Monday, August 24, 2015

Tuesday Tales - Buzz



Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.



Today we have the next issue in my historical M/M romance, Dear Jon, which is set in 1945. Every issue of this serial will be under 1500 words so they're quick reads.  Our word prompt today is 'Buzz'. This story contains mature language and gay sexual situations. If that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering. 

Don`t forget to visit the other talented Tuesday Tales authors. Thanks for stopping by!




It took me roughly five minutes to run to my studio, a crumpled Western Union message in my hand. Once inside the missive fluttered to a small table beside the front door. I tugged the ‘I`m at the Wastrel’ note I had taped to the door off. The lights flickered on and I moved through the gallery, the oils that were just now starting to command some serious dough ignored blatantly. I paid no mind to the sculptures done by a friend. I saw nothing of the newest piece that held the largest spot on the dark green walls. The smell of booze, perfume, dreams, turpentine, and Pall Mall`s filled the tiny flat. I loved it. I loved this place and I loved the attention that my work was getting. I loved being called the next big thing to come out of the Village.

I have a nephew . . .

Hand on the door to my personal space I paused. I ran back through the modern cityscapes that defined who I was as an artist. I reread the note. My heart felt like it was beating too slowly. My thoughts buzzed around inside my skull.

I have a nephew . . .

Why had Betty never told me? I was her fucking brother. Oh yes, that`s right. She never told me because I had informed her she was dead to me.

“Sweet shit.” My hands splayed on the table. Business cards fluttered to the floor when the studio door opened. I didn`t have to look up, I could smell her perfume. Without a word or a glance, I shakily held the telegram out to the left. Charlotte closed the door, lit a cigarette, took the news with a gloved hand and sashayed into the studio. She positioned herself artfully beside an oil of the city done at dawn. The pink pin striping and the ebony material of her dress and hat matched the colors of the painting perfectly, as she knew it would.

Turning around I found her eyes on me. “I knew it was bad news.” She flicked an ash to the hardwood floor.

“I have a nephew.” I walked over to stand beside her, both of us looking not at each other but at the people hustling by on the sidewalk.

“So I read,” Charlotte replied, her voice smoky and deep. She broke from my side. I really did love to watch her walk. Pity we could never make it work. One date- and one less that spectacular roll in the hay - had shown us the errors of our ways. We never made that mistake again but we had become thick as thieves.  Charlotte was one hell of a woman. “Are you heading off to Ass Crack, Pennsylvania?”

“Hannity Hills. Yeah, it`s where I was born. I do not want to go back but . . .”

She read the dangling sentence for what it was. “They`re going to spit on you now just like they did before,” she said, her sharp grey eyes narrowed.

“I know,” I countered. “But Betty`s boy . . .”

Again it was left swinging in the smoky air. Charlotte raised one shoulder, the padding riding atop her arm making the gesture seem bigger.

“What about the show?” she asked.

I have a nephew . . .

“I`ll rush things back home,” I said, staring at her openly. The knot her finely penciled brows were in hadn`t untied. “It`s not for three weeks. I should be able to find someone more fitting to take the boy.”

At that she laughed. It was a sound that made the muffler on a ratty old `32 Chevy coupe sound smooth.

“Someone who doesn`t paint and suck dick, you mean?”

I winced at her frankness. “You have no idea what the word subtle means, do you?”

“Jon, there`s no reason to be subtle. We are what we are. Call me when you arrive,” she said, tapped another ash to the floor then left. I stood there with my hands swinging at my sides watching my best friend stop and wiggle her fingers at me outside my studio before latching onto some poor slob`s arm. With a wink, a giggle, and a pat on her well-rounded ass, Charlotte blended into the crowds with this week`s sugar daddy.

Well at least Charlotte knew how her night was going to go. Me? I had no damned clue but I highly doubted I would be wined, dined and bedded like Madame Duvall. What I had coming over the next few hours was a rushed packing job, a five hour drive, and an eventual glum return to the town that had spit me out like an old flavorless wad of Bazooka bubblegum.

Oh, and I had a funeral to plan and a nephew to meet. I picked up the phone and asked the operator for Hannity Hills.

I have a nephew . . .

Copyright 2013 ©by V.L. Locey

*~*~*

Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the Tuesday Tales authors.


See you next week!


8 comments:

morgan said...

Wow. What an opening.

V.L. Locey said...

Glad you enjoyed it, Morgan!

Flossie Benton Rogers said...

Great excerpt! I love how he is so thrilled at having a nephew and determined to make it count despite how he was treated before. And Charlotte is a corker!

Susanne Matthews said...

Poor guy. I don't envy him this.

Jean Joachim said...

Wow! I missed last week, but this week is sizzling! What a story. It's fantastic. Sucked me in and now I need to know what's going to happen next. I love that he's leaving everything for the baby.

Iris Blobel said...

Great excerpt, Vicki! Well done on the emotional side ... and she is a dag!

V.L. Locey said...

Thanks so much all!

trishafaye said...

Is it next week yet??? Throwing myself on the floor in a tantrum. I want to read the whole story NOW!