Thrilled to announce my funny and poignant memory story about falling for more than one man is now back out! Hope you'll check it out!
Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, roommates, friends to lovers, road trip, United Kingdom, flamboyant characters, hurt/comfort, humorous
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Synopsis
It’s 1995, and Ricky is making his very
first trip across the pond with his best friend. Ricky, hungry for love and
looking for it in all the wrong places, finds it in the beach city of Brighton.
His new love has the curious name of Walt Whitman and is also an American,
which only serves to make him sexier and more intriguing. By the time Walt and Ricky
part, promises are made for a reunion in Boston.
But the course of true love never runs
smoothly. In Chicago Ricky almost immediately falls in love again. Tom Green is
a sexy blue-collar beast with the kindest heart Ricky has ever run across.
What’s he to do? With a visit to the
East Coast on the horizon and a new love blossoming in Ricky’s home of Chicago,
Ricky truly is torn.
Excerpt
Torn
Rick R. Reed © 2020
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
It was the cheapest flight we could
find. Air India, round trip, O’Hare to Heathrow, around seven hundred bucks. We
snatched up the fare because my best friend, Boutros BinBin, was homesick and
wanted to show me his homeland, “the place that made me who I am.” If you know
Boutros, you know this is a scary thought. And yet I still wanted to go.
We snatched up our tickets because we
were both sick of Chicago, dreading the humid summer we knew was in store, and
because I had done about every guy on the North Side.
Joke. Now Boutros, hush. And stop
rolling your eyes!
We’d do London (and EuroPride). We’d do
Brighton (Boutros called the seaside town the San Francisco of England because
it was so gay—in a good way). We’d do Boutros’s ancient hometown, Bath.
Honestly, one of us would do just about any attractive male within the age
range of eighteen to, oh, sixty-five—but the latter part was always negotiable.
In the dark, a hard dick is a hard dick.
Or maybe I’d find Mr. Right. “You’ll
find a hundred Mr. Right Nows if I know you,” Boutros said. Boutros could
always see through me like I was made from glass. It was this attribute that I
both loved and hated about my best friend—and probably what drew us together when
we’d met a couple of years before at a gay writers’ group called the Newtown
Writers, in Chicago. I was drawn to his sense of humor, and he was appalled by
the Daisy Dukes I wore to the first meeting.
Just a few short years later, we were
both summarily thrown out of the writers’ group. Boutros said it was because we
were the only two who’d been published, and I argued that it was because we
appeared at a meeting at his house wearing nothing but a smile. Gay men!
They’re always trying to get you naked, and then, when they succeed, they get
offended!
We agreed to lick our wounds over
coffee. Compounding the pain of being ousted from the writers’ group, I had
recently ended a relationship. Boutros lent a sympathetic ear to my man
troubles, which were then all about my indolent, smart, perpetually stoned, and
job-challenged boyfriend, Henry, whose life revolved around marijuana—growing
it and smoking it morning, noon, and night. I wondered what it was he needed to
escape. When I asked Boutros, he told me, “Probably because he can’t stand
waking up sober next to that face. And I can’t blame him.” Only Boutros could
say such things to me, knowing I would somehow interpret them as demonstrations
of love and caring. When we finally broke up after Henry had quit yet another
job that was way beneath him, I cut ties.
And yet, I was devastated. Boutros led
me through mourning the end of my first gay love with a firm hand, a lot of
sarcasm, and a willingness to listen while I rambled on and on into the phone,
wondering if I’d done the right thing. After all, Henry could be sweet,
although he’d never admit it. On the day Henry moved out (while I was at work—a
concept foreign to him), he left the CD player on and Whitney Houston’s “I Will
Always Love You” playing on infinite loop. Even though I knew Boutros was
probably appalled by the sappiness of this gesture, he listened as I choked out
words of devastation through sobs, and demonstrated admirable restraint when he
could have cut me down to pathetic size with a couple of bon mots. Support like
his, coming at a crucial time, often cements two people together.
It did us.
So when Boutros proposed we jet off
across the pond together, I was beyond thrilled. Even though I knew I couldn’t
afford it on my catalog copywriter salary, which barely paid my rent, going to
Europe, especially England, had always been my dream. I’d grown up with a pen
pal from the West Midlands and had developed a keen interest in the place from
her long letters describing Cannock Chase and the little Staffordshire village
in which she lived. Perhaps I could see her, too, while I was there. It would
be our first meeting in person.
Boutros convinced me to clean out my
bank account for the trip by saying that once we got there, we could stay with
friends and family wherever we went. All we’d have to pay for was food (fish
and chips!) and drinks (Guinness!). We’d get around via the tube, and for
longer distances, we’d take advantage of England’s very user-friendly trains
that went just about everywhere.
