by Chase Connor
Jacob Michaels Is Tired
A Point Worth LGBTQ Paranormal Romance – Book 1
By: Chase Connor
© Copyright 2018
All characters depicted in sexual situations in this publication are eighteen years of age or older. 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.
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. Point Worth is a fictional Ohio town. None of this is real.
Jacob Michaels Is Tired
A Point Worth LGBTQ Paranormal Romance
Book 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Back Material
Chapter 1
A hospital. That’s where everything would have ended. I would have ended up in some ritzy place with a king-size bed, a private balcony, a jetted tub, a separate living room, a kitchenette, a lap pool, overlooking the ocean, with a five-star restaurant on site. I would get room service breakfast every day, massages and other spa treatments, private laundry service, satellite television, high-speed Wi-Fi, and every other amenity that I could ever want. That would have been the type of place I would have ended up at if things had continued. Of course, that wouldn’t have solved the problem. But people in my industry still tend to jettison off to those types of places at least once in their career, claim “exhaustion”—or maybe Epstein-Barre—and hide away for a 30-day vacation.
I wouldn’t have been the first to do it.
Hiding away from time to time over the last ten years wasn’t exactly a new concept to me. I had spent time in India at the feet of Sadhus. In Tibet with monks who refused to speak but were not above a reproaching glare if I stepped out of line. I’d been to Machu Pichu, the rainforests, a retreat to see the Northern Lights, done an Ayahuasca retreat in Peru, and been on safari in what was white people’s version of “wild Africa”. I’m pretty sure the wilds of Africa didn’t include elaborate treehouse style hotels with twelve-hundred thread count sheets on the Tempur-Pedic mattresses.
Other times, I had just taken Ecstasy and danced at some of the most exclusive clubs in L.A., New York, Ibiza, Las Vegas, London, Tokyo—everywhere in the world, really. Anywhere there was hedonism and debauchery, places that helped the rich and overprivileged “relax”. But a decade of using alternative forms of treatment had left me completely exhausted. Left me uncreative, unproductive, and unhappy. Exhaustion was definitely my diagnosis now—and I wasn’t using the word as a euphemism for “drug problem” or “secret sex tape”—though I’d used drugs recreationally before. Nothing severe, but using drugs is still not the best choice sometimes. However, I could almost guarantee that there were no sex tapes featuring yours truly out there since I hadn’t had sex in so long that I almost forgot what it was like to actual touch another man in that way.
Ultimately, I was merely exhausted. When I looked into the rearview mirror, the dark circles under my eyes were almost as dark as my pupils. Maybe that was hyperbole, but they were definitely prominent. I hadn’t trimmed my stylish beard in several days and I was desperately in need of a shower. But I hadn’t dared to stop to get a hotel on my cross-country trip. Sure, if I’d had an assistant, agent, or manager with me, I would have just sent them inside to pay and get a key to a room. By myself, however, that was a dangerous idea. Being so recognizable has its drawbacks. Even stopping for gas, I put off until the very last second since I was paranoid that someone would recognize me while at the pumps.
I’d been on the road for nearly forty-two hours. Even with the Red Bulls and coffees, and innumerable cigarettes, I’d still had to stop to take naps in out of the way rest stops along the way. The car was smelling fairly rank and I felt like I was getting at least one bedsore from sitting for so long. God, I’d lost so much weight. Not that I was ever more than a normal weight for my size, but I had gone from a normal weight, well-toned, muscled, tan—to…this. I was pale, skeletal, and weak. Even the camera couldn’t make up for all the weight I had lost over the last six months.
When I crossed into Ohio from Indiana on highway 90, I breathed a little easier. I had less than two hours to go before I could park my car, crawl into a bed, and pretend to be dead for as long as I could. I lit up a cigarette and cracked the driver’s side window, immediately being assaulted by frigid air. Obviously, no one had told upper Ohio that spring had sprung. I shoved the cigarette between my teeth and held it tightly as I pulled my cardigan more snuggly around me, somehow managing to keep the car on the road throughout the process. Between the frigid air and the cigarette, as well as the last half of a Red Bull in the cupholder, I’d be able to drive for the two hours I had left.
Glancing at the gas gauge, I gave a sigh of relief. A little over half a tank of gas. I could easily make it to Point Worth. Thrown out into skull-fucked nowhere of Ohio, between Toledo and Marblehead, is Point Worth, right on the shores of Lake Erie. It’s a town of less than five-thousand and has all the amenities you’d expect for a population that size. A good time in Point Worth is driving into Toledo for “fine dining” and a visit to the “big ole movie theater”. It’s the kind of place where you see a lot of Carhartt, if you catch my drift. The coveralls and bib-overalls are particularly popular during fall and winter.
