Bet on Us

  Bet On Us

  A story in the world of

  With My Whole Heart

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Proofreading by Whiskey Jack Editing

  Copyright © 2019 MariaLisa deMora

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  First Published 2019

  ISBN 13: 978-1-946738-54-7

  DEDICATION

  For those readers who demand more.

  Thank you for the encouragement.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Almost as soon as I closed the manuscript on With My Whole Heart, I dreamed of writing Trent and Jacob’s story. But it wasn’t until months later, during an early morning breakfast with fans-to-friends Megan, Chris, and Sandy, when I found my “in” with these characters. And that in wasn’t actually with them, but via a long-lost sister and an unknown nephew.

  I hope you enjoy this story of unbreakable love and poignant loss. It turned into so much more than I expected, because we’re graced with not one, but two couples exploring the boundaries of their love. At very different places in the arc of their lives, these men are universally fearless in the way they move through tough and demanding situations.

  Thanks always to the folks at Hot Tree Editing, headed by the fearless Becky, as well as Mel with Whiskey Jack Editing. Your insightful comments helped clarify thought, tidy dialogue, and made the story better.

  Woofully yours,

  ~ML

  Bet On Us

  Jericho Conway is the type of son most people would be proud of. He doesn’t cause trouble, keeps his head down, does whatever’s asked of him, contributes to the family, and doesn’t talk back to his mom. They’ve been on their own for as long as he can remember, and he’s always done his best to take care of her—lately that’s in spite of his stepdad.

  Jericho’s a way-too-mature-for-his-age fifteen (and a half), and he’s feeling stuck in the small community outside Knoxville where they live. Stuck, because no one here is quite like him. He’s different from his classmates, has been all his life, but what sets him apart is one of those secrets that can’t ever be brought to the light of day.

  Then his stepfather stumbles onto his secret. And Jericho’s right. There’s hell to pay.

  ---

  Eeerrrrkkk. <--That’s the sound of a screeching halt.

  Okay, okay. As the person writing the description, I know Bet On Us might not sound like a totally romantic story right off the bat, but it really is! On the one hand, there’s Jericho himself. He’s amazing, promise. And strong, so very strong. Then we’ve got his uncles, who would do anything for him. In Trent and Jacob, we get to see this dynamic, resilient, and loving couple with deep family ties, especially when you factor in Jacob’s sister and her family. (That’s Jaime, Connor, Nate, and Matt from With My Whole Heart. Oh, and Jordan, Nate’s best friend.) Jericho is finally exposed to the kind of fierce and loyal example for how incredibly sweet love should be, and thinks he might see an echo of the thing that’s always set him apart. Here’s hoping his Coming Out Day gives this precious boy exactly what he needs.

  Continuing on …

  ---

  It’s been two years since Trent first watched his husband’s eyes grow misty as they talked seriously about babies. Two years of Trent and Jacob searching for the right clinic, then the right surrogate, and then the ever-elusive “right time.” However, all of their tentative plans come tumbling down when Trent receives a phone call from his hometown. A place he’d long ago left in his rearview mirror, stuffing all the memories associated with his personal Coming Out Day into a deep, dark hole never to be revisited.

  Only now, Trent is forced to return, because the call is about the murder of his estranged sister and the health and welfare of a half-grown nephew he didn’t know existed. Thrust into guardianship of Jericho, Trent and Jacob struggle to help the damaged teen deal with his grief and the hidden reasons behind his mother’s death.

  Chapter One

  Jericho

  Jericho watched as his mother turned tear-filled eyes towards the man who’d just pushed past the sea of gray hospital drapes surrounding them. In a motion he’d seen her perform a million times, she wrapped thin arms around herself, defensively crisscrossed as if she anticipated a destructive blow she wouldn’t be able to ward off, not this time. As if when the strike finally landed, she’d burst into shards of wounded woman and had to proactively hold them together.

  Frank Stemp turned his head side to side briskly, as if there might be hidden combatants in the corners of the tiny cubicle. With a hateful gaze drilling into Jericho, his stepfather gritted out a question aimed at his mother. “Why the hell did you have to bring that whining brat to the ER this time, Estelle?”

  The anger in his stepfather’s growled question reverberated through Jericho’s bones. He knew that the man’s anger disguised fear of being found out, and Jericho ducked his head, staring down at the ice bag a nurse had given him earlier. The numbing ice had helped with the pain somewhat, sure. But right now, holding the soft cloth in place was a valid reason to keep his arm covered up. If Jericho didn’t have to look at the evidence of his stepfather’s hatred, the terror swamping his senses would have time to ebb, flowing away like sand.

  His peripheral vision picked up movement, and Jericho jerked his gaze up as his mother stepped between them, shielding Jericho behind her in an unexpected change from previous tactics. “Mom?” She flapped a hand at his trembling question. He knew in his gut that her challenging Frank was a mistake, but he was tired, and hurt, and chose to subside rather than insist she back down from whatever line she was drawing. This isn’t gonna end well.

