1 Chapter 1

I live and work in the city, but I grew up on a farm. My best friends back then were animals—not my brothers or sisters, or the multitude of cousins I had scattered across the countryside.

There’d been Blackie the cow, who disappeared one day while I was at primary school. The meal that evening had consisted of steak and potatoes, but I didn’t put two and two together until the next morning since she didn’t come when I called. Then, there was Puggy the pig, who squealed at me whenever I came around. He, too, disappeared one day, though I didn’t notice any bacon at breakfast time. Candace, the best mouser on the planet, gave me love whenever she felt like it. Which was…never, actually. I pretended she did anyway.

Last but not least was Bullray the poodle, who looked at me funny until the day he died because of the marijuana-laced brownies I’d given him when I was fifteen. I thought I’d about killed the damn dog, the way he lay on his back, legs stuck in the air and hardly breathing. That must have been some trip. Had he chased fire hydrants while high? It was the only time I’d ever prayed to any deity who would listen to bring back my best friend. He recovered, but he never ate anything I gave him ever again. Smart mutt.

Basically, I seemed to have bad luck when it came to pets of any kind, but I’d like to think I’ve improved over the years. They made more sense than people, most days. Naturally, that did nothing for my dating life, of which I had none. I was the steer who wished he could, but…well, you understand, don’t you?

Which leads me to my current predicament.

My cousin, Ian Lilley—thrice removed—is getting married this coming weekend at a chic little resort four hours away. I’d checked out the website and found it to be trendy without trying too hard. Ian had tracked me down somehow and asked if I would attend his wedding. Maybe it was because I was the only other “out” gay person he knew in the family, since none of our living relatives were speaking to him anymore after he came out, or so he’d said on the phone. Hell, mine weren’t either, but that was fine with me. It was weird, though, because we hadn’t been at all close as kids. I’d always been the odd man out. Thing was, he wanted me to not only turn up, but bring a plus one, too.

Right.

As this was to be a very gay affair, I knew there’d be snickers and sneers from all the sure-to-be well-hung guests if I dared to show up stag. Maybe I’d bring my dog, Bambi Turgelson—the only female I’d ever love, and no, my mother doesn’t count—as my date. At least we got along.

Here’s the problem. I was the right-hand man to the head of a multi-million-dollar corporation—a man so arrogant, he made Donald Trump look like the Dahli Lama. He was the real reason why I rarely ever had time for dates, or a one-off. Or sleeping. CEO Lambert Morton kept me running around 24/7, because that’s what he paid me to do. But we used to be friends, once, and because of that, I let him take advantage of my forgiving nature, and created a monster.

Anytime I tried to take off more than a half-day from work, he pitched a fit and would sabotage something so I’d have to come into the office and fix it. I told myself I put up with this OCD ultra-possessive bullshit because no one else would, and the company would fail, yadda yadda, but as always, there was more to this story…

* * * *

Just so you know, I could run this company with my eyes closed. I’d had to, what with the numerous occasions when his royal pain in the heiny had been in Italy or on his yacht somewhere, screwing around and not giving a damn about conference calls or closing deals. He knew I’d always be there to get the job done, to make him look good. I held all his secrets in my hands, knew all his passwords, forged his signature for documents as needed, negotiated contracts, and managed high-dollar accounts.

I pretended to be him so often, I sometimes forgot who I was. What good was it that I made an obscene amount of money? Or had a huge loft with a nice skyline I rarely saw, and lots of nice things I almost never used, simply because it was my job to wait hand and foot on my former college roommate?

The rumor mill in the company assumed I had balls of steel because of the abuse I put up with constantly. Perhaps I’m a sucker for punishment. As I was pushing forty, I really should move on. I was damned tired of being stepped on. Yet here I remained.