Loving Jay

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SW
Suite 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

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.

Loving Jay

© 2014 Renae Kaye.

Cover Art

© 2014 Maria Fanning.

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 Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-62798-629-8

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-630-4

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

April 2014

For my BFF—may we laugh as we grow old.

I
WAS
going to miss my train.

I raced along the enclosed overpass bridge, my stupid “office shoes” slipping on the nonslip tiles, pumping my arms furiously to try and make the platform in time, even when I knew it was hopeless. I wished desperately that I had worn my runners to work, but office policy was strict so I had my ridiculously expensive black “dress” shoes on. Why did they call them dress shoes, anyway? I’m not a frickin’ girl and I don’t wear dresses. I skidded and slipped around the corner, holding out my rail pass to tag on, barely waiting for the light to turn green before I dashed toward the train I knew I was going to miss. I sprinted for the escalators as the doors slid shut on the carriage. I half flew and half stumbled down the steps, taking them four at a time as the train pulled away smoothly.

Shit!

I would now have to spend another twenty-four minutes hanging around a deserted train station until the next train.
Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!

Twenty-four bloomin’ minutes to do nothing because trains don’t run frequently this early in the morning—thanks mainly to the fact 80 percent of the adult population of Western Australia relies solely on their cars, one of which I don’t have. Which also translated into twenty-four minutes I would have to stay later at work this afternoon and complete my boring seven-and-a-half-hour workday. Which then meant I would end up riding home with the high school students on their way to their suburban homes from their swanky private schools in the city, something I loathed on par with getting dog crap on my foot.

It also meant it would be another hour before I could get myself a coffee. Another hour before I could get inside out of the nearly freezing predawn weather. Another hour before I could take the weight off my bung leg, which was now aching from the abuse I just put it through.
Shit!

And missing the first train of the morning also meant I didn’t get to see Jay. But I wasn’t going to think about that. Because I am not gay. I don’t notice other guys; I don’t drool over them; I don’t look forward to seeing their handsome face each morning; I don’t dream about them every night; and I
definitely
don’t get a hard-on thinking about one particular face. Nope! Not gay here at all.

Much.

Denial, denial, denial. Just keep saying you are not gay until the cows come home. Right? I never got that saying—
until the cows come home
. Because don’t the cows come in every night? So really, you are just saying no until sunset. Stupid.

And I really wasn’t gay. In order to be gay you have to be in love with another guy, don’t you? You have to be “living the scene,” going out to gay clubs, proudly dancing in pride parades, and pinching men’s arses. And I’m not doing any of that—ergo I am not gay.

I skidded to a halt and puffed hard, holding on to the metal chair that was bolted to the platform so I could stand on my right leg only. I looked at the passengers already on the train pulling away. Some of them looked back at me. Some of them smirked—
the bastards
—but none of them were Jay. I didn’t see him and cursed. Just for a moment I forgot my denial and looked anxiously at the passengers, searching for his blond head and skinny frame. I saw many familiar faces that I traveled with each morning, but none were the one I wanted to see.

Shit!
Just a glimpse would’ve been enough. Just a quick look to see if he had colored his hair again—he’d gone blond again, which I really liked, although that streak of blue a couple of weeks back was a bit over-the-top. And I just wanted a glance at his outfit to see if I approved or cringed over his style today—I liked the ones that showed off his arse, not that I’m gay or anything. A quick look, that’s all I really needed. I stopped lying to myself for ten seconds and admitted that a glimpse of Jay made getting up at such a shitty hour and going to work at a shitty job all worthwhile.

I fisted my hand on the back of the seat and internally punished myself for my thoughts. I was getting obsessed with a guy I had never spoken to and didn’t even know. In my mind I called him Jay but I’d made that up. He looked like a Jay. I’d invented the name two months back in early May when he’d worn this bright-yellow button badge for a week or so. From a distance of half a carriage away I had only been able to make out a large capital “J” in the wording. So I called him Jay.

Three days later I managed to maneuver close enough to him without drawing attention to myself and I had read the rest of the words. “Just do it. Smile.” The first letter had been increased to a large size, which was why I could see the J from a distance. The badge was cute. Quirky. Adorable. Just like its owner.

And I am still not gay.

