Pine Valley: A Novel

By Ged Ruggles

Most men of ambition would kill for the chance to play a bracing game at Pine Valley, the most celebrated, and exclusive, golf course in the world. And in the summer of his 30th birthday, Jeff Carpenter gets his chance.

Trouble is, Jeff isn't exactly a man of ambition, having put his literary dreams on hold 10 years ago for a soulless back office job. Nor did he ever master the art of the swing farther than once making par on the giant dinosaur hole at his local childhood mini golf.

But when the son of Pine Valley's most senior councilman takes an interest in Jeff at a Philadelphia gay bar, the sparks from their clandestine romance plunge him into a web of intrigue that threatens Pine Valley's very existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ged Ruggles
• Release date: Sep 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310263101

Ged Ruggles

Degreed in English and Library Science, Ged Ruggles spent years contributing to the downfall of the American economy at an investment bank you've probably heard of. Ever the forward thinker, he left finance before things got really lucrative to pursue a career in real estate, just in time for the market crash. He reports that it was fun critiquing your decorating choices while it lasted. And being regularly featured in the New York Times as one of their historic house experts. Since then, he's been holed away in a 200 year old cottage on a mountainous country lane with his husband-to-be, their three dogs, and a stray cat that somehow worked his way inside. Landing a dream job where he was paid to discover and write about great stores and restaurants up and down the Delaware River area rekindled his love of writing. At the same time, his passion for social justice and a desire to unite and support the common struggles of all oppressed people: women, racial and religious minorities, the poor, LGBT, and now, sadly, the middle class, led to the first of many novels that he hopes one day to establish him as a weirdo oddball outcast in the literary world.

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Pine Valley: A Novel

by Ged Ruggles

©2014 Ged Ruggles All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Contact at www.gedruggles.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

Jeff had more important things on his mind than the overstuffed star spangled g-string dangling above his head. At that very moment, Secret Agent Sam's brand new adventure was barreling down the Pennsylvania Turnpike on its  way to nerd havens all across the Philly metro. For five desperate years, Jeff and the rest of the country had pined for the next installment of America's third most profitable comic book super hero franchise, a petty contract dispute having been more than the otherwise nearly invincible Sam could overcome.

Thank goodness his best friend Casey owned Center City's preeminent, that is to say, its only comic book and novelty store. It was an enviable connection, although one Jeff was cursing tonight as the ample tip of the go-go boy's patriotically clad penis darted up and down and side to side from its lofty perch, nearly grazing Jeff's boyishly unkempt hair.

If anything were to muss up his do, Jeff would rather it was the light May breeze blowing down Walnut Street in front of his friend's shop where the pimpled, the dateless, the bat shit crazy, and their legal and not so legal guardians awaited Sam's triumphant return.

But since his friends, really they were more neighbors than friends, knew Jeff could waltz into Casey's store with his middle finger raised, were he that kind of jerk, pass the throngs of salivating fans, and claim his comic book swag anytime he wanted, Jeff's insistence that he was busy tonight was met with complete disdain.

And so, plausible excuses exhausted, he was dragged down to Philly's cruisiest gay bar and strategically positioned at the edge of its soft core porny dance floor, underneath that gyrating dick.

Jeff's other pressing concern this evening was the structural integrity of the hundred year old bag of bricks in which he was standing. Considering half a block of antique architecture had recently collapsed down the street due to a leaking water main, he worried just how much gut pounding techno these old walls could take.

Gary! Jeff nudged the zaftig half of the across-the-hall couple that dragged him to Saturday a Go-Go at Mackey's Bar. Can we go?

Gary danced in closer. Not 'til you get laid, he said.

What?

I promised Amy. He reached into his tit jiggling shirt pocket, pulled out a dollar, and shoved it into Jeff's other hand, the one that wasn't holding his nearly empty bottle of beer. See if it's real.

You see if it's real, Jeff replied, trying to hand the money back but Gary pushed him head first into the space between the raised platform and the go-go boy's sinewy legs.

Heya, sexy! an otherworldly voice called down from the lights, its point of origin obscured by their glare. Been tryna get your attention!

As he raised himself up, Jeff ventured dangerously close to the Stars and Stripes wandering down the dancer's hefty pole.

You're all set for the Fourth of July, he said and a nervous chuckle dribbled out of his mouth after the sad pickup line.

Whatcha mean?

Nothing, Jeff replied.

It keeps falling out, the dancer said.

You mean it's real?

The swaying youth had the lithe, muscled tone of a man who's entire existence thus far had been fueled by a steady diet of pig stomach, collard greens, and shoo fly pie so that he might suffer a productive life of erecting barns and plowing fields and fucking joyless babies into his future wife's joyless vagina... always in the dark... a handful of times a year... but never on God's days.

