by Mary Potter
The Boys In Blue
San Francisco Series
BENJAMIN, JEREMY, COREY
TYLER, BRANDON, JACKSON
MARY POTTER
This is a work of fiction. Other names, characters, places, dialogue, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers.
All sexual activity in this work is consensual and all sexually active characters are 18 years of age or older.
Copyright © 2020
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written permission from the author/publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review in any media format.
Contents
Contents
BENJAMIN
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
JEREMY
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
COREY
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
TYLER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Epilogue
BRANDON
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
JACKSON
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
A Teeny Favor To Ask
Other Books By Mary Potter
About The Author
BENJAMIN
BOYS IN BLUE
SAN FRANCISCO
BOOK 1
MARY POTTER
Contents
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Chapter 1
BENJAMIN
W e arrive early to check out the club and get an excellent place to watch the show. The second-floor overlook goes fast from what I know, so we make our way upstairs as soon as we arrive. It’s supposed to be the hottest new band in an open-space nightclub with two levels. My best friend—sometimes wingman—Jeremy Chambers has his eye out for the ladies and not the band. I feel both pursuits are worth a look, but I never have any luck in nightclubs when it comes to women. Most of the time, women in nightclubs, in my experience, are all about right now. I want something more than what’s happening immediately. It turns out I am in for the best night of my life.
“What about her?” Jeremy asks. He points out a girl made out of thin sticks and unbalanced on top. She works a long time on her hair, and she’s struggling with her stiletto heels. Her dress fits like a second skin of purple in the dancing lights. The woman has no secrets about her shape. She works to achieve that waif-like frame and wants everyone to know it. I see hints of her makeup, the layers, and the allusion of beauty because she’s trying too hard.
“She’s too skinny,” I say and sip at the drink.
I take my time with the drinks in case I have to drive later. The mixologist is another thin girl in a halter top eyeballing me, expecting more significant tips for the drinks. I tip but ignore her flirts.
“I want someone who has some curves, you know?” It’s a tidbit we’ve discussed before, Jeremy and me. The perfect woman isn’t a waif that needs anchors to keep her from floating away on a windy day.
Jeremy nods. We’ve been friends longer than a lot of women’s ages in the place. That isn’t to say we’re too old to be there. Good music doesn’t have an age limit.
“I’d like someone who isn’t trying to be like everyone else, someone way beyond the narrow-hipped scrawny girls. I want someone who’s being themselves and not trying to be someone she’s not.”
“I know what you mean,” Jeremy says. He touches the neck of the beer bottle against my glass. We walk to the edge of the upstairs bar that overlooks the stage and large dance floor. The stagehands and roadies are setting up the instruments in the semi-dark.
I’m watching the women gathering around the stage, trying to get right up front before the band starts. Then I see her.
I didn’t have any faith finding someone attractive or exciting, or both. Mostly the girls are frilly and vapid. But the girl I see standing a little away to the side of the stage, where the band climbs the stairs, captivates me. She scans the crowd and spends more time texting than looking up. She had a little twinkle, and I like the way she dresses. The black grid mesh yoke solid top and the tight black pants match for an eye-catching outfit, showing off all her luxurious curves.
“Oh, I see what you’re doing,” Jeremy says when he sees what I see. “You’re not here for the music.”
“It’s a bonus.” I can’t take my eyes off her. She has honey-blonde hair, smoky eyeliner, and a killer smile. She’s busy with something on her phone but manages to chat with the few women standing beside her. I don’t know if they are together, but I know from my vantage point, it’s the best view in the house. Then, everything goes wrong.
SARAH
I am in over my head, and I don’t care. It’s supposed to be an easy gig. I needed the extra cash, and the local online music review required someone at the last minute. All I need is a thousand words, and I don’t have to worry about rent. I knew they were a local group ready to make a big scene in the rest of the world. They have a hot YouTube single and a little buzz. It isn’t my style of music, but when you’re a freelance writer, you take what you can get. Little did I know it wasn’t the band that makes a difference for me tonight.
I see the five band members standing to the side. I want to let them know the press is watching. I’m a little shy when it comes to interviews. Tonight I need a few words from each of them. I think I can catch a few words before they start. I hear some of their talking. It’s negative, like they don’t like each other. They have the same ideas about musical stardom, but somehow these five young men grate on
each other like sandpaper underwear.
