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    Until I Found You
    Until I Found You
    Until I Found You
    Ebook121 pages1 hour

    Until I Found You

    By B.G. Thomas

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Christopher Morin is unlucky in love. The only male worth anything in his life is his sweet dog Frost. Christopher is devastated when, shortly after his breakup with the worst boyfriend ever, his dog vanishes without a trace.

    Doyle Schilbrack was lucky at love, until his wonderful partner of many years passed away, leaving Doyle lost and lonely. The solution? He adopts a sad little abandoned dog, a dog he names Jack. Together, man and dog come back to life.

    Then one day, a year later, Christopher encounters Doyle in a park—walking his dog! Now the two men are faced with a dilemma. They want to do what is best for their dog, but it will break their hearts to let him go.

    But then a rambunctious white Pomeranian takes matters in his own paws. There might be a way for both men to keep the dog, and find something else that’s been missing from their lives.

    A story from the Dreamspinner Press 2015 Daily Dose package "Never Too Late."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDreamspinner Press
    Release dateJun 1, 2015
    ISBN9781634764322
    Until I Found You
    Author

    B.G. Thomas

    B.G. Thomas lives in Kansas City with his two husbands—which yes, is different, but amazingly rewarding and wonderfully romantic. They have two sweet rescue dogs named Oliver (who the breed name Dorkie applies perfectly) and Frodo (who is just learning to be a dog). He is missing his soul dog Sarah Jane very much, but she will live on forever in several of his books and in his heart. He is also blessed to have a lovely daughter and they love to hang out. B.G. loves to read romance, comedy, fantasy, thrillers, mystery, science fiction, and even horror—as far as he is concerned, as long as the stories are character driven and entertaining, it doesn’t matter the genre. He has gone to literature conventions his entire adult life, where he’s been lucky enough to meet many of his favorite writers. He has made up stories since he was a child; it’s where he finds his joy. In the nineties, he wrote for gay adult magazines but stopped because the editors wanted all sex without plot, and edited his setups right out. “The sex is never as important as the characters,” he says. “Who cares what they are doing if we don’t care about them?” Excited about the growing male/male romance market—where setup and cute meets is where it’s at—he began writing again. He submitted a novella and was thrilled when it was accepted in four days. Since then the romantic tales have poured out of him. “It’s like I’m somehow making up for a lifetime’s worth of story-telling!” “Leap, and the net will appear” is his personal philosophy and his message. “It is never too late,” he testifies. “Pursue your dreams. They will come true!” You can read about whatever he’s working on right now or whatever he’s rambling on about at his website/blog at: bthomaswriter.wordpress.com Facebook: www.facebook.com/bgthomaswriter Twitter: twitter.com/BGThomasBooks He is always happy to hear from his readers!

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      Until I Found You - B.G. Thomas

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      CHAPTER ONE

      CHRISTOPHER KNEW something was wrong before he reached the door to his apartment. It wasn’t just the fact that it had been a shitty day in a string of shitty days—seven, to be exact. A week today since he and Graham had broken up. Graham, the one he’d had such high hopes for.

      This could be the one, Ma, he’d said on the phone—what?—a month ago?

      No. There was something wrong.

      The chill that ran up his spine wasn’t because he was in an understandably negative mood. He knew something was wrong because Frost wasn’t barking.

      It’s okay, he thought. Frost’s routine had been messed with since Graham moved out, just as it had been when he moved in. But hey. That’s the way it was with a pet. They had to get used to change.

      He’s asleep, Christopher reasoned. He’ll start barking the minute I put the key in the lock.

      But Frost didn’t start barking and, what’s more, the door swung open when he started to insert his key into the knob.

      Another chill washed over Christopher.

      He knew he’d locked the door.

      He was religious about locking the door. Had been ever since a few weeks after he’d moved to the city and someone had broken into his first apartment and stolen his collection of DVDs, his VCR, and the brand new TV his mother had gotten him for Christmas. Now he locked the door if he was going down to get a newspaper from the vending machine outside the apartment building.

      Graham liked to make fun of him about it. Well, used to make fun of him. Past tense.

      Burgled? Had he been broken into again? Were they still there? Was Frost okay?

      Hello, he called out, his voice cracking, and slowly pushed the door open all the way.

      He didn’t see anything out of place. No open drawers. The TV was still there. So was his laptop, right there on the coffee table. And he didn’t hear anything.

