Desert Sons

 
The Debut Bestseller (c) 2001 Synopsis Time: Summer, 1990 Place: Yucca Valley, CA Scott Faraday, sixteen, has no idea that his world is about to radically change. Scott is in a small-town rock band, is fun loving, and out—but only to a select few. When Ryan St. Charles comes to live with his uncle in Scott’s hometown of Yucca Valley, CA, they meet and form a tentative friendship. Ryan is a brash seventeen-year old who has just severed a long relationship with a man, but still considers himself straight. As Scott and Ryan’s friendship develops, Scott begins to suspect that Ryan might be covering up that he’s gay. Scott is sure Ryan has no idea that Scott is gay, so he comes out to him. The result is that Scott transforms their friendship into his first real relationship. Then, Ryan’s hidden past comes into view. Scott is not at all prepared for what he discovers. Despite their vast differences, Scott sticks with him, and learns more about himself and relationships than he ever thought possible. This novel spans the summer that forever changed them both. This is not just a coming-out story. It's a coming-of-age story, and a deep look at two particular individuals. You watch as their relationship grows, changes, and develops. You'll hear about past abuse, listen to threats, feel their angst, smile when they do, and feel their tears. And there's plenty more to keep you turning pages. Against the backdrop of small town environments we watch them struggle to develop their adult identities and come to terms with who they are. We get a good hard look at both of them from their own point of view, from the other's point of view and from peripheral characters. We delve into their greatest fears, experience their heartache when they do, and find ourselves cheering when they triumph over adversity. We watch as each character is forced to grow up over the course of only a couple of months. It's entirely possible that you will see yourself or someone you know in these characters. If you're an older gay male, you'll remember this time in your own life. Purchase It In Chicago all of Mark Kendrick's books can be purchased at: Unabridged Bookstore (in Chicago’s Boystown gayborhood) 3251 N. Broadway Chicago, IL 60657 773.883.9119 If you’re not in Chicago, you can go to your local brick and mortar bookstore (preferably your GAY-owned one), or Amazon.com Barnes and Noble iUniverse bookstore (my publisher) or any one of dozens of online stores.  CHAPTER 1 Ryan St. Charles woke up with a terrible headache. He then became aware of his nose, his upper lip, and his left elbow. It’s true, he thought as he opened his eyes, I’m still alive. Only half-conscious in the ambulance as he was being driven to the hospital, he nonetheless recalled seeing two EMTs hovering over him. He remembered blood being all over his steering wheel and his hands. The last thing he recalled was being stretched out on a gurney which was going down a hallway before he went unconscious again. Now he recalled blood being all over his favorite pair of jeans, and, in the semi-dark hospital room, he realized he no longer had them on. He was sure they didn’t save them or the nice shirt Crawford bought him last month. Knowing that made him curiously sad and angry at the same time. Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t remember exactly what happened to him. The stark hospital room was quiet in the middle of the night. The silence was as annoying as the pain. He moved his left arm and found it in a sling. Judging that it wasn’t in a cast, he figured there were no broken bones. With his free hand, he touched his forehead at his hairline. As he explored with his fingers, he found that it had been shaved down to the scalp in a wide area. There was some sort of bandage covering it. Although his head hurt like hell, he had to get up and see what he knew were stitches underneath. He pushed the sheets away and slowly moved his legs over the side. As he rose upright his head hurt even more, so he stayed put for a moment. Outside the window to his right, it was dark. He glanced at a clock on the wall next to the window. It read two thirty-three. The floor was cold as he rested his bare feet on the linoleum, and then headed for the bathroom. Wearing nothing but a standard green hospital gown, he felt a little embarrassed, but the other patient in the room was fast asleep, so his embarrassment was short-lived. He took a peek at the old man who lay in the bed nearer the door behind a semi-parted curtain. A tiny lamp clamped to a metal rack next to his bed cast a feeble light across his right side. His sparse white hair was in disarray and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Two IVs hung next to the bed. One of the lines trailed conspicuously to tape at the crook of his elbow. It silently testified that the man was worse off than he was just now. The yellowish-brown bruises beneath the translucent tape stood out at him and made him woozy as he looked away and continued to the bathroom. He was glad his injuries only made him feel as if he’d been in a fight and nothing more. He slowly shut the door behind him in the harsh, sterile bathroom and flipped on the light. It hurt his eyes, and as they adjusted, he looked in the mirror. What he saw did little to help soothe his feelings of cold and isolation. Seventeen-year-old Ryan had medium length, layered, almost jet-black hair parted on one side. Although the crowd he hung out with wore their hair decidedly longer, he preferred his shorter. Now a large patch of it above his left eyebrow was shaved down to his pale white scalp. He inspected the bandage covering part of his forehead and slowly peeled away one side of it to reveal ten neatly spaced stitches along a slightly curved gash. Surprisingly it didn’t hurt too much when he touched them. He then carefully pressed the tape back into place. He tilted his head back to look at his nose. It was swollen and flecks of dried blood fell into the sink as he ventured a finger to one nostril. He touched his lip and winced as he pressed. Even his gums hurt. Luckily, all his teeth were intact. Ryan’s dark brown eyes, deep set, with long black lashes, were a stark contrast to his pale skin. The mostly cloudy climate of his home, here in Crescent City on the northern California coast, wasn’t conducive to a tan. Now his face was even paler, except for the shiner now prominent around his left eye. That explained why he could barely open it, he now realized. The ill-fitting hospital gown did him no justice. At five-foot ten inches and 160 pounds, he was of medium build, but wasn’t particularly muscular. Regardless, he had wide shoulders and well-defined chest and abs, due to only minor body fat. He would normally have felt horny examining his virtually naked body in front of the mirror. Yet, now, he couldn’t feel anything but despair and stupidity. It was beginning to come to him now. Horniness was what had started the whole mess in the first place. In an attempt to get back at Crawford Grant, the man he’d been seeing his entire senior year, and end his continuous desperation about their secret relationship, he had wrecked his prized vintage Chevelle. He had hoped he would be killed in the wreck. Unfortunately, he was still alive and now had to face what he had done. And Muh, his grandmother, was surely going to throw him out now. She had warned him enough times about all the tickets he had gotten over the last year. Now that he had wrecked his car she was sure to be extra angry. And what did he have to show for his rash decision? Stitches, bruises, his elbow, a black eye, a swollen lip, no car, and now a sinking feeling that he had lost everything. It was the awful feelings he was trying to escape in the first place and now he not only had managed to compound them, but also was still right in the middle of them all. The quandary he had lived through these last nine or so months just wouldn’t end, he thought. To make it even worse, he had wrecked the car on purpose. He had gunned the engine just enough to miss a hairpin curve coming