Better Than Another Man

Can a straight man and a gay man enter into an intimate relationship, or will it destroy their friendship forever?

Who knows Better Than Another Man…

Better than Another Man
is a love story between two best friends, Bryan and Carey. Bryan is straight and Carey is gay, but they stand by each other through the milestones of their lives, including Carey’s coming out.

But when a family tragedy strikes, Bryan turns to Carey for support, and their relationship moves in an unexpected direction.

Can a straight man and a gay man enter into an intimate relationship, or will it destroy their friendship forever?

Who knows Better Than Another Man…

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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

Better Than Another Man

Copyright © 2013 H K Carlton

ISBN: 978-1-77111-605-3

Cover art by Ashley Waters

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books

Look for us online at:

www.eXtasybooks.com

Better Than Another Man

By

H K Carlton

This book is dedicated to all those who have been forced to set their soul mate free.

Chapter One

I knew that Carey was different from me the minute I met him back in grade school. While all the other little boys, including me, were playing with cars and dump trucks, he bee-lined for the play kitchen and fit right in with the little girls.

It didn’t take long for all the other boys to take notice, and the bullying began. When Carey sent me that sad, confused, lost look, I couldn’t stand it and I stuck up for him. He stuck to my side for the rest of the day. Later, he said he loved me. I told him
dudes don’t tell other dudes that they love each other
. He looked down at the ground and his bottom lip trembled. I stuck out my hand, like I thought men did at the time, and I amended lightly,
but I like you lots, too
. He smiled, shook my hand like a man, and we were best friends from that moment on.

We made it through middle school, fairly unscathed. It was when we hit high school that our differences became glaringly obvious. He tried to be like all the other guys. We joined the football team, but I knew secretly he would have much rather have joined the pep squad, and he would have been great at it. He had all the right moves, on and off the field. His athleticism was undeniable, and whether he enjoyed it or not, he was a desirable addition to the team. We were the school’s two best receivers.

Carey also made a valiant effort to go out with girls. But he was still searching for something else.

We were a hit, the pair of us. Popular and constantly together. Good looking guys, if I do say so myself, but very different. He was blond and blue-eyed, almost pretty. He always had been, even when I first met him as a kid. He had these long sweeping lashes that framed his baby blues and made all the girls swarm. And that ever-present sadness that constantly permeated his being only added to his draw for the ladies. I knew it was because he had a secret, but they all thought he was dark and brooding.

And me, I was the polar opposite. I was upbeat, easygoing, typical jock and male chauvinist jerk. Nothing ever really bothered me, at least not that I let show. In looks, though, we were very different—everything about me was dark. My hair, eyes, even my skin, which has a permanent tan compared to Carey. We were both well built because of the sports. But it was painfully obvious to me and to Carey that no matter how hard he tried to fit in, it just wasn’t going to work. He did everything that I did, football, video games, the girls, and the parties, just trying to blend in. He was like my shadow. He emulated me, but he wasn’t like me. I knew Carey wasn’t happy, and while I was off being my usual narcissistic self, chasing cheerleaders—one in particular whom Carey absolutely hated and had made that fact very clear to me—he attempted to take his own life.

I found him on the bathroom floor at his house. No one else was home. My first reaction was panic, and then I cursed him out. I was so fuckin’ mad that he would do such a thing. How could he do that to me? But he looked up with the same pale helpless face of his, seeking for my help just like he had that first day of kindergarten, and my heart broke for him.

I managed to stop the bleeding, bound his wrists so his mom wouldn’t find out and it was our secret along with his long-suffering confession to me, on that cold bathroom floor, that he was gay. He didn’t have to tell me, I already knew, but he needed to admit it, out loud, for himself.

I cleaned up all the blood from the floor and I spent the night with him. We slept in the same bed and I held him. He cried and I comforted. I didn’t think I had it in me. But after seeing him like that on the stark white tiles, in the sticky bright red puddle, I didn’t want to be anywhere else. I’d almost lost my best friend that day and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I’d never take Carey for granted again. I realised, that as much as he needed me, I needed him in return.

I stayed with him that whole first week after, afraid to leave him alone, frankly. What if the minute I left or turned my back, he succeeded. Even when he went into the bathroom and took longer than I thought he should, I found myself pacing outside the door.

Other than that first night, we didn’t talk about it again that week. We did our best to ignore it and resumed our normal shit—played video games in his room or in the basement and played our music too loud.

On Sunday night he told me to leave.

I watched him warily.

“I’m okay now, Bryan. The worst is over. I promise,” he assured.

I knew that wasn’t the truth. The worst had yet to come, when all our jock friends found out.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“You have to go home. I heard my mom on the phone with yours. You have to go back to your own life and quit worrying about me.”

“It’s my job to worry about you.” I felt protective.

