Hello all,
It has been a while since I posted anything. It's actually a good thing I haven't updated the blog because after about two dozen false starts on Brogan and Micah's story (Refuge) I have settled comfortably into their tale. Those guys are talking to me and talking LOUD! *bg* Readers are in for a big surprise/revelation about Micah. I am a little worried about how well his character will be embraced, but I hope to do him justice and prove a point to not only myself but others that being different (in the special way that Micah is) does not mean you can't fall in love and have a HEA. Anyway, I hope to be finished with this story by the end of November if not sooner. I've been dabbling with my other stories including reworking G-Strain. In order to re-release G-Strain I need to expand it, which will include cutting out more of Jared's POV and making it more about Kenano and Nurak. Then I'm thinking The Phirst Hunger will focus mostly on Jared And Dawa. You can expect the story to be wildly different than the first version which was written in my early, humbling days of 2007. (Wow, time flies). My writing style has changed quite a bit-- hopefully for the better.
So, in the absence of the fully polished and published manuscript of Refuge I wanted to post two of my scrapped beginnings.
The first one goes a little something like this:
Summer and Se7en
Micah St. Germaine lived for the summers. It was the only time he really felt free. Free from the constant harassment at school, the stray elbows that clipped him in the arm when people walked by, the feet that jutted out to trip him while he was carrying his lunch in the cafeteria and getting his test paper swiped so the other boys could copy his answers. And yet he couldn’t live in days of splendid sunshine and blissful peace forever. The school year was set to begin in less than a week.
Micah’s heart grew heavy.
He walked down familiar sidewalks with his head hanging low and his eyes cast down, watching as his feet chased after his shadow. He scowled unhappily at the outline of his bushy, curly hair, his thin shoulders and scrawny arms sticking out from where he’d tucked his hands into his pocket. He hated what he saw, hated what he was.
And he felt helpless to do anything about it. Hunching his shoulders as if cold, even though the weather was well into the eighties, Micah trudged the rest of the way to Studio Se7en mostly by rote memory.
Even before he went inside, the vibrations of a bass guitar greeted his ears on the other side of the scarred and chipped metal door. Micah jiggled the handle a bit—there was a trick to getting the door to open smoothly. Too many late nights (or early mornings), fueled by booze and diva attitudes had left the door with a mean dent right near the lock.
Well practiced, it didn’t take Micah long to let himself inside. He jogged up the long flight of steps that led to the main floor and walked bass the burnt sienna colored door that had long ago lost its restroom sign, he turned the knob on the black door.
Before he went into the main part of the studio he took a deep breath to compose himself. His mother had eyes like a hawk. If he even reeked of his troubles she would smell it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell her that he was getting bullied at school. He had told her. What followed was the most embarrassing hour of his life.
His mother didn’t exactly look like a typical mom. It’d taken several minutes of explaining (his mom yelling at the principal) to get Principal Bernard and his assistant Henry Batcher to believe that the slender Caucasian female with blazing ice-pink bangs, nose ring, and a compliment of twelve earrings in her left ear, with tall kickass black boots, wearing an acid washed mini-skirt and a form-fitting tee that read, “I’m Easy Like Sunday Morning” was his mother.
It didn’t help that Micah was obviously mulatto, landing somewhere in skin tone between his mother’s pale white skin and his father’s hazel brown complexion.
Even after the principal had been convinced of Micah’s relations with Marilyn Struthers he hadn’t taken her accusations that he wasn’t doing enough to protect all the students at St. John’s middle school from kids like Bryan Washington and Tommy Leeks, with any grace.
Micah had stood immobile and red-in-the-face as Bryan and Tommy were ushered into the office for questioning. Of course, they denied everything and it became Micah’s word against theirs. And since Micah had never reported an incident of bullying before, even in his old elementary school were he’d had the misfortune of meeting Bryan’s fist in the third grade, it did not make sense to punish the boys without any proof.
Words unsaid, Micah was labeled a troublemaker. The other boys were given a stern ‘talking to’ about treating other people the way they wanted to be treated (just in case there was hint of truth to Micah’s words) and sent on their way.