back from Frank Gaviota’s house, a man he considered his friend, but still couldn’t trust with his secret, damn it! He was angry that he was too scared to tell Frank what had been going on between he and Crawford since the end of his junior year, how the fights with his grandmother had become more frequent, how he had alienated his brother, and how his so-called girlfriend wanted more than he was willing to deliver. He had wanted to tell Frank everything, but just couldn’t. It was a huge, jumbled mess, and every step of the way he had gotten more entangled in it. If he hadn’t been so scared or stupid he wouldn’t be looking at his bruised and cut body now. The mixture of sadness and anger swirled inside him making him sway as he stood. He gripped the edge of the sink to keep his balance. His headache was growing more intense. It was all so disgusting. He couldn’t even commit suicide properly. And the thought of having tried it for the third time, and failing, weighed on him. He had been good at keeping his emotions in check but now found himself getting teary-eyed. Things just had to change, God damn it! Graduation was a month away and despite an almost failing grade in Composition and two C-averages in other classes, he knew he could pull through. He wasn’t dumb, it was just that Composition was his last class of the day. He usually didn’t do the homework and occasionally just skipped the class altogether so he’d have time to see Crawford. He looked at his wrists as he thought about Crawford. The abrasions had started to fade but were still noticeable. I’m sure the EMTs saw them, he thought. I wonder if they could tell they were from handcuffs? Crawford’s handcuffs. Crawford the handsome, Crawford the sex god, Crawford the blackmailer. He opened the bathroom door, flipped off the light, and slowly shuffled back to his bed. His chart was hanging on the end of it from a peg. He pulled it off with his good hand, rested it on the mattress, and flipped open the top. He hazarded a look down the sheet trying to make out what he could. He had no idea what it all meant. The only two words he could make out were ‘observation’ and ‘concussion’. Well, that explained his headache. He flipped the top back down and slowly replaced it on the peg. He then sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. His throat was dry and felt sore. A small blue plastic jug of water sat on a stainless steel wall-hung table next to the bed and he reached for it. A folded piece of paper with his name on it in his grandmother’s handwriting sat conspicuously upright next to it. He looked at it from the corner of his open eye as he drank. Afraid to read it, he hesitated, knowing what it would say. It could only be one thing. He knew he shouldn’t have, given how he felt, but he opened it and read anyway. It said exactly what he expected: Ryan— The police report was clear. You were going too fast again and they’re taking your license this time. I’ve talked with your Uncle Howard about coming to get you after the court date. It’s best if you live with him now. We’ll talk about this later. Love, Muh. Her handwriting was crimped and smaller than normal, giving away her tenseness. At least she said ‘Love, Muh,’ he thought. His chin trembled and he forcibly made it stop as he read it again. In a way, it was perfect. Howard was his convenient way out. But his uncle lived in the desert way down in southern California. Surrounding Yucca Valley was nothing except endless sand and rocks. He had seen the photos and heard him describe it before. Yet, it seemed the only way to escape from Crawford, end the girlfriend lie he had gotten himself into, and remove himself from the endless confrontations he had had with Muh. He crumpled the note and tossed it into a small waste can to his right. He then eased himself back onto bed and rested his head on the pillow. He grasped the call button at the end of the black cord near his pillow and pressed firmly with his thumb. Maybe a nurse would have something for his aching head. CHAPTER 2 Scott Faraday watched the green, black-spotted lizard scuttle past and into the crack of the copper-colored rock to his right. He then continued up the remaining several feet and surveyed the top of the high rocky mount where he was perched. His dark rust-colored hair blew in the steady, warm winds of the high desert. Now at the summit of Inauguration Peak, he welcomed the short time he’d have to play his flute. The dry windswept landscape of the high rocky desert surrounding Yucca Valley yielded an emptiness that Scott interpreted not as desolate, as would some, but as compelling, even though he had lived here for more than half of his nearly seventeen years. This was where he found solace and the unusual quiet not available anywhere else. And there was no other place this close to the house with a view like this. He raised his hand up to his forehead. An observer would have immediately noticed the dark reddish eyebrows and eyelashes, which contrasted quite handsomely with the bright green eyes he shaded from the sun. Wearing only shorts and hiking boots, Scott stood 5’ 8”. At 148 pounds, his stocky yet lean frame revealed why he was one of Yucca Valley’s varsity runners for the last two years. He inspected his shoulder only briefly. No need to worry about a burn with all the sunscreen he had on. And he already had an even base tan despite being light-skinned. He dusted his hands off on his shorts, and then reached back to pull a faded blue and white bandanna from one of his back pockets. He briefly wiped his armpits of the salt that had accumulated there, then stuffed it back into his pocket. His canteen dug into his bare shoulder and he pulled it off, letting it drop to the flat stone surface. Next to it he set down the small metal instrument case he had been holding. He spied his tiered circle of flat rocks off to the right and reached them just as his Black Lab, Shakaiyo, bounded her way to the top with him. At two and a half years old, she was his constant companion on most of his varied activities. She immediately wagged her tail upon seeing him but declined to lick his outstretched hand as she panted. From beneath the capstone of the tight circle, which he moved aside, he retrieved a translucent 35mm film case that held a rolled-up piece of paper and a stubby pencil. Carefully unrolling it as if examining an important document, he inspected the writing. His initials and dates were written down the paper of his most recent treks up here. Now others read BAO and MJJ. There was also a short message that simply said: “We’re watching you!” “What the…” he said aloud as he looked up and scanned the area. Who could have possibly added their initials to his scroll? He placed his initials and the date on the paper beneath them while pondering, and then replaced the film case in the opening. Then it dawned on him whose they were. It took a moment to figure it out because he never used their middle names. Of course, it was drummer Bryce Owens and Mitch Jenner, the bass guitarist from Centauri, the band he did sound for. How did they just happen to find his film case? They weren’t the type to go scrambling around these rocky hills. He stepped back to the instrument case and opened it. Inside was his flute. He put the sections together with a quick twist. There was a dent at the end of the last section, and the nickel was flecked away in several places, but it produced a beautiful sound. Being in band in junior high and as a freshman in high school had taught him all the technical things he needed to know about how to play. But he was beginning to find that he had his own special way with the instrument nowadays. And being with a garage rock band this last year had accelerated his need to find his own way of playing it. Months earlier, Colleen, the lead singer of the band, taught him an unusual tremolo that he had never thought of before. He had finally gotten the hang of it. He sat cross-legged in the shade of a high overhang with his back against a vertical surface. Shakaiyo, seeing that he had decided