Chasing Forever
Riptide Publishing
PO Box 1537
Burnsville, NC 28714
www.riptidepublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.
Chasing Forever
Copyright © 2018 by Kelly Jensen
Cover art: Natasha Snow, natashasnowdesigns.com
Editor: Carole-ann Galloway
Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design-portfolio.html
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.
ISBN: 978-1-62649-842-6
First edition
December, 2018
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-62649-843-3
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Malcolm Montgomery was a history teacher and track coach until an accident left him with two broken legs. He’ll recover, but life has knocked his feet out twice now. He’s not sure if he’s ready to try again, especially when it comes to love—and slick guys like Brian Kenway. Still, he needs help mentoring the school’s LGBTQ society, so he asks Brian to take some responsibility.
Brian has been hiding behind his reputation as a liar and a cheat for so long that he actually believes he’s that guy—until his nephew, Josh, turns up on his couch, tossed out for being gay. Brian has never considered being a father, but he knows all about being rejected by loved ones. Now Brian wants to be more: a partner for Mal and a role model for Josh.
But when Mal’s recovery is set back and the sad truth of Brian’s past is revealed, the forever they’ve been chasing seems even further from their grasps. It’ll take a rescue effort to revive their sense of worth and make Brian, Mal, and Josh into a family of their own.
For Brian
As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.
— Sam Levenson
About Chasing Forever
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Acknowledgments
Also by Kelly Jensen
About the Author
More like this
Malcolm Montgomery loved Morristown. Anyone who thought New Jersey was a shithole hadn’t ventured far enough west. Or south. Or east. In fact, they probably hadn’t left the turnpike, breezing past the ports without stopping at Ikea. Maybe they’d been stranded on the wrong side of the Ben Franklin Bridge at 4 a.m. or they’d heard the horror stories about Newark, despite phrases like urban renewal.
Morristown, though . . . Morristown was Small Town America on a grand scale, and still only forty-five commuter minutes from New York City. Fringed by farms and centered by Morristown Green, the town had everything a body could need, including the Colonial, a bar that had survived urban rethinking, beautification, a five-minute spell of popularity when they built the hotel across the street, and the casual indifference of a lifelong patronage.
The Colonial was where the locals drank. It was named for the high school football team, and trimmed with decades of memorabilia. Mal’s father had drunk there, though thankfully didn’t anymore. His father would fit into the daytime crowd, but the after-hours patrons would be a little too rowdy for him. Tonight, they seemed a little too rowdy for Mal, and the brilliant idea he’d had two hours before—that a beer or two and some lively conversation would somehow alleviate the weight of the past five months—had faded to a dull buzz in the back of his head.
But he loved the Colonial. It was a permanent pin on the board of this town. It wouldn’t win any awards for décor or service, unless you liked looking at photos, newspaper clippings, and pennants; a healthy dose of sarcasm; and hot wings that weren’t particularly hot. The place had always been there for him, though, and the barstools were pretty comfortable.
“’Nother one?”
Mal nudged his empty glass through a beery puddle. “Sure.” He’d had a coaster. Bits of it clung to his fingers, rolled into pills. The rest spread out beneath his feet like bird food.
Leo Green, great-grandson of Bernard Green, founder of this faded collection of wood and brass on the north side of Morristown Green (no correlation), dropped a fresh cardboard coaster onto the bar and topped it with a foaming glass of porter.
“Want to close out your tab?” Leo asked, voice tinged with something that might be pity, might be hope. Probably hope. It was, after all, Christmas Eve, and he had a man to get home to.
“Not yet. I’m still not having a good time.”
On cue, “Jingle Bell Rock” straddled the airwaves, climbing over the mild flutter of conversation floating through the bar. Everyone else seemed to be having a good time. Drinking, talking, planning, maybe getting ready to go out and party or go home and party. All except the couple at the table behind him: Brian Kenway and a woman Mal didn’t recognize.
Glancing over his shoulder, Mal took another peek at the pair. They made a striking couple; Brian with golden-blond hair, paler at the temples, and maybe blue eyes—Mal had never gotten close enough to confirm the exact color. He’d wanted to, but he and Brian moved in different circles. Brian’s companion had the look that fashion magazines would describe as gamine. Chin-length hair, dark and glossy. Wide, dark eyes.
The frowns they leveled at each other over several empty glasses marred their beauty somewhat, though.
Turning back around, Mal asked, “Why don’t you have any live music?”
