Out for the Holidays: An Out Novella

by Cara Dee

  “Breaking points push us to extremes sometimes.” Henry’s comment made me uneasy, because he’d voiced what I feared. It was the reason we were flying to Philadelphia rather than waiting and hoping for the best.

  Philadelphia. An outdoor concert tomorrow—in the dead of winter. Google had helped us pinpoint the exact time and place, and that was all we had to go on. Oh, and Dominic—who’d lived there once—had told us how to get to the concert venue.

  Martin was in the process of looking up all the bands attending to see which ones were based in California.

  Whereas I dressed for comfort in sweats and a matching hoodie, Henry donned an Armani suit. “Travel sharp and well,” he liked to say.

  My snob wasn’t gonna sleep as well as I did on the plane.

  We made it to Sea-Tac in record time, despite the weather that delayed our flight. It was almost midnight when we boarded, and Martin had texted us a final clue.

  One of the bands attending the outdoor concert was not only based in Los Angeles, but the singer was from “northern Washington.” For all I knew, they could’ve met at home.

  “Could it be from high school?” I asked, buckling my seat belt. A flight attendant came over and asked if we wanted something to drink while they boarded coach, but what I wanted—like, fucking clarity—wasn’t on the menu.

  “I have no idea,” Henry murmured as he scrolled through his phone. “It would be so much easier if I had a name to go on.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry, I thought I mentioned it. Jesse Novak is the singer, according to Martin.”

  “Novak.” Henry looked straight ahead and knitted his brows together. “Where have I heard that before?”

  No clue. It would be awesome if he remembered.

  Hopefully, I could sleep all the way to Philadelphia. We’d done everything we could. We’d bought tickets to this concert, we’d messaged Mattie on every social media platform he was on, and we’d booked a hotel room and confirmed an early check-in. Martin was also going to try to contact the organizers behind the event. Maybe they could help us somehow.

  As the plane taxied out, Henry pocketed his phone and loosened his tie. Once we were in the air, he was gonna go through his red-eye routine of setting aside his shoes, removing his tie, hanging up his suit jacket, and picking some foreign film to fall asleep to. He had a similar morning routine, except it included taking his toiletry bag to the bathroom instead of picking a movie.

  “I wanna be cute with you,” I said. “Hold my hand?”

  He chuckled a little and linked our fingers together on the armrests between us.

  “We are so far away from Camassia…” I yawned, pulled the hood of my sweater over my head, and zipped up my ski jacket as far as it went. Philly greeted us frigidly, and the line for the cabs was ridiculously long.

  Henry, who was still growing reaccustomed to colder climates after spending so many years in LA, rocked his wool overcoat. He was the picture of a sexy businessman, leather gloves included. Though, he was only wearing one at the moment because he wouldn’t let go of his phone. He was driving himself crazy with the last name he couldn’t place but was sure he’d heard before.

  “Almost our turn, honey.” I nudged our bags closer to the front of the line with my foot.

  I’d never been to Philly before.

  Moments later, we got in a cab and headed toward downtown where our hotel was. The skyline looked cool, and there was a trickle of excitement to see a new city.

  “Aha, I knew it,” Henry said. “I was searching in the wrong place, but I was certain I’d heard Novak before. Abel Hayes, remember him?”

  I nodded. He was the son of a couple Henry worked with back home. The wife, Adeline, ran a facility and safe place where victims of abuse could recover and get back on their feet. Henry hadn’t thought twice about getting involved in the organization. Lincoln, Adeline’s husband, was a music producer. He was probably best known as the former guitar player of Path of Destruction, an old rock band.

  “He’s a hockey player, right?” I recalled Abel was into hockey.

  “Indeed, he plays for the Canucks. Know what else?” Henry showed me his phone. “His full name is Abel Novak-Hayes.”

  I frowned, confused. That Abel and his brother were adopted was not news, but…wait. His brother. “Abel’s brother—didn’t he live in LA?”

