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  More Than This

  A California Obscura Novel

  Alexa Land

  U.S. Copyright 2019 by Alexa Land.

  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission in whole or in part of this publication is permitted without express written consent from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is purely coincidental.

  This gay romance contains adult language and sexually explicit material.

  It is intended for ADULTS ONLY.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Anita, Melisha, Kim, and Jera

  I truly appreciate your help and support!

  And thank you as always to the members of Alexa’s Land, my Facebook readers’ group, for your suggestions, enthusiasm, and friendship!

  Cover Design and Interior Layout by Alexa Land

  Chapter One

  It should have come as no surprise.

  The well-worn strap on my messenger bag had been hanging on by a thread for days. Weeks, even. Since the zipper had broken months ago, there was nothing to contain the cascade of notebooks, pens, and miscellaneous detritus as the strap finally gave way and the bag hit the floor.

  But why did it have to be that morning, while I was waiting in line at my favorite coffee house? I’d rolled out of bed minutes before and had wasted no time pursuing my caffeine fix. That meant my short, dark hair was sticking up in every direction, I’d put on my thick, clunky glasses instead of messing with contacts, and I’d thrown a hoodie over the T-shirt and sweats I’d slept in. In other words, I was already a hot mess even before the strap broke, and now every single person in a twenty-foot radius was staring at me.

  As I dropped to my knees and began collecting my scattered possessions, an absolutely beautiful guy knelt down right in front of me and exclaimed, “Oh no! Let me help you.”

  We both reached for the same item, and when his fingers grazed mine, my embarrassment made me pull my hand back like it had been scalded. Ugh, why did I have to be such a dork? While the people in line stepped around us, he began gathering my notebooks and asked, “Are you a writer?”

  “Kind of.”

  He’d tried to contain his golden blond hair in a stubby ponytail, but a lot of it had escaped from the elastic band, and it framed his gorgeous face in soft-looking waves. I watched him from beneath my lashes as he tucked a wisp behind his ear. After a moment, I realized he’d said something, and I muttered, “Huh?” Smooth.

  “I asked if this is a book you’re working on.” He rested a hand on the stack of mismatched notebooks he’d collected. All sorts of random notes and papers were sticking out of them, and a lot more had fallen out. God, what a mess. When I nodded, he asked, “What’s it about?”

  Oh man, I hated that question, mostly because I didn’t really know the answer. While I flailed around for something to say, I noticed he was wearing a black apron over his T-shirt and jeans, along with a plastic nametag that said ‘Ari’. He had to be new, because I was in that coffee house all the time, and I sure as hell would have remembered him.

  Finally, I admitted, “I don’t even know anymore. It started out as a noir-style murder mystery set in 1930s L.A., and then it morphed into a gay love story. Well, kind of. The two main characters started having loads of sex, and I just ran with it. Then about halfway through, I added some science fiction elements. But that was a huge mistake, and weeding them out again left me with great, big, gaping plot holes. So basically, it’s a total disaster, and I really should throw it away and start over. The more I work on it, the more convoluted it becomes.”

  His smile revealed an adorable pair of dimples. Holy crap, as if he wasn’t cute enough already. And his eyes, wow. They were sky blue and absolutely striking. He pulled me out of my reverie by saying, “You definitely shouldn’t throw it away. I bet there’s a lot of great stuff in here.” He held my notebooks in the crook of his arm and ran a fingertip over a scribbled note on one of the covers.

  Okay, I really needed to stop staring at this guy. I turned my attention to the floor and raked a bunch of pens, notes, and miscellaneous crap toward me, then stuffed everything in the bag as I told him, “Even if there was, you’d have to slog through raw sewage to find it.” Gross. Maybe I could have found a less stomach-churning mental image.

  We both stood up, and Ari handed me the notebooks and looked around. It was bad enough when he retrieved a small, unopened box of condoms from beneath a nearby table, but then he glanced at it and said, “Just so you know, these expired three years ago.”

  Kill. Me. Now. I muttered a thank you and stuffed them in the bag.

  Now that we were both standing, I noticed he was about three inches shorter than me, which meant he was five-foot-nine. His slender build made him seem tiny, though. “Since you lost your place in line, I’ll bring you your order,” he said. “What would you like?”

  “I was going to get a latte and a blueberry muffin. Let me grab my wallet.”

  As I shifted the bag in my arms and began pawing through it, he said, “It’s on me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Thanks, that’s really nice of you.” He smiled again before weaving through the crowd.

  The front of the coffee house was like any other with clusters of tables and a busy counter, but the back had been designed to feel like a living room with bookshelves, a fireplace, and comfortable chairs and couches. After I claimed my favorite spot in the corner, I started to sort through the jumbled papers that had fallen from my notebooks. It was pretty discouraging when I realized I had no idea where any of them belonged.

  A few minutes later, that beautiful guy brought me my breakfast, and I said, “Thanks again.”

