Love on the Map: May 2018

By Plakcy Neil S.

When a man whose career is making maps loses himself, where does he turn? In Eric Mueller’s case, he unwillingly must rely on his step-brother, Alexander Brittain.

But Allie has his own problems—he’s disappointed his mother and Eric’s father in dozens of ways, and he can’t seem to grow up. Can these two very different men make each other change in the ways they need to, and become the lovers they’ve been destined to be since their teen years?

Or will step-brothers be as close as they can ever get? Shame and lust collide in this enemies to lovers, new adult, geek and bad boy sexy romance!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samwise Books
• Release date: Jul 25, 2018

Book preview

3 – Determination

Monday afternoon Eric was filling out another set of online job applications. His faculty advisor at FU had reassured him that geographic information systems was one of the hottest careers going, and that with his military experience and his degree, he’d have no trouble finding a job.

If only.

Though people had been making maps since the dawn of time, the availability of tons of digital data, and new computer-based tools, had led to a boom in companies that needed ways to map, analyze and display data. Eric’s certification was supposed to open those doors, but so far, they had remained closed.

Since he hadn’t had much luck getting a job in his field, graphic information systems, he had started checking out anything that required computer skills. He was so caught up in a form that he almost didn’t hear the phone ring.

He didn’t recognize the number. Could it be someone calling about a job? This is Eric Mueller.

Eric. It’s Taylor Kane. I want to apologize for running out like I did Saturday.

Not a job call. Just the veteran’s counselor who’d run out on him the day before. No apologies necessary. You wanted to go, you went. Not like I was keeping you prisoner.

He looked back at his computer screen. He didn’t even recognize some of the software packages the company was looking for skills in.

No, it was rude for me to leave like that, Taylor said. I know it’s the kind of thing guys say, it’s not you, it’s me, but it’s the truth.

All right, I accept your apology, Eric said. Listen, I’m right in the middle of something now. Can I give you a call later?

Can I buy you a coffee? Taylor said hurriedly. I really – I really had a good time with you and I don’t want you to think I’m some jerk.

Eric looked at the clock. It was close to four and Miami’s rush hour had already started. I’m not planning to go back to FU any time soon, he said. How about Saturday afternoon? You live in North Miami, don’t you? Maybe we could meet halfway.

That would be great, Taylor said. I’ll call you Friday, okay?

Eric agreed, and after he hung up, he went back to staring at the computer screen. He had to admit he admired Taylor for his persistence—Eric had been ready to write him off.

Maybe he could learn something from Taylor. He went back to the spreadsheet he’d created to track his job applications. His top prospect was a company called Crest Data Analytics. According to the about us page of their website, they provided state-of-the-art tools to help governments, non-governmental agencies and corporate clients parse the masses of digital data they collected.

The contact page provided no email address, only a form for potential clients. Three months before, when he had begun his job search, Eric had used the form to paste in his cover letter and résumé. He’d been certain that they’d call him in for an interview right away.

Nothing happened. A month later, he put his information in again, in case there’d been a system glitch the first time.

Still no response. So he’d tried other methods.

As befit a military contractor, Crest kept a tight lid on its corporate information, but he did discover the office address, on Andrews Avenue in downtown Fort Lauderdale. He found the name of the founder and CEO, Jameson Carter, buried deep in an article from the FU library database. He addressed his cover letter to Mr. Carter and mailed it with his résumé once more.

No response.

He tapped into his social media connections. But none of the guys he’d served with in the Army, or his fellow students in the GIS program, or even his frat brothers at FU, knew Carter or anyone who worked at Crest.

That afternoon, after his conversation with Taylor, he considered how he could be more proactive. If Crest was his top prospect, he wasn’t going to give up without trying everything he could.

He opened the storage trunk that had accompanied him from college to Afghanistan to Miami, and dug through the few souvenirs he had retained from his time overseas. There it was – the folder of hand-drawn maps he’d created while deployed.