  Henry inclined his head. “And that’s Jesse. Whether Mattie met him at the fundraiser in Seattle last fall, or they somehow ran into each other in LA, I don’t know. But this means I’m going to call Adeline the minute they wake up on the West Coast.”

  That was a relief. She of all people should know how to get in touch with Jesse, and by default, Mattie.

  “You’re the sexiest Sherlock that ever Sherlocked,” I said.

  He smirked. “Would you like to be my Watson?”

  “As long as Watson gets fucked, because I’m doing my Kegels right now.”

  Clench.

  Henry was on the phone while I showered off the plane ride and a too-brief nap, and when I came out with a towel wrapped around my hips, he was just wrapping up the call.

  “Of course, I’ll let you know. And apologies again for calling so early.” He placed the phone between his cheek and shoulder so he could hang up his shirts in the closet. People actually did that—used the hotel closet for clothes. “You too, Adeline. Give Nova-Lyn my best.” He smiled, referring to Adeline and Lincoln’s daughter. “Will do. Bye now.”

  “How did it go?” I asked.

  He’d already unpacked my stuff, which otherwise stayed in the suitcase, ’cause why not? So I dug out a pair of tight briefs that Henry got his rocks off seeing me in. I was more of a boxer briefs guy when it came to Henry and what I liked seeing him in. But he had those fantastic thighs. When the fabric stretched around his muscles, I went into gawk mode.

  “Adeline spoke to Jesse,” he replied and walked closer. “Mattie has asked not to talk to anyone, so Jesse was torn.” I put my hands on my hips while Henry “adjusted” my cock. It was one of his things. To make sure it was just so. “He wouldn’t let us pass along a message, but he put us on the list so we’ll have backstage access after the show—actually, let me just…” He sank to one knee, pulled down my briefs, and pressed his face to the sensitive spot where thigh met crotch.

  I trembled and let out a long “Hhnghh” sound, my hands falling to his shoulders. “Jesus, Henry. Warnings—what have we said about them?”

  “Not a fan.” He hummed and licked the length of my dick. “You can’t have it both ways, darling boy. Either you want me to catch you off guard, or you want to be warned.”

  Touché. Forget what I was saying.

  “Go on,” I rasped.

  He made an appreciative sound and sucked me strongly into his mouth, swirling his tongue around me as I thickened and grew harder.

  It wasn’t like we had any plans before the concert…

  At six o’clock, we left the hotel in our warmest clothes and started the trek toward the concert venue. Henry explained he hadn’t been in Philadelphia for many years but remembered the location was near the Liberty Bell. Five minutes of walking in snowfall was enough for me to call bullshit on the “within walking distance” claim.

  Los Angeles had spoiled me. No one walked there.

  Grabbing Henry’s glove-covered hand, I inched closer to him as we shared the sidewalk with way too many people. There was an atmosphere about the city I liked, though. The downtown area wasn’t huge, and it was less crazy than New York. Despite the cold, I smiled a little and looked up at the darkening sky. The tall buildings here weren’t exactly the norm back home, or in what we called the earthquake zone.

  You’re not in Camassia anymore, Zachary…

  “Disgusting fags,” someone muttered as he passed.

  The anger unfurled instantly, and I turned around to—

  “Keep walking, my love.” Henry had a tight grip on my arm and moved me forward. I huffed and nearly stumbled.
“You’re better than that.”

  “I’ll happily prove you wrong,” I spat angrily under my breath. “Jesus Christ. How can you let that shit slide?”

  I knew I was lucky. We never ran into trouble in LA, and once Pammie took over managing the store, I stopped encountering the worst hicks. I caught a sneer and the rare comment here and there, but it was bearable, though it still angered me.

  “Because the odds are in my favor,” he told me, “that one day, his niece, child, or friend’s kid will look at him and call him an uneducated bigot. They won’t respect him, nor think he’s macho. The man back there will become entirely irrelevant. Worthless. His opinion will have no meaning whatsoever, and he’ll hate it.”

  “You can’t know that,” I replied, irritated. “You can’t be sure people will change.”

