Bad Influence (Gay Erotic Romance)

By Julianne Reyer

Brad was only a teenager when his life was upended in a terrible car crash, and though it's been nearly two years, starting over is harder than he expected. He's doing all the right things: going to college, dating a cute girl, and he doesn't drive. But he still feels listless and lost; something is missing.

That is, until a chance encounter in a club sparks an unlikely connection with a wealthy young indie rocker. Jeremy is larger than life on stage, a hotshot behind the wheel, and he wants what he can't have--outwardly straight Brad.

Like a moth to a flame, Brad finds himself drawn into Jeremy's world of illegal street racing and unraveling inhibitions. Will Brad overcome the secrets holding him back, and give in to Jeremy's fast-paced intentions?

This 38k word erotic romance novella is intended for adult readers who enjoy steamy m/m relationships and heart-pounding action. Contains an inexperienced guy with a difficult past, a cocky bad boy who's fueled by adrenaline, turbo-charged cars, sexual awakening, and a full-throttle ending! 18+ only

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julianne Reyer
• Release date: Mar 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781624930317

Julianne Reyer

Julianne Reyer writes erotica and romantic genre fiction in her spare time, when she can shrug off the chains of her corporate job. She discovered erotica many years ago, after devouring Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles and then stumbling upon the, much naughtier, Sleeping Beauty books. Since then, her love of kinky fairy tales and paranormal romance has only deepened. Her writing is also influenced by her interests in LGBTQ fiction, sci-fi/fantasy, and retro pulp stories. She lives with her closest friend (who happens to be her husband), and some very peculiar pets.

Book preview

Bad Influence

By

Julianne Reyer

~~~

Copyright 2012 Julianne Reyer

~~~

This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters are at least eighteen years old.

~~~

Acknowledgements

Very special thanks to the following:

~~~

Synthia St. Claire, C.M. Knox, and Kevin M. for providing valuable feedback on an early draft.