I desperately needed a break from my
boring job and from nursing my broken heart (even if I was the one who
technically broke it), so I was on board.
Well, actually, I was on board right
that very moment, Boutros next to me. We were on a double-decker plane that was
enormous, much bigger than anything I’d ever flown on—not that I’d flown much,
just a handful of flights between Chicago and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, which
had the closest airport to my hometown of East Liverpool, Ohio.
The flight attendants, all women, wore
saris. The plane was filled mostly with eastern Indians. Heathrow was a layover
for them, not a destination, as this flight continued on to New Delhi.
“Ah, the sweet smell of curry is in the
air,” Boutros whispered, leaning close to my ear.
“Hush.” I looked around, praying no one
had heard him. I got his sense of humor—which involved saying a lot of things
simply for their shock value—but I doubt that anyone else on the plane would.
I already felt as though I’d stepped
into another world. I couldn’t wait to get to our destination and see what
adventures were in store.
One of the flight attendants came around
pushing a trolley. On it were small Styrofoam cups and full-size bottles of whiskey.
“Would you like?” The dark-haired woman
smiled at Boutros and me, gesturing toward the bottles and cups.
Indian custom? I shrugged. What the
hell? “Yes, please. One for me, and one for my friend here.” I leaned back a
little so she could see Boutros in the middle seat. I doubted she could miss
him, though, dressed as he was in palazzo pants with a yellow-and-purple
paisley pattern, and a white muslin peasant shirt. His black hair stood up in a
multitude of directions, and his mustache, waxed, stuck out so far, he could
make the truthful claim that one could see the mustache from behind him. The
goatee below the mustache was just beginning to gray. His earring and nose ring
were connected by a dangling silver chain. He liked to say his face was “done
up like a Christmas tree.”
Sometimes I wondered if people even saw
me when I stood next to him.
“One?” Boutros scoffed. “Amateur. Could
we have two?”
She nodded, smiling, and poured us each
two shots of whiskey. She handed them over, and we both quickly downed the
first and then handed the cups back to her. Boutros belched and said, “Check
back on us, would you?”
The flight attendant’s smile didn’t
waver. Serenely, she moved on to the next row to ply the whole plane, I
presumed, with strong spirits.
Boutros reached for his leather
backpack, which he’d stored under the seat in front of him. “Surprise! I’ve got
a little something here that will help shorten the flight, if you know what I
mean.” He grinned mischievously as he groped around in the bag’s outer
compartment. He brought out a prescription bottle and shook it. A couple of
pills rattled.
“Morphine, sweetie, from when I had that
cyst out in hospital. Remember? I punched that nun when they started cutting
before the anesthetic set in.” He leaned close, rubbing up against my shoulder.
“I saved these two just for you and me, darling.”
“You’re too good to me. They say time is
the most thoughtful gift, but I beg to differ. I say it’s drugs.” I returned
the shoulder nudge, then held out my hand like a beggar.
We popped the morphine, washing it down
with our second shot of whiskey. The unvoiced plan, of course, was that we
would sleep on the overnight transatlantic flight, arriving in London the next
morning refreshed and ready to begin our sightseeing after dropping our stuff
off at Boutros’s friend Trevor’s place in Westminster.
Maybe I was too excited to sleep, but
even after a third shot of whiskey and morphine, I was still wide-awake for the
full eight-hour flight. And perhaps my excitement was contagious, because
Boutros couldn’t catch a wink either. We watched our flight’s progress on a
screen on the back of the seats in front of us. I thought, Hurry, hurry.
If anything, the drugs and alcohol had
the curious effect of making us even more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than
either of us usually were. After trying fitfully—and desperately—to sleep,
fluffing the thin and starchy pillows our flight attendant had given us, we
passed the night talking about what we’d see and do, following the vivid colors
and subtitles of the inflight movie, Raja, which was, from what I could gather
from the subtitles, a romance about a young man reuniting with the woman he was
supposed to marry years earlier. We ate the meals the airline offered—chicken
tikka masala and basmati rice for me and saag paneer and rice for him. Even
though it was Indian food, which Boutros and I both adored, it was airline
food…and thus barely edible. Fortunately, they brought out the complimentary
whiskey cart again near the end of the flight.
And, at around 10:00 a.m. London time,
we touched down on the runway at Heathrow International Airport.
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Meet the Author
Rick R. Reed is an award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction. He is a Lambda Literary Award finalist. Entertainment Weekly has described his work as “heartrending and sensitive.” Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” Find him at www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA, with his husband, Bruce, and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix, Kodi.
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