Taking Chances

By
J
OHN
G
OODE

F
ROM
D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

N
OVELLAS

Tales of Foster High Series:

Maybe With a Chance of Certainty

The End of the Beginning

Raise Your Glass

N
OVELS

Tales from Foster High Series:

Taking Chances

F
ROM
H
ARMONY
I
NK
P
RESS

N
OVELS

Tales from Foster High Series:

Tales From Foster High

(YA edition of the Dreamspinner Press Tales of Foster High novellas)

End of the Innocence

Lords of Arcadia Series:

Distant Rumblings

Eye of the Storm

Published by
D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 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 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.

Taking Chances

Copyright © 2013 by John Goode

Cover Art by Paul Richmond

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

Cover content is being used for illustrative purposes only
and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. 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, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-62798-058-6

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-059-3

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

August 2013

This is dedicated to Gina and Mark, two people who have proven that love doesn’t have to be anything harder than saying “I love you.”

H
OPE
is life.

Hope is the knowledge that the odds of you coming out to be you are so astronomical, it is easier to predict weather than to figure out how special it is that you are here. Hope is the belief that you being here is not a random occurrence, that you are here because there was a shocking lack of you in the universe before you were born and now, it is filled. Hope is that the reason you are here will affect others in a positive way, that just by being you, people are made better. Hope is that no matter how dark it gets, there is always a light just around the corner. Hope is that no matter how lonely you may seem, you know at the very least you are your own best friend. Hope is the belief that things that have not happened yet will turn out to be good. Hope is also knowing that some of those things will turn out bad, but it’s okay, because there is always more good than bad in the end. Hope is throwing a football of faith to a receiver you cannot see and knowing that even though it may take time, he will catch it and score. Hope is that you are wrong, that things are not as bad as you think. Hope is that if it is that bad, it can’t stay like that forever. Hope is not that you turn out perfect, but that you find people as messed up as you someday. Hope is not about winning the lottery; it is about having enough money to play. Hope is the candle that flickers in the night of your soul. Hope is that even if it goes out, someone will come by and light it again with their own flame. Hope is not wishing for the impossible; it is knowing the impossible can happen.

Hope is everything, even if you don’t believe it, because it believes in you.

—John Goode

T
HIS
book takes place in the imaginary town of Foster, Texas. Tyler has been featured in my other series,
Tales from Foster High
, which is where Brad and Kyle’s story can be found. This book takes place during
End of the Innocence
, Tales from Foster High: Book Two, where the events at the end of that book are dealt with in greater detail.

I
F
THERE
is anything harder than growing up gay, it’s growing up gay in the Midwest.

There are few places on the planet nicer than Foster, Texas, to be raised in, but as with all forms of perfection, there are some rules. There is a reason movies like
Children of the Corn
and half a dozen other horror films were based on little towns like this. They are pleasant, accepting, and loving people who respect each other under God as long as you are exactly like them in every way that counts. If you are not, you are an outsider and must be removed.

It’s a lot like anthill thinking except, in Foster, there was no queen, no one overriding presence that made us all do the same thing. Guys like my brothers conformed because none of us wanted to be different. We all wore the same kind of clothes, had the same short hair, and we all talked the same way about the things we liked.

Well,
they
talked about the things they liked; I just repeated what they were saying and nodded at the appropriate times. The things I liked were not things young men were supposed to like.

I remember growing up thinking I was the only person in the world who was like me. I was one of those mutants you read about in the comic books, a normal-looking person on the outside but a hideous creature just under my skin, and that forever set me apart from everyone else. My reaction was so stereotypical that I am loathe in this day and age to repeat it out loud to other gay people. I was a pariah in my own mind; the scarlet letter was invisible to others but plain as day to me—a huge pink F that followed me wherever I went; and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake it.

I remember being on the edge of seventeen, that dangerous time between childhood and young adult when the concrete is still wet in your mind. That part of your life where things get stuck and form who you are for the rest of your life, wanted or not. Offhand comments, distant laughter, anything a boy’s fragile ego could mistake for a slight could affect the kind of man he would one day become. There is never a time in your life when love is so sweet, pain cuts so deep, or memory is so undeniably carved in stone.

