Coming Home Read online

  Coming Home

  by Alexa Land

  a M/M love story

  Book Nine in the Firsts and Forever Series

  Copyright 2015 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 book contains sexually explicit material

  and is only intended for adult readers.

  Books by Alexa Land Include:

  Feral (prequel to Tinder)

  The Tinder Chronicles (Tinder, Hunted and Destined)

  And the Firsts and Forever Series:

  Way Off Plan

  All In

  In Pieces

  Gathering Storm

  Salvation

  Skye Blue

  Against the Wall

  Belonging

  Coming Home

  Dedicated to

  Melisha

  Thank you for your friendship

  and all your amazing support!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Coming Soon

  Chapter One

  When I was a kid, I wanted to run away to Saturn.

  I was too dumb to understand the million impossibilities that went along with that. I only knew it was beautiful. That was enough for me.

  It didn’t take long before that fantasy was shot to hell by a teacher who probably thought she was being helpful by explaining all the reasons that would never happen. She didn’t realize how much I needed that dream. I needed to believe there was a beautiful place out there somewhere that I could escape to, a million miles from Simone, Wyoming.

  Even after I learned that going there would never be a reality, Saturn remained my safe place. When I was sixteen, I had a tiny line drawing of the planet tattooed on the inside of my right wrist, below my thumb. It was still my escape, even if I had to retreat inward to reach it.

  As the cane came down on my ass for the fourteenth time, I concentrated hard on that little tattoo. I had to twist my wrist around a bit to see it under the rope that bound me to the bed. But it was there, my own private refuge, with me always.

  The man beating me was becoming angry. He wanted me to scream or cry or beg him to stop. He was trying to break me. He didn’t seem to realize I’d already been broken a long, long time ago and that absolutely nothing he did to me was going to give him the response he wanted.

  He tried for another couple minutes. Every time the cane struck my body, a shockwave radiated through me. I couldn’t help but flinch, it was involuntary. That in turn made me pull against the ropes, chafing my wrists. Damn it. The rope was cheap hardware store grade, too. It was definitely going to leave marks.

  Finally he threw the cane down and put on a condom, then fucked me hard, slamming into my ass. It wouldn’t be long now. Soon I could go home. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head up off the bed. I hated that so much. I still didn’t respond, though.

  After he came, the man, whose name ironically was John, rolled off me. He pushed his prematurely thinning red hair off his sweaty forehead and threw the condom on the floor as he griped, “Fucking you is like fucking a corpse. I’m through with you. You’re a goddamn lousy whore.” Was I supposed to find that insulting?

  He got dressed and smoothed his douchey goatee in the mirror, then probably thought he was doing me a favor by cutting one of my wrists free before he left the cheap motel room. It took a while for me to pick at the knot holding my other wrist to the bedframe, then twist around and unbind my ankles. I was moving slowly as I got dressed. It hurt too much to wear my tight briefs, so I folded them up and put them in my jacket pocket. Fortunately I’d worn fairly loose jeans, but they still hurt like hell against the welts. I’d jammed the money he’d paid me in the pocket of my t-shirt. I took it out, folded it carefully, and hid it in my shoe. It was late and I was going home on public transit. I figured my chances of getting mugged were about fifty-fifty.

  On the bus ride home, I kept my eyes on Saturn to distract myself from the pain, running the thumb of my left hand over the little drawing. I’d known the session would go exactly as it had, and I should have turned that trick down, but stubbornness made me agree to it. He’d fucked me four times before, and each time, his method for beating me had gotten more intense. He was always so pissed when I refused to cry. Didn’t he realize there were boys that specialized in that kind of thing, turning on the waterworks like a switch and playing the victim?

  But then, maybe that was exactly why he kept coming back to me. He wanted real misery, real tears. That was what he got off on. Breaking me probably would have felt like a victory to him. He just so totally didn’t get the impossibility of his quest.

  The bus stop was a block from my apartment and I walked slowly when I got off in the Lower Haight. I took my time on the stairs leading to my studio apartment, too. They were accessed by a metal security door to the left of the import store that occupied the ground floor of my building. The shop sold tchotchkes to tourists, so I didn’t understand how it stayed in business. While plenty of them flocked to the famous intersection of Haight and Ashbury in the Upper Haight, few ventured this far down unless they were lost.

  As I fumbled for my keys, my friend Zachary stuck his head out of his apartment and frowned at me. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” I said that automatically as I glanced at him over my shoulder. Zachary was a chameleon, a lean guy of about twenty-three with skin like porcelain and big, dark eyes that gave the impression they’d seen way too much. He was a prostitute like I was, but worked for an escort service while I was more of an independent contractor. His appearance fluctuated on a whim, either his or one of his client’s. Sometimes he looked Emo, sometimes Goth, sometimes clean-cut. I’d even seen him pull off high society. His hair was currently dyed black and a little on the long side. I had no idea what the real color was.

