Fair Isn't Life

By Kaje Harper

When a man hits rock bottom, he needs someone to remind him life comes with second chances.

Luke Lafontaine lost everything— his father, their family farm, and a whole way of life. He’s survived the past year by putting one foot in front of the other in dead-end jobs to survive. Cleaning up city folks’ trash at the State Fair is just another two weeks of money between him and being back on the streets. But seeing Mason Bell in the parade— gorgeous, gay, out-of-his-league Mason— stirs dreams he thought he’d given up long ago.

Mason left his small hometown for college in Minneapolis without looking back. It’s been fun and easy— classes and guys— but nothing has really felt important. Then he spots his high school crush, Luke, picking up trash at the Fair. Mason’s done with smooth and easy; he desperately wants a second chance with the boy he left behind.

This is a rerelease of the 2018 Dreamspinner Press novella, with only minor editing changes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kaje Harper
• Release date: Jul 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005833671

Kaje Harper

I get asked about my name a lot. It's not something exotic, though. "Kaje" is pronounced just like "cage" – it's an old nickname, and my pronouns are she/her/hers. I was born in Montreal but I've lived for 30 years in Minnesota, where the two seasons are Snow-removal and Road-repair, where the mosquito is the state bird, and where winter can be breathtakingly beautiful. Minnesota's a kind, quiet (if sometimes chilly) place and it's home. I've been writing far longer than I care to admit (*whispers – forty years*), mostly for my own entertainment, usually M/M romance (with added mystery, fantasy, historical, SciFi…) I also have a few Young Adult stories (some released under the pen name Kira Harp.) My husband finally convinced me that after all the years of writing for fun, I really should submit something, somewhere. My first professionally published book, Life Lessons, came out from MLR Press in May 2011. I have a weakness for closeted cops with honest hearts, and teachers who speak their minds, and I had fun writing four novels and three freebie short stories in that series. I was delighted and encouraged by the reception Mac and Tony received. I now have a good-sized backlist in ebooks and print, both free and professionally published, including Amazon bestseller "The Rebuilding Year" and Rainbow Award Best Mystery-Thriller "Tracefinder: Contact." A complete list with links can be found on my website "Books" page at https://kajeharper.wordpress.com/books/. I'm always pleased to have readers find me online at: Website: https://kajeharper.wordpress.com/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/KajeHarper Goodreads Author page: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4769304.Kaje_Harper

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mason Bell said, Hey, isn’t that Luke Lafontaine? Three microseconds after the words left his mouth, he realized he was an idiot. Because yeah, that definitely was Luke, but he was working picking up trash along the State Fair sidewalk with a long-handled stick. And Mason had said those words to Arnie Green. Arnie was a great horn player, and a funny guy on the baseball field, but he’d also been one of Luke’s casual tormentors through their four years of high school.

Arnie leaned forward to look past him from where they sat on the curb. It is! Luke the Puke. And look at his great summer job. State Fair garbage guy. He raised his voice. Hey! Luke!

Luke hunched but didn’t turn their way, just picked up another cup that had missed the trash and deposited it in the barrel.

Hey! Talking to you, Fountain, Arnie called.

Mason grabbed his arm. Forget him. We’re heading out soon. He hoped. They were twenty-third in the parade, and the sun was melting his brain. Why he’d signed up for marching band in the steam bath of a Minnesota August, he’d never know.

Because you love to show off for a big crowd with your bandmates. Don’t front.

Arnie shook him off and waved at the staging area. The hell we’re soon. Look at them all. Fifteen minutes, at least. Let’s say hi to our old friend. He pushed up off the curb and headed toward Luke.

Shit, shit, shit. Mason scrambled to his feet too, clarinet in hand.

Arnie circled Luke, forcing the guy to look at him. Hey, Fountain, it’s been years. Whatcha doin’?

Working. Luke’s answer was barely audible over the noise of performers warming up.

