Chapter 1
It was his blind audition on the famous singing competition show and the judge'sfour chairs were facing away, between him and the studio audience. The room was warm, the lights blinding, and Mikey began the first verse ofHold My Handa capella. He sang the pop anthem a full octave lower than Jess Glynne, but his voice was equally energetic. On the first bridge, the band kicked in and the audience exploded with applause. Alan’s chair spun around and lit up. He stood, wearing a white tank top and jeans, pointing a lengthy tattooed arm with a devastating smirk.
Mikey rolled into the chorus and Blaine’s chair was next to turn, quickly followed by the two women, Kathy and Christabel. All four judges were on their feet, swaying to the music—elated with the intensity of his performance. Kathy cast a look at Christabel and her eyes widened. They both slammed on their BLOCK buttons simultaneously, eliminating each other from the chance of having Mikey on their team. Alan glanced at Blaine, who shrugged innocently, and then they too went for their BLOCK buttons. But Alan was faster, securing Mikey’s place on his roster and the only judge to remain standing for the rest of the number.
When Mikey finished to a thunderous standing ovation, Alan spoke. “Never have I heard a male transform and sing a female pop song with such prowess and confidence. I’m delighted to have you on my team, Mr. Napolitano.”
But instead of sitting, he stepped out from behind his console and began walking across the stage toward Mikey. He reached for the hem of his tank top with both hands and peeled it up and off, revealing his heavily inked and lithe, muscular frame. Mikey was immobile, glued to the spot as his new team captain approached him stealthily like a leopard.
“It’s not only your voice I want, Mikey,” Alan said, closing the distance. “I want you. I wantallof you. I want your legs on my shoulders while I run my fingers through the hair on that big, burly chest of yours and slam you like there’s no tomorrow. But most of all...”
He was there, right there, in front of Mikey, shirtless, ripped, and so incredibly sexy it was dizzying. He balanced his arm on Mikey’s shoulder, reaching low with the other hand and whispering, “Most of all, Mikey... I want this.”
There was a delicious squeeze of pressure at his crotch and—
* * *
Michelangelo Napolitano woke up wet. He grinned, remembering fragments of the dream, the end mostly. He pushed his pajama bottoms and boxers down, wadding up the latter and giving his groin a good scrub before tossing them to the floor. It was cold, and he slid his pajamas back on, sans underwear. His clock radio alarm sounded. It was 4:45 a.m. and music from DC101 played at low volume; older alternative rock with the sleepy night crew. There was an hour left to go before the exuberant shenanigans ofElliot in the Morning. Mikey stared at the ceiling in the darkness, listening to Shirley Manson sing about growing up.
He sat up on the bed and swiveled, finding the plushy cushion of the carpet beneath his feet. He remained there, relishing the darkness, reminding himself—yes, you really are awake. The dream is over. Now, turn on the light and start your day.
Reaching out, he turned on his bedside lamp, illuminating the small room with the harsh glow of LED. His hand dropped lower to the clock and silenced Shirley.
Enough, he thought.Who wants to be reminded of growing up when you’re in your thirties and still having wet dreams?
He stood and put on his robe, not bothering to tie the sash. He was a big man, a good thirty lbs. overweight, burly, hairy, bearish. He opened the door and shuffled into the dark hallway. His occupation required him to forfeit the privilege of sleeping in like others in his household—a luxury he sometimes felt they took for granted.
When he reached the front door, he opened it, squatting. A cat scurried into the darkness below the steps of the neighboring row house. He scooped up his copy ofThe Postand turned to go back in.
* * *
After making himself a cup of coffee, he sought the comfort of his favorite chair, opening the newspaper up to his favorite weekly column—Tales of the Circleby Alec Collier. He sipped his coffee and read, enjoying the adventures of young gays in the city as only Alec Collier could describe.
When he reached the end, he was disappointed to find an editor's note indicating thatTales of the Circlewould cease the following Monday. Mr. Collier was leaving journalism behind to pursue novel writing full time. His first novelTruehad had a successful debut and his second novel was slated for publication in May.
Good for him, Mikey thought.Sucks for me, though.
Work was always heavy on Mondays. Mikey habitually relied onTalesto brighten his outlook before heading in. Soon, that comfort would be gone.
Could the day get any worse?
That was when he heard the bathroom door shut.
* * *
“Natalie, what are you doing in there? You know I gotta go to work?” He was standing outside the closed door in the hallway.
“I got a job interview, Mikey,” she shouted. “There are people in this world besides you, you know.”
“Yeah, well, I’m the one thathasa job—you need to let me get ready first. I’ve gotta be in DC.”
“I won’t be long. Go eat breakfast.”
Mikey threw his hands up. It was pointless to argue with her. She was as stubborn as he was. And so what if he was a little late? He’d been working for the United States Postal Service for fifteen years. He had seniority, and he was in the union—so they couldn’t fire him. That was the least of his worries.
But there was I-95 traffic to consider.
“Hurry up!” he shouted.
