American Dreamer
By: Shawn Wesley Ballenger
© Copyright 2019 Shawn Wesley Ballenger
These stories are about fictional consenting adults. Nobody involved in the creation of this ebook, including authors, editors and models, support immoral or illegal acts in real life. Cover models are not intended to illustrate specific people and the content does not refer to models' actual acts, identity, history, beliefs or behavior. No characters depicted in this ebook are intended to represent real people. Models are used for illustrative purposes only.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
AUTHORS’ NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. None of this is real.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank these wonderful people for making my own American Dream of being a published author a reality.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank Chase Connor, who took time from his busy schedule to message back a random fan of his work. Thanks for your joyful willingness to answer all of my questions, and your friendship that I’ve come to truly value.
Secondly, I would like to thank Allen, whose faith in my writing abilities never wavered, even when I was ready to throw in the towel. Thank you for taking a chance on me.
Finally, I would like to thank Daniel, who helped me find the bravery to chase the life I’ve always wanted.
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
Epilogue – 10 Months Later
About the Author
Chapter One
Fifty-year-old Brandon Daniels sat in his office chair, staring at his two monitors. It was another torturous day in his nondescript corporate cubicle. He squinted his eyes at the code on the right-hand monitor, searching for the bug that was causing users in the accounting department not to be able to upload ledger reports into the accounting system. He tracked down one procedure that lead him into another, which called a function, that contained a loop with a database query.
"Contract programmers and their spaghetti code,” He mumbled in frustration then held his breath as he mentally went through the code step-by-step.
He was positive the bug had to be somewhere in that query.
“Brandon.” His boss barked from his office ten feet away.
Brandon groaned quietly, his mental house of cards crumbling.
“Yeah, Steve?” He tried not to sound as annoyed as he was. Having been on thin ice with his boss for the last two years, he knew he couldn’t afford to offend him further. The first incident of trouble with Steve was when Brandon’s mid-life crisis began, and his work performance declined to the point that he was placed on a performance improvement plan.
“Come here for a minute.” Steve motioned from behind his desk inside of his office, not taking his eyes from his monitor.
Brandon sighed. During the reorganization of the IT Department earlier in the year, he was assigned the worst cubicle in the department: right under his boss’s nose. His boss claimed it was ‘logical grouping by functional support areas,’ another bullshit piece of corporate jargon, but he knew the reason. His boss wanted to make sure he wasn’t shopping on Amazon for his next great read, which would serve as his mental escape from this corporate hell.
Brandon slowly pushed his chair away from the keyboard, and stood up, making sure to lock his terminal so as not to bring down the wrath of cybersecurity. God forbid someone would try to steal spaghetti code.
He shuffled into Steve’s office and plopped down in the standard-issue plastic chair that came with a supervisor’s office and rubbed his hands against the rough texture of the arms. He glanced at the football memorabilia that lined the walls, shelves, and desk; his attention fell on a photo of his boss, shaking the hand of some football coach. I hate sports, he scoffed mentally to himself.
“Around here.” Steve motioned distracting Brandon from his mental anti-sports tirade.
Brandon struggled to pull himself from the chair but finally managed to drag himself around the desk, taking the position over Steve’s right shoulder.
“I see from your timesheet dated June thirteenth that you reported one hour of personal time between eight and nine a.m. on June twelfth.” His boss pointed to the webpage that looked as if it had been coded in the nineties.
Brandon grabbed his reading glasses, which were clipped to the collar of his shirt and unfolded them. Placing them on his nose, he concentrated on the screen.
“Probably.” He answered though he was unsure. After all, that had been two months before.
“The time off you reported in the HR system says you took the hour on June thirteenth.” Steve pointed to his other monitor.
“Yeah, I might have been a day off in the HR System.” He stared at the right-hand monitor with the blinking “HR Time Reporting System” in Times New Roman typeface on its screen.
“I need you to correct your timesheet to make the dates match,” Steven instructed as he withdrew his attention from the monitor and looked back at Brandon.
“These reports are validated by month. The totals will be the same.” Brandon waved his hand dismissively then folded his arms over his chest.
“I need you to make the dates match,” Steve repeated.
“Why would it matter to anyone whether I took the hour off on the twelfth versus the thirteenth?” He gestured towards the right-hand screen.
“Corporate time tracking is checking for inconsistencies between the two systems,” Steve answered.
“That doesn’t answer the question.” Brandon didn’t want to argue, but the ridiculousness of it all tested his patience.
“The director looks at these,” Steve answered far too quickly, presenting to Brandon the fact that he didn’t know the real answer and was clueless with what in the hell was going on with the bigwigs upstairs.
