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    Must Loathe Norcross
    Must Loathe Norcross
    Must Loathe Norcross
    Ebook219 pages2 hours

    Must Loathe Norcross

    By Summer Devon

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    About this ebook

    Born wealthy and ambitious, Grady once worked hard and played hard—so hard, it brought him to the brink of ruin. Now, after a six-year retreat from the world, he’s ready to start a new life.

    Assigned to write a series of articles about a Connecticut valley’s small towns, Grady checks into a local hotel in a run-down town called Norcross. And meets a bellhop who seems determined to show him around... and give him a more intimate tour later on.

    Josh jumps at the chance to show off his town to this exotic stranger, and maybe get a chance to get the hell out of Norcross. He dreams of seeing the world, but the man he thought might help him find a new path turns out to be less influential—and more attractive—than he expected.

    Together they uncover a strange plot to undercut Norcross’s reputation and dollars. Now they’ll have to decide how far they’ll go to save the town...and how far they’ll go with each other.

    This is a reprint.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherK Rothwell
    Release dateMar 31, 2017
    ISBN9781370956005
    Must Loathe Norcross
    Author

    Summer Devon

    About the Author Summer Devon is the alter ego of Kate Rothwell who also writes under her own name.  Summer writes m/m books of all sorts. Many of her titles are co-written with Bonnie Dee For more information about Summer/Kate, go to http://katerothwell.com or http://summerdevon.com.  Summer can also be found at https://www.facebook.com/S.DevonAuthor

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      Book preview

      Must Loathe Norcross - Summer Devon

      Must Loathe Norcross

      Summer Devon

      Smashwords Edition

      Must Loathe Norcross

      Copyright © 2017 by Summer Devon

      THIS IS A REPRINT

      eBooks are not transferable.

      They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

      This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

      All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      Dedication

      Let’s try this again, shall we?

      Born wealthy and ambitious, Grady once worked hard and played hard—so hard, it brought him to the brink of ruin. Now, after a six-year retreat from the world, he’s ready to start a new life.

      Assigned to write a series of articles about a Connecticut valley’s small towns, Grady checks into a local hotel. And meets a bellhop who seems determined to show him around… and give him a more intimate tour later on.

      Josh jumps at the chance to show off his town to this exotic stranger, and maybe get a chance to get the hell out of Norcross. He dreams of seeing the world, but the man he thought might be his ticket out turns out to be less influential—and more attractive—than he expected.

      Together they uncover a strange plot to detour Norcross’s tourist dollars. Now they’ll have to decide how far they’ll go to save the town…and how far they’ll go with each other.

      Chapter One

      The man and woman sitting across from Grady on the crowded train were drunk at nine a.m. They sang Over the Rainbow, and no one else in the car twisted in their seats to look or even raised their heads from their phones.

      The man noticed Grady watching. We’re goddamn munchkins, the man growled.

      Grady’s belligerent days were over, and he wasn’t interested in getting into a fight with a three-hundred-pound drunken munchkin. He nodded. Good.

      You bet your ass, the man said and closed his eyes. He and his partner in musical crime were asleep less than ten minutes later.

      Yeah, okay, the real world had gotten stranger. Grady’s first adventure since leaving the retreat and even before he reached his destination, he was stymied. He didn’t know how or if he’d describe this entrance into New England for Geoffrey’s magazine.

      Would the munchkins fit as the first dispatch from this trip? Did anyone actually read the whole damned articles in Geoffrey’s publications? Or did people just write short bits about the articles and post those on the Internet?

      He’d still do the job the best he could—and it was better to make too many notes than too few. He was just getting out his handy little notebook to write about companions on yellow brick roads when his phone pinged.

      They hadn’t allowed him phones at the monastery, so he had some trouble figuring out the messages. He’d had the thing two days and still froze with confusion when it made strange little sounds. He fished the phone from his pocket and remembered that particular chirpy ping meant a message.

      And of course it was Geoffrey again. Must loathe Norcross.

      He snorted. His cousin insisted on sending him instructions every few hours. The fool had landed him with this unasked-for job; he would put up with anything Grady produced.

      We will see, he wrote back.

      No. You must. Hate. It. IMPORTANT.

      Grady stared down at the display. His urbane cousin rarely grew upset. And he didn’t use all caps in his texts.

      Why— He stopped and squinted. Where was the damn punctuation? He wrote out the words question mark.

      Will explain later. Hate the place, though Norcross Arms can be okay.

      The hotel where he was supposed to stay wasn’t loathsome. Well, that was good. Why hate question mark.

      Later.

      The next stop was New Haven, so he didn’t get a chance to jot down a note about noisy trains. He got up and slung his backpack on. Geoffrey always traveled with wheelie suitcases and had offered to lend him one, but Grady liked holding his possessions against his body.

      He tucked away his phone, waved good-bye to the munchkins, and got off the train, whistling, and then stopped abruptly when he recognized the tune.

      Time to head west on Peter Pan Bus Lines. Silly name, he thought.

