Boyfriend Potential

By Hollis Shiloh

After a breakup, Josh is once again on his own, wondering if he'll ever amount to anything or find someone who truly loves him and can handle his shy, damaged self. 

There's one man he can always call on for help, and soon he's staying with his dear friend Luther once again.  Living together brings back old feelings for both of them, their one disastrous date attempt notwithstanding.  

Should they try again?  Is Josh too damaged or will he finally find a man to love for the rest of his life?

~35,000 words – heat level very low

This gay romance contains characters from the Max and Jamie books.  It can be read alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spare Words Press
• Release date: Nov 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540141767

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After a breakup, Josh is once again on his own, wondering if he'll ever amount to anything or find someone who truly loves him and can handle his shy, damaged self. 

There's one man he can always call on for help, and soon he's staying with his dear friend Luther once again.  Living together brings back old feelings for both of them, their one disastrous date attempt notwithstanding. 

Should they try again?  Is Josh too damaged or will he finally find a man to love for the rest of his life?

~35,000 words – gay romance, heat level very low

Contains characters from the Max and Jamie books but can be read alone.

Boyfriend Potential

by Hollis Shiloh

Tears clogged my eyes as I gathered my things together.  I was trying not to cry; crying had helped get me into this mess.

Please, I'll try harder.  My voice caught a little on the last word, and I held some of my clothes gathered in my arms, haphazard and desperate.  My gaze felt bleak and frightened. 

Another boyfriend didn't want me, or wanted me to be somebody I couldn't be.  Another failure in my string of horrible relationships.

I'm sorry, Josh, it's just not working.  I want you out by the end of the day.

He didn't say your deadbeat ass, at least.  I was trying to earn some money, honestly I was.  But the retirement home had found someone more qualified when it came time to hire people back after the layoffs and cutbacks, and my art still wasn't selling well online. 

I tried to choke back my tears.

Farrell had been a nice boyfriend — when he thought I was pretty and decorative and fun.  When he found out how damaged I was, he'd gotten fed up pretty quickly.

He didn't want somebody who got scared if he moved too fast, or who woke up crying in the middle of the night or had emotional meltdowns for no apparent reason.

I'd made a few bad choices in the past several years.  Boyfriends who ended up being abusive, drug users, or just uncaring and uncommitted. 

Cheaters.  Jerks.  The usual.

I'd thought Farrell was really a nice guy.  But that's why he could do better than me.

Still, I liked to think if it was me getting fed up with a guy, I wouldn't make him come home from a day of job hunting to find his clothing and books and stuff piled on the living room floor.  Most of my clothes had been folded, but now they were mixed with a bunch of my things that had been in the wash pile, mingled pleasantly with Farrell's.

I liked Farrell; I wanted to make him happy.  I cooked meals for him and we had good sex together — when I wasn't feeling too sensitive and vulnerable to trust anybody near my body.  But then there were the days I flinched, and couldn't seem to uncurl myself from the couch, and if he narrowed his eyes at me, I flashed back to Ken, who used to come home and backhand me right away if I looked at him wrong.  It wasn't okay, but I didn't know how to stop it.  I'd even had counseling.

I'd stayed with friends for a bit first.  Eventually I found a boyfriend, and a new job, and things were really going well. 

But ... Farrell was fed up.  He said ... he even said I acted too much like a girl.  That didn't make me cry more or anything.

And then his mouth had gotten tight like that.  But I'd thought we'd made up.  We'd slept together, I'd made him breakfast in the morning, and he'd kissed me before work — just a quick peck, but still.  I'd thought we were doing okay.

Now he was sorting our things out so coolly and I was trying not to cry again, picking up things in my arms, feeling like my heart was breaking all over again. 

Why couldn't I choose better people to be in relationships with — or else just be a better person, one who wouldn't drive them crazy?

I was already running through a list of people I could call to come and pick up my things and take me in for a bit.

Max and Jamie, probably.  I wiped at my eyes surreptitiously, sighing inwardly.  I could never quite stop being scared of Max, who was a big, strong and silent type of cop.  And Jamie was a dear friend from art school, but he'd been through enough in the last few years, and I hated worrying him.  He got so frantic about me — as if he had to fix everything, or could.