to sit, came and sat with him, too. Scott licked his lips then raised the flute to them. As he did so, he surveyed the vista below him. From ‘his’ peak, at the foot of the Little San Bernardino Mountains he could see most of town through the light haze. Much closer below him was the short cul-de-sac street where three homes lay on quarter-acre plots, one of which was his own. The Faraday home was the last one right at the end of the cul-de-sac, with its rock and cactus garden in front, doublewide carport to the side, and a covered walkway connecting it to the house. He could barely see his converted guesthouse-turned-bedroom at the end of the backyard behind the fence, all tiny from this distance. He could even see their family’s restaurant on the highway. Just beyond, the high desert plunged downward into the low desert past Morongo Valley. From the four-lane highway cutting through town, Yucca Valley was the vanguard town greeting everyone on their way to the interior of the Mojave. Music in the open desert, surrounded by warm breezes, wasn’t at all like the darkened audiences he had grown to know this last year. Nonetheless, this open expanse he found soothing just the same. Many a time he had come here to have the sky, the rocks, and the sand below absorb the voice of his haunting notes. He closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for something to come to him. Starting with a single note, he let it go to be lost with the thousand others he had given away over the years. Beginning the tune, he changed and altered it as he went, inserting notes here and there and stretching it out in parts. When he was done, one would have thought he was cold in the ninety-degree heat from the goose bumps on his arms. It always happened that way when he let the tunes come to him. It was happening more and more as the months went by. He never told anyone this, but he called it ‘natural magic’. Many minutes later the last note disappeared and he lowered the silvery instrument onto his lap. School had been out for only a week and he was anticipating his seventeenth birthday later in July. Then senior year would finally be here. Last year he had done quite well on the track team, but the band was taking up more and more time, especially valuable weekend time, which he didn’t mind at all. He figured he’d probably not return to the team, despite his excellent record. He wondered how he’d be able to tell his best friend Doug Sandefur, who was also a teammate, much less Coach Wilkins. Doug was Yucca Valley High’s star runner and had been so for two years now. He’s phenomenal, that’s for sure, Scott thought. He’d miss practice with Doug. But Doug liked girls, which was a growing issue for him as well. He thought about his interest in music in general and the conflict that seemed to present to his parents. His father, Ralph, wanted him to go into their restaurant business and be his partner at some point. But Scott knew he couldn’t work there all his life. At some point, he’d have to tell his dad that he had little interest in it, but how to do so was a problem. Ever since his older brother had also opted out of the business, Ralph had been pushing Scott for the position. Being a host was fun since he had gotten to meet quite a few people from town, was somewhat popular in school because of the high profile it afforded him, and it had given him an opportunity to even meet some celebrities as well. Shakaiyo whined a little and nudged the canteen. He leaned over to retrieve it, then poured some water into his cupped hand while she lapped it up. She nuzzled it again. He poured more out and she lapped it dry, then sat down again, beating her tail against the rock as she looked out over the wide valley with him. He glanced at his watch. It had been over an hour since he left. Since it was close to 5 p.m. already, he started down. “C’mon, girl.” Shakaiyo was on her way as he crab-walked down the treacherous first ten feet. Scheduled to be at the restaurant at 6:30 p.m. he was a good twenty minutes away from the house. Once there, it would take almost that much time to get ready. Finally at the backyard, he opened the gate, went up the short cement sidewalk and slid open the sliding-glass door to the kitchen. He reached into the refrigerator for a soda and popped the top. His mother Elaine called from the master bedroom. “Your uniform is hanging on the back of the chair in the dining room, honey.” He inspected the freshly pressed black outfit. “Thanks Mom.” He then grabbed the hanger and headed across the fenced-in backyard to his room. Before the Faradays had bought the house, the unattached guest room had been converted into a full bedroom complete with a built-in closet and full bathroom. It was small, but private. His brother, who was eight years older than he, had had the room before he left home, but now it was his haven. He showered and changed, then ran to the car after making sure Shakaiyo was secure in the yard. Elaine had already started the engine and was putting boxes of clean linen in the back of the station wagon. He approached her in his mock western sheriff persona. “Hey, gal, need some hep?” Elaine usually thought it humorous that her son would assume at least one new role a week. His sheriff accent was a familiar one though. This time she was too much in a hurry and didn’t respond in her usual style. She frowned instead. “We’re gonna be late unless you get that last box.” He retrieved the remaining one from the steps of the side door and deposited it into the back of the vehicle. “Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll drive!” He took her keys and escorted her to the passenger side. She couldn’t help it and a smile finally ran across her face. She’s always in a hurry, he thought. Elaine buckled her seat belt while he pulled out of the drive. He’s a good driver, she thought. No doubt his father will buy him that Jeep after all. She pulled down the visor and adjusted her reddish hair one last time in the tiny illuminated mirror. It was starting to show some touches of white here and there and she decided it was time to visit the beauty parlor to make it disappear again. She looked at her son. His window was rolled halfway down. His hair, with its weight line about three-quarters of the way down from the top—quite in fashion—blew back in the breeze as they headed for the highway. Except for the dark red hair color, which he got from her, he looked more like his father than did his brother Steve. Scott had his father’s thick hair and the same green eyes. That’s one of the many things that made her fall in love with Ralph all those years ago, his beautiful green eyes. Scott was shorter than he, though, and had a more stocky athletic build, a little different from Ralph’s growing paunch. She knew her husband was proud of his second son, even though she couldn’t remember the last time he told Scott directly. That day last summer flashed into her mind. The day he came back from Parker, Arizona after having been at her sister Cinnamon’s place for most of the summer. That was the day he told her he was gay. How could he possibly have known something like that? After all, he had only been sixteen for a month. She was sure he was making it up. But he insisted he wasn’t. She made a phone call that night; sure she was going to give her sister a piece of her mind. The phone call was extraordinarily long. And it was she who did most of the listening. She found out things she never knew about her son. Cin had always been the more perceptive one though, and Elaine knew her son related well to her. When she found out that her sister knew first, and not her, it made her feel slighted and a little jealous. Cin seemed to have quite a bit of influence on him as well. And she hadn’t put those thoughts in his head. He had told her. Even though Elaine had cried about the revelation for days afterward, she had never let her husband know what her son had revealed. When Scott had told her they talked about not telling his father until the timing was better. In fact, she had been keeping