CHAPTER ONE Tate

Central Oregon was flat, dry, and very similar to the eastern side of my home state, Washington. I hated it on sight. After driving from Seattle, I avoided Portland city limits by cutting off of I-5 and taking the 205 eastbound toward Mt. Hood. My plan was to cross over the mountain pass and then down through Madras, Oregon, and eventually to Bend, where I was relocating.

I wouldn't be moving from Seattle to Bend had my ten-year relationship not ended so terribly. Here I was, two years into my thirties, and single for the first time in adulthood. Thomas, my ex, had found a newer version of me. A Tate 2.0, if you will. With Thomas being twenty years older than me, I'd never worried that I could age out of our relationship, but apparently I had.

"He turned fifty, Tate. A total mid-life crisis for gay guys his age. Plus, what'd you expect from a gym queen like Thomas?"my best friend Jake had explained. "Don't worry, he'll get his due when he's too old to get his pecker up."

"He's rich,"I'd reminded him.

"Still, no one wants a limp dick on a grampa,"he'd countered.

"He takes those blue pills like vitamins,"I'd argued.

"Well, in that case, I hope you got some of his money."I hadn't, but that wasn't the issue. I had enough of my own.

Driving down the southeastern slope of Mt. Hood was like landing on a different continent versus Western Oregon. Apparently, the fourth tallest mountain in the Cascade range, along with the rest of the mountains, did their job of keeping moisture on the western side of the state.

Like Seattle, Portland had its fair share of rain. I'd also considered Portland in my job search, but the city was too similar to Seattle. Similar, yes, but a lot weirder.

My Zoom recruitment meeting featured a team of Gen Z's who sold me on Bend and the surrounding areas. Bend was hip and upwardly bound with a host of start-ups and a cool citywide vibe, while still hanging on to the outdoorsy groove that Oregonians flocked to.

There were rivers to kayak in, mountains to climb or hike, skiing on the slopes of the mountain pass I'd just crossed, and a downtown nightlife exploding with all the new young money. The recruiting team made Bend out to be Seattle-lite but without Seattle's reputation for being unfriendly and chilly to newcomers.

"You'll love it in Bend. I promise,"a cute guy on the screen, sitting toward the back of the room and about my age, stated. "There's something here for all of us," he'd added. I sensed he knew we played for the same team.

The starting pay was better than I'd expected, having come from Seattle's premier law firm. Of course, I came with a strong educational pedigree in criminal defense law from an Ivy League school, so I was sought after. The slight pay cut would be fine because housing in Bend was half the cost of the Emerald City, not to mention that I'd sold my Space Needle-facing townhouse for twice the amount I'd paid for it four years prior.

I'd invested in my own place five years after meeting Thomas. He'd insisted I start thinking about my financial future. Had I missed a hint? I'd never lived in the townhouse because he wanted us to reside in his huge Mercer Island mansion, only a mile from Bill Gates' obscenely over-the-top house, so I'd rented my place out for years until I got dumped a year ago.

Fortunately for me, my ex timed his new boy toy to the renewal of my tenants' lease. Fortunately for me, that is; not so much for my renters. After spending another year in Seattle, I sorely needed a change. The loss of the one thing I held with such pride, my relationship, had done a number on my confidence.

A lot of guys, still relatively young after a decade with the same man, would've loved a break-up and the chance to sow some more wild oats before it was too late. I, however, was not that guy. I liked being part of a team and living a committed lifestyle with the person I'd given my heart to. I hurt. I hurt badly.

I didn't date, avoided gay clubs, and basically lived at the office because I had no personal life. Moping about became my new lifestyle. I'd had offers, even a few dates, but a heart wants what it wants. What I wanted no longer wanted me. All of our couple friends followed the money and sided with Thomas even though it wasn't me who cheated. Why wouldn't they? Thomas was way more fun than I was.

