and Fred? Frank? I never could remember his name. I wasn't sure I was up to running into either one, or Heaven forbid, both of them.

"Come on, it'll be fun," he urged. Again I hesitated. "What's the deal? Why don't you want to go? I remember you telling me it was your favorite bar," he said. 

My mouth loosened by one too many beers, I let the bean spills. "Right before I left, I had a drunken threeway with the owner and another guy, and I'm afraid I'll run into them."

He looked at me for a long second, then starting laughing. "You do get around," he said. "Come on, let's go. I'm sure you're not going to be the only survivor of a threeway in there. In fact," he said, looking smug, "I can guarantee it.

I was so distracted by contemplating Chance in a threesome that I allowed myself to be dragged through the Quarter. Oh well, chances were good that I was going to end up at the Hardy Hole eventually, so I might as well get my first visit back over with. 

As I had feared, Charlie was there. In fact, he was working the door, checking I.D.s. If he were suffering any embarrassment, though, he didn't show it. In fact the first thing he did when I showed up was to envelop me in a crushing bear hug.

"Brandon," he said, finally releasing me. "It's good to see you. Frank told me about your dad. Sorry to hear about him." 

"Thanks. This is my friend Brandon. He's from Terry, too."

"Good to meet you," Charlie said, shaking hands with Chance while giving him an approving appraisal. "Go have fun." To me he said, "I'm glad you have someone looking out for you."

As we walked inside, Chance leaned over and whispered, "Is that the owner? From the threesome?"

"Yes."

"Well, I have to give you credit for good taste."

"Thanks," I said, pushing through the crowd to get to the bar. Before I could reach my destination, I felt myself being seized again by a pair of burly arms and being hugged. Though hug doesn't adequately describe the crushing embrace that was foisted upon me; then I felt myself actually being lifted..

"BRANDON!!" a voice squealed over the din of people and the loud music. Great, I thought, here's Frank. 

"Put me down," I said as loudly as possible considering I was being held so tightly I could barely breathe.

"Sorry," he said, finally lowering me. "I'm just so excited to see you," Frank said, a hug smile splitting his beard. "I didn't know you were back."

"Just for the weekend. Frank," I said, turning, "This is my friend Chance. Chance, this is Frank."

"Hi," Frank said, his eyes brightening as he took in Chance. "Are y'all dating?"

"We're just friends," I said. "It's good to see you..." I started the brush off, but stopped when we face feel as he realized what I was doing, and I had to stop. Blowing Frank off would be like kicking a puppy. "Do you want to hang with us for a bit?" I shot a glance at Chance hoping he wouldn't mind, but the bastard, so far from minding had a smirk on his face as he enjoyed my discomfort. Asshole.

"Sure," he said happily, the sunny smile returned to his face. 

Relieved to have a reason to break away, I returned to my mission to get beer. It took a while to maneuver through the crowd to the bar and even longer to get the beleaguered bartender's attention. Certainly enough time for Frank and Chance to get acquainted. They were settled tightly into a corner, laughing at something, and Frank was making sure he kept his hand on Chance's arm.

"I got you a beer," I snarled, thrusting the icy bottle at Frank. "What's so funny?" I asked, handing Chance his own beer.

"Ryan...I mean Brian...I mean Fred...over here was telling me how you forgot his name," he said barely managing to get the sentence out before breaking up into laughter. Frank, too, was chortling away like he had just heard the world's funniest joke.

"Great," I said sourly. "Just great."

"Oh, don't be that way," said Frank, stepping over and gathering me into a side hug. "It actually was pretty funny. You looked like a deer caught in headlights."

Considering that the guy whose name I had forgotten after an epic threeway was able to consider my slip funny, I guess it would be an asshole move to not have a sense of humor about it.

"I guess it was." 

After the initial awkwardness, I ended up having a pretty good time. Frank was a really nice guy, and a very cute one. And there is nothing like having a cute younger guy broadly hinting that he was ready to have another threeway with you to make you feel good. I, however, was sober enough to say no this time, and to my relief, Chance didn't seem to take Frank seriously at all. Sometime after midnight, Chance and I headed back to Ben's place. Alone. 

The next day, we had a late brunch with Ben and Jon who both laughed uproariously at Chance's version of our night with Frank. I managed a weak smile. Honestly, I was so nervous about my upcoming meeting with Reed that I didn't care what we talked about. Chance had offered to go with me, but I felt a bit weird involving him, so I told I preferred to handle it alone and sent him off to the French Market with the list of items Miss Pauline wanted. Time seemed to be flying, and before I was ready, I was on Chartres driving to the warehouse.

I had taken some pains with my appearance that day, trimming my beard and putting a bit of product in my hair which was now long enough to pull into a ponytail. I had started walking through the trees on my property after I had mowed the trail that rang along the perimeter of the woods, and the walking combined with Chance's workout was starting to have an effect. He had also helped me eat better, and my belly had shrunk. In fact, when I went to buy some new jeans for this weekend, I pleasantly surprised by how easily I fit into my old size. With the new dark jeans and a similarly hued navy sweater, I actually looked pretty good. At least I hope I did.

Reed looked fantastic, as usual. He had regained whatever weight he had lost since the breakup and looked lean, fit, and healthy. His dark hair was beautifully styled and gleamed with a dark luster. The white sweater showed off a complexion that was smoothly tanned even this early in the spring. 

Reed had asked a couple of guys from one of his worksites to come over and help. Since the boxes had been thoughtfully packed and labeled, it didn't take too long for me to sift through the contents and find the things I wanted. We placed them to the side, returning the unwanted items to storage, and made the arrangements to meet in the morning at 9.

When we walked outside, I realized it was later than I had originally thought.

"Let's get something to eat, " he suggested. "Unless you have plans."

"Actually, I don't. But isn't it a little early for dinner?"

"Maybe, but we can get some drinks and have time to talk."

It sounded tempting. Life in the country was peaceful and serene, but I missed some aspects of city life like happy hour in a swanky bar.

"Okay. But I should let Chance know and see if he wants to join us."

"Chance?"

"He's a friend from home. He came to keep me company on the ride."

"Oh," he said. "Please see if he wants to join us."

"Chance," I said once he answered his phone. "Reed wants to go to dinner. You up for it?"

"You go. I'm a bit tired. Not used to staying up so late. I think I'll grab something quick and go to bed early tonight."

"Are you sure?" I asked. He did sound tired and a bit down.

"Yes, I'm sure. Go have fun." I texted Ben to let him know what was up.

Reed followed me to Ben's house. He wanted to eat at Tommy's in the CBD, and I didn't want to drive my truck and try to find parking on a Saturday night. It felt very familiar as I settled into the black Mercedes next to Reed. Driving out to eat on a Saturday night, Reed's favorite music, jazz, playing on the radio.

Conversation on the drive was casual. Mostly about the Degas project. 

"Do you want to see it?" he asked. We had just made it to the quarter.

"Sure." 

He drove to the residential part of Dauphine St. A row of three cottages linked by a high wall and all painted the same faded tan sat beside the street. He unlocked a dark green wooden gate that was framed by an arch covered in jasmine and led the way down a passageway created by high brick walls. I emerged from underneath another vine-covered archway and emerged into an enchanted place. 

The complex consisted of 6 separate cottages of varying size, each with their own private courtyard made of aged brick walls. More aged brick paved them, with raised bed around them containing lush, overgrown greenery. In the center was a large central courtyard that contained a small, but beautifully proportioned pool. To the left of the pool was another brick structure, a sort of pool house. The place was still in disrepair--Reed's team was still in the demo stage, and the buildings had clearly been the victims of long term neglect, but it was still beautiful. And so quiet, I could hardly believe I was still in the French Quarter.

In the fading light, he showed me what he could of the cottages, detailing his plans. I have to be honest; I wasn't exactly thrilled with what he told me the designer he was working with had planned, but since I had chosen to be a silent partner, I held my tongue.

"This place is amazing," I said, as we stepped out of the passage and back onto Dauphine St.

"I know," he said. "Sometimes I have to pinch myself to realize that this is my project. The only thing missing is you working on it."

He must have seen the look of distress that crossed my face. "Sorry," he said. "No more of that. Let's just enjoy tonight."

He parked in the garage for his condo, which wasn't a far walk to the restaurant. 

"Since it's a bit early, do you want to come up for a drink before we head out?"

"Sure," I said. I have to admit that I was morbidly curious to see his bachelor pad. The one he had picked out with John. 

The condo was in a converted factory. We passed through and entrance with exposed brick walls and polished concrete floors. Tasteful, neutral, and expensive looking art hung on the walls, and modern lanterns hung from the ceilings. His condo was on the second floor. 

It was fantastic, of course. More exposed brick and polished concrete floors. A wall of windows exposed his own small, but private courtyard. Past the entrance, stairs rose to the right to the bedrooms. And open kitchen was to the left. I had never been here, but it felt familiar. 

I looked at one of the plastered walls. I knew that paint color. "Is that Oyster Bay?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

Oyster Bay was a beautiful blue/green/gray. I had used it throughout most of our first home together. I looked around startled at how familiar it seemed. In the dining area was a large round table in natural maple, It was bigger than my grandmother's, but except for size, it was a twin. It was surrounded by Parsons chairs slipcovered in natural linen as had my grandmother's table been when it was in our first dining room.




When Love Takes Over Ch. 07



Everywhere I turned, I saw more and more things that reminded me of that home. That's when I noticed a pair of brown leather chairs very similar to mine, but so new, the tags were still on them.

"You were using my chairs," I said. "You should have told me. I would have let you keep them."

"It doesn't matter. They are yours after all. They came before me. I just had my designer pick out a similar pair."

"It looks just like our first house together," I said.

"I know. I showed the designer the pictures I had off it, and had her copy it as much as possible."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to be reminded of you and when I was the happiest I ever was."

I didn't know what to say, so for once remained silent. 

"Let me get you a drink, and then I'll show you the rest," he said. "Bourbon, I presume? With water or do you want me to make you a Manhattan?"

"Actually just plain water is fine. Sparkling if you have it."

"You don't want a cocktail?" he seemed surprised. I couldn't blame him.

"No. Not right now."

He got the water and showed me upstairs. I noticed in his bedroom that he had taken a photo of my Lake Pontchartrain painting and had it turned into a giclee. I didn't comment. After the tour, we headed to dinner. 

Once we left the condo building, I again had the sense of deja vu walking beside Reed toward a posh restaurant just as we had done so many evenings. Tommy's had been a particular favorite, one where we had enjoyed taking clients, and I was pleasantly surprised when the maitre d', Ross, greeted me by name. 

"Mr. Watson," he said, seizing my hand, "It's been too long. What a pleasant surprise! Mr. Bernal, I know you are pleased he's back."

"I am," Reed said. "Can we have our usual table?"

"Of course" 

It was so pleasant sitting down in that dark, old fashioned room. Candle light glowing and flickering in the mirrored panels that circled the dining room. As we were still settling in, cocktails arrived--our usual order. A dry Belvedere martini with blue cheese stuffed olives for Reed and a Manhattan made with Maker's Mark for me.

"Compliments of the house," the waiter said putting the shimmering glasses on the table. I briefly considered returning mine with my regrets, decided that would be rude, and raised the glass to my lips. I had had a few beers and the occasional glass of wine in recent weeks, but it had been two months since I had drunk bourbon. The Manhattan tasted like the nectar of the gods.

However, mindful of what happened the last time I poured bourbon down my throat at well, I refused the offer of another one, sticking to a bit of wine with dinner. Well, maybe a lot of wine. And what a dinner.

We had appetizers, salads, luscious seafood entrees, and flourless chocolate torte for dessert. As I sipped coffee after dessert (It had taken every fiber of my being, but I had turned down cognac), I was replete. I definitely had a buzz from the cocktail and the wine, but I was still in control. 

I had forgotten how much fun dinner with Reed could be. And the conversation had been light, easy, and fun. As we walked out, Reed's arm linked in mine, a smiling Ross said good night. At his greeting, I asked him to call me a cab, and Reed and I walked out onto the street.

"Are you sure," Reed whispered as we stood outside the restaurant. " You could come back with me."

"You and I both know what will happen. And I don't think it's a good idea."

"Bad ideas are the best ones," he said, leaning in even closer as he whispered. My blood surged as his lips brushed across my ears, and I inhaled his delicious cologne.

Mercifully, as I was actually contemplating his tempting offer, a cab pulled up. 

"I had a wonderful evening, Reed, but I need to go," I said. He gave me a long look, then pulled me tightly to him and gave me a kiss that made my knees buckle. The cabbie gave us a wolf whistle and chuckled as Reed poured my now limp form into the cab. 

After such a heavy meal, especially since I was unaccustomed to drinking so much wine with dinner, I had a sleepless night. And my confusion over Reed didn't help. He obviously wanted me back. But did I want to go back? After last night, I realized that at least part of me did.

At any rate, I looked like hell at breakfast and hungover. Chance tactfully refrained from mentioning that fact, and indeed, was silent through most of the morning. By the time we had met the guys at the warehouse, loaded up, and headed out, I was in a state more closely approaching normal. The gallons of coffee I had consumed helped immensely.

Chance noticed that I had perked up and asked about last night.

"How was it?"

"Dinner was great, but Tommy's is always fantastic. You really should have come."

"Never really cared for being a third wheel."

"It wasn't like that. It wasn't really a date."

He glanced over at me with one eyebrow cocked. I envy him his ability to do that; I never managed it.

"Well," I said, "I guess it was kind of a date."

"So did you do the nasty?" he asked. "Have yourself some ex sex?"

"That is none of you business. However, no, I did not."

"Good," he said, and smiled.



