The Ideal Side of Love

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The Ideal Side of Love is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

The Ideal Side of Love

2012 Blak Rayne Publications Ltd.

Blak Rayne Books Website

Copyright © 2011, 2012 Blak Rayne. All rights reserved under International, Pan-American Copyright Conventions, and Copyright Act of Canada. The unauthorized transmission, reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement includes infringement without monetary gain. No portion of this book may be transmitted, reproduced or distributed in any form, by any electronic or mechanical means, now known or hereafter invented, which includes retrieval systems or information storage, without permission in writing from the author or the publisher, with the exception of a review, where the reviewer may quote brief passages in his or her review.

Electronic Format ISBN: 978-0-9881284-0-8

Text Design by: Blak Rayne

Cover Design by: Hot Damn Designs Hot Damn Designs

Editor: Valerie Mann Wizards In Publishing

Content Advisory: The following contains adult themes, explicit descriptions of sexual situations, explicit language, violence, and references to alternate lifestyles.

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The Ideal Side of Love

Blak Rayne

http://www.blakraynebooks.com

Dedication

My thoughts…. On occasion, life inspires fiction.

To the police officer who gave me that ticket,

you were one fine-looking man.

Chapter One

We’ve been going in circles for months.

I listened to Matthew go on and on, how he’d contributed to the relationship and I hadn’t, how the effort had been, according to him, decidedly one-sided. After the accusations started to fly, his words became meaningless gibberish. All shock value—forever lost, and the sanctity of our cohabitation ceased to be. Simply put, Matthew was a screamer. Also high-strung, temperamental, and more often then not, I could never please him; even when happy, he proved an aggravating man to deal with.

"I love you, Stephen, I really do, but I can’t live like this anymore. You’re never around, and when you are, you don’t bother with me anyway."

It was funny, but I hadn’t reacted—at least not the way I’d expected myself to. Normally, I would’ve begged him to stay, smothered him with affection and praise, making myself out to be the asshole, but not that time. That time I just stood there in a state of relative calm, reliving every bitter word, every petty disagreement we’d ever had as he ran the gamut of emotions—crying and swearing—and all the while he was packing. When I considered our state of affairs, in truth the failure of our relationship rested solely on my shoulders. I’d hooked up with a flamboyant gay man, one of those overly sensitive types who couldn’t control himself.

Look at you. Matthew threw his hands up. Even now you aren’t listening! I’m out of here, he snapped like a Chihuahua, grabbing his jacket. Aren’t you going to stop me?

He tapped a foot with hands firmly planted on his hips—no doubt awaiting my profuse apology.

I almost mentioned he needed to return the house key, but shrugged instead—inciting another argument wasn’t worth it, the locks could be rekeyed. Obviously, your mind is made up.

"You really are a selfish bastard!"

The door bounced off the jam so hard a framed photograph dropped from the wall. Dragging a suitcase and shoulder bag behind him, Matthew ended our fifteen-month relationship. Every step of the way, he cursed and wailed to some unseen force in the heavens. Reaching the car, he flung the door open and shoved the suitcase over the driver side headrest where it fell into the backseat, and the shoulder bag landed on the passenger seat as he hopped inside. I’d gotten a smoking-hot deal on that Honda with the candy-apple red finish—what a great set of wheels. Legally, the car wasn’t his to take, but whatever, swallowing the loss would be cheaper then sitting in court. Once he reversed out of the driveway, I closed the door and picked up the photo, making sure to hang it straight. Then, I wandered into the living room where I’d been enjoying a cinnamon bun and mocha latte to the images of the afternoon news.

That was common-law husband number one.

Allow me to explain…. In Canada, most legal benefits associated with marriage were equivalent in common-law relationships. In the eyes of the law, there was no difference, whether married or not, you could legally take your ex to court for monetary compensation—spousal support, child support, and so on. By 1999, the same laws extended to cohabitating, same-sex couples. If proof of cohabitation, which was a minimum of six months, could be proven to the courts, someone ended up paying, and generally it was the individual with the higher income. Gay marriage became legal in Canada by July 2005.

I’d had six or seven common-law relationships. Not to say that I was a proud gay man, but my supposed marriages had disintegrated quicker than Elizabeth Taylor’s, and my ex-husband list would soon eclipse hers. I was pretty sure the judge had a special chair set aside for me in divorce court, and I knew for a fact, my lawyer had me on speed dial. I’d always been in love with the idea of love and a monogamous relationship, which according to my best friend, Abigail, was a huge fallacy in itself. I’d meet a guy, we’d feel a mutual attraction, end up in the sack, and within weeks move in together, the problem—strictly my lack of forethought. I never really became acquainted with the men I screwed. I just figured if we lived together, the pieces would automatically drop into place. But as everyone knew life wasn’t so neat and tidy.

