My Summer Read online

  My Summer

  A Gay BDSM Romance

  Declan Rhodes

  Copyright © 2018 by Declan Rhodes.

  All rights reserved.

  Portions of this book were previously published under the title Summer Bound by J.T. Dark.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  For me, the Florida Keys are one of the most special places on earth. Much of this book was written before the devastation created by the landfall of Hurricane Irma in 2017. I dedicate this book to the residents of the Florida Keys in honor of their resilience and love for their homes.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Approaching Paradise

  2. First Night

  3. A Trim

  4. Ropes

  5. What He Wanted

  6. Key West

  7. Morning

  8. Deep Water

  9. Service

  10. Hank and Sam

  11. Test

  12. The Future

  13. The Fuse Is Lit

  14. Artifacts

  15. Three Messages

  16. Epilogue - Summer’s End

  Also by Declan Rhodes

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Tom watched the young man with envy in his heart. He moved with grace and efficiency animating every movement. He executed all of Hank’s requests with attention to perfection.

  Tom let his eyes sweep over the young man’s body. He had a shock of stylishly cut blonde hair on the top of his head, and his slim, smooth body was fit with sleek muscle sculpted in the gym.

  Hank said, “I’m confident that he won’t mind when I mention that Sam was little more than a gutter rat when I found him on one of my late night Duval Street excursions.”

  Resting quietly on his knees, Sam lowered his head and nodded in agreement with his Master’s words.

  “His family abandoned him when he developed a nasty drug habit. Sam was only 18, and he was facing a life dependent on the kindness of tourists for mere sustenance. I saw something in his eyes.”

  Tom asked, “Did you know that he could be something better?”

  “I took him for a meal. He was jittery from the drugs, and he ate with the ravenous appetite of a man who’d missed a week of meals, but he didn’t ask for money. He only wanted the food and a moment of sympathy. I knew that I could help.”

  Sam looked up and beamed at his Master. Tom asked, “And it’s been a great thing for both of you?”

  Hank nodded. “There is no greater possession in my life. I’m a man of wealth with expensive art and a priceless home in one of the world’s foremost slices of paradise. Yet, none of that can touch Sam in value.”

  Tom said, “I’ll admit it. I envy you, Hank. Maybe someday…”

  1

  Approaching Paradise

  He offered me a firm handshake when I desperately wanted a hug. I needed something to calm my frayed nerves. I’d nearly dumped a plastic glass filled with soda over the front of my seat partner on the plane when I failed to stop the nervous hand tremor that started as soon as the plane took off. Now I stood face to face with one of the world’s bestselling authors having agreed to work for him as a personal assistant for the summer. My knees were close to buckling.

  A million-dollar smile spread across his face as he spoke in a slightly husky voice. “You must be Joel.”

  At this precise moment, the fact that I’m Joel means I’m the luckiest bastard in the world. I said, “Yeah, that’s me, and you’re Thomas?” I hoped to hell that he wasn’t the writer’s driver. The man standing in front of me looked like the photo on the book jacket. In fact, he was more handsome in person. No wonder my knees were weak.

  He poked at my chest. “Smart man. You know the art of deduction. Fortunately, no one else here recognized me. It’s happening more often now, and when they shove a book in my face to sign, I want to break out in a rash.”

  I rolled my shoulders forward and managed a soft laugh. “Once my suitcase comes out here on the carousel, I’m ready to go. I packed fairly light.”

  I ran the words on a tape loop in my head and cringed. It was my opportunity to say something heartfelt and profound to generate a positive first impression, and all that I came up with was a useless comment on the mechanics of the baggage claim.

  My gut flipped when he said, “It’s the tropics. You don’t need much to wear.” I couldn’t stop myself from imagining Thomas peeling off his shirt, and I clenched my jaw to try and prevent a blush from coloring my cheeks.

  Thomas Albertson was a noted author. You might have heard of him. His literary career exploded three years ago with Together In the End, a series of novels about life in a post-discriminatory world. He wrote about a time in which most vestiges of racism, homophobia, and sexism disappeared amid desperate efforts to save a world turned on end by climate change.

  The three novels were an eye opener for many people who needed a shock to make them understand the planet’s increasingly desperate future. For some, Thomas became an instant hero by optimistically pointing toward a future within reach. For others, it was only a string of exciting adventures rushing toward a breathless climax. Either way, he made a boatload of cash. The world looked forward to the premiere of the first movie adaptation of his books a year in the future. It was likely to be the catalyst for selling even more truckloads of books.

  Thomas waited for me in the baggage claim area of Miami International Airport dressed in a crisp purple polo, khaki walking shorts, and matching purple flip-flops. He gripped a handwritten sign that read "Joel Buckley."

