Always Forward! Never Straight
Charley Descoteaux
Love isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon.
Baxter Bryan is the nerdy half of BaxCo, a start-up in Portland’s Silicon Forest creating cutting-edge high-tech toys. He’s also a hermit. When BaxCo sponsors recycling bins at the Portland Rock and Roll Half Marathon, Bryan decides to break out of his comfort zone and do more than listen to the music with a beer in hand. The race has barely started when he bumps into a fit, handsome man, causing sparks to fly. But the long hours needed to make BaxCo a success aren’t the only reason Bryan spends most of his time alone in his apartment.
Cay Nissen runs every day to stay in shape. He would love to run away from his job in a Silicon Forest cube farm, but keeps returning to support his teenaged daughter. His true love is music. Cay writes songs for the band he helped form in high school but doesn’t see any way to turn music into a career. The half marathon seemed like a decent way to pass a Saturday, make his boss happy, and catch a performance of his old band all at the same time. When he meets a man who sparks his interest, the safety of his cubicle isn’t the only part of his life that’s in jeopardy of changing.
Always Forward! Never Straight
©2019 Charley Descoteaux
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means—by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Trademark: Roomba is owned by iRobot
Published by CeeTwo Publishing
Printed in the United States of America
Cover art by Rainbow Danger Designs
Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.
Chapter One
Bryan
Shit. I really have to do this.
The day of the half-marathon dawned clear with a promised high of seventy. Not bad for early spring. The race wasn’t officially part of the “Rock & Roll Marathon” schedule, but apparently Portland didn’t need sanctioning from anyone to throw a half marathon based on music and beer.
My car was packed with bottled water and promotional materials and my “running clothes” hung over the desk chair, mocking me from across the bedroom. They seemed to be laughing at me already. I didn’t have to run this damned half marathon—and by the way, adding the “half” didn’t make it any less intimidating, thank you very much. I could go to the race and make sure the recycling containers I’d sponsored were set up and then leave. Or hang out at one of the stages and listen to music all day.
With a beer in hand.
No. You’re going to do this.
I dragged my large (relatively speaking—it was smaller than it had been pre-marathon training) lazy ass from bed and stood, frowning at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Whoever said forty was the new thirty must have actually been thirty. But I hadn’t seen forty for a few years, so maybe that’s why the gray had started to take over my head as the desk job widened my ass. I stuck my head under the tap to tame bedhead—at least I still had hair to get unruly—and got dressed as quickly as I could before I could talk myself out of it entirely.
Again.
Sponsors got to park in a special lot, so once I navigated the traffic—thick even by Portland standards for a Saturday morning—it wasn’t much of a walk to get to the starting line. The usual crowd had gathered: serious runners who looked like a half marathon would be a cakewalk, slightly doughy folks like me who seemed as spooked as I felt, and people wearing regular street clothes, whose plan aligned with what mine would have been a year ago—listening to the music and avoiding the exercise portion of the day.
Children ran around laughing, wearing new and often matching running gear. No teenagers I could see, which was disappointing. Teenagers were an untapped demographic for my—or rather, BaxCo’s—drone butler, Alfred. His main function was to patrol the perimeter of a property, but he could hover over a pot of boiling water or watch a driveway for parents to arrive if that’s what you needed him to do. Alfred could watch just about anything you didn’t have time to watch yourself.
Ugh, I’m playing BaxCo’s YouTube commercials in my head; that’s gotta be a new low.
I walked along the race course to the first stage, where my sponsorship dollars proudly proclaimed that BaxCo cared about the environment.
We didn’t draw the best location, but maybe that wouldn’t matter. Some of the crowd had come for the music and not the exercise—hopefully they would spend enough time at the first stage to recycle something. The green and black logo had been designed for optimal marketing impact—brand recognition—it was boring and generic and, in my opinion, didn’t say anything at all. I caught the negativity of my internal monologue and resolved not to think about BaxCo for the rest of the day. While I stood there, bemoaning the placement of three glorified garbage cans with the company’s logo, the race started.
After the serious runners passed me, I began to run. Okay, jog. I intended to make a real effort to participate in the race. I’d trained and psyched myself up for weeks—promotional opportunity aside. I casually scoped all the runners, not actually looking for anyone, content to do some people-watching. I snickered at myself because secretly I hoped to hook up with one of the men blowing past me, to have their slender, muscled bodies pressed against mine, their lung capacity put to good use—
I almost swallowed my tongue when a tall, striking man pulled up alongside me. His arm brushed against mine, and even though skin didn’t touch skin—he wore a long-sleeved shirt, no doubt a technologically advanced fiber meant to wick the sweat away from his skin, probably as it gave him a massage and helped combat climate change—I felt an electric shock at the contact. It actually crackled.
He turned, one eyebrow raised, and smiled. “Did you feel that?”
“Um, yeah.” I tried to keep up, even though men like him—svelte athletic types who can pull off trendy shaved-on-the-side-and-longer-on-top haircuts—didn’t usually notice plain, out-of-shape nerds like me.