Even when we'd first met at twenty-two, I'd been the homebody. Back then Thomas said that was my biggest appeal, my selling point, he'd added. Apparently, I hadn't understood that, like milk, there's a shelf life, even for men barely over thirty.

Coming out of the forest that surrounds Mt. Hood, I recognized civilization ahead, so I asked Siri where the nearest Starbucks was. I swear she laughed out loud when she reported that Madras had none. Looking at the limited stores in the Podunk town I was driving through gave me pause. Uh-oh. Was it too late to head back to Seattle, the headquarters of my beloved coffee brand? I could live with a pay cut, as well as in a new town, but without my Starbucks? Probably not.

"Hey, Siri," I began again, craning my neck as I drove the required twenty-five miles an hour speed limit. "Find the nearest coffee shop or bakery, you bitch."

The always pleasant Siri ignored my name-calling and suggested a bakery named Heart Comfort Nest in downtown Madras at the next light. "Next light?" I grumbled. "You're inferring that there's more than one in this shit-hole town?"

The parking lot was full, so I assumed the bakery must be good, or at least a local favorite, but did they have coffee? It was a bakery, so probably, right? According to the welcome sign I'd seen at the edge of town, Madras was a community of less than eight thousand people, so my expectations were low.

There were more jacked-up, four-wheel-drive trucks per square foot in the parking lot than at a rodeo in Wyoming. My Porsche stood out like a diamond on a cow turd. The fact it was a bright red convertible didn't help.

Sliding out of my low-riding ragtop and standing to give me a better view of the interior of the bakery, I wasn't completely surprised at my discovery. The inside had more gingham curtains hanging in the windows than the cabin from the TV show Little House on the Prairie, and I was convinced I saw the Ingalls ladies working inside.

"Welcome in, sir. It sure is a lovely day outside," a Laura Ingalls wannabe greeted me. Her long hair hung down her back, all secured with a smart bonnet that matched her apron. She looked fifteen but could have been thirty with her non-made-up face and porcelain skin. "The strawberry-rhubarb pies are fresh out of the oven," she declared. "We grow all of our own ingredients," she added proudly.

I glanced around the inside of the charming bakery, the smell of aromatic spices filling the air of the Americana throwback. The workers, dressed in modest and simple attire, busied themselves as they scurried about, smiles plastered on each face as if someone had demanded they do so. I had to be getting punked. Where are the cameras? "What I really need is an espresso please," I replied, still not trusting that I wasn't on a hidden camera show. "Iced please."

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," she began, smiling like a Stepford wife. "We don't sell caffeinated products here."

My eyes widened. I must have misunderstood her. "Plain coffee then. Make it black," I said. "Pour it over ice if you have some."

"No caffeinated beverages," she said again, breaking through my refusal to understand how any food business on earth didn't sell coffee. "Might I recommend some homemade lemonade? Rita Mae just made a fresh batch, and folks say she makes the best lemonade in all of Jefferson County."

Rita Mae?Still not convinced, I checked all corners of the room and a mirror on the wall to see if there were hidden cameras. There weren't. What I did see were four other female workers dressed exactly the same, with the same long hair and modest bonnets. Half the tables were occupied with local folks, the men all wearing cowboy hats, or had theirs sitting on a wooden chair nearby.

A family of tourists, all wearing matching T-shirts, had their cellphones out, taking pics of the interior, marveling at the old-time feel of the establishment and its employees. The staff of young women seemed accustomed to them and went cheerfully about their duties.

I was either in an Amish business or an Apostolic one because the modest dress and a subdued but pleasant attitude were the order of the day for the staff.

"The lemonade, sir?"

Rebecca of Sunny Brook Farms, not her real name, was so kind that I decided to take her up on the recommendation of lemonade. "That sounds delicious," I stated, pointing at what I assumed were homemade cinnamon rolls in the smudge-free glass case. "And one of those, please."

