Hop Hop, Carrot Top

Chapter 1Flynn Thomas looked around the grimy living room and sighed. He’d put this off for too long. Mom had passed away back in July, and now it was January. The house plants had died a long time ago, the spiders had taken over the ceiling, and the layer of dust had grown thicker with each week. When he’d arrived the day before, he tried to hide his car in the garage, only to realize his mom’s car still occupied the spot. His sister, Tanya, lived in Australia with her family. She’d made the trip for the funeral, but made it clear he would have to sort out the house on his own. He’d packed things from his old bedroom. They were his anyway. Or had been. His mom had kept shelf after shelf of his rejected toys, school projects, and old drawings. Now, only the bed remained. He’d hired a cleaning company to arrive in six days. Clearly, he’d miscalculated his own ability. How would he get the beds, the bookshelves, and the sofa out of here on his own? Saw them up into manageable pieces? It was an option. He’d never handled a chainsaw in his entire life, but it was never too late to start, right? He huffed. He’d end up missing an arm. Maybe there was a thrift shop or something in the vicinity that collected stuff. It would be a safe option, though not as safe as he’d wanted. He wanted in and out of here without anyone seeing him. Grabbing yet another box, he plucked a dusty china figurine from the bookshelf. As a kid, he’d loved the figurines, the women dancing in their beautiful dresses, the little white dog with brown ears. He used to dance in the exact spot he was standing now, pretending he too wore a long, billowy dress in a beautiful color. The woman in the purple dress holding one hand to the top of her hat and a cane in the other was his favorite. He’d mimic her pose and strut around the living room, his mom applauding his performance. But that was before he’d realized there was no room for swishy, femmy redheads in this world. There had been space in this living room, though. His eyes burned. His hair wouldn’t have matched well with a purple dress, anyway. He’d gotten out of this hell hole as soon as he could, and he’d never looked back. But in this living room, in this house, he’d been free to be whoever he needed to be. He was still a swishy guy, but he tried to keep it under wraps; disguised himself in boring gray suits. If he got too excited, his hands got a life of their own. People took one look at him and assumed he was queer—which he was, so they weren’t wrong—but he’d stopped pretending they would be okay with him wearing purple dresses. It wasn’t as if he yearned to wear a dress, it was the beauty he found alluring. He’d fantasize about how the fabric would react to his motions, how the light would catch it, and how, when he moved, it would create a wave down the long skirt. But he’d stopped dancing a long time ago too. He’d adjusted to the world and what it meant to be an adult. Dresses were beautiful, but they weren’t for him. He didn’t want one, and he’d learned not to openly admire their beauty. It had broken his mother’s heart to see him adapting to society, but they all had to do their best to fit in. For their own safety, if nothing else. Boys shouldn’t want to dance in purple dresses, especially not if they had orange hair. He put on a suit every day and went to work. He answered the phone, talked people through how to install stuff on their computers, and helped them with troubleshooting. They didn’t know they were talking to a faggot. He could have worn a purple dress for all they knew, but he didn’t. He wore a gray suit, or maybe a dark blue one if he was daring. Sighing, he wiped the dust off the figurines and put them in the box. His skin was too tight, his muscles tense. He blew out a breath, packed the box full, and placed it next to the others along the living room wall. With determined steps, he walked to his almost empty room, pulled off his clothes and put on running pants, shoes, and a sweater. It was cold outside, but not too cold. He walked out the door, locked it, and hid the key under the pot with the dead petunias. Dusk had conquered the day, and he cursed not having gone out to run earlier. Now, he’d have to stick to the lit track, which meant he’d have to run past the footbridge by the hydroelectric plant. Cold sweat coated his skin, and he swallowed hard. It had been twenty years. He could pass the bridge. It was only about a hundred and fifty feet long, and yet it had taken up most of his focus as a child. All day in school, he had dreaded having to cross the bridge. Hop