The Chase (Noble Dimensions 2)

By Erin O'Quinn

Mending fences, chasing dreams.

Brew Lloyd, openly gay, has come back to his hometown of Noble, Nevada to live in his parents’ home while they travel to see his dying uncle for the last time. Since graduation he’s been gone four years, avoiding his gay-hating father who now maneuvers him into securing a summer job at The Chase, a ranch owned by his friend Roy. There Brew finds himself face to face with an old fantasy—the rancher’s son Chase, former football hero at the local high school.

For his part, Chase has struggled with his sexuality for years. Even though hugely popular in school, he’s shunned the dating life in favor of staying on the ranch. Unable to come to terms with his frequent fantasies of a young man he’d secretly admired in high school, he pours his energies into his ranch work. When he sees Brew again after six years, he’s at last forced to confront his hot desire for the glib guy who’s not shy about his own sexual preference.

As these two young men get closer, two other men stand in the way. The first is a crooked federal agent. The other is Brew’s lawyer father, who could never guess that his own son is having an affair with an ex-football player.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin O'Quinn
• Release date: May 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311525802

Erin O'Quinn

Erin O’Quinn sprang from the high desert hills of Nevada, from a tiny town which no longer exists. A truant officer dragged her kicking and screaming to grade school, too late to attend kindergarten; and since that time her best education has come from the ground she’s walked and the people she's met.Erin has her own publishing venue, New Dawn Press. Her works cover the genres of M/M and M/F romance and also historical fantasy for all ages.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Brew hated to sweat. He sighed, then wrinkled his nose at the creases and telltale stains on his once-crisp white shirt. No one would see him like this except his parents, so it wasn’t as if some dude were appraising him, wondering whether he’d make the top ten. He ran one finger under his collar and knocked again on his own goddamn door. Then he remembered the fancy recessed bell and jabbed his thumb on it. He heard it echo inside.

At last Mom answered, looking tired, he thought, a little shapeless even in her tailored silks. Usually, she tried to have her hair done and her makeup on no later than eight sharp every morning. But that was a while back. A lot can change in four years.

Brewster! Darling!

He buried his nose and mouth in the nest of fine wrinkles on her neck, in soft skin that smelled of White Shoulders with just a trace of bath talc. He returned her embrace, standing in the doorway of the elaborate portico, while a nondescript pooch at their feet yapped and carried on, running around and around the legs of his pressed Jordache jeans.

Mom, he said into her skin, can we get in out of the heat? And lose the freaking Chihuahua?

She stepped back and tipped her head to look at him, smiling. Heat? It’s seventy-four degrees, dear. And MacKenzie’s a terrier, not a Chihuahua. He doesn’t usually get this close to strangers…

Brew immediately caught the little flash in her eyes, the slight edge in her tone, that told him he’d been gone way too long.

Come in, darling. It’s wonderful to see you. You look so handsome, Brewster, so…distinguished.

He followed her down the hallway, his wingtips sinking into the deep-pile oriental carpet he remembered. A memento or whatever that Dad had found on one of his trips for a client—somewhere in Afghanistan—and somehow had shipped back to the States, even back then, while a war with the Soviet Union was crippling the country. Dad had his ways. Or his money did.

He shouldn’t be so flippant about Dad’s money. It had kept him in school at CCLA. It kept his butt on the leather seat of an expensive sports car. Lavishing his money was Dad’s apology for loathing his son’s lifestyle, not being able even to talk about it. Plus keeping him conveniently at arm’s length.

How was the trip, dear?

What’s to tell? A six-hour boring drive on an empty highway. No problem.

As he talked, he noticed Mom’s shoulders seemed a little more rounded, her hips a little wider, than when he’d last seen her. He quickly tucked his dress shirt farther into his jeans, testing his own flat belly, conscious of his ass. Age. It shortens us and adds its pound of flesh where we least want it. I’ll take it on my dick, not my derriere.

She glanced back over her shoulder. I’m sure you’ll want a cup of coffee, Brewster.

He eyed the alabaster columns in the long hallway, each one topped with the bust of some long-dead lawyer in outdated collars and frilled shirts. Supreme court justices, all of them, scowling or grim-jawed, their vacant eyes staring at the antique ivory-painted walls. He’d always cringed at his father’s taste in hall furnishings. Cranley Lloyd, Esq. thought it was his right and duty to remind everyone else that they were entering the home of the best—and only—lawyer in Noble, Nevada.