I sometimes blushed when I thought about how he'd helped pay for me to attend therapy after Ken had ended up in trouble for hitting me.  I felt so embarrassed about the whole thing sometimes, about how much trouble I'd caused everybody.  I just wanted to disappear, my too-scrawny, shy self no longer troubling anybody.

It hadn't happened.  I was still here, hanging on at the edges of life, trying to build one for myself but never quite managing.

The old lessons from Ken kept me from arguing more now.  Farrell's mouth was tight.  I watched him separate my things from his, and hiccupped, and swiped at my lower lashes quickly so no more tears would run down my face.

I hated being weak.  But I had always been weak and probably always would be.

#

I knew there was one man who never judged me, so I called him.  Luther?

The sound of the bowling alley was loud in the background, and I winced at the thought that I was bothering him at work.  Maybe he couldn't give me a ride.  Maybe he couldn't take me in.

Josh? he asked after a second's delay, sounding preoccupied, and then gentling his voice the way he always did for me.

I was his baby bird: his rescue, his stray.  He would always let me come home to him.  I wish I'd known it back when Ken was telling me nobody would ever care.  Luther cared.  He did.  He would always take me in to stay with him, and that made me ashamed of taking advantage.  But it was a call of desperation, and so I made it.

Luther, can I come and stay with you? I asked, my voice almost not quavering.

He didn't ask questions, bless him.  He hesitated only a second.  Should I bring the truck?

I bit my lip and nodded before I remembered he couldn't see me.  I closed my eyes, and more tears escaped with the movement. 

I was crying, sitting on the front step of Farrell's place, and trying not to let it show in my voice.  Yes, please, I managed in a small, subdued voice that probably sounded like a girl's over the phone line.  I winced at the thought, still feeling as bruised by the dismissive way Farrell had said that as I would have if he'd grabbed my arm and yanked me into another room angrily.  Words could hurt, and so could hands and fists and bodies. 

Farrell had gone out somewhere or other in his car, so I'd had time to neaten up the house a little, any little messes I might have made.  I shed a few tears, and I folded up my clothes the best I could.  I had a few bags and cases — I'd moved a lot — but most of my belongings had to go into garbage bags, as usual.  I didn't even have that much stuff.

Soon Luther pulled up in his big black truck and got out, and walked over to me, opening his arms.  He hugged me right there in the driveway, and I could breathe again, hiccupping in his arms. 

My shoulders shook as I cried.  One more failure in a long, long string of failures.  My heart broke a little more as I realized I was going to be a burden to him now.  Maybe a really long time, this time.

Come on, Joshy.  Let's get you home, he said at last, drawing back enough to smile down at me affectionately.  He reached up like he wanted to rub my tears away, but then he let me do it myself.  I scrubbed with the back of my hand and gave him a tearful smile, trying to mean it.

Y-yeah.  I didn't want to correct him, remind him it was his home, not mine.  I didn't have a home, and hadn't for a long time.

He carried most of my bags, but I helped.  We didn't talk, just carried the things, put them in the back of the truck, and then he opened the passenger side door for me and waited while I buckled in. 

Being in Luther's truck always made me feel tiny.  It was large and had a big cab.  He was a big guy and needed a big vehicle, mostly because he really used it to haul stuff — and not just my things.

Luther was a gentle man and a vegan, and I had never heard him raise his voice even once.  But nobody looked at him and assumed he was gay.  He worked at a bowling alley, and he did landscaping projects.  He was a strong and busy guy.

He was also a good friend, and I could rely on him.  I kept wiping away tears as he drove me back to his place.  I tried not to hiccup, but I knew he didn't mind me crying.  He'd told me once I never had to hold back around him.  I could just be myself, and that included tears.

It meant a lot, and I appreciated it.

Now he said, Sweetie, do you want to stop at a restaurant?  I only have vegan stuff at home, but you could have some nice chili or something if we went to a restaurant.

I didn't really want to cry at a restaurant, and I was pretty sure I was going to be crying on and off all night.  It had taken all my questionable strength just to get this far, and I didn't have any more.

I looked at him, surprised.  Y-you know I'm not vegan anymore? I asked in a trembly voice.  I hadn't wanted to tell him.  I didn't want him to be disappointed in me.  It was one thing we'd had in common when we first became friends.  Like everything else, I'd failed at it.  I was now a regular eater, except I didn't eat a lot of meat, maybe just a few times a week.  I'd missed