“Why would the director care if I reported one hour on the twelfth instead of the thirteenth?” Brandon was adamant about getting an answer.
“Just fix it, Brandon.” Steve sighed, refusing any further answers.
Brandon hesitated a moment as his mind waged a battle over whether arguing with his boss any further would do any good. Finally, he dropped his arms to his side.
“Yes, Steve.” He answered, deciding to play his usual part of the happy corporate peon once again as he plodded back to his six-by-six prison cell, plopped down, and pulled up Amazon.
At five o’clock, Brandon did his usual Fred Flintstone impersonation and raced his way to the gym while his co-workers were still pounding away on their keyboards. Though overtime was considered good form, Brandon didn’t understand why anyone would want to stay on the clock longer than necessary. It wasn’t as if the same pile of shit wouldn't be sitting there in the morning waiting to be shoveled, he thought to himself as he shifted his Corvette into third. The sports car: his first mid-life crisis purchase he made shortly before his divorce. He knew it was expensive and clichéd, but felt he deserv
ed a reward for his shoveling abilities. Being an IT professional did have its monetary perks, after all. Which was why his father insisted that a career in Information Technology was much better than his first career choice of high school English teacher. Brandon could hear the old man's favorite expression that made him want to vomit every time he heard it: "I believe in the hereafter and money's what I'm here after." He hated the way he allowed that man to control him. Being a high school English teacher might not have paid much, but Brandon would have been happier.
His thoughts were interrupted as his phone began blasting Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead.
“Fuck." He muttered as he fumbled around in his pocket for his phone.
Without checking the screen, he answered.
"Hello, Marcia," Brandon said, curling his lip in disdain as the fantasy of throwing a bucket of water on her popped in his head.
"Cam needs a new retainer." She curtly responded, not bothering to greet him in return.
"And how are you, Marcia?" He asked with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
“I need five-hundred dollars. A-SAP." She ignored him.
Bitch.
“That’s what child support is for.” Brandon reminded her, irritated at how Marcia took immense pleasure in extracting more money from him at every opportunity. This, after she had already taken him to the cleaners in their divorce.
“You’re responsible for any medical or dental expenses not covered under your insurance. Child support is separate.” She stated as if quoting directly from the divorce decree.
“You’re his mother. I pay you alimony, which comes from me. Viola! There’s your five hundred dollars.” He bolstered his argument.
“You know full well it doesn’t work that way.” She snipped. “I have expenses, too, you know?”
“Oh yeah, supporting that deadbeat boyfriend of yours. Is he still, quote: ‘between jobs?’” He smirked, thinking of Lance, her blonde twenty-something-year-old house boy—a self-declared trainer who was supposedly the ‘love of her life.’ Not to say the guy wasn’t attractive, but the few times Brandon had been around him, he definitely did nothing to discourage the stereotype of a meathead.
“Five-hundred dollars or I call my attorney. It’s your choice.” She insisted.
Brandon contemplated telling her to go to Hell but decided he didn’t want to have to deal with being dragged back to court once again. He recalled the past two years when she had him back in court three times. The first time she claimed he had a foreign investment he didn’t disclose during the divorce. The second time she believed he had received a raise and therefore, her child support should be increased. The third and most ridiculous time, she insisted that he should pay for the dog’s hip surgery, claiming it was Cameron’s emotional support animal, and therefore fell under his medical care.
“Well?” She interrupted his train of thought.
“Fine! I’ll get him one, but I’m taking him to the orthodontist myself.” Brandon yelled.
“Fine!” She hung up.
Brandon pulled his shorts and tank top from his bag and placed them on the locker room bench beside him as he began to undress. He glanced across the room as the elderly gentleman with a towel around his waist grabbed his clothes from the locker behind him. With his pants securely in hand, the man dropped the towel. Trying to avert his eyes quickly as to not see what he definitely did not want to see, Brandon had waited a little too long to avert his eyes. The image of the naked octogenarian burned into his brain. He shuddered. God, I don’t want to look like that in twenty years. He turned and focused his attention on his own reflection in the locker room mirrors as he removed his slacks. The muscle building and diet routine he had been on the past two years had definitely paid off. The sedentary lifestyle he’d led most of his life had made him flabby and out-of-shape, but now he was built. Bodybuilding had become his new obsession. His trainer even suggested at one point he consider entering the gym’s over fifty bodybuilding competition, but the idea of greasing his skin up and posing in a tiny Speedo…well, talk about embarrassing. Not to mention the fact that he’d have to shave his chest, armpits, and legs, which was something that did not appeal to him. He liked having what little body hair he had.