  “You’re very welcome. I’m Ari, by the way, but you probably already knew that.” He indicated his nametag with a self-conscious grin.

  “I’m Griffin. It’s nice to meet you.”

  He dragged a chair over, then sat down and gestured at my crumpled notes, which were piled on the table between us. “I’m on a fifteen-minute break, so tell me how I can help.”

  “I appreciate it, but this is a lost cause.” I picked up a slip of paper and read it. Then I sighed and told him, “This one’s written on the back of a receipt dated eight months ago, and all it says is ‘make this scene suck less’. Maybe I should take this mishap as a sign and let go of the crazy idea that I can write a novel. It’s already taken up a year of my life, and it was a disaster even before I dropped it and turned it into alphabet soup.”

  “You can’t quit. Drink some coffee, and then let’s deal with this.” He picked up a stack of notes and began sorting them so they were all right side up.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “Because I can’t stand the thought of anyone giving up on their dreams. Also, the world needs more books.”

  He was so sincere that I felt like I’d be letting him down if I quit. I drank a sip of coffee, then put the notebooks in order and leafed through the first one. At least I’d thought to number those, but they were still a huge mess. Each page was a hodgepodge of crossed out sentences, notes crammed into margins, arrows that tried to show where things went, and general mayhem in
several different ink colors.

  I frowned and picked up a stray slip of paper as Ari asked, “Is the entire novel in those ten notebooks?”

  “No. There are forty-seven more at home.” He absorbed that for a beat before returning his attention to the notes.

  I kept sneaking glances at him while he tried to neatly arrange the papers. When he reached up and pulled out the elastic band, his hair fell in a cascade and grazed the top of his shoulders, and I stared at him in wonder. Then I had to quickly pretend I was reading, because he looked at me as he smoothed his hair back and gathered it into another ponytail.

  After a moment, he chuckled and said, “This is great.”

  “What is?”

  “This scene written on the back of a takeout menu, where the main character is trying to sneak into a cemetery after hours.”

  “Oh, I know where that goes!” He handed me the menu, and I paged through a notebook near the bottom of the stack, then triumphantly stuck the scene in its place.

  That miniature triumph energized both of us, and I managed to file away four more notes before he had to go back to work. After that, most of the next hour was spent watching Ari while pretending I wasn’t. I also tried to work up the courage to ask him out, or at least give him my number, but I couldn’t do it.

  It was ridiculous to mistake his kindness for an interest in me. Even if he turned out to be gay, a guy like that was totally out of my league. He was most likely in the process of launching a career as an actor, a model, or both, like the majority of truly beautiful people in Los Angeles. That meant his free time was probably filled with glamorous parties, exclusive nightclubs, and…hell, I had no idea what men like that did. We were barely even the same species.

  Eventually, I stuffed my crap into what was left of my messenger bag and tucked it under my arm. On the way out, I deposited my dishes in the bussing tray near the door and craned my neck looking for Ari, but I didn’t see him. I tried to tell myself that was for the best. Given the opportunity, I’d probably just embarrass myself again. It was still disappointing, though.

  I stepped outside and squinted in the far too bright midmorning sunlight. Why had I never bothered to get a pair of prescription sunglasses? I ended up fishing my Ray Bans out of my bag and sticking them right over my glasses. What difference did it make? It wasn’t like anyone in that neighborhood knew me.

  My car was parked at the end of the block, so I started up the sidewalk with a sigh of resignation and the realization that I spent a great deal of time sighing. I should probably stop doing that.

  A few moments later, someone called, “Griffin!”

  I turned around and was surprised to see Ari jogging toward me. My first thought was that he looked more beautiful than ever in the sunlight, because it brought out the gold in his hair. My second thought was: I hope he didn’t find another box of expired rubbers.

  He caught up to me and asked, “Did you make some progress with your notes?”

  “A little.”

  Apparently he’d been expecting me to say more than that, so there was a momentary lull in the conversation. After a beat, he pushed ahead with, “I wanted to give you this before you left.”

  Then he held out a folded cocktail napkin.

  I stared at him in horror as I wondered what the hell I had stuck to my face. I didn’t have a beard, exactly, but I did have three or four days’ worth of stubble. Maybe that was enough to catch some muffin crumbs, or latte foam, or hell, an entire blueberry. Shit! Since he’d actually chased me down the sidewalk to give me a napkin, it must be really bad.

  I took it with my left hand, but the bag was tucked under that arm, so I used my right hand to quickly wipe my mouth. Then I attempted a stealthy glance at my palm to see if it was smeared with baked goods, produce, or dairy products. It wasn’t, so did that mean I was still wearing whatever it was?

  Ari watched me curiously while I did all of that. I took a step backwards, away from him, and blurted, “Thanks. Um, see you around.” Then I turned and power-walked up the sidewalk.

  I’d been driving my aunt’s car for the last six months, ever since I had the terrible idea to restore my ‘61 Thunderbird myself and reduced it to a pile of parts in the garage. My current ride was a sparkly, purple 1959 Cadillac convertible with the biggest fucking tail fins ever tacked onto a motor vehicle. It was impossible not to feel self-conscious as I slid behind the wheel.