When Love Takes Over Ch. 08



The next couple of months flowed on smoothly enough. In addition to the items I brought back from New Orleans, I bought and scavenged enough other things to fully furnish the house. I had planned to keep everything minimal, but Chance insisted that I had to at least get a tv and a sofa for the living area. We had discovered a shared passion for Game of Thrones, and Miss Pauline refused to "have that trash playing in my house," so we had started getting together regularly to watch DVDs of the past seasons.

I caved, though I knew I would miss watching tv on my laptop with the two of us piled on my bed, and bought a large comfortable linen slipcovered sofa, the kind you lounge in instead of sit, with a large matching ottoman to use as a coffee table. To tie them into the two leather chairs that completed the seating area, I ordered a couple of brown and white cowhide rugs. 

As much as Chance enjoyed the new sofa, he did have to pay for it, a bit. I had the large flat screen mounted on the wall, but wanted a piece of furniture to go under it. The perfect piece was a really large rustic work bench I found in one of Dad's sheds. After I realized it wasn't built in, I insisted on moving that into the living room. It was big and heavy, and a massive bitch to move. In fact moving it was such a pain, that the normally unflappable Chance complained every step of the way, though that was partly due to the large splinter he managed to immediately get embedded in his palm, swiftly followed by two more. Though, once everything was in place, and I had nursed his hand, he sulkily admitted that the room look nice.

I also gathered an assortment of mismatched chairs from various thrift, consignment, and antique stores to put around my long table. Painting them all a glossy tobacco brown united them . And even though I couldn't imagine who would be using the guest room, I bought a mattress for my upholstered bed along with a couple of simple nightstands.

In addition to my purchases, I slowly made simple window treatments for all the room out of the same unbleached cotton as the ones in my bedroom. I was also painting a lot pictures; Donna was still selling the pieces I shipped to her regularly at the boutique on Magazine Street, and I had the empty walls of the house to filll. I enjoyed painting, it's true, and especially enjoyed having the time to devote to it. 

My passion was still interior design, though, and now that my own retreat was finished, I started to look for a way to feed that passion. Luckily, through the years I had stayed on very good terms with the decorator in Russville who had been my first boss. Her business had grown since I left, and she was swamped. When she learned I was still in town and had nothing to do, she happily hired me on a consulting basis to deal with various small projects that were overloading her current staff.

So my weeks passed with trips to church and Sunday lunch with the Bruces, watching Game of Thrones with Chance, painting in my studio, and driving into Russville a couple of days a week to do design work. I also found myself drawn into the happenings of my own little country community. As the spring wore on, there were special Easter services at the church, banquets at the school that I was asked to play for, the senior play at the high school to attend. It felt nice being part of a small town community again, that whole idea of everybody knowing your name.

And in my spare time, I spent a lot of time with Chance, helping him on the farm. He had plans to eventually do large scale organic farming, including raising livestock. So we had a large task ahead in repairing the fence rows and the various outbuildings and sheds that had been neglected since his father's death 10 years before. But more than just growing food, some of which he hoped to sell to restaurants in Monroe and Shreveport, he planned to eventually launch a catering company specializing in organic, locally grown food. 

"It's too bad Dad only built these open sheds," he said one day as we were sitting around drinking a hard earned beer after a day of labor. "There's none I can easily turn into a catering kitchen. I'm going to have to start from scratch. Something like your father's shop wouldn't be that big of a deal to convert. It's got a concrete floor, it's completely enclosed in good shape, already electrified--It wouldn't be a big deal to insulate, finish the inside. And since it doesn't matter what it looks like, running the water wouldn't be a big deal, either."

"I know I've enjoyed using it as painting studio."

"How's the painting going?"

"Fine. The funny thing is, I always thought what I really wanted to be was an artist, but now that I have so much time I could use to paint, I don't really. I guess, even though I'm lucky enough to sell some of my work, it's more of a hobby than a great passion."

"Well, I think most people aren't very good at deciding what they really want and what makes them happy. But, for what it's worth, I think you're really good. That big one you brought back from New Orleans...that is really beautiful."

"Stop," I said, "you'll make me blush."

Live continued on that way, small design jobs here and there, a bit of painting, hanging out with Chance. Entreaties from Ben to come back to New Orleans and work for his firm. Calls from Patrick checking up on me and telling me tales about his life in New York. Trips to the library and to the Piggly Wiggly. Every now and then phone calls from Reed. Walks in the woods and work out with Chance. I was enjoying life and felt, well, I guess "healed" is the best word I could use. But I still had a sense of pressure, of dread. My self-imposed deadline of making a decision about my future by fall was coming, and I was still uncertain of what I wanted to do.

My trip to New Orleans had been a reminder of how much I loved that city, and I knew I could easily slip back into a life there. But what kind? Being single in sin city didn't really appeal to me, and I wasn't ready for my old life with Reed. Patrick kept offering help to find me a job in New York, but I was hesitant. I loved visiting New York, but wasn't sure I could live there. Dallas and Atlanta were other options, but neither city excited me. I toyed with some time in Europe (assuming the buyout was a lucrative as it seemed it could be), but couldn't convince myself that it was practical.

I actually was having a very pleasant time here in Terry, living in the country, puttering around, but I was afraid that I was wasting my time; that I was coasting. And as a gay man nearing 40, the thought of wasting time terrified me. Days were good, and I could fill them with activity, but at night, I lay awake and these thoughts kept circling.

One night toward the end of May, Chance and I sat outside my house in a couple of Adirondack chairs sipping beer and enjoying the warm evening. The jasmine was blooming, and the gentle wind kept bringing the sweet fragrance to us. We had watched a movie, and Chance and I had cooked fish tacos with some fresh fish he had caught earlier that morning. That was one cooking skill I was able to teach the master; I could make fresh tortillas with the best of them.

Now, replete, we sat around shooting the breeze. I knew he had passed through town earlier, so I pressed him for the gossip.

"So what's the big scoop in Terry?"

"Well, I guess the only real news is that the high school is going to cancel prom this year."

"Shit," I said. "That's a shame. Why?"

"Apparently they were doing some repair work in the gym, and they found black mold. They have to do some major work before they can use it again, and nobody, including the students, really wants to do a banquet in the cafeteria instead."

"There's no place else?"

"The only place in town that's big enough is the Baptist rec center, and you know how Baptist's feel about dancing. And what's a prom without dancing?"

"True. What about Russville? It's only 30 minutes away. Surely they have a place."

"Not enough money to rent."

"That is a shame," I said. "I loved prom, especially junior year."

"Really?"

"It was amazing. Too bad you had already graduated. I was president of the junior class, and I cracked a whip over those people. Every student had to raise at least $5 per week selling Rice Krispy treats at recess. We raised thousands. We even hired a D.J. from a Monroe radio station."

"Wow. I didn't go to senior prom, but our junior one was lame."

I was so wrapped up in my memories, that I barely registered Chance. "It was beautiful. I only have two regrets."

After he waited a minute, and I didn't continue, being so wrapped up in remembering that night, Chance prompted, "And your regrets are?"

"One, I'm jealous of those kids who can take who they want to prom. I mean I liked my date, and we had fun, but I regret I didn't get to take a cute boy and dance with him and maybe, just maybe, kiss him." I sighed. I was happy for today's teens, but I was sometimes jealous of their openness and opportunities.

"What's the other one?"

"It's stupid."

"Come on," he said impatiently.

"Remember Footloose?"

"Of course."

"Well, I wanted to make a splash like Kevin Bacon, so I practised for months sliding on my knees across the floor. At the right moment, I was going to take a running start and slide from one end of the gym to the other."

"What happened? Did you choke?"

"No, actually. In fact, it was pretty amazing and I made a real impression. The problem is that I didn't consider the impact of friction on polyester pants, and I burned a hole through the knees on both legs. I had to pay for the pants and try to explain to my father what happened."

Chance was laughing so hard he could barely get his next question out. "What did you tell him?"

"That I fell in the parking lot."

"Did he believe you?"

"I'm not sure a purist would describe what he felt as belief, but he didn't push it."

After a minute, I said, "Too bad we don't have a mill around here."

"A mill?"

"Yeah. Remember in Footloose, when the school won't let them have a prom, the mill owner lets them have it there. They hang the lights and the stars from the ceiling, and it's all very urban cowboy chic."

Suddenly, Chance sat upright, a look on intense thought on his face. He got up and headed toward the large shed, the one that used to house most of dad's equipment. It was big, and almost empty now except for the one small tractor I had kept and the other mowing equipment. The floor was dirt, but packed hard from years of use. I followed him, curious.

"What about here?" he said, turning toward me, excited.

"What are you talking about?"

"Why not have the dance here? This shed is huge, there's only about 60 students in the two classes; even with dates from other schools, there's plenty of room. It could be like a barn dance. You know," he said, parroting my words, "'very urban cowboy chic.'"

I opened my mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Why not? I did love a party and a challenge, and my mind was immediately swirling with ways to make this happen. Nothing like a project to take my mind off its troubles, and I did sincerely feel bad for students deprived of a prom night.

"I can see it. We can run white christmas lights from the shed to the shop. I can order those large battery operated white Chinese paper lanterns and hang them all over from the ceiling. We can clear out the carport and set the food up there, And we can put tables out in front of the shed." And, I added, "Pray it doesn't rain that night."

"I'll put Mom and Miss Lenora on the prayer detail," Chance said. 

Of course everything is always easier said than done, and it took a lot of coordination to make it happen. We had to get permission from the principal and the parish school board to hold a prom off-campus, though neither meeting was quite as daunting as having to formally meet with the presidents of the junior and senior classes of Terry high, who also happened to be the co-captains of the cheerleading team. They were approximately 5 feet tall, blonde, and completely terrifying. They took their responsibilities seriously, and after the meeting where they both asked questions that I had never considered, I felt drained and Chance was visibly shaken. But in the end, it all worked out, and we were granted permission to host the prom.

After having my decoration ideas approved by the class presidents and the prom committee, they turned over the money earmarked for decorations. It was a paltry amount, and I felt a bit defeated for a moment. But then I remembered Reed had made a point of our business donating to worthy causes, and I decided to see if there was still money available to be allocated to Terry High. After his initial amusement at the idea of me hosting a prom in a barn ala Footloose, he assured me that he would be happy for the company to donate. "Will $3,500 be okay?" he asked. Considering that was $3,000 more than the current budget, I assured him that would be okay. In fact, I knew that I would only need a portion of that and would make sure the remainder would be allocated toward something else the high school needed.

After that, everything fell into place. To eliminate parking issues and to maintain some control over the students' coming and going, the school decided to shuttle them from the campus to the party in school buses and to set the hours from 8 to 11:30.

The community jumped in to volunteer, and I lead groups of women in stripping magnolia trees of their leaves and weaving large garlands I planned to wrap the shed supports and to frame the carport opening. After they were in place, we threaded them through with white lights as well as grapevine sprayed white to stand out against the glossy leaves. A local farmer loaned us small square hay bales for seating that we arranged around the perimeter of the shed; to protect the girls' party dresses, the community ladies and I sewed covers made out of drop cloths, gathered at the ends with burlap ribbons and greenery.

The day of the prom was insanity. The seniors had been given that Friday off to work on decorations, and and what seemed like dozens of them swarmed the place, hanging the paper lanterns in the sheds and trees, filling the white paper bags with sand and battery operated candles that would line the path from the carport to the shed, hanging the Christmas lights and garland.

While that was happening, volunteers were setting up tables and folding chairs in the space between the shed and shop. I had tons of pea gravel delivered to create a smooth surface there and down the driveway. I had planned on doing this for awhile and considered it my contribution to the prom. While this was going on, the garden club began arriving with buckets of flowers and greenery cut from lawns and gardens all over the country side. Meanwhile, Chance was co-ordinating the cooking efforts, having commandeered my kitchen, and covered dishes, cakes, and casseroles kept arriving at an astonishing rate. All the while, we kept glancing anxiously up at the sky, but it kept on clear and blue, and the temperature was remarkably cool for May.

There were times I thought we would never make it, but by 6 pm, when the last of the students and volunteers had left, everything looked amazing. The chaperones and parents who had volunteered to help would be back by 7 or so to start putting the food out, and the d.j. was due about the same time, but now I had the chance to walk around admiring the results of everybody's hard work before I got dressed. 

Even with the sun still up, the white Chinese lanterns glowed as they bobbed gently in the breeze, and the smell of the many bouquets filled the air. The shed really did look like a Hollywood set with the covered hay bales, the stars and lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and the magnolia garland. I was standing admiring it all, when a car turned in. Surprised I walked toward it. I was even more surprised when I noticed it was from the local florist.

"Mr. Watson?" the driver asked, getting out with a small box.

"Yes."

"This is for you. Thanks," he said, pocketing the tip I managed to give him through my confusion.

It was a clear plastic box with an fuschia orchid boutonniere. "To my favorite prom queen. Love, Reed" read the card. Smiling I went inside to dress. I had thought about wearing a tux, but mine was buried in a warehouse, and I hadn't wanted it enough to ask Reed to dig it out and mail it to me, and I didn't want to rent one. I had, when cleaning out Dad's closet, kept a few of his older clothes, like the gray flannel suit he had been married in and his navy leather and suede jacket that I always remembered him wearing on special occasions. My father had been, in his youth, something of a dandy. His taste, though, was questionable, and in addition to his gray suit and navy jacket, his wardrobe had included such gems as a white polyester three piece suit straight off the set of Saturday Night Fever. 

It was in perfect condition; in fact, I don't ever remember him wearing it, and am pretty sure my mother had probably refused to be seen in public with him if he wore it. It was too fantastic to get rid of, though, and since my weight loss, it fit perfectly. I decided to wear that, finishing it off with a navy satin shirt and matching tie I found online. Actually, I had to admit looking in the mirror, I didn't look bad. With the longer hair, beard, and white suit, I kind of looked like an Allman brother going to the Grammies in the 1970s. While I was still admiring myself, the bell rang.