His handsome face creasing in concern. “Sorry. If the spark came from me.”
Fuck, he’s hot.
“N-no problem. No harm done. It was probably me.”
I shocked myself all the time—literally, not figuratively. I led the most boring life imaginable and rarely left my apartment unless forced. Pavement doesn’t exactly possess the same properties that make carpet and wool socks generate static electricity, but it still could have been me. Just looking at this man gave me a charge.
He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but he smiled instead. His blue eyes held as much flash as the actual static that had passed between us.
“Cay.” He held out his hand, and we shook.
“Bryan.” The breathless quality of my voice had little to do with the running. Or at least that’s what it felt like. “Kay, as in Sir Kay, the knight?” I don’t know how I was able to grin at him, but I did.
“No.” He chuckled. The rich sound of his voice set something alight inside me I hadn’t heard from in years. “C-A-Y. As in Cayman. Like the islands.”
He gave me a look, and it took a mo
ment to realize he was serious. Luckily, that happened before I tripped on anything or ran into anyone. “So, is your sister’s name Aruba?”
“No. That’s my brother.” He turned to face forward for a few paces and then shot me a wink.
That wink made me stumble. I’m in trouble.
He—Cay—must have slowed his pace considerably because we pounded along side by side. Before we reached the next stage, or I could think of something else to say, a willowy young girl ran up to him and fell into step on his other side.
“Hi, Dad.”
And my heart dropped to the pavement. We’d never seen each other two minutes before, but I hadn’t met anyone and had sparks fly for a long time. To discover he had a daughter—maybe a wife—was a blow. But I’d maxed out on stride, so even though I wanted to take off into the crowd, it wasn’t going to happen.
“Hi, sweets. How’s things?” They hugged without stopping, a truly impressive maneuver.
“Mom said I could run the rest of the way with you.”
“Okay, Mac. This is my new friend, Bryan. My daughter, Mackenzie.”
I nodded, and she pulled in front of us, easily jogging backward as she blatantly scrutinized me.
“Hi, new friend. Hope you can keep up.” She grinned and then sped off through the crowd.
I stopped at the next bandstand, and so did Cay. He bumped my shoulder with his and wore a strange look.
“The bass player is my daughter’s mother.” He nodded toward the stage, and I had to remind myself to look at the musicians instead of at him.
“They have a…cool sound.”
The band played something like punk—Green Day-punk, not Sex Pistols. All four of them were in better shape than me but with lines on their faces, some with gray in their hair. The logo on the bass drum said Always Forward!, the text slanting skyward over a jagged line that could have been a horizontal lightning bolt. The gal whaling on the bass wore a rainbow-colored faux-hawk that was long in back, and she pinged my radar hard. That bass player was not a straight woman. Maybe she and Cay weren’t married.
Unless she’s bi.
But if they were married wouldn’t he have said “my wife” instead of “my daughter’s mother”?
Maybe it isn’t hopeless.
And maybe two million people will decide overnight to buy Alfred, and I can retire to a tropical island.
I laughed aloud at my thoughts. That was a familiar refrain, about the tropical island. Maybe the fact that this alluring man had been named for one was a sign. I couldn’t help bouncing a little to the music, it was catchy and I wouldn’t have minded standing there for their whole set.
Which was an obvious delay tactic, but I didn’t really care.
“I’m going to see if I can catch up with my daughter.” Cay bent to talk next to my ear and his warm breath against my face made me shiver. “Coming?”
I looked up, and his expression said, “Come with me,” so I nodded. We left the bandstand and jogged side by side. He didn’t seem to be in much hurry to find her, though he kept his eyes forward as far as I could tell.
Cay set a brisk pace but not so fast he was in danger of leaving me behind. The next stage held a country act and neither of us slowed. The recycling bins stationed there belonged to the man who thought I was his nemesis—the owner of Holden The Tech, another startup in the Silicon Forest, like BaxCo. Once we cleared it, I glanced in Cay’s direction, and he was smiling.
We breezed past the next two stages, one featuring an alternative duo and the other a metal band. I wouldn’t have minded stopping at either—and not only for the break—but I was afraid if I stopped I wouldn’t start again, and running alongside this man was making me want to start a whole lot of things I’d quit over the past few years.
Especially hookups with men I’d just met.
The final stage held a jazz combo playing something smooth, but not too smooth, and we veered toward it as though it had been scripted. Or maybe agreed upon, but I wasn’t in any condition to speak. I didn’t want to wheeze when Cay didn’t seem to be having any trouble, so I kept my mouth shut.
In front of the stage, a bunch of tables and chairs had been arranged, along with a booth to buy water and fruit. I frowned at the recycling bins there—adorned with the swish, of course—but before we reached them, I had decided if he made any kind of move, it was on. Without much thought, I realized I didn’t care if he had a kink for bearish men or if he wanted to have revenge sex or even if he’d never been with a man before (all things that had been no-brainers in my youth, automatic no-thank-yous)—I’d do anything he let me.