Coffee, you bet. That’ll never change, Mom. Coffee and a shower. Something to jazz my sass and cool my ass. Fuck. I need to get out of here. Yesterday.

They turned into the kitchen. Mom’s sanctuary. Just as Dad’s over-leathered den was his escape, so his mother’s wood-grained kitchen was the place she always retreated to. The small black dog parked its furry butt near a wood cabinet and watched him with its head cocked, its beard quivering. He figured it was suppressed excitement or hypertension.

Sit, dear, sit. The coffee’s fresh. I’ve missed you. Very much. Tell me what’s going on in your life. You know, we talk on the phone, but… She left the sentence hanging and wistful, setting a china cup in front of him and filling it from a silver carafe. Finished, she sat across from him at the breakfast nook, her hands folded in front of her.

Sure, Mom. I’ve missed you, too. Honest to God.

They spent the next little while talking about the college in Los Angeles where a degree in Business Management waited, only twenty-two semester hours away. He talked cheerfully about his apartment, one he shared with two other guys. And no, Mom, we’re not, ah, into each other. Just sharing rent. Not spit and cum. He’d be lucky to find someone who wanted to do that.

And you, Mom? You’re doing okay? He knew his mother was very strong—an intellect and a survivor. All the hours that Dad had left blank in her life, she tried to fill with fine art, her book club, her exquisite garden. And, probably, this scruffy little dog.

The dog was sitting six inches from his leg and regarding him with over-bright eyes. He leaned forward and scratched its head, surprised to find the wiry-looking hairs almost silky.

I’m fine, really fine. Especially since you’re home at last.

Why don’t you tell me why he wants me back? Dad was his usual on the phone. He knew his words were not honed to please her, but he resented even sitting here. It was Dad’s fault, of course. He hadn’t ordered him here, not exactly. But he’d made it clear that the rent money and the credit card were paying for a modicum of obedience. The last thing Dad wanted was to welcome a faggot. But the master was calling his trained dog home.

I’ve told you about your Uncle Don’s condition. Your father saw him a few weeks ago when he went to Chicago. He was a little weak. But now…now they’re saying it’s inoperable. Her shoulders sloped even more, and Brew put out his hand, laying it over her own, squeezing it warmly.

I’m sorry, Mom. Dad’s brother happens to be one of my favorite relatives. A good guy. Non-judgmental.

"Yes. Well, I hope you include me in your neat little categories of your loving family."

For the second time today, he heard the sardonic tone in her voice, the same voice he often heard when he himself spoke.

That’s a discussion for another time, dear one who bore me.

You mean I bore you, Brewster? Or twenty-one years ago I bore you? A six-pound skinny brat who never stopped crying. Which one is it? Or both?

He grinned, then laughed with real humor. He had missed her even more than he’d told her. He squeezed her hand again. You are not a boring person, Amaryllis Lloyd. You’re many marvelous things, Mom, but boring is not one of them. So tell me why I’m here.

She raised her head to meet his gaze. Wherever did you get your height, dear? And those magnetic dark eyes? She sighed. Well, your father and I will head for the Las Vegas airport on Wednesday—the day after tomorrow. Early, middle of the night early. We’ve got a flight booked for Chicago. And we’ll be gone—who knows? Until Don dies, probably. I hate to sound…

Realistic? Please, Mom. Just say it. How’s Dad taking it? With his usual good humor?

She gave him one of her patented half scowl, half cocked eyebrow looks. He’s grieving inside, son. Of course, he didn’t mention it to you. He won’t show it—you already know that. But he loves Don. The older brother who never let him down.

Except finally he’s letting Dad down, big time. He’s dying. And there’s not one legal writ or amount of cash that can bring him back once he’s gone. They live, they die, and he can’t do a damn thing about that, or their personal choices either.

The coffee suddenly tasted sour. He stood, pushing back the carved mahogany high-backed chair with one leg as he rose.

I could use a shower. And maybe a nap. Before I talk to Dad.

She sat in the twin of the chair he had just vacated, its vaulted back arching over her brown shoulder-length hair like a burnished crown. He saw a sheen veiling her eyes and regretted his too-harsh words. Yeah, Dad took his law practice way too seriously. He had let it shoulder out his wife and his son for years. He couldn’t face his son’s homosexuality or his wife’s subtle needs either. But at this moment Brew, too, was being a prick, saying words designed to sting and jab.

He moved to where she sat and knelt by her chair. He sought her delicate long fingers, and she let him nestle them in his own fine-boned hands. Mom, I know the next few weeks are going to be tough for you. Dealing with the in-laws, all the grief. I’m sorry. Just tell me what I can do to help.