I opened it; it was Chance, as I expected it to be. What I didn't expect to see was the hottest man in the parish standing there in his Navy whites. I'm pretty sure I whimpered. I hadn't really thought about what he would be wearing, but I wasn't expecting this.

"Nice suit," he said as I stood there silently. "Can I come in?"

The spell broke, and instead of a god, it was just my friend Chance again. "Of course," I said opening the door and moving out his way.

"Since you're kind of my date," he said shyly, "This is for you." He held out a plastic box, which contained a red rose boutonniere.

I was shocked, and suddenly my friend was gone, and again I was in the presence of someone I didn't recognize. I stood there silently as he pinned it to my lapel, and then stepped back and smiled. I hadn't expected this, and I felt awful for not getting him one, and then inspiration struck. 

"Just a minute,' I said, and ran to grab the orchid from the fridge. Luckily I had already removed the card; I did feel awful for a moment giving away such a thoughtful gift, but when I saw Chance's face light up when he saw the box, I squashed those thoughts. If I could do anything to make him look like that, I would. He kept looking down at my with a smile as I pinned it to his jacket, and I felt as nervous as a kid on my first date. I hadn't expected anything like this, and didn't know how to respond. I was actually relieved when the doorbell rang just as I was finishing.

After that, the night was a blur. There were the sorts of party duties hosts always have; in addition, I had so many people, students, teachers, and volunteers thanking me, that I began to regret my decision to help. But in all honesty, I was thrilled. It was a perfect night, the weather temperate with a gentle breeze. As the night fell, the lights glowed, and the kids looked so happy. And being so far from other houses, the music could be as loud as possible. I didn't see any same sex couples on the floor, not that I expected to, but I did see a couple of boys emerge from the darkness behind the shed looking a bit disheveled and very happy and glanced over at Chance to see that they had also caught his eye. He smiled at me and briefly grabbed my hand and squeezed it.




When Love Takes Over Ch. 08



The last students climbed into the bus promptly at 11:30, and by midnight, the volunteers had cleaned up as much as possible and left. The christmas lights were unplugged, but we left on the Chinese lanterns, deeming it too late to be climbing up ladders to turn them off. They could burn until morning when the next phase of cleanup was planned. Chance and I sat in the shed; by then he had removed his jacket, but he had insisted on transferring his orchid to his wife beater. He had also lost the shoes and was barefoot. I had lost my shoes, vest, jacket, tie, and my sleeves were rolled up and several buttons were undone.

Chance had brought out his stash, two chilled bottles of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. "It's not prom night without Strawberry Hill," he had said, pulling out the bottles. "If memory serves me correctly, that was your high school drink of choice."

"You are correct, sir," I said unscrewing the bottle. Taking a tentative sip, I wondered how I had managed to drink the stuff. Surprisingly after a few more sips, it wasn't that bad, and was soon going down easily.

We had been listening to music as we cleaned up, and now, Chance went over and fiddled with his ipad. Suddenly the music switched, and the opening notes of David Guetta's "When Love Takes Over" filled the shed.

"I love that song," I said as he walked over.

"So do I." He held out his hand. "All the cute boys are gone, but if you don't mind an old sailor, you can still have a dance."

He pulled me up, and we started dancing. He was good, spinning and twirling me, but at one point, after he had spun me back to him, he pulled me close, and his arms wrapped around me. He was just enough taller than me that my head fit naturally on his shoulder, and we stood there, with our arms around each swaying to the music.

I'm not sure how long we danced or to how many songs, but eventually I realized Adele was singing and he was singing along with her, off-key, the chorus to "Make You Feel My Love." I pulled back a bit and looked up. Something passed through those amazing aqua eyes, and he was leaning down and kissing me.

It was a soft kiss, a sweet kiss, an innocent kiss. The kind of kiss a gay boy dreams about his first kiss being like. And I responded. Soon though, the kisses had deepened, and I opened my mouth to him, tasting the sweetness of the wine and his warmth. 

Eventually, he pulled away, and said, "I should go."

I didn't want this to end, but knew he was right. I helped him gather his things and walked with him to his truck. Before he got in he turned to me.

"You know why I didn't go to my senior prom?"

"No."

"I couldn't take the person I wanted, so there didn't seem to be any reason to go."

I knew the answer, but asked anyway. "Who did you want to take?"

"You." 

I stood there thinking about what might have been. I didn't believe that things would have gone well if two boys had decided to go to the prom together in Terry in the early 1990s. There would have been controversy and fighting and pain. And I knew that I had been a coward in my youth (in many ways I still was) and had almost always sought the path of least resistance. Yet, when I replied to him, I knew that my answer was true.

"If you had asked me, I would have said 'yes'."

He smiled, reached out and stroked my cheek, and then climbed into his truck and drove away.



When Love Takes Over Ch. 09



Author's note: This is the penultimate chapter. Thanks so much for everyone who read, commented, and emailed.

When Love Takes Over 

Chapter 9

*****

It took me a long time to sleep that night. I've never been a great sleeper; don't get me wrong, I love sleeping, it's just that I've been prone to insomnia since I was a child. In fact, I remember lying in bed waiting to hear my mother wind her old fashioned alarm clock; once I heard that I knew that in a few minutes she and my father, both earlier risers and heavy sleepers would be dozing. 

I would then sneak out of bed, put a rolled up towel against the door to keep any light from coming through the crack at the bottom, and I would proceed to stay up late, late into the nights. Sometimes I played quietly, sometimes I read, usually Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew; later I would put on headphones and watch David Letterman. My mother never could understand why I was always so hard to get out of bed in the morning and so sleepy after being in bed since 9pm.

In college, I did discover the joy of napping during the daytime. Sleepless nights were more palatable when paired with a two hour nap in the afternoon. I wish I knew why the naps taken during the hours I should have been in class were so much more incredibly satisfying than the ones taken during the weekend.

I had found sleeping easier here in the peace of the country, but sometimes still found it hard to turn off my brain long enough to sleep. And tonight's events, especially the kisses, and the realization that Chance had crushed on me in high school had my head spinning. Eventually, I stopped tossing and turning and lay still with my eyes closed, giving in to the wave of memories..

I certainly had a crush on him then, though I hadn't realized that a romantic crush was what it was until later in college after I completely understood and accepted my being gay. Even though I turned out pretty close to a perfect Kinsey Six, I wasn't one of those gay guys that had known since they were old enough to be self aware that they preferred the same sex.. 

I had always thought girls were pretty and fun to hang around, and though I was too nerdy to ever achieve any more than the occasional date in high school (usually when the girl was desperate to go to a dance, and I was the last best option), I had dated a couple of girls in college before I gathered enough courage to kiss my first boy. After that momentous occasion, though, I had realized what had been missing from my tepid hetero petting sessions and had never looked back. It was then, and only then, that I realized what my crush on Chance had really been. Much more than my thinking that an older teen was "cool."

As I lay there, still not sleeping, I remembered my experiences with Chance in high school. Honestly, we hadn't been around each other very much; his time spent working on the farm and the difference in grades meant I saw very little of him. We did go to the same church, but our Sunday School classes were based on grade, not age, so I didn't interact much with him then, either. The only period we spent any real time together after childhood was my freshman year.

Years before I started high school, there used to be freshman initiations, like in the movie Dazed and Confused. But technically they weren't for being a freshman alone, it was to initiate you into two of the main clubs for the high school. Those were Future Farmers of America (FFA) for the guys since almost all guys took Agriculture classes and Future Homemakers of America (FHA)for the girls who took Home Ec. According to older cousins, initiations in the 70s and 80s had been brutal, involving eating raw potatoes, being thrown into a water trough filled with ice water, having a to fish what appeared to be a turd (thankfully, it was really a Baby Ruth candy bar) out of a toilet, etc.

The classes used to be completely segregated by sex, but by the late 80s, they were both co-ed; that fact, along with the growing objections over hazing, meant that by the time I hit freshman year in the early 1990s, the initiation rituals were mainly a thing of the past. 

Some traditions lingered; while a few bucked expectations, most guys still took Ag. and participated in FFA. Along with that, at least one portion of the initiation ritual remained in place: the six week slave period. For the first six weeks of the school year, the freshman FFA members were supposed to submit to the will of upperclassmen members during non-class hours. Most of the upperclassmen were cool with it, requiring little more than slaves carrying their books to class for them, or running errands like going to the vending machines. Some did slightly more embarrassing things, like making you "propose" on bended knees to various giggling girls. 

It was almost certainly illegal, and definitely not officially sanctioned by the school, but as it was primarily harmless and all in fun, the principal and teachers generally turned a blind eye. Of course, as always, there were a couple of upperclassmen who were true assholes.

I wasn't bullied much through school, but when I was, it was inevitably at the hands of the Mackintosh twins. Both were big, being the size of full grown men by the time they were freshman, both were dumb, and both were mean. I later realized they themselves were probably abused by their father who always seemed a nasty piece of work from the few glimpses I got of him at church, but that didn't make being around them then any easier.

It never amounted to much, really. Certainly not the kind of soul crushing abuse that so many gay kids suffer through. While I wasn't as big as them, I wasn't small enough to make a really attractive target, and while far from popular, I wasn't an isolated outcast. I got shouldered by the them in the hall occasionally, maybe tripped, and roughed up during "touch" football games in P.E. but I was never hit. It was more of the name calling variety. But still, I avoided them as best as could, but during the FFA slave initiation period, it was more difficult.

If I had been a braver kid, I would have skipped Ag and FFA, which I had no interest in, and taken Home Ec, in which I was interested. But at that time, I still cared what people thought; besides, it was much easier to just go with the flow and do what the rest of the freshman boys did.

The asshole twins, of course, relished their power over me whenever they managed to snag me as their "slave," which they often did that first week. The assholes would arrive well before school and wait where the buses parked so they could grab me as soon as I stepped off the vehicle. I didn't want to make a fuss and be labeled a pussy, so I put up with them with as much patience as I could. Luckily, they liked tormenting other people, too, so I didn't take up all their attention.

At any rate, Chance noticed them singling me out for extra abuse, and he started making a point of snagging me first thing in the morning as his exclusive "slave" property for the day. Since he was a junior to the Mackintoshs' sophomore status, he out ranked them. 

He never made me do anything even remotely embarrassing; in fact, most of the time, he just made me sit beside him at recess and lunch to be on "errand standby'. He was so nice about it all, he even gave me rides to school for the rest of the six weeks so I didn't have to run the gauntlet in the bus parking lot. I can still remember how good I thought he smelled; I think his cologne of choice was Happy. Whatever it was, sitting by him certainly made me happy .

I do remember that six weeks as a golden time; I got to hang out with this older teen who I thought was so cool. He was pretty quiet, so we didn't talk much, but when we did, I learned we had similar taste in music and movies. I thought he was really cute too, but at the time, I remember thinking of it in more of a envious way than a romantic one. My awkward puberty, including horrific acne, was in full swing, and I remember looking at his smooth tawny complexion with intense jealousy; but he was so genuinely nice, that I couldn't begrudge it to him.

Eventually, though, the six weeks passed, and after the initiation into FFA, things settled into what would be normal for the rest of the time we were in school together. He would always say "Hi" to me in the halls, and chat briefly if we happened to be close to each other during church or a school assembly, but other than that we didn't hang out. He certainly didn't seek out my company, and I was way too shy to seek his. He was a junior and an athlete, and I was a lowly freshman nerd, and I was okay with this status quo. 

I did get to spend some time with him outside of school hours, though. He was on the Horticulture team for FFA, and I was the alternate. FFA had various competitions at the district, state, and national levels. There was Parliamentary Procedure, animal raising and showing, and various testing categories, like poultry judging and dairy cattle judging. Points were earned by each chapter by competing, and each member was expected to participate in at least one event, and usually expected to do more. 

I looked at the options and quickly picked the ones that involved the most amount of air conditioning and the least contact with livestock. Those were Parliamentary Procedure and horticulture. Horticulture was actually really easy. We had to learn facts about various indigenous plants, take a test on them, and be able to identify them by small samples. We only met once or twice a week after school, and since David and Stephen, both seniors and the other two team members, were just as nice to me as Chance was, I really looked forward to practice. Since I wasn't driving yet and he lived just up the road, Chance would drive me home afterwards.

The Parliamentary Procedure team didn't make it to district competition, but the horticulture team did. In fact, they placed well enough at district to compete in the state contest in Baton Rouge. Though I was just the alternate and hadn't been needed at the district competition, the FFA advisor, who was the Ag instructor, let me go as well, since I had made every practice. "You've worked just as hard as the other boys," he said, "and you should go, too."

I had been to Baton Rouge before several times to visit relatives, but coming from such a small town, I relished every chance to go to the city; actually to go anywhere that wasn't the country. For me it was an incredibly exciting tip; I was part of a team, we were going to stay in a hotel downtown with a pool, go compete at the LSU campus, and eat at a seafood restaurant. I couldn't sleep the night before, I was so wound up. I even enjoyed the long bus ride down on one of the school's buses; Chance, David, and Stephen treated me like their little brother and teased me (in the good way) mercilessly, and best of all, shut down every attempt by the Mackintoshs to antagonize me. In fact, David had shut it down before we even left. 

David was by far the biggest of the three upperclassmen, well over six feet and big, the classic big, ol country boy. Tough as nails, he was normally pretty placid, but when Shane, the bigger twin, started with the name calling directed at me as we gathered in the school parking lot that morning, David walked over to him, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him closer.

"Look, you little asswipe," he said, bending down and putting his face right in Shane's, which was draining rapidly of color, "I don't know what your problem is, but he..." David pointed to me with his free hand, "...is on our team. And if you make problems with him, you're making it with us." He gestured to Chance and Stephen who had moved in front of me. "Understand, asshole?" David asked. "I'm not asking you again. Do you understand me?" Shane nodded as well as he could. 

