Taking Lead Read online

  Dallas Redford

  Taking Lead

  Copyright © Dallas Redford, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Dallas Redford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  First edition

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  For Andrea.

  This is just the beginning.

  Every day, you’ll have opportunities to take chances and to work outside your safety net. Sure, it’s a lot easier to stay in your comfort zone.. in my case, business suits and real estate.. but sometimes you have to take risks.

  Donald Trump

  Contents

  Preface

  Acknowledgement

  I. THREE YEARS AGO

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  II. PRESENT DAY

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  III. PART THREE

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Preface

  I began this book several years ago when the trope of forbidden love between younger men and older men was all the rage. Since then, we’ve moved on to different ideas. New tropes come and go, and come again. This story, though, always lingered with me. I was interested in the complications of it, how one could go about dealing with blossoming feelings when other ties were already existent.

  I wrote this book very quickly but then it took some time for me to return to it. In the interim, I was even considering if I wanted to keep writing at all. That question is not yet settled but I do know that I am happy enough with this tale and the journey of the characters.

  Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy this book. I wish you luck in your adventures in life and love.

  Acknowledgement

  Thank you Lisa for your sharp eyes and suggestions.

  I

  Three Years Ago

  1

  Chapter 1

  “Don’t you ever wish I was your real son?” I ask Mr. Clay.

  My best friend’s dad is a blur of athletic, tanned flesh as he zips past me. Shirtless, basketball in hand. The rim hums as I drive toward him. Reaching him too late. A second later, he’s executing a perfect lay-up as I turn around and catch sight of him in the air above my head. The muscles of his back move in concert. The ball floats away from his fingertips, caresses the rim and threads the net. He comes down with a grin; grabs the ball and dribbles away from me down the long driveway.

  As he takes a second to catch his breath, I watch him.

  I don’t mean to stare but I can’t help it.

  The way the sun glints off his wet hair. His skin shines. He runs a big hand over his brow. His long legs and arms are defined like sculptures I’ve read about in art class. It’s hot outside; we’re smack in the middle of summer. And here we are playing ball. The trees behind him are heavy, drunk on sunlight in the noon-time heat, giving off the scent of pine. I’m already tired. I’m sweating in the heat. I feel a little intoxicated, too.

  When I feel the sting of eyes on me, I turn. Mr. Clay’s actual son, my good friend Jordan, stands off to the side on the grass looking at me. His brow is creased like he’s thinking hard. He looks like a fuckboy in his skinny jeans, layered long t-shirts. All black. His haircut looks like it belongs on the ass of an exotic bird. I guess New York really does change people.

  I flash him a wink and turn my attention back to the game. Jordan’s been ignoring me all day. Why should I pay him any attention now?

  Mr. Clay brushes past me. “Don’t you ever wish I was your real dad?” He moves toward the rim. I make a dash for him, barely able to hold back my laughter, breathing hard. I come between him and the rim. He has to double back and away from me.

  I charge him. I cross Mr. Clay as I swipe the ball from him. He swats at my head but I’m too quick, ducking out of the way. I lodge the ball up under my arm and back up from him as I form a “T” with my hands. “Time out, Mr. Clay.”

  Only then do I release the one foot I had pressed into the pavement, so he couldn’t lie and say I was traveling. “Time out. You hit me. That’s a foul.”

  He shrugs. Smirks.

  And it makes me feel something. Something I’m not sure I should be feeling. That cocky grin. I push it out of my head.“If you’re coming at me old man, I’m ready for you.” I draw my fists up like I’m ready to box him, jut out my chin. I hope my eyes tell him that I’m serious.

  He dismisses me with a wave.

  The ball falls from under my arm. I watch it spinning down toward the street. “Damn!”

  I go for it, but he bounds after it and catches it before I do.

  He doesn’t keep it for long. I dive toward him, steal it, spin away and book it toward the end of the driveway. From there, I proceeded to shoot—and sink—a beautiful four-pointer, that makes the red rim vibrate, sets the net swishing.

  “Oh! Oh my god! So beautiful! Nothing but net, baby!”

