Categories: Contemporary Romance | LGBT
Word Count: 23,510 Heat Rating: 4 Price: $ .99 Available here:
Joey is the Project's first bestseller
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Bodhi is almost at his wits’ end when ex-wife Denise, the mother of his son Van, goes off the rails again and ends up in prison. Guilt and shame have dominated his life since she discovered that he was gay a year after Van was born - it's been a train wreck ever since.
Except, there's Joey, Bodhi's boyfriend, who Bodhi has invited to move in after three years of clandestine courtship. The impact of Denise's imprisonment, telling Van that Joey is moving in and that they love each other, and dealing with the outfall of announcing to the world that he and Joey are getting married has Bodhi in a spin. Riddled with doubts and insecurities, facing up to the future as a married gay father is his greatest challenge so far. What will it take for him to break free from the guilt and finally realise that he’s never needed anyone else’s approval for being himself? I would be very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: [email protected]. Please visit my website, www.MorganStarrAuthor.weebly.com, for updates on my next story. Thank you, Morgan |
Chapter One - And They All Lived Happily Ever After
“... and they all lived happily ever after to the end of their days ... Right! Clean your teeth and have a wee; time for bed, Superman.”
“Daddy?”
Here it comes.
“Yes, Van ...”
“Why don’t you and Mummy love each other anymore?”
Did we ever?
“Things change, cupcake; like when you ate all your carrots last week but this week, you wouldn’t.”
“I like carrots!”
“Why didn’t you eat them?”
“Because they make you glow in the dark.”
“No; they help you to see better in the dark; like Grandma Nathalie always says.”
“Denny says they make you glow ...”
“And who is this Denny? Someone at school?”
“Mummy’s new boyfriend ...”
Just breathe, Bodhi, just breathe ... So that’s the stupid cunt’s name who’s to blame for the carrot episode. Let’s hope that he doesn’t give Van any more crazy ideas.
“Okay; well, maybe he’s right, but carrots are still good for you.”
“Why is my name Van?”
“Because ... Can you get a move on, please?”
“Everyone says it sounds silly, even Miss Malcolm ...”
“I’m sure Miss Malcolm didn’t say that ... and you shouldn’t mind what other people say - usually if they say you’re silly, it means they’re silly ... What about Sky; don’t they say his name is silly?”
“No; they think it’s cool ...”
“Sorry; your name’s Van and you’re stuck with it ... it was Grandad’s name.”
“Where is he?”
“In Heaven, sweetheart ... Get into bed, please.”
“When is Mummy picking me up?”
“Sunday, after lunch with Gran ... Okay? Light off ... I love you; sleep tight.”
“I love you, Daddy ...”
Van Johnson ... he’ll appreciate it when he’s older, and successful, writing crime thrillers and living the life of a spy-slash-globetrotting billionaire. Bodhi Johnson didn’t quick cut it, as it turns out. Then again, as a designer of customised drone and video camera assemblies for spoiled billionaires’ brats, I shouldn’t complain.
BANG BANG BANG
“What the fuck?!”
I don’t even have to get to the door to know that it’s Denise.
“OPEN UP YOU FUCKING QUEER!”
I don’t think I can do this again. I swipe the phone from its cradle and dial Joey’s number. He’s the community police support officer for our neighbourhood; we’ve become acquainted, as you might say, over the course of the last few years. He can usually calm her down and get her to leave; if he can’t, he’ll call it in and get her carted off again ... So much for injunctions and court orders.
I won’t open the door; there’s no telling what state she’s in and what she’s liable to do.
“Hey! Guess who’s come a calling ... yeah, a minute ago ... drunk ... no; I won’t ... okay ... thanks.”
I close all the doors and retreat to the office, from where I run my business, which allows me to look after Van and work while Denise stumbles from one train wreck to another - if she gets arrested this time, I don’t know what the judge will do. Another fucking round of letters, visits and heartbreak.
I take full responsibility for it all; what wife isn’t going to go off the rails when she finds out that her husband is gay? I’d been so careful to hide every trace of that secret existence - a solo, closeted and toxic existence, I should add ... but she found me out and the rest - except for Van - is the painful, guilt-ridden, carnage that we have to deal with daily ... but there is Joey.
I hear the smash of glass, the immediate blaring of a car alarm and then the sirens ... Fucking hell, Denise; you’re gonna get the book thrown at you if you’re not careful.
The phone rings.
“Hey, Joey ... yes; I heard ... I know you can’t ... Shit! Did he see her do it? ... Bollocks ... yes; I’ll be up ... see you soon. Bye.”
Custody. An ominous word. Van is in my custody, and now Denise is in police custody.
“Daddy!”
Great.
“Coming, Superman ...”
oOo
“Hey!”