"Good," said David, dropping Shane's collar and walking back toward us. "Come on, little buddy," he said, dropping a heavy arm over my shoulders, "Let's go to Baton Rouge and kick some butt." I noticed Shane and Sean, his brother, giving me the occasional evil eye, but they avoided all four of us for the rest of the trip.

Since there were four of us on the team, we stayed together in one room with two queen beds. Stephen and David, who had been together on the team the longest, decided to bunk together, leaving the other bed for Chance and me. 

When packing, I had agonized over what to wear to bed; at home I slept in just a pair of briefs, but I, among other reasons, wasn't comfortable walking around these fully developed upperclassman displaying the shortcomings of what I considered my underwhelming physique. Even as nerdy as I was, however, I knew that wearing a full set of pajamas would result in endless teasing, even by these three easy going nice guys. 

Finally, I decided on a pair of LSU boxers, a gift from an older cousin, and a t-shirt. I had stitched the fly closed (luckily my grandmother had taught me to sew as a child) and put on a pair of briefs underneath the boxers. I didn't want even the chance of a dick slip or boner incident of any kind. Realizing that I was going to be sleeping with Chance, I said a silent prayer of thanks for my precautions.

The older teens slept in their underwear, no shirts, and I quickly decided that the best way to avoid being caught looking was to go ahead and crawl into bed, close my eyes, and feign sleeping. Honestly, even with my eyes closed, I enjoyed hearing their laughter and teasing, and I turned to the wall to hide the smile on my face. 

It had been a long day, though, and soon after I turned in, the rest followed. I'm sure I gulped when I felt Chance raise the bedding and slip underneath. I know, even though we never touched, that I could feel his warmth next to me. Very soon his soft breathing deepened, and he was asleep. I never did manage to actually sleep; I was too aware of Chance next to me. I had sleepovers in my youth and had never had an issue sleeping with another boy, but somehow tonight was different. Luckily, David needed the background noise of the radio on to sleep, so I spent the night listening to love song and trying to figure out why Chance's presence affected me so much.

After the night before, the rest of the trip was anti-climatic. Since I, as alternate, wasn't needed, I wandered the LSU campus during the test taking portion of the contest, regretting that the official FFA uniform of purple corduroy jacket, white shirt and black tie meant I couldn't pretend to be student, but I enjoyed walking around nonetheless. The team placed, but not in the top three; none of the other teams had done particularly well either. By 3 o'clock we were headed back home on a much more subdued bus ride than the one heading over.

With the competition season over, I went back to not interacting much with Chance. I ran into him once or twice in our small downtown (I use the term downtown very loosely) during the summer after school ended. However, since I didn't take Ag the next year, choosing to take an elective that I thought would be more useful in college, I didn't get to participate in FFA and the Horticulture team, missing the opportunity to see more of him. We still said "Hi" in the halls and spoke in passing, and in retrospect, I know I sent longing looks at him during school assemblies and church services. He was unfailingly nice to me when we did run into each other, but I was still surprised when he hunted me down the day yearbooks were passed out.

I had already gotten my few friends to sign mine, signing theirs as well, so I was spending this recess reading a novel. I had my yearbook beside me, just in case, but since it was the last free period before the end of the day, I really didn't expect to get anymore signatures. I tend to get lost when I read, so I'm not sure how long Chance was standing over me before I finally realized someone was there.

"Oh, hey," I said startled, looking up at him. 

"I was starting to think you were never going to get your nose out of that book," he said, a smile popping up. He had spent the spring outside training for and then playing baseball, and the resulting tan made his straight white teeth even brighter. His aqua eyes were also startlingly bright in his dark face. "I want you to sign my yearbook," he held it out to me with a pen, already opened to my class picture, another gem in a series of horrific yearbook portraits; I had actually painted out the one in my own book with White-Out.

"Okay," I said startled. I don't remember what I wrote. I think just "Good Luck!" or some other piece of BS. "Uh..." I said, fumbling for my own. "Sign mine?"

"Sure." He wrote for a bit, much longer than me, and with a smile took off after handing it back. Under his picture he had written: To a good friend and teammate. I'll miss you, little buddy. I know you'll do great things. Chance." (And no, and as special as that moment was, my memory isn't that good. Before going to bed, I had hunted up my old yearbook to re-read the inscription.) Wow. Even my closest friend hadn't written anything more meaningful than FF 4 EVER.

I looked up in the direction he had gone. It's like he sensed I was looking; he turned back around and gave me another smile, this one a little sad, and then he was gone. I only spoke to him once or twice after that, congratulating him at graduation, saying goodbye at the last church service he attended before he left for military training.

I had never thought of him as my first love or anything. That distinction belonged to someone else, but I had always thought fondly of him. I would occasionally think of him during the years, and whenever I saw Miss Pauline during one of my visits home, I would ask about him. I remember getting a bit of a thrill when I saw his friend request on Facebook and had planned to get in touch, but life had intervened, and I hadn't. 

Eventually, my tour down memory lane wound down, and I managed to get a couple of hours of sleep before I woke up again. It was still early, though, not yet six. But I didn't really think I could go back to sleep, and I knew volunteers would be arriving by 8 or so to take down the rest of the decorations and pick up the hay bales and picnic tables. So I decided to go ahead and get up. I showered, dressed with more care than the occasion called for with the consciousness that I would see Chance that morning, and put on some coffee.

In a lot of ways, last night had been about remembering the past, but as I sipped my first cup of coffee and waited to the sun, I wondered about the future. Before Chance kissed me, I hadn't really even considered him in a romantic way. It wasn't about him, I wasn't even sure I was ready for romance from anyone. Period. But I couldn't deny that there was just something about him. I had once had a crush on Chance, the boy; what did I feel about the man he had become? 

Obviously he was gorgeous. Maybe it's shallow to start with his looks, though. I had consciously made myself try to forget he was so very attractive. Thinking too much about a friend's hotness is never a good idea. 

However, sometimes acknowledging Chance's hotness was unavoidable, like when I first saw him in his Navy whites last night at the door. I found it hard to believe someone that beautiful seemed to be interested in someone as average as me.

But beyond his looks, he was a kind man. I only had to seem him interact with his mother; hell, the way he had interacted with the high school kids over the prom had given me a glimpse into his sweet side. And I was more comfortable just being around him than anyone else I had ever met, including Reed. Always with Reed, even after years together, I had felt a need to impress him, to show him my best face. I didn't feel that with Chance. Considering the poncho, man bun, and paunch I was sporting when I met him, I had figured he had already seen my at my worst, and so over the last couple of months, I had let it all hang out.




When Love Takes Over Ch. 09



And I loved how he got passionate for things and causes. Like for organic farming and the local food movement. He was so excited about transforming his farm, and I admired the way he had thrown himself into working on that project. And could that man cook. Thank god he had convinced me to start working out, or I would be the size of a barn. So far, I thought to myself, you have a guy who seems to like you, even though he already knows your faults, who is smart, sweet, hot, and can cook like a mutherfucker. But...isn't there always a but?

But, even with all the time we had spent. I didn't feel that I really knew him. He wasn't shy, but he was quiet. For all his honesty and goodness, he kept himself aloof. It was hard to know what he was thinking and feeling. He rarely spoke of his military service, barely answering direct questions and even then using the briefest of replies. He kept his feelings and emotions so closely guarded, that I was surprised that he had expressed as much last night as he did. I could only guess that he had gotten caught up in the excitement of the event.

As the dawn broke, and I sipped more coffee, I tried to imagine the last few months without Chance in my life. They had, all in all, been happy months, much happier than I could imagine, and his presence was a huge portion of the reason why. But, aside from any reservations about his character, I had to acknowledge that to have any relationship with him would mean staying here at the farm. 

I knew he wouldn't leave his mother; and even without Miss Pauline, I know it was here that he wanted to make his life. I wasn't quite ready to commit to staying a country boy for the next 40 years. But when I remembered the feel of his lips on mine, I had to admit, it had felt like coming home.

But I was probably making a mountain out of a molehill. What had we shared, really? A kiss. A kiss might mean something, of course, but usually it meant nothing. It's like that Nat King Cole song: Too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun. After all, one of the reasons last night had so surprised me was that Chance had never given me any indications before then, that I could remember, that he thought of us as anything more than buddies.

And of course, I thought, as I ran my fingers over the crystal face of my watch, there was Reed. I raised my left arm and looked at the Rolex. After wearing it non stop over the past few months since I had put it back on my wrist, it already was starting to have a battered appearance, it's stainless steel scratched. I didn't need to remove it and look on the back to remember the inscription, I still love you. Reed. 

After the months up here, the thought of him was started to become distant. A part of the past. We talked and texted regularly; he sent flowers occasionally-the boutonniere was only one of his offerings-and I thought about our dinner at Tommy's more than once. And yet...Part of that of course was that calls and texts can never substitute for real human interaction, and since the funeral, he had never come back.

When I had asked him then for space, it wasn't a ploy, a chance to play hard to get; I had wanted some time alone. But after his proclamations of love, I had expected him to ask for an invitation for a weekend or to swing by on some trumped up business or something. I'm not even sure I really wanted him to come visit, but I had expected it. But nothing. I wasn't sure if he was giving me the space I had asked for, whether he was waiting patiently for me to come to my senses and return, or whether he had lost interest. And more importantly, did I really care? The answer was "yes," but how much? 

I was still pondering the enigmatic mess that my love life had become when the phone rang. It was only seven, but people in the country expect early rising from others, so I assumed it was someone calling with a question about prom clean up. I was really surprised when I saw Reed's name on the caller idea; he was not one for early morning phone calls. I already knew it wasn't good news before I hit the accept button.

"Hello, I said.

"Hey, sorry to call so early, but it's important."

"Are you alright? Is everything okay?" 

"I'm fine," Reed assured me, "It's...well, the problem is with the Dauphine St. Cottages project. Remember when I showed you the initial designs and you weren't exactly enthusiastic about them?"

"Ummm...I..." I stammered, not really knowing what to say. 

"Let's just say the buyers were even less enthusiastic about the final designs," he interrupted. "They are threatening to pull out. And if they do, it could be a disaster."

Disaster. That word cleared my mental fog. "What do you mean "a disaster?""

Reed sighed. "Look, this was a dream project for me, and I've sunk most of the business's assets in it; but I miscalculated the market potential. Most of the buyers in this price range are looking for mansions...usually with some out buildings, but they aren't looking for a compound like this. I've had some other nibbles...a Hollywood actress, the hotel next door, but this couple has been the only serious offer. If we end this project without a buyer in place, and the sale takes months, we could lose a fortune."

It's funny how you can deceive yourself. After getting Reed's partnership offer, I had prided myself on not counting any chickens before they hatched. I had sternly told myself that the potential $1.5 million from the buyout was just something that could maybe happen. Now, threatened with the loss of my potential nest egg and the source of my options for a new life, I realized that I had, despite what I had tried to tell myself, had been counting on that money and in a big way. I had to force myself to breathe.

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked, surprising myself with the calmness of my voice.

"Yes," he said. "After the disaster that was the presentation, I talked more with them. They're an older gay couple; rich, very rich. Now that they're retired, apparently their "hobby" business is to buy boutique hotel properties in the cities they visit frequently. Very small, very exclusive. They always keep a unit for their personal use, and they frequently host groups of friends and family, but they will rent them for a fortune when not in use."

"Nice to know, but what has that got to do with me?" I interrupted his spiel.

"Plenty. The deal is they think of these places as second homes first, income second. I didn't realize that one of the reasons they were interested in the property in the first place is because they liked your interiors so much, and that the interiors mattered so much since they will be living there part-time. They didn't realize you weren't still active in the business and weren't doing the design. I know you wanted to be an inactive partner, but I think if you come meet with them and salvage what part of the design plan you can, we can still pull it off."

"Of course I'll meet with them! Jesus, I want this sale to go through,too. When?"

"As soon as you can. They're in town through next Monday. They've already agreed to go with me to a fundraiser cocktail party on Tuesday night for the LGBT business coalition, you can meet with them then, and I could schedule a presentation for the weekend. Can you pull something together before then? They know it will only be informal, but it will buy us some time."

I didn't even have to stop and think. I knew there was nothing I couldn't cancel in the following week, and dammit, I wanted that buy out money. If I could make it happen only by moving Heaven and Earth, I was willing to try. "I can pull something together. I have to wrap up some stuff today, but I'll leave first thing in the morning and can be there by lunch."

"Great," he said, and I could hear the relief in his voice. "I do have to warn you; there are a couple of conventions in town and getting a hotel room is going to be a problem. You can stay with me if you would like." He sounded a bit hesitant but hopeful, and for a minute I was tempted.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea. I'm sure I can stay with Ben and Don. If it's a problem, I'll let you know."

After a few more exchanges, we hung up. I was shaken, but exhilarated at the same time. I knew I could lose so much, but it had been so long since I had tackled a major project and never with such high stakes and I was excited by that. I had always worked best under the gun. I thought this must be what an athlete coming out of retirement must feel like. And I was also hopeful that spending time working with Reed again would help me decide how I felt about him once and for all. I immediately began remembering what I could of the cottages and the initial design, already starting to put my own spin on its design as I mechanically began picking up my breakfast things and cleaning the kitchen.

I was debating the benefits of patinated vs. polished copper outdoor lighting for the cottages when I heard a knock on the back door. I was in the kitchen, and before I could snap out of my revery and move toward it, the door opened.

Chance stuck his head around with a smile, saying, "Hey."

Still, lost in my thoughts, I looked at him blankly. For a brief moment, with my mind full of Reed's news and thoughts of the cottage project, I had forgotten why he was here, and a long silence occurred before I came to my senses enough to offer my own lukewarm "Oh, hey."

