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  Dylan Duology, Volume 2

  Sam LaRose

  Published by Ink Stained Fingers Press, 2021.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  PRESS PLAY

  First edition. June 21, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 Sam LaRose.

  ISBN: 978-1393136767

  Written by Sam LaRose.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

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  Further Reading: Real Talk

  Also By Sam LaRose

  About the Author

  For my wonderful betas: Arianna, Lauren, Sarah, Hannah, Hollis, and Lolita. Thank you for making Dylan's story the best it could be. Your thoughtful observations helped bring out the best in him.

  This book is also for anyone who has ever struggled with being LGBTQ+, substance abuse, and mental health. Help is out there.

  Chapter One

  It was an early September day when Dylan Montgomery took a seat next to his friend Travis. They sat at the back of an Addiction Support meeting, hosted in the backroom of a midtown café. It meant paying for refreshments, but often he found that preferable to the free treats at church or community center meetings. He sipped his cappuccino and listened politely to a woman giving her share at the front of the room.

  “Hey,” Travis whispered, giving him a bump to the shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too,” Dylan bumped him back. He broke the cookie he’d bought in half to offer a piece to Travis. The man looked at it, snapped off a quarter of the half and took a bite.

  The pair listened. The lead, a small Asian woman, gave a last call before the end of the gathering. As there were no takers, the meeting wrapped up a few minutes early. She encouraged everyone to buy a coffee or baked good on their way out, to thank the café for the use of the space. A few people made their way over to the counter. Some loitered back, helping to clean up the room and wait out the small crowd. Travis linked his arm with Dylan’s, and they stepped out into the street to begin walking.

  “You haven’t been around lately. I was worried,” Travis started.

  “You could have texted me.”

  “I could,” Travis admitted, “but I didn’t want you to think I was being overbearing. What’s been happening?”

  “I spent the last couple of weeks at my parents after I visited a friend in Boston,” Dylan explained. “My ex, Tyler, he did something stupid.”

  “Stupid as in dangerous?”

  “No,” Dylan answered, “stupid as in...not thinking through something before showing it to the world.”

  “You’ll have to explain further.”

  “He released a short album on something called TuneTable? It’s gotten a massive number of down—”

  “Oooh, shit, you’re Dylan Montgomery,” Travis gasped.

  Dylan chuckled. “Travis, you know very well who I am.”

  “No, I mean, it just clicked that your ex, Tyler, is Tyler Norse. I’m daft as hell.”

  “So, you know about the album then?”

  “My husband is a Pick reader. Tyler did an interview with them. I didn’t read it, but Garret did. I got highlights.” Travis took a sip of his coffee. “Did you listen to it?”

  “I was told it was better if I didn’t,” Dylan answered carefully. “So far, I have resisted the temptation. I admit that I downloaded the stupid app, but I haven’t downloaded the album.” He stopped, looking up at Travis. “Did you listen to it?”

  “Garret may have played a song for me,” he admitted.

  “And?”

  “There’s no doubt about it. The man loves you.”

  “Bullshit. He loves himself and causing problems.”

  “I don’t know,” Travis demurred. “I only listened to the one song. It’s my understanding that it should be enjoyed as a collective story. Just that one song gave me goosebumps. He’s talented. You can feel the pain he was in. Is in?” He tossed his empty cup into a trash can as they passed by it. “Who told you not to listen to it?”

  “Tyler, his manager, my parent’s head of security, my parents,” Dylan ticked the names off on his fingers. “My friend Jack, my two bodyguards, my sister...”

  “Not that you asked for it, but in my opinion; if you want to listen to it, you should.”

  “It’s been almost two months since it came out. Hype is dying off now,” Dylan said. “It isn’t like I have a way to respond.”

  “Don’t you? He used his talent and wrote you songs. You could respond with art. Your comics,” he suggested. “There are apps where you can share those for free. Do the same thing he did.”

  “I don’t like airing our relationship in public,” Dylan chided.

  “You can be smarter about it,” Travis explained. “I can help you! I can set up another website, or a patron platform. Draw what you feel. I’ll handle the tech side.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Dylan shook his head.

  Travis pulled him to a stop again. He tugged him under a bodega awning, out of the stream of foot traffic. “Listen to the songs. Really listen to them. Then react. You can polish whatever comes of it afterward. He didn’t just write those songs. He said he wrote a dozen of them. They were the five best that told the story he wanted to tell.”

  Travis tilted his face upward as Dylan continued to choose silence over a response. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. It would be...For Your Eyes Only.”

  “You’re fishing for romantic, but that’s just corny.”

  “No, it’s perfect!” Travis argued. “He’ll know it’s your response.”

  Dylan frowned. “I’ll think about it.”