Working? Picking up other people’s trash?

Luke shrugged one big shoulder, his dangling ID badge sliding over the faded blue of his T-shirt. Mason suddenly had a flash memory of Luke’s eyes, that same gentle blue, staring into his. Damn it, Arnie. Calling Arnie off when he was on the hunt for fun wouldn’t work, but he might intercept. Hey, Luke. Can you show me the nearest bathroom? I really gotta go.

Luke darted a look at him. Sure.

Lead the way? He hurried away from Arnie, dodging a tall woman in heels and kid in a Twins hat, relieved when Luke followed him.

Jeeze, Mason, Arnie called after them. Gonna let Fountain take you into the bathrooms?

Mason gave him a middle finger behind his back as he led the way deeper into the crowd. When they were screened from view, he paused and turned. Luke was right behind him and had to put a hand on his chest to keep from running into him. Mason felt the warmth of Luke’s palm through the polyester of his band uniform. Sorry about Arnie. He hasn’t grown up since eighth grade.

It’s okay. Luke lowered his hand. Do you need the bathroom?

No. It was all I could think of, y’know?

Luke shook his head, a frown creasing his forehead beneath the brim of his John Deere cap. He looked as uncertain as he had when Mason had tutored him in algebra. A tiny pang tugged inside Mason’s chest. That lost look had always made him feel protective, like Luke was some kind of little brother instead of a year older. I’m sorry I pointed you out to Arnie. What else to say? It’s good to see you. How’ve you been?

That got him another lopsided shrug and an Okay. But he’d tutored Luke in math for a whole year, and he recognized the okay that meant Luke was struggling, about to go underwater.

Why are you here, big guy? Summer job for college? Luke hadn’t been much of a student, and Mason couldn’t imagine there’d been money for college. Luke’s father barely scraped by on their dairy farm. Luke wore secondhand clothes and put in long hours beside him. Still had to be better than picking up trash, though. Mason tried, How’s the farm?

Luke glanced past him, his full lips pressed in a straight line. They were blocking traffic on the sidewalk, and people streamed around them, heading for the parade route. Luke tugged his cap lower. Don’t you have to go play? With your band?

Eventually, yeah. I’ve got time.

Well, I don’t. I’m on the clock.

Summer job? Summer should be the busy time on the farm. Why aren’t you there working with your dad?

Yep. Luke moved off down the sidewalk, deftly snatching litter without tripping anyone up. Also without looking back.

Mason jogged after him. Does it pay well?

That got him a sideways glance. What d’you think?

Okay, probably not. He had to hurry a couple of steps to keep up. Luke had towered over him at graduation, and he thought the guy might’ve added another inch or two to his six-foot-something. I know some guys who make a mint working the two weeks of the Fair.

Good for them. Luke closed his grabbers on a cup, hard enough to pop off the lid and spray bright blue Freezie-melt out the top.

A passing man did a quick jump to avoid soaked sneakers and grunted, Shit! Watch what you’re doing.

Sorry, sir. Luke transferred the cup to the nearby barrel, then deftly bagged the lid as well, and strode on.

Come on, dude. Mason grabbed at Luke’s arm. Hold up a sec. I just want to talk.

Luke turned. About what?

How you’ve been. What’s new. It’s been two years.

Yep. And you’re still hanging out with Arnie.

Ouch. We’re in the band together. I don’t spend much time around him, normally. That was true, although with rehearsing for the Fair, they’d somehow drifted closer together again. He’d felt uncomforatbly rootless this summer, and Arnie was a face from home. Though not a good one. When classes start, I’ll see him for maybe three hours of rehearsal a week.

What kind of classes? Math?

Psychology. College math isn’t my thing.

You did great in math.

For high school, sure. He’d managed a 790 on the SAT, and he was proud of that. Didn’t make him a math geek, though. I don’t love it. Now psych? That shit’s interesting.

Like what?

