Chapter 1

Tate Blackwood, if asked, would have admitted to anyone that he would never settle down with a guy, let alone marry one. He also would have confessed to enjoying one-night stands, sex with a variety of men, and a life without commitments, boyfriends, and anything that could tie him down. Truth told—and there were a lot of fucked up truths in his life, none of which he considered embarrassed by or ashamed of—he couldn’t see himself with a husband or one man. All he could do was jump from one dick or a jockish ass to the next, enjoying sex for one simple reason—getting off.

Tall, dark, and handsome, the guy could have passed as a walking cliché. Queer porn in West Hollywood would have loved for him to do a number of naughty films because of his six-two frame and one hundred and eighty pounds of compact muscles. His onyx-colored hair had a wave through it that some women, and most queer men, would have killed for, and his eyes were about as handsome as a model on the front of a paperback romance: bright blue with flecks of silver.

At thirty-eight, he owned and operated his own company, the Steeping Tea Company (STC). His wealth had been gained through hard work, and a business degree and brains from Yale. His tea company just happened to be worth seventeen million dollars. Lots to brag about. Clean money made because of hard workers, just as he thought of himself. For the last eight years, he’d been running Tea, mostly with the help of his CFO, Catherine Mangel, and Vice President, Lee Stewart.

Barely could he find time to relax because of his career, but when he did, he enjoyed hanging out at his flat that overlooked Lake Erie in Channing, Pennsylvania. There, alone, rarely, if ever taking a guy home to share his company with because he searched out sex antics in other men’s flats and Cape Cods, Tate enjoyed reading Agatha Christie novels, choosing one after the next to.

Hardly ever did he travel the globe for pleasure. Most of the time, he flew to Los Angeles for work. Collecting tea samples (mostly dried leaves in glass tubes) from around the world lacked personal pleasure. Instead, he worked three times as hard as most people, gaining success and usually exhaustion.

Because he was busy with Tea, and traveling, he couldn’t fit a boyfriend or husband into the mix. One, he didn’t think it was fair to be trotting the globe and leaving his lover behind to fend for himself. Two, Tate refused to open his heart to a man, learning to love someone as much as he loved himself. And three, he didn’t need the drama in his life.

Singlehood worked best for him. Always. There was no reason to change his ways now. No drama meant a happy life. A happy life meant no hassles. Bottom line: Tate Blackwood wanted to stay single for the rest of his life, enjoying his one-night stands and a variety of men in the sack. Who could blame him, right? No one he knew, of course.

* * * *

August 4

Tate went on a date that hot and steamy evening. He chose a white tank, showing off his beefy chest, and a tight pair of shorts that defined his moderately-sized package. Most of the time, he sported boxer-briefs under his shorts, but he didn’t do his laundry in over a week, although he enjoyed the task, and didn’t have any to wear. So he went commando. Because of the high humidity, his tank clung to his chest like a second skin. Even though he loved the sun and summer, he could live without the humidity and heat, finding both uncomfortable and a nuisance.

He left his flat on Elderman Street in the downtown area at approximately twenty minutes after seven in the evening. Sinclaire Coffee House just happened to be in walking distance from where he lived. Since there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, he decided against taking Uber or a city cab. He enjoyed the summer evening heat on his bare arms and legs, and the heat against his solid chest, as he walked to his date place, taking in the city’s sights through his Ray Bans. He passed Bars, a gym where he worked out for the last dozen or more years, and then he passed one of his favorite queer bars, Steel City Boys.

Three blocks later, he ended up inside Sinclaire Coffee House and looked around for his date, Dean McFlarity.

Eventually, Tate spotted McFlarity at the bar, hidden in a shadow and next to a wall. The guy looked rough and handsome in the semi-darkness. The man’s dark hair and eyes, and reddish lips, made Dean look more like a vampire than a mortal. Like his ad on Kinder Finder, a dating app for gay men over thirty, McFlarity’s chest practically busted out of his sky blue T-shirt.