Jacob Michaels Is... The Omnibus Edition: A Point Worth LGBTQ Paranormal Romance Books 1 - 6

by Chase Connor

  “Oh, no, Andrew.” Oma grabbed his forearm. “We got Carlos’ some new shoes for his show.”

  My instinct was to snort and say ‘We got Carlos some new shoes?’ But I bit my tongue and just nodded along. Andrew acted like he was disappointed, but he just smiled warmly, understanding.

  “Well, I guess meeting you is a nice enough gift.”

  “But…just barely?” I teased.

  “Plenty nice enough.” His eyes went to my feet and traveled up my body lasciviously.

  The look was almost…hungry.

  I suddenly wasn’t so sure how I felt about Andrew. Maybe these were just his standard facial expressions and mannerisms, but it made me want to frown deeply. A person should never be sexualized so early upon meeting a potential love interest. That’s like third date territory, as far as I was concerned.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” I stated neutrally, keeping my smile tight and affixed to my face blandly.

  Andrew looked me over again as I stared right at his face and Oma watched us both in our one-sided mating ritual.

  “Well, why don’t we get inside?” Oma, thankfully, interrupted the nearly obscene display of desire. “I’m sure Leslie already has a list of chores that need to be done. And the sooner we get started, the less there’ll be for everyone else when they show up.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” I smiled widely at Oma, wanting to hug her for breaking up the awkwardness.

  The three of us walked inside, Andrew rushing to open the door, which Oma found absolutely charming. When I thought about walking in front of Andrew, I instead insisted that he go first. He smiled and entered, leaving me to enter without someone leering at my backside. Immediately, I mentally chastised myself for assuming he’d do such a thing. But, after years in Hollywood, I was too used to being treated like a piece of meat. Sometimes an appreciative look is just that—nothing more.

  Once inside of the center, we met up with the aforementioned Leslie; a complete drill sergeant, though very likable. She gathered the three of us up, along with three other men and two women who had arrived and immediately put us to work. Chairs needed to be brought out of storage, envelopes needed to be stuffed, things needed to be cleaned, the center needed to be swept and mopped…and I was glad to do any of it to keep from being left alone with Andrew. When I was introduced to everyone by Oma, they all took it at face value that I was her grandson, Robbie Wagner, come to visit for a bit. I got a few looks, but they weren’t quite looks of recognition. More like a feeling of familiarity and maybe appraising, but nothing that screamed: “We know who you really are.” I was grateful for that.

  I spent the morning working with two women, Joanie and Rebecca, a couple who kept me in stitches, pulling chairs out of storage and putting other items into storage. Then we dusted and cleaned, all while the two of them talked about how they’d been married for ten years and wished they’d never met. Then they’d kiss and giggle and make me smile. When lunchtime came around, the center had sandwiches and chips to eat before we got back to work. I found a quiet space up on the stage and sat in the lotus position, eating my food, drinking a soda, and trying to make myself as unnoticeable as possible.

  Halfway through my meal, a pair of sleek, shaved legs, with feet jammed into six-inch heels came to stand in front of me. I looked up, a chip halfway to my mouth, to find a Latina (Latino out of drag) standing before me, arms folded over her chest. The purple mini was belted tightly around her waist, her breasts (which looked nearly real) pushed up precariously, large hoop earrings, and a pile of hair on her head. She was looking down at me, an accusing smile on her face, one eyebrow cocked precariously high.

  “Hello.” I nodded.

  “You’re Robbie.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes?” I frowned, then had a realization. “Carlos?”

  “Carlita, darling.” Both eyebrows raised precariously as she made a dramatic, theatrical movement with her hands. “Carlita!”

  I laughed.

  “Nice to meet you, Carlita.” I took her hand and gave it a quick kiss.

  “Ooh-la-la.” She said and eased herself down to kneel beside me.

  Sitting in a similar fashion to myself would have been impossible in the dress that she was practically sewn into.

  “Esther Jean said you have a gift for me.” She smiled evilly. “And I do love free shit. And, of course, I’ve been dying to meet the elusive grandson of our resident crazy old white woman.”

