Jacob Michaels Is Tired (A Point Worth LGBTQ Paranormal Romance Book 1)

by Chase Connor

  “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 lid 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 the 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 last 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 brea
thing 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 real 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.”

  “Jeez, maybe I was wrong about being his friend.” I teased.

  “I ain’t seen you do nothing except take your prescribed medication since you got here, and I didn’t even see that, so stop acting so goddamn special.” She grumbled playfully. “But, since you gotta take something, stay away from alcohol and sugar.”

  “Well, we’ll stop by the store before we head over to his house.” I shrugged.

  “I’m not going.” She snorted.

  “Why?” I frowned. “I mean, he invited the two of us.”

  “Because I got things to do.” She turned on me, putting her hands on her hips. “Just because you accepted an invitation on my behalf doesn’t mean that I’m going to go somewhere. Do I tell you what to do?”

  “Every chance you get, yeah.” I nodded earnestly. “Won’t Lucas be upset?”

  “Oh, hell.” She turned back to the sink. “I see him once or twice a week. We get our quality time in, don’t you worry.”

  “Fine.” I shrugged as I stood from the table, coffee mug in hand. “But, if it’s awkward or he’s upset you didn’t show up, it’s on your head, lady.”

  “Won’t be my first time getting labelled the villain.”

  “I have no doubt.” I rolled my eyes.

  I left the kitchen without another word. Instead, I went to the front door, grabbed the Carhartt that I had been loaned by Mr. Barkley, slipped it on, then went out to the front porch. I sat down in one of the Adir
ondack chairs on the front porch and kicked back with my cup of coffee. Even this late in the morning, the front lawn looked a little frosty from the overnight chill. I sipped at my coffee as I kicked back and enjoyed the fresh air.

  On a crisp clear day, since the house was elevated in relation to the lake, a person could see from the house, over the tops of the trees in the woods, and spot the water of Lake Erie, shimmering in the sun. I smiled to myself as I looked out over the property. A decade had gone by since I had last called Oma’s house my home…and…something inside of me told me that I wanted that to change. Hollywood, movies, music…none of it held any appeal anymore. Even thinking about making another movie, singing another song, signing another autograph, giving another interview…it made my stomach do flip flops.

  Whether or not I’d been specific with Oma—I had enough money that I’d never have to work again. For ten or more lifetimes. If I ever had children, they wouldn’t have to work. Neither would their children. It brought me no happiness, other than the knowledge that it provided the luxury of not having to do anything I didn’t want to do. And I didn’t want to be Jacob Michaels anymore. I just wanted to be Robert Wagner. After a week in my grandmother’s home, I was beginning to feel that it might be possible.

  Chapter 9

  Lucas answered the front door when I knocked, right at seven o’clock, like a good, respectable, punctual guest. He looked harried and nervous and completely out of sorts. He had missed a place shaving on his chin, his shirt wasn’t buttoned properly, and something was smoking in the kitchen in the background. It was absolutely adorable. Normally, people who get nervous around me because I’m a celebrity leave me forcing myself to tolerate them. But Lucas made it seem like the friendliest thing ever.

  “Your kitchen is burning down.” I stated simply as he stood before me, absolutely frantic.

  “I…I…oh jeez.” He shook his head.

  Then he ran from the door in a harried dash to go deal with whatever it was in the kitchen that was making the smoke plumes billow up.

  I turned to look out at his property from the front porch. He really was right on the shore of the lake. His front porch looked towards the north of his property, the shore of the lake just twenty yards from the front door. In the setting sun, it was absolutely majestic. I smiled to myself as I entered the fairly large, cabin-like home, gently closing the front door behind myself. The paper bag cradled in my arm went along for the walk. I went straight to the kitchen and set the bag on the counter and looked in on my new friend.