The Guy With the Suitcase (Once Upon a Guy #1)

Blurb

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

One Year Later

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright © 2015 by Rhys Christopher Ethan

Cover Design by
 

Ethereal Ealain
 

(
etherealealain.com
)

Edited by

Kameron Mitchell

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All characters and events in this book are a work of fiction.

Pierce is homeless.

Young and strong-willed Pierce has been living in the streets of New York City for six months, since his parents kicked him out of their perfect, Christian, suburban house. Pierce is gay. And he is suffering the consequences for being true to himself.

Rafe is homeless.

He is also sick. Impressionable, but far from innocent, Rafe ran away from home almost a year ago. His sickness is slowly killing him. But Rafe is not a hopeless case. He has learned to get by. Nights of paid passion turn to sheltering warmth from the imminent New York winter.

And then there's a suitcase. Pierce's suitcase, which holds secrets from everyone including its owner.

When their worlds collide, their lives intertwine and when the world seems bent on bringing the two souls to their knees, fate has other plans for them.

Caution: Contains adult language, New York City streets, tough life choices, sexual tension, stubborn brutes and swoon-worthy romance.

“What do you mean yes, if I suck your dick?”

“What ya heard, kiddo. Yes, I might have a bed for ya, if ya suck my dick,” the guy seated on a cluttered desk in front of a disheveled Pierce said to him.

“How—?” Pierce was struggling to find the right words and express his emotions rather than punch his way to a bed and a shelter for the night. He sucked in a deep breath and tried again. “I need a bed, dude. I’m homeless, you’re a homeless shelter, help a dude out,” he said in his best behavior. He hadn’t been in that in a while. That was one of the benefits of living on the streets. No one gave a shit about you, and unless you were harassing someone, no one gave a shit if you had a fit.

Waiting for the charity worker’s reply across him was as nerve-wracking as waiting for a reply from one of his college applications, just two years before. The man glanced both ways as he’d done before, giving a quick check around him, even though they were both situated in a small room, no bigger than two-by-two and with no chance of anyone overhearing him.

“I know, dimwit, I heard ya the first time. And what I said is help a brother out, and he’ll help ya back,” he said in a sly, infuriating tone as if his whole life depended on that blowjob.

Pierce winced. “You are a charity worker, right? You’re supposed to help me no matter what. Not asking for oral, which between the two of us is really unethical,” he admonished, standing from one leg to the other, making a real effort to not lose it and fuck up his chances of getting a corner in this crowded and smelly New York shelter. The silence in between their conversation was dressed with snores and some manic wails in the far distance.

The guy shrugged. “A guy’s got needs. Ya know what I’m talking about. Was talking to this guy on Grindr and suddenly my power died, leaving me all horny,” he explained with a nonchalance that was not befitting to the place.

“You know what?” Pierce had heard enough. That was the last straw. “Go and fuck yourself, you asshat. I’d rather sleep another night on the streets than suck your toothpick,” he spat. He picked up his old, leather suitcase that was waiting for him on the floor beside him.

“Fuck you, bastard. I’ll be damned if ya ever get a bed in here,” the guy shouted at him as Pierce ducked outside, ready for some silence after such an infuriating encounter.

That was the problem with people. They could be real assholes when they started talking, so he preferred it when they didn’t. Best example? His own parents. Had they not spoken, had he not told them he was gay, they wouldn’t have kicked him out. He would still have a family. But people had to talk and ruin everything. Even himself. So he rather preferred to stay silent; when the monster inside of him wasn’t scratching to be released and wreak havoc at idiots like that pervert.

He tightened his fist around his suitcase handle and forced one foot in front of the other, pushing through the exhaustion and the numbness in his toes, a side effect of the eminent winter in New York City. He’d need a coat to survive it. A coat and a sleeping bag, among other warm things. He needed to find some, but wasn’t sure were to look. If he had to, he was could steal them. Anything to survive that fucking winter.

His feet somehow led him to Central Park, perhaps habit, perhaps it was really just around the corner. He didn’t know, and he no longer cared. He just wanted to find a safe spot and close his eyes for as long as possible. He needed to rest. He hadn’t slept in four days.

The leafy breeze of the trees gave him a cool welcome back to old haunts and he quickly found a bench, solitary in its existence, perfectly matching its new owner, and he took possession of it by lying flat on it and trying to think warm thoughts. He put the suitcase under his head to keep it safe and shut his eyes for the first time in forever.

His face felt steaming hot, and liquid run down his nose and wetted his eyebrows. Was it raining? He was sure it wasn’t. He would have felt his whole body drenched in rain water. No. This was something else. He opened his eyes to find them stung by the toxicity of piss. A group of guys, three all in all, wearing hoodies and a smug expression on their face, all had their dicks out, pointed at Pierce, and relieving themselves on his sleepy face.

He sprang up and pushed one of them back. “What the fuck, man?”

The thugs laughed. “Look, the junkie is alive. Bro, we were worried you had flatlined,” the guy he had pushed said.

“Are you serious? What the actual fuck? What is wrong with you?” he shouted as he wiped the piss off his face with the sleeve of his pullover.

“Look, man, we thought you overdose or something. We was trynna wake yo’ ass,” another guy said and giggled like the sorry little girl he was soon going to be.

Pierce glared at him. “Overdose? Me? That looks more like your territory, fuckwit,” he replied.

“’Ey, ‘ey, chill, man. Why you usin’ dat language? We didn’t offend you,” said the third guy, playing it cool.

“You fucking pissed on me. That, I take as a fucking offense, you asshole,” Pierce shrieked.

The laughter was cut off the guy’s face and he assumed, what
 
looked like an offensive stance. He pushed Pierce back and he fell back on the bench. His palm came to contact with the same mix of urine that was drenching his face. Big fucking mistake.

Pierce growled from between his teeth. “You’re going to regret that, dick”. His leg came up and collided with the guy’s groin, making him shudder and drop his upper body forward. Pierce kicked his foot on the guy’s face and he guy flew back on the ground. Pierce stood up again and raised his fists at the other two guys, ready to defend himself.
 

“Have I made myself clear, yet?” he huffed, the anger in him still burning for some action.

He was disappointed as the perpetrators all ran off into the darkness, without another word. Pierce grabbed his suitcase. It was drenched like him and he cursed the skies for his shitty luck tonight. What more could possibly go wrong? So many months on the streets and he had hardly experienced as bad a night as tonight’s.

He found the closest spigot, took his sweater off and put it to the side, his nipples hardening at the biting cold and the hairs on his arms raising to ward it off. He washed his face and hair, the ice cold water making him breathless and numb. That was it. He was going to die of frostbite because a bunch of idiots decided his face looked like a toilet.
 

He growled. He hated this. He hated not having a house anymore. Not having his own space. He didn’t appreciate how important home was when he had it. Now all he could do was hope he didn’t die overnight, sleeping on benches, subways and on tarmac grounds.

When he felt adequately clean, he grabbed his sweater and gave it a good soak. He was going to have to wait for it to dry, a hopeless pursuit already. He opened his small suitcase and pulled a t-shirt out. A jet-black t-shirt he was wearing back in the summer when his parents kicked him out. He pulled it on. This was going to be a stupid night.

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