As he dropped from the sky, Jeff was reminded of the Amish guys he drooled over during a sixth grade field trip to a working farm. He still encountered the type whenever Amy dragged him to the farm stands at the Reading Market.

We all have to do our part, Jeff, Amy would say as the dour shop boy or girl rang up her purchases, lovingly harvested and crafted by a goodly folk of simple means and trucked eighty miles east past the inbred dog farms and toothless young girls on blinky lighted bicycles, their skirts whipping in the wake of the eighteen wheelers' wind shear as they careened down Highway 23.

Yup, there was that same butter-faced visage that, despite its rather unattractive qualities, was somehow totally irresistible when packaged with the hot body, and forbidden cock, to which it was attached. 

Or were they Mennonites? Really, the only concrete memory Jeff retained from that educational outing was the three day detention he received the following week. It was a predicament in which he landed after inquiring of their black suspendered guide, during one of those rare moments when he felt both brave and interested, as to why it was okay for these principled technology deniers to accept money that was made with electricity. Jeff never got his answer.

Grab it for me, will ya? the dancer asked, pointing to a booze soaked bill peeking out from beneath Jeff's sneaker. He dutifully obliged and bent down and retrieved the money. But by the time he righted himself, the youth was hunched down in a squat with his waistband peeled wide open, giving Jeff, Jesus, and the drunks in the upper balcony a thrill. Then he stuffed the money, along with Jeff's hand, straight down his panties.

Jeff backed away right before his fingers left a dust detectable print on the guy's foot long and bumped into Gary.

Aren't gonna bite cha! the dancer called. Unless you like that!

Get me another one, Gary said, handing Jeff his empty glass. Tom, you want another?

Gary's spritely husband danced over and offered up his cup.

Where ya goin', cutie? the dancer asked, but Jeff was already circling the bar in search of an opening at the counter. Its perimeter was packed three men thick and he began to think that ditching Gary and Tom was probably the wiser move. It's not like he'd approved of their nefarious get Jeff laid plan. And why was it any of Amy's concern if his dick wasn't getting sucked?

A gaggle of twinks alighted from their seats, nearly knocking Jeff over as they shoved past him, so he flitted under the shadow of a beefy muscle head and claimed a sliver of the space they'd occupied at the bar.

Half the battle won, now he just had to wait for one of the bartenders to leave their scintillating conversations and acknowledge his empties. A few minutes ticked by before a particularly massive one turned around from across the bar. He was stuffing bills of unknown denominations into the shirt pocket strained over his ripped chest as he approached. Then he grabbed a tall glass and slammed it down directly in front of Jeff.

I need a couple of... But the bartender didn't wait for Jeff's order. Instead, he headed to the cash register, kicked a stool out from underneath it, and climbed up. He pulled three dark bottles from the blackness above and set each down carefully on the bar. Then he hopped down, gathered them up, and brought them over to Jeff.

The first bottle opened and he poured two fingers worth of its clear liquid into the glass. Then two fingers of the second. He struggled with the third. Either it had never been opened before or its cap was extra sticky, but when he finally succeeded, it was two fingers again.

He reached into the well and raised a plastic bottle over the glass. A creamy white liquid splashed over the booze as he raided a bowl on the counter, plucked out a cherry, and plopped it on top.

That's for you, he said, sliding the drink to Jeff before turning around to face the direction in which he'd been leaning. Compliments of... huh, he's gone.

I need a couple of... Jeff said again, but the bartender had already returned to the cash register with the three bottles and climbed on the stool.

Jeff hesitated for a moment before raising the mystery drink up to examine the milky ribbons mingling down into its pale liquor. He drew it under his nose. It smelled sweet.

Hey, buddy. Jeff was startled by a tap on his arm just above his elbow. The glass flipped over and it's contents spilled into the lap of a man who had slipped onto the stool beside him. 

Oh God! He dropped the glass and grabbed a stack of napkins, knocking the bowl of cherries across the counter in the process, along with most of the napkins. He patted the guy's shirt, it was a crisp white button down number, as if that would somehow remove the stain rather than set it.

Jeff worked the napkins feverishly over his chest and were he not so traumatized by his clumsiness, he might have realized just how nice it was. He followed the buttons down to the man's stomach and then further still until he reached his belt where he felt something squishy.

That feels nice, the man whispered.

Jeff yanked himself away just as he plucked the cherry that was lodged in the guy's lap between his thumb and forefinger. The man took Jeff's hand and gently pulled it slowly to his mouth. He parted his lips and flicked out his tongue and tossed the cherry behind his teeth.