  Thomas was young for such a successful author. He was only 33. With royalties from book sales, film options, and personal appearances, he was already worth millions. One day he will be mentioned in the same breath with the likes of J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, and Stephenie Meyer. His creativity showed no signs of waning.

  Seeing him in person as I stepped forward, with his sharp facial features, buzzed dark hair and deeply tanned skin, I thought he would look equally as comfortable on the cover of GQ magazine as he did on a book cover. He stood with his legs shoulder-width apart firmly planted on the ground. Thomas thoroughly owned his personal space with grace and ease. He drew attention from everyone nearby, and I was shocked that no one else recognized the celebrity in their midst.

  “Joel, please excuse me for not being more effusive in my welcome. I was up late last night making final preparations for your arrival. Let me back up a step and say welcome to Florida, the sunshine state!" His words were loud enough that those standing nearby turned out of curiosity about the source.

  Greeting number two included what I wanted most. Thomas threw both arms around me for a massive hug. His grip was solid and muscular. The light stubble on his cheek scratched against my smooth face. I couldn't hold back an enormous grin. I shuddered nervously at the same time.

  After an uncomfortably awkward pause, I pointed at the carousel, “There’s my bag.” I tugged a generic black suitcase toward me and said, “We can go. I hope I don’t sound too ridiculous. I know that we talked onlin
e, but in person is a different animal. I can’t believe that I’m here.”

  I give partial credit for my good fortune to my best friend, Stephen. He is as outgoing as I am shy. Almost two months ago, outside the offices of our graduate school department, he found me staring intently at Thomas' advertisement on the placement bulletin board.

  I'm one year away from finishing my coursework toward an English literature Ph.D., and some days I feel like I'm one week away from tossing it all in due to severe burnout. Back in late March, after a grueling verbal beat down from Dr. Greensburgh, our department's resident professorial tyrant, I decided that I needed something different for the summer. If it opened my eyes to new experiences, it would be that much better.

  The advertisement was direct and straightforward. I zeroed in on the opening lines. They read:

  “Successful novelist seeks personal assistant for the summer months. Room, board, and stipend provided."

  Nothing in the advertisement indicated the writer was one with the stature of Thomas Albertson. I suspected a writer of genre fiction with thirty romance novels or a dozen space operas to their credit. The advertisement mentioned the need for research talent as well as typing and filing skills. I groaned thinking the requirements implied spending the summer in an office cubicle organizing stacks of scattered paper. On the upside, it promised access to someone who’d figured out how to make real income in the literary world.

  Clapping me on the shoulder, Stephen said, "Go for it, Joel. What’ve you got to lose?"

  I shrugged. "What are the chances I’d get it? It’s room and board plus a stipend from a successful author. There must be at least a dozen applicants, and that's from our department alone. Who knows how many other universities have received the ad. Have you won the lottery lately, Stephen?”

  He squeezed my shoulder. "Maybe the guy’s an alum. What are you going to do with your summer instead? Are you looking forward to sweating in a classroom with geeky high school students teaching them how to write like a college freshman?"

  I winced. He was my best friend. He knew my backup plan. Unfortunately, Stephen's many "suggestions" over the past two years yielded mixed results. They included his nearly disastrous recommendation that we date each other. Sex with Stephen was unquestionably hot, but the emotional experience was like riding a runaway roller coaster with no brakes. At the moment we broke up, he was lucky that I wasn’t anywhere close to a kitchen with meat cleavers handy. He got away with all of his extremities intact.

  I read the ad one more time and pulled out my cell phone. I took a note with the relevant information "just in case" before walking down the hall to teach my freshman English seminar.

  I couldn't sleep that night. My mind ran away with potential summer scenarios as I stared at the ceiling. I saw myself sitting on a studio couch during a talk show appearance down the road. My mentor, the mysterious author offering a summer assistantship, explained to the host how he discovered and encouraged my talent en route to my first Pulitzer Prize.

  I crawled out of bed and laughed at myself as I stared into the bathroom mirror. Dark circles were forming under my eyes, but I knew that I couldn’t do anything about them until I responded to the ad. If I didn’t apply, I knew that I would end up spending the rest of the semester kicking myself at least twice a day for bailing out. Sacrificing the idea of sleep at 3:00 a.m., I hauled out my laptop computer, settled myself on the living room sofa, and got to work.

  The ad’s application instructions were simple. The writer asked for a vita and a writing sample. I sent along one of my short stories. I’d managed to get it published in a small literary magazine during my first year in graduate school. I also included a brief cover letter and the vita I drew up to shop around for teaching gigs. I hit "return" on the computer keyboard and sent the information off into the ether of the Internet.

  After two weeks passed without any word back, I forgot about spending the summer with a successful author. I endured another mental flogging from Dr. Greensburgh and sent out my application to assist with the annual summer camps for gifted high school students held at my university.

