Songs of Love : Books 1-3 Read online

  Songs of Love Series

  Books 1-3

  By

  M.J. Calabrese

  Copyright © 2020 by M.J. Calabrese

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is completely coincidental.

  Cover by LM Spangler, Designs by L

  Edited by Avril Stepowski

  Can’t Let Go

  For Your Entertainment

  Lonely No More

  Author Info

  Can’t Let Go

  A M/M Romance

  By

  M.J. Calabrese

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter One

  If you saw a mob of boys standing around, cheering and goading someone, it wasn’t me because I was usually the one on the ground getting his ass kicked by this year’s bully. It was almost like a rite of passage for these guys since I was eight years old. There I was thirteen, smaller than the other boys, getting my ass whupped for the simple reason my name was Heywood. No other provocation needed. That day Mason Collins was doing the honors. He outweighed me by at least thirty pounds and was six inches taller. He was the bully du jour.

  Long ago I stopped fighting back. In those days, I just tried to protect my face and ribs, (funny that’s where they always chose to kick me. Not in my ‘nads, thank God.) as best I could, which actually never really worked. I’d let my tormentor just tire himself out. Eventually, he’d give up. Then he’d turn to the crowd, beating his chest like the alpha silverback gorilla he was and proclaim to one and all he wasn’t to be messed with.

  Most of my bullies were careful and didn’t jump me on school grounds. If they had, there was always a chance they’d be seen by a teacher and could get suspended. Most waited until I reached the park near my home. I could see them a mile away, but I stopped running from them. What was the point? They’d run after me like a mob of peasants in an old black and white horror movie, then they’d circle me, holding me captive until the appointed bully would show up and finish the job.

  You’d think I’d tell my parents, but they were worse than useless, especially my Dad. More times than not, if I complained, I got a worse beating from my alcoholic father and no sympathy from my overworked mother. I’ve been beaten up so many times, DSS stopped coming to our house after teachers who noticed the bruises would report us. What they didn’t know was that my father’s sister, my Aunt Denise, was the DSS district manager. When they got complaints about Dad or about me being abused, she’d take the case and would never follow up. So, I learned to handle things the best I could, usually from a fetal position in the dirt.

  One day a miracle happened. Suddenly the crowd parted. It was like Moses had parted the Red Sea, but my Moses was the new kid. He stood 5’10” already at age thirteen. His raven black hair and striking blue eyes, with skin untouched by the usual teenage acne all the rest of us suffered, made him a god. Even at his age, when most boys were awkward and skinny, my savior had muscles.

  When he walked up to Mason, he didn’t say a thing, but from my point of view I saw him grab Mason by his shirt collar, then one-handed, he tossed my tormentor away as if he didn’t weigh anything. I didn’t move. I just watched through splayed fingers still protecting my face. I didn’t know if he was going to take over where Mason left off or not. The new kid stepped back. He watched Mason and seemed to be waiting for him to make the next move. His arms were relaxed, but I could see his right hand twitch as he turned to confront Mason Collins. His calm demeanor gave me courage. So, I sat up, watching in awe as Mason, now a raging bull who’d been humiliated in front of his friends, picked himself up from the ground. His face was flushed red with anger as his friends, now laughing at him, goaded him to take care of the interloper who was spoiling all their fun. Mason lowered his head and ran full speed toward the new kid. There was no fear that I could see on the new kid’s face. He just looked as if he was observing some heretofore unknown species of insect.

  As Mason approached, fists forward and clenched for a fight, my savior stepped into him, instead of away. His right hand and arm, straight, catching Mason’s throat between his thumb and index finger. Mason’s momentum was used against him. I almost laughed at the startled look on my tormentor’s face as his feet kept moving forward, but his head didn’t. The new kid turned as Mason’s lower body slid past him, then swept his right leg behind Mason’s legs and all 140 lbs. of Mason Collins came crashing down, hard. The jeering, provocative crowd were turning on their champion. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. This wasn’t supposed to be about their hero getting his butt kicked by the new kid. This was supposed to be the yearly beat up Heywood ritual.

  As Mason caught his breath, he climbed to his feet slowly, rubbing his neck. The new kid, again, just stood there as Mason circled him. Again, with a roar, Mason, head and shoulders down this time, ran at my savior. This time the new kid sidestepped him and put one leg out, tripping my bully. Again, Mason, couldn’t stop before he toppled over and ended up face down in the dirt. This time the new kid placed his foot dead center of my tormentor’s shoulder blades. Mason couldn’t get up. He flailed his arms and kicked his legs, but his captor just pressed down harder on his back.

  The new kid leaned down and whispered in a low, menacing voice. “Keep this up, you piece of shit, and I’ll break your back.” I saw him lean in a little farther, increasing the pressure a bit more. Between the downward force and the new kid’s deep growly voice, it was enough to convince Mason that following his instructions might be a sensible idea and he stopped struggling. The new kid wasn’t finished with my bully, “You don’t fuck with my friends, got it?”

  When Mason didn’t answer, the new kid put a little more weight behind his shoulder blade restraint. Mason shouted out in pain then nodded.