After Matthew came Edward, and after Edward came Joel, then Nigel, and Roberto. Deep breath. Then, I’d enjoyed a short-lived intermission with a fellow I refer to as James—unfortunately I didn’t recall his name—but we had fantastic sex, and our illicit liaison finished in a little over a week. To date, James still holds the title as the longest one-night stand in my personal history.

From there, I’d moved on to number six, the real husband, William, and for all intents and purposes, he seemed like the one to endure. After two years, I sincerely thought we had a fighting chance. But when I’d caught the Purolator delivery driver pounding his ass in our bed, my normally reserved nature went straight out the window. Unrequited devotion was one thing, but to discover my lover was a cheating bastard, entirely another..

Why wasn’t I enough?

I’d lost control hollering like a madman, "I gave you everything and this is what I get?" After booting his bare ass into the cold, I threw his clothes onto the street. The Purolator guy wasn’t going to risk a confrontation and sprinted for his truck, buck-naked. William stood at the end of the driveway, holding the black-satin top sheet bunched at his crotch to protect his privates. The neighbors got an eyeful, and I became the hottest topic of local gossip; the hushed whispers in the grocery store went on for months.

That separation nearly ruined me financially. Even though William had been caught cheating, we’d still managed two years together under the same roof. Which inferred: I couldn’t leave him destitute. Of course, he also felt horribly wronged, claiming spousal neglect thus the reason for his infidelity. The only way to ease his pain and suffering, and make him agree to leave quietly—monetary compensation. So, in order to salvage my home and business but still pay William out in full, I once again borrowed from the bank using my home as collateral; a hundred-thousand-dollar loan. And, I’d lost my car, another Honda—in that instance a Civic. Maybe the Hondas were bad luck? William signed all legal rights away to my home, business, and pension just before Christmas. After that my lawyer stated, One more shitty marriage like this and you’ll be applying for a legal aid.

Okay, at that point, I’d seriously started to reevaluate my life. The loss of the car and money, a definite setback; however, the loss of my dignity and lover had left me with some pretty significant psychological wounds that no amount of money could heal. Adding to that, there were family and friends to contend with. Both were gradually distancing themselves from the drama. Who could blame them? My life had become a roller coaster of emotional and financial distress. How many times had my best friend Abby cried for me? How many times had my father and mother become attached, accepting each man into the family and their lives, only to find disappointment when I announced yet another painful break-up was on the horizon? And, what about me? How many times could one man be slapped in the face? My hopes of ever finding a suitable partner seemed remote. Then, the summer of 1996 arrived; a time in my life I remember well. The cafés were very busy—economically sound.

Chapter Two

How does anyone know they’re predestined for a certain occupation in life? Does God or whatever higher power we believe in make that decision for us? Does that higher power plant the seeds of an idea in our minds? I wasn’t sure, and I couldn’t tell you, but self-employment became my destiny.

After high school, I did what every other teenager does with little to no experience—I stocked shelves at the local grocery store and delivered pizzas on the weekends. Basically, I worked every crummy minimum wage job on the North Shore until I realized four bucks an hour wasn’t going to cut it. Wanting and needing more out of life, I enrolled in a business management course at a community college, graduated, and then scraped together just enough money to open my first café. I wasn’t a drinker and never smoked, and drugs—whether recreational or otherwise—never appealed to me. But I did love coffee and tea—anything spiked with caffeine.

After college, I moved into a bachelor suite. I grew up on the North Shore and had no intention of leaving, so supporting the local economy had seemed the logical choice. Surrounded by verdant mountains and rugged coastline, the North Shore, which incorporated the City of North Vancouver, District Municipality of North Vancouver and West Vancouver, was one of the finest jewels in Vancouver’s crown. Famous for hiking trails and skiing, pristine beaches and housing the elite, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else in the world, especially when I had so much beauty in my own backyard.

I signed a lease agreement, taking over less than six hundred square feet of storefront on the west side. My God what a dump, but the rent had fit my budget. It took me almost two months to renovate because contractors were too expensive.

