No Tears with Him Read online

  No Tears with Him

  Copyright © 2019 K Webster

  Cover Design: All by Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor: Emily A. Lawrence

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. 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 an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

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

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About This Book

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements from K Webster

  About Author K Webster

  Books by K Webster

  It’s 1999, and while being gay isn’t unheard of these days, it’s something my family absolutely will not understand. If they ever find out, there’ll be hell to pay. But, because I’m shy, awkward, and weird, I haven’t been forced to explain my sexuality to them. Guys don’t exactly beat down my door to date me.

  My self-confidence is severely lacking.

  I exist in my brother’s glorious ex-NFL shadow and Mom treats me like a child rather than the man I am.

  I’m jobless, still live at home, and single.

  A real catch.

  None of that matters when I’m offered the career of my dreams. A handsome and charismatic guy who actually sees the value deep inside me. Each day, he teaches me how to be bolder, braver, and to take what I want out of life. He’s attractive, and for some crazy reason, he likes me too.

  He makes me feel worthy.

  I’ve never been cherished and adored by anyone.

  I know what I want out of life…him.

  There are no tears with him.

  Just happiness and joy and love.

  But, like the Y2K bug that threatens the world as I know it, time is running out. I’ll soon be forced to face my biggest fears and reveal the true me to my family.

  I just hope I can survive it.

  Malcolm

  January 1999

  Is the world ending on December 31?

  I spin in my desk chair for the millionth time, flying high on Mountain Dew, before grabbing the edge of the desk to stop myself. Ask and you shall receive. Jeeves always has the answers.

  Article after article pull up.

  All about one thing.

  Y2K.

  My blood buzzes through my veins and I scrub my palm down over my face in frustration, nearly knocking my glasses off in the process. After straightening them on my nose, I squint at the screen. I have one year to figure out how to solve this problem or civilization as we know it will come to a screeching halt.

  No pressure, dude.

  “Yo, Mal, shut that shit down,” Madden barks as he limps past my bedroom door, slamming his meaty fist against the doorframe along the way. “No one wants to hear that. Especially me.”

  Rather than turning down Destiny’s Child like he wants, I ignore my older brother and go back to my work. The real work. My résumé. If Mom knew I was in here trying to solve something that, and I quote, “Is some made-up bullshit,” she’d whip my ass.

  She could do it too.

  Madden got his meanness from Mom.

  I hate when they gang up on me.

  I shudder away the thought of her walking in on me doing everything but working on my job hunt. Anxiety creeps through me. It’s been almost a year since I graduated from high school. I’ve been mooching off Mom this whole time because I can’t do it.

  College, that is.

  Sure, I’m smart.

  Ridiculously smart.

  I’m just not cut out for…people.

  My head throbs and I realize I’m frowning hard at the computer monitor. I rub at my temples and wonder if I’ll get this job. It’s entry level, but it’s for a production artist for an advertising agency that’s up and coming in the tech world. Everything about the job listing is a dream. I may not have the education it said that was preferred, though not required, but I do have hands-on experience.

  And, that, I have Mom to thank for.

  She works in computers at Lockheed Martin and has since Dad bailed on us when my sisters were young. Whenever they have something that’s no longer salvageable, her boss has always given them to her to let me tinker on. I’ve brought many a dead dinosaurs to life just by cracking them open and messing with them. If it weren’t for those computers, I would’ve never found Adobe Photoshop. Once I learned how to create art on the computer, the rest was history.

  Letting out a heavy sigh, I print my one-page résumé and stand, stretching. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and cringe. Compared to Madden, I’m a shrimp. It’s annoying that I’ll never—literally—measure up to my ex-NFL brother. Madden probably used to eat guys like me for breakfast during football training season with the Cincinnati Bengals.

  At five-foot-seven, I’m the shortest person in my family.

  Even Melody and Mina are taller and they’re in ninth and tenth grade. It’s like they all have a different father than me. The idea of having a different father and truly not belonging to the Shaw family has my stomach knotting up. Not even TLC crooning in the background can lessen the ache.

  This.

  This is why I wish I could stay in my room forever.

  Away from people.

  My mind gets away from me, worrying about anything and everything, and sometimes I just melt down. There’s nothing more humiliating than shutting down at school in front of hundreds of your peers all because you made a B on a test rather than an A. Crying over a B like it’s the end of the world in the middle of the hallway haunts you for a long-ass time. I know because it still haunts me to this day and that happened a few days into my senior year of high school.

  I can still hear their laughter.

  The muttered “Mental Malcolm” and “fucking freak.”

  My stomach tightens violently at the memory.

  “Mom’s home,” Melody sasses as she bounces past my room, jerking my mind from the past. “Better turn that shit off.”

  Great. I’m being tag teamed by the baby and the dickhead of the family.