  “Bullshit. I heard you on the stairs. You were moving like a senior citizen.”

  “I’m just tired.”

  Zachary narrowed his eyes at me. “You agreed to meet that asshole again, didn’t you? John the john, the one who beat you with a riding crop last weekend.” When I didn’t reply, he exclaimed, “You totally did! What the fuck, Chance? Why don’t you leave that asshole to the boys who specialize in that BDSM shit? At least they charge a premium. Did you charge him extra at least?”

  “I did,” I said as I swung open the door to my apartment.

  “What did he use on you this time?”

  “A thin bamboo cane.”

  His eyes went wide. “Shit. Nothing hurts worse than that. I let a trick do that to me once. Once. That was more than enough. Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But you probably don’t feel up to hanging out or anything,” he said, breaking eye contact. Zachary would never actually admit to being lo
nely, but if he was asking to hang out it meant he needed a friend.

  “Come on in,” I said. “I’m going to get a shower, but you’re welcome to wait for me.”

  He pulled the door to his apartment shut and made sure it was locked, then crossed the small hallway barefoot. Zachary was dressed in a baggy t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts, which made me think he’d gotten out of bed when he heard me come home. He’d been doing that more and more lately.

  “Fuck,” he muttered as he slipped past me. “It’s like the equator in here. I’m going to open a window.” The whole floor had once been one big apartment, but had been carved up by the landlord into two little studios and a decent-sized one-bedroom. The thermostat for all three was in the one-bedroom unit and the couple that lived there liked to keep it set to a balmy eighty or so, year-round.

  “Go ahead. Help yourself to a drink, too. I’ll be out in a few minutes.” I grabbed a couple things from my closet and took them with me into the bathroom.

  After standing under the warm water for a while to ease some of my soreness, I dried off and got dressed in a pair of loose-fitting pajama pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt, which I pulled over the marks on my wrists. They were bruising up pretty good.

  When I left the bathroom, I found Zachary sitting on the tiny counter of my pseudo-kitchen. There was a sink, a two-burner cooktop and a dorm-sized refrigerator in one corner of my apartment, along with an upper and lower cabinet. Even the term ‘kitchenette’ was overly ambitious.

  He held his hand out to me palm-up, revealing two ibuprofen tablets. I took them from him and he offered me a glass of water. “Thanks,” I mumbled before washing down the pills.

  Zachary relocated to the floor on the other side of the tiny studio and leaned against my twin bed, which doubled as my couch. The reason he was sitting on the floor was pretty obvious, and I went ahead and stretched out on the mattress as he’d intended. “I wish you’d change your mind and be my plus-one at my friend Christian’s wedding tomorrow,” I told him as I tucked my arm under my head.

  “We already talked about this,” he said. “Spending the day with a bunch of rich people isn’t my idea of a good time.”

  “Christian may have money, but he’s totally not some spoiled rich kid. He’s a great guy.”

  “If you say so. But still, no. You told me your wedding gift to him was being his photographer, so it’s not like you’d be hanging out with me anyway.”

  He had a point, but it still would have been nice to have some company. I studied my friend’s profile as he ran a short fingernail along the edge of my mattress and asked, “Are you okay, Zachary? You look like you have a lot on your mind.”

  “I’m fine. It’s just, you know. Weekends.” I didn’t have to ask what he meant by that. The majority of his work at the escort service happened Friday through Sunday. He’d been turning tricks for a couple years, but I got the impression he’d never fully acclimated to the job. I, on the other hand, had been a prostitute for well over a decade. It was all I knew.

  I began to lightly stroke his hair, because I knew he found it soothing. “You don’t have to do that,” he murmured, even as his eyes slid shut and he leaned into my touch.

  “I know.” I kept right on doing it.

  “I should be the one comforting you after the night you had.”

  “You are comforting me, just by being here.”

  He was quiet for a while before saying softly, “I love you, Chance.”

  “I love you, too.”

  We both knew this would never be anything but a friendship. Neither of us was looking for more, and even if that had been the case, we were far too similar to even consider dating each other. Zachary was my best friend, and I was pretty sure I was his only one. We cared about each other and filled a void in each other’s lives. I’d been really lonely before he moved in across the hall a couple years ago. Recently, I’d become friends with Christian, who in turn brought other people into my life. But that was just because Zachary’s kindness had shown me it was okay to trust and let other people in. He was a very private person who never talked about himself and sometimes disappeared for days at a time without explanation, but I respected his limits and was grateful for what he was able to give me.

  That night was typical of our friendship. He tended to gravitate to me in the hours past midnight, that part of the night when loneliness could just swallow you whole. We didn’t always feel the need to talk. Just being together was enough.

