Chapter 1

I WAS going to miss my train.

I raced along the enclosed overpass bridge, my stupid “office shoes” slipping on the nonslip tiles, pumping my arms furiously to try and make the platform in time, even when I knew it was hopeless. I wished desperately that I had worn my runners to work, but office policy was strict so I had my ridiculously expensive black “dress” shoes on. Why did they call them dress shoes, anyway? I’m not a frickin’ girl and I don’t wear dresses. I skidded and slipped around the corner, holding out my rail pass to tag on, barely waiting for the light to turn green before I dashed toward the train I knew I was going to miss. I sprinted for the escalators as the doors slid shut on the carriage. I half flew and half stumbled down the steps, taking them four at a time as the train pulled away smoothly.

Shit!

I would now have to spend another twenty-four minutes hanging around a deserted train station until the next train. Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!

Twenty-four bloomin’ minutes to do nothing because trains don’t run frequently this early in the morning—thanks mainly to the fact 80 percent of the adult population of Western Australia relies solely on their cars, one of which I don’t have. Which also translated into twenty-four minutes I would have to stay later at work this afternoon and complete my boring seven-and-a-half-hour workday. Which then meant I would end up riding home with the high school students on their way to their suburban homes from their swanky private schools in the city, something I loathed on par with getting dog crap on my foot.

It also meant it would be another hour before I could get myself a coffee. Another hour before I could get inside out of the nearly freezing predawn weather. Another hour before I could take the weight off my bung leg, which was now aching from the abuse I just put it through. Shit!

And missing the first train of the morning also meant I didn’t get to see Jay. But I wasn’t going to think about that. Because I am not gay. I don’t notice other guys; I don’t drool over them; I don’t look forward to seeing their handsome face each morning; I don’t dream about them every night; and I definitely don’t get a hard-on thinking about one particular face. Nope! Not gay here at all.

Much.

Denial, denial, denial. Just keep saying you are not gay until the cows come home. Right? I never got that saying—until the cows come home. Because don’t the cows come in every night? So really, you are just saying no until sunset. Stupid.

And I really wasn’t gay. In order to be gay you have to be in love with another guy, don’t you? You have to be “living the scene,” going out to gay clubs, proudly dancing in pride parades, and pinching men’s arses. And I’m not doing any of that—ergo I am not gay.

I skidded to a halt and puffed hard, holding on to the metal chair that was bolted to the platform so I could stand on my right leg only. I looked at the passengers already on the train pulling away. Some of them looked back at me. Some of them smirked—the bastards—but none of them were Jay. I didn’t see him and cursed. Just for a moment I forgot my denial and looked anxiously at the passengers, searching for his blond head and skinny frame. I saw many familiar faces that I traveled with each morning, but none were the one I wanted to see.

Shit! Just a glimpse would’ve been enough. Just a quick look to see if he had colored his hair again—he’d gone blond again, which I really liked, although that streak of blue a couple of weeks back was a bit over-the-top. And I just wanted a glance at his outfit to see if I approved or cringed over his style today—I liked the ones that showed off his arse, not that I’m gay or anything. A quick look, that’s all I really needed. I stopped lying to myself for ten seconds and admitted that a glimpse of Jay made getting up at such a shitty hour and going to work at a shitty job all worthwhile.

I fisted my hand on the back of the seat and internally punished myself for my thoughts. I was getting obsessed with a guy I had never spoken to and didn’t even know. In my mind I called him Jay but I’d made that up. He looked like a Jay. I’d invented the name two months back in early May when he’d worn this bright-yellow button badge for a week or so. From a distance of half a carriage away I had only been able to make out a large capital “J” in the wording. So I called him Jay.

Three days later I managed to maneuver close enough to him without drawing attention to myself and I had read the rest of the words. “Just do it. Smile.” The first letter had been increased to a large size, which was why I could see the J from a distance. The badge was cute. Quirky. Adorable. Just like its owner.

And I am still not gay.

I’ve had girlfriends. Two of them. Okay, they didn’t last long but there was a reason for that. My first girlfriend dumped me after the accident. I didn’t know I was dumped until I returned to school and found out she had been “going out” with Darryl Meyers for two months. Two whole months. That’s how long I’d been out of school recovering. Bitch.