  “Individually? No. But remember, I speak from experience, Zachary.” Henry gave me a wry glance. “This is why we educate and work to raise awareness, so that the next generation will have better opportunities. When I was your age, there were few places I’d hold another man’s hand in public. Slurs and insults were the mildest attack back then.”

  I frowned at the wet ground, processing what he’d said. The patience Henry possessed…I didn’t have a fraction of it. My temper got the best of me when idiots needed to be schooled.

  “So it’s always for the next generation,” I said quietly.

  “If we’re lucky, we get to see the hard work paying off.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “I see it every day, and it’ll get even better. In the meantime, we keep working, and we try to teach people tolerance. Including fools like Martin.”

  I chuckled once, having witnessed their political fights a few times. Martin called himself fiscally conservative and socially liberal, something that drove Henry mad.

  “I think it’s time I get involved in Second Family,” I admitted. “I should help. I want to. And I’m marrying this hot sugar daddy, so I guess I can afford it.”

  Henry laughed and hugged me to him. “Look at you, making such progress. Daddy’s very proud.”

  “Hnngh, that’s so hot.”

  I quit the jokes, my mind already spinning on this. I could split my time between ShadowLight and Second Family, maybe get some exposure for the nonprofit through the modeling gigs? Brooklyn’s husband and brother-in-law’s organization for rescue dogs already had a Pet Buddy project with Second Family for LGBTQ+ people who were afraid to be alone.

  For some reason, people listened to me. I’d brushed off Brooklyn’s talk about YouTube ratings and how my videos were generally the most popular, because I was crap at accepting praise. Perhaps it was time to use it to build my career, a lasting one.

  “This could actually become something.” I was getting increasingly pumped to get involved, and I explained my thoughts to Henry about spokesperson stuff and what I could do to gain exposure. “And the whole point of her diversity campaign was to raise awareness, so I don’t see her flat-out refusing,” I went on. “I think I need to talk to her after the holidays.”

  “And out of the hellfire of hatred, rises the voice of—”

  “Oh my God, stop it, Lord Byron.”

  “You couldn’t have chosen a less deviant poet?”

  Nah.

  “Ticket admission is over there.” I pointed across the street.

  There was a huge lawn, and a stage was taking up the northern end of it. Music blared out, distorted by the winds, and the spotlights traveled across the audience. Beer tents and merchandise vendors had people crowding this side of the area, and there were plenty of people moving around outside the fences too.

  Crossing the street, Henry retrieved our printed tickets from the inside of his coat, and he handed me one.

  “Let me know if you see anyone handing out programs,” he requested.

  I stifled my smirk. “This is a rock concert, baby, not a show on Broadway.”

  He peered down at me, brows knitted. “No programs?”

  I shrugged. “Online, sure, and you’ll probably find posters with the lineup.”

  “Hmph.” He muttered something as an “aside” that they were called playbills on Broadway, but I tuned out the adorable nut. “How do collectors save anything from rock shows, then?”

  “Apparel.” I got a kick out of this. “I think most buy hoodies with the lineup or the tour name on the back.”

  “A bit difficult to put in an album.” He sniffed and handed his ticket over to the girl in the ticket booth. “Good evening.”

  “Your hand,” she said.

  “Pardon?” Henry looked confused.

  I grinned, gave her my ticket, and stuck out my hand to get it stamped.

  “Ah.” My man wasn’t humored for shit, but he removed a glove and let her press the bright blue stamp onto his skin. As we entered the concert area, he looked at it in dismay. “It’s smeared already.”

  “I love you,” I laughed.

  “I’m so glad I amuse you,” he drawled. “Now, where can we find Mattie?”

  “I guess we wait.” I slipped my hand into his and eyed the vendors around us. Jesse’s band was one of the last ones to go on, and we’d timed it so we got here halfway through the event. “Let’s grab some outrageously expensive shitty beer and hot dogs.”

  “When you put it like that…”

  For the first ten or fifteen minutes, Henry was the epitome of upper class who, though he was always too humble to ever look down on anyone, definitely struggled with the “mess of things.” The ground was wet and muddy, the bar tables were sticky, and the sight of port-a-johns made him look so horrified that I guffawed until I couldn’t breathe.