But, it seemed my greeting was too long in coming. By the time I spoke, his smile had vanished, and he was looking at me with concern.

"Is something wrong? Is this about last night?" he said.

"Last night?" I repeated stupidly. 

"Remember last night," he said with a hurt look. "You know...we danced, we kissed."

Reed's news had completely taken over my mind, driving out my musing about Chance and me. I was so deeply caught up in the potential loss of my nest egg and the challenging project ahead, that thoughts of potential romance had taken a sudden back seat.

"Oh, that." I said, and added before I could stop my stupid tongue, "I wasn't thinking about last night at all." As the words left my mouth, I instantly realized how dismissive they sounded, but before I could qualify myself, we heard the crunch of gravel underneath truck tires as the first of the volunteers showed up. With another hurt look at me, he swiftly turned to go outside.

"Chance, " I said, reaching out to grab his arm. "Wait, let me explain."

Silently, he shook off my arm and headed outside. Fuck, I thought.

Even with the crowd of volunteers, it took hours to dismantle all the strings of white lights, to take down and dismantle the paper lanterns, and to pack up the hay bales, etc. Before the workers left and took away the borrowed picnic tables, we had a lunch of the prom leftovers augmented with cold cuts and soda. 

Throughout the morning, Chance had steadfastly ignored me while I kicked myself for being so obtuse this morning. I wasn't the best at picking up on signals, but he had obviously been excited to see me this morning, and I understood how easy it was for him to misinterpret my distraction as coldness. I just hoped that after the place was cleaned up, he wouldn't leave before I could explain.

I guess his mood had improved, because he did wait around until after everyone else had left. I offered him some coffee or a beer, but he declined, saying he had things to do.

"Chance... about this morning," I started, "I was distracted...I..."

"No worries," he said, and if he didn't exactly smile, at least the tightness around his mouth relaxed. "Tomorrow for Sunday lunch, what do you want for dessert? Cobbler or pecan pie?"

"Ummm...I actually won't be there, tomorrow."

The tightness returned to his mouth. He said nothing, but looked at me expectantly.

"I'm going to New Orleans. I'll be gone a while, at least a week or so. Reed called me this morning.."

"Oh, I see," he said, interrupting me. "Drive safe," Chance said before turning and walking toward his truck.

"Wait," I said, going after him. "You don't understand, it's not like that."

He stopped beside the truck and turned to look at me. "I understand completely. Out of the blue, Reed calls and you immediately go running back to New Orleans. It's where you belong. Maybe you should stay there." 

Without another word he climbed in his cab and drove away.



When Love Takes Over Ch. 10



Thanks to everyone who read this story, commented and emailed. I'm sorry it took so long to finish, but writing it was a much harder task than I imagined. It made me appreciate the prolific authors on this and other sites so much. 

There will be a short epilog coming soon to tie up any loose ends.

*****

When Love Takes Over Ch. 10: The Finale

When Chance pulled away, my first thought was to rush after him. To jump in my truck and follow him so I could explain what the situation was with Reed. But after the first waves of guilt washed away, what took its place was anger.

I realized I was pissed with Chance more than anything. Pissed that he was acting like a 14 year old girl upset over a misunderstanding in homeroom I had spent most of the last 7 years of my live placating someone else, and I wasn't in the mood to keep doing it now. Especially when my future was on the line.

I really liked Chance and wanted to explore a possible relationship with him, but I was damned if I was going to let my romantic life dictate my career choices again. I needed to focus on the Dauphine Cottage project and my potential buyout, and I was going to do exactly that. 

Reed had promised to email all the pics and specs on the cottages to me so I could start making my own plans for them. However, I knew getting everything together would take some time, so instead of rushing to the computer, I went ahead and packed for the trip to New Orleans. 

It didn't take long to get my paint samples and drawing supplies together, but putting together something that resembled a professional wardrobe was a much harder task. Since my initial success working out with Chance, I had put even more emphasis on weight lifting, diet, and fitness which had resulted in even more weight loss. But the side effect was that most of my clothing no longer fit. 

I had purchased a few new items of clothing for my new physique, but only a handful: a couple of pairs of jeans and khakis, a polo shirt or two, and a few button downs to wear to church or the rare client meeting, but nothing that said "high end interior designer capable of handling a multi-million dollar project." I put the best of the lot in a bag, sighing. I would have to take some of my precious project prep time to ransack my former wardrobe that was stored at the warehouse. Surely it contained some things from my former life that I could make work.

By the time I had everything packed and ready for an early start tomorrow, the files had arrived in my email. I ignored the urge to call Chance and buried myself in work.

I slept surprisingly well, though I dreamed repeatedly about the cottages. They were also forefront in my mind as I drove through the Delta dawn, and by the time I arrived in the city right before lunch, I felt I had a good general idea of the way I wanted the project to proceed.

Reed had made arrangements for people working on the project to be able to park in a nearby hotel's parking garage, so when I arrived in the Quarter, I was able to go directly to the project. Reed and Ben were meeting me there with a picnic lunch so we could get right into discussions.

It had been months since I had seen Reed, and, as always, I was struck by just how attractive he was. Even this early into the summer, his olive complexion had darkened into a glowing tan, and his shorts and polo shirt showed off his lean, toned frame. For better or worse, though, I didn't have much time to focus on his appearance as he launched into telling me more about the challenges we were facing.

"Part of the problem we're facing with making changes is that they will only agree to the sale if we can guarantee this place is fully operational by mid-October. They want to host some friends here for Halloween."

I looked around, mentally calculating. It was the end of May..."That would give us a little more than four months. Shit. Still, it's doable."

"I agree," Ben said. "Most of the exterior work is done; besides, all that had to go through the Vieux Carre' committee and can't be extensively altered anyway. And most of the plumbing fixtures are fine. And Nigel and Greg are good with the basic layouts. It's really just the cosmetic things and the decor that they objected too."

We walked through the various cottages; I made notes and quick sketches while they answered my questions. As we toured the compound, I felt is magical atmosphere again. This place could be utterly fantastic. And, as I noted the changes that had occurred since my last visit, I was confident I could help bring it alive.

After looking at photos of the couple's other properties ( judging by the amount of media coverage of their various homes and hotels they had fantastic media and PR connections) I thought I had a good grasp of why they had objected to the design proposal. They seemed to have eclectic tastes and their properties all looked very different depending on the location and the architecture.

The design team Reed had chosen had, however, in this case gone, with the goal of unifying the various structures. The cottages, though of similar scale, were all very different. One was two stories with a gallery running the length of the second floor. One had peaked ceilings in the main living area and French doors instead of windows. One was small, one room, but had soaring ceilings and was filled with light from windows on three sides. The designers had decided to minimize these differences by using very similar materials, colors, and furnishings in each unit. It would have made for a tasteful, elegant, and serene final product. It would also have been incredibly boring.

Walking through, I rapidly made plans on how would could differentiate the various buildings. The exterior colors for stucco and shutters would have to stay the same, and we couldn't make any changes to the lights and other fixtures on the facades that faced Dauphine St. because of the historical commission, but I could use differing lanterns, planters, etc. on the back facades that faced into each cottages private courtyard.

"Didn't you say that you still have some of the original furnishings that came with the cottages?" I asked Reed.

"Yes, they're at the warehouse. The place had been neglected, so they all couldn't be salvaged, and the pieces run from decent antiques to junk, but I had everything that I thought could be used or sold stored."

"Cool," I said, "I'll run by the warehouse in the morning and check everything out. I need to go there anyway and dig out some decent clothes for the lunch on Wednesday and the presentation."

Reed looked pained. "Oh. I didn't think you wanted anything you left at the warehouse, so I donated it all to Bridgehouse."

I stared at him and slowly started counting to 10 silently. I was pissed, but I told myself in the increasingly uncomfortable silence that I had indeed told him I didn't care about anything I had left in the house. And I honestly didn't, but time was of the essence on this project, and I begrudged wasting even a small bit of it on clothes shopping.

"Besides," he said, trying to placate me, "You've lost so much weight, nothing would have fit anyway."

It wasn't worth a fight, I thought. "I suppose so. I guess I'll call Jude in the morning." 

Though I had cared about clothes and enjoyed shopping a lot when I was younger, that had changed as I had gotten older. Especially after having to spend so much time shopping for materials and furnishings for our various homes and projects, wasting hours looking for clothes in a department store had become a torture for me. But since I had a need to look a certain way for our various professional and social obligations, I had been convinced by Reed to use his personal shopper. Jude, at Saks.

Reed, of course, had loved shopping for clothes, and for him, Jude functioned as a fellow worshipper at the shrine of couture, and they had happily spent hours together crafting Reed's meticulous appearance. They were both willing to spend hours in finding the absolute perfect tie to finish a suit. For me, as long as it fit my body and the occasion, I was fine. I did need to put together a bit of a professional wardrobe considering I would need to meet with the cottage clients and the various vendors for this particular project over the next few months. For better or worth, people do treat you better the better you are dressed, and for this project, paint splattered jeans and faded tees wouldn't suffice.

"Actually," he said hesitantly, "I made you an appointment with him for tomorrow afternoon. And an appointment at the hair salon for 10 in the morning. I was afraid you still had that Duck Dynasty thing happening" he said, reaching out to touch my hair which now brushed my shoulders, oblivious to my mounting anger over his high handedness, "I guess I was right."

I just stood there, icy rage coursing through my body. How like him. His need to control everything was infuriating. And, of course, the knowledge that he was right about my need to project a more professional image, especially with the high stakes involved only made me angrier. As usual, he took my silence for approved acquiescence, and had moved on to discussing the lunch on Wednesday. Breathe, I told myself, breathe.

"Thank you, Reed," I finally managed to get out between clenched teeth. "How very thorough. I don't know how I've managed without you these last months."

He stopped mid-sentence and looked at me uncertainly, sensing the sarcasm behind my remarks. Before the situation could escalate, Ben emerged from one of the cottages where he had been taking some measurements. He seemed to realize the tension between Reed and me.

"Look," he said, "I don't know about you two, but it's been a long afternoon, and I could use a drink. Let's head back to my place, have a well-earned cocktail, and I'll throw together some dinner."

By the time I had driven to Ben's house, I had calmed down. I was irritated with Reed, and part of me wanted to spite him by blowing off my appointments and showing up on Wednesday in ripped jeans and a weave to my waist, but I wasn't twelve. I wasn't going to risk blowing up a multi-million dollar project that could secure my future by letting my butt hurt feelings rule me. In the design profession, image is very important, and I knew that showing up to meet Nigel and Greg looking like I stepped from the pages of G.Q. would help me immensely, so I was willing to swallow my pride and proceed with my makeover.

And as far as confronting Reed about how his making these appointments without my approval pissed me off, what was the point? Even if I convinced him he was in the wrong, which I knew from history wasn't particularly likely, what would I gain? A fight right now would just be another obstacle to overcome in pulling off saving this deal. It was easier to just suck it up and move forward. At any rate, by the time I was at Ben's pulling my bag from the truck, I was in an okay place. The good news was that, with all the events of the afternoon, Chance and his behavior yesterday were out of my thoughts.

While Reed helped Ben pull together a dinner of spaghetti carbonara and salad, I took a quick shower. By the time I emerged clean and in a pair of comfortable gym shorts and a loose tee, I was in a much better mood. A glass of chilled Pinot Grigio and a large helping of pasta furthered my contentment, and by the time we are all sitting around after the meal, each with just "one more glass of wine," I was in a very mellow mood. We had spent dinner discussing the cottages, but by now were in the mood for a different topic.

"So," said Ben, coming back into the dining room after putting the last of the plates in the dishwasher, "tell me all about the prom. I want pictures!"

"Me, too," added Reed.

"Sure," I said, grabbing my i-pad and placing it before Ben. I had brought it with me to the table to show some inspiration pictures I had pinned for various courtyard schemes. Reed scooted his chair closer to Ben so they could both look.

I started them a few pics before the prom ones so they could see the changes I had made to the house. Ben was especially impressed with the transformation and made some suggestions about changes I could make to enhance the house even more. But the big interest for them was the prom pictures.

"Wow," Ben exclaimed looking at the pictures of the transformed shed. "This looks like something out of Southern Living. Y'all did an amazing job."

"Honestly, it was Chance's idea," I said, and as I did I felt a flash of something like homesickness thinking of him and the dance that had happened...what...just two days ago. "And the whole community pitched in. It was really was a group effort."

"Did you like the boutonniere?" Reed asked. "I bet you were surprised."

"Ummm..." I stuttered uncomfortably. "I...I...sure was. Sorry, with everything happening, I forgot to thank you."

"No worries, " he said, his eyes glued to the pics as Ben swiped through them. Shit, I thought.

"Do you have any of you and Chance?" Ben asked. "I can't wait to see him in a tux."

"He actually wore his dress uniform," I said.

"Oh my god," Ben said. "I bet he looked hot. I was right," he said as the first pic of Chance in his dress whites appeared. "Wow, I had forgotten how good looking he was."

"That's Chance?" Reed said in a strangled voice. I had forgotten they hadn't met when I drove down to get my things from storage. I looked at the pics; Chance did look like some sort of model, but I was mainly relieved to see that in the photos, both his and my boutonnieres read as just colored blobs, so hopefully Reed wouldn't notice the one I was wearing was actually a rose instead of an orchid. And I knew him well enough to know that he had been very specific with his order.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Ben asked me before cracking up at a pic of me mugging for the camera in my disco era white suit. "Where on earth did you find that?"

"It was my dad's, believe it or not. He was quite a clothes horse back in the day, but he always did have questionable taste."