So I pretty much ignored girls for the next two years while I—literally—got back on my feet. Physical therapy is no walk in the park (pardon the pun!) and Mum was also on my case about getting up my marks at school. So I just concentrated on that for a while and managed to make it through high school with high enough marks to make it to university. It was at university I met Candice and decided to try the whole boyfriend/girlfriend scene again. We became friends. We dated. We kissed. She told me she was in love with my brother. We’re now family. Bitch.

So you can see that I can’t be gay if I have had two girlfriends. And I’m not a virgin—so don’t be thinking that either. I’ve slept with women. I’ve tried it. I’ve taken that old horse out and run it around the track a couple of times. I even thought I might be gay for a while so I tried it on with a few guys, too. The horse ran around the track for a couple of laps there, too. So I can categorically say I have explored both options and I have come to the conclusion that I can’t be gay. My dad would kill me, so I can’t be gay.

My dad is the quintessential Aussie bloke—broad, brash, and brassy. Broad from years of playing football and holding down a physical job, brash from years of his non-apologetic, say-what-I mean, take-no-prisoners attitude, which seems to be ingrained in any Australian man over the age of forty, and brassy from years of beer-swilling at the pub with his mates and taking the piss out of anything that doesn’t fit his idea of normal. Hence he has done a heck of a lot of verbal gay bashing in his life and has made it clear to his five sons that no son of his will be allowed to be gay.

So, watching for Jay every morning was something that I did. So what? It doesn’t prove anything. There is a woman who catches the train sometimes in the morning that I watch, too. I’ve been looking at her very closely for the last six weeks trying to decide if she is pregnant or if she has just been eating too many hot dogs lately. Every day she seems to be bigger. I still haven’t decided. So see? I look at women, too.

I sighed loudly, watching the train clear the end of the platform and whirl its way down the line, bearing the people who were running on time—the bastards—away from me. My thigh ached and sent a shooting pain up my spine—punishment for that extra five minutes sleep I decided I needed today. I was debating whether to sit and rest my leg or whether stretching it would be better when a voice behind me cursed.

“Damn! Is that our train?”

I whirled in surprise and didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or throw myself on the tracks nearby and wait for the southbound to run me over. Jay was standing in front of me and actually talking to me. We’d never conversed before, although one day I’d heard him speak to an elderly lady. He’d caught the train home with me, which was rare—not that I didn’t look for him every day. (And I am still not gay!) On that day he’d sat down next to a white-haired lady and they’d spoken in soft tones and laughed the whole way home. I felt like tripping the old dear as she got off the train.

His voice had given me shivers for days. It was definitely masculine but with a hint of high pitch in it. Like a pubescent boy getting used to his breaking voice. The voice was kind and soft and with a hint of fem in it as he exclaimed, “Oh. My. Gawd!” at whatever the granny was saying. Now that shivery, spine-tingling voice was addressing me directly.

“Damn! My watch must be slow! My boss is gonna be pissed at me for being late.”

Jay was staring past me at the departing train and I was suddenly ever so glad that it was winter and I was wearing my big, thick coat. Now the only person who would know I was getting a stiffy was me. He was close enough that I could see he had lovely brown eyes and was wearing mascara. His natural blond lashes were colored with a layer of black and I could see the dark line of eyeliner under his eyes too.

He was cute. His features were symmetrical, though his face was perhaps a bit too long for conventional beauty—too dominant to pull off the baby-faced twink look, but definitely attractive. He had a prominent nose—a roman nose I think they call it—and a soft, wide smile with small, even teeth. He walked with a definite swish to his hips, bringing attention to his pert butt in whatever skintight pants he was wearing, and gestured with flamboyant hands, all which unmistakably proclaimed his sexual preference, as if the makeup weren’t enough. Some mornings I would see what I thought was a dusting of powder across his nose and cheeks, and sometimes that colored stuff. What do they call it—blush? I used to think he looked flushed, as if he had just crawled out of some lover’s bed, but then I realized he was wearing makeup. Funnily enough, it didn’t turn me off. I ended up trying to play the game “Guess what Jay will wear today.” Sometimes he’d do his eyes up, sometimes his cheeks. The best was when he’d do his lips.