By the way he’d subtly directed our route, I thought it might turn out to be “anything he told me to do” and was surprisingly okay with that, even though vanilla should be my middle name. We stopped and grabbed water, and I almost sighed aloud when I saw the way his shirt clung to his body. Damn, never had a man with a six-pack before.
I reminded myself I might not get this one—probably wouldn’t—and he invited me to sit on a bench with a gesture. Both sitting—close enough to feel the heat coming off him in waves—I noticed he was breathing heavily, and smelled amazing. His large hands worried at the bottle of water between sips. Maybe he’s a little wound up from more than the race too?
Cay leaned his forearms on his thighs and glanced my way before asking, “You like jazz?”
I tore my gaze away from his hands and didn’t let myself linger on his eyes before checking out the band. Safer. “Yeah. I collect vinyl. Jazz records.” Duh, idiot.
“So, a redhead named Bryan. Are you Irish?”
Damn, he has a sexy voice. Even if I am more gray than red now.
“Sort of. I mean, a little. How’d you get a name like Cayman? I mean, it’s unusual.”
“Mom. Dude. Island.” I glanced over, and he had one eyebrow raised.
I got it. I opened my mouth to apologize for prying but instead out came a smartass comment, “Grand Cayman?”
A grin bloomed on his lips, and he turned away and laughed, as though he’d tried to contain it but failed. He sipped his water and then said, in a low rumbling voice meant only for me, “You’ll have to be the judge of that.”
I sprayed a mouthful of water onto the pavement in front of us. A few people moved away and made comments regarding my rudeness, but when I dared a look, Cay was grinning and shaking his head as he patted my back.
The jazz combo finished its set and the lovely singer suggested we head to the end of the race for the medal ceremonies. I wasn’t inclined to obey her and could’ve sat there discussing music all day.
Cay’s daughter found us, still on the bench, deep in a debate about the relevance of various styles of jazz and ignoring the closing ceremonies.
“Hey, Dad? Is it okay if I hang with the band tonight?” She looked a little guilty but also as though she had a list of reasons he should say yes at the ready.
He frowned but didn’t look upset so much as confused. “Huh? Sure, babycakes. Have fun. I’ll see you in the morning. Right?”
“Right.” She frowned for a second—a second in which she looked very much like her father—before sprinting away, still full of energy. She—Mackenzie—seemed to have expected at least a token protest.
“Feel like catching a beer?” Cay’s hopeful smile sent a thrill of excitement through me. “The Deschutes Brewery is releasing a new flavor this weekend.”
“Yes. I’d like that.” We agreed to meet at the brewpub an hour later to continue the conversation. Which suited me fine because it gave me plenty of time to go home, shower, and change. Not that I had a lot of “date” clothes left anymore—if that’s what this was. He’d made a point to suggest a brewpub and not a bar—not a gay bar—so maybe I was wrong about him and he only wanted to be friends.
I didn’t see him when I walked in, but I did turn a head or two in my lavender T-shirt and newest pair of jeans. Maybe the shirt is too much?
&nb
sp; I ordered a beer and grabbed the last free table, surrounded on all sides by straight couples and boisterous groups of young men. I’d started to wonder if I should leave, but then he came out of the hallway that obviously led to the bathrooms and maybe a back door. The evening was already warm, and I could have boiled over after one look at Cay in a white tank. His jeans hugged his hips and thighs, showing off his lean torso and muscular legs, and it was all I could do not to stand and greet him in a manner decidedly inappropriate for the venue.
“Wow.” I recovered by the time he got a beer and joined me at the table. Barely. Good thing I hadn’t just taken a drink, or I probably would have drowned. Or done another spit-take. “Nice ink.”
“Oh, thanks.” He looked at his arms but not in a “yeah, aren’t I gorgeous” kind of way. One upper arm was filled with the band’s logo I’d seen on the drum set—Always Forward! over a lightning bolt. His other arm had what appeared to be a slightly faded Japanese-style dragon. “The run was a work function so I had to keep them hidden. It’s still a little surprising to me when anyone notices.”
“I’m sorry?” Great, sparkling conversation. Next you’ll return to monosyllables. That’s always sexy.
“I spent my whole life sitting behind things—keyboards in the band, and then after Val got pregnant, a desk in a cubicle. That’s not the best workout.” He grinned ruefully. “That’s why I started running. Nobody was going to look twice otherwise.”
The last thing I wanted to talk about was exercise. Well, running. I was half-exhausted from the race and obviously didn’t make a habit of working out for fun. Not many topics felt safe at that moment, though. Especially not the ones usually covered on a first date: past relationships, jobs…
“So, you were in the band?”
“Hmm?” Cay had a mouthful of beer but handled it much better than I would have.
Yeah, smooth. He already said that. “Your ‘Always Forward!’ tattoo. What does the lightning bolt mean?”
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