"Actually, the two of you look great," Ben said, continuing to swipe through pics of us at the party. "With the dress whites and your white suit, it looks like your wedding day, especially this one," he said scrolling back to a picture of us standing in front of the official prom photo prop, the antique tractor. We were embracing and were looking toward each other with big smiles on our faces. Remembering how happy I had been that night, I felt a pang remembering how yesterday had gone.

"I think I need more wine," Reed said abruptly, pushing back from the table and heading into the kitchen. He brought back a bottle of red, but I had already drank more wine than I usually did these days, so I passed on another glass. Ben did have one more, but Reed ended up drinking most of the bottle which was a bit odd, since he wasn't usually a big drinker, at least by New Orleans standards.

As Ben sipped his Pinot Noir, he filled me in on all the local news and gossip. Reed occasionally interjected a comment, but spent most of the time refilling his glass and staring at pics on my pad. Finally, after another in a series of jaw-splitting yawns, I declared my intention of heading to bed.

"I'm pretty tired, too," Ben admitted, gathering the empty glasses and heading to the kitchen.

"I guess I should go home," Reed said, staggering a bit as he rose from the table..

"Hey," Ben said, returning from the kitchen just in time to steady Reed and to guide him back into his seat. "You've had too much to drink to drive. Why don't you crash here?"

"No. I'll call a cab."

"It will take forever for it to get here, and it's a long ride back to the condo. Stay here. The sofa in the study is very comfy. I promise. And I have an extra toothbrush."

"Okay, then," Reed slurred. "I'll stay here."

"Great," Ben said. "I'll just go get some bedding." He disappeared down the hall.

"Well then," I said, "I guess I'll say goodnight." I stood up to walk to the guest room.

"He's in love with you. Did you know that?" Reed said.

"What?" I asked, turning to look at him.

"Chance. He's in love with you. I can tell by the way he's looking at you in the pictures. Are you in love with him?"

I hesitated before replying. I was exhausted, a wee bit tipsy, and very confused, and I wasn't ready to bare my heart, especially not to Reed. All I could manage to say was "I don't know what I feel."

"Have you fucked him? Do you know that?" Reed snarled.

These, however, were questions to which I knew the correct answer. "That is none of your fucking business. That ceased being your fucking business the day you decided to stick your dick into John." 

"I'm sorry," he said, looking defeated. "I just want to know if I still have a chance."

"This is not a conversation I want to have tonight, especially since you're drunk," I said. "We'll talk about it later." I escaped to my room as Ben passed me carrying a stack of blankets and pillows.

When I left the house the next day at 8 am, judging by the loud snores coming from the study, Reed was still sleeping off his grudge match against the bottle of Pinot Noir. Before starting that battle last night, he had given me a key to the warehouse and the code to the alarm system. I spent an hour or so looking through the antiques from the cottages and identified several pieces that we could use before heading to the salon for my haircut.

I was actually ready to cut my unruly mess of hair, though an undercurrent of bitterness about Reed's interference almost made me ask for a yard of weave instead of a haircut. But, in reality, my long locks were more the result of months of apathy about my appearance and an early mid life crisis than they were about any personal preference, so when the stylist asked "Are you sure you want to go short?" I was able to answer emphatically "Yes!"

In the end, I was very pleased with his work. The sides were very short, but the top was a bit longer, shaped into a retro style. The shorter hair brought out the blond highlights from a Spring spent working outside with Chance and emphasized my blue eyes. I did keep the beard, but I had the barber trim and shape it; the result emphasized the planes of my face and my jawline. 

I had spent a lot of time in the sun over the last couple of months, though, and after cutting the long hair and trimming back the beard, the skin on my face was a bit patchy looking. In addition, I had a bit of a farmer's tan, so I reluctantly allowed myself to be persuaded into booking another of the salon's services, a spray tan. 

I had to admit, however, as I admired myself in the mirror afterwards, the regrettably large sum I had just spent had been worth it. I looked like a new version of my old self; in fact, I hadn't felt so confident about my looks in ages. The thought crossed my mind that I wished that Chance could see me now. I banished it as quickly as I could.

With the additional treatment of the spray tanning, I didn't have much time before my appointment with Jude. In fact, I was a bit late, but he didn't seem bothered. Considering how much Reed spent on clothing with him and Jude's probable commission rate, I wasn't surprised he didn't make an issue of my tardiness.

"Brandon," he said, walking toward me with outstretched arms. "You look fantastic!"

Jude was a former twink who had kept his slim figure, inky black hair, and porcelain white skin into what was, I could only guess since no one knew the actual number, his late thirties. He had a sometimes acid tongue, but since that was balanced by an uncanny ability to pick the most flattering (and expensive) garments in Saks, he was a very sought after professional.

"Reed told me you had lost weight, but I had no idea you had gotten so buff," he said, tucking my arm through his and leading me to a private changing room. "I may have to size some things down. And I love the haircut. Very butch." 




When Love Takes Over Ch. 10



A couple of bewildering hours later, I emerged from Saks with enough clothing to get through a week or two of work, with a couple outfits worthy of a date night or an evening at the club thrown in for good measure, not to mention a credit card bill that was large enough to turn my stomach. A few things had to be altered, but Jude promised they would be delivered to Ben's house well before the lunch on Wednesday. Considering the fact that I had spent the equivalent of several months worth of the average mortgage, I was happy to hear that.

By this time, it was late afternoon, so I decided to head back to Ben's. He wasn't home yet from work, but he had given me a key. I let myself into the empty house, spread my supplies out on the dining room table, and got to work. When Ben finally arrived home, he was enthusiastic in his praise of my new look. In fact, he was so enthusiastic that I self consciously wondered how bad had I looked before.

I didn't see Reed until Tuesday night. He had been busy with meetings through most of the day, and I had been busy hitting various design vendors around town gathering samples. When Ben and I met him for dinner at Mr. B's, an old school restaurant in the French 

Quarter and one of my favorites, I was somehow very aware of my new clothes and haircut. The look in his eye indicated his approval, but he said nothing more than a smiling "You look great" before launching into discussing tomorrow's client meeting.

New Orleans has a very large and active gay community, at all levels. And the A-List gays, at least the business oriented ones, periodically hosted fundraising luncheons. The focus of the fundraising varied from political issues to AIDS related charities to other humanitarian efforts, but honestly, the real focus was always on A-List gays networking with other A-Lists gays. I had always hated these sort of functions, but Reed had convinced me they were a necessary evil, and apparently Nigel and John, our prospective clients and prospective New Orleans hoteliers, agreed with him, accepting his invitation to join our table.

I had ridden with Ben who was my escort into the hotel hosting the luncheon, and I admit I was a bit nervous walking into the room. Though I was confident that several hundreds of dollars of grooming and clothing, not to mention the loss of thirty or so pounds, meant that I was looking my best, I also realized that this was the first time I was facing these people after breaking up with Reed. I also realized that the vast majority of the people in the room knew exactly what had caused that breakup, who had caused that breakup, and exactly how that breakup had gone down. New Orleans is, in many ways, a very small town; and cuckold is not a fun role to play.

But a large amount of money was at stake, and I had faced bigger challenges in life, so I slapped on my game face and headed into battle. After meeting Nigel and Greg, however, I quickly realized that my game face wasn't necessary. They were, in fact, warm, delightful, and welcoming. Together for decades, their affection for each other was palpable. Nigel, a proper Englishman, was tall, slender, with a full shock of white hair. Greg was quite a bit shorter, quite a bit plumper, and quite a bit balder, but definitely the more lively of the pair.

"So nice to meet you," Nigel intoned after Reed, who had arrived before us, introduced me. 

"We're big fans of your work," Greg interjected.

"Yes," said Nigel. "We had seen your previous projects and weren't aware that you were not personally involved with this one."

"Aww shucks," I said, slipping into an exaggerated Southern drawl. "Those kind of compliments will turn a simple country boy's head." They laughed.

Lunch went well; we discussed the project, and I felt I had a good grasp of their objections to the initial design as well as a good idea of what they would like. But the Dauphine Cottages were not the only topic of conversation, and I found them to be just fun people to hang out with. After lunch was over, they they headed off to check out the items and services that were available for the silent auction for the charity du' jour while Ben, Reed, and I stayed at our table.

"Shit." I heard Ben whisper as I checked my phone to see if Chance had texted me. I was disappointed to see that the answer was "NO." Not that I had texted him, but still. I looked up at Ben's exclamation. John, fucking John, was headed to our table. 

"Hi, Ben," he said. 

Ben nodded curtly. "John."

"Brandon, you're looking good," he said, eyes appraising me with an unflattering look of surprise as he realized that his statement was actually accurate.

"Excuse me," I said pushing my chair back from the table as he put his hand on Reed's shoulder. "I need some air."

Apparently "air" is synonymous with Scotch, because instead of going outside, I headed straight for the bar and ordered some Macallan.

"Are you okay?" Ben asked, sidling in beside me as I sipped my drink.

"I guess so," I said as I watched John lead Reed toward a secluded corner of the ballroom. They seemed to be engaged in an intense conversation, John frequently reaching out to touch Reed's arm. Periodically, Reed would glance over toward Ben and me, a guilty look on his face.

"Be honest," I said putting my empty glass down and motioning toward the bartender for a refill. "Is Reed still" I paused, carefully ignoring the word "fucking" that I really wanted to use and choosing another one, "seeing John?"

"Honestly?" Ben said. "I don't know. As far I as know, he's not seeing anyone. But I didn't know that he was seeing John the first time, so I'm not really your best source of information. It doesn't really matter, though, does it, unless you're planning to reconcile. If you really want to know, maybe you should ask Reed."

I stared at Reed and John as I sipped my drink. "But that's the real problem, isn't it? How can I trust his answer? But you're right about one thing, it doesn't really matter anymore. "

The rest of the luncheon went smoothly, but before I headed out with Ben, Reed took me aside.

"Look," he said, "I'm sorry about that thing with John. It's...well, I mean...we both work in real estate, and I can't avoid seeing him sometimes. I'm sorry.."

Before he could continue, I interrupted him, "It's really none of my business who you see, why you see them, or where you see them. Honestly, it's okay. It was just a bit of a shock more than anything." Judging by the look on his face, my calm acceptance was more upsetting to him than an anger filled rant.

In any case, the next few days were filled with so much work as I prepared for our presentation to Nigel and Greg on Sunday that I hardly had time to eat and sleep, much less worry about my love life. I did break down on Wednesday afternoon and call Chance, but there was no answer. I wasn't sure exactly what I wanted to say, so I didn't leave a message. It did make me realize how much I missed seeing and talking with him, but I was soon able to disappear back into my project.

I admit I was excited when my phone rang on Thursday morning, and I recognized his home number on caller i.d., but it wasn't actually him. It was Miss Pauline.

"Hello, Brandon."

"Hi, Miss Pauline," I responded a bit confused since she rarely called me. "Is everything okay?"

"Of course. I just wanted to know if you were coming to church and lunch on Sunday so I knew how much to cook."

"I wish I could, but I'm not leaving New Orleans until Sunday afternoon."

"Oh, that's a shame. Are you enjoying your trip?"

"Well, it's not really a pleasure trip, I'm here to work."

"Work?" she asked.

"I think I told you my ex..." here I stumbled over what word to use. I had found Miss Pauline surprisingly liberal in many of her views on things, including homosexuality, but she tended to use euphemisms like "friend" and "roommate" to refer to same sex partners. "...friend and I had...well, still have a business together, and he had a big deal go south on him. I'm down here to help salvage it."

"Oh," she said brightly, "I see. Since you're busy, I won't keep you any longer, but make sure to come over for supper one night when you get back. And if you're driving in after dark, be safe."

"I'm planning to leave right after lunch, so I should be back by 7 or so. It should still be daylight when I get home."

"Good luck on your deal and drive safe. I'll make sure to remember you in my prayers."

"Thanks, Miss Pauline, I really appreciate that."

The rest of the week went by in a blur of picking paint samples, drafting floor plans, preparing renderings, etc., but by time of the presentation to Nigel and Greg at the cottages on Sunday morning, I was confident that we had knocked it out of the park. They agreed, and our luncheon afterwards was a definitely one of celebration. There was still a huge amount of work to be done, especially if we were to make the mid-October deadline. I would definitely need to travel Dallas, the closest major design center by early next week, but for now, I could breathe knowing the deal was back on

With a 5 hour drive facing me, I limited my champagne to one glass. Reed pressured me to spend one more night in town so we could really celebrate, but after a week in New Orleans, I was ready for home and some peace and quiet.

When I left the city, Nigel, Greg and Reed were still celebrating, having been joined by Ben and his partner Don who had arrived home on Saturday from a business trip. I did feel a little pang as I thought of them relaxing in the courtyard of a wine bar as I navigated traffic, but by the time I was driving through the green tunnels of a Mississippi highway created by the old oaks arching overhead, I could feel a certain tension fading away. And as I pulled into silent driveway of my childhood home and stepped in the still, quiet yard, I felt like I could really breathe again. 

I was still sorting laundry into wash and dry clean piles, when my phone dinged indicating a message. I reached for it, expecting more pics of the revelers...they had periodically sent me pics as they "celebrated" throughout the quarter, including a stop to see the go go boys as the Corner Pocket, but it was from Chance. 

The text read: We passed by and saw your light on. Momma wanted to know if you wanted her to send over leftovers for dinner.

I felt a rush of joy finally hearing from him, but I was a little irritated, too. A whole week goes by with radio silence, and now he wants to act like nothing happened. Before I could make my decision, the phone dinged again. Another text from Chance: It's chicken and dumplings and pecan pie.

My mouth watered. True, the food in New Orleans is world famous, but nothing beats Miss Pauline's chicken and dumplings, except for maybe her pecan pie. I decided it would be foolish to hold a grudge.

Sounds good, I texted. I'm going to grab a quick shower. Door is unlocked.