D. M. for excellent insight into the world of cars.

And a heavenly thank you to Delilah Fawkes for helping to fix a few integral issues.

~~~

Table of Contents:

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

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

About the Author

Bibliography

Chapter 1

RAIN pelted the windshield, streaking across the smooth surface like crystal rivers shimmering in the street light. My heart pounded in my chest and my palms were slick with sweat as the asphalt tore by in a blur.

Frank glanced at me with a reassuring smile. Relax, Brad. We're almost out of this.

He was always calm, cool-headed in the most extreme situations. We were zipping through traffic at hair-raising speeds, yet there wasn't a drop of perspiration on his brow. I idolized him for that.

He'd hooked up with my mother and moved in with us when I was only sixteen. And I took to him from the first words out of his mouth: You want to learn how to drive?

In the year that I'd gotten to know him, he never raised his voice to me. Never raised a fist. Always handled things in a cool, rational matter.

It broke my heart that I'd never see him again. I didn't mean that in a gay sort of way. He was simply the father I never had. Perfect in every way. Except for how he made his money.

The stoplight shone down on us; a blood-red warning in the night.

I saw the tan sedan pulling out into the street, crossing the path of our car. But it was too late. I will never forget the mortified look on the driver's face as the headlights lit up the whites in his eyes.

Then gravity crushed against my chest, glass peppered my face, and crumpling metal scratched across my eardrums.

I jerked awake as the bus came to an abrupt halt. Squinting my eyes from the glaring sun, I recognized the street. My stop was coming up and I'd almost missed it.

The wrinkled face of the woman next to me pinched in distaste as she scooted further away from me. But there was nowhere for her to go as we all crammed together in small seats. Standing bodies lined the aisle as they clenched the safety straps hanging from the ceiling. The late afternoon heat outside was unbearable and the groaning air conditioner did little to clear the stagnant smell of pressed flesh.

It was my first year in college, in a new state. And I was feeling the culture shock. Sure I'd met a girl but she was pushy and needy. After the first few weeks of newness had worn off, I became the irresponsible boyfriend, not spending enough time with his lonely girlfriend.

As far as I was concerned, the closest friend I had was my mother. And she worked long, odd hours in a high stress hospital environment. She wouldn't be home till late that night, which meant I had a nice, cold, microwave dinner waiting for me.

Truthfully, I didn't want to spend the evening in an empty apartment. I could go to Krissy's but that seemed about as fun as painting my nails pink and watching Twilight—for the tenth time.

The bus lurched forward again and my shoulder bumped the sleeping transient on my other side. One of his eyes popped open and he mumbled, —why I oughta— before he rolled his head back. He started to snore again and I was thankful. For the only thing worse than the ammonia smell wafting off his clothes was the sour alcohol on his breath.

The bus pulled up to my stop and I glanced over my shoulder at the rows of apartment buildings, packed along the block. Then a group of street punks squeezed into the overstuffed walkway, blocking my exit.

Their hair was dyed in multiple colors of pink, green, red and black. Baggy pants covered their shoes and hung loosely off their hips. As they slipped rumpled dollar bills into the farebox, they laughed and joked with each other, bouncing with excitement. I watched them as I stayed in my seat, between the bag-lady and the bum, fantasies of friendship and fun dancing in my mind.

Then the swivel doors closed and the bus swayed as it turned back onto the street, past my apartment block.

I could have told them to move. I could have squeezed my way out, into the oppressive heat shimmering off the sidewalk. But something clicked in my head. What if I just stay on the bus and take it to the end? I thought. I don't have anything better to do.

As the glowing red sun set behind the hazy city sprawl, and the bus emptied out, I soon had a bench all to myself. So I stretched my legs out and let my eyes trace along unfamiliar streets. Although anxiety tickled the base of my neck, it was liberating to just do something for the hell of it. It had been years since I'd felt this kind of freedom. Mostly because I wouldn't allow myself the luxury.

Ever since—

—headlights—tan paint—eyes—shattering glass—

I shook my head and sat up, feeling claustrophobic in the near empty bus. My breath came in quick pants yet my lungs screamed for air. I braced on the seat and my shaky hand reached for the pull-cord.

Not this one. The next one, a voice spoke over the creaking of the bus.

My fingers stopped on the hoop and I glanced back.

Jeremy's singing tonight! exclaimed a young man with long red and black hair.

I know, right? He like almost never performs anymore. A young woman bounced with glee as she flopped the plush bunny ears on her backpack.

In my daydreams, I hadn't noticed that the teenagers had claimed the empty seats behind me, spreading out on a wide bench under the air conditioner.

I don't know why he hasn't signed with a major label, said a kid with a spiked mohawk. They would pick him up in a heartbeat.

Because he's not a sellout, dumbass. The long-haired punk huffed as he rested his arm on top of the corner seat.

My breathing eased as I listened. A couple of years ago I would have shared their enthusiasm—whether it was obsessing over music, or just hanging out with a group of friends. I hadn't done either in a long time, and through my listlessness, part of me missed it.

I was intrigued, and I needed to turn my dark thoughts away from the painful path they were on. So yielding to my curiosity, I followed their conversation about the musician.

My father had been an amateur singer once. From my few scattered memories, I remembered his singing the most. But I'd been too young to retain much more than that.

Hey, said the girl with the fuzzy white backpack. You should come to the club.

It took a moment of silence for the realization to sink in that she was speaking to me.

What— I glanced around the empty seats before returning my attention to the teens. Me?

Yeah. The punk with the spiky hair laughed. You're all tense and shit. You need to relax. Come hang out with us. Then he pulled the wire above the window and the display by the driver lit up with a ding.

I nodded. Sure. Thanks.

We're not paying for you, though, said the kid with the long hair. He launched himself out of his seat as the bus pulled up to the curb. It's five bucks to get in.

Don't be such a dick, scolded the girl. She passed me and paused at the open doors, her pale backpack in sharp contrast to her black clothing. I can spare you some cash if you need it. She smiled at me with a wink.

That's okay. I rose from my seat. I can pay for myself, but thanks.

She shrugged and hopped off the bus, her arms tucked like a kangaroo.

As I stepped onto the sidewalk, the cool evening air blew across my brow, tickling the roots of my dark blond hair. It was a refreshing respite from the heat of the day.

Truthfully, I had just enough money for bus fare and lunch until the end of the week. Which meant I was going hungry for a couple days. But I figured it was worth the sacrifice.

I had been waiting for such an excuse. A change of pace.

So I followed the trio across the sparsely lit street, to a tall gray building with a single door, like a black hole in a wall of concrete. There were no windows and I would have mistaken it for a factory if not for the neon icon of a baseball bat, flickering in animation as it smashed down on a circular light shaped like a vinyl record. There were no words nor letters; nor any other indication of what lay within. An enigma, waiting to be unraveled.

Chapter 2

A TALL man at the door asked for my ID before accepting my money. It was all ages night but he offered red bands to those twenty-one and over. I grimaced at my naked wrist as I entered the main hall. Might as well have painted not old enough to drink on my forehead.

It was still early, and the club was not yet full, though patrons clad in various street styles clustered together in tight-knit groups. I must have spent too much time gawking, because the teenagers from the bus disappeared from my view.

So I sat at one of the empty stools at the bar.

What can I get for you, cutie?

The woman behind the counter looked me up and down, scrutinizing my button-down shirt and khaki pants with an amused smile on her face. I blinked in response, knowing my appearance didn't fit with a crowd ranging from dark and edgy to candy-coated brightness. I couldn't have been more painfully mundane.

She was pretty though, with a smooth face, lush lips and long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. My eyes widened as my gaze traced down to the athletic tank top, covering the curve of her breasts. Bright, multi-colored tattoos sprawled over her bare arms, from her hands up to her shoulders, and clawed up the base of her neck.

Wow, I said as I picked out the details in the art: curling rose stems, white-faced dancing geishas, and stylized koi fish.

We don't sell that here, she said with a straight face. How about a Coke? Then she smiled as she stared at my confusion.

Oh, sorry. Yeah, a Coke is fine, I said. Your tattoos are... Wicked, cool, beautiful? I wasn't sure what to say for fear of sounding like an adolescent. Or worse, an idiot.

Expensive. And painful, she said as she filled a glass with dark, bubbly liquid from the tap. "And not as interesting

Reviews for Bad Influence (Gay Erotic Romance)

[AntMan · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

i started reading and didn't find any enjoyment from the beginning- i skimmed through about 40% of it and it didn't get any better- kinda boring so i stopped