He groped for something Luke might appreciate. Like taste-aversion learning. Rats can’t barf anything up, so if a rat eats something really poisonous, they’re gonna die. So if something they eat makes them even a little sick afterward, they’ll never, ever touch that again. One trial, and they hate it for life. Keeps ’em safe.

Luke nodded slowly. Good thing people aren’t like that. Beer sellers would go out of business.

Fuck, yeah. He grinned.

Luke pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. Hot one today. You should drink lots, when you’re marching. Don’t keel over. He put the cap back on, tugged it down, and hefted his stick.

Wait!

What? You’ll be up soon. You should get back to Arnie. That might’ve been disinterest, except for the hint of emotion that sharpened Arnie’s name.

I’d rather hang out with you.

The band might miss your flute. Luke waved at Mason’s clarinet.

It’s not— they both said together —a flute. For a second, Mason was transported back to eleventh grade and a school hallway. Our stupid routine. Luke repeating, Well, what is it, then? and me inventing things like music-teacher torture device and blowpipe. Behind them, a new band launched into their first number. Mason blinked. I guess I should get back. Hey, can I call you sometime? Catch up?

The light dimmed in Luke’s blue eyes, like shutters closing. Not much to tell. Good luck with school. No heatstroke, now, y’hear? This time when he strode off, there was no way Mason would keep up short of running. And how stupid would he look, running after a guy who clearly didn’t want to see him again? He watched Luke vanish into the crowd, his green cap bobbing above other heads for a while, and then gone.

He made his way back to where the band was waiting. They were on their feet, rolling out their shoulders, adjusting instruments, and tugging hats straighter on sweaty foreheads. Arnie hurried up and shoved Mason’s hat at him. You almost missed it. Are you sick?

He tightened the binder on his ponytail, then crammed the hat on his head. Nah. Just the heat, y’know.

Yep. Whose idea was it to do this in full uniform?

That would’ve been Dr. Tristan’s. You want to complain to him?

Arnie shuddered. Nope. I prefer heatstroke. He led the way to where they were forming up. We need some band groupies. Like, that high school band that went off had a dozen moms running alongside spritzing them with water. I want pretty girls in shorts with water pistols.

Or pretty boys, Mason agreed.

You are so gay.

Well, duh. He usually dialed it back around Arnie, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t come out years ago. Arnie knew he was fucking gay. Or currently nonfucking gay. Maybe leather guys, with naked chests and—

Arnie elbowed him harder than usual. Shut your trap. The doc’s about to give us our orders.

Mason listened with half his attention to Dr. Tristan’s clear voice. They’d done this often enough, he could practically quote the pep talk. So he stood in the brilliant August sunshine with sweat trickling down his back and wondered if Luke might turn back to watch them go.

Wondered why Luke hadn’t said one word more than necessary about his last two years, or the farm. Wondered if the big guy was so desperate for money that picking trash sounded good. Wondered— a toot into his ear from Arnie’s horn woke him to the fact that they were poised and ready.

He raised his clarinet, hoping his reed was holding up in the heat. One last glance behind them didn’t spot that battered green cap anywhere in the crowd. Then he had no room in his head for anything but the doc’s tricky arrangements and following his field commander.

***

Luke made sure he was well down the fairgrounds before Mason and Arnie’s band started. He didn’t want to see Mason pull his long, silky, dark hair back, tilt his stupid plumed hat to just the right angle, and raise his instrument. He wanted to forget how that motion always pulled the jacket tight across Mason’s slim shoulders. Not to mention the bibber overall-things the bands wore that were pure sin around an ass like Mason’s.

Luke had managed, over the last two years, to forget how good Mason looked in that uniform. He hadn’t needed a reminder. That’d been a different life, hanging around after school to watch the high school band practice, making a fool of himself over a secret, impossible fantasy.

Today was real, and dreaming just hurt.