      Ping. Grady sighed and dug the phone from his jeans.

      Rent a car.

      Grady had had enough. He could turn the phone off or he could push the little green icon and actually talk to his cousin.

      It rang twice before Geoffrey answered with, Speak.

      What happened to hello?

      We don’t bother with that anymore in the twenty-first century. So? Are you going to rent a car?

      I do not drive.

      That—that thing happened years ago. You’ve turned into an old man, a coward, and you need to get over yourself.

      No.

      Public transportation in these small towns is crap. You’ll make a spectacle of yourself arriving on foot.

      I’ll take a cab from the bus station.

      Why not just rent a car? Hell, buy one, why don’t you? Get yourself a nice electric car. Even in your fire-breathing days, you’d sometimes go all ecological. You’re just the sort to drive an electric car. Break your fast with a sweet, green ride.

      Grady wished he’d gone for option number one, turning off the damn phone.

      He said, Why am I supposed to loathe Norcross? The whole town? Why am I going there if that’s the deal with that?

      His talkative cousin fell silent. Geoffrey, why do I loathe it?

      I’ll explain later. Geoffrey sounded angry, as if Grady had said something obscene out in public, the word fuck in front of a kindergarten class.

      Grady wasn’t fooled. What have you done?

      Look. It’s a matter of politics. Wheels within wheels. It’s not such a simple matter that I can explain it over the phone. But, really, what is your problem? This is a simple request, and from what I understand, hating Norcross should come easily. Do you know what they do every year? Have you read about their annual celebration?

      Grady hunched his shoulders, trying to settle his backpack more comfortably. Yup. I have done some research, and—

      They celebrate the antebellum South.

      Grady walked to the big board in Union Station to track down the next bus. He found a stand of small paper schedules and picked through them, half listening to Geoffrey rant about Norcross. They have a Southern Belle Festival. A goddamn paean to the Old South. What kind of tacky madness is that?

      He paused, so it must have been a real question. Grady, running a finger down the schedule, said, It’s a tribute to Norcross, Georgia.

      Which wasn’t founded until the 1870s. They’re bringing a fake Old Southern life to Connecticut. Have you ever heard of such a thing?

      There’s my bus, Grady lied. Got to go. He clicked off the phone. Better than smashing it, he supposed. The new Grady didn’t lose his temper—and that was actually fairly true. If nothing else, he’d learned to keep the drama at bay.

      An hour later, after he settled on the bus, he pulled out his notebook and jotted notes about fellow travelers, unreliable public transportation and the quirky charm of strange festivals in the hills otherwise devoted to snooty arts.

      He stopped writing to admire the hills almost hidden by the green haze of trees and realized he’d missed the almost-too-lush Northeast, a riot compared to the near-desert where he’d landed for a few years.

      He settled into his seat and let himself drift into the soft repetition of prayer and vows, a murky amalgamation of beliefs that didn’t mean much to him anymore but still offered comfort.

      ***

      Josh leaned against the wall next to the lounge entrance and watched Chuck wipe down the already-shining granite counter again. The redecorated lobby was the hotelier’s pride and neurosis. Chuck craned his neck and polished the gold badge on his chest.

      When he glanced up, he must have noticed Josh’s amusement. What are you doing? Chuck demanded.

      You told me to hang around the lobby.

      Well?

      The flowers are nice, Josh offered. The place looks great.

      It wasn’t enough of a peace offering for the still-nettled Chuck.

      Josh’s boss glared at him from under thick eyebrows and returned to the argument they’d had at the start of Josh’s shift. I’m not sure why you’re being so difficult about the subject. Why is it so hard to agree to charm him? We need every damned weapon in our arsenal.

      I am not a weapon. Also, in case you hadn’t figured this out, I am a lot of things around town, but not a prostitute.

      Chuck went out to the rack of tourist-attraction pamphlets and tried to straighten them, an impossible task. I know, I know you’re not. You didn’t take up with Mrs. Allan, and any red-blooded male would, even without the cash I happen to know she offered you.

      Josh fought the temptation to ask You know about that? Is that when you took up pimping? because Chuck would probably turn bright red and that could lead to an honest-to-God heart attack. The town council would never forgive Josh if he killed Chuck, even accidentally. Since he had to deal with them every day and the majority of them showed up for his family’s holiday dinners, he wouldn’t risk it.

      Chuck said, Anyway, this is different from Mrs. Allan.

      Yeah? How’s that? Because you’re the one offering money this time?

      Because you’re a gay. This would be easy for you.

      Gay, straight, pink or polka-dot. Not going to happen. I am not selling myself.

      No money will change hands! Don’t be so crass. I just hoped you’d be polite. Friendly. Act interested. Be a—an ambassador for the town. That’s supposed to be your job anyway.

      Jesus, Chuck, I’m not an asshole. Apparently you are. Me? I’ll be polite. Deferential even. I’ll manage that.