  “I’m telling Mom you said shit,” I grumble, but hurry over to my radio to switch it off because Mom hates when I jam out.

  Melody cackles from the other room and Mina tells her to shut up. Madden gripes at them both to cool it like the wannabe dad he is. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath.

  I love my mom.

  I love my mom.

  I love my mom.

  I love my—

  “Malcolm,” Madden bellows from the kitchen. “Get your ass in here.
We’re eating.”

  I flinch and chew on my thumbnail as worry eats at my gut. She’s going to want to know how the job hunt went today. And I’m going to have to lie to her. Except, I can’t lie. Madden’s big ass has been laid up on our couch for months since he lost his football career over a torn ACL. He’s the biggest damn tattletale and will rat me out since he’s hovering all the time these days.

  I have an interview, though.

  Hawkins Group.

  They’re big time for Boulder. I asked Jeeves a million questions about the company earlier today. It was founded by a guy named Scott Hawkins ten years ago. An advertising and marketing firm using cutting edge technology to stay a step ahead of the competition. This company and this position combine my natural love for computers and my knack for graphic design.

  I need this job.

  Swallowing down the worry that’s burning up my throat, I shakily make my way out of my room and down the hallway. My family is already sitting at the kitchen table. Madden always at Dad’s old place. Mom at the opposite end. Both the girls on one side together. The lone chair remains for me.

  “I don’t like sloppy joes,” Mina whines. “Can’t we have pizza instead?”

  Mom ignores her, her wide brown eyes that match mine exactly zeroed in on me. “Why’re you slouching?”

  I straighten my spine and frown. “Hi, Mom.”

  She purses her lips and nods at Madden as I slide into my seat. “Say the blessing, son.”

  “Lord, we want to thank you for this fine meal,” Madden murmurs. “And even more thanks for the ones who we share it with. Thank you for giving us a momma who works hard to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  “Amen,” we all parrot.

  Mina and I stare at the pot of wet hamburger meat like it’s personally wronged us. I’d tried to tell Mom once I considered becoming a vegetarian and she slapped me in the damn head. Told me that shit was for fairies. So, with a grimace, I wait my turn to slop my ground up cow bits mixed with barbeque sauce onto a bun. I can’t suppress the shudder that ripples through me, making me visibly shake.

  Madden, though, acts like he’s bulking up for the goddamn Super Bowl. He has four open buns on his plate and spoons out heaping globs of the dinner he cooked. Mom watches adoringly like he’s still her baby boy.

  Gag.

  “I think I got a job,” Madden announces before passing me the pot of sick meat.

  I cringe again, focusing on the little bits of bell peppers—which I hate—as I spoon a small amount onto the bun that’s already sitting on my plate. I can feel Mom’s eyes searing into me.

  “That’s great, sugar,” Mom says to Madden. “Where at?”

  “The high school.”

  Mina snorts. “Ew, no.”

  “Mind your mouth,” Mom barks at her.

  Madden shrugs, not caring about Mina’s outburst. “Coach Bullock says they need an assistant football coach and with my experience, it makes me a shoo-in. Doesn’t make tons, but it’s something. I’ll teach too when I’m not coaching. Thirty grand a year.”

  “It’s something because it gets you out of this house and using that leg more,” Mom tells him firmly. “You know I worry about you.”

  “I know,” he says and then practically inhales his sloppy joe, scowling.

  I cut my eyes over to Mina in time to see her curl her lip up in disgust as she watches our brute brother inhale the nasty shit.

  “What about you, son?” Mom asks, her attention no longer on my brother.

  The Mountain Dew I drank earlier churns in my stomach as a sheen of sweat dots my skin.

  “I, uh, got an interview.”

  Melody laughs. “At McDonald’s?”

  “Shut up,” I bite out.

  “Malcolm Dakota Shaw,” Mom snaps. “Apologize to your sister.”

  I grit my teeth. “Sorry, Mel.”

  Melody preens until Mom sets her straight too.

  “Keep up that attitude and your ass won’t go to the skating rink with Yolanda on Friday. I am sick and tired of her influencing you with her shitty-ass snark.”

  Mina’s eyes glitter with delight that our baby sister is getting some much-deserved bitching out. Even Madden smirks.

  “Where?” Mom asks, her attention back on me.

  I chew on the inside of my lip, a nervous habit that sometimes leads to a sore. “Hawkins Group.”

  Mom blinks at me, waiting for an elaboration.

  “Advertising and marketing.”

  Her nostrils flare.

  “But they’re big in the tech side,” I say quickly. “Huge.”

  “Like your teeth,” Melody mumbles.

  “Grounded,” Mom says, not missing a beat.

  Melody starts to cry, but Madden barks out a sharp order for her to suck it up and eat. While she pouts, Mom scrutinizes me.