Though I am closer to thirty than I am to twenty, I can still remember moments of time from when I was a teenager that are so vivid, they could have taken place yesterday. Ask me the name of the guy who talked to me at the gym last week or Sophia’s boyfriend’s name and I draw a blank. But ask me about the time I saw the boy down the street mow the lawn shirtless for the first time and I can still smell the cut grass and the way the sun beat down on me unmercifully. It could have been this afternoon instead of a decade ago.

And that is not always a good thing.

“So….” Sophia swirled the straw around in her glass in the same manner a cat plays with a mouse before eating it. “…home for the holidays, huh?”

I groaned as put my head down on the table. “Why won’t you let this go?” I begged.

“Because, my dear friend,” she teased, “sometimes I feel like I’m best friends with James Bond and not some fag hag to an uptight hick.”

“I hate that word,” I mumbled into the table.

“Which one?” she asked. “Hick or fag?”

“Both,” I grunted.

“I know; that’s why I use them,” she answered airily around sips of her drink. “So, spill. What’s a real Texas Christmas like?”

I winced as images crowded my mind. Both my brothers and their families annually invade my parents’ living room. Both of them are in some demented race to have as many offspring as they can, so I can expect a new baby to coo at and be spit up on by every other year. I end up cowering in a corner trying desperately to remember their kids’ names. The stifling heat, because my mother thinks the moment I moved out of state I lost the ability to handle a “proper North Texas winter.” The painful smile I keep on my face as my sisters-in-law ask, again, “What’s it like living in such an exciting place as San Francisco?” and “You must have the best time!” The entire time, I try to convince myself what they’re saying isn’t code for “So what’s it like having a ton of gay sex in the big city?”

“Long,” I said miserably as I looked up and saw the cute barista walk by and flash me what had to be a pity smile.

“And that’s what she said,” Sophia added, laughing at her own joke. “So when do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow,” I answered, trying to find a way to turn around and look at him without seeming like I was turning around and looking at him.

Sophia looked at me and rolled her eyes. “Just ask him out already,” she said in exasperation. “Or better yet, go corner him in the bathroom!”

I tried not to blush and failed miserably. Sophia learned everything she knows about gay culture from watching
Queer as Folk
and was constantly miserable that I am nothing like them. “He just reminds me of someone,” I said as I sneaked a peek over my shoulder.

Of course, that was exactly when he walked back with a few empty cups. He smiled and stopped. “Did you need another?”

“Another what?” I blurted out, turning away and seeing the empty coffee mug in front of me. “Another coffee, obviously, because I’m in a coffee shop and what else would you be asking me about?” And then I realized I said all that out loud. My head hit the table again. “No thank you.”

Sophia cackled as the blood rushed to my head. I hate Christmas.

“He’s cute,” she commented, while I prayed he was out of earshot.

I looked up in exasperation. “Of course he’s cute. He works at a gay coffee house for tips.” I pushed my mug away dejectedly. “The only other profession that depends more on looks is a male stripper.” I glanced over at him; he was smiling and taking another order behind the counter. “’Sides, he’s not that cute.”

“Who’s not that cute?” Whatshisname asked, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“The guy behind the counter,” Sophia explained to her boyfriend, whose name I still cannot remember.

He looked over and then back with a lewd smile. “Oh yeah, he’s hot.”

I rolled my eyes. “You seriously know you’re dating a gay guy, right?”

“Hey! I’m not gay!” Whatshisname said as he took a sip of his coffee. “I am an enlightened man of the times.”

“You dress better than I do and are constantly pointing out cute guys,” I said, tiring of this never-ending argument. “You’re gayer than I am.”

“That’s not saying much,” Sophia muttered under her breath. I pretended not to hear her.

But she’s right; I am hands down the worst gay guy in the world.

The other horrible part about growing up in Foster is that I had no gay role models to speak of. There was that gay uncle on
Bewitched
, the weird guy on
Too Close for Comfort,
and Mr. Roper batting his eyelashes on
Three’s Company
, but I wasn’t that type of gay. I had played football since I knew how to walk and did both at about the same skill level, which was to say not very well at all. My brothers and I were all jocks in high school. Although I was the least jockish of the bunch, I still passed as more than straight to the general populace. When I moved to the West Coast, I thought I’d finally be free—able to explore my sexuality and all the joy that would come with it.