      Lindy, the night manager, came through the office door. She was pulling on her navy-blue blazer with the gold badge. The padded shoulders added to her air of a determined cinderblock. She said, You Turners can’t manage deferential. It’s not in your blood.

      Unfair. I am polite and cheerful as a goddamn Boy Scout every goddamn day. Unfailingly the goddamn soul of liveliness and joy.

      So you say. Your mother says you’re restless again. Before he could tell her what she and his mother could do with their opinions, Lindy turned her acid attention to Chuck.

      Why are you still here? Go away. Go have a life.

      Geoffrey Michaels is on his way. Here.

      I’m aware. Go to Rowdy’s and get a beer or something.

      "No, I mean he is on his way now. I have it on good authority that he will be here any minute."

      And when he arrives we’ll take his luggage and pretend we don’t know a thing about him. And Josh will go up with a complimentary bottle of chardonnay. The good stuff you put aside for him. And I’ll make sure Josh doesn’t spit in it.

      Chuck went pale. Would he? He wouldn’t, would he? Oh, no, I just want this to work out. Josh, you promise you won’t do anything dumb?

      Christ. Josh shoved his hands into his pressed khakis. He’d been a bit of a hell-raiser in high school, sure. But that was almost a decade ago.

      He’d gotten away from Norcross for a few wonderful years. He’d reinvented himself and made peace with his sexuality, and mistakenly thought he could be considered a grown-up. Not in the town where time stood still. When he’d come back after his father had gotten ill, it was as if Josh had never gone away. A lot of people didn’t seem to believe Josh Version 2.0 was going to last. Only his old middle-school principal had seemed to think he had any potential, and she’d screwed up his life royally.

      Chuck glared at him resentfully again. Well? Does muttering Christ mean you’re not going to make some kind of joke?

      Josh reminded himself not to take it personally. The threat of the VIP visitor had obviously pushed the Chuck over the edge. I will not spit in the wine or beer. I will not frown or curse. I will be the most welcoming parking attendant, waiter, bellboy, counter help this place has ever seen.

      What about your other day job? That should help, right?

      No. Now get the hell out of here.

      You heard him, Lindy said. Go away, Chuck. The reputation of the Arms and the town of Norcross is safe in our hands.

      Thank you, Josh said after Chuck finally left. That’s four days in a row he’s sounded the alarm. He’s going to die of anxiety if this moron doesn’t show up soon.

      A woman with two kids walked through the front door. She was yelling at the older one as the younger one, maybe three or four years old, ran ahead. The little girl didn’t look where she was going and bumped hard into the marble table.

      Josh winced. That had to hurt. He moved to help the kid just in time to see the overloaded and wobbling vase fall, spilling water and flowers all over the table and the yowling girl.

      Whoops, Josh said.

      Lindy flipped him a cloth and he went to clean up the mess and reassure the little girl, who screamed and screamed.

      Her chin was bleeding.

      Lindy rushed over with a batch of paper towels and she and Josh attempted to wipe up blood and quiet the weeping child.

      The mother stood back watching, her eyes wide. She managed to make herself heard over the crying child. That’s a terrible place for a display, right in the middle of the floor.

      Lindy and Josh exchanged glances. Keep quiet, Lindy’s silent look reminded him.

      Fine, he answered back.

      Maybe we should get out the first-aid kit? Josh asked quietly. I’ll get it. You offer them ice cream.

      That ploy worked on the little girl, but the mother was still in fret mode. What if she needs stitches? I sure hope you people have insurance. If she needs stitches, that could be pretty expensive.

      It’s not bleeding anymore, Josh said. He peeled back the paper towel. Phew. He knew well enough that face wounds could be nasty things. Don’t bother with the kit, Lindy.

      Don’t bother what? the mother said. Why shouldn’t she bother?

      Lindy carried a pint of chocolate ice cream and three bowls and spoons to the little group. Here’s some ice cream, on us. Why don’t you ladies take this upstairs and relax?

      Ice cream? We don’t eat ice cream. The lady backed away from Lindy as if she were offering poison.

      Excuse me? A tall, nondescript man, rumpled in jeans and a dark, sweat-stained tee-shirt, stood at the front desk. He had a backpack at his feet and no other sign of luggage. Josh hadn’t even seen him come in.

      Thank God, he couldn’t be Geoffrey Michaels. Everyone knew Michaels was a flashy dresser, and if he wore jeans, they’d be pressed and brand-name. And Chuck had reported he was supposed to be about five ten. This guy was at least an inch or so over six feet.

      Lindy touched Josh’s shoulder. You go check him in. I’ll take care of these guests. You don’t get paid enough for them, she whispered.

      Josh grabbed one of the paper towels and wiped his hands as he walked back around the counter.

      The new guest stared at Josh’s chest. Oh, probably because he had two big smears of blood on his crisp white shirtfront and he wasn’t wearing his blue blazer. He crossed his arms over his chest.

      Hey there. Do you have a reservation?

      The man seemed to think about the simple question for a long moment, a frown

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