The bullying had gotten worse after that. All Micah’s mother had managed to do was embarrass him in front of the entire school, cast him as a troublemaker and liar in the principal’s eye, and earn herself a place on Bryan and Tommy’s shit-list, firmly under Micah—who’d held the honored place as number one since the third grade.
Now when Bryan and Tommy hurled insults at his head they included ones like: ‘You’re mom’s a cheap ass skank’ and, ‘your mom gave me AND my dad head last night.’
So no.
He wouldn’t allow his mom to know that the bullying continued at school. He just kept his eye on the prize: graduation. And lived for the summers.
The summers and mom’s band. Without fail Micah got himself off to Studio Se7en at least three times a week during the bands practices. He liked being around all the guys his mother worked with. They were fun to be around, and in the case of Kane Golden, lead guitarist in the band Thrice Broken, big as hell, strong and confident; everything Micah wanted to grow up to be.
Micah couldn’t picture Kane being picked on. He imagined that Kane was a force to reckon with even when he was a boy. Where Kane was loud and boisterous, cocky and quick-tempered, Micah was quiet and shy, insecure and mild-mannered.
Even Ty Gunner, Thrice Broken’s keyboardist, who was about half Kane’s size didn’t seem like the type who got bullied. He was always the life of the party, making sure everyone laughed and had fun.
But where Micah’s admiration really rested was with Gabriel Stalling. He was the face of Thrice Broken, rapidly dragging his group to the top with his stellar vocals and exotic good looks. Micah’s mom said it was just a matter of time before Thrice Broken was a household name, thanks to their figurehead. Micah had to agree. Already people were starting to take notice when he was out with his mother. Thrice had opened up for a few big bands over the course of the summer and their album sells were steadily climbing.
Gabriel, who sometimes found himself painted in a negative light in the eyes of the media, took his defacement all in stride. Any news, including false news brought attention to the band. And having a bad boy reputation only made him more of a heartbreaker.
Sampson, Thrice Broken’s manager, was good at getting false public statements retracted and he plugged any monetary compensation from the unrepentant media right back into the band.
Micah found himself just as enamored with Gabriel as any screaming fan girl. He thought Gabriel was beautiful, and charming, and devilish. Micah thought that if God had ever created a perfect man he would have a combination of Kane’s size, Ty’s charisma and Gabriel’s good looks.
Of course, fast on the heels of this revelation, Micah grew concerned about his thoughts. He knew boys his age were supposed to start thinking about girls. Boys weren’t supposed to admire other boys or, in his case, other men in that way.
Micah worried that his thoughts about Thrice Broken’s band was more than admiration for how cool they were. He desperately wanted to ask someone about his feelings, but he had no friends to confide in and the thought of speaking to his mother about it scared him to death. His brother, Zachariah, would probably be just as disgusted as the bullies at St. Johns if he learned the truth.
In school, Bryan and Tommy already called him a faggot and on worse days—days when Micah ignored them until they grew angry enough to bring out ‘the big guns’ the bullies called him a cocksucker too. If they ever learned about his thoughts concerning Gabriel, Ty and Kane, he’d be as good as dead meat. They’d never let up on him—not that he could imagine his school life being any worse of a hell than it was now.
As he walked into the soundproof room, Micah tucked those troublesome thoughts away to be examined for another time. He still had six and a half days of summer left. Plastering a false smile on his face, Micah pretended to be the young man everyone thought he was. He pretended to be happy, and carefree, and just a twelve year old kid sitting in a soundproof room drinking sodapop.
Normal.
Cause nobody wanted a faggot for a son? Did they?
Scrapped start #2
Matt-Fucking-Ingram
“Broggie? Broger? Brogster?” Randall Hewitt cooed, batting his stubby, dark lashes at his little brother. “You gonna help move this couch or what?”
Brogan Hewitt looked up from a box of skin magazines he was perusing to curl his lip at his older brother. “Call me that again and I’ll pound you.”