  Travis sighed, giving him a slight nod. “Okay. I still say you should listen to the songs at the very least. They were meant for you. It seems unfair that you’ve been told not to listen to them. They’re your songs.”

  “They aren’t mine. They’re Tyler’s.”

  “He let the whole world listen, except you? That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “I’ll think about that too,” Dylan promised.

  His phone began to jingle. He fished it out of his pocket to look at the screen. “Shit, I’m supposed to go to my parent’s house for dinner tonight. An early birthday thing. They’re sending a car. Can we drop you off somewhere?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” Travis assured him with a wave of his hand. “Call me if you decide you need help, okay? Or the next time you want to go
to a meeting together.” He wrapped his arms around Dylan’s shoulders in a brief hug. “It is good to see you. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

  “Me too,” Dylan nodded. “See you around.”

  Travis gave him a brief smile before he walked away toward the bus stop. Dylan looked down at his phone. Dakota’s text had an ETA to his location in 2 minutes. He sighed. He needed to talk to them about taking the tracking off his phone. It had to stop.

  While he waited, he opened the TuneTable app. For Your Ears Only was still ranking in the Top Three downloads with over a million in the last two months. Not to mention the high number of non-download plays. He stared at the album art. It was basic. A tree trunk superimposed with the initials T.N., a heart, and a leaf obscuring a second set of initials. He tapped his phone off, shoving it back into his pocket. He inhaled deeply, stepping into the bodega to buy a soda while he waited.

  Maybe Travis’s idea was a good one. He was right about one thing. He needed to listen. Soon.

  Chapter Two

  Dakota picked him up in front of the bodega. The drive to Hughes Castle was only about fifteen minutes in the pre-rush hour traffic. Dylan was used to being chauffeured. Ever since he was a child, if he wanted to go anywhere, all he’d had to do was ask and someone would arrange a driver. That was part of why they had a security team after all; to cater to the family’s whims. He couldn’t pinpoint when he began making excuses to get out of the house. Trips to the art supply store, going out for coffee, and eventually nights out at clubs.

  At thirteen, he began claiming diversions after school. Fake club memberships let him stay late to watch athletic practices he had no actual interest in. Other than watching shirtless boys run around a field or court. It was hanging out on the bleachers during these practices that introduced him to drugs. Other affluent boys, getting into Mommy and Daddy’s stashes of anti-depressants, Adderall, marijuana, even cocaine. Possession of a gram of pot and two tabs of ecstasy got him kicked out of his first private school.

  The second school is where he was caught kissing a boy in the bathroom. It hadn’t even been a planned tryst, which made it more annoying. It was his third strike after talking back to a teacher and a drug search turning up a few pills that he did not have a prescription for. The kissing incident might have been swept under the rug if the boy’s pants hadn’t been around his ankles. The boy in question was suspended from school for two weeks and given a stern lecture. Dylan was shown the door. Dylan was almost disappointed. He’d lasted a lot longer than he’d anticipated.

  The last school before Carnegie School for the Gifted was the shortest stint. He worked with private tutors for three months before he was finally accepted into a small private school. He was certain his parents had paid his way in, although they wouldn’t admit it. He did well, academically. It was his clubbing and sleeping around on the weekends that didn’t make him friends. He’d wised up to not carrying at school, but he had a reputation as someone who could field a buy. Which is what led to the last expulsion after he punched a boy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, then called him a faggot. His parents had bartered to let him finish the school year.

  With such a colorful history as a teenager, it was no wonder that his parents had never entertained the idea of letting him get his license at sixteen. It was safer to make him depend on the security team, who could keep an eye on him.

  Which is why, at days shy of twenty-two, he was surprised to find a new mid-size SUV, including the comically large red bow, parked prominently in front of his childhood home.

  Dakota brought the town car to a stop. Dylan took his time getting out. The giant bow made him hesitant. The vehicle itself was fine. It was the implications of such a display that did not sit well with him. As the car door closed behind him, his parents appeared from the main door.

  “So, what do you think?” Peter motioned toward the car.

  “It’s an SUV.”

  “It’s your SUV. An early birthday gift. We know you’ve been looking, so we—”

  “So, you disregarded what I might want and made a decision for me.”

  Peter’s happy expression faltered. “Dylan, I had David look into the best possible—”

  “You didn’t even do the research yourself. You outsourced it to Security.” Dylan crossed his arms over his chest. “Is the lojack already installed or should I expect that to happen within the next seven to ten business days?”

  “Dylan,” Martha spoke up, “it’s a gift.”

  “You want me to be an adult,” he reminded them. “Adults don’t get cars from their parents for their birthdays. We get boring shit like gift cards. Or sweaters.”