  I laughed loudly.

  “Your grandmother is just a hoot.” Carlita slapped my shoulder. “Mouth like a sailor, manners of a troll, and absolutely darling. And she’s here at least once a week to help us out.”

  “She’s…something.” I shrugged.

  I reached to my side, where I had stowed the shoebox while I was eating and presented it to Carlita.

  “For you.” I nodded. “From myself and Oma.”

  “Well, if this isn’t shoes, I’ll slap you.” She squealed.

  No one looked over at us. They were used to Carlita. She tore into the box like a kid at Christmas, opened the lid of the shoebox, and just stared. Carlita stared at the shoes for five seconds, then slowly lowered the top and looked up at me, a wicked grin on her face.

  “I knew it.” She said.

  “That it was shoes?” I chuckled.

  “You’re not Robbie Wagner.” She shook her head then leaned in to speak in a hushed tone. “Well, maybe you’re also Robbie Wagner. But, I’d recognize you even clean-shaven, Jacob Michaels. I may be high from the hairspray I used thirty minutes ago, but I’m not stupid.”

  I chuckled nervously.

  “Please don’t…”

  “I won’t say anything.” She slapped at my shoulder before lifting the box in a thanking gesture. “Thank you, honey.”

  “You’re very welcome, Carlita.” I bowed my head slightly.

  “So…” She looked around surreptitiously, “who is Esther Jean trying to set you up with?”

  I laughed, realizing that this was not my Oma’s first time bringing a guy to the center to try and play matchmaker.

  “Andrew?” I shrugged.

  Carlita rolled her eyes.

  “Is that bad?”

  “Oh, he’s harmless. I think.” She waved me off, setting the shoebox to the side, right next to her legs. “A bit of a pervert, but aren’t we all?”

  I leaned in. “I kind of got that impression.”

  “Mmhm.” She pursed her lips and nodded. “I told Esther Jean to stop trying to set the boys up after the last time went so badly. And she did. But then I saw that she finally brought you and I knew she was back on her bullshit again. Vieja loca.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. That’s pretty accurate.”

  “Well, baby.” Carlita patted my shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me—and thank you for the shoes. I’d never be able to afford Louboutins for myself.”

  “You’re welcome, Carlita.”

  She started to rise, then leaned in.

  “If Esther Jean keeps trying to set you up, you just come to me.” She whispered conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you if the idiot she has in mind is really who she thinks they are.”

  “You’re my she-ro.” I smiled.

  “I do what I can, baby.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing my chin in her hand. “Eat two sandwiches, baby. You look skinny as shit.”

  She rose to her feet and wandered off, screaming at friends to come see her new shoes. I laughed to myself and finished my sandwich. Then I had another. Drag queens are like the wise guardian angels of the gay community. They know what they’re talking about—so if they tell you to eat more, you should probably do it. Of course, anytime anyone who has to fit into a skintight dress tells you that you’re too skinny, they’re probably not lying.

  After lunch, Oma and I helped stuff envelopes with the others for a few hours. Andrew had taken it upon himself to sit next to me at the table and inundate me with personal questions the whole
time. Carlita was across the table from me, shooting me a surreptitious wink or rolling her eyes when no one else would see. It was a struggle to not laugh. I just wanted to be done with the day at the center, but I had made a promise. At least Leslie, the women I had worked with early in the morning, and Carlita could be potential friends. And whether I liked it or not, when Oma and I had left the center, I had promised to go out to dinner with Andrew on Saturday night.

  Sometimes you do what’s asked of you, just to make your grandmother happy. And that usually leads to trouble, though you’re not aware of it until it’s way too late.

  Chapter 8

  Something was on the bed.

  Something was on the bed.

  Something was on the bed.

  Something was on the bed!

  I sat up quickly in bed, legs kicking out, gasping for breath, reaching for the switch on the bedside lamp as shadows seemed to dance in every direction. Something was on the bed with me. When the light came on, I was already jumping out of bed, looking around the room. Nothing. There was nothing there. I shivered as I stood there, my eyes dancing around the room, looking for whatever had been at the foot of my bed.

