Never a Hero

By Marie Sexton

Owen Meade is in need of a hero. Sheltered, ashamed, and ridiculed by his own mother for his sexuality, his stutter, and his congenital arm amputation, Owen lives like a hermit, rarely leaving his apartment. He hardly dares to hope for more... until veterinarian Nick Reynolds moves in downstairs.

Charming, handsome Nick steals past Owen’s defenses and makes him feel almost normal. Meeting his little sister, June, who was born with a similar amputation, helps too. June is fiery, demanding, and always seems to get her way. She even convinces Owen to sign up for piano lessons with her. Suddenly the only thing standing between Owen and his perfect life is Nick. No matter how much he flirts, how attracted to Owen he seems to be, or how much time they spend together, Nick always pulls away.

Caught between his mother’s contempt and Nick’s stubbornness, Owen makes a decision. It’s time to be the hero of his own story, and that means going after what he wants: not just Nick, but the full life he deserves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marie Sexton
• Release date: Nov 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215595015

Marie Sexton

Marie Sexton lives in Colorado. She’s a fan of just about anything that involves muscular young men piling on top of each other. In particular, she loves the Denver Broncos and enjoys going to the games with her husband. Her imaginary friends often tag along. Marie has one daughter, two cats, and one dog, all of whom seem bent on destroying what remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Never a Hero

By Marie Sexton

A Tucker Springs Novel

Owen Meade is in need of a hero. Sheltered, ashamed, and ridiculed by his own mother for his sexuality, his stutter, and his congenital arm amputation, Owen lives like a hermit, rarely leaving his apartment. He hardly dares to hope for more… until veterinarian Nick Reynolds moves in downstairs.

Charming, handsome Nick steals past Owen’s defenses and makes him feel almost normal. Meeting his fiery, determined little sister, June, who was born with a similar amputation, helps too. June always seems to get her way—she even convinces Owen to sign up for piano lessons with her. Suddenly the only thing standing between Owen and his perfect life is Nick. No matter how much he flirts, how attracted to Owen he seems to be, or how much time they spend together, Nick always pulls away.

Caught between his mother’s contempt and Nick’s stubbornness, Owen makes a decision. It’s time to be the hero of his own story, and that means going after what he wants: not just Nick, but the full life he deserves.

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Wish You Were Here

Words and Music by Roger Waters and David Gilmour.

Copyright © 1975 by Roger Waters Music Overseas Ltd. and Pink Floyd Music Publishers, Inc.

Copyright Renewed

All Rights for Roger Waters Music Overseas Ltd. Administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC

All rights reserved. Used by permission.

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

Cover Art

© 2019 Reese Dante

http://www.reesedante.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Marie at

[e-mail]

First Edition published by Riptide Publishing, May 2013.

Republished by Marie Sexton 2022

To Zoe, who inspired this book, even though she’s way too young to be allowed to read it.

And most importantly, to her mother, Kristin, who’s amazing in every way and gives me fabulous material all the time whether she knows it or not. Love you to pieces!

Acknowledgments

With many thanks to Rowan, who is always a tremendous help.

Also, thank you to Lori and Heidi for bearing with me.

Chapter One

It took three years for me to convince myself I was in love with my downstairs neighbor. It only took one day for her to move out of my life.

It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t as if I’d ever told her how I felt. In truth, I’d barely spoken to her, outside of the general pleasantries between neighbors when we passed on the walk or ran into each other in our shared backyard. But I’d watched her. Not in a stalker kind of way. But some days, when she was out in the garden, I’d sit on my porch and read so I could catch glimpses of her through the flowers as she knelt in the dirt, her fingers sunk into the cold Colorado soil.

But what had really made me love her was listening to her.

Her name was Regina, and she was a pianist. Not a concert pianist, or even an aspiring one. She had a day job somewhere in town, doing what, I didn’t know, but for three years, I’d seen her leave at seven forty-five and come home at five twenty. For an hour or so, she’d be out of my sight, in her own apartment below mine. But sometime around six thirty or seven, she’d always start to play, and I’d lie on the couch in my living room, directly above her piano, and think about how I could learn to love a woman like her.

But now here she was, moving out.

I watched out my window as she loaded boxes into a truck. She had help. Two men and one woman. I barely noticed the woman, but I studied the men. One was smaller, studious-looking, glasses perched on his nose. A bit twitchy about touching the boxes or going into the house. I dubbed him The Academic. The other was bigger. Huge, in fact. Clearly one of those men who spent hours in the gym. He lugged boxes out to the truck two and three at a time.

The Hero.

Not that he was Regina’s hero, though. The men were obviously a couple, although I tried not to notice how happy they looked together. The lingering glances and the secret smiles. For three years I’d lived only a few blocks from the Light District in Tucker Springs, and for three years I’d told myself it wasn’t the place for me. All I needed was to meet the right woman, and maybe all those other thoughts that snuck into my head late at night would disappear. Regina could help me erase the embarrassed regret of my high school years and the loneliness that had haunted me since college. If Regina and I were a couple, I’d told myself, her playing would get me through the tough times. Whenever I started wondering how it felt to be on my knees in front of another man, whenever I started thinking about what I really wanted, I could turn to her and say, Play something for me. And she’d smile at me, pleased that I wanted to hear her latest piece, and as her fingers would dance over the keys, teasing Bach or Beethoven or Mozart from that big square box, I’d fall in love with her again and forget about the fact that it was men who turned my head, time and again.

