Covet (Straight Taste Book 4) Read online

  Covet

  Straight Taste, Volume 4

  Jaylen Florian

  Published by Jaylen Florian, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  COVET

  First edition. September 6, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Jaylen Florian.

  Written by Jaylen Florian.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1

  Looking back, maybe this was inevitable. I can't say I didn't get fair warning.

  The foretelling occurred on the evening of a perfect day, with Halloween a week away. Andrew and I had spent the early afternoon carving pumpkins to display on the front steps of the duplex we shared. He had the eastern half of the dilapidated old clapboard home and I had the western half. A wall straight down the middle of the house separated our identical units.

  Andrew and I weren't just neighbors. Andrew was my friend and something more. I hesitate to describe him as a "lover." We were not really dating or pursuing a romantic relationship. But for the past month we had been messing around sexually, once or twice a week, usually after having beers together.

  We didn't harbor expectations or exchange promises. I knew Andrew was mostly heterosexual, though he openly admitted to being bisexual. Among others, he had been casually dating Willow, a girlfriend for the past half year, in an open relationship whereby they each got to date or hook up with other people. Andrew simply described his arrangement with Willow as one of companionship with goodwill, and neither of them were anywhere near ready to make commitments to monogamy.

  Andrew was a skilled ink artist employed by a tattoo parlor downtown. We lived in a very small town, but business for tattoos remained brisk due to his skill and the growing popularity of ink and other body adornments. Our town's biggest employer was a behemoth truck stop a quarter mile from our duplex, and we were hours away from any sizable cities.

  My name is Kieran. I was twenty-two that October, working at a wetlands preserve and training to become a park ranger. The past year had been a whirlwind for me, not just with my career, but with my personal development, too. Shy and introverted, I was a late bloomer. A series of incidents had transformed my self-identity, helping me understand that I was sexually attractive to some people and worthy of intimacy. I had finally come to regard, or at least accept, that my ginger hair, freckles, multi-colored eyes, and lean body were possible assets, not hindrances, as I had painfully considered them to be while growing up. I had been brutal to myself—at times I even hated and despised myself—but everything was changing. My sexual experiences were limited, though suddenly I had hope for a future with intimate gratification, despite living in such a small community.

  Like no other man I had been with, when we were in bed, Andrew's focus was more on my pleasure than his own. He believed that giving was more important than taking. Andrew seemed to understand me, even though our worlds seemed so far apart. For example, I hadn't ever considered a tattoo, I knew I was gay, and he was every bit as confident and self-assured as I was anxious and unsure of myself.

  Andrew, in his early thirties, sported light green eyes that reminded me of gemstones—pale jade that could appear as rich as emeralds in diffused light. He wasn't tall, though a few inches greater in height than me, and he had brown hair that appeared dark blond when hit directly by the sun. Andrew always wore jeans and black shirts. He liked tinkering on his old car, listening to classic rock music, and doing basic handyman work. His brain seemed to wonderfully balance both a creative side and a utilitarian side to his nature.

  We made a mess that afternoon carving the pumpkins in the backyard. Choosing to save the gooey insides for baked pumpkin seeds and puree, Andrew and I had been covered with slop. It had even soaked into our socks and down into our sneakers. After showering together in his unit, we took our physical relationship to the next level. He penetrated me for the first time. Andrew had been tender, watching my face closely while lying on top of me, wrapped in my legs, and his every thrust had been based on my reactions and readiness for him to reach deeper inside. When he brought me to climax, I had grasped his back and nuzzled my face into his neck, never having felt so passionately bonded with someone before.

  Andrew and I showered together again, then stopped at a cafeteria for dinner before heading to the haunted house carnival set up in the empty parking lot of an abandoned shopping center. We had completed two rides on rickety machines—that probably imperiled our lives—before Andrew led me to a small black tent. A wooden sign labeled "Fortune Teller" was illuminated by a row of single low-watt red bulbs.

  "Really?" I asked.

  "Yeah, it'll be funner than you think," Andrew answered.

  "I don't believe in that stuff."

  "Do you read horoscopes and notes inside fortune cookies?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Then you don't have to fully believe in order to enjoy it a little bit."

  "I'll wait here for you," I said. "Go on ahead."

  "Let's both get private sessions," Andrew replied. "My treat."

  Chapter 2

  The fortune teller certainly defied my expectations.

  It was my turn for a private consultation. She led me into her tent and introduced herself as "Jeannie," which I thought was clever, referencing the classic television sitcom from the late 1960s. Like Jeannie's fictional home, set inside a fictional bottle, the tent was decorated with pleated curtains in pink, rose, and violet. However, this Jeannie looked and seemed nothing like the bubbly and chipper Barbara Eden. This Jeannie was meek, plump, a year or two younger than me, and attired in an ill-fitting charcoal business jacket over a mauve t-shirt. Her frizzy auburn hair reached down to an oversized scarf that had been been repeatedly wrapped around her neck.