hop, carrot top. He shuddered, turned up the volume of the music on his phone, and ran. He’d run the long way around. * * * * Caspian Cook looked out through the kitchen window of his rickety house and sighed. It was already getting dark. “Who wants to go for a walk?” He didn’t, but Moose, his five-year-old Rottweiler mix, flew to his feet, followed by Taco, his two-year-old American Staffy. They looked like mean dogs, especially Taco who had some scars on his face, but they were both cuddly little darlings. Well, they didn’t cuddle with strangers. “Chocolate!” The eleven-year-old brown Labrador yawned and stretched as she entered the kitchen. “Hi, girl.” Caspian patted her head and scratched her behind her ear. She was his first dog. He’d spent a few years traveling the world, working odd jobs where he could find them, and done everything he could to avoid having to come back here. He’d dreamed about finding a man who mattered enough for him to introduce to his family. There hadn’t been anyone. Short flings, a few passionate months here and there, but no one special enough to face Hartley for. Nowadays, he was old enough not to give a damn. If people wanted to whisper behind his back, then they were free to do so. All he wanted was someone to share his life with, but there weren’t any men up for the job in Hartley, and he’d long since lost interest in traveling the world to try to find Mr. Right. He didn’t have to be here, but after having moved around for years, he’d realized it wasn’t where you were that mattered, it was what you did. Despite being on the other side of the world, his mind had been here. Hartley was his home. It was where his mom and dad were, and they weren’t getting any younger. No matter where he was, he was angry with Blade, and no matter what he did, he worried about his father. So, he’d moved back, bought Wilson’s old farm, and gone back to work in his dad’s garage. Dad didn’t work anymore, but he still came by several times a week, grunting as he watched Caspian work. The company was still in his name despite Caspian doing all the work, but he didn’t care. Sure, he thought of the garage as his, but being a car mechanic wasn’t what he grew up dreaming about becoming. Cars were fine, though, and it was a decent job—a solid, work-with-your-hands kind of job. He grabbed the leashes and opened the door. All three dogs fell into step next to him. It wasn’t until he came down to the walk by the river, that he put a leash on Taco. Not because he didn’t trust him to stay by his side, but here they often met people who were scared by his appearance. No one knew Taco’s background. Caspian had gotten him from a shelter, and in the beginning, he only meant to foster him. But as the weeks went by and the other dogs accepted him as one of them, he found he couldn’t give him up. It had been the same thing with Moose. He meant to foster him. They’d found him bound to a tree by an abandoned building. When Caspian had gotten him every bone in his body had been visible, and his heart had broken for the poor mutt. He couldn’t give him up. He sighed. He wanted to help; wanted to foster dogs for the shelter, help them find forever homes, but, so far he’d been unable to give them back once they’d come into his home. He wasn’t cut out to foster animals. The roar of the water from the hydroelectric plant grew in volume, and Caspian looked out over the river. On this side of the dam, the water was black and calm with the occasional swirl, but closer to the plant the water rushed through the floodgates with force. Caspian breathed in deep. The air was different near the river. He loved seeing the water cascade down on the other side of the dam. The roaring fury as it hit the rocks below and met up with the river again spoke to him. He could watch it for hours, but the dogs grew impatient if he stood staring for too long. As he came closer to the footbridge, he called Moose in. Someone was standing there. The closer he got, the more frantically his heart beat. Flynn? Could it be Flynn Thomas? Caspian forgot how to breathe as the light of the lamp by the bridge fell on the man’s red hair. Caspian had only ever known one red-haired man. Well, he hadn’t known Flynn, but he’d watched him—watched him every chance he got. The maybe-Flynn turned, his eyes locking with Caspian’s seconds before a strangled cry rose over the roar of the water. A second later, Flynn was running—not a slow, relaxed jog—he ran as though he’d come face to face with his worst nightmare, and Caspian cursed. Had he been able to kill Blade and get away with it, he would.