Except now she was moving.

I pulled the shade down and turned away. I didn’t want to watch her leave.

I also didn’t want to watch two men who could openly admit they were in love.

Owen, you’re an idiot, I told myself. After all, a braver man would have offered to help. A more confident man would have taken this last opportunity to talk to her. Maybe get her phone number. A forwarding address in case there was mail or a package. In case she wanted to have dinner some night. A whole man would have offered to help her move. An undamaged man wouldn’t have been afraid to walk out and say, Hey, let me lend you a hand.

I laughed suddenly at my own thoughts. How ironic that I’d think of one of my least-favorite phrases in the English language. I didn’t exactly have a hand to spare.

I looked down at my left arm, where it ended in a smooth tapered stump just below my elbow.

Let me lend you a hand, I said out loud. But it’s the only one I have, so I’ll need it back when you’re done.

It wasn’t as absurd as it sounded. I could have helped. It wasn’t like I couldn’t carry a damn box. Not two or three at a time, like The Hero, but that didn’t make me worthless.

No, it wasn’t my missing arm that stopped me from helping Regina move. It was the way they’d all react, sorting carefully through the boxes, deciding which ones I could carry. Nothing too heavy. Nothing breakable. Certainly not the glassware or the boxes of books. Linens, though. Linens they might let me carry.

Or pillows. Even a one-armed man could carry pillows.

I’d never be anybody’s hero.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, I muttered.

I was startled by a knock on the door. I was even more surprised to open it and find Regina on the other side. I stood as I always did, with the left half of my body hidden behind the door. Certainly she knew by now about my missing arm, but I’d learned people didn’t like to see it.

Hi, Erwin! she said. It was an indicator of how little we’d actually talked. She didn’t even know my name.

I was slow to answer, making sure my tongue was ready to move. I’d beaten my stutter years ago, but it still appeared sometimes, usually at the least-opportune moments. Ready to go? I asked her, gesturing toward the truck.

Yep, this is it! She held a set of keys out for me. I told the landlord I’d leave the spares with you.

I held out my right hand and let the keys fall into my palm. I thought about the one thing I hadn’t seen The Hero carry out her door. What about your piano?

She shrugged and ran a hand through her short hair. There was more gray in it than I’d realized. When I’d imagined a life with her, I’d made her my age, but I was reminded now of the fact that she was actually more than ten years my senior, although she looked damn good for her age. I’m leaving it. It wasn’t mine to begin with. It belonged to whoever lived here before me, and anyway, it’d be a pain in the ass to move.

Will you buy a new one?

I don’t know. Maybe eventually. But mostly it takes up space and gathers dust, you know?

She’d played almost every night. Certainly she loved it. I’d made myself believe she loved it. How else could I possibly love her?

Anyway, she said, suddenly awkward. Take care.

Take care.

Then she turned around and walked away. Down the sidewalk to the truck. Away from the imaginary life she’d unknowingly starred in.

Away from me.

Two days later the scene was repeated in reverse. A Tahoe and a pickup filled with furniture and boxes parked in front of the house. A total of four men got out and walked through the bright autumn leaves littering the lawn to the side of the house, out of my line of sight.

I should introduce myself. Find out who exactly was moving in and give him the spare key.

That’s what I told myself, but I knew I wouldn’t do it. Not until I was forced to.

I heard laughter downstairs, then piano notes. Not a real song like Regina had played. Not the practiced music of a pianist, but the inexpert jangle of random tones as somebody tested the instrument. I pictured one of the men leaning against Regina’s piano, hitting the keys, laughing with his friends at his own lack of skill.

Don’t quit your day job! one of them said.

The house I lived in had been built as a split-level in the seventies, but had been broken up into two separate apartments. Mine consisted of what had once been the main floor, which meant my door opened onto the front porch. The lower apartment was reached via a stairway at the side of the house. The setup was unusual in that the house was built on a hill and had a walk-out basement, making the downstairs living space far more tolerable than most basement apartments. I listened to the men below as they wandered through the apartment, looking in closets and kitchen cabinets, opening the sliding glass door to look at our shared backyard. Most times, their words were indistinguishable, but their laughter carried clearly through the vents. It had been a long time since I’d shared that kind of easy laughter with anybody.

For the first time, I regretted having an apartment below me.

Luckily the torture didn’t last long. Soon enough, the laughter stopped and the moving began. I watched for a few minutes through my window. Like before, two of the men were clearly a couple. They were happy and stupidly in love, one of them tall and thin and dark, the other shorter and strawberry blond. I immediately hated them for their easy, open affection. I hoped they weren’t the ones moving in.

I turned my attention to the other two. Neither was as big as The Hero, although one of them in particular was obviously well acquainted with the gym. His arms bulged under the short sleeves of his shirt. Dark blond hair and laughing eyes. I couldn’t decide if he and the fourth man, whose arms were covered with tattoos, were lovers or not. Friends certainly, but if they were more, they at least didn’t glow with the bright, electric giddiness of the other two.

Four able-bodied men. Not a missing limb among them.

I didn’t even think about offering to help.

Instead, I went to my computer and worked. After all, I had bills to pay. My mother had insisted that I learn to type one-handed, using home row as my base, keeping my index finger on the F and my pinky on the J. She’d demanded I master the ability, insisting it was a skill I’d need. I resented my mother for a lot of things, but in this, I was glad I’d done as instructed. I could type