The man smiled as he chewed the wayward fruit. And Jeff's heart immediately began to race. And his legs melted. And there might have been a tiny bit of drool oozing from the left side of his mouth. It was Secret Agent Sam.

Well okay, it wasn't actually Sam. Or Doug Denton, the actor who played Sam in four of his five blockbuster flicks. And it sure wasn't that guy, what's his name, who filled in when Mr. Denton thought he might hang up the character and try his hand at real acting, a failed endeavor that lasted for one year and two box office flops. None of those Sams were this young. Or this hot.

But there, only inches from Jeff's grasp, was Sam's dark silky hair, his commandingly square jawline, his piercing, moody eyes. Eyes that made the whole world disappear. The only Sammish thing missing from this fellow's face was Doug Denton's slightly busted and seriously sexy nose. This dude's nose was hotter.

I'm really sorry, Jeff said, waving at no one in particular as he scanned the bar for someone of authority. Let me get you a drink.

Sam's pecs and nipples cut through the moist fabric as he milked his wet sleeve onto the counter. I'll just suck on this, thanks.

Oh man, that shirt looks expensive. I'm sorry.

You said that already, Sam replied, gently tugging at the wet napkins in Jeff's hand and tossing them to the bar. Then he continued, so, what do people do for fun around here? as if shooting the shit with a total stranger while drenched in booze was all in a day’s work for this world class spy.

At least the question distracted Jeff from what just happened. Maybe that was the point. He thought for a moment and then motioned to a dark hallway from which a coven of leathered men was emerging. My friend says there's a spanking room in the basement.

A strobe light twinkled in Sam's eye. I mean what's fun to do in this city.

Oh. Those lips couldn't be real. Um. They were too soft and yielding and perfect. And those eyes... Jeff couldn't think of a goddam thing. Museums, restaurants, shops galore. Center City's got it all.

Isn't that a commercial? Sam asked.

Jeff was busted. Yeah, for Channel 9. One of my friends is in it. It took him a moment but his brain finally processed the situation. You're not from around here, are you?

Sam shook his head. I'm from Manhattan.

Have you seen the Liberty Bell?

Is it worth seeing?

It's all we've got.

Jeff looked down at his hand as if it held the words he needed to keep the conversation alive. But his palm was facing away, white knuckling the edge of the bar and anchoring him to this moment. A furtive movement, just a few millimeters to the left, and he could touch Sam's sticky fingernails. It was the tiniest of barriers and one Jeff dared not cross.

He looked up again. Do you have a boyfriend? he asked and was immediately mortified at how awkward the question sounded. I mean are you visiting a boyfriend …a friend? A family? Your family?

Sam picked up Jeff's empty glass which had rolled on its side down the bar. I go to Wharton, he replied, lifting it in a toast and downing the few remaining droplets before replacing it right side up. Three years down, one to go.

Wharton? Confusion spilled out onto Jeff's face. That's like twenty blocks away.

I don't get downtown much, Sam said, grazing Jeff's fingertip. Unless the highway's backed up.

Jeff smirked. Or on fire.

Seems to happen a lot, doesn't it? I commute from home.

You commute from Manhattan?

Sam chuckled. One of my dad's houses is in Jersey. It's not far. Just over the Ben Franklin.

One of? Jeff thought to himself. But he replied instead, so, what's fun about Jersey?

Golf.

Jeff laughed.

Ouch. Sam clutched his chest like he'd been punched dead in the heart. Our house is on a golf course.

I didn't know you were serious, Jeff said. You look too young. Sorry.

Sam slid his fingers across Jeff's trembling knuckles and released him from the bar.

You're really cute, he said and Jeff had no choice but to hold on tight, at any moment he was in mortal danger of melting into a mystery puddle beneath the barstool.

Just then, the bartender returned and shot Jeff the most vicious scowl his botoxed cheeks and plucked eyebrows could muster as he sifted through the piles of sopping napkins.

Did you fuck up my cherries? he demanded to know. But before he could reach his meat hooks across the bar and give Jeff the what for, Sam intertwined his fingers with Jeff's and yelled, come on! and yanked him through the crowd.

As the pair maneuvered across the dance floor, Jeff saw the Amish farmer gyrating under the spotlight. A chubby hand was planted firmly on his muscled ass, though a couple of its fingers seemed to have disappeared under those stripes. Jeff assumed Gary and Tom were still somewhere over there patiently awaiting their libations. Although, that did kinda look like Gary's hand.