My parents thought the idea was crazy, that I’d accepted too high a risk with the five-year commercial lease. The initial twelve months were rough, but by the following year I’d actually pocketed a moderate wage, had regular staff, and the café had generated a profit. And, after that, the money really started to roll in. Within three years, I’d opened a second café, and by the fifth year, a third. My passion became more than my livelihood. I’d created an empire.

One muggy Friday night in mid-July, I had worked later then usual—taking into consideration the loan, there hadn’t been any other alternative. I’d left the office and drove to the bank, placed a business deposit into the overnight security deposit box then sat in my SUV staring off into space. Normally, I would’ve gone to the gay bar downtown, however, on that particular night, I longed for a change of scenery and somewhere peaceful to enjoy a meal. I remembered an ad I’d seen earlier in one of the local newspapers. A new restaurant called Octopus Ink had its grand opening the weekend previous. The advertisement claimed they served the best seafood in the city. Memorizing the address, I refolded the newspaper and set it atop my briefcase.

Situated just off Chesterfield Court, and a stone’s throw from the city wharf, the area wasn’t a typical location to find a fine dining restaurant, not with the poorly lit parking lot and warehouses in close proximity—actually, I’d expected somewhere far better. But just as my misgivings surfaced, they were soon to fade as voices, laughter, and soft music drew my attention to the goings-on inside the building.

The various sounds and scents teased every one of my senses and lured me in, creating a romantic atmosphere tainted with a mouth-watering aroma. The dining spaces, which seated no more then four to a table, were intimate, with a rustic finish and enhanced by candle and low lighting, and horseshoed to the right of the entrance. The restaurant section bustled with activity. At the front and adjacent to the entrance were a hostess counter and lounge—cozy and tucked away from the rest of the world. The solitary figure of a man sat hunched next to a bulky, stone fireplace. The raging inferno highlighted his solemn features and a pint of beer in his hand, flickering in shades of golden-yellow to orange. I took note, of course, that he was young and attractive.

Dinner for one, sir?

I looked at the hostess, momentarily tongue-tied. I’d like a drink first. Maybe read over the menu? I’ve never eaten here before.

Then please, have a seat. She motioned toward the lounge. Anywhere you like. What can I get you to drink?

A White Russian.

Very well. I’ll be right back with your drink and a menu.

I chose a corner of the lounge, farthest from the fireplace and scarcely detectable beyond the candlelight. Bad habit. I preferred to be in a position where everything and everyone around me was visible.

The hostess placed my drink on a coaster and the menu beside it. The ice cubes rattled as I took a sip and made eye contact with the young man. Initially, I nodded a greeting to which he smiled tersely in response.

Opening the menu, I asked, Are you waiting for someone?

He merely stared for a second, as if I didn’t exist, apparently preoccupied with his thoughts. I’d sensed his sexual preference, and being a single, gay man, naturally I had wanted to know if my intuition was correct. And, ignoring the opportunity to possibly spend an evening with such a beautiful man would’ve been stupid and also a waste. I apologized for intruding and still nothing verbal. He didn’t appear too happy and looked in the direction of the fire. Then I made another attempt to strike up a conversation.

What’s your name?

He finally gave a physical response.

Myron. Stretching, he held out a hand, And yours?

Stephen. I love your name. We shook hands firmly. What is it? Portuguese? Spanish?

He had an unusual laugh. Not rough or artificial, but smooth, and he had an equally sexy smile to match.

Greek. How pitiful. He kept an elbow on the backrest of his chair, the pint of beer at his lips, and all the while he demanded the truth. Does that cheesy line work on every guy you meet?

You’re right. I am a pathetic excuse for a man. Downing the rest of my drink, I cleared my throat. Generally, it doesn’t work unless my target is generously drunk and desperate. I flashed my best smile—the James Bond flirtatious one with a hint of the pearly whites. Are you drunk and desperate?

Scraping the floor, he relocated his chair quickly so it sat closer to mine, close enough that his musky cologne caught my breath. Just my luck, he was drenched in Stetson, a scent that said fuck me.

Drunk and desperate, no, he said as if hunting for the appropriate words. But I am uncertain.

How can I change that?

An extremely miserable frown consumed his attractive features. In fact, he appeared on the verge of tears.

I’m sorry, I added with quiet feeling.

I’m fine. Forgive me. He put the mug down. I should leave.

My heart sped up, and I bounced to my feet before my brain sent the signal to move. I had no clue what to say, but for some reason, I wanted the man to stay. Dinner.

He laughed in disbelief, picking up his jacket from the chair. I don’t accept charity. But thank you.

"It’s not