It had been a long day and a long drive, which called for a long shower. I spent most of it trying to decide how I should act around Chance: angry? apologetic? like nothing had happened? But since my core problem is that I wasn't sure if anything had really happened in the first, place I was just driving myself crazy. After showering, I put on an old tank top and a pair of cutoffs. Dressing up the past week had been fun, but it felt good to dress for comfort without having to worry about style. As I finished up in the bathroom, I could hear someone rattling around in the kitchen and realized Chance was here.

Since I was barefoot, I made no noise walking down the hall, and my "Hey, Chance" startled him. He turned and his eyes widened. 

"Holy Shit," he said. "You cut your hair."

I raised my hand self consciously to my head. I had, over the past week, gotten used to it and had forgotten how different the severe hair cut and the trimmed beard made me look.

"Yes," I said stupidly.

"It looks really nice," he said, looking at me intently. "Really nice." He reached out a hand, almost touching it, but stopped himself. Still, he eyes held warmth as he studied me. After a moment, he turned and went back toward the covered dishes on the counter.

"Do you want me to heat up the dumplings?" he asked. "I know you sometimes like your leftovers cold. It beats me how anybody in their right minds can eat cold chilli," he continued.

"Heated please," I said walking to the fridge. "Do you want a beer or a Coke?" 

"You want company?" he asked. "I figured you'd be tired after the drive and would want to be alone."

"No," I said, choosing beers for both of us and handing him one. "I've had plenty of alone time for a while." As he sat a place for me and finished preparing the food which included a salad along with the chicken, I fiddled with my phone and put on some music, some classic country. As Kitty Wells sang about God not making honky tonk angels, we sat down at the table.

Conversation was a bit stilted at first, but after the beer and some time, we both relaxed. I told him about my week and my plans for the next, including a trip to Dallas on Tuesday.

When I mentioned driving to Dallas, he frowned. "I assume you're taking your dad's old truck. It doesn't have cruise does it? and the seats don't recline do they?"

"Hey," I said. "it's a good, solid work truck. I just had it serviced."

"I know," he said, "But it's not really a comfortable highway vehicle. Why don't you take mine?"

Chance's truck was a redneck's dream, a double cab with plush leather seats, chrome rims, a sunroof, and a stereo with every bell and whistle. He treated it like a baby, washing and polishing almost weekly, and sparing it from heavy duty by using a beater for actual hauling.

"I couldn't do that."

"Come on, why not? I can use yours if I need to. You'd be more comfortable. Plus it has Onstar and GPS built in. I'd feel better."

"I'll be fine, but thank you."

We talked a bit more before he left, and it was like old times. When I walked him to his truck, he stopped and turned. 

"I missed you," he said, and enveloped me in an embrace. He felt so good, all hard muscle and spicy scent. I melted against him. "Me,too," I said. We held each other for a minute, and I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn't. However, he gave me a warm smile and a wink before he headed out.

I spent Monday doing all the small jobs that a week away entail. Luckily, at this point in the summer, the yard didn't need mowing, but I did have to clean the house and make the drive into Russville to drop off things at the cleaners. I hadn't seen Chance, but he had called on Monday night to find out when I was leaving and to see if I needed him to do anything. Before I could load my truck on Tuesday morning, though, he pulled into the driveway. 

I was pleased to see him, though a little harried trying to get on the road, and wondering why he was there. As he got out of his truck, I noticed that the vehicle, always spotless, was actually gleaming. Before I could say anything, he walked toward me and held out his keys.

"It's fully gassed, and I got it detailed. I've even set the satellite radio to the Broadway channel for you. And it would make me feel better."

I started to protest, but he looked so pleased, and my own truck looked even shabbier next to the shining vehicle beside it. Plus, it was so much more comfortable. I hated driving without cruise control.

As I took the keys, his face broke out in a huge grin. "All right," I said, "I'll take it just this once."

In moments, I was loaded, had climbed up into the massive cab, and had headed out to Dallas. Half an hour later, as I settled into my plush seat, slightly reclined, with the cruise control set and blasting Idina Menzel's "Defying Gravity," I had to admit I was glad to have borrowed the truck. It was a huge hit among the valets in Dallas, garnering lustful glances that my Mercedes had never earned in past visits. But the best part was that every time I climbed into it, I was reminded of Chance.

I spent a few days in Dallas, finalizing my finish selections and purchasing furnishings for the cottages. After my return home, I spent the next week or so working on technical drawings, finish schedules, and electrical plans, not to mention coordinating the shipping and installation of furnishings. Thanks to technology, I could do a lot of my work remotely, but I would need to return to New Orleans soon to see how work had progressed and to make sure everything was being implement. After returning Chance's truck, I hadn't seen him, though we had talked and texted. I have to admit, I allowed the project to consume me, and when the phone rang on a Friday night, I realized it had been days since I had seen him, and when Miss Pauline asked me over for dinner, I readily accepted. I needed to head back to New Orleans on Monday, and I definitely wanted to see him before I left.

Dinner was good, meatloaf with fresh vegetables from the garden and Miss Pauline's yeast rolls. We talked a bit about my project, but Miss Pauline wanted to brag about Chance's catering. Apparently since his help with the prom, several people had called wanting him to help with parties and a wedding. So far he was working out Miss Pauline's house and the large kitchen at the church, but if he was serious, he would soon have to find or build a catering kitchen. We discussed some possibilities, such as building something here, a couple of locations in our own small downtown area (if you can call a cluster of storefronts around a pair of intersections a downtown) or a location in Russville.

By the time dessert rolled around, cobbler with fresh peaches and whipped cream, we hadn't arrived at a solution, but I had enjoyed a wonderful evening.

"Thank you so much for inviting me for dinner," I said to Miss Pauline, lounging back in my chair. I've been so busy lately, I've been living off sandwiches and oatmeal."

She made a "tsk tsk" noise. "Chance has been the same, too. That's why I decided you both should have a proper meal. You're neither of you spring chickens. You need to slow down. You know what they say "All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.""

Chance and I exchanged glances at woman in her 70s reminding us that we weren't so young anymore, but I did feel she had a point. I mean, this project was possibly the most important one in my life, but I hadn't really taken a day off since before the prom, which was weeks ago at this point.

"I know," she said, brightly as she brought in coffee. "Tomorrow is Saturday night. Y'all boys should go do something. Sow a few wild oats." She gave us both a disapproving glance, "You don't have many left...don't waste them."

We both protested that we had too much to do, but before I headed home, somehow Chance and I had agreed to spend Saturday night in Shreveport. 

"Does your mother realize that she's sending us to a den of iniquity?" I asked as I walked into the living room to greet Chance. We had been vague about our plans to Miss Pauline, but had decided to hit Central Station, Shreveport's biggest gay club that boasted dueling bars, one devoted to country music, the other to the latest dance hits.

"Knowing my mother, my answer would be that yes, she does. And probably approves." He turned to me and stared.

I had dressed carefully for tonight. I might be a joking about our destination, but I was actually very pleased to be heading out for a night on the town. It had been a long time, and I wanted to enjoy it, including the preparation for the night. I had gotten my hair trimmed that morning and clipped my beard. I had also spent some time picking my outfit. The jeans were easy, I picked a form fitting, flattering, and hideously expensive pair that Jude had selected, but I wasn't happy with any of his shirt options. I then found in the back of closet a vintage blue plaid cowboy shirt with pearl snaps that I had worn to country concerts when I was in college and that had survived my stepmother's various garage sales. Since the weight loss, it fit just right, and the color was very flattering. Finally, for some edge, I wore my old brown work boots. Probably a bit too hipster for someone edging too close to 40 for comfort, but I had been pleased with my reflection.




When Love Takes Over Ch. 10



I don't know what I was expecting as a response. Since the hug on my return home, I had barely seen him, but he had been warm. But now, as I twirled showing off my outfit? Nothing. 

"You look nice," I said, mainly to fill the awkward silence. I mean he did look great, but then again when didn't he?

"Do you have any beer?" he asked.

"You want a beer, now? Before we head out?"

"Yeah. Might as well get Saturday night started."

"Okay," I said heading to the fridge. "Stella Artois okay?"

"Sounds good," he said before downing it. "That hit the spot. Have any more?"

For better or worse, I did have another two which he also chugged before we left. We took his truck, but I insisted on driving. I hadn't had any real expectations about tonight other than I was looking forward to hanging out with Chance and having some fun. I apparently had set my expectations too high.

We drove in silence. After a few failed attempts at starting a conversation, I had given up and had settled for finding a good radio station. Periodically, I would feel the sensation of being stared at and would look over to find that Chance was indeed staring at me, but the moment I glanced in his direction, he would look away. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked.

"Fine. I'm fine."

After several of those pointless exchanges I gave up.

Eventually we reached Shreveport, and thanks to GPS quickly navigated to Central. After we paid our cover, checked out our options (settling on the country side), and settled in with a couple of beers, things perked up. While not quite back to normal, Chance seemed in a better mood and if the conversation didn't exactly flow, it wasn't a painful crawl. I was a bit surprised at the rate he was drinking beers, but since they were putting him a happier place, I didn't protest. He eventually unbent enough to hit the dance floor. I had a taken some ballroom dancing classes, and though my two step was rusty, especially since I wasn't used to following, we were soon sailing across the floor with only minor missteps. 

But after a few fast numbers, a slow one started, We've Got Tonight. When the first slow notes played, Chance moved toward the bar, but I had always loved that song.

"Come on, stay," I pleaded. "I love this song." He sighed, and then turned and pulled me into his arms. The D.J. was playing my favorite version, the Bob Seger one, and I closed my eyes and leaned into Chance as we swayed. I couldn't help myself and sang along as we danced. As the end of the song neared, I opened my eyes. Chance was a few inches taller than me and was looking down at me. The look in his eyes made my heart catch and before I lost my nerve, I reached up, cradled the back of his head in my hands and kissed him.

It was if time stood still. It was magic. He tasted like beer, and the bar was kind of a dive, and the song was schmaltzy, and it was still magic. I pressed closer to him, and he opened to me. I could feel his hard arms crossing behind me, crushing me to him as his mouth opened further. Eventually, I felt someone jostling us and realized the song had changed to another up tempo number. I released his head and moved backwards a step. Chance looked dazed.

"I think I'm going to get that beer now. Do you want one?" he said. I nodded no. I followed him through the crowd to the bar. It took a while for him to catch the bartender's attention. I was quite frankly annoyed. We had shared an amazing kiss on the dance floor and instead of following it up with another, Chance needed to get just another beer. I waited off to the side a bit and watching the dancers, I wasn't aware when he joined me.

"Hey," he said, chugging the beer. "It's getting late. We should head back.'

"Fine," I said. "I've had about enough fun for one night."

We walked silently back to the truck. The drive back was equally silent, but I was seething on the inside. What was this shit? And then I felt it again, his stare. But I knew when I turned back to him, he would look away. By this time, we were very close to home, but I was through with this bullshit. Noticing a farm road that lead down a field coming up on the right, I slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel violently turning down that road. The truck bounced up and down as I drove along the field to the fence row at the back. I again slammed on the brakes, bringing the truck to a shuddering halt before. turning off the ignition. 

"What the fuck is your problem?" I yelled, turning to Chance. "What the Hell is wrong with you?"

He looked at me with wild eyes. Without replying, he fumbled with his seatbelt, through the door open and stepped out of the truck. He was moving slowlier than usual after all that unaccustomed beer, and so I made it out of my restraint and had run around the front of the truck just as he made it out of the passenger side. I got up in his face.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"You are. You're my problem," he cried. And then his arms shot out grabbing my shoulder pulling me to him, and his pressed his mouth to mine, hard. If our kiss at the prom had been sweet, and our kiss on the Central dance floor magic, this one was nothing but lust, nothing but animal instinct. I was instantly hard as he trapped me between his body and the side of the truck. And he was too. He ground his erection again mine as his mouth devoured mine. 

He pulled back for a moment, and I whimpered in disappointment, but that ended as he gripped my shirt and ripped it open, the pearl snaps yielding instantly. Before I could register that, he was one my nipple, teasing it, licking it suckling it. Then, his big hands grasped my waist, throwing me through the open passenger door onto the seat. Chance, not fumbling now, had my jeans unfastened and around my knees before I could react. And then, oh god, his warm wet mouth was on my straining cock.

It felt so good, his rough hands at its base, his warmth surrounding me. I was dimly aware that I was going to disappoint him because it was so good, I wouldn't be able to last. I tried to warn him I was closed, but I could only whimper, and as the hot salty seed shot from me, he moaned and swallowed it, nursing at my cock until it was a limp as the rest of me. I sank into the seat, boneless, as he pulled away. I had just enough left in me to pull up my jeans. 

He looked so sexy. Eyes wild with lust, his lips swollen, with a sheen of my seed still on them. But as I sat up, and moved toward him, the walls went down. His eyes shuttered, and he turned away toward the dark field.

"Chance," I said. He didn't answer. "Chance," I said again, stepping toward him and putting my hand on his shoulder. He turned and caught me low in an embrace so strong I stumbled. His arms wrapped around me, and his head rest on my shoulder. I stroked his hair like one would stroke a scared pet.

"Talk to me," I whispered into his hair. Still he was silent. After a bit, I led him around to the back of the truck. Releasing him, I lowered the bed, and he sat down. I went around the truck, closing the doors, and turning off the lights. I knew he kept a blanket behind the seats, so I grabbed, and went back around to the bed of the truck, where he was still sitting in silence. I spread the blanket in the bed, then crawled into the truck, motioning for Chance to join me where I sat with my legs stretched before me and my back against the cab.

With a sigh, he settled against me, his arms going around my torso and his head settling on my chest. I rested my chin against his head, the feel of his short buzz cut against my cheek was distracting, sending signals straight to my cock which was beginning to stir once again. 