Sam rushed towards the exit and extended his arm to its lever, but he never reached it. The door opened from the outside and the force of his unsupported weight on the empty air propelled his body forward as his fingers pried away from Jeff's and he tumbled onto the sidewalk.

Jeff stopped short at the sight of a statuesque woman who was blocking the doorway. She was at once regal and trashy. Tall in stature and impeccably made up, with the loveliest set of pearls that didn't look fake in the least choking her neck. But the neon hibiscus dress slung over her solid frame was an unfortunate choice. The fit was flattering enough but, unless it was meant as an ironic fashion statement, Jeff wouldn't be surprised to learn she'd dug it out of the Save-Mart bargain bin.   

As she waved the sweet stink wafting off Sam's chest from her nose, the red tips of her fingernails flashed in the street light. You two need to lay off the liquor, she admonished Jeff as he shimmied past her as best as he could.

I.D, sweetheart, the bouncer said, but the woman's Manolo Blahnik knockoffs remained fixed to the pavement just outside the door. She watched intently as Jeff lifted Sam up from his knees. Sam had smashed stomach first into an overflowing garbage can and both he and the garbage were tossed to the ground.

Ma'am, your I.D. Jeff dusted away the sidewalk filth that was clinging fast to Sam's drying shirt.

Shut the door, lady! You're letting the fabulous out! the bouncer yelled. The door slammed shut, but the woman remained outside. She backed into a darkened crevice between the entrance and a giant fake palm tree with tiny sombreros dangling from its fronds and waited silently as Sam wrapped his arm tight around Jeff's waist and they disappeared down the alley at the edge of the building.

*****

Relax. Sam's whisper warmed Jeff's ear before traveling down his neck to meet the sweet scent of whatever was in that drink he was wearing. Jeff didn't mind the smell. It masked the stench coming off the overflowing dumpster at the other end of the alley whenever a breeze blew by.

Sam was pressed tight against Jeff's back. Let the club do all the work, he said, guiding Jeff's arms to the right until they were nearly above his head. Then he slowly dragged them back down and up to the left. Just focus on where you want to go, he continued, pointing to a junked toilet leaned against the far brick wall.

Jeff turned. I got this, he said, convincing no one as he playfully pushed Sam back. He planted his feet firmly on the cobblestone teeing ground and honed in on the drippy graffiti that spelled shit can shimmering in the moonlight across the way. A downward arrow below the words pointed at the toilet, just in case there was any doubt as to what they referred to. Then he raised his imaginary club. And he swung, and banged his arm into a passerby.

Watch it, Tiger! the stranger yelled as he continued his cruise down the alley.

Sorry.

Now it was Sam's turn to burst out laughing as Jeff retreated into the shadows. But he wasn't getting rid of Dreamboat Sammie quite that easily.

Sam grabbed Jeff's forearm just before he hit the wall and slowly worked his way up until his touch lingered on Jeff's naked tricep. His skin was all goosebumpy from the evening chill, or something.

Encountering no resistance, Sam continued his northward push underneath Jeff's t-shirt sleeve until he landed in slow circular caresses on his shoulder. You're a natural, he said.

Jeff shrugged, scraping his back against the bricks. He could sense the crumbly mortar pulsing in time with the dance beat on the other side of the wall. It was unsettling. Seems easy enough.

Sam pressed forward just as two burly drunks, locked in an embrace, and singing god knows what, barreled into the wall between them, before stumbling further down the alley.

I'm glad you came downtown tonight, Jeff said, once the commotion died down again. Then he shocked himself, and the rest of the free world, by reaching for Sam's hand and pulling him closer. Apparently, it took Jeff a lot more beer than he was used to drinking to get through a club night with Gary and Tom.

Sam smiled. This is my birthday party.

Oh! Jeff tried to let go but Sam held tight. I didn't know you were here with other people. They're probably worried...

Sam shook his head. No. Just you.

Happy birthday.

Jeff! There you are! The whole alley dimmed as Gary approached from the sidewalk and blotted out the glow from the nearest street light. We have to pick Tom's mother up at the airport tomorrow... He waited for Tom, who was several steps behind, to catch up before finishing off his thought with a bitchy side-eyed chaser, ...early. God forbid the wicked witch takes a cab.

Gary, you promised.

Oh, hello there, Gary said, ignoring his husband's plea for civility as he caught a glimpse of that extra hand attached to Jeff's. Immediately, he set about invading Sam's personal space so as to get a better assessment of his friend's conquest. Every time he moved, the street light popped out from behind his head and twinkled in Sam's eyes.

Suddenly, Gary lifted his nose in the air like a terrier catching a whiff from a porterhouse being grilled three blocks away. I like your cologne, he said.

Without batting an eyelash,