Love Is Proud

by JMS Books Authors

  I went inside, shutting the door behind me. I’d been over here once before, but hadn’t gotten much further than the living room at the time because Bulldog had tackled me to the floor. Now, he was nowhere in sight.

  “Bulldog!” I called out. “I brought food.” I found the kitchen and peeked in his cabinets until I found plates. I was just getting comfy when Nicholas stalked into the kitchen, now in shorts and a T-shirt. He stopped at the table, hands on his hips.

  “Why are you here? Can’t I die of embarrassment in peace?”

  “Nope,” I replied, smiling around a mouthful of pepperoni.

  Sighing, Bulldog sat at the table and took a slice, muttering to himself about upstart ranch hands who thought they knew everything, and where was his gun when he needed it? I wisely said nothing.

  We ate in silence until both pies were gone, and then started in on the beer. When we started on our second, I said, “There’s nothing wrong with feeling something beyond lust for someone else, Bulldog,” I said. “Just because you don’t want roses and the altar and total monogamy doesn’t mean you can’t have a meaningful relationship with someone, on your terms.”

  “But…”

  I cut him off. “I’m not much for monogamy or forever partnerships myself, but I connect with you, we have great sex and we don’t get on each other’s nerves. How about we just start with that, and if either of us gets itchy and wants to change it up, we do it, and it doesn’t affect this…whatever you call it.”

  The hope in Bulldog’s eyes was almost blinding, it was so bright. “Really?”

  I smiled. “Really.”

  He bit his bottom lip before asking, “You think you can handle a randy sheriff with a wandering eye?”

  “If you can handle a horny ranch hand that has fucked pretty much every man’s ass within the tristate area and might still do so in the future, then yeah, we can make that work.”

  Bulldog finished his beer and stood, rounding the table to pull me up into his arms. “That hard-on still available from earlier?”

  “Won’t take long to bring it back,” I replied, nibbling on his neck and enjoying the way he felt against me. He fit so well, and my dick agreed with me.

  “God, I can hear my friends now, talking about how somebody finally tamed me. But they won’t really know the whole story, will they?” he said before biting my chin.

  “Won’t hear it from me,” I replied, tilting my head to give him more room.

  “Deal.”

  * * * *

  ABOUT J.D. WALKER

  J.D. Walker likes to keep her stories short and sweet. A multi-published author, she is also a musician, artist, and lover of all things knit and crochet. For more information, visit lifebyjo.com/jdwalker.

  What We Bury by Emery C. Walters

  Max went home to bury his father. The old man had died the way he had lived, stupidly. He fell down on the front steps and broke the bottle of gin he was carrying. A shard of broken glass pierced his chest. He’d made it to the hospital, but only lasted a few days before having a massive heart attack.

  Max’s brother Sam greeted Max at the door, saying, “How are you, you pest. Dad’s last words to me were, Don’t let that faggot say anything at my…damn waste of good gin…fuck this.” Then Sam threw his arms around his younger brother and wailed, “Damn it! What a stupid-head he was! I hated him, too, you know!”

  Max set down his bag and hugged his brother tight. “You too, huh?” he murmured. “I never knew.” Max was thinking that it was himself they’d all hated, Sam included.

  The door opened further, and a wizened old woman stepped out briskly. “Get in here you sons-a-bitches. What will the neighbors think?” But her tears belied her words. This was his father’s mother, a die-hard, doting mom to the last. “Your father couldn’t help it. He was a sick man. You should…”

  Sam reached behind him and pushed her not too gently back inside the house. Max turned the knob and pulled the door shut. “She’s the reason he drank,” he muttered with a touch of wry humor.

  “I thought it was his dear old Uncle Bob,” Sam replied, pulling back and wiping his eyes and nose on his shirt sleeve.

  The two brothers looked at each other. They were three years apart in age. Max was twenty-two and Sam twenty-five. They hadn’t seen each other in over four years, not since Max had left for college and Sam, a day later, had moved out for good. They looked at each other in earnest. It was almost like looking in a mirror. Dark brown hair, stylishly floppy over the forehead; deep brown eyes to match. No twinkle in those eyes now, though it would be hidden by the creased foreheads anyhow. The radiant smiles they were capable of were also not in sight. Slim and tall, both fit from their favorite sports—Sam played hockey and went roller-blading, and Max liked rock-climbing and dancing…too bad, because all their father had liked was football.

  There were footsteps, and they both looked toward the sound; another young man, similar in age and appearance but with blond hair and blue eyes, was coming up the sidewalk. Sam squinted; he felt he should know the guy but couldn’t place him at all.

  “Alastair Feldon,” the newcomer said, holding out his hand. “I was your father’s nurse at the end. I’m so sorry we couldn’t save him.” Then he looked confused. “I—Sam? Which of you is Sam? Your dad didn’t mention you had a twin.”

