Cruel Summer
Cruel Summer
By Blue C.
wi1dfire_b1ue@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Don't be stupid. This story depicts homosexual males kissing, dancing, having sex, and other activities that they find enjoyable. If that is not your thing, then really, why are you here?
Authors Note: These chapters will be short. Like, real short. But will still only come once a week. Sorry. I'm working the other end, trying to complete it all before we get there, but the first couple of chapters ARE ready to go, and will not be delayed in the slightest. Parts 2 and 3 might be. We'll see.
Copyright 2005 by the author. This story is not to be posted anywhere without the author's permission.
Part 1: Homewrecker
Chapter 1: Backseat of a Greyhound Bus
So this is Jake Dire, a pretty, pretty boy. God is he gorgeous. I mean, his hair is perfect, and his muscles suggest grace, not bulk. No pimples of course, nor wrinkles, freckles, lines, anything, just perfect, perfect tanned skin. Not a fucking flaw in sight. Speaking of sight, check out them eyes. Bright green, too vivid to be called hazel, shot through with yellow streaks. Call them cat's eyes. Many do.
Jake is sitting in the back of a Greyhound bus. Yeah, he's white trash, but who cares? Oh, and he's dirty. Course, you would be too if you just walked twenty-seven miles to the nearest bus stop. Where he lives, there is no public transportation, and since his mom has confiscated his car and his few close friends are all on vacation, Jake had to walk. It took hours. "One ticket to Stockton, please," he'd said. By the grace of god, he had enough cash on him to pay for it. Of course, he was planning on eating with some of that, but he can survive without food for a couple days. If he has to.
No one goes near the gorgeous dirty boy. Mostly because he's dirty, but also because he's crying. Not heavily --Jake refuses to bawl-- but it is obvious. Poor kid. You can almost make out the bruise that's starting to form underneath the dirt. Lucky for him that his tan is dark, and the bruise will not be. He knew learning to put on make-up would be useful one day.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Jake hears his mother shout. Not really, this happened hours ago, but like a malevolent echo, her voice carries across time. "People are talking, Jake. They saw you and that boy kissing. Did you think no one would notice? What the hell I`m I supposed to say to people? To your father?"
"It's a mistake Mom, I swear."
"Don't bullshit me. You're a faggot just like my fucking brother." The curly red hair that made her look on her good days like one of those moms on spaghetti sauce commercials whipped about her face as she talked, like some classical monster straight off the vase. "I had to `accept' him then, but not now and not you. I don't owe you a thing as of last night."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying get out. Now." Her grip tightened on the phone that had betrayed him.
"What?"
"Get out," she repeated. "Get out. Get Out Getoutgetoutgetout GET OUT!" She threw the phone at him. In her youth, she'd played darts with the best of them, and now she nailed her own son just below his eye with the accuracy of a sniper. He cried out, shocked at his mother's act. "OUT!" she screamed, scrambling for something heavier. He fled before she found it.
The window's up, and Jake's cheek is on it. Despair is starting to hit him, a sharper sensation than a handheld phone. "What am I going to do?" he asks. So he gets to Stockton, then what? He had boarded on a vague impulse to get to his father's apartment, but if his mother was capable of such hatred, how much easier would it be for his father? The man spends the entirety of every week, and most weekends hiding from his family. Jake wonders now if he'll get anything but a slammed door. Jake realizes that all he really has that he can count on are his cell phone and the couple dollars left from the ticket. He wishes that at least one friend was closer. Hell, he'd settle for one of them being within the same state. And then he remembers, one person is in state, though it is a stretch to call him a friend. Jake calls him anyways.
Andrew Cook-Valentino (call him Drew, Cook, Eros, Ass, anything really, just not Andy), who has all the empathy of a rattlesnake, is laughing when he gets Jake's call. He brushes dark brown bangs out of his eyes, in a movement calculated to make girls weak and guys wonder. His teeth are perfectly, brilliantly white, making his laughter especially distracting. Thanks to his mother's genetics, he does not burn in the sun, and his tan makes him look better than any booth could possibly provide. It's a perfect summer day; he and his roommate Tommy are enjoying their mutual day off from work at the beach, as normal for them. The beach is not only in easy walking distance from their apartment, they can hear the waves if they lie quietly at night in their beds. On the other hand, their apartment-mates Jer and Will can see the ocean from their room. All this for a very reasonable price for a coastal California location. It is bit more expensive than Jer would prefer, but Jer would gripe about the price of a cardboard box.
"Hello." Drew says, trying to get his voice under control. It doesn't matter what he was laughing about; some joke of Tommy's maybe, though he rarely makes them. There is a moment of silence as Jake, all those miles away, tries to get the courage to ruin Drew's day. "Hello?" Drew says again, his amusement slipping.
"Hey Drew." Jake says, attempting to sound normal, but he falters. "It's Jake."
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't hang up this phone." Drew dares. On the beach, Tommy asks him what's wrong. That's Tommy Sen for you, nicest bisexual on the planet. Drew mouths "Later."
Jake tries to come up with something to tell Drew. "I love you" hasn't had the best track record, so he sticks to the truth this time. "I need your help."
"Wrong answer." -click-.
Desperate now that he's actually reached someone, Jake dials again. "What?" Drew yells. He sits up straight, accidentally getting sand on his bare chest and across his swim trunks. That pisses him off more. Tommy now knows something is going on, and so puts a hand on Drew's arm, trying to calm him down by touch. It always works on Jer, but not Drew. He brushes Tommy off without even an attempt at politeness.
"My mom kicked me out. Someone saw me kissing a boy last night, and told her about it. I have nowhere to go, and not a whole lot of money. I--" Jake stops, choking on his own words. He sounds so weak to himself, and doesn't even want to imagine how he sounds to Drew, who hates weakness. Drew does not respond, but he also does not hang up. Jake can hear him breathing, each raspy inhalation is a gift to him, it means he is being heard. "I need your help," he repeats, running out of things to say.
Drew knows he should hang up. The little twat was no good before, and isn't bringing anything but more crap now. But he doesn't. "This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening," he says, perhaps hoping that if he says it enough times, the mantra will come true.
"Please Drew," Jake pleads. You can hear the tears about to fall in his voice. Drew can too, even muffled by the phone as it is. The threat of tears breaks him at last. "God dammit. Where are you?"
"On the bus to Stockton. I didn't know what else to do."
"Fine. If I remember right, the bus stops at the train station. Find out which one you're going to and at what time. I'll have a ticket waiting for you there." He looks at Tommy, as if asking permission for the next phrase. "You're going to be staying with me."
Jake only barely manages to say, "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Call me when you get that information." He hangs up.
"What's going on?" Tommy asks.
"That was an old..." he struggles to come up with a noun to describe Jake. He settles on "friend. Jake. He's coming down here."
Tommy asks, "What happened?"
"Something fucked up. I'll explain later. Bad enough that he has to leave Stent's Cut-off and come here."
"Stent's? Your hometown?" Tommy considers this. "How old is Jake?"
"Sixteen. No, shit, he turned seventeen yesterday. Hell of a birthday present."
"We're going to be putting up a high school kid in our apartment? For how long?"
Drew smiles, though he's not at all pleased. "Let me put it this way: I found a sub-leaser for Will for the summer."
"Oh." Tommy says. "Jer's going to be pissed," He says, no question in his voice. Drew nods in agreement.