I stared dumbly at him and wondered what the hell it was about this guy. Why was I attracted to him? Not that I am gay or anything. But if I liked makeup so much, why didn’t I have a thing for girls?

I suddenly realized that I was standing there like a flamingo on one leg, staring dumbly at the guy and not responding. I felt the heat bloom in my chest and on my face. I called myself all types of idiot and tried to unglue my tongue from the top of my mouth to speak like a normal human being.

Jay’s eyes flicked from the train leaving us behind to my face. Immediately he frowned and his eyes glanced down to where I was rubbing my thigh and holding my foot off the ground. His eyes grew big and I looked down too, fully expecting to see my erection showing through my thick coat, but all I could see was my single right foot planted firmly on the ground and my bent left leg, held gingerly in the air. Dorky I admit, but nothing tragic.

But Jay’s hand began to flutter in the space between our bodies. “Oh my Gawd! Oh my Gawd! Did you hurt yourself? Did you sprain your ankle? I saw you running. Did you do your knee in?”

I winced and placed my left foot on the ground. I anticipated the pain and flinched, but thankfully it wasn’t as bad as I feared, so I leaned on the chair a bit more and finally managed to say a decent sentence. Sort of. “Nah. Old injury. Not allowed to run.”

Now that was a lie. I was allowed to run, and the physiotherapists actually encouraged me to run. But they were specific on their instructions—no running on uneven surfaces, no corners, no jumps. Just a smooth gait and a steady pace. Whoops.

Jay was still fluttering in front of me, his hands reaching out to touch, but pulling away before they could make contact.

“Oh my Gawd! What are you going to do? Can you walk? Should you sit down?”

“I’ll be fine. It was just a twinge for a moment. Thanks.” I didn’t like making a fuss over my injury. I’d spent ages in the hospital and then in and out of physio in the seven years since it happened. Sometimes the attention was nice, but mostly it reminded me of my limitations and that I couldn’t always do “normal” things anymore. I walked a couple of steps, managing to only limp slightly.

“Okay. If you’re sure.” Jay didn’t sound sure at all, and watched me like a hawk.

I sighed and looked up at the board announcing that the next train heading for Perth was due in twenty-two minutes. Shit! I looked over at Jay, who was still watching my feet as I stepped lightly on my injury. I didn’t want our conversation to end.

I told myself that it was a way to pass the time. After all I had twenty-two minutes to fill and he was the only other person on the platform. But I was lying to myself. Again.

“Is your boss going to be really mad?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes theatrically at me. “Nah. He’ll shout a bit and have to get his own coffee, but in the end he knows I’m worth the wait.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. Was that a sexual innuendo? Was he really worth it?

Fortunately, Jay didn’t require a response. He looked up at the message board too and then glanced over at me. “Are you sure you are okay? Can you make it to the escalators?”

I was defensive. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Then come on. We have twenty minutes. Let’s go and get a coffee from the place up top. It’s freezing this morning and I need my caffeine hit.”

Coffee? Together? Was he asking me on a date or something?

“Come on,” he encouraged. “The tables won’t be taken this early in the morning and it’s out of the wind. I’m sure your leg needs a rest.” He motioned me to follow him. “Come on, man. It’s not a marriage proposal. Just coffee.”

I gave in to my baser instincts—the ones that said he was being truthful, not the ones that urged me to take him back to my place and strip him naked—and followed him to the escalators. I knew he was using them for me because he usually athletically skipped up the stairs. Not that I noticed or anything.

The little café just outside the train station thankfully opened at 5:00 a.m. The tired-looking teenage girl inside was wiping down the counter and took our orders without changing expression. Jay and I settled down at one of the tables inside—where I deliberately ignored our knees knocking together—and waited for the coffees to arrive. He was still watching me like a hawk as if I were going to keel over at any minute.

“I’m fine,” I snapped, still rubbing my thigh. “I’m not ready for a disability pension yet.”

Jay took my snark with a grin and simply teased me back, “I don’t know, man. I think I see a couple of gray hairs coming through there.”

Involuntarily, my hand rose to my hair and Jay grinned. Damn! He’d got me.

“Relax, man. You look fine.”

I scowled at him but a grin broke through on my face at his teasing. “Arse!”