  This was the man who had no issues with going hunting, fishing, gutting fish, and getting his hands dirty.

  “That’s different,” he argued. “There’s a time and place, and I don’t wear dress shoes in the woods.” He grimaced as he stepped in a small puddle of snow and mud.

  Okay, time to turn his frown upside down. To my shock, I’d learned he’d never eaten a pretzel before, so that was next on the menu—since he’d made a face and declined the hot dog. Which was fucking delicious if you asked me.

  He bitched about not being hungry the entire time we waited in line, then muttered under his breath as I ordered two soft pretzels and paid for them, then sighed heavily as I tore into a packet of mustard and shoved the pretzel in his face.

  “Try it,” I ordered.

  He surrendered with another quiet scoff and dipped the pretzel in the mustard. Then he took a small bite and chewed it slowly.

  I bit into mine with a grin.

  Henry was silent for a moment. He swallowed the salted bread and took himself another taste, this one bigger. More mustard.

  “My goodness.” He brushed salt flakes off his chest and bit into the pretzel properly.

  “You like it. You really, really like it.”

  “Don’t tell Martin—but God. These are amazing.”

  That was only the beginning. It was a rock concert, not a county fair, so the options were limited once Henry admitted that he didn’t have much experience with festival foods.

  “Mother would never let Thorne and me eat street food,” he said.

  Poor guy. It was my responsibility to change that, so I looked around to see if there were any other edibles, and I came up kinda empty. Unless he wanted to try crappy pizza or candied almonds—actually…

  “Have you tried candied almonds?” I asked.

  “Can’t say I have. I know they smell delicious, though,” he replied pensively. “They are impossible to miss at fairs.”

  I dragged him along as a new band went on stage, and Henry quickly finished his pretzel on the way, licking mustard off his fingers.

  I dug out a few crumpled bills from my pocket and paid for a cone of almonds, which was from the only Christmas-inspired vendor around. Cheap decorations sparkled and flashed in green and red around the little booth, and it called for a selfie.

  “Let’s
eternalize the moment my fiancé tried candied almonds for the first time,” I said.

  I smiled into the camera, whereas Henry inspected the candy. It was perfect. I snorted. My nose was getting red, I noticed as I studied the photo.

  It was the night Henry fell in love. A slew of “how come I haven’t tried these before?” and “oh my” and “this is fucking amazing” slipped through his lips while he crunched his way through half the cone.

  “Can I have some?” I asked.

  “I love you with all my heart, but I’d prefer if you got your own.”

  Great.

  Before we decided to move closer to the stage, Henry had bought himself another cone of almonds to bring home—as if they’d make it that far—and he’d purchased a T-shirt with the “program” on the back. The whole thing was a charity concert, and he couldn’t possibly go home without a keepsake.

  On the way to the stage, we bought two more beers.

  “I’m quite enjoying this,” Henry commented.

  I brushed my thumb across the corner of his mouth. Beer foam. “I’m enjoying you.”

  He kissed my nose.

  The closer we got to the stage, the more people there were. It was impossible to get to the front, and we settled for a spot to the side about fifty feet away. That was when the nerves hit. Mattie dropped out of college. Here Henry and I were, enjoying the concert like it was an outing we’d planned to attend for the fun of it.

  It was surreal to me. It’d been less than three weeks ago I learned Mattie was into music and playing the drums. It didn’t feel like we were here to watch him actually perform. No, it didn’t compute. I would’ve believed it if he were a roadie or something. Instead, he was supposedly taking the stage at any moment in front of a few thousand people.

  “He’s never shown interest in this before.” I had to say it again. “Math, cars, engineering, the mechanics of things. He’s obsessed with taking shit apart and putting it back together.”

  “Maybe that’s what he’s doing.” Henry positioned me in front of him and tucked his hands into the pockets of my jacket. “Your brother is a bright young man, Zachary. I say we give him the benefit of the doubt and keep our fretting between you and me. For all we know, he’s identified a problem, and he’s dealing with it.”