it a well-guarded secret. And neither she nor he had told him yet. She still secretly hoped it wasn’t true after all, that he would grow out of it. After all, who could anyone possibly know one was gay at his age? Thank God they didn’t live in Los Angeles, she thought, where the urban influence of gay life could turn him into who knows what? She deliberately stopped her train of thought. She realized she was obsessing again. They turned the corner and she reached over to muss her son’s hair. He looked at her and frowned. Still in character, he tried his John Wayne imitation. “Here we are, ma’am.” “Come on, son. Enough of that now.” They parked by the back door and Carmen, the head waitress, helped unload the boxes of linen. Once done, Scott immediately went in and used the lint brush on his uniform, then re-combed his hair. From the corner of his eye, he saw Clark pass by and glance at him briefly. Clark was the headwaiter. Scott knew him to be about thirty-two or so. He was the only person he even remotely thought was gay. Clark wasn’t married, lived by himself, and never talked about women. Although Clark was friendly, Scott noticed that he kept his distance. He wasn’t exactly sure why that was, but it only added to his suspicions. He just couldn’t tell since his radar was seriously underdeveloped. He had asked his mother about him once, but she had said she didn’t know. None of the other wait staff had ever made any remarks about him either. He could have asked Clark directly, he knew, but somehow had never been able to broach the subject with him. He wasn’t sure why something as simple as that question couldn’t come out of his mouth. The restaurant had been Faraday’s for nine years now. For almost as long as Scott could remember it had been Ralph’s focus. Being an astute businessman, he had gotten a good deal in the purchase of the building, had renovated it, and soon afterward had a thriving three-star restaurant. It was one of the very few nice restaurants for a good seventy-mile radius. In fact, it was said to be perhaps the best restaurant in the entire high desert––at least one local newspaper article said so. Scott was proud when, last year, he clandestinely added an ingredient to the then nearly famous Faraday’s Shrimp Sauce. That put it over the top. When Ralph found out what had happened, he was at first not too pleased with the secret change of the recipe. He relented though, and was sure his son would eventually be a fine partner. This evening, like most evenings, his father was at the helm, as he liked to call it. It usually meant he was supervising, helping cook and generally making sure the kitchen area was well run. Scott didn’t mind working with his dad, it was just that they never spent time together away from the restaurant. And their contact with each other rarely strayed from the tasks at hand. It wasn’t that they didn’t get along. Ralph just took a few too many things for granted. Real communication with Scott was one of them. Working more than eighty hours a week, he rarely seemed to connect with Scott’s other interests, such as with Scouting several years back. The gap in communication extended to his other interests as well, such as rappelling, track (although he came to two meets last year), and his newest endeavor with the band. His father had missed being drafted in the last war but was still too young to be in the generation of Scott’s retired military acquaintances at the VFW. It used to be a source of confusion to him. He knew people on a first name basis that were older than his dad, but his dad didn’t quite relate to him. Ralph didn’t seem to like Scott’s ability to shift characters, nor his funny accents. Ralph liked things he was sure of, like business, money, and customers. He was a proud man who didn’t like things he considered a waste of ‘precious time’. Scott was sure that if his dad would just get a sense of humor things would be completely different. Elaine put her things down in the storage room. Ralph glanced up at her. “Elaine, did you pick up the deposit slips?” “Yes, dear. I got them earlier. They’re in the bin on the filing cabinet, where I always put them.” Scott overheard the last part of the short exchange on his way to take his place at the host station up front. It really seemed that his dad was all business twenty-four hours a day. He wondered if it was so he could avoid any exchange with his mom that others might construe as love. Parents are so strange, he thought. Beth was his favorite swing-shift waitress and she was on tonight. She was a Marine Lieutenant’s wife from the nearby Twentynine Palms Marine Base and worked too much as well. She passed him on her way as she placed salt and pepper containers on some of the tables. She loved the way he so fluidly was able to change personalities, most of which were humorous, in a moment’s notice. Because of that she found him to be the most interesting teenager she had ever met. He was obviously more talented than a mere host should be. She recalled how other places were dull, boring, you name it, she’d been there. Whenever Scott was around, she always felt more cheerful. “So, Scott,” she eyed him up and down in his handsome black and white outfit, not quite casual, and not quite a tux, “who are you tonight?” “I’m the famous gigolo. You know, Scott ‘Hot-To-Trot’ Faraday.” She grinned. “Darn. If I weren’t married, and you weren’t jailbait.” She then whirled past in a flash and was gone. He grinned now. He loved teasing her. They traded good-humored insults most of the night. Elaine even joined in with some humor of her own, which surprised them both. It was almost 9 p.m., closing time, and the crowd finally dwindled down to one couple. Carmen came back to the kitchen to tell Scott that a late arrival was up front. “Tell him we’re about to close,” she said in her heavily accented English. Elaine overheard the exchange and followed Scott up front. “Oh, hello Howard. It’s closing time, but we may be able to seat you at the bar.” “Oh, no Elaine. I just came back from the airport in Ontario and stopped by to say hello before we got home.” AeroSun, the industrial design consortium in Desert Hot Springs in the low desert, had recently opened and Howard St. Charles was a senior project manager for the company. Howard and several of his colleagues had been regulars for lunch or dinner at Faraday’s for months now. Lunch was very popular at Faraday’s since they had much better prices during the day. Since his crowd of white-collar co-workers was friendly, and he was such a lively person to talk to, Elaine, and the rest of the crew quickly warmed up to him. Howard was identifiable by the thin line of a scar that led from the corner of his right eye to his ear. It was from a hang-gliding mishap from his youth, but he had long since given up such pursuits. It gave him a rugged look, which contrasted with his otherwise conservative style. Tall, and in his mid-thirties, he stayed trim with regular workouts and eating right, despite his frequent meals at Faraday’s. They usually saw him wearing neatly pressed trousers, a white shirt, and a tie. Tonight the tie was missing. The two remaining patrons got up to leave now. A busboy cleared the table, and with a wide smile, Beth escorted the couple out the door. She spotted a teenager who was stuffing a windbreaker into a bag in Howard’s car trunk. He shut the trunk and came toward her. Passing the leaving patrons, he eyed her briefly and said hello as he came through the door. “Hello?” she asked, a bit puzzled. “I’m Ryan.” Howard turned around as he heard Ryan’s voice. “There you are. I thought you got lost.” He turned to Elaine. “This is my nephew Ryan. Ryan, these are some of the friends I told you about.” “Hi,” he said cheerfully. Whoa, who is this, Scott wondered. The previously unannounced nephew immediately took him. He sized Ryan up. His jet-black hair seemed to be perfectly sculpted to his head, except for a patch along his forehead, which was cut almost to the scalp. He squinted to look more closely. Was that a scar? Must run in the family, he