"Great choice, sir," she said, still beaming rays of sunshine out of every orifice in her head. I wanted to ask her how life in the fifties was, but figured she was happy based on her personality. She leaned over the counter, cupping a hand near her mouth. "I'm going to have Luke get you a fresh one from the back. He just took a batch out of the oven along with those pies I was telling you about."

After she disappeared behind the swinging doors to the kitchen, I wandered around the store, admiring all the quaint goods for sale. There were jars of jams with decorative cloth squares screwed under the ringed lids of the mason jars, small brown paper bags filled with the ingredients you could use to take and bake your own items, as well as cute knick-knacks with pleasant sayings about country life and America the beautiful. Boxes of baked goods were neatly stocked on tables, as well as local art for sale was hung on the walls. But what there wasn't was any goddamned coffee.

I glanced at the menu board to see if they had colas of any kind when a young man came through the swinging doors with a tray of cinnamon rolls. He was making his way into the main room, about to slide the rolls into the glass case, and holding a small box in the other hand.

Screw the coffee. I wanted a quad shot of him. I hadn't felt anything resembling sexual desire since Thomas left me for his trainer, but something woke up the instant this boy's appearance registered in my brain.

All I knew was that as soon as I got my roll, I planned to rush back to my car and Google whatever church group or cult he belonged to. I immediately planned to pledge my allegiance as soon as I could locate their facility. Sign me up, take all my money, and call me bamboozled. I wanted in. Holy smokes, he was handsome.

The young man's biceps popped like a Jiffy-Pop foil bag as he held the large tray in one hand, balancing what I assumed was my small box containing a single cinnamon roll in his other. He had wide-legged denim jeans on, held up by a wide leather belt, and a short-sleeved white button-down that was tucked into his non-brand jeans. Worn, leather lace-up boots were on his feet, supporting the entire structure of delicious sturdiness.

He carried himself like a young colt that had just been released in the pasture, understated but slightly cocky and almost ready to challenge the stallion of the farm for supremacy. The boyish look he portrayed was countered by something underneath his veneer. I couldn't put my finger on what was there, but he had a wonderful combination of innocence and steeliness. His dirty-blond hair was buzzed short on the sides, with the top longer and boyish.

He obviously didn't work in a kitchen most days based on his summer tan and the natural highlights in his hair. His chest was doing its best to burst out of his crisp white shirt. I wouldn't get the honor of drooling over his bulging chest due to every button on his shirt being buttoned, including the top one.

I noticed the denim material around the waist of his jeans was bunched up after he'd cinched his belt tightly because his ass was so muscular and round compared to his slim waist, filling out the old-fashioned jeans to the maximum. The narrow waist accentuated his back's V formation, leading to broad shoulders.

In my opinion, he had zero clue he looked like sex on a stick, a walking advertisement for every gay man's fantasy. He was country, farm-boy innocence personified, with just the tiniest, almost imperceptible scorn, waiting at the corners of his mouth, an edge to him if you will.

He turned, searching the room. "I think that's mine," I said, trying to keep my voice level.

He took four long strides and came to stand directly in front of me. I was just shy of six feet tall by a couple of inches, but he towered over me, his physical presence making me weak-kneed as I struggled to keep my fist out of my mouth and from biting down hard.

"Millie Jean asked me to give you this," he said, his voice quite masculine for such a young-appearing boy.

"Thank you," I said, locked in a battle as I struggled to look away from his face. Piercing eyes returned my stare. His eye color was deep blue, with the surrounding area whiter than any bleached hotel sheet I'd ever seen.

"She does kind things like this all the time," he stated. "I guess she wanted you to have the freshest we could provide," he added.

"And I appreciate that very much."

"You can find a Starbucks at the local Safeway grocery store," he said, turning and pointing outside the bakery windows. "Less than a mile back on the highway."

Will you go with me? Can I kiss you?Wanna get married? "How'd you know I wanted coffee?" I asked.

"Millie Jean told me," he admitted. "Plus, I overheard you when you first came in."