They still looked good, after the wear and tear of military operations. He took them to the copy shop down the street and had color copies made. The next morning he put on his best suit and rode his motorcycle up to Fort Lauderdale.

He parked in the garage of on the ground floor of the office building where Crest was located, then used the restroom in the lobby to puff up his helmet hair and make sure he looked the best he could. He rode the elevator to the tenth floor and put his hand on the doorknob of suite 1012.

The door was locked.

Crap. Had he wasted his time? Then he noticed the buzzer on the wall and pressed it. The woman’s voice was crackly. Yes?

I have a delivery for Mr. Jameson Carter, he said.

The door buzzed, and Eric stepped into a carpeted reception area. The woman behind the desk was pretty and blonde and very professional-looking. Classy.

He walked up to her and handed her the manila envelope with his résumé, his recommendation letters, and the copies of the maps he’d created.

Do you need me to sign something? she asked.

I’d like to go over the material in the envelope with Mr. Carter, he said.

He’s very busy. What’s this in reference to?

Some maps I drew when I was on duty in Afghanistan, he said. I think they could be useful in his work.

She looked at him. He was sure that his military service showed, in his stiff spine, his buzz-cut hair, and his at-ease posture.

Wait here, she said. You can have a seat.

She motioned to the couch, and he sat there as she went through the door behind her desk.

His pulse raced. This was the closest he was going to get to Jameson Carter and the job he knew he deserved.

The woman came back a moment later. He’s busy right now, and I can’t guarantee he’ll have time for you, but you’re welcome to wait.

Thank you very much.

She sat down, but kept looking at him. Which regiment? she finally asked.

Tenth Mountain Division, he said.

Brigade?

Third for my first deployment. Then fourth for my second.

Glutton for punishment? she asked.

Some guys can’t take a full year, he said. Me? I felt like I was just getting started by the time we had to pull out. So I asked for the transfer and went back.

My husband was in the IDF, she said. So I know about the military.

Only your husband? I thought women in Israel had to serve, too.

I’m American, she said. I met Moshe when he came to the U.S. for graduate school.

Does he work here, too?

She laughed. He’s a pianist. He teaches musicology and music theory at Nova University.

That’s very cool, Eric said.

He and the receptionist, whose name was Linda, chatted for the next hour, in between her answering phones. As the end of the day crept forward, Eric worried that Carter would be too busy to speak with him. Ever.

The thought must have crossed Linda’s mind, too, because a few minutes before five she stood up. Let me see how Mr. Carter is doing.

When she returned, she was accompanied by a hipster type who couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than Eric. He wore a fisherman’s microfiber shirt and khaki slacks, and he had a neatly trimmed beard. He had Eric’s envelope in his hands.

Must be one of Carter’s assistants, Eric thought.

The man extended his hand as Eric stood up. I’m Jamie Carter. Linda says I need to speak with you.

Eric Mueller. I’d appreciate the chance to show you some of the maps I created while I was in Afghanistan, and to talk to you about my credentials in GIS.

Come on back, then, Carter said, and Eric trailed him to a conference room that looked out over the New River. A big yacht was moving slowly up the river, guided by a tugboat.

Carter sat at the round table. He pushed the envelope toward Eric and said, Show me what you’ve got.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I could add on-the-ground information gathered by my platoon to the standard military maps, Eric said. He pulled out the first map. This is Helmand province, in the south of the country.

His confidence grew as he walked Jameson Carter through the work he’d done. We found IEDs wherever you see the red starbursts, he said. The green temples represent communities where we had positive interactions with locals.

He walked through each of his symbols, and when he was finished, Carter looked up and said. It’s very pretty, and there’s a lot of information here. But what does it tell you?

At the most basic level, red means stop and green means go, Eric said. I used this map, and others like it, to plot the safest transport routes, to prioritize places for citizen engagement, and to identify places where we could improve the local infrastructure.