“It’s going to be a great show. They are so sexy,” the girl next to me says.
I don’t know her, but I feel her excitement. She is bubbly and pretty and ultra-skinny. The kind of girl that makes the best groupies, I’m more the girl who people find beautiful and too smart to hang around. I don’t mind. I’m not looking for a date. I’m looking for work. I never worry about being the dumbest person in the room.
Something is going on between the group offstage. I hear snippets of an argument. They don’t know what song to open the show. They don’t know who takes center stage. They are five upstart prima donnas, and I have to slant the article as if I love their music. The music site isn’t looking for high-quality critiquing, only a puff piece.
Suck it up, Sarah. It won’t be long before you don’t need this anymore. It’s easy to think. I have a lot of hope and a lot of faith in my writing. But I need a job that pays the bills right now, and if I want to get my writing noticed, I have to take the shit jobs until I get the better ones.
Then it happens, right before my eyes. Five twenty-something young men in spandex, long hair and tight t-shirts on muscular frames—words turn into blows. They take to the stage, not in music but swinging drumsticks, guitars, and the lead singer grabs the microphone stand. When he swings it around to hit the bassist, the microphone flies off. That’s when the man of my dreams catches it before my eyes, and life is never the same after that.
Chapter 2
BENJAMIN
N o one expects a fight to break out before or during a concert. It comes as a bigger surprise because it’s not the members of the audience; its bandmates swinging, kicking, biting, and using a lot of foul language. That close to working microphones, and everyone hears the group shouting. Luckily, Jeremy and I made our way downstairs to the dance floor at the time. We anticipated the band members knocking each other around. When the lead singer grabbed the mic stand, I knew we needed to put a stop to it.
“Oh my,” she says. The girl, the beauty with the winter-green eyes and honey-blonde wavy hair, looks at me with something more than admiration. “Thank you.”
“Wait right here,” I say. It isn’t like me to play hero off-duty. I do enough when I’m working. Nights off weren’t meant to break up fights at clubs. I know she sees me stopping the fight on stage. Jeremy and I, trained for the business, make short work of the in-fight with the bandmates.
Jeremy takes names and tries to work out their differences without fists. I turn back to the beautiful girl among the others, watching me standing at the edge of the stage. Her full breasts heave as her eyes catch the flicking stage lights. With the house band down for the duration, the club owner has a backup DJ spin tunes; its better music.
“Hi, I’m Benjamin.”
She takes my hand. The music and the people seem a million miles away as I stare into her eyes. “Sarah.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. Still holding her hand, I have to lean in and talk in her ear. She smells like a hot summer night on the beach—coconut oil and sexy sweetness. I have a moment, lost in her wavy hair, breathing deep.
“That was amazing,” Sarah says.
“It’s nothing.” I’m not coy, and it just happens sometimes. In my line of work, anything’s possible.
The music comes back to me. It pulsates through my feet, up to my thighs, and thrums in my chest. I’m captivated by the lovely Sarah. She’s a decade younger than me with a broad white smile and that devilish grin that speaks more than her words. I see the fullness of her mouth.
Before I know it, we’re moving to the music. It’s part of us. A couple of lost souls swept away among the others, too caught up with what happened to the band than feel the music.
SARAH
H e is like a vision of masculinity and musky goodness. Benjamin’s old-world blue eyes find mine and don’t let go. I feel his radiant heat like standing near the oven. He’s showing the definition of his chest peeking above the buttons on his silky shirt. His hands are large and healthy, and my mind immediately finds places to go that I know shouldn’t happen at first sight. He had snatched the microphone out of the air, inches from my face when it came off the stand.
“Do you want to have a seat?” Benjamin asks. I’d have a cracked skull if Ben weren’t there. Now he wants to spend time with me. Am I supposed to say no?
I nod my head. I know he already inhaled my hair. I felt the bristles of his chine brush my cheek when we talked over the music. The DJ has good tastes, and we’re moving together without trying. Dance among the others too caught up watching the band that doesn’t perform.
Ben and I slip back, further from the stage as more people bump and move us out of the way. His large hand presses against my lower back. His fingers graze me and send a jolt of goodness through me. We find a quiet place together, out of the way, out of sight, and I know my assignment, interviewing the band, watching the show, has all dropped away. I figure I have about five hundred words for what I saw. Only it’s Ben that means more, because I fear if I recover my interview, try to get backstage, I’ll lose this man who came out of nowhere and found me.