thought. His deep-set dark eyes, accented with long black lashes, made him look incredibly cute as well as mysterious. His dark hair contrasted with his pale, yet dark complexion. Is that the remains of a black eye, he wondered. He must have been in a fight. He then noted the shorts, the bulge in front that invited him to stare, and the nice curve of his rear. Slightly broader in build and a little taller than he, Scott figured Ryan was about his age. Ryan knew about Scott only from the brief sketch Howard gave him of the people he was going to meet. Now he was standing in front of that very same guy. Ryan checked Scott out as well, mentally making detailed notes. Scott was stocky and muscular, and just a little shorter than himself. He wore his dark rusty-colored hair short and had a totally in-style cut. His full pouty lips and fleshy cheeks, with a touch of white peach fuzz, were as cute as he could remember on anyone. He could see that Scott’s eyes sparkled green. God was that hot. And that body! He must be a jock, he decided. His firm thighs and calves as well as his curved hard butt were noticeable even in his formal attire. As he stole a look at Scott’s crotch, his heart pounded. He wondered what Scott looked like in shorts, or better yet, in nothing. As quickly as he looked, he quelled his thoughts. This was how he ended up being with Crawford. Never again, he thought. Howard introduced Ryan to everyone, and lastly to Scott. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but Scott knew Ryan looked at his crotch again. Guys never look at crotches, Scott knew. Especially not twice in less than a minute. He wondered for a second what that was all about, but then felt embarrassed about his own attraction to him while his mom was standing next to him. Elaine smiled, “So, this is Ryan.” Scott was puzzled. How does she know about this kid, he wondered. Then again, I don’t know Howard nearly as well as my parents do. Ryan explained that he had flown down from Crescent City to live with Howard for the time being. He had just graduated from high school and was going to enroll in college later on. He also explained that for the last several years he’d been living with his grandmother and younger brother. And the black eye? A car accident, which he didn’t go into detail about. Scott noticed that his parents were conspicuously missing from his background summary and neither Howard nor Ryan seemed to explain that. Now that he had heard Ryan talk some, Scott felt a sense of false bravado oozing from him. Sure, he was in new surroundings and perhaps he felt awkward, but it was more than that. He scrutinized Ryan’s carefully chosen veneer, picking up the little details of his speech. He’s hiding something, Scott surmised. It’s not just that he doesn’t know us and he’s holding back, it’s something more. It seemed he was too puffed up for his own good. Acting. Deliberate, careful acting. That was what came to mind. I can do that too, ya know, he thought. Ralph came up front from the back office to see what all the laughing was about. Howard introduced him to Ryan. Ralph said hello but little else. In his usual businesslike manner, bordering on rudeness, he went back into the kitchen almost as abruptly as he came out. After all, it was it was a long day and they were closed. Ryan rapidly became the center of attention. Scott could tell he loved it. Am I jealous? Scott thought. No, I get my share of laughs. Yet my laughs come from my chosen characters, or me, not some fake attitude that I pretend is real. Am I the only one who sees this? An important part of Scott’s life for his entire junior year was his discovery that he was gay. It was no secret to him, but it wasn’t something he went around announcing to just anyone. Survival in high school depended on it. He remembered how embarrassed he felt when he first told his aunt. But he trusted her like no one else. He had told her how being on the track team was what clinched it for him, how he was attracted to some of the other guys, that way, but wouldn’t dare say so to anyone. He explained how he had a girlfriend and how he was aware that he wasn’t at all interested in her like he was ‘supposed’ to be. He remembered how warm he felt when she held him as he let the tears out, and then laughed once he was over his embarrassment at telling her his story. “I knew, you know,” she said when they finally stopped laughing. “But how? I’ve never, uh, you know...” “Intuition. And there are other clues that are kinda obvious. Like your active disinterest in Jeanine.” She was referring to their neighbor’s daughter who was a year older than he and had been interested in him all that summer. He had been actively keeping his distance from her the whole time. “No wonder Mom’s afraid of you,” he had told her. “You see things she doesn’t.” “Your mom is a wonderful woman. Remember, she’s seven years older than I am. That makes her from another generation almost, at least to me. She never worked with young people to the extent I did. But her heart’s in the right place and that’s what counts. Besides, look at you. You turned out all right.” They had talked well into the night about how hard it was being different in high school, where the social code demanded conformity. She had said it had been that way for a long time and he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. He had bared his soul to her until there was only him and her left. No ego, no barriers, just their love for one another. He had literally transformed that night. It was the first time he had ever had that deep of a conversation with anyone. The experience with her never left him. And what was once a huge problem became something to embrace and rejoice about, even if others didn’t understand it. Nonetheless, he knew that discretion was still the watchword. A powerful urge to get even more connected had gotten stronger after that. It was the purge of false facades that had dared him during his junior year to act in two plays. Granted, they were just Humanities class roles, nothing like the real Thespians in school, but they were, nonetheless, acting roles. What an exhilarating feeling it was to pretend and not cling to the part. Somehow, facades and personalities were easily sorted out on stage. All his funny accents and imitations started to really take shape then. Being able to see the difference between pretending a part and then dropping it, and pretending for the sake of a facade soon became clear to him. Ironic how his non-acting classmates couldn’t see its simplicity. Perhaps it was because they hadn’t experienced a powerful transformation as had he. Yet, his greatest fear was still with him. He had felt that if he came out to his peers they’d immediately drop him. Or worse. He might end up with bruises, or broken bones, maybe even stranded out in the middle of the desert because of someone’s hatred. That really haunted him. He was all too familiar with the ignorant cruelty that was a frequent part of being a high schooler. He didn’t pretend he wasn’t gay. He never needed to since he blended in with no problem. Yet, it had been difficult not having a girlfriend during his junior year and not be noticed because of it. After all, there were only about four hundred fifty kids in his class and he knew just about everyone, at least by sight. He had made being a jock an excuse, of sorts, for having dropped his girlfriend back in September. Scott listened as Ryan now talked about the ‘69 Chevelle GTO he’d owned. An unfortunate trek down a winding road, several miles up in the mountains back home had ended up totaling it. There would never be another one like it and now it was wrecked. Scott noted he was the driver when he had had the accident. Stuck, Scott thought. Stuck in his role as hot rod owner. He’s the same as the rest of the guys. Several weeks back his dad told that he would help him purchase a used vehicle for his birthday later that summer. Scott had found an ad in the paper just three days ago for a Jeep Wrangler. From the brief description, it sounded like the perfect vehicle