Choices(Waiting for Forever BK 1)

Copyright

Published by

Harmony Ink Press

5032 Capital Circle SW

Ste 2, PMB# 279

Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

[email protected]

http://harmonyinkpress.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.

Choices

Copyright © 2013 by Jamie Mayfield

Photograph Copyright: Lori Blantin

Cover Art by AngstyG, www.angstyg.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 Harmony Ink Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

[email protected]

ISBN: 978-1-62380-720-7

Library ISBN: 978-1-62380-928-7

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62380-721-4

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

June 2013

Adapted from the award-winning Little Boy Lost series by J.P. Barnaby

Library Edition

September 2013

This book is dedicated to the guys all over the world who have contacted me to tell me how much this series has meant to them and how their lives would have been just a little easier if they’d had these books as teenagers. Thanks to you, these books will find their way into the hands of boys who need them.

Part One: Throwaway Kid
Brians’ Story

1

M
Y
NAME
is Brian Patrick McAllister, and I am going to hell.

“In Romans 1:24-28, we find that God calls these people and these acts that they perform unnatural—an abomination against him. It says, ‘Therefore God gave them over in the lusts of their hearts to impurity, so that their bodies would be dishonored among them. For they exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator, who is blessed forever. Amen’,” the preacher cried, slamming his beefy hand onto the straining wood of the pulpit. In response there was a resounding chorus of “Amen!” throughout the small congregation. I looked around and found that they were all, Jamie’s mother included, enthralled by this charismatic, white-haired Baptist preacher. Even though they were fanning themselves or wiping their brows in the sweltering heat of the late southern Alabama morning, their attention never wavered.

The small tide was of congregants dressed in their Sunday finest, some of the men in short-sleeved button-downs and clip-on ties, others in long sleeves and perfectly knotted standard-issue paisley specials. The women were almost clones of each other, most wearing gaudy floral dresses with perfectly respectable neck- and hemlines that preserved their modesty. Their children were perfect little carbon copies of their parents, with one glaring exception: these miniature adults in their ties and floral dresses seemed to be bored almost senseless.

Taking a deep breath that nearly popped the straining buttons on his starched white dress shirt, the preacher continued reading from his large hardcover Bible, encouraged by his followers’ enthusiastic responses. “‘For this reason God gave them over to degrading passions, for their women exchanged the natural function for that which is unnatural, and in the same way also the men abandoned the natural function of the woman and burned’—notice, folks, that it says burned—‘in their desire toward one another, men with men committing indecent acts and receiving in their own persons the due penalty of their error. And just as they did not see fit to acknowledge God any longer, God gave them over to a depraved mind, to do those things which are not proper’!”

The thunderous sound of him slamming his Bible closed against the wood jarred me, and I jerked in my seat. Jamie looked at me, concerned, but after meeting his eye for the briefest second, I looked away. He seemed so angelic in his light-blue button-down and dress pants, his blond hair falling into his eyes. Due to the heat, Mrs. Mayfield had let him skip the tie, and I could see the smooth, soft skin of his throat behind his open collar. My stomach lurched, and my mind and my heart were both racing. The way I felt about Jamie, I was everything the preacher was ranting about: depraved, indecent, and immoral. Jamie Mayfield was my best friend in the world, and I wanted him more than anything else in it.

I looked up again at the giant of a man in his threadbare sky-blue Sunday suit. He was using a white narrow-brimmed hat to fan his sweaty, flushed face. The excitement blazed in his eyes, and it was obvious he was passionate about his sermon, and he truly believed in everything he preached. Had his words really come from God? The preacher loosened his dark-blue patterned tie, just enough to reveal the top of his neatly buttoned shirt to the captivated audience. No clip-on tie for this man; he was the real deal, the embodiment of Southern grace.

The pulpit where he tended and shepherded his flock was old but lovingly maintained. While the worn wood no longer gleamed in the morning sun, it was spotless, without even a wayward scratch. The large, perfectly crisp engraved cross on the front nearly glowed from its recent waxing and polishing. If everything in the world had its place, this was certainly the preacher’s place. He was perfectly at home, frightening as he was, and comfortable in his element, addressing the Sunday crowd from his old wooden pedestal.

As his sermon came to a close, I thought about what he’d said. For a few years now, I had tried not to like looking at other boys, instead forcing myself to think about girls when I lay in bed at night jacking off. I thought about the half-naked, faceless girls I’d seen on television. I thought about their bare silicone-infused breasts, naked hips and thighs, and tight bodies in their jeans. Sometimes, I even used hand lotion from my foster mother’s bathroom to make it feel all slick and wet, as I imagined a girl would feel. I was fairly certain Carolyn would have been horrified at the uses to which I put her emollient.

But when it came down to it, when I was so horny that my mind disengaged from my conscious fantasies, when those random images shot through my head, there was only one thing I would see. My imagination focused completely on the shaggy mop of blond hair, mischievous blue eyes, and skinny body of a seventeen-year-old boy. I imagined my best friend in the world. I could almost feel his soft blond hair brushing against my stomach, his faintly trembling hand on my thigh. In that moment, all I had worked so hard for, trying to be normal by imagining the faceless girls, shattered into a mind-blowing orgasm that left me shaken and riddled with guilt.

“Brian, darlin’, are you all right?” Jamie’s mother, Patsy Mayfield, asked quietly, breaking into my thoughts as the collection plate was passed down our row. Tossing in the few dollars Carolyn had given to me, I wiped my hand across my forehead, brushing my damp brown curls out of my eyes. I was sweating, and my skin was clammy. On the other hand, she looked perfectly at ease, even in the light sweater covering her blinding yellow sundress. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a single braid down her back. It was obvious where Jamie had gotten his beautiful hair and soft, delicate features. Her hazel eyes were the only difference, because his were like sapphires. But her eyes were also kind as she watched me with concern.

“No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I don’t feel well,” I told her, looking up slowly, my hopeful brown eyes meeting hers. It was true; I didn’t feel well, not at all. The guilt brought on by the sermon was causing my stomach to lurch precariously, having just found out that I was going to burn in hell for something I absolutely could not control. I’d tried to control it; I’d wanted to like girls, but I was just wired wrong. I wanted to have sex with boys, and I was surely going to spend eternity in the lake of fire because of it. That was certain to cause some measure of nausea.

“Well, the service is just about over. Why don’t you leave a little early and head home? I’m glad you could stay over and go to church with us this morning. I’d love to see you attend more regularly,” she whispered as the murmuring started to die down. Her voice was soft and kind, like you would expect any mother’s voice to be. Then, with a reassuring smile, she added, “I told you maybe cold pizza for breakfast wasn’t a good idea,” and patted my hand.

I tried to smile back, but it came off feeling more like a grimace. Before Jamie or anyone else could call me back, I walked swiftly for the double doors. The disapproving faces flashed past me, row after row, making me feel like a criminal escaping from prison. At any moment one of them could try and stop me, could call me back to finish my Sunday-morning sentence. Once I pushed through the left-hand side door at the back of the small church, I broke into a sprint, and I did not stop until I reached my own back porch.

Sprinting through the humid, ninety-degree heat, it was a wonder I hadn’t collapsed. When I stepped through the screen door, my too-tight suit jacket was balled up in my left fist and my tie was wrapped around my right hand. The cluttered screened-in porch offered a small respite for me to catch my breath. I took off my shoes, as was customary at my foster parents’ home, and leaned on the arm of the yellowing wicker sofa that dominated the space. I couldn’t remember what color the cushions on the worn-out couch had been originally, but now it held a faded jungle print, washed out by years of the sun’s harsh rays.