Here's an excerpt from my upcoming release with Allison Cassatte (Nov 21 on Dreamspinner.
Chapter
One
“Your
father ain’t gettin’ no better.” If ever a voice dripped with
worry, Christian’s mother’s certainly did then. The quiver of her
words. The raspiness of her tone. She sounded utterly exhausted. How
long had she been at the hospital this time?
“I
can get away this weekend,” Christian said, rubbing his hand across
his furrowed brow, looking over the stacks of papers he hadn’t
graded and the essay questions he hadn’t finished composing.
The
I think
remained implied.
Truth
be told, Christian Grayson, professor of sociology, didn’t have
time to put his life in Florida on hold to go back to Tennessee.
Students needed him. The school needed him. However, Christian
Grayson, first son of Pastor Richard Grayson, would make all the time
he needed for his family. Because good children made sacrifices for
their parents.
“I
can fly out Friday after class,” Christian continued, arranging a
plan in his head.
“I
think that’ll
be wonderful.”
“Then
that’s
what I’ll do.”
“Christian?”
His
murmured name finally stilled him. He stopped shuffling papers. His
body turned rigid. Her once warm, motherly tone was now laden with
sadness. Sadness and worry.
“Pray
’til then?”
The
plea gripped his heart like a tightened fist. His mother had always
been such a strong, inspiring woman, with an unwavering faith in God.
Now… well, she sounded as though she’d already lost the love of
her life.
“I
promise, Mom. I’ll see you Friday. I love you.”
“I
love you too, Christian. Be safe.”
With
those soft words left between them, Christian hung up his phone and
all but melted into his chair. The weight of the world was firmly
planted on his shoulders, pinning him down in his seat. He leaned his
forearms on his messy desk, clenching both hands together. Thanks to
a blossoming headache, he imagined his brain in the same sort of
vise.
A
soft rapping at the door pulled Christian away from his internal
breakdown. He raised his head to find a student standing between the
jambs. She was a bright girl with a sparkling personality who
could’ve used a bit more clothing and had a good chance of making
something of herself if she stopped using her sexuality to get ahead.
“Miss
Morris.” Christian sat back and squared his shoulders, folding his
hands in his lap like his father used to do when he was about to
school his son on being a proper man of God. “How can I help you?”
“May
I come in?”
“Please.”
She
did, sauntering into his office like a streetwalker. Christian only
made the connection because of the black skirt barely covering her
bottom. Her spiked heels were so high she would’ve towered over him
by an easy inch had he been standing, and Christian wasn’t a short
man. Not quite six feet tall, but close enough.
When
she sat down, she made a show of crossing her legs. She leaned her
elbows against her knees, pushing her breasts up into the V of the
skimpy plaid top she wore. It might have looked nice with a black
sweater to cover the parts better left to a straight man’s
imagination. But Christian wasn’t interested.
“How
can I help you?” he asked, hoping she would drop the seductiveness.
Somehow, he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky.
“Well,
remember I told you I needed help with my women’s studies
assignment?”
Nodding,
he recalled how odd he thought it was for her to ask for his
help. He wasn’t sure what he could do, but Christian never said no
to a student.
“Miss
Morris, what exactly is the assignment?”
“I
have to write a paper on women in religion, and I’m trying to do
something fresh. Something that
hasn’t been drilled into the ground a million times already.”
“And
you’re asking me because…?”
She
frowned, straightening in the chair. Her cleavage no longer peeked
from the neckline of her plaid blouse. Christian silently thanked
God. He’d been uncomfortable since she’d walked in the door.
“Don’t
you have a theology degree?” she asked.
“Well,
yes, I do, but I—”
“Then
you’re the only person I know who can help me with this.”
Was
now the time to tell her he’d been raised in a home where the woman
knew her role—mother, homemaker, unwavering supporter of her
husband? While his mother was always strong in his eyes, she still
followed the roles society and the Bible prescribed for her. He
wasn’t the man for this particular job. Not at all.
Christian
sighed. “Miss Morris, I—”
“But,
you’re a believer,” she objected. You go to church.”