to him. Ralph had clipped out the ad, but had seemed uninterested in an early birthday present. Howard yawned and tried to casually look at his watch. Everyone saw him do it though, and Elaine checked hers. Now that it was a little after ten it was time everyone went home. The rest of the crew had finished cleaning up and they were about to leave as well. Elaine wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to Howard just before he left with his nephew. Scott escorted Beth to her car in his guise of ‘Hot-To-Trot’ and she drove home to her apartment outside of Twentynine Palms up the highway. Ralph had his own car and usually left later than everyone else when he worked a late shift. Elaine started her car, and Scott jumped in, now as himself. “How did you know about that kid, Mom?” “Howard told me about him some time ago. I didn’t mention it because at the time he wasn’t sure he was coming down.” Images of cute Ryan still swirled in his mind. “Oh.” “Howard says that Ryan’ll be working with him until he starts college.” She was quiet for a moment as she watched his hand sticking out the window. He absentmindedly let the wind move it up and down as he banked it left and right. “He doesn’t know anyone around here, of course. I hope you boys become friends.” He pulled his arm back in and thought about the remark. Friends? He was the one who picked his friends. And his friends were those who were crazy enough to know when not to be serious. Like his bandmates in Centauri. They were the only bunch of guys he knew who were crazy and not serious at the right times. What good was a friend who only had one role to play? “Son?” “Yeah?” “I said I hope you boys become friends. He’s going to need someone to show him around. Howard works so much, and I’m sure he’ll be bored just working all the time.” “Huh?” Is she serious, he wondered. “Are you listening?” “Yes.” “He’s your age. And I’m sure you can show him things to do around here.” There was a lot to do at that. He knew his desert home better than most. The book Dune came to his mind. He’d even read it twice; his copy was carefully placed on a bookshelf back in his bedroom. In a way, it was a reflection of how he thought of his environment. The Fremen, the natives of the planet in the story, were in tune with the desert. It was their friend, not their enemy. He even secretly imagined himself as one of them from time to time. “Sure, Mom,” he said offhandedly. “I hope he likes rappelling, and music.” She was very much aware of her son’s love of the outdoors and his penchant for rappelling, which she considered a little extreme. “Can’t you show him something a little less dangerous?” He tried to imitate the dry tone of Sergeant Friday from the old Dragnet reruns. “I haven’t fallen yet, Mom. And under my supervision, if he decides to accept the mission, he won’t fall either, ma’am.” She let out a sigh. Someday she would just have to get used to his climbing all over the rocks in the Monument. After Elaine pulled the station wagon into the carport, he headed for his room in the backyard. Shakaiyo stood in the yard between him and the bedroom door trying to get his attention. She had been taught not to bark unless there was good reason and just wiggled and whined instead. Her profuse tail wagging thumped steadily against the door until he opened it. Inside, on the bookcase against the far wall, was his stereo equipment. In another second, LEDs and fluorescent meters illuminated previously darkened faceplates as he clicked on the master switch. He then pressed play on a tape deck. With music in all four corners of the room he was able to experience exquisite concert quality sound, especially when he really needed the volume. Shakaiyo jumped up onto the foot of the bed and sat there, her tail swishing back and forth along the hand-loomed woolen blanket he had bought in Mexico last fall. He checked on Legs, his tarantula, which was motionless. It had a cricket backed into a corner of the terrarium. “Hey, girl.” Shakaiyo’s tail still wagged like a metronome. He shed his clothes down to his underwear, dove onto the bed, and gave her a long and fulfilling belly rub. The tape faded, the deck clicked and started playing the other side. In the short silence, he hung his clothes up, then turned on the overhead fan. He started the shower in his tiny bathroom. As usual, Shakaiyo tried to follow him, but was snubbed by a closed glass door. Later, once dry, he shut off his stereo, and lay on top of the covers. He crossed his legs and rested his head on his clasped palms on top of the pillow. All was quiet except for the sound of the overhead fan and Shakaiyo’s breathing. With one hand he reached down to absent-mindedly pull on the red-blonde hairs, what little there were, that grew just below his navel. This Ryan guy, he thought. It can’t hurt to give him a chance. Who knows? Hanging on a nail just above his head was the white 141-gram World Class Frisbee faintly glowing phosphorescent green. I hope he’s seen a Frisbee before. He smiled, remembering the prize money and ribbon he won in a Frisbee contest just before the trip to Mexico. He had spent all the money bartering for different things, including the blanket. He then switched on the bedside light, got up to open the trunk at the foot of the bed, and inspected his prized rappelling gear. Costing quite a lot, he had saved the money to purchase the finest equipment. Coiled up neatly were two long multicolored nylon ropes. One was one-half inch thick and the other was a five-eighths inch diameter rope. Along with them were two harnesses, two pairs of gloves, his hardhat, climbing shoes, carabiners, slip-chocks, and other miscellaneous equipment. He closed the trunk lid and a brief high-pitched whine came from the hinges. Shakaiyo emitted a short whine at almost the same pitch as she yawned. He then lay under the sheet with his hand fondling his now half-hard penis. Ryan had come to mind again. What a cute face he had. He especially remembered the curve of his butt and that thick jet-black hair. Diego Garza at school had that same thick black hair, which he always found sexy. It didn’t take long before the summoning up of all the detail made him fully erect. No doubt about it, Ryan was indeed good-looking. He wondered what the guy looked like with his shirt off. He massaged himself, creating fantasy images of him in his head. Scott’s ritual was usually twice a day at minimum. And he had already masturbated before he got out of bed that morning. He pulled the sheet to the side, and lazily stroked as he imagined Ryan in more and more detail. It didn’t take long before he was breathing hard. He didn’t sit up until it started to run down the side of his abdomen. He slid open the drawer of the nightstand, wiped himself up with a small golf towel, and then stuffed it back into the drawer. He pulled the sheet back up to his waist and turned over onto his stomach. He stuffed his longer pillow lengthwise to his side under the sheet, and grasped it with his left arm. He laid his head on the smaller of his two pillows. The mattress and pillow were cool against his warm skin. That was the last thing he remembered before sleep took him away. CHAPTER 3 The clock showed 7:13 a.m. when the intercom buzzed. Shakaiyo jerked her head up and dropped to the floor from the foot of the bed. Scott was on his stomach, his face half buried in the pillow. He opened one eye, reached over, and touched the red button. “Yeah?” “Howard called a few minutes ago. He wants you to call him at work today. I left his number in the kitchen.” “OK, Mom,” he said at the end of a yawn. He turned over onto his back and stretched before pulling out the golf rag from the drawer again. When he was done, he wiped himself up and tossed it in the hamper. He pulled a fresh folded one from his clothes drawer, tossed it into the nightstand drawer, and slid it shut. He let Shakaiyo out, and then examined his face in the bathroom mirror. As usual, only the small patch around his chin and a little just in front of his ears needed to be shaved. Later, after