“Because I don’t want to be open past ten.”
“The Pig and the Frog have live acts tonight.”
“Maybe you should go drink there.”
“Too noisy.”
Leo flipped open the dishwasher behind the bar and spoke through a wispy cloud of steam. “No pleasing some people.”
“Ever think of changing your name to the Slothful Sloth?”
“You complaining about the service?”
“Nope. Just the crowd.”
Shaking his head, Leo slid two clean glasses onto a shelf with maybe a little more force than necessary. After the clinking stopped, he said, “Seriously, Mal, you’re pissing me off.”
Mal dug out a grin. “Good. You can join me in my pity party.”
Leo sighed, but smiled. “When do you go back to work?”
Grin fading, Mal ran his palm down the length of his left thigh. He wasn’t sure if the ache in his bones was real or not, but he felt it all hours of the day. Sometimes at night too. His right leg—that was a whole different story and often required something stronger than beer. But not tonight. Tonight he had to drive, because gone were the days when he could rely on the mile-long walk home to sober him up.
“January second.” He reached for his beer.
Leo picked up the glass he kept under the bar. Tonight, the inch of liquor was a few shades darker than Leo’s brown skin. Mal had given up guessing what Leo drank after he began to suspect Leo changed it whenever he got it right. Leo lifted his glass in a toast. “To January second.”
“Just because I’m going back to work doesn’t mean I’m going to stop decorating your bar on a Friday night.”
“Let a man have his dreams.”
“Asshole.”
Leo clinked his glass to Mal’s. “Back at you.”
“So what are your plans for the holidays?”
“You’re looking at them.”
“Kelsey in town for a while?” Kelsey, Leo’s husband, was an artist. He traveled six months of the year, exhibiting and gathering inspiration for his next show.
“Yeah. At least until Feb.”
“Nice.”
“What about you?” Leo sounded interested and he would be. They’d gone to high school together and had both landed back in Morristown before it was cool to be gay. Still wasn’t . . . totally. But they got by. Quietly.
“Donny is hosting this year,” Mal said. “We’re all due at noon to open presents and admire the inaugural wrecking of his new kitchen.”
“That fuckwit finally finished your brother’s kitchen?”
“Donny threatened to sue if it wasn’t done by Christmas.”
Leo made a show of checking his watch. “It only took them eight months.”
“I told him not to use that guy. He shoulda used my guy.”
“Isn’t there some family relationship or . . .” Leo trailed off as the voices behind them rose. His brows arched up. He nodded, tight dreads bouncing, and Mal turned.
As Mal watched, a scowl spread across Brian’s face, an expression Mal hadn’t seen on him before. Brian more often wore a laconic smile—and usually at one of the other bars in town. In fact, the last time Mal had seen him had been at the Pig on the one night a month they hosted Miss Bacon and Friends. Unfortunate name, but Mal always enjoyed the show. Miss Bacon was another Morristown High alumni, five years after him and Leo, and didn’t care if Morristown was cool with the gay thing or the drag-queen thing.
Brian’s companion stood, shaking her head. Brian said something.
She slapped him. The sharp crack of her palm meeting his skin split apart Frank Sinatra’s dulcet tones as the entire bar took in a breath.
Brian didn’t cup his cheek. He didn’t scowl or rock back. Nor did he speak. No defensive words parted his lips, no apology. He just sat there, stone-faced and . . . handsome . . . and watched as the woman collected her coat and purse. She rummaged for a minute before pulling out a folded bill that she let flutter to the table. Brian’s expression soured a little, as though her leaving money offended him. Then he watched her go, along with everyone else in the bar.
When all eyes turned back to him, Brian stood, seemed to wrestle with the appropriate mind-set for a moment—at least, that was how it appeared to Mal. As though he couldn’t quite decide if he was pissed, amused, sad, or indifferent. Then, jawline hardening over a squaring of admirably wide shoulders, Brian stalked toward the door.
Apparently, the show was over or taking a commercial break. So everyone in the bar did what everyone usually did while the ads played. They got another drink, visited the restroom, and occasionally glanced back at the screen. In this instance, the table where Brian’s jacket still hugged the shoulders of one chair.
Mal didn’t need a refill, so he pushed his glasses back up his nose and waited out the pause, letting Leo serve other customers, then tipped his head in the direction of the abandoned table. “I’ve seen him around. Didn’t think he was straight or into women.”
In Mal’s fantasies, he definitely wasn’t.