  “You got something to say to me, Estelle?” Arrogance and rage warred for space in Frank’s voice. “I can tell you that anything other than ‘I’m hella sorry’ comin’ out of your pie hole right now, it ain’t gonna sit well with me.”

  “You broke his arm.” She hissed the accusation, and Jericho angled his head to see around her, focusing on the anger morphing into an unbridled rage on Frank’s features.

  “I did not.” The bald lie rang with false conviction as Frank flashed a dare over Estelle’s shoulder to Jericho. “Boy got a little bitty bruise. He’s clumsy as hell. You know how he is, Stella.” Go ahead, it seemed to say. Go ahead and call me a liar. See what that earns you. Jericho already knew exactly where that would lead him, and it wasn’t a path he particularly wanted to walk again.

  “Frank.”

  Jericho sank backwards on the table, gaze once again fixed on the shifting surface of the ice pack. If his mother was resorting to single statements of her husband’s name, then the argument was already over. He imagined they’d be leaving the ER in a few moments, Frank’s arm around Estelle’s waist, Jericho trailing behind them.

  Experimentally, he curled his fingers as far as he could, biting down on his tongue when the pain
tried to expel as a grunt. Not broken in two, because he could turn his wrist a tiny bit and wiggle those fingers, but the injury to his arm was far more than just a bruise. Jericho lifted the ice pack and peered at the flesh underneath. Red and white in sections, the colors raised by the chill of the ice weren’t able to hide the black-and-blue stained outline of four fingers and a thumb.

  His mind flooded with the memory of how it had all happened.

  “Boy?” Frank’s voice shook the rafters of the barn, and Jericho fumbled with his pants, yanking them high on his thighs and then into place as his fingers worked the fastening at his waist. Desperately trying to shove the other evidence of his activities under the pile of loose hay off to the side, he fluffed the yellow straw unevenly across where he’d hidden the magazine. “Boy?”

  The thudding stride of Frank’s boot soles hitting packed dirt came closer, and Jericho knew he had to answer soon, or he’d get the belt for ignoring Frank. He scanned the area one final time and sighed in relief. “Yes, sir?” His call was quiet, but it was enough. Frank would be able to hear him and pinpoint his location. Pitchfork in hand, he was prepared when Frank appeared in the doorway of the stall and had just bent to scoop a pile of hay. He shook the pitchfork gently, letting the stems sift through the tines of the tool, as if he were looking for a final, errant horse apple. “Yes, sir, Mr. Frank?”

  Elbow on the hinge post, Frank glared down at Jericho. “What are you doin’, boy?”

  Jericho let himself look puzzled, knowing the denser he played his thinking, the better Frank felt about himself. It was a strategy that had derailed a lot of lessons in the past, and one Jericho had worked hard to refine. “Mucking stalls?” The uplift on the end of the sentence might have been a bit much, because Frank’s scowl deepened. “Sir. Was there something else I’m meant to be doing?”

  “What’s that?”

  At the brusque question, Jericho couldn’t stop his glance towards the incriminating piles of hay. Gaze darting back to Frank’s face, he saw the man’s attention wasn’t on the innocent-looking stall floor but on the back waistband of Jericho’s jeans. Straw stuck out in clumps, the prickly ends pointed every which way. Now that it had his attention, Jericho felt the stinging itch of raised welts caused by a combination of dust and scratches from the sharp shards of plant matter.

  If he’d played dumb earlier, he aimed at dumber now. “What’s what?” He gave another half-hearted poke at the hay along the edges of the stall, lifting, shaking, and sifting to find nothing. “I’m almost finished here, Mr. Frank.”

  “You take me for a fool, boy?”

  Jericho wanted to shout yes, but he kept his response to a mute headshake as Frank took a pair of steps into the stall, swinging around behind Jericho and yanking at the waistband of his jeans. Startled, Jericho pulled away, and Frank overbalanced as he lost his grip. As if in slow motion, he watched while Frank’s foot came down on the pile of hay, that innocent-looking mound of straw that crinkled underfoot in an unnatural way.

  Neck bent at a deep angle, he saw the sweep of Frank’s boot as it cleared the camouflage away, revealing the glossy colors of the cover, the young, painted face that stared up at them pouting prettily for a red-lipped kiss. With his heart pleading for a retreat with every quickening beat, Jericho watched as Frank meticulously cleared the straw away with the side of his boot, ensuring the entire magazine was on display.

  “What the hell is this?” Frank sounded completely bemused as he bent at the waist, movements stiff and awkward, performing a hesitant dance as his arms swung free, fingers first grazing across the paper as if to convince himself it was real, then tentatively plucking at the corner to peel it back. The next two pages were an ad for a dance club in Knoxville promising “More man meat on display than anywhere else in Tennessee.” Neck still bent awkwardly, Frank slowly turned his head to look at Jericho, and the expression on his face wasn’t horror, or even rage as expected, but a dark desire that silted Jericho’s blood with fear, causing his heart to hammer faster in his chest. “That the way it is, boy?” Frank straightened as he spoke, until his back was ramrod stiff and he could use his full height to tower over Jericho. “That the way you like it? I didn’t break you of that perversion yet?”