When I let Joey in, I can see the emergency windscreen repair van outside, attending to the neighbour’s car - no doubt he’ll be putting a note through the door, and probably a bill for it so that he doesn’t lose his no claims bonus.
“What a bloody mess ... Can you stay?”
“Yeah; get the door closed, it’s fucking nippy out!”
We decamp to the office, being the furthest room from Van’s, also one that Van knows to stay out of because it’s my play den - as he calls it - and there’s a stack of expensive equipment in here.
“Just got off?”
“Yeah; came straight round after clocking off ... Van okay?”
“Yeah; he didn’t see anything but he heard her and it took me ages to convince him that it wasn’t her ... What’s the score?”
“Held overnight; up before the magistrate in the morning ... I didn’t come over to talk about Denise ...”
He’s right; work’s over and there’s nothing more likely to kill the vibe than thinking about what might happen.
Having plopped myself on the small leather sofa that doubles as my bed most nights, Joey sheds his jacket and slips onto my lap, kneeling astride my thighs, planting the first kiss of the evening, and our first since last Sunday.
“You taste of coffee and cigarettes.”
“You taste of fish fingers and ketchup ... Van still not eating his veg?”
“No; apparently someone has convinced him that they make you glow in the dark ... veg are off the menu until I can speak to Denny, the boyfriend – found out his name from Van tonight.”
“Fuck um all; wanna suck your cock.”
“Shit; you’re a dirty bastard, Joey Lombardi.”
When I was fourteen, I discovered what an erection was actually for and what it did if you rubbed it hard enough. Unfortunately, my younger brother - let’s just call him the cunt - caught me at it, and blackmailed me for months, threatening to tell Mum. In the end, I just called his bluff and he caved. I got grounded for the entire summer holiday for beating his face to a pulp. However, I always had a problem with masturbation after that ... right up to the time when I met Joey. Apparently what he does is called deep-throating ... I call it paradise on Earth. When I learned to relax and unclench, pumping my load down his throat became the means to appreciate my desires and to begin to piece together something resembling a life outside of Van’s world.
He sits back and starts to undo his shirt buttons while I do the same - twenty-eight and police training fit; muscles that look like a map of the topography of some pretty rugged terrain. Once he’s thrown his shirt over his shoulder and yanked mine off, he leans against me so I can kiss his chest and taste the vestiges of his cologne and the sharper tang of his sweat, mixed with the faint traces of the uniform - a combination of burnt hair, polyester that was under the steam iron too long, and wet dog. My arms snake around his back and pull him in so I can drown in it. He likes it if I gnaw on his nips - I oblige, and his hands cradle the back of my head and grip tightly as I chew the pert little studs.
“F-u-c-k ...”
When I need a breath and back off, he slides down and kneels between my thighs, eyeing my bulge. Deft fingers soon release my belt and zip; he pulls my trousers down until they’re bunched around my ankles. My cock is straining at the leash, begging to be let off.
“Fucking gorgeous you are.”
“J-o-e-y ...”
“... and they all lived happily ever after to the end of their days ... Right! Clean your teeth and have a wee; time for bed, Superman.”
“Daddy?”
Here it comes.
“Yes, Van ...”
“Why don’t you and Mummy love each other anymore?”
Did we ever?
“Things change, cupcake; like when you ate all your carrots last week but this week, you wouldn’t.”
“I like carrots!”
“Why didn’t you eat them?”
“Because they make you glow in the dark.”
“No; they help you to see better in the dark; like Grandma Nathalie always says.”
“Denny says they make you glow ...”
“And who is this Denny? Someone at school?”
“Mummy’s new boyfriend ...”
Just breathe, Bodhi, just breathe ... So that’s the stupid cunt’s name who’s to blame for the carrot episode. Let’s hope that he doesn’t give Van any more crazy ideas.
“Okay; well, maybe he’s right, but carrots are still good for you.”
“Why is my name Van?”
“Because ... Can you get a move on, please?”
“Everyone says it sounds silly, even Miss Malcolm ...”
“I’m sure Miss Malcolm didn’t say that ... and you shouldn’t mind what other people say - usually if they say you’re silly, it means they’re silly ... What about Sky; don’t they say his name is silly?”
“No; they think it’s cool ...”
“Sorry; your name’s Van and you’re stuck with it ... it was Grandad’s name.”
“Where is he?”
“In Heaven, sweetheart ... Get into bed, please.”
“When is Mummy picking me up?”
“Sunday, after lunch with Gran ... Okay? Light off ... I love you; sleep tight.”
“I love you, Daddy ...”
Van Johnson ... he’ll appreciate it when he’s older, and successful, writing crime thrillers and living the life of a spy-slash-globetrotting billionaire. Bodhi Johnson didn’t quick cut it, as it turns out. Then again, as a designer of customised drone and video camera assemblies for spoiled billionaires’ brats, I shouldn’t complain.