  “Good.” The new kid released his captive and as he stepped back, he reached out his hand to me, pulling me to my feet. I stood there. Mouth agape. I was in awe of him. He turned to the crowd, “If any of you would rather hang with me and my friend….” He hesitated, cutting his eyes toward me.

  “Heywood.” I muttered.

  “Heywood. Then come on.” Without a backwards glance, he turned and started to walk away. Much to my amazement, half of Mason’s gang abandoned him and tagged along with us. I remember I tugged at the new kid’s sleeve and he looked down at me.

  “What’s your name?”

  The boy smiled, “Dylan…, Dylan Greig.”

  Of course, what my traumatized thirteen-year-old brain heard was ‘Bond…, James Bond’. I followed Dylan like a puppy for years. He talked his Jiu jitsu instructor into giving me lessons for free. That style of martial arts is what he had used on Mason. Dylan would show up at my house most mornings and we’d run to school, then I would work out with him at the gym near his house. In the next two years, my acne cleared up and I got my growth spurt. I actually ended up being a little taller than Dylan as an adult. I bulked up, but most of it was youthful muscles. Both of us worked on our arms, chest, and abs. Being teens, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on us, just perfect definition.

  When I look back on that time, Dylan was definitely the better looking of the two of us, but for some reason he never seemed to date. He didn’t join in any sports. His grades were good, just not academically exc
ellent, like mine. School came easy to me. I helped Dylan with what he needed, even wrote a paper or two for my friend. I did have a dirty little secret. I loved to write. Dylan would tease me about all the journals I hid in my room. I never let him read my fantasy stories, but sometimes I’d tell him a story just to amuse him.

  Once he laughed and told me I should do a screenplay. My story was better than most he saw in the movies or on TV. I would tell him, one day I would, and I would win awards. They were dreams shared only with your best friend. Neither one of us really believed that it would happen. If we looked at reality, our futures held a dead-end job or a life of working for Dylan’s Dad. Anything else seemed a faraway dream. All we really needed was each other. We were friends, best friends.

  One night after we turned sixteen, we were playing video games up in Dylan’s room. This was a normal weekend thing for us, playing until the wee hours of the morning. We were in the heat of battle playing World of Warcraft, when suddenly, Dylan paused the game. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t look over at me, but I could feel there was something wrong. When he spoke, it was in that deep, calm monotone he always used.

  “Heywood, I’m gay.”

  The news took me my surprise. I couldn’t say anything. It was like my mind totally paused, like the game we were playing, and I didn’t react. Gay? How could Dylan be gay? How did he know he was gay?

  I think I just sat there, controller in hand, jaw slack as I stared at him. I heard my friend sigh and for the first time in years, I saw his shoulders droop in defeat. He dropped his controller on the floor, then got up and headed for the door.

  “I gotta take a piss.” He announced, not looking at me and then he was gone.

  I sat there, numb. My best friend was gay. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never thought of Dylan as a sexual creature. Hell, I didn’t think of myself that way either. I was sixteen and still a virgin. Never even had a kiss by either a boy or a girl. Had Dylan? I heard the toilet flush and I waited for him to come back. I looked up. Dylan, god-like Dylan, stood there leaning against the doorsill. Arms crossed protectively over his chest. Head down.

  “If you don’t feel comfortable around me anymore, Hey. I’ll understand.”

  In that moment, seeing him so vulnerable, I couldn’t help myself. I tossed my controller onto the tray table next to me, got up and went to him. I stood there, looking into his sad eyes. I knew I should say something, but I felt maybe in this instance, actions would speak louder than words. Wrapping my arms around his naked, broad chest, I drew him into a hug. I felt his head as it dropped to my shoulder and for the first time in the three years I’d known Dylan Greig, he began to cry. I stroked his hair, shushing him and calming him.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Dylan. You’re my best friend and I love you, man. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I don’t remember how long we stood there, but I remember we parted when my foot fell asleep. We both started to laugh as I shook it then danced up and down on it trying to get the tingles to stop. The moment moved on and Dylan never said those words again.

  If Dylan dated guys, I didn’t know. I had dreams about Dylan, sex dreams, but we never did anything because I never told him about them. I was sixteen, horny, and uncertain. I wasn’t even sure the stuff I envisioned was actually physically possible. Dylan stole his Dad’s internet password and we had a weekend of gay porn. The whole time it was playing on the screen, I noticed Dylan watching me more than he was watching the video. I can admit now I liked what I saw on the computer screen, but back then it was hard for me to put my thoughts into words, much less action. I noticed that every time I licked my lower lip, his eyes followed my tongue. I remember I wet my lips over, and over again, just to make him more turned on. I remember that every time I turned my head to look at him, he quickly looked away. I wasn’t sure what type of game he was playing with me, but some part of me liked it.

  At seventeen, we got the opportunity of a lifetime to hang out at his Uncle’s beach house, unsupervised, for an entire summer. I remember we took advantage of it. We spent the summer drinking cheap wine, smoking weed we found tucked in a dresser drawer. We cooked ourselves to a pale burnt umber in the sun. We ate nothing, but fast food. It was perfect.