His self-assessment was interrupted by the long squeak of the door to the locker room opening. His eyes darted towards the sound of footsteps and were rewarded by a vision of beauty entering the steamy locker room. Brandon immediately went into his ‘check out the hot guy in the locker room’ stealth mode. This consisted of the following actions: bending over with the head down, shooting the eyes upwards or sideways, depending on the positioning of the target, finding ways of extending the clothes changing process, and finally, yet most importantly, never ever make direct eye contact with The Target.
Brandon pulled on his shorts, occasionally glancing at The Target, who was less than ten feet away undressing. The Target pulled off his shirt. Brandon’s eyes went immediately to his smooth pecs and abs that looked absolutely mouth-watering. Probably a college-age football or rugby player, Brandon sized him up. His tanned skinned was the tell-tale sign this guy had spent a lot of time in the sun without a shirt. His hair was dark and shoulder length. Could be a model? Brandon discreetly, yet unashamedly, watched the young stud as he removed his jeans and pulled off his underwear. The stud turned towards Brandon to grab another pair of underwear from his gym bag, and Brandon’s eyes locked on that part just below the waist. Holy fuck! This guy is perfect!
When the young stud’s eyes locked with Brandon’s, a grin coming to his face, Brandon realized he had been overly confident in his stealth mode activities. His cover was blown. Brandon quickly looked away as he rushed to pull his tank top over his head and scurry out of the locker room. For the first time in his life, he’d been caught. Sure, he’d done it all his life, but he’d always been careful not to get caught. He never revealed his sexual interests in men to anyone. Brandon was so deep in the closet that there was a secret compartment in the closet that led to a bigger, fancier closet. If his father ever found out, he would disown him. Marcia never knew. He could still perform his husbandly duties thanks to his very active imagination. She had never suspected a thing until the last few years of their marriage when his mid-life crisis had consumed him, and he started evaluating his whole life—including his sexuality.
During that time, their sex life became non-existent. He was certain she had already turned to someone else to fulfill her sexual needs as she certainly showed no interest in him anymore. Brandon turned in on himself and sunk into a deep depression realizing this was the life he had chosen. He had chosen the path of the All-American dream: the good job, the nice house, two cars in the garage, a condo in the Caribbean, and of course, the wife, kid, and family pet to make the picture absolutely perfect. It was all a lie. The only good thing that ever came out of that life was his son Cameron, and now that had gone sour as Cam blamed him for the divorce. God, if I could do it all over again, he thought to himself as he walked out onto the gym floor.
Deciding on hitting the bench press first, he ambled towards the weights-side of the room. He knew he could easily bench two twenty-five; sometimes two-fifty if he put all he had into it, but he could never achieve the weight someone half his age could press, which pissed him off.
After doing his first two sets, he looked towards the leg press and spotted The Target pushing the entire stack of weights. Brandon’s mouth watered as The Target’s quadriceps bulged under the pressure. Brandon felt himself getting aroused, which was an ability he had lost until recently when he was diagnosed with a common condition for a man of his age - low testosterone levels, also known as the ‘male menopause.’ He’d been wondering why he’d been feeling so lethargic and couldn’t get it up. At first, he thought it was just his depression, but after going to his doctor and having lab work done, he was told his T-level was low. The doctor prescribed him weekly testosterone injections, and while they did help, it was still something he
was very embarrassed about. It made him feel like less of a man.
Brandon laid back down on the bench, hoping the tent in his shorts wasn’t too noticeable and started his fourth set. He concentrated hard as he lifted the bar from the rack and brought it down to his chest. When a deep voice came from behind him, Brandon lost his concentration, nearly dropping the bar and decapitating himself. He recovered with what he felt was style and panache.
“Need a spotter?” The manly voice boomed.
Brandon glanced back and saw the object of his desire smiling down at him, perfectly straight, white teeth flashing. Brandon swore he saw sparkles and heard a ‘ding,’ like something out of a fairytale, but dismissed it as his growing near-sightedness and the sound of crashing weights.
“Um. Yeah. Sure.” Brandon smiled as he glanced at The Target’s perfectly tanned chest through the cut-out sleeves of his shirt. “Thanks.”
Putting his hands evenly apart on the weight bar, he lifted it from the rack once again and brought it to his chest. He then took a deep breath and pushed upwards, letting the breath out when his arms were completely straight. He then brought the bar back down and repeated the process seven more times, each rep becoming more difficult. On his eighth rep, he strained, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not lift the bar from his chest. Like a muscular Godsend, two large hands appeared and pulled it quickly up to the rack, ensuring Brandon’s safety.
“Thanks.” Brandon let out a sigh of relief, completing drained.
“Nice job.” The Target said.
“Not bad, I guess.” Brandon shrugged and sat up; grabbing his towel from under the bench.
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