  Jeannie gestured for me to sit in the wooden chair—one of those that can be folded up for mobility purposes—across from her. A draped table was between us, illuminated above by an antique lamp with three burning candles. The tent smelled like a blend of lavender and wax.

  "You're a psychic?" I asked.

  "Clairvoyant," she answered, glancing from my eyes down to my nylon jacket and turtleneck sweatshirt. Her voice was unexpectedly deep and low. I strained to hear her clearly. "What do you need today?"

  "I don't know."

  "There's a reason you are here."

  "What do most people ask about?"

  "Love. Money. Babies."

  "None of that really applies to me, at least not at the moment," I said.

  "Remember, this is about envisioning the future," Jeannie responded, darting her gaze from me to the table between us. "Let's take a look."

  Jeannie pulled a satin cloth away to reveal a hefty crystal ball on a stone base with metallic prongs. The glass appeared to be precisely round and clean of fingerprints or smudges, but inside, it contained several bubbles and waves. Jeannie leaned forward, encouraged me to do the same, titled her head, and stared inside.

  "Do you see anything?" she asked me.

  "Some flaws in the glass."

  Jeannie frowned, yet kept her eyes focused inside the ball. "Begin with a color."


  "It's transparent."

  Jeannie did not reply or change her demeanor, yet I sensed she would have scolded me if she had more of a brazen personality. Instead, she maintained a silence, waiting for me to either participate or walk away. I understood she was not going to try to convince me of anything.

  After a minute of beholding the glass, I said, "The color green." Some of the hues in the glass waves suddenly were tinged with a shade of that color, though I noticed no green in our clothing, the candles, or the surrounding drapery.

  "Good," Jeannie replied. "We can now begin."

  "It's definitely green," I added. "I don't know why, but it's there, in flakes and reflections."

  "Interesting," she murmured.

  "It represents money?"

  "No. Not in your case."

  "I work directly in nature," I said. "My job responsibilities are to preserve natural wetlands."

  "Mmm. This is something else. Possibly envy. Jealous yearning."

  "For what?"

  "Shush, wait, I see it better now. It's a conflict. A battle."

  "Like a war?" My thoughts raced about being drafted or enrolling in military service, neither of which I expected to happen. Not in the near future, anyway.

  "You're wounded," she added.

  "I am going to suffer?"

  "Yes. But you can emerge victorious, though not as soon as you expect."

  "How bleak!"

  "If you rise to meet your challenges, you can advance and discover peace."

  "I am going to be the victim of a violent crime?"

  Jeannie suddenly lifted her hands around the orb, her trembling fingers only centimeters away from the glass, then pulled away and exhaled. "It's gone."

  I remained seated, expecting her to elaborate. She covered the ball with the cloth, moved her chair away from the table, and stood up.

  "There's no more I can give you at this time, Kieran. I hope the session will be helpful to you during your journey."

  Andrew was waiting for me on a nearby park bench holding two bags of popcorn. He stood as I approached and handed one to me.

  "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked.

  "She suggested I will be struck down in crime or battle. I might or might not make it through and recover."

  "Seriously? Are you pulling my leg?"

  "That's what she claimed."

  "All right. Brush it off. I'm surprised it went so dark, buddy. Spike it off your shoulder, like a piece of lint, and carry on. Let's dash over to the Ferris wheel before the line gets any longer."

  Chapter 3

  The handsomest man I ever laid eyes on in person knocked on my door the night before Halloween. I had just gone to bed with a Sherlock Holmes mystery novel by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Hound of the Baskervilles," thereby tempting fate with a book that could produce nightmares.

  The rap came as a jolt. It wasn't Andrew's knock. This was more forceful. Bolder.

  Guessing it regarded something urgent, I sprung out of bed, threw on a pair of sweatpants while I ran to my front room, and answered my door shirtless. The man, towering over me at what had to be at least six feet and four inches, wore a sly smile, camouflage pants, a sage aviator jacket, and combat boots. He had light skin with a tone pinker than mine, piercing blue eyes, red hair cut close to his scalp, an angular forehead, prominent ears, and a trimmed beard and mustache. He looked to be thirty-two or thirty-three years of age and he carried a large canvas duffel bag.

  "I'm here for Andrew," the man said. "I have the wrong address?"

  There was humor and joviality in his voice. It was the sort of tone that can put other people at ease, but I was so startled by his arrival and hulking presence that my mouth clammed shut.

  "Sorry I woke you," he added.

  I pointed at the door across the small hallway. "Andrew has the other half of the duplex."

  "Brandon," he said, introducing himself with a vigorous handshake.

  "I'm Kieran."

  "Back to sleep, sport. I apologize for disturbing you."

  "Goodnight."

  I closed my door, but pressed my eye against the peephole to watch Brandon knock on the other door. He boisterously greeted Andrew with a hug, tossed his duffel bag inside the room, and then the door closed behind him. The wall between my unit and Andrew's unit blocked me from listening to their exact words, but I could hear the merriment in their voices.