Thinking of the fashion choices in Point Worth, I glanced down at myself. My DSquared2 jeans, R13 distressed Cashmere Sweater, Brunello Cucinelli cardigan, and Buscemi sneakers would look out of place. Yeah, I looked like a bunch of designers tossed their highly pricey and ugly cookies up all over me. However, they were all the warmest items in my bags, so that’s what I was wearing. I’d do some shopping when I got to Point Worth so that I’d blend in better with the locals. After I slept for days. But I’d tie cinderblocks around my ankles and throw myself into Lake Erie before I wore Carhartt. I’d done enough of that in my youth. Besides, the color of mustard-brown shit is not really the best look for me.
It’s funny how the last two hours of a long trip are always the longest and hardest. The last of my Red Bull disappeared quickly and my cigarettes were dwindling quickly. I groaned to myself as I realized that I’d either have to slow down on the chain-smoking or stop again before Point Worth. Risking a problem so close to Point Worth, I ended up stopping at a convenience store in the middle of nowhere and grabbed another Red Bull and a carton of cigarettes. Menthol. They had the best bang for your buck, in my opinion.
When the wheels of my car first touched pavement pas
t the city limits of Point Worth, I had smoked nearly half of a fresh pack of cigarettes and the freshly purchased Red Bull had been drained. I was still more tired than I ever remembered being in my entire life. I put my sunglasses on—designer again—as I drove through town as quickly as I could without drawing the attention of the police. Luckily, I was driving my old Lincoln MKZ, which I had done on purpose, so the car itself didn’t draw much attention if any.
Halfway through town, I hooked a left towards the shores of Lake Erie, where, on the outskirts of town, my salvation awaited. When I could see Lake Erie in the distance, I gave a sigh of relief as I took another turn down a wooded road. A few miles further and I found the driveway I’d been looking for like I had just been there the day before. I drove down the long driveway until the woods gave way to an acre sized clearing. The American Craftsman style home, still in excellent condition, sat in the middle of the lot, forest greens and browns and majestic, looking like Heaven.
The old Chevy pickup that was always up by the house was still sitting there, clean and in excellent shape—but still ancient. The smaller Honda Civic, newer, but also in excellent condition sat next to it. I pulled up behind the Civic and threw my car into park. Immediately, I turned the car off and laid my head against the steering wheel. I had a quarter tank of gas left. Now I was safe and I didn’t have to worry about stopping anywhere. Of course, I could’ve filled up when I stopped for Red Bull and cigarettes, but I had just wanted to get what I had stopped for and go.
With a great summoning of will and determination, I opened my door and stepped out onto the gravel driveway onto rickety legs. The wood stacked at the side of the house still had piles of slush on it, though the rest of the acre seemed fairly clear of winter. I grabbed my bags from the trunk, as well as the overly large gift bag, and locked the car up tight. Not that anyone would be dumb enough to try to steal anything on this piece of land. I walked around the house from the driveway and walked up the steps to the front porch. However, before I made it to the porch, the front door swung open and a whirlwind made up of a housedress, slippers, and cackling voice accosted me.
“Well, if you came looking for warm weather, you fucked up, Robbie!” The crazed woman laughed loudly. “You should’ve brought some of that California weather with you!”
“Hi, Oma.” I smiled weakly at her.
“Hi, Oma. Hi, Oma he says.” She put her hands on her hips. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in two years, and the best you got is hi, Oma?”
“I’m sorry.” I grinned. “It’s been a long trip and I’m just really tired.”
“Well, you look like something the cat swallowed whole and barfed up half-digested, that’s for sure.” She shook her head.
I grimaced as she marched forward and threw her arms around me, bags and all. Even being hugged hurt my bones and what little muscle I had left.
“You smell like Big Foot’s asshole, too.” She pulled away, but didn’t rub salt into the wound by making a face. “You’re still smoking.”
I just looked at her.
“I brought you a gift.” I held up the gift bag.
“Is it chocolate?” She asked. “You know I got the sugars.”
“It’s not chocolate, Oma.” I replied. “You can’t eat it.”
“Well, shit.” She sighed, disappointed, then looked me up and down. “That’s…well, that’s an outfit.”
I frowned.
“Look like something straight out of a fashion magazine. You may as well get in the house.” She shrugged. “Can’t get you settled in if you just stand out here looking like an idiot, can we?”
“I guess not.” I said neutrally.
“Did you have any trouble driving in?” My grandmother asked me as we entered the house and she shut the door tightly against the cold. “All the roads were surely clear by now?”
“It was a little patchy in Iowa and Illinois.” I answered, still holding my bags, looking in at the warm living room and the wide staircase that led upstairs. “But nothing too bad.”
“Sons of bitches can’t even agree on a baseball team, how the hell do you expect their infrastructure to work?” She snorted. “Now, look, I made you some Bratwurst, creamed peas and potatoes, cabbage…”
My stomach turned.
“And you look like you could use a good meal.” She finished.
Her eyes were appraising the dark circles under my eyes and the sharp angles of my face. I didn’t want to remove my cardigan.