I’ve had girlfriends. Two of them. Okay, they didn’t last long but there was a reason for that. My first girlfriend dumped me after the accident. I didn’t know I was dumped until I returned to school and found out she had been “going out” with Darryl Meyers for two months. Two whole months. That’s how long I’d been out of school recovering. Bitch.

So I pretty much ignored girls for the next two years while I—
literally
—
got back on my feet. Physical therapy is no walk in the park (pardon the pun!) and Mum was also on my case about getting up my marks at school. So I just concentrated on that for a while and managed to make it through high school with high enough marks to make it to university. It was at university I met Candice and decided to try the whole boyfriend/girlfriend scene again. We became friends. We dated. We kissed. She told me she was in love with my brother. We’re now family. Bitch.

So you can see that I can’t be gay if I have had two girlfriends. And I’m not a virgin—so don’t be thinking that either. I’ve slept with women. I’ve tried it. I’ve taken that old horse out and run it around the track a couple of times. I even thought I
might
be gay for a while so I tried it on with a few guys, too. The horse ran around the track for a couple of laps there, too. So I can categorically say I have explored both options and I have come to the conclusion that I can’t be gay. My dad would kill me, so I can’t be gay.

My dad is the quintessential Aussie bloke—broad, brash, and brassy. Broad from years of playing football and holding down a physical job, brash from years of his non-apologetic, say-what-I mean, take-no-prisoners attitude, which seems to be ingrained in any Australian man over the age of forty, and brassy from years of beer-swilling at the pub with his mates and taking the piss out of anything that doesn’t fit his idea of normal. Hence he has done a heck of a lot of verbal gay bashing in his life and has made it clear to his five sons that no son of his will be allowed to be gay.

So, watching for Jay every morning was something that I did. So what? It doesn’t prove anything. There is a woman who catches the train sometimes in the morning that I watch, too. I’ve been looking at her very closely for the last six weeks trying to decide if she is pregnant or if she has just been eating too many hot dogs lately. Every day she seems to be bigger. I still haven’t decided. So see? I look at women, too.

I sighed loudly, watching the train clear the end of the platform and whirl its way down the line, bearing the people who were running on time—
the bastards
—away from me. My thigh ached and sent a shooting pain up my spine—punishment for that extra five minutes sleep I decided I needed today. I was debating whether to sit and rest my leg or whether stretching it would be better when a voice behind me cursed.

“Damn! Is that our train?”

I whirled in surprise and didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or throw myself on the tracks nearby and wait for the southbound to run me over. Jay was standing in front of me and actually talking to me. We’d never conversed before, although one day I’d heard him speak to an elderly lady. He’d caught the train home with me, which was rare—not that I didn’t look for him every day. (And I am still not gay!) On that day he’d sat down next to a white-haired lady and they’d spoken in soft tones and laughed the whole way home. I felt like tripping the old dear as she got off the train.

His voice had given me shivers for days. It was definitely masculine but with a hint of high pitch in it. Like a pubescent boy getting used to his breaking voice. The voice was kind and soft and with a hint of fem in it as he exclaimed, “Oh. My. Gawd!” at whatever the granny was saying. Now that shivery, spine-tingling voice was addressing me directly.

“Damn! My watch must be slow! My boss is gonna be pissed at me for being late.”

Jay was staring past me at the departing train and I was suddenly ever so glad that it was winter and I was wearing my big, thick coat. Now the only person who would know I was getting a stiffy was me. He was close enough that I could see he had lovely brown eyes and was wearing mascara. His natural blond lashes were colored with a layer of black and I could see the dark line of eyeliner under his eyes too.

He was cute. His features were symmetrical, though his face was perhaps a bit too long for conventional beauty—too dominant to pull off the baby-faced twink look, but definitely attractive. He had a prominent nose—a roman nose I think they call it—and a soft, wide smile with small, even teeth. He walked with a definite swish to his hips, bringing attention to his pert butt in whatever skintight pants he was wearing, and gestured with flamboyant hands, all which unmistakably proclaimed his sexual preference, as if the makeup weren’t enough. Some mornings I would see what I thought was a dusting of powder across his nose and cheeks, and sometimes that colored stuff. What do they call it—blush? I used to think he looked flushed, as if he had just crawled out of some lover’s bed, but then I realized he was wearing makeup. Funnily enough, it didn’t turn me off. I ended up trying to play the game “Guess what Jay will wear today.” Sometimes he’d do his eyes up, sometimes his cheeks. The best was when he’d do his lips.