"I always did want to go parking in the back forty under the stars with a hot guy," I said. "Never knew it would take this long, but it was worth the wait." I heard a faint chuckle from Chance, but still he was silent. I settled in, enjoying the slight breeze in the hot night, the light from the twinkling stars, and the feel of Chance against me. I could wait until he was ready to talk. I could wait all night like this.

I don't know how long we sat, but eventually, he pulled up and sat away from me a bit. From the light of the stars, I could make out the plans of his face as he spoke.

"Sorry, about tonight...I just..." he started. "Shit," he said, rubbing his hand over his head, "I was always bad at this stuff. It's I was planning on this, any of this. But when you came out to night looking like a walking wet dream, I just lost it."

I was going to speak, but got distracted by his last comment. Chance thought I looked like a walking wet dream? Before I could speak, he continued.

"You have to understand, I've never done relationships. When I left this place, I wasn't ready to admit to myself I was gay, but I wanted to explore. I thought the Navy was the way out of this place, the way to my dreams, and it was at first. I had a lot of fun, and I finally accepted who I was. But...after a bit, I was ready to settle down, but with who? Most of the time I was in the military, Don't Ask Don't tell was in effect. It was easy enough to find someone to fool around with, but most of the guys I knew weren't willing to risk a relationship. That's a lot harder to hide. I tried dating some civilians, and there was one guy..." here he broke off for a long minute, turning to look into the distance. "...but it got to be too much...the time gone, and when we were together, we had to be discrete...he just couldn't take being my dirty little secret. After that, I guess I can up on finding somebody. I didn't want to leave the military, and by the time Don't' Ask Don't Tell was repealed, I was pretty set in my ways. And when I left, I was ready to come home. I knew there was slim pickings around here, but I didn't care. I had Momma to take care off and the farm, and that was enough.

Then you came back to town. I don't know what I expected. Part of me was hoping you'd be some citified snob who had forgot your raising that I could ignore. Part of me was hoping you'd turn out to be a convenient fuck buddy. But I didn't expect us to be friends. I didn't expect to fall for you. And then that fucking prom..." Here he paused again to rub his hands over his face and hair.

"The whole night, I told myself to be cool, we were just friends, but I couldn't help myself. And when you ran back to New Orleans the next day like nothing had happened, I felt like a fool."

I made a noise of protest. He held up his hand, silencing me, "I know. I know why you went, why you had to go. It's not that you went...It's just that it made me realize that you're not really part of this place anymore. I've come home, and I want to stay here, but you're different. I realized this place isn't big enough for you anymore...not that it ever was. I decided we should just be friends...that was enough...but when I saw you tonight..." he trailed off.

I moved over to him, putting my finger to his lips. I shifted until I was straddling him, sitting in his laps, my knees on either side of his hips. 

"I don't have any answers," I said. "I've spent most of the past year...Hell, the past few years in a state of confusion. But here's what I know," I continued, pausing just long enough to kiss him. "I know I'm here in the starlight with a hot guy who thinks I'm a walking wet dream." I kissed him again. "I know that I want you more than I've wanted anyone in a very long time. I don't know what tomorrow holds or the day after, or the day after. But tonight, it doesn't matter. Tonight it's just us."

I leaned forward, kissing him deeply this time. He was hesitant at first, then he opened to me and his arms tightened around me. I could feel his erection grow beneath me as I ground mind against him. I broke away. "Let's go home," I said. He nodded. 

We drove the short distance to my house in silence, but it wasn't the tense one of before. His hand held my free one, and he looked at me openly now, desire written openly in his eyes. The silence lasted even as I led him into my bedroom. "I don't have...supplies," I said, breaking away from a kiss. "I wasn't expecting this."

"That's okay," he said. "I want to take this slow, anyway." 

We undressed each other slowly, caressing skin, feeling muscle. I had seen him shirtless, many times, but getting to touch that hard, tanned muscle, to taste it was an entirely different matter. And, unlike his rough handling of earlier, treated me as if I were some delicate creation made of porcelain. As the clothing fell away, he delicately touched my flesh, making me shiver in anticipation. We spent the night exploring each other with hands and lips, with touches and kisses, until we finally came together, our cocks gripped tightly in his huge hands. Afterwards, he enfolded me into his arms, and we slept.

When I woke the next morning, it took me minute to process what had happened and why I felt a sense of loss as my hand felt an empty spot beside me on the bed. But before I could fret, I realized I heard sounds in the kitchen and could smell coffee wafting down the hall. I grabbed my jeans from the floor and pulled them on before padding barefoot to the kitchen. Chance was dressed, but his shirt unbuttoned. He stood standing at the sink, looking out the window with a mug of coffee in his hands. He heard me enter, turned and smiled. Any potential awkwardness I was fearing dissipated in the warmth of that smile.

"Good morning," he said.

"Morning," I returned as I stumbled to pour my own mug of coffee. Afterglow or not, I'm not a morning person.

"I would have made breakfast, but it's getting late. I should head home before Momma starts to worry."

"I'm pretty sure your mother knows exactly where you are...and what you've been up to?"

He blushed. "I'm sure you're right, but I still need to get home and help her start on lunch. You are coming to church with us right? And lunch after?"

I thought of the work I had to do before I left tomorrow. I thought of trying to sit through a religious service next to the man who had blow me in a stranger's field. I thought of trying to eat lunch under Miss Pauline's knowing gaze. "Wouldn't miss it for the world," I said, earning another bright smile. There was a lot I was willing to endure to make Chance smile.

I enjoyed my Sunday, but I had to cut my visit short after lunch. I invited Chance over that night, but he refused, citing errands and an early morning. But any doubt that his refusal was a revival of his after-prom disappointment was dispelled by his enthusiastic goodbye kiss. 

"How long are you going to be gone," he said after pulling away.

"At least a week. Maybe longer."

"I'm going to miss you," he said before pulling me close for another long kiss. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I caught movement in the lace curtains hung in the living room window.

When I got to New Orleans, I was pleased with the progress so far, but I realized I would need to stay for at least a couple of weeks. Both Ben and Reed offered their guest rooms, but I settled on an extended stay hotel in Metairie. It wasn't cheap, but I wanted my privacy, and I had the option of extending my stay through the completion of the project which was looking like it would finish ahead of schedule in late September. 

When Chance learned how long I would be staying, he was disappointed, but took it in stride and arranged for mowing my lawn and keeping track of the house while I was away. He even engaged his mother's cleaning lady to come by every couple of weeks to keep the dust at bay. We spoke daily, texted throughout the day, and even Skyped a couple of times a week. As much as I enjoyed working on the project, it was getting to the point that my digital visit to Chance was the highlight of my day.

Everyone noticed the spring in my step since my return, with Ben teasing me about my redneck sailor, and even Nigel and Greg expressing interest in meeting him. Reed wasn't pleased when I revealed that we were involved. He was even less pleased when I formally requested a buyout at the completion of the sale. I had held off making a decision until I was certain of my future. I wasn't actually sure about that, but I knew that whatever it held, I wanted something different.

"Are you sure?" he said sighing. "Is there no way to change your mind?

"No."

"Is it really all over? There's no chance for us? There's nothing I can do?"

"Please, understand," I said. "What we had was great, but it's over now. It's time to move on...for both of us."

"Is this about Chance?"

"No," I said, getting up and walking to the door. "This is about me."

The project progressed smoothly with nothing more than the usual hiccups. I got to know Nigel and Greg well who were spending more and more time in New Orleans. Partly to keep tabs on the project, partly because they were enjoying spending time here. We became friends, but soon I could sense they were keeping something secret. It felt odd, because I felt like I could trust them, but I could feel something was up. One night they asked me to dinner, just the three of us.

Dinner was enjoyable, but I could tell they were building up to something. Finally, as we were waiting for dessert, they let me know what was up.

"We've decided to make New Orleans our homebase," Nigel said. "We really enjoy it here, and it's central location actually make a convenient hub for our travel. But as much as we love the cottages, that will not be a large enough home for us."

I looked at them expectantly, sensing there was more coming.

"So we've bought a series of warehouses in the MidCity area. It's up and coming. We want to convert them to high end condos. Furnished condos for corporate rental. Very exclusive. Our personal home will take an entire floor. We've engaged with our contacts at Architectural Digest to run an exclusive feature on them when they're ready and partnered with them to be toured as a showhouse before they're rented," Greg said. 

"In addition to the condos, there will be a restaurant, a wine bar, and some retail. We want you to oversee the project. In addition to a generous fee, we're prepared to offer you use of the cottage of your choice on the Dauphine property for the duration of the project," Nigel said. 

He handed me a manilla envelope. "The proposal is in there. We know this a huge commitment...we expect the renovations to take at least a year, possibly 18 months, but we plan to begin immediately and we want you involved. We don't expect an immediate answer. I know that this is a holiday weekend, so take your time deciding and let us know on Tuesday."

I finished the rest of the meal in a daze, desperate to read the packet, but controlling that desire. But as soon as I was in my car, I ripped it open, rifling through it until I saw the fee they are offering. I gasped. This was huge. Not just the fee, but with the publicity they could generate, something like this could insure my career. But 18 months. 18 months here in New Orleans. 18 months away from my what I was considering more and more to be my home again. 18 months away from Chance.

I looked at my watch. I wanted to call him, but it was close to midnight. Even though it was Labor Day weekend and Southern Decadence meant the Quarter and work on the cottages would be shut down, I had planned to stay in New Orleans. I missed Chance, but I was exhausted. He had talked about coming down this weekend, but had his own project. I thought about going back to my hotel, grabbing a few hours sleep and heading home first thing, but I couldn't wait that long. I needed to see him, to talk to him now.

I headed out to I-10, pausing only long enough to fuel up with gas and coffee. I made the drive in silence, trying to figure out what I wanted. A few months ago, this would have been my dream: A lucrative, high profile project that didn't include Reed. But now, I was torn. I wanted to do this project, a dream for any designer. But I also wanted to explore my burgeoning relationship with Chance, and at my age, I didn't know that I wanted to wait another 18 months to do that. I knew who fragile life could be and how fast it can go.




When Love Takes Over Ch. 10



By the time I pulled into the driveway of Chance's house before 6:00 am, I still wasn't sure what I wanted other than I knew I wanted to see him. I pulled out my phone and dialed him.

"Hello," a sleep-husky voice answered.

"Hey," I said. "It's me. I'm sorry I woke you up, but I need to talk."

"Is everything alright?" He said.

"Yes, but I want to talk to you. In person."

"Sure. What time will you get here?"

"I'm outside. Right now."

"Right now. Jesus, what time is it? Did you drive all night?" he asked.

"Yes. I really wanted to see you." As I finished speaking, I saw the door open. Chance stood there, muscular and tanned in nothing but boxers. He hair was much too short to be ruffled by sleep, but he had the look of a man awakened unexpectedly. And at that instant, I knew I loved him.

"What is it?" he said, a worried look on his face as I walked to him, hugged him close and buried my face in his chest.

"Nothing bad, " I said. "It's just that I got some big news, and I wanted to share it with the man I love."

"What news...wait," he said, pushing me away far enough to look in my face. "What did you call me?

"The man I love..." 

A huge smile broke over his face, and then I was in his arms again, his lips pressing against mine. I could feel myself being dragged down the hall to his bedroom, his nimble fingers unbuttoning my shirt, pulling at my clothes.

When we reached his room, he wasted no time stripping me. Within seconds, I was naked on his bed, on my back, his mouth on my cock, his hands kneading my ass. Then his mouth went lower, and he was tasting me, his tongue flickering against my hole. I struggled to keep quiet, remembering too late he lived with his mother, so I had to place my hand over my own mouth to stifle my moans.

Soon, he pulled back, and I whimpered at the absence of his touch, but he was merely pausing to pull lube and condoms from his nightstand. "I bought supplies," he said with a smirk before placing a lube slick finger at my hole and pressing it inward. It had been a long time since something or someone had entered me, and I winced at the first pressure, but it felt good, so good. He glanced up at me, writhing and whimpering. "Does that feel good, baby? Do you want another?"

Without waiting for my incoherent answer, he pressed another finger in. Oh, jesus, that felt good. Then he added a third. I thought I would fly off the bed. And then, then I was muttering as low as I could, "Fuck me, oh god, please fuck me," he knelt between my spread thighs and slid his slick cock into me. I had been fucked before, but never had it felt like this. I pressed myself onto him, moaning even louder when I felt his rough hands grabbing my hips and pulling me even further onto him. My back arched until I thought I would break into. And then he started moving, I couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel pleasure. At some point we changed positions and I was on my knees on the bed. He was behind me, thrusting hard, one hand pulling me back against his chest, one hand stroking my aching cock. I felt him thrust one last time, grunting and pressing against me, and I came, a shattering orgasm. 

Boneless, I fell off him onto the bed, and somehow managed to crawl to the center before collapsing. I heard him go to the attached bathroom and return with a damp cloth and felt him cleaning me. He eventually returned and wrapped me into an embrace before we fell asleep. 

After a couple of hours, I woke up. He was still in bed with me, but awake, watching. When he saw I was awake, he smiled.

"Good morning."

"Morning. What time is it?

"Not quite 9. And, since I didn't get around to saying earlier, I love you, too," he said smiling before placing a soft kiss on my lips. I smiled back up to him.

"Now, what's your news?"

Before I could answer, a soft knock sounded on the door.

"Boys, are you up?" said Miss Pauline. "I'm assuming that Brandon in there with you?"

I felt myself blushing from my toenails to the tip of my hair remembering the performance I had put on earlier.

"Yes Ma'am, it is," said an equally red Chance.

"Well then," said the voice from behind the door, "do you want pancakes or waffles for breakfast, or both?"

We turned to each other and smiled as we said in unison, "Both!"