“He can do it too,” Randall’s best friend and roommate, Matt Ingram, noted. “Your little brother is fuckin’ butch.”
Randall rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it. Lucky bastard.” Randall raised his hands in the air in a dramatic stretch and cracked his neck. “Come on Brogan, I’m about to perish from hunger already. Let’s get this stuff outta here, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” Reluctantly, Brogan tossed the skin mag he was reading back in the box and replaced the cardboard cover. He walked over to the large, beige sofa Randall and Matt had been struggling with for the last five minutes and lifted one end effortlessly.
Randall and Matt groaned as they picked up the other end of the couch. The next five minutes were an exercise in patience as the three young men jostled and contorted the sofa a hundred different ways just to fit it out of the door and down the winding hall to the moving truck below where Brogan and Randall’s dad waited.
“That the last piece?” Randall Hewitt Senior asked, stepping aside so the young men could walk the couch up the ramp onto the back of the moving truck.
“Just a few more boxes, Dad,” Randall groaned.
After setting down the sofa their Dad took a look inside the trailer and declared, “Well, that’s all she can hold. You guys have room inside the Taurus for those boxes?”
“If we stuff somethings in the backseat we will,” Matt said.
“I’m going to head out then.” Mr. Hewitt nodded at his passenger seat. “One of you boys riding with me. Gotta get this stuff unloaded before the game starts.”
The boys looked around at each other. “Doesn’t matter to me,” Brogan said.
Matt shrugged.
Randall Jr. smiled. “Well, if I have too. I don’t mind going ahead with dad and making a stop at Ruby’s Burgerhouse on the way back to our new apartment, eh?”
Randall Sr. rolled his eyes at his son’s cheesy grin. “Come on you. I’ll get you some chili cheese fries before you perish. “
” Yes, win!”Randall Jr. crowed.
“Grow up!” Brogan said, with a shake of his head.
Randall climbed into the car, rolled down the window and poked his head out.“Seeyah later suckers.”
“You guys gonna be fine here on your own?” Mr. Hewitt asked.
“Yeah, Mr. Hewitt, we only have a few more boxes.” Cocking a thumb at Brogan who stood next to him, Matt said, “I’ll even feed the big lug for helping us out. It’s no problem.”
“Okay, then. See you later.”
Brogan stood beside Matt watching until the moving truck disappeared around a corner. Then with a smack of his hands he announced. “Let’s get to it.”
Back inside the apartment, Brogan started stacking boxes, intending to take three at a time.
Matt walked right past him into the kitchen. Brogan heard the refrigerator opening but paid it no mind until Matt returned with two cans of coke in hand. “Thought you guys had emptied the house of everything?” Brogan asked.
“We did. Randall was saving this for us in case we got thirsty. Might as well polish them off. You want one.”
“Yeah, sure.” Brogan cupped his hands and easily caught the can of coke that sailed through the air. When he made to open it, Matt started forward. “Hey, genius, that’s shaken--.”
“With a soft hissing sound Brogan slowly popped the tab before pulling it completely back and chugging a few swallows. The soda sizzled pleasantly as it went down. Flashing a grin at Matt, he said, “It’s all in the technique, kid.”
Matt flipped him off and sipped his own soda.
Brogan moved a few more boxes one-handed while he drank the rest of his coke. When he was done making a mini mountain he said. “I think that’s all of it.”
Matt leaned on the doorjamb at the entrance to the living room and stared at him while drinking his soda. “Yeah, guess so.”
Unnerved by the intense scrutiny of his brother’s best friend, Brogan tossed back the last sip and belched loudly, attempting to break the tense silence with his usual antics. Matt didn’t even crack a smile, which made the moment even more awkward until finally Brogan demanded, “What? Is there something on my face?”
Matt shook his head, but didn’t bother to answer the question. “I want to thank you for helping us out today man. We really appreciate it.”