“Yep. It’s my middle name.”

The sullen teenager arrived with our drinks and I watched as Jay smiled and thanked her. He was looking spiffy today. He had on a black bomber jacket with an oversized zip and had a red scarf wrapped around his neck twice, then tucked inside the collar. His hair had been gelled and combed back and I could see the comb’s teeth marks where he’d perfected the ’50s biker-boy look. I wasn’t sure if the boys of the ’50s had fake diamond earrings, though. They looked hella-delicious on him. Not that I’m gay or anything.

I watched carefully as Jay wrapped his hands around his steaming paper cup as if warming his hands. My own flat white—no froth, no toppings, just regular coffee—had been placed in front of me but I needed to make sure my hands had stopped shaking before I tried to drink it.

“So. Where do you work, man?” I thanked the gods that Jay knew how to start a conversation because I had been starting to panic.

“Umm. St George’s Terrace. BHP. Finance Department.” My brain couldn’t function past more than a couple of words in a sentence. I hoped he didn’t think I was stupid or anything.

“Cool.” He was nodding and trying to look suitably impressed.

I laughed self-depreciatingly. “Not really. It’s as boring as all fuck but it is a career and it’s money.”

He smiled in relief. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to put a downer on your job or anything. It’s just not my cup of tea, if you know what I mean?”

“No problem. It wasn’t my first career choice either.”

He tilted his head to the side, then looked at me enquiringly as if he really were interested in me. “So what was your first career choice?”

“I wanted to be a policeman.”

“So? What happened? You fail the morality test or something?”

I laughed like I was supposed to, relaxing in his presence a bit. “Accident.” I thumped my leg for emphasis. “It was a car accident when I was sixteen. They nearly had to amputate my leg but the doctors managed to save it. It’s got more metal in it than most foreign cars these days. Sets the metal detectors off every time.”

I usually made the situation humorous to stop sounding like a whiny little kid. Jay continued to smile brightly at me, nodding. “Get strip-searched a lot do you? Like that guy on the Bonds ad?”

“Nah. I think I need to lift a few more weights before the girls deliberately set off metal detectors to get me stripped to my boxers. But I tell you, it was a total pain in the arse to start work at BHP, though. They have metal detectors at the front door and every morning there seemed to be a new guy manning the desk. I had to carry around my medical certificate and my X-rays just to get to my floor. Now I know X-rays are supposed to be of bones and all, but if you look really closely you can see all my privates in the damn thing. Gives a whole new meaning to whipping it out if you ask me!”

Jay spluttered into his coffee just like I had hoped. I basked in the warmth of his smile and his focused attention. I wanted to know a little more about him, though. I psyched myself up. I could talk to him. I could casually ask him about himself. I could. I was just interested in general, right? “So where do you work?”

“Hay Street in East Perth. I work for 95.2 FM. I do research work and stuff for the PQ Program.”

“No shit? You work for the Poofs and Queers Program?”

He rolled his eyes at me and, clearly exasperated, said, “It’s not Poofs and Queers, idiot. It stands for Personal Questions. Gawd, I hate that other name. Just because we focused on a few gay issues we are suddenly the Poofs and Queers Program. We talk about issues that are relevant to Perth people today, not just the gay community. We are talking to the Premier today about his capital works programs and his recent win in the state election, so see? There is nothing about homosexuality or anything.”

I rested my chin on my hand and watched him get up on his soapbox. He raved about how mainstream media had hijacked their program and turned it inside out. He waved his hands around and spouted off about all the people who had recently been on the program and had spoken not one word about homosexuality. As I sipped my coffee, he glared at me and raged on about uneducated people who now disparaged the program because of the words “poof” and “queer” and how people couldn’t see past the derogatory names to see that the program was brilliant. I finished off my coffee and glanced at my watch. I could stare at him all day but the next train was on its way.

He broke off mid-sentence. “Shit. Sorry, man. You need to learn to stop me when I get going on a subject. Total verbal diarrhea. I don’t have an ‘off’ switch so you just need to slap me or something.”

I smiled at him, completely enchanted. “No problem. Most of it was pretty interesting. Your whole job is interesting. Beats the pants off my career.”