BANG BANG BANG
“What the fuck?!”
I don’t even have to get to the door to know that it’s Denise.
“OPEN UP YOU FUCKING QUEER!”
I don’t think I can do this again. I swipe the phone from its cradle and dial Joey’s number. He’s the community police support officer for our neighbourhood; we’ve become acquainted, as you might say, over the course of the last few years. He can usually calm her down and get her to leave; if he can’t, he’ll call it in and get her carted off again ... So much for injunctions and court orders.
I won’t open the door; there’s no telling what state she’s in and what she’s liable to do.
“Hey! Guess who’s come a calling ... yeah, a minute ago ... drunk ... no; I won’t ... okay ... thanks.”
I close all the doors and retreat to the office, from where I run my business, which allows me to look after Van and work while Denise stumbles from one train wreck to another - if she gets arrested this time, I don’t know what the judge will do. Another fucking round of letters, visits and heartbreak.
I take full responsibility for it all; what wife isn’t going to go off the rails when she finds out that her husband is gay? I’d been so careful to hide every trace of that secret existence - a solo, closeted and toxic existence, I should add ... but she found me out and the rest - except for Van - is the painful, guilt-ridden, carnage that we have to deal with daily ... but there is Joey.
I hear the smash of glass, the immediate blaring of a car alarm and then the sirens ... Fucking hell, Denise; you’re gonna get the book thrown at you if you’re not careful.
The phone rings.
“Hey, Joey ... yes; I heard ... I know you can’t ... Shit! Did he see her do it? ... Bollocks ... yes; I’ll be up ... see you soon. Bye.”
Custody. An ominous word. Van is in my custody, and now Denise is in police custody.
“Daddy!”
Great.
“Coming, Superman ...”
oOo
“Hey!”
When I let Joey in, I can see the emergency windscreen repair van outside, attending to the neighbour’s car - no doubt he’ll be putting a note through the door, and probably a bill for it so that he doesn’t lose his no claims bonus.
“What a bloody mess ... Can you stay?”
“Yeah; get the door closed, it’s fucking nippy out!”
We decamp to the office, being the furthest room from Van’s, also one that Van knows to stay out of because it’s my play den - as he calls it - and there’s a stack of expensive equipment in here.
“Just got off?”
“Yeah; came straight round after clocking off ... Van okay?”
“Yeah; he didn’t see anything but he heard her and it took me ages to convince him that it wasn’t her ... What’s the score?”
“Held overnight; up before the magistrate in the morning ... I didn’t come over to talk about Denise ...”
He’s right; work’s over and there’s nothing more likely to kill the vibe than thinking about what might happen.
Having plopped myself on the small leather sofa that doubles as my bed most nights, Joey sheds his jacket and slips onto my lap, kneeling astride my thighs, planting the first kiss of the evening, and our first since last Sunday.
“You taste of coffee and cigarettes.”
“You taste of fish fingers and ketchup ... Van still not eating his veg?”
“No; apparently someone has convinced him that they make you glow in the dark ... veg are off the menu until I can speak to Denny, the boyfriend – found out his name from Van tonight.”
“Fuck um all; wanna suck your cock.”
“Shit; you’re a dirty bastard, Joey Lombardi.”
When I was fourteen, I discovered what an erection was actually for and what it did if you rubbed it hard enough. Unfortunately, my younger brother - let’s just call him the cunt - caught me at it, and blackmailed me for months, threatening to tell Mum. In the end, I just called his bluff and he caved. I got grounded for the entire summer holiday for beating his face to a pulp. However, I always had a problem with masturbation after that ... right up to the time when I met Joey. Apparently what he does is called deep-throating ... I call it paradise on Earth. When I learned to relax and unclench, pumping my load down his throat became the means to appreciate my desires and to begin to piece together something resembling a life outside of Van’s world.
He sits back and starts to undo his shirt buttons while I do the same - twenty-eight and police training fit; muscles that look like a map of the topography of some pretty rugged terrain. Once he’s thrown his shirt over his shoulder and yanked mine off, he leans against me so I can kiss his chest and taste the vestiges of his cologne and the sharper tang of his sweat, mixed with the faint traces of the uniform - a combination of burnt hair, polyester that was under the steam iron too long, and wet dog. My arms snake around his back and pull him in so I can drown in it. He likes it if I gnaw on his nips - I oblige, and his hands cradle the back of my head and grip tightly as I chew the pert little studs.
“F-u-c-k ...”
When I need a breath and back off, he slides down and kneels between my thighs, eyeing my bulge. Deft fingers soon release my belt and zip; he pulls my trousers down until they’re bunched around my ankles. My cock is straining at the leash, begging to be let off.
“Fucking gorgeous you are.”
“J-o-e-y ...”