“No, it isn’t, but you were here when I needed you, just like always.”

“I always will be, but you have to promise me that you’ll do the same for me. You have to be here.”

“I will be.”

I swallowed hard at the lump that had formed in the back of my throat. My eyes stung.

Carey stuck his hand out, like a man. “I will be. I promise.” I looked into his tumultuous blue eyes trying to gauge if he was telling me the truth or just saying what he thought I wanted to hear.

I pulled him into my chest and I held him. He laid his head on my shoulder and slipped his arms around my back.

“I love you,” I said, and my eyes really did leak this time.

“I thought dudes didn’t tell other dudes that they loved them?” He chuckled for the first time in a week and I felt like maybe we might be okay.

“Yeah, well, that’s what I thought when I was four,” I said. “I guess now I figure you have to tell people how you really feel, ‘cause you never know. I love you, man. And I don’t want to do this without you. Don’t ever try that shit again or I’ll kill you myself.”

He gave me a squeeze and laughed softly. “Deal.”

Carey took a step backward but I grabbed him, placing my hands on either side of his neck and holding him there. I looked directly into his eyes, so that he couldn’t avoid me. I needed his word. “I
will
see you tomorrow.”

Positioning his hands on my shoulders he peered back at me square. “I will see you tomorrow, Bry.”

I nodded and was about to let him go when his eyes filled with tears. “I like you lots, too,” he sobbed, his lip trembling.

We spent another five minutes crying and hugging each other and then I went home.

* * * *

After Bryan left, I went into the bathroom and took off the bandages and stared at the deep gashes on my wrists. They were healing, just like I was. The pain I felt a week ago was easing, thanks to Bryan.

I would never let him discover the whole truth. If he wanted to believe I’d tried to kill myself because I couldn’t cope with the fact that I was gay, then I would allow him to continue thinking that. He would never know that I almost ended it because of my love for him.

The pain had been overwhelming. It still was. I knew deep inside myself that we would never be more than friends. But I’d also discovered this past week, while he stayed by my side, that we had a deep love for each other, and that, at least, was not one-sided. Although it would never turn sexual as I dreamed, it would be enough.

It would still bother me to see him with other people, especially that little slutty cheerleader he was running after. But maybe in time I would find someone to fill his place. Time. It was amazing what the passage of it could do. A few days ago, I didn’t want to spend another minute with this agony, but I found hope in Bryan’s arms. Even as self-centred as he was, this week had been all about me. He held me. He cried with me. He let me talk about things that I had never shared with anyone. He thought the
man
that I referred to was some faceless person I had not yet met. But it was Bryan, and it would always be him for me. I felt an instant connection to him, the minute we met. But for me that bond had grown into love and not just the caring that developed from friendship. I was in love with him.

These past months, I hadn’t been able to keep my desire for Bryan leashed. Seeing him in the locker room was almost unbearable. Parading around with absolutely nothing on. He was so proud and confident. His beautiful young body, developing those masculine sinewy curves and bulges of new muscle, as he threw himself into honing his body for the sport he loved. It was the first time I’d ever seen him show real passion, for anything.

We were working out six days a week, running every morning, in addition to the games. I guess we were both transforming into the men that we would eventually be. I was almost his equal. When we wrestled around, I was almost as strong as he was. But not in will power. Grappling with him turned me on to the point of pain when we roughhoused like that now. I tried to avoid it at all cost, just in case he discovered that the spontaneous erection that I sported had nothing to do with our mutual exertion and everything to do with him.

The worst was when he stepped into the shower in the communal open stalls at school, watching as he lathered up, his permanently tanned skin glistening and beckoning to be tasted. It took everything in me to fight the impulse to join him, to take the soap from his hand and massage his tired muscles.

I shook my head trying to clear the image. I had to move on—for my own peace of mind. Bryan was my best friend, and that’s all he would ever be, the slashes on my wrists now a permanent reminder. But I now knew how important I was to him and I would take the rest one day at a time.

* * * *

I shot Carey a text every half hour and every time he responded, I sighed with relief. I called him once before I went to bed, pretending I was asking for homework help. By the time I showed up to pick him up for school the next morning, I was a nervous wreck. When he opened the door with his backpack slung over his shoulder and a chocolate Pop-tart hanging out of his mouth like nothing had ever happened, I felt the tension that had been weighing down on me for a week roll away.

A couple weeks later after his cuts had healed, I stood by his side when he told his mom, who likewise was not completely surprised by the admission but was confused by my presence and perhaps jumped to the wrong conclusion that I was there as his boyfriend and not just to support my friend in the biggest moment of his life so far. We reassured his mom that we were just friends but I still don’t think she believed us. I told her I’d be so lucky to find a guy like Carey, if I were gay too.

Telling his dad was another story. The fucker just got up from his worn out Lazyboy and walked away without a word.