showering and dressing, he entered the house. It was quiet since his dad had gone to the restaurant early as usual. In the kitchen, the small blackboard over the phone indicated that his mother was out running errands. Only last year his parents had managed to cut back drastically on their work hours. The swing shift manager closed for them three nights a week now. Many times, they were both home by nine or ten in the evening but sometimes much earlier. It used to not be that way at all. Nonetheless, his father still worked around eighty hours a week. Howard’s work phone was written underneath her note. Beneath the phone number was the message: “S––, please water plants on front porch.” He had wondered why the empty pitcher was in the kitchen on the countertop. Now he knew why. Outside, Shakaiyo scratched on the sliding glass door and he let her in. She went for her bowl and he poured her some fresh water. He showed her the pitcher. “You wanna do this?” She looked up, but didn’t quit slurping, her tail wagging as usual. “I didn’t think so.” He filled the pitcher and got about fifteen of the African violets on the windowsills when he heard the toaster pop up. The fichus in the corner and the remaining plants would have to wait. He spread jam and butter on the toast and put them on a saucer. Sitting at the counter, he called Howard. “AeroSun, may I help you?” answered the receptionist. “Hi, Howard St. Charles, please.” “One minute.” Scott munched on his toast. The phone rang twice at the other end before it was picked up. “This is Howard.” A dry portion of toast got stuck in his throat as Scott swallowed. It made his voice go up an octave as he tried to speak. “Hi, Mr. St. Charles,” he squeaked before he regained his voice. “This is Scott.” It was embarrassing. Howard chuckled. “Hi, Scott. Too early for you?” He took a sip of milk. “I was trying to swallow my toast,” he said then coughed. “Oh. Scott, thanks for calling. You met my nephew, of course.” “Yeah.” He didn’t mention that he had even had sex with him in his mind last night. “I think you guys might have something in common. He expressed an interest in what the Monument has to offer.” “Yeah, the Monument is awesome,” was all he could say. “I was also hoping you might be able to introduce him to some people around here. He won’t be starting college for at least another year and I’m afraid all the people I work with are quite a bit older than he is. He won’t have a lot of time to meet people his own age at home if he’s working so much.” “I guess I could.” “I’m sorry if I’m imposing, but really, you’re my only contact with people your age. I hope you understand.” “Yeah, no problem.” “I appreciate it. I talked to your mother earlier. We’ll be there tonight around six-thirty.” “Oh?” He just then saw a notepad that caught his eye. It read: BBQ tonite. A couple of his parent’s friends last name was jotted down along with Howard and Ryan’s name. The time was written through several times in pencil as well: 7:30. “Yeah, we’re having a barbeque with you guys?” “See you later tonight then?” “Sure.” Jeez, everyone is trying to get me to like this guy, he thought as he hung up the phone. Maybe I can introduce him to some people, then get rid of him in a couple of weeks. Scott didn’t have to work today so most of the day he spent at the VFW talking with employees and patrons. Ever since working on a community service merit badge, while in Scouting several years before, he had attracted the attention of a few of the old veterans. That led him to still participate in events at the hall on occasion, including hoisting the American flag on the fifteen flagpoles out front of the hall at various times during the year. He was surprised at how interesting some of the guys were for old geezers. And it sometimes seemed that they couldn’t get enough of him. Sure, he heard stories about Korea and Vietnam, but it was actually quite rare. Talk about problems associated with the Persian Gulf was beginning to take up more conversation time now. It was something he was completely uninterested in. For the most part, though, the old guys wanted to party. It was the camaraderie he liked the most among them. Of course, he never told the veterans he was gay. He thought it was funny they never suspected. The couple that owned the furniture store across the street from Faraday’s, Floyd and Edna Briar, arrived early that evening. His parents had known them through the Chamber of Commerce for years. Scott was quite familiar with them. They were older than his parents, and always nice enough to him, but he found them somewhat boring. Howard and Ryan pulled up at the house around 7 p.m. He found himself nervous about his attraction to Ryan with both his mom and dad there, so he fought off an inclination to mentally peel his clothes off. After the introductions, the adults sat on lawn chairs in the backyard while Scott led Ryan into his room. Scott eyed him as they took a seat on the carpeted floor. “So, how do you like Yucca Valley?” It was trite to be sure, but he couldn’t think of anything else to ask. Nonetheless, he was expecting the same pretentious manner as last night. “It’s really hot here. I guess I’ll get used to it though. And I can actually get a tan.” He stretched out his arm to show him his un-tanned skin. Scott noted the well-proportioned forearm. Mouthwatering, even, he thought. “What’ll you be doing at AeroSun? What do they do anyway?” “They’re an engineering group. You know, alternative energy projects and other stuff that has to do with wind, sun and geothermal. I’ll be making blueprints mostly. Not like actually drafting ‘em, but copying ‘em, sorting ‘em, and keeping track of ‘em.” “Oh,” Scott acknowledged. Scott noticed Ryan seemed to be avoiding his eyes. It made him seem nervous. But he figured Ryan couldn’t be nearly as uncomfortable as he felt. “So what kind of stuff do you do here?” “Now that schools out I’m working a lot more, but on weekends I do sound for Centauri.” “What’s Centauri?” “It’s the band I’m in. I handle the soundboard, do their tapes and mixes, run cables, and keep up with the equipment. And when Mitch or Barry, who’re guys in the band, run dry, I help write some lyrics for our original tunes.” “Really?” Ryan’s eyes grew wide and he became noticeably more interested. “What kind of band?” “Mostly 80s stuff. But we do everything really, except country. No, I take that back, we do a Marshall Tucker tune by request every once in a while, can ya believe?” The original tunes really drove them and actually made them somewhat locally popular. “Marshall who? “Tucker. Really popular in the 70s. Not so much nowadays. I’m sure you’ve heard them. What kind of music do you like?” “80s, rock. The typical stuff. Can I, uh, I’d like to check out the band sometime.” “I don’t know. The guys are kinda touchy about people watching us practice.” Ryan’s look of excitement immediately died, as if he’d been told to go away. Scott felt awkward about having been so abrupt. “They, uh, might make an exception,” he offered. Why did I say that, he wondered. Ryan took another sip from his soda can and studied his face, trying to discern how true that might be. Scott thought about how Howard had asked him to introduce him to other people, but he thought it might be better to keep him from his band friends at this point. He continued trying to find something in common with him. “Ever done any rappelling?” “No. The mountains near Crescent City are pretty much wooded. It’s not so…barren, like around here.” Scott was taken somewhat aback at his tone. It was one of disgust. This character needs to see how excellent the desert really is, he thought. The area was stark, that was true. Nonetheless, what the desert offered was adventure. And there was nothing like the beauty of the Joshua Tree National Monument. That might change his mind. He poured the rest of his soda into a glass. He’d show him. “Well, let me show you how bitchin’ it is.” Ryan stood, and then sat on the bed, as Scott put a Centauri tape in the player. Shakaiyo turned around several times then sat