Brogan’s heart beat started to return to a normal rhythm but now his gut was churning uneasily. What the fuck is up with Matt Ingram? If this was some joke, it wasn’t funny. Nervously, Brogan ran a hand through his short brown hair. “I was nothing. Come on. Let’s move these boxes to the car.” And get the hell out of here. Tossing his can in the trash bag swinging from the doorknob, Brogan bent down to pick up three boxes he had stacked. He was heading to the door with them when Matt spoke again.
“I’d like to repay you for helping us out.”
“Not necessary,” Brogan said quickly, not willing to turn around. Matt was one of the coolest guys he knew. This 180 he was pulling threw Brogan off balance.
“No. It is important. I have something I’ve been meaning to give you.” Brogan heard the other man moving in his direction. He froze where he was, every muscle tensed in his body.
The situation seemed surreal, from the first moment Matt laid his calloused hand on Brogan’s shoulder to the time he took the boxes out of Brogan’s grasp and sank to his knees.
What the fuck are you doing? This was not the Matt Ingram he knew. Matt didn’t fit the persona of a man anyone would call a fairy. Yet, he was down on his knees about to undo Brogan’s pants—not an easy feat with his dick straining at the zipper. A look of pure eagerness came over Matt’s face as he fished inside Brogan’s underwear with all the enthusiasm of a young man about to get just what he wanted on Christmas morning.
The air seemed to implode all around Brogans head, the moment Matt surrounded his cock with a wickedly tight grip and tugged him out. “Oh, yeah. I knew you were a big boy all over, stud.”
What the fuck!
Matt. Fucking. Ingram. Has his hand around my dick?
“Ahhh!” Was all Brogan managed to get out as Matt went to town, licking his cock from root to tip with the most talented tongue Brogan had ever experienced. Not that he had anything to compare it to. He’d yet to reach the age where he was bold enough to ask a girl for head. None of the girls he’d dated ever offered so he was usually forced to be content with vanilla sex. But this. This was bliss. This was toe-curling, fantasy inducing, drive-you-out-of-your-mind-ecstasy.
Obviously, this was not Matt’s first time. He seemed to know just where to press his tongue, when to let a gentle scrape of teeth set Brogan on fire, and most importantly, how to overcome his gag reflex to take Brogan’s eight inches to the hilt. “Fuck. Oh, shit. Stop. Stop.” Brogan warned, tangling his fingers in Matt’s shoulder length dark brown hair. “Stop or I’m going to come.”
“Mmhmm. Come for me, Brogan. Come in my mouth. I want to swallow your cum.” Matt teased his tongue across Brogan’s slit, and it was all Brogan could do to lock his knees so he wouldn’t fall down. “Every last drop,” Matt added.
Brogan did just that. He couldn’t hold it anymore. It was like trying to hold back the flow of volcanic lava with your hand. Impossible. Painful even to even try. As the first muscle convulsion hit, Matt slid his hands around to Brogan’s buttocks. Cupping the muscled cheeks, he pressed Brogan closer to his face and inhaled his scent as if he were trying to drown himself in Brogan’s body. He swallowed around each spurt of cum until Brogan was too drained to stand. Finally, when Brogan’s cock had given up its last, Matt allowed him to crumble to the floor. He pushed Brogan onto his back and straddled his waist.
Recovering from his earlier exertion, Brogan was in no condition to knock Matt away, let alone wonder what the man was doing. Matt pushed up his shirt and ran his hands over Brogan’s heaving abdomen. His eyes grew lidded with pleasure. “You gorgeous, motherfucker.”
Brogan’s cheeks flushed and he shut his eyes, blowing out a steady stream of air as he’d been taught to do during high-stress situations as a child. He used his breathing exercise now to calm his nerves. Though nothing could change the fact that he’d just been given the best and only, blowjob of his life, and it’d been by a guy.
Brogan’s cock jerked, and Matt wrapped his hand around the rallying appendage possessively. “Oh, yeah, the Mighty B.”
Brogan laughed hoarsely, but that laugh turned into a moan when Matt started peppering kisses and flicking his agile tongue at the crease where Brogan's thigh met torso.
Oh, shit.
Matt.
Fucking.
Ingram.
And his talented mouth had just ruined everything.