Maybe,
but being a believer and going to church didn’t mean he had any
right preaching to her, especially not in the case of a woman’s
role in the church. He wasn’t even sure he
had a proper role in the church anymore. What about abominations?
What about sodomy? About his being gay? He had no right speaking to
anyone about God. Right?
“Professor
Grayson?” Miss Morris reached across the desk. She laid her hand
over his. Worry washed over her face. “Are you okay? You paled.”
“I’m
fine.”
He
pulled back, tucking his hands in his lap again. When had he sat
forward? When had he leaned his elbows on his desk? Christian never
did such a thing. It was a no-no in the Grayson household. His mother
would’ve scolded him terribly.
“Miss
Morris—” Christian cleared his throat and cleared his head. “—you
need to determine your subject on your own. Do some research. Come
back to me when you have an idea of what you want to talk about. I
will gladly help you, but I’m not doing the paper for you.”
“I
understand.” She nodded.
She
stood, squared her shoulders, and poked out her cleavage—as if he
hadn’t already seen enough. “I really wish we could work on it
together.” She pouted. No doubt the look had seduced many
unsuspecting men, and maybe if Christian liked that
sort of thing….
Licking
her lips, she pressed both palms down on his desk, leaning in to,
again, highlight her ample cleavage. “Or we could get dinner and
talk, or—”
“Such
a suggestion is highly inappropriate, Miss Morris.” But
I wouldn’t be interested if it wasn’t.
“I’m
sorry.”
“You’re
dismissed.”
Without
another word or a moment of hesitation, she made an about-face and
click-clacked her way out of Christian’s office with surprising
speed, considering the height of those heels. Christian lowered his
eyes to the picture of his family: his mother and father, Ashley, his
baby brother, and his sister, Linda.
His
father looked so healthy and virile, so full of life, in the photo.
It was taken more than a decade ago, right before Christian had left
for Florida in hopes of making a new life for himself, in hopes of
finding himself and finally being honest about who he was inside.
Now
here he was, ten years later, with nothing to show for the move save
for a pretty good job. He hadn’t fallen in love, and honestly,
hadn’t really tried. The idea of being out and proud seemed like
such a ridiculous notion, what with all the God Hates Fags propaganda
blowing up the media. The idea of a deity he revered hating him, not
to mention the danger of soiling his family’s good name, made
shoving himself to the back of the closet so easy to do. So much for
being honest with himself, for being the true Christian Grayson. That
man had yet to show his face.
And
now, to add more fuel to a blazing fire, his father’s cancer had
reached the point the doctors had been promising for months. The time
no one looked forward to was finally upon them.
The
family’s patriarch, their anchor and their shepherd, was sick and
dying, and there Christian sat chastising some desperate child over
her inappropriateness. It seemed so unimportant now. Before, the only
thing he had ever wanted to do was mold young minds and create
freethinkers. He wanted a better future for men and women like
him—those who loved the same sex but were too afraid to own their
sexuality. He’d wanted to help build a new world, a world where
people could love God and be gay and no one would bat an eye. Now, he
only wanted to be there for his mother and father, even if they
didn’t know the truth their son hid from them.
He
turned his eyes toward the ceiling, toward off-white corkboard tiles
and fluorescent lighting, and silently asked God why his life had to
be so difficult. Why couldn’t he have been blessed with the
simplicity of being straight, with uncomplicated ideals he shared
with his family? He could be harvesting corn or green beans rather
than dealing with the inappropriateness of oversexed twentysomething
children. His brother and sister had spouses and children already.
They had homes in Tennessee, close to the farm, and they worshipped
in their father’s church. Christian was the outsider. He was the
one who had to be different, even though he’d spent nearly every
night of his young adulthood praying to be normal like them.
With
a sigh, Christian ran his fingers through his hair. The older he got,
the coarser it became. He was starting to find slivers of gray mixed
in with the chocolate brown. Those tell-tale grays even sprinkled the
faint dusting of hair around his jawline. He was getting older, old
enough his parents expected him to be settled down now, and while he
wanted to be, it seemed so much easier to lie and say school kept him
too busy than to tell them he was gay.