“Yeah.” I nodded, not wanting to admit the truth. “That sounds delicious, Oma.”
My grandmother beamed at me, but her eyes looked sad.
The truth was, I didn’t know if my stomach would allow me to keep down a meal made up of greasy sausage, creamy vegetables, and gas-inducing greenery. I didn’t have to ask to know that there was probably also bacon in the cabbage. And, if I knew my Oma, she had made an apple pie or Stollen. But…if I didn’t eat, that would bring on a whole new set of problems that I didn’t want to deal with at the moment, if ever.
“Just set those bags down, then.” She shoved at my arms. “We’ll get them up to your room after you eat.”
It was barely eleven o’clock in the morning, which is when I told my grandmother to expect me. I hadn’t even eaten anything for breakfast. In fact, I hadn’t eaten anything solid in seventy-two hours. Coffee, Red Bull, and nicotine had been my sustenance for the last three days. I had only slept sporadically. My body was going to reject the food. There was no way I was going to keep it down. However, I just had to keep it down until I got upstairs. No matter how exhausted I was, I knew that I could do that.
“Just sit down there.” My grandmother practically shoved me into a chair at the kitchen chair and tossed her gift bag into another chair. “I’ll fix us a plate. What do you want to drink, Robbie?”
“Rob’s fine.” I rolled my eyes since her back was turned. “Water, please.”
“I’ll call you whatever the Hell I want.” My grandmother waggled her head as she faced the stove, plate in hand. “I wiped your ass and nose, I’ll call you Robbie ‘til the fucking cows come home.”
“Okay.” I put my elbows on the table and rested my head in my hands.
“You must be tired from the trip.” She snorted as she shoveled food onto the plate in her hand. “Giving up that easy.”
I just made a humming sound in response.
My grandmother worked at the stove for a minute, doling out portions of food onto the first plate, then another. Finally, she came over to the table and slapped one of them down in front of me. On the plate was a single Bratwurst, one spoonful of the potatoes and peas, and a small portion of the cabbage. Her plate held twice as much food as the one she had practically slammed down in front of me. She sat down in the seat across from me and glared at me.
“What?” I asked it more roughly than I had intended.
“Maybe you won’t puke it up if you don’t eat too much.” She growled back. “What the Hell have you gotten up to? You look like a goddamn corpse and that uppity looking sweater isn’t hiding shit from me. It doesn’t cover your goddamn face.”
“It’s a cardigan.”
“It could be a goddamn tarp and I’d still know you weigh fifty pounds less than the last time I saw you.” She snorted. “You been on that stuff?”
“That…stuff?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.” She picked her fork up aggressively. “You know what I’m talking about. You been doing them drugs?”
“Not for over a year.” I replied evenly.
“Mmm.” She appraised me. “Ya’ sick? You got that HIV or something? Shooting up can do that. All that unprotected sex…”
“I’ve never shot up anything and I’ve never in my life had unprotected sex.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ve been tested every six months since I was twenty-years-old and my doctor put me on PrEP five years ago. Not that I need it right now, so that’s moot.”
“Now, I’ve heard of that.” She jabbed he
r fork at me. “The boys over in Toledo at the center were telling me about how you can get it for free if you do this voucher program.”
I nodded.
“You still volunteer at the LGBTQ center?” I asked, picking up my fork.
“Have been since before you left.” She shook her head like I was an idiot for thinking otherwise. “Like an asshole in the middle of the night. And it’s LGBTQIA now.”
I rolled my eyes.
“But don’t change the fucking subject.” She skewered a potato and crammed it in her mouth. “Why the Hell do you look like Death warmed over, Robbie?”
I used my fork to cut a bite-size piece of bratwurst off and tentatively shoved it in my mouth. It was delicious. And I wanted to puke. But I chewed it and swallowed, managing to not grimace.
“I’m tired.” I replied. “I’m…I’m just tired, Oma.”
“Well, tired calls for a nap.” She snorted once again. “You look like you’re ready for the dirt.”
It wasn’t my intention, but I dropped my fork on my plate and put my head to the table. And then the tears came. Silent, but big and wet, rolling out of my eyes onto the wood directly beneath my face.
“Put your napkin under your face so you don’t ruin the finish.” My grandmother stated blandly.
I just did as I was told and slid the cloth napkin under my face. For what seemed like forever, I cried exhausted tears, wondering how I had let myself get to this place physically, emotionally, and mentally. How was I back at my Oma’s house in the middle of nowhere, looking skeletal, all of the life I had completely gone. When the tears finally stopped, I sat up, puffy faced, surely, with red eyes, absolutely, and picked my fork back up.
“I hope you didn’t come here for sympathy.” She eyed me. “You’re welcome here as long as you want, Robbie. But I’m not going to sit here and play the ‘poor pitiful me’ game with you. You just had to rush off and act a damn fool, you sit there and suffer.”