Jay laughed, and for the first time I saw him deliberately turn the “gayness” up. He fluttered his eyelashes at me and tilted his head in a flirty manner, dropping his shoulder like a glam starlet. When he spoke, his voice had risen a whole octave and came out in a breathless puff. “Oh, daahling. There are so many ways I could respond to that!”

Oh, yes—there were about forty things I could say too, and thirty-eight of them didn’t require Jay to be clothed in any manner, shape, or form. I flushed and stood to cover my embarrassment—and my arousal. Not that I am gay or anything. It’s just that thinking about Jay and discarded pants…. Well, you get the picture.

“We should go.”

Jay cocked an eyebrow at me and rose obediently, the starlet act dropped. “Sure, man.”

The train station had more people milling around now and we walked—limped!—to the platform in silence. Right on time the train pulled up and we surged on, joining the other commuters for our daily dose of get-up-close-and-personal-with-a-stranger. The first train of the morning was usually as good as empty, with each person able to pick and choose a seat at will. This second train was a bit more full. I could’ve easily avoided Jay by plonking down on a single seat, forcing him to choose another, but instead I found myself pushing through the crowd to the end and finding two seats side-by-side.

Jay slipped into the seat beside me. “You okay with me sitting here?”

Is the earth round? Is the Pope Catholic? Did I mind? “Sure. No problem.”

In silence we waited for the annoying voice to inform us the doors of the train were about to close. Then the train smoothly pulled out of the Cockburn station, gathering speed, and soon we were hurtling along the tracks, bypassing cars and trucks headed in the same direction. Cockburn is located twenty kilometers directly south of Perth along the Kwinana Freeway, which makes the commute from the area to the city a quick twenty-minute drive—unless it is peak hour. And even calling it peak hour is a misnomer—the inference that it is only for one hour. It is more like three hours each morning and each evening. The sprawling city, heavily reliant on cars, is then even further congested by the fact that Perth is the second-most-isolated capital city in the world. Anything that is sold in Perth needs to be trucked across the extensive width of the continent. Coupled with the fact that Perth is the nearest city to the mining boom towns of Karratha and Port Hedland, and every second vehicle these days is a twenty-two wheeler.

So I stared out the window at the grayness, watching the traffic and trucks, and wondered what god I had pleased recently to be given this chance to speak with Jay.

The silence between us grew and I desperately fished around in my suddenly-empty brain for something to say. However, before I could formulate a new conversation starter, Jay apologized.

“I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“Huh?”

“You know. With the flirting and the ‘darling.’ I wasn’t coming on to you or anything.”

Pity. “I know. It’s cool.”

“I mean… if you gave me the green light or anything, then I would definitely flirt with you. You are really nice and all and I could totally go for you. But I can tell you’re straight and all so I wouldn’t. Just because I’m gay it doesn’t mean I can’t talk to a straight guy, right? I mean, I am allowed to have friends, aren’t I? If I wasn’t able to even talk to straight guys, then that would be a problem. Like there are some guys you just can’t tell with, right? How is everyone meant to know? Do we wear badges or something? Like, ‘Hi! My name is Andy. I’m gay.’ Pfft! And what if you are bi? Then are you not allowed to talk to anyone? And how are you meant to judge suitability? Is there an age barrier? Do you have to say—hey, man, I don’t sleep with guys over forty so I can talk to you? I don’t sleep with twinks and you look like a bear so it’s okay? Does it mean I can’t talk to a male relative? And what about—”

I grinned to myself and butted into his monologue. “Jay, dude. Verbal diarrhea, anyone?”

“Shit! Sorry.” He looked mortified and covered his mouth with long slender fingers, as if he could physically hold the words in. “I told you so.”

“No problem. As I said: It’s cool.”

He frowned at me, tilting his head again, assessing me from the corner of his eye. It was puppy-dog adorable. I hoped he would do it all the time. “What did you just call me?”

I thought back and came over all cold as I realized I had called him “Jay.” Oh, my God! Oh fuck! Now he is going to ask about it. How the hell am I supposed to confess that I think about him all the time—most nights in fact. He’ll think I am totally lame. He’ll think I’m gay. And I’m definitely not gay.

I thought fast, trying to formulate a lie. Shit! I wasn’t any good at lying. “Uhh… I called you Jay? I just make up names for people I see all the time. Sorry.”