Another
tap at the door tore a groan from Christian’s lips. None of this
was out of the ordinary, and yet today he wished for something
different. He wished he could get a minute alone to deal with
everything tornadoing through his head.
“I’m
sorry. I can come back,” the person in the doorway said.
Christian’s
head jerked up. His gaze landed on the one person he wouldn’t mind
talking to right now—a man who he’d grown fond of over the past
three years or more, a student who’d proven his genius, whom
Christian respected.
“No,
please. Come in,” Christian said, righting himself in his chair.
CJ’s
smile did Christian in, made warmth radiate from his heart and
through his limbs. If a single curl of lips and flash of teeth could
brighten an entire room, CJ’s could. And Christian’s mood
brightened right along with it.
CJ
hesitated a moment before walking into Professor G’s office. Poor
guy didn’t look too good, his face a little pasty, when CJ had
first knocked. “You sure? I can come back if now’s not good.”
Professor
G sat up, smiling brightly and squaring his shoulders. “No, please.
I was just resting my eyes for a second. What can I help you with,
Mr. Hata?”
CJ
struggled not to roll his eyes. Not only had he told Professor G not
to call him Mr. Hata—he’d been in the man’s classes for over
three years—but Professor G mangled the pronunciation of CJ’s
last name every time he said it. CJ blamed his need to correct people
on his father’s being so particular about the way Americans
slaughtered Japanese words. If CJ were totally honest, he’d admit
he liked the way Professor G’s Southern drawl made his name sound
like “Hawt.”
Hot.
If only Professor G saw him that way. CJ would’ve gladly done any
number of things—all those things failing students did with the
promise of an easy A—without expecting anything in return. He’d
spent three years looking at those broad shoulders in every manner of
farm-boy-cum-edumacated-man button-down shirt. And nothing was quite
as distracting in an advisory meeting as those piercing blue eyes. Or
maybe it was the lips. Or—
“You
needed something?” Professor G’s smile hadn’t dimmed; he looked
more amused than anything.
Shit.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I just… zoned out.” CJ mentally kicked
himself. This was about graduation. If there was one thing he would
in no way jeopardize, no matter how sexy the professor, it was his
education.
“I
saw something on my transcript I needed to ask you about.”
“Of
course. Let me pull it up.” Professor G rolled his chair closer to
his desk and moved files around until he unearthed a keyboard. He
clicked rapidly over the keys, pounding out in loud succession a
series of letters and numbers that eventually granted him access to
the records of every student in his care. It seemed to take fifteen
forevers. When the sound ceased, the professor shifted his eyes
toward CJ.
What
the hell was he looking at? Why were his cheeks turning pink?
Oh.
Wait. Maybe because CJ had his bottom lip sucked between his teeth
like a baby with a freakin’ pacifier. Yeah. Professor G was so
cute, though CJ was as sure a guy who had to be close to forty
wouldn’t enjoy being called cute any more than CJ liked being
called a “twink” at twenty-two.
Get.
Your shit. Together, Hata.
He shook off his crushing man crush as best he could as he made his
way to one of the chairs facing Professor G.
“Oh,
I see.” Professor G turned a sardonic glare CJ’s way, and it was
CJ’s turn to look embarrassed. He’s
seen your
incomplete in music appreciation.
“Music
appreciation,” the professor said drily. “Again.” And drawly.
Focus.
“I thought you said if I did those other electives….”
“CJ.
You’re the only
student I know who has grades like yours and doesn’t want to take
the easiest elective at this school.”
“It’s
Dr.—”
“Dr.
Fielder. I know. ‘He’s incompetent, obviously uneducated, and not
worth his tenure.’”
Well.
Fuck Professor G for his perfect imitation of CJ’s snobbery. “It’s
not polite to mock people.”
Professor
G laughed. It was a joyous sound, and he looked much better than he
had when CJ walked in, but he wasn’t sure he liked the professor’s
joy being at his expense. He chose to believe the professor was
laughing because
of him, not at him.
