Prologue
Midway Air
Flight 32896
Seat 3A
July 16, 20—
10:51 P.M.
“Mr. Polk, can I get you anything?” the flight attendant named Collin asked me in first class, all Bambi-eyed with his pretty boy looks, sharing a gleaming smile. The guy looked about as cute as a button. I could have sexually used him in the airplane’s bathroom, but stayed a gentleman.
“I’m fine,” I said. “When we will be landing?”
“At approximately eleven-twenty, sir. We’re over Georgia now.”
“Thank you.” I rested my head on the back of the comfortable seat, closed my eyes, and wondered when the Airbus 3000 would fly over Palm Field and Turtle Bay Reef, Florida, my hometown for the last two decades.
My mind drifted to the known and crystal clear future. I still had the apartment on Shell Street and a handful of friends who had probably missed me while I was away for the last eight months in rehab. I guessed they were going to have a Welcome Home, Shane! party for me, loaded with booze, drugs, and male strippers. That would have been a grand time and totally irresponsible. My mind toyed with me. There wasn’t going to be festivities upon my return to the Gulf. Nor was life going to be chaotic and extreme, I guessed. I was just a normal guy from a normal town with a normal life. Nothing shocking ever happened in my world. Nothing mouth-dropping or eye-opening. My life was pretty predictable and uneventful, which was not always the way I wanted it to be.
There was no reason to own a car since I usually walked to places or took public transportation in the Turtle Bay Reef area, enjoying my acute skill in people watching. That could change in the near future because of my fucked up ankle due to a football injury, which might have forced me to buy a Jeep Wrangler to sport around in. I couldn’t rely on friends to drive me around like that annoying Miss Daisy. A job waited for me in Florida
another form of being responsible and predictable
, which I was thankful for, but I really didn’t know the ins and outs of it yet. From what I understood, Luther Coffler, an Everglade Eagles’ football vet with trophies and past stats that caused jaws to drop in the sports world, was going to train me at my new position, off the field, and still make me believe that I was a valuable part of the Eagles.
I felt glad to be going home and getting back in the game of life again, whether I was a linebacker or not. My life was going to be different and interesting from that night forward, I convinced myself. Amendments were needed because of my ankle injury. Although I didn’t know it at the time, a whirlwind was about to surface upon my return. Five men were going to change me in various ways, and I would reluctantly change them. In due time, my days would be topsy-turvy and my nights untamable. I believed a boyfriend was smiling in my future: blue-eyed and handsome, dangerous, and with a seedy past. A string of easy men would flaunt their sexy goods, but only one would be titled as my lover and Mr. Perfect. Things were going to be great once I was home. Better than great. Extraordinary. All the way around.
There was a bit of turbulence on the flight as it headed southward through the night’s dark sky. It really didn’t bother me because I was used to being knocked around, on and off the football field. I declined a decaffeinated coffee that Collin offered in an attempt to make my travels comfortable. As the Midway Air plane roughly glided though the heavens, I attempted to relax and tried to mentally soothe the pain away in my left ankle. A new life was just about to begin for me, and I was ready for its madness, lust, tempestuous lies, endearments, and whatever else it wanted to feed me.
“Game on.” I broached a smile inside the semi-dark fuselage, closed my eyes, and tried to sleep.Part 1: Aaron
1: 215 Pounds of Delicious
Turtle Bay Reef, Florida
Palm Field
July 17, 20—
10:09 A.M.
Aaron Felder, the Everglade Eagles’ tight end, shook my hand, grinned from ear to ear, and winked at me. His handshake felt mighty and just about ripped my arm off. The sexy beefcake, with fern-green eyes, drew me against his tan, hairy chest, offered my jersey-covered torso a manly hug, and eventually pushed away from me, leaving me semi-hard in my summertime shorts.
I visually took in the twenty-six-year-old from head to toe as if we were secret lovers again. He stood at six-three, weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds, and showed off some thick and wavy black hair. He had Tom Brady scruff-covered cheeks and chin, triceps of steel, and a rippled chest covered in onyx-colored hair that always caused me to grow hard in his presence. He stank of a sexy morning perspiration from an early workout, which I longed to inhale. I studied his tapered waist, hairy navel, and low-cut Nike running shorts that were snug over a man-package I knew was hearty in size and quite enjoyable to toy around with.