He spent the next fifteen minutes talking through everything he’d done in Afghanistan, and then how it had motivated him to study for a degree in GIS. I figured that if I was able to contribute to the success of my platoon through these skills, I could do even more if I had the right education.

He pulled another sheet from the envelope. This was a project I completed at FU, he said. I cross referenced Head Start programs, school lunch programs, and elementary school student success records to quantitatively demonstrate the effects of those programs on underfunded student populations.

Carter looked at the map, then paged quickly through the analysis behind it. Then he looked up. What can you do for me?

I wish I knew, Eric said, and Carter laughed.

Your website is pretty opaque, Eric continued, but it looks like your company is a good match for my military background and my data analytic skills. You give me a project, I’ll make the numbers sing.

Carter looked at him for a moment, then nodded. I do have a project I could use your help on. How soon could you start?

As soon as you make me an offer. I’ve got no place else to be this evening.

Carter laughed again. I like your spirit, Eric. Here’s what I can offer you right now. A six-month internship, to be extended into full-time employment if you demonstrate you can make good on your promises. He quoted a salary, and said that it would go up if Eric transitioned to full-time. It was more than he’d been hoping for.

I’ll take it. When do you want me to start? Tomorrow?

I wish it was that easy. You have security clearance already?

I was cleared when I was in the military but it hasn’t been updated since then.

I’ll request a report, and if you pass, we’ll get back to you with a start date. He pushed his chair back. It was a pleasure to meet you, Eric. I hope things work out and you can join our team.

Eric whistled to himself as he rode down in the elevator. There was nothing in his background that should raise a red flag, unless…

He stopped whistling. He had no idea how Jameson Carter felt about homosexuals – in the military or in the workplace. While he’d been closeted in the military, more out of personal choice than necessity, he’d opened up as soon as he demobilized. And anyone who saw that he’d lived in the Three Lambs house would know he was gay.

Well, you know what, he thought, as he put on his helmet. If they don't want me, I'll find some place that does.

Though it would be nice to find that place before his landlord kicked him to the curb.

4 – Trust

The fallout from Allie’s lapse at the gay bar had been severe. He was late home, and his stepfather was waiting up for him. As long as you’re living under my roof, you will obey my rules, he had stormed.

Then maybe I won’t live under your roof anymore, Allie had said. He’d gone right upstairs and texted Daphne, asking if he could come stay with her.

Though it was almost midnight in California, she had called him right back. I didn’t mean to wake you, he said.

I was up. Ivy has been fussy. It’s like she knows I’m going back to work soon.

Six months before, Daphne had given birth to her first child, and she and her husband Philip had been nesting—and not sleeping. Daphne was an attorney with a high-tech firm in Silicon Valley and she’d been able to take maternity leave. I wish I could have you come, but things are too crazy right now.

I could help take care of Ivy.

Daphne was quiet for a moment, and Allie could hear the baby squirming in the background. I wish I could rely on you, Daphne finally said. But you and I both know that’s not in the cards.

He couldn’t even protest his days of sobriety, since he’d broken his streak that night. She was right, he was a screw-up, and nobody in their right mind would trust him to take care of an infant.

What am I going to do, Daph? He started to cry. I’m such a fuck-up.

What do you want from your life, Allie? she asked. I mean, really. Forget about the drinking and the drugs and all that. Where do you want to be next week, next month, next year? And how do you think you’re going to get there?

Daphne had always been the practical one. She took after their mother, who had managed to raise two kids on her own for nearly six years after Allie’s and Daphne’s father died. He was a successful corporate attorney in DC, and she was a homemaker, and then he contracted a fever that damaged the lining of his heart and eventually killed him.

He had left the family well provided for, but Stephanie Brittain had gotten her real estate license and established herself as one of the top salespeople in Fairfax County. Daphne had stepped up then, making sure that she was home when their mother had to go out and show properties, becoming as much of a mom to Allie as Stephanie was.