on a pile of several pairs of Scott’s shoes, which were in a jumble by the bookcase. He opened his gear chest and explained what the equipment was for as he pulled each piece out. He pulled one out of the trunk and handed it to him. “...And the harness keeps you completely safe during a descent.” Ryan held the harness out, trying to figure it out. “How do you put this thing on?” Scott took it. “It hooks in the middle like this.” He demonstrated then gave it back to him. He watched as Ryan strapped it around his loins. What a turn-on it was to watch him tighten the straps. He felt a little embarrassed as he turned Ryan around to see if he’d cinched it correctly. It was difficult to keep his eyes diverted as he checked out how tight it was around his buttocks. Ryan’s legs were covered with profuse short dark hair and it was difficult to keep from staring at them now that he was this close to his butt. He was already busy fantasizing about how hairy it must be as well. Ryan checked himself out in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, observing his rear. He caught Scott looking at him. His buttocks were perfectly framed by the straps. The silence of the moment was overwhelming. Adrenaline zoomed through Scott’s body. He diverted his eyes and repacked the ropes in the trunk as Ryan un-cinched the harness. Shakaiyo nuzzled Ryan in the crotch and he jerked back a little. Scott reached over and scratched her behind the ears. “Sorry, she does that to everybody. She, uh, saved my life once.” “Serious?” he asked as he gave the harness back. Scott took it and placed it back in the box. “I had tied a rope to a scrub pine at the top of this escarpment,” he began. Shakaiyo wagged her tail as if she knew she was being talked about. “It was near Big Bear. You can see it northwest of here when we go outside. I had just finished tying the rope off and the rest was coiled up next to the trunk. I stepped back, somehow slid on some loose rocks, and ended up sliding down the cliff. I still can’t figure out how I didn’t just fall backward and land on my head at the bottom. Luckily, there was a ledge about eight feet down. I landed flat-footed right on it and was able to grab onto some roots sticking out before I fell backwards. She nudged the rope far enough for it to fall down the cliff face. It wasn’t exactly near me, but it was close enough to grab and pull myself up. I was so freaked out that I cried right there.” “Whoa,” Ryan responded. “No one was around to save my car last month,” he added somewhat absent-mindedly, as he looked out into space. “I had the coolest Chevelle in Crescent City. It had glass packs, chrome wheels, and a posi-traction rear end. It was a beast!” He unconsciously touched his scalp where the hair had already grown back and rubbed the neat scar. Only a tiny bit of it was noticeable now. Scott shook his head ever so slightly as he closed the lid on the box. Everyone he knew since starting high school who had been in a car accident was drunk when it happened. It was their own fault, and he knew four examples in just the last three years to prove it. He was sure Ryan had just left that part out. “Now all that’s left are some scarred trees on Prieto Canyon Road.” “Prieto Canyon,” Scott repeated. “Nice place?” He was still thinking of sheer cliffs and rappelling. He wasn’t focusing his attention on Ryan just this second. He then sat back on the bed and leaned against the wall. Ryan now sat next to him to his side. His eyes lit up. “Yeah, it is. It’s this neighborhood up in the mountains by a branch of the river that goes by our place. My friend Frank Gaviota lives there.” Scott saw the look in his eyes. His tone had changed. It was fleeting, but there was authenticity in his voice for the first time. Now Ryan lied. “Anyway, he pissed me off and I left. I was too much in a hurry, I guess. Ran it right off the road just past the ‘Steep Grade’ sign. I was lucky I wasn’t killed since it totaled the car. The cops took my license and I won’t get it back until I’m eighteen. Too many tickets.” He stopped there and bent over to retie his loose left shoelace. He had played that version of the story so many times in his head he felt he was beginning to believe it now. He finished retying the shoelace and added, “Howie says one of his neighbors has a broken down scooter he’s trying to sell and that I should buy it. I can’t ‘officially’ ride it since I don’t have a license, so Howie said he’d handle the registration for me. And he told me he’d put it on his insurance until I get my license back.” “But why buy it if it doesn’t run?” “A scooter? It’d be easy to fix. I did most of the work on my car anyway.” “You work on cars?” “Sure. They’re a pain in the ass sometimes, but they’re not that hard to fix if you have the tools, and money, of course. You have a car?” “Not anymore.” Ryan snorted. “You wreck yours, too?” “No. It died last month. It was my brother’s and was it old. It had a lot of miles on it, so it was gonna go soon. Pissed me off, too.” “I bet. Is he in the military?” Ryan was aware at this point that a Marine Corps base was nearby. “Military?” “Your brother. Is he in the military?” “Oh. No, he runs a business in Singapore.” “Singapore. Isn’t that in Japan or something?” “More like by Malaysia,” Scott answered, leaving it at that. The tune on the tape deck ended while both of them thought about their respective cars. Scott spoke up now. “But, my dad said he’s going in halves with me. I found a Jeep I want in the paper but it’ll be sold by the time he’s ready to help out.” Ryan raised his brow. “A Jeep? What model?” “A Wrangler. He said he’s not coughing up his half ‘til my birthday.” “When’s that?” “July twenty-seventh.” Ryan mentally counted off the weeks. “That’s a month and a half away.” He thought about the lack of transportation for both of them. “Damn.” Then he added, “Hey, mine’s a week later. You gonna be eighteen?” “Seventeen.” “Hmm. You seem older.” “Not. So, you’re eighteen?” Ryan nodded. “Gonna be.” From outside, Ralph called out to them. “Hey, you guys, food’s on.” They left the bedroom with Shakaiyo bolting out between them. They were almost done eating when Elaine changed the topic. “Scott, we’ve got some good news for you.” He wondered why she and Howard had given each other that look for the last five minutes or so. And his dad seemed to be avoiding some unknown subject while everyone was talking. Scott’s mouth was full and he stopped chewing for a second as he saw all eyes on him. Even Howard was beaming. Elaine looked at Ralph as he made the announcement with his usual succinct style. “This coming weekend we’re going to the bank, then out to get your Jeep.” Hadn’t he just talked about this with Ryan? Boy, can things change fast when you’re out of earshot, he thought. He couldn’t swallow and spit out the last bite onto his plate. “Totally!” he blurted with a big smile. Elaine continued, “We decided that it would be better, especially now since Ryan’s here. You’re going to need some transportation so you boys can do things.” He studied her face. Did she say ‘you boys’, like I’m gonna be hauling him around or something, he thought. Like he could instantly be my friend, just like that? It sure is assuming I want to hang around with him. He glanced over at Ryan. Ryan’s face expressed a mix of jealousy and excitement. Scott visualized the Jeep for sale way out of town. The summer was going to be better than he thought. Finally, he'd have a vehicle again. And it was one he wanted this time. http://www.centerstage.net/literature/bookstores/unabridged-books.htmlhttp://www.amazon.com/Desert-Sons-Mark-Kendrick/dp/0595191304/sr=1-2/qid=1157907745/ref=sr_1_2/104-9181967-5331168?ie=UTF8&s=bookshttp://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780595191307&itm=1http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0%2D595%2D19130%2D4shapeimage_3_link_0shapeimage_3_link_1shapeimage_3_link_2shapeimage_3_link_3
Return to Main PageNovelist.htmlNovelist.htmlshapeimage_4_link_0

Top 100 Best-seller Gay Novels of the 21st Century (Desert Sons is on this list!)