  My friend’s dad gives me an approving look. “You know you never said time in, right?” Then, he laughs and moves off to the side of the driveway.

  “It counts!”

  “Maybe at basketball camp,” he says, referencing my part-time gig at Fairview Sport Center. Before I can protest, he holds up a finger and reaches for his water bottle. I watch him drink, my chest pounding. My cheeks hurt from grinning.

  I’ve known Mr. Clay for most of my life. He’s my dad’s best friend. And Jordan’s been my friend since we were little. Though, he’s in his early forties but he’s still in spectacular shape. Always has been. Everything about him is familiar to me. Lately, though, it feels as if everything about him is new. It’s hard to explain but it’s like being colorblind your whole life and suddenly seeing the color red. How would you explain it?

  I watch his strong arms flex as he tilts the bottle ba
ck a second time. His throat looks strong as he swallows. His big pecs bulge and flatten as his arms work. His powerful abs contract and release, taut like the skin over a drum. My eyes are trapped on the action of his belly. It’s hypnotic.

  The world slows down. Down to the rhythm of his respiration.

  To the pulse of my curiosity.

  That trail of hair there, so light, leading from his navel downward…with every exhale, it catches a bit of sunlight, like a neon sign flickering…

  Suddenly, my mouth is dry. I lick my lips, swallow hard.

  When he starts to stretch, I look away. Though, it’s harder to do so than it should be.

  2

  Chapter 2

  Game’s over.

  My t-shirt’s on the small stump left over from the tree Mr. Clay cut down a year ago this time. Bending, I ease my tight quads before I head over for a seat.

  It was supposed to be the three of us playing. Jordan said he would play. He’s actually pretty good at basketball, though I’m better. Doesn’t matter. Since he’s come back from New York, he has this thing where he says he’ll do something with me but ends up backing out. This time I hoped he would go through with it. However, once I got over to the house, he wasn’t in the mood to play anymore.

  Does it sting that my old best friend doesn’t even want to do simple things like play ball with me these days? Fuck yeah it does. But, Jordan’s a freaking fool if he thinks I’m going to beg for his attention. I won’t.

  Nothing—as usual my phone’s dry when I check it. Mr. Clay’s gone in the house and I’m about to head home. I click on Facebook. Nothing there either. As I go to put the device down, it pings and vibrates in my hand.

  Maybe I’m not as lame as I thought I was…but it’s just my mother.

  She wants me to grab dried coconut on the way home from Jordan’s. I text that I will and that I’ll be back home in about twenty. It’s been a boring ass summer. Nothing but work and home. I was hoping that Jordan coming home would be a spark of excitement.

  My phone buzzes again. It’s my mother. She made lunch but she thought I was having lunch with Jordan.

  I respond that that plan is off. I ask her to save some lunch for me.

  Yeah. My life can’t get any lamer than it is in this moment.

  Jordan’s staring at me when I look up.

  “What the fuck was that about?” he asks me, his mouth curved upwards. It should be a smile but he’s really baring his teeth like a wild orangutan.

  “What was what?” I suddenly feel weary. I’ve been playing ball in the heat. And it’s been hours since I ate. Jordan is glaring at me and though it’s tiring to do so, I match his glare. I don’t care anymore.

  He keeps glaring at me. Then, he laughs and lets out a low whistle like I’ve lost my mind.

  It occurs to me to just tell him. Tell him that he’s been a dick since he got back from New York. Tell him that he’s trying too hard and that it’s not a good look. I could tell him that I just want my old friend back, the one who didn’t think he was such hot shit. But, I don’t know how true that would be. I’m past caring and I don’t think I want anything from Jordan.

  I’ve been holding back all week. Trying to enjoy his being in town somehow. He’s been acting like he’s above me. Annoyed at everything and everyone, he doesn’t want to do anything. I’ve been bending over backwards to have fun with him.

  Fuck holding back.