      Most especially not Frost. He shivered.

      It’s okay, he told himself, the way any pet owner would. Any parent. Any lover. But it was foolish to jump to conclusions.

      Frost? he called. Frosty, baby? Where are you?

      Now he’d come bounding into the room—all bouncing white fur—startled as hell that he hadn’t heard Christopher come in—looking all embarrassed. The thought made Christopher smile.

      But that didn’t happen.

      Another chill. Please be okay. Please. Please let him be okay.

      Christopher stepped into the small living room, looked to the couch—Frost’s second favorite napping place—and for one moment he thought he saw his dog, clear as crystal, curled up in one of his impossibly tight balls.

      But it was only his hooded sweatshirt—the one from Wagner University, his old college. He’d folded it over to make an extra pillow the night before so he and Frost could cuddle and watch Getting Go, his new favorite gay movie. It was another thing Graham made fun of him for. He did a lot of that. Making fun.

      Just my hoodie.

      The realization was crushing.

      Frosty! he shouted suddenly, startling even himself, and then all but sprinted to his bedroom (there was only one, it was a small apartment). This time there was no trick of the eye, no illusion. Not even a white pillow to snag his eye because he’d made the bed that morning, with its navy blue blanket, just as he always did.

      Why do you make the bed? No one’s going to see it except for the damned dog. We’re just going to mess it up again tonight. Graham. Picking on him even about that.

      Well, Frost wasn’t seeing the bed today, and he wasn’t sleeping on it. The expanse of the bed—all dark blue, the blue-jean quilt (the one his mother made for him) folded neatly at the foot—clearly showed no fluffy little white dog on its surface.

      The panic set in.

      Christopher looked under the bed, in the bedroom closet, in the bathroom, and even in the tub. All the places a dog might hide, or worse yet, choose to die. Hadn’t he heard that animals would go to a quiet, dark place to be alone when they were ready to die?

      He didn’t find Frost in any of those places, and besides, Frost didn’t hide. Or as least he hadn’t until Graham, with his cursing and shouting.

      Graham could be the one? Is that what he’d told his mother? How had he ever thought such a thing?

      But then the Graham Douglas who had moved in with Christopher turned out to be an entirely different Graham from the one he’d been dating for eight weeks. The guy who held doors open, who always offered to drive (and dropped him off at the door that night it was raining), who insisted on buying the drinks and big tubs of popcorn at the movies, and who claimed he loved Downton Abbey just as much as Christopher did, had vanished within a week of moving his stuff in.

      After Christopher looked in all the places he could think of where a dog might go, he turned his apartment upside down (literally; he flipped the couch over on its back as well as pulling open the back of his old recliner) looking in all the places he couldn’t think of.

      Finally, he knew Frost wasn’t there.

      Frost, the fluffy bundle of joy who knew no stranger and loved the entire world, was gone.

      Well. He hadn’t loved Graham.

      That dog hates me came the memory of his ex’s voice.

      "He doesn’t hate you," Christopher would say, but in that very instant—remembering—he admitted to himself that he might have been lying. That he had been. Or at least fooling himself. Wanting it not to be true.

      But Frost hadn’t liked Graham. Not at all. Not from the beginning, and it had never changed. When they met and Graham had held out his hand for Frost to sniff, he’d gotten a growl for his trouble. And when he’d tried to push Frost off the bed—

      (It’s gross! All those fucking dog germs! Dogs don’t belong on the bed.)

      —Frost had actually snapped at him.

      A thought popped into Christopher’s head.

      God.

      No.

      Couldn’t be.

      Christopher pushed the idea away.

      Frost hadn’t cared for Graham, but Christopher had chalked it up to jealousy. Graham was the first boyfriend Christopher had actually moved in since he’d found Frost in a dumpster—malnourished, nearly dead, the only one of three littermates to survive—two years before. The other boyfriends had come and gone, most rarely staying the night for sleepovers.

      He puked in my fucking shoe! Graham cried after he’d tried to hit Frost one morning (not for the first time) and Christopher had intervened.

      I don’t care, Christopher had said, getting between them, even though he was easily a head shorter than Graham. Christopher was not a big man, topping off at five-seven and slight—no more than 145 pounds ever, no matter how much he ate or worked out.

      You don’t care? Graham had shouted, looking down at Christopher. Graham was a big man. "You don’t care!" The second

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