  I tried to read again. A smothering loneliness descended on me. I set the book down, turned off my bedroom lights, and attempted sleep.

  I had known Brandon was arriving at some point before Halloween. However, Andrew had described him so casually that I had not expected some Greek or Roman immortal. What I knew was that Andrew and Brandon had grown up together and maintained their friendship into adulthood. Andrew had characterized Brandon as fun-loving and independent. He said Brandon had served as a pilot in the military and frequently changed jobs afterwards, moving to various big cities on the West Coast and in the Mountain West.

  Lying in my bed, tossing and turning, I tried to get to the heart of the matter of my melancholy. Why had Brandon's arrival so upset me?

  Andrew had been so good to me that I had begun to feel like I was a special person. But I was not ready for someone like Brandon. In comparison to him, I felt puny.

  I wondered if Brandon would be in Andrew's bed. Would I hear them having sex? I reminded myself that they were longtime friends. Brandon was straight. Still, I had to fight my instinct to sneak out of the house and peek into Andrew's bedroom window and spy on them.

  I fixed myself a peanut butter sandwich. For me, this cured all insomnia. Uneasy, but at least calmed down from the ugly emotions bolting through me, I crawled back into bed and eventually got a few hours of rest.

  Chapter 4

  While driving to the wetlands preserve the next morning I received a text message from Andrew. Willow's mother had been injured in an automobile accident and he was driving her north to Minnesota to be with her in the hospital.

  That single text put everything in perspective. I replied back with genuine well wishes for Willow and her mother, and asked Andrew to pass my sentiments on. I urged him to have a safe drive and offered to help him with anything in his unit while he was gone.

  After completing my day of work, I remained on the preserve for its annual Halloween party. It was more of a masquerade celebration than anything haunted or scary. Fifty people attended. Besides my peers and supervisors, there were donors who funded private charitable projects related to the preserve, some local environmental leaders, and numerous others I had not met before. Under a vaulted and beamed ceiling in the expansive lobby of the visitor's center building, holiday-themed drinks and hors d'oeuvres were served and a deejay played modern hits that had nothing to do with Halloween.

  Andrew had loaned me a costume for the occasion. I had packed it in the trunk of my car and changed in the restroom facilities before the party started. It was a variation of King Tutankhamen, or another Egyptian emperor, with a tunic, cape, knee-length open sandals, and a golden metallic belt and arm bands.

  The looks I received upon entering the party indicated people were having trouble figuring out the identity of the man hidden behind my costume. It must have been the ornate and striped headdress, which surrounded the edges of my face. I hadn't expected this and enjoyed it very much. Instead of staring at me as Kieran, I got to see what they were like when looking at a stranger. After my first glass of wine, relishing my partial obscurity, I was a bit liberated and free. I found myself moving about the room and even initiating conversations with people.

  There was one man I avoided approaching. I had caught him glancing my way several times. We'd make brief eye contact, lasting a moment too long, then look away. It was like a secret code. A private communication between the two of us, seemingly daring amidst a room full of party revelers, with each glimpse both a signal and a test. I believed we would eventually meet, though I was in no hurry to end the enigmatic
game we were playing.

  The man was my height, in his late twenties, with honey-colored skin. The roughness of his dark facial features reminded me of a mixed martial arts fighter, or an accomplished freestyle wrestler. An old scar above his right eye accentuated the thickness of his brow. Tonight he was Julius Caesar, complete with a stylish toga that gripped his stocky and muscular body, cutting off just above his knees to reveal hairy and mighty legs. A wreath of bay laurel leaves crowned his head.

  We finally met as the party dwindled to a close. The hors d'oeuvres were gone and the bartender was packing up. I stepped outside of the lobby onto a patio that cantilevered over a pond and leaned my elbows onto the railing. Moments later, he was at my side.

  "I award you costume of the night," he said.

  "I hardly deserve it," I replied. "Others had much fancier ones."

  "Nobody looked better than you."

  "Thank you."

  His elbow brushed mine on the railing. "I'm Cody."

  "Kieran."

  "I know. Discretely, I've already learned some things about you. You work here with the ambition of becoming a park ranger. You're in good standing with your bosses. They applaud your work ethic and commitment to your duties. If you can keep your nose clean and your head on shoulders, your future is bright here."

  I smiled. The compliments he relayed back to me were especially pleasing to hear. I had not yet received a performance evaluation, so this was my first indication that I was regarded quite well in my employment position at the preserve.

  "I'm at a disadvantage, Cody. I don't yet know anything about you."

  "Are you being polite or are you genuinely interested?"

  "Genuinely interested."

  "Then let's get out of here and find some privacy."

  Chapter 5

  I followed Cody to a hilltop lodge and parked beside him in front of one of the freestanding log cabins scattered along the valley below the main structure. Above the trees I could see stars and planets dotting every speck of the night sky. A single lantern in front of the cabin, hanging from the central peak of the gabled roof, illuminated two rocking chairs on a modest porch made of pine wood.