  “I told you I could get you a job at Lockheed. You’ll need to get your ass to college, but I know Al will work with you. He does it all the time for the other guys up there.”

  Because working with his mother is every guy’s dream.

  “Thanks, Mom, but I really want this job at Hawkins,” I say softly, stabbing at my bun with my fork.

  “If it doesn’t work out, I’m going to have Al get you a job there. I won’t have my grown-ass kids living under my roof and not doing a damn thing.” She glares at me, daring me to challenge her. “You sit in your room all day playing on your computer games, but play time is over, son. You’re nineteen years old now. It’s time to get out there and become a man.”

  “It’s going to take a lot more than a job to make that happen,” Madden mutters under his breath.

  “Apologize,” Mom barks out at him.

  Madden winces. “Sorry, bro.”

  I shrug it off. “The appointment is at nine, Mom. If you want to give me a ride on your way to work, I can sit in the park and wait.” Wait…or use that time to work up the nerve to nail my interview.

  “Nonsense. Madden will take you,” she says, waving me off.

  Madden looks irritated that he has to take me anywhere, but he’s wise enough to not argue with Mom. I bristle at the idea of having to rely on my brother for anything. We’re not exactly close.

  “I can’t be late,” I warn him.

  He flashes me one of his popular smiles that makes girls stupid. “I wouldn’t dare make you late, little brother.”

  I’m going to be late.

  Crap.

  Scott

  Down.

  Up.

  Down.

  Up.

  “You’re such a child,” Wade groans from across the conference room table.

  I catch my black and yellow ProYo Turbo Bumblebee yo-yo and smirk at my friend. “Because I’m a badass with a yo-yo? Hardly child’s play. You, however, love playing with the children. How old is your girlfriend anyway? She legal yet?”

  He flips me off.

  Who’s the child now?

  “Dena’s eighteen, dick.”

  “And how old are you, old man?”

  “Fuck off, Hawkins.”

  We both chuckle and then Wade swivels in his chair to look at the clock on the wall. Our nine o’clock is late. It’s annoying, but life happens. I set down my yo-yo to check my mobile phone to see if I’ve missed any calls. It’s last year’s Nokia 5110, but I love it. The best feature is Snake, a game I’ve played one too many times to pass the time. Wade begrudgingly carries around a Nokia too because I make him. This new guy—if he ever shows up and is worth a damn—will carry one as well. We can’t be windows to the future if we can’t properly communicate with each other.

  “If he doesn’t show up by nine-thirty, I’m bailing. I need to make that call to Tokyo,” he complains.

  “Sorro,” I call out to our secretary. “Heard from our nine o’clock yet?”

  Sorro prances into the conference room looking like a million bucks. We pay her good, but not that damn good. I know she sup
plements her income by singing at Juno’s on the weekends. When she catches my staring, she beams one of her killer smiles at me.

  “Not yet, honey, but I’ll let you know. You two boys want coffee this morning? I started a pot and I want to try something new I learned from January’s Martha Stewart Living.”

  “If it’s cinnamon, I don’t want it,” Wade grumbles. “I’m allergic.”

  Sorro pouts, her bottom lip poking out and her giant tits bouncing as she stomps in her heels. “Way to be a killer of dreams, Mr. Sedgwick.”

  “I’ll take the Martha special,” I tell her with a grin. “If it’s nasty, though, I want my usual.”

  Sorro’s brow hikes up, clearly pleased with the challenge. “Nothing I ever do here is nasty.” Then, she flashes me a wicked grin that has Wade choking.

  “Yeah, yeah, everyone knows you’re a freak the moment you leave this place,” I say with a chuckle. “The pearl necklace doesn’t fool me, kid.”

  Her light brown eyes gleam with mischief, a rebuttal on her tongue, but in the end, she bites it back and shakes her head. As soon as she’s gone, Wade groans.

  “Goddamn, that woman has a nice ass. And tits. But, fuck, those long legs. What I wouldn’t do to have them wrapped around me,” Wade mutters, still staring after her into the open hallway.

  “Poor Dena,” I taunt. “All it takes is a prettier thing to walk by and her daddy is distracted. And here I thought she was the one.”

  Wade flips me off again. “Dena is the one. I’m going to marry her one day. But a man can still appreciate a fine-looking woman.”

  I don’t dare let slip that Sorro is transgender. I’m the only one who knows Sorro is a nickname, but Michael Washington is on her driver’s license and social security card. I’m also one of the few who knows the club Sorro sings at is a drag club and bar. I’ve seen her in action. She’s good. Really good. But that’s her story to tell, not mine. Besides, Wade can be a homophobic asshole, much to my irritation. The last thing he needs to know is that the woman he’s been getting hard over every time she walks into the room for the past year has a dick of her own.