He slowed at the splat of a cup hitting the sidewalk. Crap! Job. He made himself stop and pick it up. Get back to work. He’d walked beyond his zone, but he could work back up Judson Avenue. By the time he reached the parade staging area, Mason would be off down the route. Out of sight. Out of his life and thoughts and dreams again. Hopefully for good. His stomach twisted unpleasantly.

I’m just hungry. Shouldn’t have skipped lunch. Picking up squished remains always put him off Fair food, and the prices were ridiculous anyway. He’d get something cheap and not deep-fat-fried on the way home. Push through it. Not the first time you’ve been hungry.

He worked doggedly, eyes on the ground, shutting out the sounds of the crowd— the fussing of tired kids, the laughter of someone trying to eat key lime pie on a stick, the shrieks from around the haunted house. Following his assigned route, he traded smelly, overflowing trash bags in the barrels for empties, stowing the full ones out of sight till after closing. His shirt clung sweatily to his back. His feet swam in his sneakers.

Somehow, on this tenth day of the Fair, it was much harder to shut out distractions and just work. Till now, he’d treated this like the high-rise janitorial job he’d had— pretend to be invisible, ignore everyone, focus only on the cleaning. But today, familiar sights and sounds kept breaking through his walls.

The clop of horses’ hooves down the paved street made him look up. Two boys rode matching ponies side by side, tan Stetsons hanging down their backs by the chin cords, feet dangling out of the stirrups. The sun lit the kids’ blond hair and the ponies’ black-and-white manes. He was hit with envy so intense it made his vision darken. 4-H days, when the Fair meant showing off Dad’s best heifer and riding double behind Nick past the Coliseum. They’d ambled along on Nick’s quarter horse, like those kids, so superior to the poor city folk who came to the Fair to see livestock like they were seeing tigers at the zoo.

Luke leaned against the side of the Dairy Building, squeezing his eyes shut. Don’t think about it. Don’t remember. Someone passed close by, chattering about the sculpture of Princess Kay of the Milky Way done in butter. Nick’s sister had been a finalist when she was a junior. She said her butter sculpture made her look like Mulan. Don’t remember.

This was just a job. He’d applied for sanitation work, not barn crew, on purpose. Ten bucks an hour. No stupid memories. Do the job for thirteen days, get the check, go away. Go on. Go on. He pushed off the wall, glanced around, and snagged a paper napkin blown up against a post. Doing his job.

He made it through the rest of his shift somehow, riding on waves of mini donut aroma— Dad and I ate four bags one time— and the creak of the skyride overhead— Nick dared me to drop a shoe from up there once, had to buy flip-flops, and Dad took it out of my allowance— and a hundred flashes of the red, white, and blue Twins logo— I don’t even know how the team’s doing this year. Time seemed to stutter back and forth. One moment he could still hear the sound of the marching bands on the parade route, taking forever to finish, and an instant later, it was the end of his shift.

After clocking out, he checked his near-empty wallet. He wouldn’t get paid for a week yet. Smart thing would be to head out the gates, catch the bus, and go home to his ramen noodles and a tub of cold water for his feet.

I’ve never, ever been smart.

Being at the Fair today hurt in an odd way. Like jumping into the pond the first sunny April day, when it was still way too cold. Like crashing a sled at the bottom of a snow hill, a shock that reminded you how incredibly alive the run had felt.

He’d been so numb, he’d forgotten there was still color and music in the world. And mini donuts. Must have mini donuts. He found the nearest stand and handed over his money like he was a millionaire. Hell, yeah. Give me the expensive manna from heaven. The first bite, crunchy with cinnamon sugar, soft and greasy-sweet with dough, burst on his tongue.

Since he was clearly a masochist and wallowing in memories, he headed toward the barns, but halfway there, his resolve ran out. In that same cattle barn, he’d shown his 4-H calf, Anne, as a senior yearling, and again as a two-year-old when they’d won her class. He’d shown Brandy to first place as a dry cow