Why am I here?

Brewster, all I need you to do is take care of this place while we’re gone. Feed MacKenzie and let him play outside a little. Pay the bills that come in. I’ve left a checkbook with my signature on enough checks to pay a king’s ransom. Make sure the sprinkler system and the alarm system are working properly. Pretend like you live here again. It won’t be for long…I’m afraid to say.

His shoulders sagged in relief. He had honestly thought they wanted him to fly to Chicago, too. Family and all that. Pay his respects. Help with the funeral.

Mom, it’s the least I can do. Of course I’ll stay here. It’ll be like, ah, old times.

A spark returned to her hazel eyes. You’re too young to have had old times. And you were gone most of the time, even then, back in high school.

He grinned with one side of his mouth, a trait he’d also inherited from her. Don’t remind me of those times. Please. I needed to escape.

He was still kneeling, and the tile was hard. But he willed himself to stay there at her queen’s chair.

She loosed one hand and stroked his hair. My darling boy, I know what you were escaping from. And it’s okay. There aren’t too many people in Noble who’ll ever understand a gay man. I love you exactly the way you are.

He had never told Mom, but his escape was from Dad—not from tortured memories of high school. Those years had been pretty fucking cool. He still remembered being the centerpiece of a lot of the brightest kids at Sloane County High, the ones who accepted his gayness without shunning him. It was only when he got home at night that the pain returned. Like now.

He grinned up at her. If only you could make Dad understand. But one out of two ain’t bad. I love you, too. He stood again. Which room, Mom?

Take your old room, of course. It’s ready for you. Get up when you feel like it. Maybe Cranley will be here when you wake.

Where is he, anyway?

He ran out to The Chase, the ranch, to deliver some papers. I know he’ll be excited to see you when he gets back. Should I… Why don’t I wake you when he gets home?

He heard the plea in her voice. Sure. I need to grab maybe an hour’s nap. Let me know when he gets here.

What about your luggage, Brewster?

Toss me the garage door remote. I’ll park in there and bring my stuff from the car. Don’t worry about me. He paused in the doorway, seeing his mother suddenly as she was—a soon-to-be-fifty brunette, still beautiful, her face suffused with fondness…and sorrow, too. The only woman he truly, totally loved.

Instead of throwing the keys to him, Mom rose and pressed them into his hand. He hugged her briefly, then turned and walked down the long hallway, back out into the too-hot morning, to take care of his bags.

He began to sweat again.

CHAPTER 2

Only ten in the morning, Chase thought, and already the day was getting warm. He raised his straw cowboy hat a little to let the sweat and air mix until his head felt cool, then sank it again so the brim shielded his eyes from the sun. He ran his finger under the strap of his singlet, where the sweat had built up, then laid into his task again.

One trimmed cedar post had gone down for some reason, almost like someone had run into it and left it rearing barbed-wire arms. Like a drunk trying to right itself. Or like a turgid cock, nestled in barbed groin hair, stiff and needing to come…

I’m a regular Louis L’Amour. He moved the corners of his mouth in a wry grin, knowing he’d never say anything like that to anyone. They’d think he was loco. He filed the images away for later.

The fallen post had pulled the ones on each side as it fell. He shook his head, still wondering how a perfectly good part of the fence line could now lay catty-wampus, inviting the cattle to seek greener pastures. No telling how many more had come down and how much more of the fence would need repair. He’d need to inspect the entire five hundred acres of this quadrant. Just more work for me and Pa, on top of everything else.

This morning, after leaving Pa and the lawyer, Mr. Lloyd, he’d chopped down and trimmed a taller cedar right here on Quad Two, meaning to sink it deeper than the one that had gone down. Using the posthole digger, he was slowly biting into a narrow hole in the caliche, the hard pan of subsoil that somehow grew the grass for the hundred head of cattle on their ranch.

Yesterday, he and Pa had driven fifty head out of this whole section, for fear they’d wander into the foothills without a restraining fence. Cattle weren’t exactly the rocket scientists of the animal kingdom. Even one patch of straggly-assed grass would draw them onward until there was no fodder at all. And one cow would simply follow the tail of the one in front of her. Chase couldn’t stand the thought of them being injured by sliding on the slick shale or stepping into holes.

As he worked the piece of equipment, Chase liked the way his muscles bunched and relaxed, swelled and subsided. There were easier ways to dig a posthole—like using the power auger style of digger—and he needed to vary the depth of each hole he worked on. But he liked the hard work. So