Regardless,
CJ glared at him. “It’s not nice to mock your students, is it?”
“Even
if it’s true?” Professor G arched a brow.
CJ
snorted. “What? That the man is a hack? Of course it’s true.”
Okay.
So maybe CJ was a bit judgmental. No newsflash there. But Professor G
closed his eyes, smiling and shaking head. So CJ couldn’t help but
think if his being an ass made someone else’s day better, why
change it? Right?
“Okay.
Well. How do I get out of this?”
“CJ,
you don’t. You need to register for the class. You’ve still got
three days to get a spot.” Professor Grayson looked back at his
computer screen, clicked his mouse a few times, then gave a
triumphant “You’re in.”
“Thanks,”
CJ grumbled.
Professor
G looked back his way, expression much more serious this time. “CJ,
we’re friends, right?”
CJ
raised his brow. Yes, friends
is what they were. CJ wished it were more, but he could live with the
fact that he’d earned enough of the man’s respect over the years
to be on a more personal level with him.
They’d
worked on committees, been two of the few volunteers for most of the
student government events. Professor G had recommended CJ to the
education center where CJ worked as a tutor. There’d even been the
one trip to a political debate they’d organized for the sociology
department. Unfortunately, only five people had decided to go, so it
wasn’t an official trip, but CJ and Professor G ended up hanging
out and discussing politics and the social relevance of the events
the speakers had gotten on their soap boxes about long after the
others in their group had dwindled away.
Now,
CJ helped more than Professor G’s paid TA, equally to stare at the
man and to pick his brain. He was smart and timidly funny, if not a
bit unwordly for a man his age.
So,
yeah. They were friends, albeit in a strange and more formal setup
than CJ liked.
“Friends.
Yeah, we’re friends.” CJ groaned when he realized what was
coming. “Oh, no. Dude. This is where you do the ‘Professor G is
disappointed in CJ’ thing?”
Christian
smiled warmly and rolled his eyes. “Of course it is. You’re too
smart to have to take another semester because of one elective, a
very simple elective at that. I’ve helped you slide by, but you
shoot down all the others.” Because
they all suck. “Can
you please just take the class and play nice with Dr. Fielder?”
“I
don’t—”
“For
me?”
CJ
blinked.
Oh,
but there was a list from here to Timbuktu of the things CJ wouldn’t
mind doing for Professor G—none of which included anything remotely
close to taking a stupid class and playing nice with Dr. Half-wit.
Nope. His list contained items that had little to do with academics…
or clothes. CJ couldn’t stop the blush or the way his tongue
flicked out to wet his lips.
Professor
G’s eyes widened slightly and he hurrumphed before averting his
gaze and shuffling papers. “I’m running out of excuses for
bypassing their classes.”
Definitely
overthought that one, dumbass. “Okay.”
CJ also averted his eyes, scratching the back of his neck and trying
to play off his stupidity. God, he hoped his cheeks weren’t too
red. “I’ll do the class.” He snatched his book bag up before he
could do anything else to make himself look like an idiot.
“Would
you do me a favor?” Professor G’s soft, almost expressionless
voice stopped CJ from disappearing back into the sea of students
shuffling down the hall. He raised his head, shooting a glance over
his shoulder. “There’s somewhere important I need to be this
weekend and I’m already running behind. If I gave you a list of
topics I want covered, could you maybe put together some good essay
questions and hand them to my TA by Monday? You know this material
well. Better than him, even.”
The
last bit was mumbled, probably not meant for CJ to hear. The grave
look Professor G had been wearing earlier slid back over his
face—skin pale, eyes dark. CJ wanted to ask what the hell was up,
even waffled between being blunt and asking the question or hinting
around about his professor’s look of certain doom.
“Yeah.
Sure. I can handle it.” CJ frowned. “You okay?”
“Mhm….”
The sound was an acknowledgement. Not an answer to the question. And
Professor G wouldn’t look him in the eye.
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