  “Dude,” I say, pissed at the humiliating tremor that works itself into my voice. “Ever since you’ve come back from New York with all your fancy clothes and shit, you’re a little too good for Fairview, huh? You don’t even sound like you’re from here anymore.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “I’m not from here, Chris. I was always meant to be in New York. And now I’m a New Yorker.” His tone is the tone you use when you explain to kids why they can’t eat mud. Well, fuck him. I’ve known him since he was Jordan from Fairview no matter how much of a New Yorker he thinks he is.

  “So, that’s it, huh? You’re just done with Fairview and everybody here? What about after college? I hope you make it in the the Big City if you’ve got to leave everybody behind.”

  He shrugs.

  “You really expect me to believe you’re never coming back?”

  “Oh, I can guarantee you that I won’t be back.”

  Anger and frustration flickers up in me. What the hell is he doing here now, then? If he hates Fairview so much? Yeah it’s a small town but I love it. I could never imagine living anywhere else. Suddenly, he thinks it’s not good enough.

  “What about your dad, man? It’s just him and you in the house and shit…” I can’t even finish the sentence. I’m feeling something more than anger and I don’t know exactly what it is. His parents have been divorced since we were little and now Mr. Clay will have no one.

  I start to back away. My head’s spinning. Things have changed too much and too quickly.

  Jordan looks like he’s about to say something but his phone rings. He checks the screen.

  Fuck your phone, I want to say. You’ve been on your fucking phone all week, ignoring everything around you.

  He holds up a finger to me, but I just walk away. Why should I fight for something that’s not worth fighting for? I’m not going to beg him for his friendship.

  3

  Chapter 3

  Coolness surrounds me when I enter the house and it’s a good thing because I’m heated. Now, in more ways that one. Mr. Clay runs the air-con whenever people are over. Even just me. The temperature got up to the high eighties outside but inside feels amazing. As I walk down the hall, past the kitchen, the cool seems to defuse the frustration I’m feeling with Jordan.

  I skirt the small round dining table, vacant except for two stacks: one of outgoing mail and one of incoming mail. I feel a pang of emotion. The dining room table has been Mr. Clay’s makeshift office since Mrs. Clay left. He leads a consolidated life. A man’s life. One where invoices can share the tabletop with salt and pepper shakers. On some level that kills me, and I don’t know why.

  Before I get too far, I double back to the kitchen and grab a glass from the cabinet, the one to the right above the sink. The pitcher from the fridge is nearly empty like always. After pouring myself some water, I refill the filtration pitcher from the tap. I rinse the glass, sit it in the rack next to a single plate, knife and fork. Something about that pings me in my chest, too. Fuck. I’m feeling hypersensitive today. I’ve got to get this shit with Jordan off my brain.

  The family room is down the hall; no one’s there when I peek my head in. The door to his study is closed. I knock softly, then harder. The only answer is the hollow echo of the wood. I quietly turn the knob and enter the room as the hum of the cooling system kicks back in. I hadn’t noticed it cycling off. I’m suddenly aware of being shirtless as the cool air hardens my nipples.

  I don’t go more than a step into the room. It’s as if I’m looking into the past. Mr. Clay has redone most of the house since Mrs. Clay left but his study has always remained the same. Darkened, with heavy curtains draping the two windows, one of which faces the back of the house. Pictures line the wall. I’ve seen them all before. I’m in some of them, Jordan and I smiling as kids. The same Turkish rug is sprawled across the floor; I know the thin areas where the hardwood shines through by heart. There’s a series of low bookshelves stationed at the sides of a work table with metal legs. I walk in and scan the book spines. The room still smells the same, faintly of his cologne and hardwoods.

  Standing over the work table, I see it’s covered with papers and tools I recognize from Mr. Clay’s work as a contractor. Even as I kid, I knew that he was more than a regular contractor. He’s an artist. It was never just about building houses for him. He wanted to make homes for people. Strange that this is the home life he has these days.

  I cross to the dark blue sofa that takes up the far wall of
the study, but I don’t sit. It’s been a while since I’ve been in this room even though I’m over here all the time. The last time was about a year ago for Jordan’s going away party. I’d found Mr. Clay in here by himself that night looking through old photos.