  The Caddy was way too big to manage a three-point turn, so I had to circle the block to go home. That meant driving past Ari. He was right where I’d left him on the sidewalk, watching everything I was doing as if he’d never seen anything like me before. In all fairness, he probably hadn’t. On the way by, I gave him an awkward mini-wave, and he flashed me a bright smile.

  Finally, when I’d made two left turns and pulled up to a stoplight, I pivoted the rearview mirror to look at myself and exclaimed, “Gah!” While there wasn’t any food on my face, thank God, there were two pairs of glasses, one layered right on top of the other. Damn it, I’d forgotten about that.

  The drive home was all uphill. In about fifteen minutes, I pulled up to the gate at the base of my driveway and used the eraser end of a pencil to tap a code into the security panel. Then I moaned and dropped my head back as the gate opened at a glacier’s pace. Why, why, why did it have to be so slow? Also, I had to remember to hit it with some WD-40, because the noise it made while it crept open was horrendous. It sounded like a video I’d once seen of a screaming goat, and it went on for nearly two minutes.

  As soon as I knew the giant convertible could fit, I rolled through the gate, which was open about eighty percent of the way at that point. That tripped a sensor, and it immediately began closing behind me with the same prolonged shriek. It was a good thing that the nearest neighbors were a block away.

  At the top of the long, winding driveway stood a plum-colored Victorian, which looked like it belonged anywhere but L.A. My aunt Roz had bought the house in 1952, when her film career really started to take off. She’d been just nineteen years old. It was drastically out of style at the time, and no one could understand why she wanted something so old-fashioned.

  It made perfect sense to me, though. She’d fallen in love with it. The place looked like a doll house with its gingerbread trim, spires, and cupolas, a young girl’s dream come true. I thought it was great that she’d bought the Victorian despite what her friends and family had to say about it, then painted it her favorite color.

  It was a wonderful house too, built with incredible attention to detail in a very private location. This part of the Hollywood Hills was dotted with mansions of every description, from vintage glam to ultramodern, and most of them were on lots large enough to create the illusion that we all lived out in the country somewhere. The overgrown landscaping around the Purple Palace added to that feeling.

  When I got inside, I dumped my bag and sunglasses on a bench in the foyer and went in search of Fig, my English bulldog. I passed the formal living room on my left, which was hardly ever used, then the equally underutilized dining room, followed by a closed door to a bedroom on my right.

  At the back of the house was a sunny kitchen, and beside it was the family room, where I found my dog. As usual, he was on the couch, and I’d left the TV on for him. I opened the French doors to the backyard to let in some fresh air, and then I dropped onto the purple sofa and said, “Hi there, Figgy Pudding. Guess what happened? I met the man of my dreams today, and here’s a shocker—I totally blew it.”

  I’d always talked to my dog as if he could understand me, even before Aunt Roz died a year ago and loneliness became my new normal. Fig had been my companion literally my entire life, all twenty-four years of it, and yes, I knew that should have been impossible.

  When I was seventeen, I’d asked my aunt how Fig was still alive, after reading an article which said that breed only lived about ten years. In typical Roz fashion, she’d said, “The world is full of miracles, Griffy. Maybe Fig is one of
them, and if so, who are we to question God’s wisdom?” That was both a sweet sentiment and in no way an answer.

  Fig got up from his spot at the other end of the couch, where I’d built a blanket nest for him so he’d be as comfortable as possible, and trudged over to me. While his age was totally unusual, he looked very typical for his breed. He was white with tan markings, and stocky with wide-set legs, droopy jowls, and an underbite. I absolutely adored him.

  He shoved his short snout in the pocket of my hoodie, and I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring back any shortbread. It was a rough morning, and I forgot all about it.” He stuck his face in deeper and kept sniffing.

  “I’m telling you, Fig, there’s nothing in there.” When he popped his head out and stared at me with his sad brown eyes, I stuck my hand in my pocket and felt around, then produced the napkin Ari had given me. “See? There’s nothing but this.”

  To my surprise, Fig perked up and began wagging his stubby tail. He never got excited about anything, so that was odd. “It’s from the coffee house. Does it smell like cookies? Now I feel guilty, because you must have been looking forward to a treat.” I tossed the napkin onto the cluttered coffee table and got up as I said, “It’s easy enough to make shortbread, so I’ll go do that. Sit tight. It’ll take a few minutes.” Fig exhaled sharply. It sounded like a sigh.

  I went into the sunny, lavender kitchen and tossed my hoodie over the back of a chair. Then I used a pair of tongs to open the refrigerator. Among the things that made no sense in my life, in addition to the world’s oldest bulldog, was the fact that I couldn’t really touch anything electrical without breaking it. Not because I was a klutz, though that was certainly true, but because I tended to short things out on contact.