  Right as I started to feel a little calm, scurrying sounds came from right by the bathroom, and I jumped, turning to look for the source of the sound. My heart was hammering within my chest, and I was breathing like I had just run a mile. There was nothing. No movement, no critters, no shadows—just nothing. I let my eyes dance around as I slowly scanned the room, looking for any sign of weird creatures in my room.

  Was Oma crazy enough to have some weird pet?

  Like a raccoon?

  An opossum?

  Something only country people have ever heard of—like a…jackelope…or something?

  As my eyes traveled the room, they landed on the bedside table. The pack of cigarettes that I had opened on the drive into Point Worth, and not touched since sat there with my lighter. My bottles of Paxil and Nexium set next to them. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to calm down as I closed my eyes. When was the last time I smoked? When was the last time I took my Paxil? I opened my eyes and forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply, thinking back over the previous week.

  I hadn’t smoked a cigarette since the moment before I had arrived at Oma’s. I hadn’t taken a Paxil in that length of time, either. And in that time, I was experiencing weird dreams, irritability, confusion…I grabbed the Paxil off of the bedside table, violently opened the bottle, nearly emptying the contents onto the floor, and tapped a pill out into my hand. I dry swallowed the pill before going to the bathroom and dipping my head to the faucet to take a drink.

  I stood from the sink and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand as I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked fine. No physical evidence that I was experiencing withdrawal or discontinuation syndrome. I held my hands up, noticing that I had slight tremors. That could be from nerves from the dreams I just had…or withdrawal symptoms. Somehow, that made me feel incredibly relieved. There was nothing weird going on. I had just been incredibly stupid and forgot about taking my Paxil. If I wanted to quit the medication, I needed to call my doctor, find out how to wean myself off of it. But I had been taking it for almost two years. Just quitting was bound to have side effects.

  “Fucking idiot.” I laughed nervously as I held onto the edge of the sink and took a deep breath.

  Cigarettes had been greedily consumed for at least six months, too. Suddenly quitting cigarettes after smoking at least a pack a day for six months, combined with forgetting my Paxil…it was no wonder I felt like a raging idiot. I went and sat on the edge of the bed and forced myself to continue breathing as the seconds and minutes ticked by. After twenty minutes, I began to feel calmer, more serene—less anxious. The pill was kicking in.

  Relief.

  I laid back down in bed, sliding my legs under the covers once again. Within minutes, I was back asleep.

  The worst part about forgetting to take an SSRI for a week, then suddenly starting back up is the sleep. Too much of it. I didn’t wake up until after ten o’clock in the morning. When I finally drifted downstairs, still in my sleep bottoms and t-shirt, Oma was sitting at the kitchen table, playing on her phone, a cup of coffee in front of her. When I wandered into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and yawning, she gave me a funny look.

  “I haven’t taken my Paxil in a week.” I didn’t bother asking her why she gave me the funny look. “I remembered when I woke up in the middle of the night and took one. That’s why.”

  “Ah.” She nodded, the funny look going away. “I wondered why you’ve been acting so jumpy lately.”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” I shook my head groggily as I poured myself a cup of leftover coffee. “I guess sleeping for the first three days threw me off, and…well, anyway. It’s moot now.”

  “Well, it’s going to be a cold one.” She changed the subject. “I was hoping by Monday you could help me start getting the garden planted, but it looks like that’ll have to wait. We’re supposed to get a frost this weekend.”

  “What?” I groaned. “No offense, but Ohio is shit for weather.”

  She laughed and looked back down at her phone.

  “I mean, L.A. is shit, too, but at least it’s warm.” I shivered. “I’ve been freezing my ass off since I got here.”

  She shrugged. “Go jump in the lake if you can.”

  “Um, rude?”

  “It means you don’t know how cold it can be.” She chuckled.

  “Oh.” I smiled sheepishly as I sat down across from her. “Pass.”

  “You want some breakfast, ya’ asshole?” She looked up. “I made French toast, and there’s plenty left.”