He digested this for a while. “And I look like a Jay? Gay-Jay?” He looked hurt at the thought. I rushed in to reassure him, wanting to smooth over ruffled feathers.

“Nah. You wore a badge one day with a big ‘J’ on it. Something about ‘just smile?’ All I could see was the ‘J’ letter so I began calling you that in my head.”

Jay-or-whatever-his-real-name-was looked to the ceiling as if thinking about what I said, trying to remember such an instance. “I did?”

“Yeah. It was yellow.” I could’ve told him he actually wore it for eight days, not just one. I could’ve told him I knew the exact wording on the badge and exactly how long ago it was that he wore it. But I had some semblance of self-preservation.

His face suddenly cleared as he obviously remembered. “Oh yeah! I remember it! My niece, Tabitha gave it to me. Oh, she is a dear. I love her to death. She’s just eight years old and she is such a doll. She loves dressing up and earrings and makeup and all that. I have so much fun when I go over her house. Whatever. Anyway, she made me the badge and what could I do but wear it? I am a proud uncle after all! She was so chuffed that I wore it and I couldn’t bear to tell her I forgot to take it off before I chucked my shirt in the washing machine. It fell apart. Oh, I was heartbroken. Totally heartbroken, I tell you. In the end I had to tell her I gave it to a homeless man. She totally bought the lie and—”

“Uh, dude?”

He stopped, his hands suspended in mid-flight where he was demonstrating his point. He turned and scrunched up his face at me. “Oh, right. Verbal diarrhea again, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

“You were close, though.”

Close? Close to what?

“My name, I mean. My name is actually James. My family call me Jamie, but I use James at work. I try to be professional and all. You know? People look at me and think I’m just a brainless fairy. But I’m not, you know? So I try a little harder at work to be less… immature.”

The train trundled on, stopping at the last station before it hit the tunnel under the city where Jay… uh… James and I would need to alight. James prattled on and I listened with half an ear. Not that he wasn’t interesting, just that I was somewhat transfixed by the sound of his voice. I could listen forever. All too soon for my liking, we were in the tunnel.

James nudged me with his shoulder. “So do I get to know your name?”

“Liam.”

“Huh. Liam. I like it. It suits you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Did he mean it was a dorky name and it suited me? Or it was a strong name and it suited me? Or it was a gay name and it suited me? Because I’m not gay. We stood in unison and I followed him through the crush of people to the doors. And yeah, okay, I may’ve let all those bodies push me a little closer to James than necessary. The doors opened and like a single-brained entity we all pushed forward, crowding toward the stairs. I looked up, knowing that I couldn’t make the climb on my leg, and regretfully made my way out of the line of people to take the long way around to the escalator. I was surprised to find James at my side.

I grimaced. “You didn’t have to. It sucks having to take the long way. You don’t have to feel sorry for me.” We stepped together onto the moving stairs and they began to propel us up. James nudged me again.

“It’s fine, Liam. No problem.”

In what seemed to be a blink of an eye we were at ground level and I had to leave, heading in the opposite direction from James, who needed to take a connecting bus farther to the east. I hesitated and stepped out of the flow of commuters and to the side. James followed and crowded in my personal space a bit. I didn’t mind.

I looked at him, marveling that even up close he looked gorgeous. His lips looked full and totally kissable, and we were standing close enough that if I leaned in some, and he leaned some, our mouths would meet. Not that I wanted to kiss him or anything. I’m not gay.

“So….” It seemed he didn’t know what to say this time either.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow, huh?” I asked. God, I hoped so. This morning had been great.

“Yeah. Sure thing. See you tomorrow.” He was nodding and smiling in my direction. I felt like skipping away. I would see him tomorrow. I knew his name now, and he knew mine. We could talk. God, I couldn’t wait. I stepped off but he called my name and I turned back. He was standing in line, ready to board a bus.

“Liam?”

“Yeah?”

“You can call me Jay. I’d like that.” And like a wraith, he entered the bus and I lost sight of him.

I smiled involuntarily and I am sure I looked like a total dipstick. I could call him Jay. He’d like me to call him Jay. I was going to see him tomorrow.

Then I came to a sudden realization. I’m so gay.