  Sam smiled. “I don’t,” he said, and left it at that. He turned and opened the door, almost snubbing the newcomer.

  Max smiled ruefully. “Don’t mind him. He’s upset, and I’m not sure he’s glad to see me either.”

  Alastair frowned. “Oh you must be—Max. That one. I mean,” Alastair began to blush.

  “‘The fag’? That son? Yes, that would be me.” Max was thinking, Dad must have loved this guy; they were apparently on the same wavelength. “I’m sure you did your best,” he added almost pleasantly, “Dad was probably very pleased to have you there.”

  Instead of a supercilious nod, however, Alastair dropped his eyes and took a good, long, and fairly rude look at Max’s body, his eyes travelling in a slow vee and his face blushing even harder. When he caught Max staring at him with his mouth hanging open, he managed to blurt out, “Uh, me likey, I mean, no, him no likey, I mean…Um…Shit.”

  Max still had no clue. “Well, let’s go in. I’m sure Grandma, I mean Dad’s mother of course, will be happy to see you.”

  Alastair did not look very happy. Max, looking down, noticed that part of Alastair, however, looked very happy indeed. How weird. Nonetheless, he said, “Let’s all go inside, shall we? And get it over with. Grandma—that’s Mrs. Harvey Daniels, Senior, to you, Mr. Feldon—must be dealt with.” He added quietly, “Or the funeral tomorrow will be unbearable.”

  Alastair put his hand softly on Max’s shoulder. “Never mind. We’ll get through it.”

  * * * *

  Inside was bedlam, chaos. The Daniels had lived in this house forever, it seemed to Max. Sam was already holding a bottle of beer and talking to the boys from next door, the McDonalds twins, Hank and Harley; the sons his father should have had. Husky, football oriented, having already slept with every girl in town, or so they had claimed, and thus, of course, perfectly straight. Of course, Sam was straight, but had he even seduced one girl? Sired one child out of wedlock? Oh, hell no. That didn’t help Max much though, too lost in his own misery to care, and what was all this leaving him alone with this—nurse—about? Had Sam snubbed him, too? Or was it just himself. Or was he just in a bad mood because he was here, hungry, and, and, here. There were the neighbors; there was Grandma’s bridge club. There were all the D.O.L.’s—the dear old ladies—as his father had called them, though not in front of his mother.

  Max and Sam’s mother had died years ago, before they were even teenagers. Max had soft, kind, warm memories of her but had been incensed that she had so thoughtlessly died and left them to their father and grandmother, with whom they had lived. His father’s childhood home. His grandmother had waited on them hand and foot,
but her service was bought and paid for in insults, criticism, and hurt feelings.

  Max was brought out of his miserable reverie by a hand squeezing his elbow, and a slight encouraging push toward the kitchen. Alastair hissed in his ear, “In there; we can get something to eat and then we can’t talk with our mouths full, can we?” They moved as one, with Alastair steering and Max mumbling hellos and yes-isn’t-it-sad’s all the way. His eyes were full of tears, but his heart was only full of anger.

  Max didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to be here at all, but now that he was, all he wanted to do was go up to his former bedroom, and go to sleep if it hadn’t been turned into a sewing room or something. Still, Alastair was shoving a plate full of cinnamon rolls, fried chicken, potato salad, and homemade brownies into his hand, and it smelled wonderful. Max decided to be nice. “Let’s go out on the back porch,” he said, and led the way.

  They sat in the old porch swing next to each and began to eat. Alastair’s plate was, if possible, even more full than his own. He’d also brought out a couple bottles of beer and proceeded to open them on a nearby hinge.

  “You’re handy,” Max said. “You must have really liked my old man.”

  “Hated his guts,” Alastair replied cheerfully, eating a piece of fried chicken.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “You. You, my man. I have something for you.” He wiped his face on his sleeve, having forgotten napkins, and pulled a card out of his suitcoat pocket.

  “You didn’t have to—you should give this to…”

  “Nope. You.” Alastair just stared at him, deep into him.

  “But you don’t even know me,” Max stated, confused, holding the card as if it had leprosy. He had a piece of potato on his upper lip and didn’t notice Alastair start to reach over to wipe it off.

  “Yes. I do know you. Now open it. I worked hard for that, and almost got fired. Because of you.”

  “But…I don’t understand.”

  “Open the fucking card!” Alastair shouted, wiping the potato off Max’s lip and licking it off his finger.

  Some aunt opened the door, called out, “What are you two…oh, never mind then. Carry on!” and backed away inside slowly shutting the door behind her. Neither of them noticed.

  Max opened the card as slowly and annoyingly as possible. Somehow it was no longer just a card. He went to raise a forkful of pie to his mouth and wasn’t at all surprised, just confused, when the man opposite him stopped him.

  Max read the card. The outside said, I’m sorry. Inside he saw his father’s lopsided scrawl. A few words of…He had to read them again. I was so wrong about you, Max. I’m so sorry. I love you and…

  Max couldn’t read anymore. His eyes were full of tears and his hand was shaking.