  I started to drift off after a while, my fingers stilling in his soft hair. I felt him lightly kiss my forehead. “Good night,” he whispered.

  “Night,” I mumbled before sleep took me.

  *****

  I slept in way past noon. Zachary was gone when I got up, same as usual. He reminded me of a ghost sometimes, a pale, quiet boy who haunted my apartment in the middle of the night, rarely seen in daylight. I got up and used the bathroom, then paused to straighten a couple photos. The one solid wall in my apartment was covered floor-to-ceiling with pictures I’d taken, held up by thumbtacks. I assessed them with a critical eye, then went back to bed and stayed under the covers with a book until I absolutely had to get up and get ready for my friend’s wedding.

  After I showered, spending a long time under the hot water to ease the soreness that remained (which was considerably better than the night before), I got as close to dressed up as I could manage in black pants, a tie, and a long-sleeved shirt, pulling the cuffs down over the red and purple marks around my wrists. Then I took my time checking my equipment and my camera. It was my most prized possession. Christian had given it to me, back when he thought he was dying and wanted to make a grand gesture. The why behind it wasn’t hard to guess. He’d wanted to give me a way out of prostitution, and the camera was meant to be an opportunity for a new life. It wasn’t that simple, though. People weren’t exactly lining up to hire me as a photographer. Still, the gift was by far the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me, and I looked forward to repaying his kindness by doing the best I could on his wedding photos.

  When my camera bag was packed, I left my apartment and quickly weighed the pros and cons of driving to the wedding. I’d recently bought a used car, after Christian’s friend Gianni hired me to be his assistant for a few weeks and paid me way too much for what turned out to be an incredibly easy job. Christian was getting married at the new house he and his fiancé Shea had bought, which was on a hill above the Castro, and parking was going to be pretty much nonexistent.

  But then again, coming home late on the bus with all my expensive camera equipment was just asking to get mugged, so I walked the two blocks to my car and unlocked the little blue Civic. It was pretty nondescript, but it was the first car I’d ever owned and I was proud of it. I got behind the wheel and placed my camera bag on the passenger seat, then put the seatbelt around it to keep it safe. Only then did I pull away from the curb.

  Chapter Two

  I was early. I’d done that on purpose, since Christian and I had decided to take a few portraits before the wedding, but I overshot. The grooms were still up in their bedroom getting dressed when I arrived, and Christian’s best friend Skye let me in.

  I really liked Skye. He and Christian had met in art school, and he was very much what I assumed an art student would be like, right down to his shaggy blue hair. He greeted me with a hug and his ever-present smile, then led the way to the kitchen, where his brother River and River’s boyfriend Cole were hard at work. The couple was catering the event as a wedding present to the grooms, and both paused to shake my hand when I came in. Skye’s husband Dare was seated at the counter chopping vegetables, and he greeted me with a smile and a little wave.

  Stepping into Christian’s world always felt good. I didn’t know his friends all that well, but they were consistently nice to me. I offered to help with the meal prep, and when I was told it was almost done I pulled out my camera instead and began snapping a few photos of the couples working in the kitche
n. I liked the way Cole and River cooked together. They were totally in sync, one of them dropping some herbs into a pot on the stove, then moving on to something else while the other one swooped in and stirred it. It was a dance that came from comfort and familiarity, and I thought it was beautiful.

  Christian’s fiancé Shea was part of a large Irish-American family, many of whom were police officers. His cousins Kieran and Brian arrived about twenty minutes after I did, along with their husbands. Kieran was a former cop, and he was married to a sweet guy named Christopher Robin, who’d gone to art school with Christian and Skye.

  Brian was a big, muscular brunet, an ex-Marine who’d lost both his legs in Afghanistan and was getting around on a pair of prostheses. He was married to Hunter, an absolutely gorgeous, slim, blond former porn star. I loved watching those two together. They were so different on the surface, but they clearly adored each other. When Brian settled onto a kitchen chair, he pulled Hunter onto his lap and put his arm around him, and Hunter rested his head against his husband’s. I snapped a couple candid shots of the two of them and would have taken a lot more, but I was trying not to be completely intrusive.

  Three of Shea’s groomsmen, Leo, Cas and Ridley, were the next to arrive. His fairly nerdy former roommates all seemed more than a little awestruck by Hunter, who’d been a pretty big celebrity before retiring. They even embarrassedly admitted to having attended an autograph event of his back in the day.

  Once they picked their jaws up off the floor, Ridley asked where the grooms were and Skye said, “They’ve been upstairs getting dressed for about an hour now.”

  “Uh huh, getting dressed,” said Leo, a thin African American with close-cropped hair and a quick grin. “We all know they’re up there having pre-matrimonial wild monkey sex. I, of course, condone this wholeheartedly. After that, it’ll be nothing but married-people sex so they have to go all Wild Kingdom while they can.”