  While I checked for any email messages from my seminar students in the last minutes before class, I noticed a message from [email protected]. The subject line read, "In reference to your application." I assumed it was a message about the university programs and rushed out the door to class without reading the message. Later that night, my jaw dropped when I read my first introduction to the bestselling author Thomas Albertson.

  Standing six feet tall in my bare feet, my body is solid. My body fat percentage is low, and I keep fit with regular sessions in the university gym pumping iron and swimming in the pool. I wasn’t always strong, but I’m what many call a late bloomer. I was surprised to realize that Thomas stood an inch or two taller than me. Most of the dedicated writers and author wannabes that I knew were shorter and skinnier than my athletic build.

  After I retrieved my suitcase, Thomas flung his arm around my shoulders to walk me toward the parking garage. The robust physical contact was both slightly disconcerting and physically arousing. I assumed he was straight, but that didn’t stop my body’s instinctual response to enthusiastic touching from a handsome, gregarious man.

  We talked via video chat over the Internet before my arrival. Thomas didn’t mention any relationships, and I hoped there wasn’t a surprise waiting at his home in the Florida Keys. In person, his fingers lacked rings. I pulled my eyes back from the inspection of his hands when Thomas reached his other arm across my body and slapped his palm firmly on my chest. “You’re a good, solid man. Do you like swimming, Joel?"

  I felt the ground solidify under my feet. Swimming was an excellent topic to choose for an icebreaker. I learned to swim before age two and swam competitively in high school once my body began to fill out. I went to the state championship on the 200-meter freestyle relay team as a senior. I tried to underplay the competitive background with my response. "I do laps every other day at home."

  "Ah, that’s perfect. Acres of shallow water surround the island. You're going to love it. I guess I didn’t ask when we talked, but have you ever been to Florida before?"

  While we chatted over the Internet, I discovered that I wouldn’t work in a cubicle at all. It wouldn’t be a dusty office with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves either. Thomas lived on his own private island in the Florida Keys.

  The pounding of my heart slowed slightly, and I leaned toward Thomas as his grip on my shoulder remained firm. "One time when I was a kid, my family went to Tampa on vacation. We spent a day in Orlando, too. I don't remember a lot other than how the Gulf of Mexico smelled. It was that briny scent with the seaweed thrown in. Everything was different from Lake Michigan except for the gulls.”

  "You grew up near Lake Michigan? I've only seen it from Chicago."

  I nodded. “I did if you count an hour away as close. It’s hard to avoid the Great Lakes when you live in Michigan. We went to the beach almost every weekend during the summer."

  Thomas squeezed my shoulder once more before he let go. He flashed a dazzling smile filled with brilliant white teeth. “The island will be perfect for you.” His gaze swept over my body from head to foot. "And I know that I’ll enjoy having you around."

  Thomas drove a small sports car, a red Mazda Miata convertible. I watched the veins poke out on his hairy forearm as he tossed my bag into the trunk. We climbed into the car, and he said, "Now, there will be a lot of work to do, but I want you to relax. Summer is about fun, too. If you’re ever not having fun, let me know, and I'll see what we can do about it."

  As we journeyed south from the Miami airport through Homestead, Florida, Thomas kept up a steady conversation about the weather in general and hurricanes in particular. He was a native of South Florida and talked about growing up with stories about people crouching in closets for hours as Hurricane Andrew roared through. It spared his house, but many of his friends weren’t so lucky. His voice was flat as he said
, “My parents weren’t lucky during Katrina.”

  I wondered if I should follow up the comment with a question, but I held my tongue. I didn’t think about the danger of hurricanes over the summer until Thomas brought it up. He said, “If you're ever around when one of the storms stops by for a visit, leave if you can. That's the lesson of Andrew. Hurricanes are killers, and they can rack up a nasty body count. You can't be a hero from a pinewood box, and it’s tragic burying those who chose not to leave.“ The last statement hung in the air while I watched the dry land slowly disappear on the right side of Route 1.

  "There aren't hurricanes in the summer are there?" I was certain he could detect worry in my voice. My hurricane experience was limited to watching weather forecasters brace themselves against lamp posts while reporting from the eyewall of storms.

  He shook his head. "No, the chances are slim. It’s possible. Andrew came through at the end of August, but he was a rare one. You've got more to worry about from the 'gators."

  "Alligators?" I asked. I hadn't thought about alligators either. I felt more than a little embarrassed thinking only about dusty offices and sipping margaritas on the beach.

  Alligators put Thomas back in good humor. He threw his head back and laughed as he slapped a hand on my thigh. "Alligators don't like salt water, and it surrounds us. The alligators mostly stay up in the Everglades. Some of those bugs might be big enough to carry you off, but no, the only alligator you're likely to see this summer is fried up on the menu at Blackie's."