Not that she wasn’t a good mother, but she’d always had a bit of a hard edge, and she wasn’t the kind of mom to volunteer with the PTA or be a den mother. Then she’d met and married the Major General, and the Brittains had moved into the Mueller household, with disastrous results.

Even back then, his stepfather thought Allie was too wild. He turned up his nose at those posters of gay pop stars, and nearly had a coronary when Allie dyed a pink stripe in his hair. Only Daphne’s intervention and kindness had kept him from going off the deep end any earlier than he had.

Maybe after you guys get settled with Ivy, Allie finally said.

Sure, let’s talk about that in a couple of months. I want her to know her Uncle Allie.

Send more pictures of her, Allie said. Love you, Daph.

Love you too, baby. Now get some sleep.

Allie stumbled downstairs around noon on Sunday and found his mother and stepfather in the living room. His mother had her iPad on her lap, and she quickly shut it off when Allie walked in.

The Major General started on him about the drinks he’d had the night before, and he tried to explain that a couple of drinks at a bar didn’t mean he was back on the downhill slide that had led him to two stints in rehab. His stepfather didn’t buy it. You have an addictive personality, Alexander. I know what that means.

Allie hated being called Alexander and his stepfather knew it.

You know we love you, his mother said. We’re just disappointed that you keep making the same mistakes.

The mistake, Allie thought, was in coming back to Bethesda and hoping things would be different. You want me to move out again? I will.

We want you to take responsibility for yourself and your actions, the Major General said.

And I do. I had a couple of drinks at a bar last night. Big deal.

You lied to us about where you were going, his mother said. That’s more of a big deal than you drinking, though of course that’s a problem too.

The conversation went on and on, his parents rehashing every time he’d gotten into trouble in the past, until Allie felt like his head was going to explode.

In the ensuing days, his stepfather instituted a series of draconian rules. Allie had to get a job, which was nearly impossible without a college degree, and with a history of drug and alcohol abuse, along with a few misdemeanor convictions. Fortunately none of them had resulted in jail time, though he’d been warned by the most recent judge that the next time he appeared in court he was going to serve time.

He applied for jobs as a barista, a grocery clerk, and at a series of boutiques throughout Bethesda, and every time he was turned down. Finally he leaned on Gary to help him, and Gary introduced him to one his many exes, who had a stall at the Bethesda Farm Women’s Market.

I’m only doing this as a favor to Gary, the boss said. He looked like one of those medieval monks, with a bald head and a fringe of hair over his ears and around the back, with a scruffy goatee.

Gary must have lowered his standards to date him, Allie thought.

Then he plastered a grin on his face. I’m going to work hard and prove that you made the right decision, Allie said.

He worked behind a counter selling tie-dyed scarves and beaded necklaces from India to tourists and visiting businesswomen. It was a good job for him, because he could use his big personality to sell, and he wasn’t shy about draping a scarf around his shoulders for emphasis and flirting with the women, and the men shopping for their wives.

His mother and the Major General were pleased with the job, but that didn’t mean they eased up on any of their restrictions. Allie had to be home within a half hour of the market’s closing. He was welcome to invite a friend over to the house—but going out was strictly forbidden.

They were treating him like a kid—but he had to admit that he hadn’t shown them he was an adult. Once Gary came over to the house and met his mom and the Major General, and Allie was allowed to go out to dinner with him at a local Mexican place. But that was too much like high school for Allie, so instead he stayed in his room and brooded.

A couple of weeks after the incident he walked into the living room when his parents were deep in discussion—and they stopped talking immediately. What’s up? he asked.

Nothing, his mother said, too quickly.

Over the next few days, he noticed his mother on the computer a lot, but whenever he asked what she was looking for she said that she was browsing—and then shut down the screen before he could see anything.

They were going to send him to rehab again, he could feel it. It didn’t make sense, though. Except for that minor slip, he’d kept his nose clean. He was doing well at the market, earning commission on everything he sold, and he’d even tried to pay his parents something toward his room and board, though they’d refused.

He thought about a pre-emptive strike. Could he