  One day, a man spotted us on the beach, tossing around a frisbee. He was old, probably all of thirty. Slender and ruggedly handsome with a few days growth of beard. He watched us for a long time, studying us. It was the first time I saw Dylan flirt. At least he did until I threw the frisbee and hit him in the head. He started to protest, but the look in my eyes stopped him. I couldn’t help it. For the first time in my young life, I felt jealous and this confused me.

  The man held a camera in his hands and asked if he could photograph us. Of course, being the hedonistic and narcissistic creatures you are at seventeen, we agreed. He’d pose us. Sometimes apart. Sometimes together. For one pose we stood facing each other, just inches apart. Being silly, Dylan leaned toward me and cocked his head as if he was going to kiss me. I didn’t realize I did it at the time, but the photographer got the shot and I was leaning in, eyes closed, about to reciprocate that kiss.

  Most of the photos were of us on the beach, but in my opinion, the best shot was of the two of us walking back towards the camera. We were toned and tanned, skin glistening with suntan lotion. Bodies hard with muscle and no fat. At 6 foot, I was still a little shorter than Dylan. Again, as I said, that would change.

  My best friend had thrown his arm over my shoulders, dragging me toward him as he placed a chaste kiss on the side of my head. In the next frame, he’d released me. We stood there a moment, two hot, sweaty, handsome boys. Again, our lips were inches apart and we were staring into each other’s eyes. Our smiles faded, but our expressions, even in profile said it all. I was in love with Dylan Greig. I always had been. I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me. “Kiss me.” I whispered to softly for Dylan to hear.

  I wanted him to be my first kiss. I wanted him to be my first everything, then the photographer cleared his throat and the bubble burst. I felt the change in Dylan as he looked down and moved away. I remember I reached out to him trying to snatch his arm, but he dodged me and continued heading back to the house. I looked over at photographer. The photographer took one last picture. I’m sure it reflected how devastated I felt. I know now I had wanted him to kiss me. I wanted Dylan and as he walked away, my eyes brimming with tears, I wanted to cry. I heard the photographer later used that photo in an exhibition. He called it, Dreams Lost. To this day, I’ve never seen it.

  Part of me wanted to strangle that man for spoiling the moment, instead I took the business card he held between his index and middle fingers. He said, if we were ever in New York to call him. He could use us as models for fashion photographers or runway models. He knew others in the business and could get us work. I nodded, but I didn’t think we’d ever end up there. A couple of days later, the man knocked at our door. He gave us $100 each and had us sign a release so he could use the photographs. Neither of us thought anything about it. We just saw the money and how much more freedom it could give us. He didn’t notice we were only seventeen at the time. It was later that we realized that legally we couldn’t sign any sort of contract. We were underage. Even when the photos resurfaced five years later, we didn’t sue. The photographer was as famous as we were at that time and we needed to keep him as a friend.

  As our agent said at the time, they were good for publicity and there were no nudes. So there was no need to make trouble. Photographers were our bread and butter so we needed to keep them on our side. Years later when we discovered how much that photographer made off our images, that almost became an issue for the both of us, almost.

  I remember I hid the card in the secret compartment in my wallet. The place I’d stash an extra twenty dollar bill when I had one. I’m not sure why I kept it, but out of sight, I promptly forgot about it.

  Senior year was uneventful. I worked out with Dylan and go
t my black belt. Even though I’d’ve given my eye teeth to go to college, I knew it wasn’t in the cards for me. My parents couldn’t afford even the most basic costs of college and going away to school meant leaving Dylan. As soon as I got my diploma, I started looking for a job.

  Dylan’s Dad owned a construction company and he hired both of us immediately. We worked hard, but we had fun. The fights with my old man steadily escalated. I tried to stay out of the house as much as I could. When I was forced to be there, I’d put on headphones and write my stories in my journals. These had been a bone of contention between us for years. In his opinion, real men didn’t read or write. Well, I knew for a fact he didn’t. He just sat in front of the TV in his recliner guzzling one six pack after another of the cheapest beer money could buy. For my Dad, quantity meant more than quality and since he contributed nothing to the household expenses, Mom bought the least expensive.

  One day he cornered me in my room. He was over the edge of being drunk and his temper was getting mean. He picked up one of my journals, flipped through it then ripped it in half. Told me that if I had money to waste on crap like that, I could start paying rent. I didn’t feel like arguing that day, so I reached into my wallet and handed him $100. I asked Mom later if she got the money. She didn’t answer.

  It didn’t take long for him to start demanding more. Next it wasn’t just rent, but food, utilities. He wanted more and more until he was getting most of my weekly paycheck. I knew what was going on. Not a cent was going to Mom. She just kept working harder to pay the mortgage as he kept drinking it all away.

  One night it all came to a head. He was drunk and I was tired. It started out as a shouting match that lead to shoving. My Dad was a big guy and when he took a swing at me and it connected, it hurt. I remember, he hit me so hard I saw stars. My jaw was aching from where the punch connected. Looking back now, I couldn’t stop myself from doing what I did next. In my rage, I took one step back, grabbed his shirt and arm then quickly put him on the ground. He stared up at me. His eyes were confused and scared. I remember in that moment I felt some satisfaction that I had put that look in his eyes.