  “If you don’t like it, we can return it. Or exchange it? Is it the color? Peter, I told you that black was too boring.”

  Dylan closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands for a moment. He sucked in a deep breath. “It’s not the car. It’s not the fucking color. You should have asked me what I wanted.”

  “Why don’t we go inside for dinner? Rosa made the enchiladas you like,” Peter broke in. “We can talk about the car afterward.”

  Dylan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. He shoved his hands into his pockets, following his parents through the doors of the manor. Inside, they diverted toward the dining room. His jaw clenched a little tighter. There was absolutely no reason for the three of them to have dinner in the giant dining room. He lagged behind them, stopping to take a deep breath. He’d just left a meeting, but the desire for a drink flooded over him.

  “Why are we eating in the dining room?” He asked.

  “It’s a special occasion,” Martha replied. “We always eat in the dining room on special occasions.”

  “My birthday isn’t until Friday,” he reminded them. “It’s just the three of us. This would have been overkill even if Mora had been able to come.”

  “What does it matter?” Peter asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “Food is served either way.”

  If his teeth pressed any tighter together, they were liable to crack. Dylan forced his jaw apart.

  “You’re right. It doesn’t matter,” he acquiesced. He watched Peter pull out Martha’s chair for her before making his way to the small bar. Dylan took the set place across the table from them. The ten feet of additional table on his right was ridiculous.

  “What would you like to drink?” Peter asked. “I have fully stocked soft drinks, sparkling—”

  “Water is fine,” Dylan cut him off. “I had a coffee at the meeting.”

  “Oh, you were at a meeting?” Martha asked. “How was that?”

  “It was fine.” Dylan lifted a shoulder in nonchalance. “Nothing exciting happened.”

  “Did you go with someone?” She asked.

  “I don’t attend meetings with people,” Dylan told her. “I saw a friend, who happened to also be at the meeting.”

  “A close friend?”

  “Not really. He threw up on me once when I was fifteen,” he told her. He paused, gauging her reaction. “We’re, like, sobriety pals. He’s married now.”

  “I see,” Martha said. Peter placed a glass of wine in front of her as he took his own seat. “What does this friend do?”

  “Freelance IT,” Dylan answered. He picked up his water glass. “How long until dinner is served?”

  “Soon,” Peter assured him, taking a sip of his cola. “How have your first week of classes gone?”

  “The CSG students are capable and creative. The Foundation students are promising.”

  Being back at CSG had felt odd for the first couple of days. He had been given a small office he was positive had been a janitor’s closet when he was in school. It had a miniscule desk and a laptop. He’d been given a crash course on the attendance and grading software. The classroom curriculum was flexible and the Foundation curriculum even more so, set by himself. He arrived at the school thirty minutes before his class, then had an hour of prep time between his CSG class ending and the Foundation class b
eginning. Most of the kids were great about picking up after themselves, so he used the time to sketch or create examples for the next lesson theme. The first Friday Freeform class had been well attended by almost all the students. He’d had to send some of them into the hallway to work because the classroom couldn’t accommodate all of them. The foundation had reached out to more kids since his first bout of teaching.

  “That’s great. Is there a plan for a show this semester?”

  “The CSG kids have one in October, organized by the regular staff. The Foundation is hosting one I’ll have input on in December. There will also be one in April, and one in June,” Dylan said. “I thought that was a bit much, but the one in April is open to all students, regardless of their departments. It should offer a wide variety.”

  “You’ll have to make sure to get the details to David and Lynn for our calendars,” Martha requested. “I enjoyed attending your gallery shows when you were in school.”

  “I was only at CSG for a year, Mother,” Dylan reminded her.

  “True,” she nodded, “but it was a very good year.”

  Dylan took a drink of his water, wishing it was vodka. He was about to ask after dinner again, when Rosa and Mary entered, carrying trays with garnished plates. She lifted a hot plate with steaming enchiladas, rice, and beans, and placed it in front of him.

  “Happy Birthday, Mr. Dylan.” Rosa squeezed his shoulder. “Your favorite, enchiladas, yes?”

  “Thank you, Rosa,” he gave her a smile. “They smell delicious.”

  “Enjoy. There’s plenty more.” She gave his cheek a light pinch. “You’re much too skinny. You don’t eat enough. Starving is not a requirement to be an artist, no?”

  He chuckled. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  She gave him another pat before ushering Mary, who had set plates in front of his parents, out of the room. “Enjoy the meal, Mister and Missus.”

  “Thank you, Rosa, Mary,” Peter gave them both a smile. “I already know it tastes as good as it looks.”

  “We really are spoiled,” Martha chimed in. She unrolled her napkin to lay it across her lap before picking up her fork. “I don’t even know where to begin.”