  “Not for lack of trying.” Faster than a thought, the response was on and across Jericho’s lips, set free in the air between them before he could curb the words. He watched as they hit true and saw Frank’s pupils darken at their shared memory.

  About five years before, Jericho had been visiting the son of a new-to-the-county family that had moved in just up the road. The little boy, Edam, had been twelve, just around two years older than Jericho, and he’d gone along with the boy when he wanted to play touching games.

  That time, their not-quite-innocent activity had been what his brand-new stepfather walked in on. Frank’s severe version of punishment had been meted out over months and months, any time it came to the man’s mind. Jericho had been unable to writhe away from the lash of Frank’s doubled belt, the fold catching him around the groin and buttocks until at times his little penis had been purple from the bruising, butt cheeks and thighs burning red from the repeated blows.

  Jericho’s mother had somehow put a stop to it after the only time she’d witnessed Frank’s cruelty. She’d paid dearly for intervening and told Jericho later not to cry over her bruises. “It’s a momma’s duty to protect her son.”

  If only she’d done a better job of it.

  Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a short, fat cigar. One of the stinky-sweet, home-rolled stogies he bought at the tobacco and vape shop in town, spending cash freely even as he gnawed on Jericho’s mother’s ass any time she needed money for the house.

  Staring at Jericho, Frank clamped the cigar between his teeth while he dug for his lighter. A few flicks of the flame later and he pulled deep on the cigar before plucking it from his lips. He blew a thick column of sickly smoke towards Jericho. “Which hand, boy?”

  “What?” Jericho clutched the handle of the pitchfork in front of his chest, unsure what Frank wanted from him.

  “Which hand do you use to jerk off to that perverse shit?” Cigar back in his mouth, Frank puffed madly until the ember on the end glowed cherry red. “Which.” Smoke wreathed his head, making him look like a demented demon wearing hell’s version of a halo. “Hand.” Frank lunged towards him, and Jericho’s right hand betrayed him, instinctively slipping behind his back, away from the monster standing far too close. Frank’s voice lowered to a hiss as he whispered, “Gotchu.”

  Pitchfork forgotten, Jericho lurched towards the open door of the stall, pulled back by an immovable force gripping his arm. There was a yank and a twist, and he became a ragdoll whirled in a circle. His back slammed against the wooden wall as pain ripped through him, centered on his forearm. A red curtain descended on his vision until he was nearly blind, barely able to see Frank’s face pushed close, silent mouth moving around the cigar clenched between his teeth.

  Frank had left him lying on the straw. He’d stared down at Jericho as the teen sobbed, arm cradled to his chest, then stalked to the magazine, where he’d viciously stubbed his cigar out in the middle of the cover model’s forehead.

  The pain in Jericho’s arm had leashed him to the floor, making every movement agony, and it had taken long minutes until he could rise to his feet, the stench of smoldering paper filling the air. He’d carefully stomped on the magazine to ensure no sparks remained before gathering it and the pitchfork in one hand to make his way out of the barn.

  By the time Estelle had gotten home from work, Jericho’s arm was swollen to twice normal size. She hadn’t spoken, just stared at him as he recounted his carefully crafted tale of clumsiness. He’d closed his eyes against the sight of her bright tears and sat quietly in the straight-backed kitchen chair as she moved around him to the linen drawer. Still wordless, she’d fashioned a long sling out of a flour sack dish towel, tying it carefully behind his neck.

 
; At the ER, a compassionate nurse and no-nonsense doctor had listened to Jericho’s recounting of his afternoon, shared a dark glance between them, and then left together. That had set off a quick bustle of activity, with ice and juice arriving, carried in with a promise of X-rays and pain relief. The next entry to the little faux room had been Frank, not quite half an hour later.

  “Come on, Mom.” Jericho sighed and reached for the sling his mother had made. “If it was really broke, they’d have been back by now.” Shifting towards the edge of the gurney, he held the sling out to her. “Help me get this on.”

  “Good to see one of you has some sense.” Jericho cut his gaze up to Frank’s face, acid boiling up his throat at the self-satisfied look the man wore.

  Before he could slip off the wheeled bed and to the floor, there was a commotion in the distance, rapidly coming closer. A mass of footsteps. Jericho heard heavy booted treads interspersed with the soft-soled shoes the nurses wore and one pair of heels, clickety-clacking their path up the hallway. The gray curtains boiled with movement before they slid to either side, much like the curtains of the one high school play Jericho had gone to last year. Positioned in the opening were the nurse, the doctor, and a new face—one petite woman carrying a briefcase. They were ominously backed up by two bulky policemen who stood farther back in the hall.

  “What’s this?” Frank’s surprise came out angry, and that tinge of fear Jericho had heard earlier broadened until it took up almost all the space in his voice. “What’s going on? What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Mr. Stemp, Mrs. Stemp, I’d like you to come with me.” Firm and decisive, the authoritative voice didn’t issue from either cop but from the woman who barely came up to their shoulders. “The doctor will take care of Jericho.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Frank’s outburst rode roughshod over Estelle’s softer, “I’m not leaving my boy.”