“He’s not. Or I didn’t think he was. He’s in here pretty regularly on Thursdays.” Pickup night. “And never takes women home. So unless he’s climbed the fence, which, granted, some folks do when they’re bored . . .” Leo held out his hands. “I don’t fucking know. So long as he pays his bill, I don’t care, either.”
“A regular on Thursdays?”
So much for that idea, not that Mal had entertained it for long. He’d indulged in a daydream or two (or four), but he knew Brian was way out of his league. Usually dressed in a suit, or the remnants of one, except to Miss Bacon’s shows, when he dressed to impress. And he always had someone by his side, which was why Mal had never bothered approaching him.
“Not your type,” Leo confirmed.
“Yeah? Who do you think is my type?”
“I dunno. Someone quiet and bookish like you. Don’t you gaming nerds have conventions or something? Go get yourself one of them guys.”
Been there, done that, twice—once with a guy out on the West Coast who only ever answered to the name Aether Flameshadow. Online relationships weren’t his thing. After being single for so long, Mal was starting to wonder if relationships were his thing.
Leo interrupted his train of thought with, “Maybe another professor.”
“I’m a high school teacher.”
“And Brian Kenway is a player.”
Mal wasn’t surprised that Leo knew Brian’s name. Leo knew everyone in Morristown.
The door opened with a rush of cold air, and Brian reentered the bar, pausing only to stamp a little snow from his shoes, before eyeing the assembled patronage, all tuned back in to his channel, and giving them a short salute. Everyone went back to their business as he collected his jacket, his bill, his empty glass, and approached the bar.
Mal straightened in his seat, not wanting to appear too slumped over his beer. He thought about pushing his fingers through his hair, then remembered he didn’t have hair anymore. Well, he did, but it was a lot shorter than it used to be. Grayer, too. He nudged his crutches deeper into the shadowy nook he’d tucked them into and then tried putting one elbow on the bar, wincing when it slipped through the beer puddle, nearly landing him face-first on the varnished wood. The scent of hops and old French fries wafted up to meet him before a warm hand caught his shoulder.
The pressure on his shoulder was enough to wake some of the old athletic reflex—whatever hadn’t abandoned him on the side of Lake Road last August—and jerk Mal back to an upright position in front of an extremely well-made face.
“Thanks,” Mal muttered and wondered if his cheeks were as warm as they felt.
Brian squeezed his shoulder. “See, it’s not all bad.”
“What’s that?”
“Right when you think your life is about to do a body slide along the length of the bar, someone comes along and stops everything.”
Mal blinked questioningly at the man in front of him, the man who did have blue
eyes, he now saw. Four shades bluer than Mal’s own washed-out denim color. And the sort of handsomeness that wasn’t a mask. Attractiveness was ingrained in every line of Brian’s face. From the easy laugh lines cornering his mouth and eyes, to the way his brows refused to curl against nature, but still managed to look rugged. His nose was long and straight, but pointed a little sideways, as if it’d been broken at some point. Of course, that only made him more interesting. His hair wasn’t all blond, just mostly, the paler strands at his temples only serving to highlight the fact that Brian had been designed by nature to age well.
Brian’s mouth tilted upward, slightly. A smile or possibly an amused smirk.
Mal cleared his throat. Reached for his glass. Then decided to go for it. He stuck out his hand. “Mal Montgomery and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
For a moment, it seemed as though Brian might take offense. Then he tipped his head back and laughed—quietly and not for long enough to embarrass himself or Mal. He gripped Mal’s hand in a solid shake. “Brian Kenway.”
“I know.” Whoops.
Brian’s eyebrows did not jump up. Instead, he widened his smile. “My reputation precedes me.”
“Something like that.”
“Leo been gossiping about me again?”
“We were wondering what happened to your friend,” Leo said.
Brian flipped one hand carelessly in the direction of the door. “I was an asshole. She’ll forgive me tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that.”
Okay, then. “So . . .” Mal moved his mouth a couple more times, but no words came out. What the heck? He had a doctorate in medieval and premodern European history, an area that did, on occasion, dip into language studies. “Want a beer?” he finally managed.
Grinning, Brian draped his jacket over one stool and sat on the other. Right next to Mal. “Sure. What are we drinking?”
“Snowdrift Vanilla Porter.” That had been a serious question, right? One he was supposed to answer.
Brian nodded toward Leo, who got busy fitting another glass under the tap. Brian waited until he had his glass before lifting it for a toast. “What should we drink to?”