“Want a drink?” he asks.
For a second, I think, Oh man, I thought he was one of the nice guys. He wants to ply me with alcohol until he can play me later.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say. I look at my phone. It’s still early, and with no band, I don’t have to take notes anymore.
“Were you expecting someone? I can take off.”
“Oh, no,” I say. I breathe deep. There’s something about his proximity that is magnetic. He’s standing up while I’m leaning against the stool. We’re out of the lights, in a secluded corner. The crowd is a blur, and the music encases us in a private conversation.
“I thought with the phone maybe you’re expecting someone else.” Ben’s voice waivers close to disappointment. I know he’s older, he’s tall, and the angular face, the narrow torso, black slacks, and shiny shoes tell me he’s educated and employed. Those are two things that are hard to get in the same person, at the same time, in San Francisco. He’s dressed for success, and I see clean fingernails, so he’s not an artist.
“I’m a writer. The band, they were my assignment tonight.”
“Oh,” he says and lights up. “That is so cool, written anything I might know?”
“Nope, Sarah Daniels, still unknown,” I say. I gave my full name, not a pseudonym. I don’t know if it’s Ben’s radiant heat that makes me warm and lightheaded or the place.
Somehow, he’s reading my mind.
“You want to get out of here? Get some coffee or tea?”
“Um, sure, I guess. What about your friend?”
“I’ll take care of it.” Ben pulls his smartphone from his pants pocket and texts. “That’s Jeremy,” he says. He sees I’m watching the man with the band.
I saw how they handled the band. It wasn’t hard to put the two of them together. Benjamin. Lean and tall, the other man, tall and slim, they were matching ages and physical perfection. His friend was dynamite looking.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. Easy Sarah, it’s just coffee.
Chapter 3
BENJAMIN
T here is something about San Francisco at night that is magical. I feel lucky. Sarah walking with me down the nighttime city street is a vision in a summer top, with lofty hips and a sway in her step that isn’t hindered by heels.
“What’s it like being a writer?” I ask. I’m genuinely interested. She’s like a vision in black. The soft mesh top lets me see a little of her chest, the slope of her shoulders. It’s hard to see where we’re going because I don’t want to take my eyes off her. I let Sarah lead the way and love being next to her.
“Honestly, I am barely getting by,” she says with a laugh. She walks with confidence while she explains. “I write blogs for other people. I’m a literary voice for people who want books, but don’t have the words for themselves.”
“Does that bother you?”
“I don’t mind because I stopped worrying about my ego.”
Finding a cafe in the city on the ocean happens quickly enough. I don’t know how I got this far in San Francisco without knowing Sarah.
“Do you have something you want for yourself? Maybe a book with your name on it?” I ask.
We find outdoor seating at a seaside nighttime cafe and take our order from an aspiring actor who has a vantage to see Sarah’s buxom breasts. I make eye contact with him, and he moves away.
“Do you really want to know?” she asks. Her eyes narrow, a twinkle as she reads me.
“I’m interested,” I say. It’s authentic, and I know Sarah sees it in me. She’s watching me, and I know she’s making up her mind about me.
“I have something out there now. It’s a novel, it’s mine, and I poured a lot of me into it. I’m looking for an agent who sees the beauty of the words, and knows it’s a bestseller.”
I nod and smile. “I love a woman who’s confident.”
She blushes. “I’m not confident in what makes the world go around,” Sarah says. “But I know my work rates better than a lot of writers out there.”
I lean back, drape my arm over the chair and see her watching all of me. I love that Sarah’s taking in my front down to my shoes. I love her watching my hands, my throat; she sees my chest rise and fall. And I know that she’s watching my crotch because her eyes keep dropping down.
“What do you do,” she asks, “besides saving me from a random crazy fight, and a flying microphone.”
“I’ll tell you later,” I say. Sometimes people get funny about what I do. I don’t want to keep it secret, but I really like Sarah. “If you want to know, I’ll tell you.”
SARAH
H e is enigmatic and stylish. I can’t take my eyes off him. If he’s trying to get me to look at his cock, I can’t breakaway. I feel like a teenager, and he’s my chaperone, and we’re in some frenzied fantasy of mine. I cannot believe my luck. I’m not looking for anyone, I’m moderately introverted, and I feel like this mystery man has more than a handsome face for me.