  Alastair took it back from him. He took his plate, too, and set both of them on the picnic table beside the swing. Then he took Max’s hands. “Max, honey, I don’t know you, but I do. I’ve loved you since he—your father—started talking about you and what a fool he’d been. Well, that’s not how he started it, it was all hatred at first, fag this and faggot that, you know? Just like my father used to be. And as soon as I heard that, it didn’t matter that I’d never met you in person; it didn’t matter that I didn’t know you; I knew you. I knew you were my—family—more so than our fathers had ever been. Chosen family, family united by ostracism, by our otherness, by who the hell knows what weird or unusual chemistry we are born with. I know you like I know myself. And I’ve loved you since that time.

  “See, I was his full-time night nurse for the last three nights of his life, and you were his only regret. Call me stupid or whatever, I couldn’t do it for my own father, but I could do it for yours, and thus, hopefully, for you, and maybe in the long run, for myself as well. I could try to bring him peace and let him die without hatred and misunderstanding in his heart.”

  Max was openly crying by now, staring back into those blue eyes that, other than color, were exactly like his own, into that other soul that was also exactly like his own. The pain was the same pain, the wish was the same wish, the love was coming from the same hidden, buried place. Max started to shiver. He could picture the silent hospital room, so peaceful so…

  “It was total bedlam. I started shouting at him, an old dying man in my care. The other nurses knew what was going on—hell, everyone on that floor knew what was going on—and one of them came and shut the door. After that I caught my breath and lowered my voice. You will not die like this, you hateful old man. You will not leave that legacy for your son—for your family—for the future. You. Will. Not. You won’t even go to Heaven with this on your soul.”

  Neither was aware of the door opening behind them, and various people crowding around it. One was old Grandma, Max’s father’s opinionated and hateful mother. Alastair continued.

  “‘Did your church teach you this? Did you learn to hate at your mother’s knee? Did you pick it up at school or from television, or did you just decide for yourself that you could only be whole and good-enough, if others were not. Did you just pick on homosexuals, or did you also hate Blacks, Muslims, or whoever the enemy du jour was, Episcopalians or Mormons or whatever?

  “‘When did you decide that being better than—no, feeling as if you were better than—others, was the only way to separate yourself from those who were unworthy?’ Fuck, I don’t know what all I said. I made him cry. A dying old man. Shit.” Now Alastair was crying. Everyone was crying. The sky was even beginning to cloud over.

  “Well,” Alastair went on, “what were you thinking all these years? All that boy’s childhood; not good enough. Therefore I am the best. They can’t be me. They…and then holy smoke, one’s a faggot. Did that trigger some latent feeling in yourself that you buried deep and denied? Or did you just not think at all, just go with the flow; it’s so much easier, and what would the neighbors think if I separate myself from them, their beliefs, their hatred, their standards? Will they vote me off the island?

  “Has it always been me vs. them? Me vs. my parents? Was it always I’m okay you suck?” Here Alastair took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes, visibly forcing himself to calm down. Then he wiped Max’s eyes, too. He started to say, “Blow,” but didn’t. He almost smiled.

  “Well, something rang his bell for him and after he glued himself together he said, You’re right. I won’t tell you what part, but you’re right and if it isn’t too late, maybe I can make amends. I do love my son, I love both my sons, but I was afraid they wouldn’t be strong, or if they were, they’d realize what an old fraud I am and not love me. I guess I was wrong on both counts, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I? Do you think it’s too late, son? Son, he called me son. I haven’t been called that in a long time. My own father…I couldn’t…He never…But yours—he made it, and he wrote this card. And now you know. You know he loved you, and you know that I do, too.”

  Max saw the wonder—and the tears—in Alastair’s eyes. He could feel the tears in his own eyes, and wondered where they had all come from. He needed to soothe Alastair’s tears now, right now, and only wished both their fathers could have come to realize, in time, that people were just people, different in many ways, the same in many other ways. It wasn’t up to them to judge.

  Max found himself forgiving his father, and felt that love that he had had to bury float free and encompass everyone: his brother, his grandmother, his father most of all, and more directly, this beautiful soul beside him, who was so much like him.

  He wanted to kiss this man and was leaning forward to do so when a teary old voice, his grandmother’s voice, said, “Oh mush. I guess I have to write an apology card now, too.” The door was shut softly, ever so softly, behind her.

  And so for the first time, but certainly not the last, their lips met.

  * * * *

  ABOUT EMERY C. WALTERS

  Emery C. Walters is the author of over twenty LGBT themed books, about coming of age, coming out, struggle and hope. His interests include writi
ng, photography, snorkeling, and Ninjutsu. He is a transman with a gay son, and lives in Hawaii with his wife, activist Robyn Walters.

  ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

  JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!