  “I’m not really hungry.” I shook my head as I sipped my coffee.

  “That’s the medicine.” She rolled her eyes. “Probably what’s made you look the way you do, and you don’t even know it. You’re going to eat.”

  I wanted to argue, but instinctively, I knew she was right.

  “Okay.”

  Oma looked at me for a second, obviously taken aback that I hadn’t argued, then rose from her seat to make me a plate. She went about making my plate, zapping it in the microwave, then set it in front of me, along with cutlery, a bottle of syrup, and a bowl of fruit salad. I gave her a smile and picked up my fork, determined to make myself eat everything. It wasn’t that the medicine upset my stomach, thus making me not want to eat, it just seemed to hamper that compulsion.

  “I don’t know how to ask this…”

  “What?” I braced myself.

  “But, both Lucas and Andrew have asked me for your phone number.” She gestured with her phone.

  “Aren’t you just the young lady?” I teased. “Texting all the boys.”

  “Suck it, ya’ asshole.” She grumbled at me. “Anyways, they both want your number. For different reasons, I’m sure.”

  “You can give Lucas my number,” I said. “I have another number you can give Andrew.”

  “You got more than one number?”

  “You have my real number, calm down.” I stopped her. “That’s the number you should give Lucas. He…he might be a real friend. But I’ll give you a dummy number to give to Andrew—it goes through an app instead of my phone.”

  “You didn’t like him?” Oma looked scandalized.

  “Stop clutching your pearls.” I chuckled. “He just…he seemed…well, he seemed a little…pervy. That’s all.”

  “Well, a little.” She shrugged, not offended. “But, that’s okay. I mean, that’s just men for you. No offense.”

  “I know that we’ve never, um, really discussed my sex life—other than my orientation, Oma.” I chewed at my lip. “But I’m…I’m not pervy. I’m kind of traditional. Or as traditional as a gay guy can be.”

  She looked up at me, an eyebrow cocked.

  “You’re not a damn virgin are ya’???”

  “Well, no.” I laughed at the thought. “I just…pervy guys kind of unnerve
me. That’s all. I mean, Carlita told me he’s harmless, and she seemed to know what’s what…but I’m not great with guys that are super sexual. That’s all. And I don’t want him to have free access to text me any old thing he wants at any time day or night. I hope you understand.”

  “Well, I suppose I understand that.” She nodded. “We don’t all want guys sending us pictures of their dicks all day long.”

  “Oma!” I laughed, dropping my fork on the plate.

  “I may be old as the hills, but I know what you kids get up to.” She chuckled.

  I looked at her for a minute.

  “Well, yeah.” I relented. “I don’t want guys sending me nasty things to my cell phone.”

  “You certainly don’t have to worry about that with Lucas.”

  I laughed loudly.

  “That’s why he can have my real number,” I said, then rolled my eyes. “And, I’m sorry for calling him a weirdo. He seems like a really nice guy. I…I’d like it if he were my friend.”

  “Told you.” She waggled her head at me.

  “Calm down, lady, you’re one and oh right now.” I teased. “Andrew isn’t all you made him out to be.”

  “He’s goddamn gorgeous though, right?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “I mean…you saw ‘im.”

  “He is that.” I agreed.

  Oma tapped away at her phone for a few moments, then set it down as I was finishing the last bite of my food.

  “Well, Lucas said he was going to text you about dinner tonight.”

  I frowned for a second.

  “Oh, shit!” I hissed. “I almost forgot about that. I really am an asshole.”

  “I told you that, too.” She chuckled before grabbing my dishes and heading to the sink. “Now, he doesn’t drink, so don’t be taking a bottle of wine for your host gift. He doesn’t smoke or do drugs either, so…”

  “Did you think I was going to show up with a baggie of heroin?” I scoffed. “And I don’t do drugs for the last time, Oma.”

  “Oh, I’m just giving you a hard time.” She waved me off as she began washing up the dishes. “But he’s a pretty clean-living young man, so wine, booze, lots of candy and desserts are not his thing.”