He'd noticed me. That was promising. But what I thought we had here was a local group of devoutly religious people in the middle of nowhere on the map. My limited experience, from watching too many episodes of Dateline, was that they chose these small communities so they could practice their bizarre beliefs with as little outside interference as possible.

"Coffee's my bad habit," I confessed. "And I'm tired from a long drive from Seattle," I added, trying my best to engage him in a discussion. I wasn't sure what I'd do if he actually read minds and knew I wanted him naked, but I'd deal with that when we got married.

"Most city folks ask us for coffee. You're no different, sir."

"Please, enough with the sir, I'm only thirty-two," I stated. "And do I look that city?"

He gave me a polite once-over. "Honestly, yes. Your car sort of gave that away as well," he said. "We don't get many flashy cars in Madras."

"I guess you caught me," I said. "Hopefully Bend will be more accepting."

His face didn't register that he was put off or understood my slight irritation at being called out by a country bumpkin, so I stepped around him and headed toward the register.

"I can ring you up," he said, hurrying around me. I didn't respond, instead laying the box on the countertop and reaching for a credit card. "We don't take cards," he said.

"Of course you don't," I snottily replied. "And of course, I don't have any cash," I added, looking at him before turning to the parking lot where my car was parked, wondering how many quarters I could scrape together from the console.

"You can owe us. How about that?" he asked. "Maybe make up for my insensitive remark regarding your car."

So, he wasn't a dimwit after all. His attire said rural un-chic, but he spoke like a man with many more years of maturity. "Your comment was fine," I replied. "I'm just tired, is all."

Thinking he'd express that he was sorry I was tired, or that life was a bitch, although I seriously doubted he'd use a word like ‘bitch,' he surprised me. "What has you tired?" he asked. "Besides the drive from Seattle?"

Seemingly intelligent, engaging, and a fourteen out of ten on the fuckable scale? Kill me now. "Fear of the unknown," I admitted, surprising myself at disclosing such a personal thought.

"Fear of the unknown is what makes life worth living, don't you think?" he asked.

"Good point," I admitted.

"Like me and you," he noted, gesturing between the two of us. "Normally I'd be intimidated talking to a man with your style."

I quickly looked around, wondering who he was talking about, or who may have heard his comment. "Really?" I asked. He nodded, digging through his jeans pockets before pulling four crumpled dollars out. "I'm just a normal guy," I added, watching as he opened the register and began flattening and straightening out the wrinkled bills. "Are you paying for me with your own money?" I asked, moving my hand toward his to prevent him from doing so. "I thought you meant the store would cover me."

"Tips," he corrected. "I don't get to keep them, anyway." My hand was on his wrist when he looked up at me and there was a flash of fear in his eyes that caused me to jerk my hand back. "I'll get in trouble if the register is short," he said.

"I can't allow you to do that."

"But I'd like to," he whispered, turning toward the two girls helping other customers to his right. "Next time, just remember to have some cash."

"Are you sure?" I asked, mesmerized by his face. He was non-expressive and very hard to read, to the point I wanted to know all of his secrets, if he had secrets, of course.

"Yes, I'm sure," he replied. He glanced outside, and the color left his face immediately. "I have to go," he said abruptly, slamming the register drawer shut, shoving the box at me, and once again glancing toward the front door.

"But…" I began. He hurried away, disappearing behind the swinging doors. I stood motionless for a moment until I noticed the entire crew of workers suddenly scatter, appearing panicked by something. The scene was eerie and like watching a flock of chickens spot a hawk above before making a mad dash for the chicken coop.

Turning away from the counter and heading to my car, I was met at the door by an extremely large man dressed in a black suit, wearing a black cowboy hat. He had to be a half foot over six feet, and a minimum of three hundred pounds of solid brute strength. He had a smile on his face that said, ‘It's plastered here for effect only. Stay the fuck back.'

I backed out of his way and watched as he strode across the room, not looking at anyone, before passing through the same swinging doors as my dream boy had. Nobody besides me and the staff even gave him a second glance. Who was this intimidating man?