Accidents Never Happen Read online

  Synopsis

  Accidents never happen. Or do they?

  Thirty-nine-year-old Albert is a Puerto Rican amateur cruiserweight married to a woman who can't stand the sight of him. Joey, a college sophomore, claims he just watched his parents drive off a cliff after he bled the brakes of the family car. From the moment their lives collide beneath a train track on a street in Chicago, the two men can't deny their mutual attraction. The moment they give in to their desires, a domino effect is triggered setting off a chain reaction of murder and tragedy.

  Accidents Never Happen

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

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  By the Author

  Mesmerized

  Accidents Never Happen

  Accidents Never Happen

  © 2011 By David-Matthew Barnes. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-530-7

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: July 2011

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Greg Herren

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  Acknowledgments

  Many people helped bring Accidents Never Happen to print. To them, I offer my deepest gratitude:

  To Len Barot and Greg Herren, for believing in this novel, and for giving it such a terrific home. The ten-year wait was well worth it.

  To my wonderful Bold Strokes Books family: Cindy Cresap, Connie Ward, Kim Baldwin, Lori Anderson, Ruth Sternglantz, Sandy Lowe, Sheri, and Stacia Seaman. And to my fellow BSB authors, particularly Anne Laughlin, Carsen Taite, Clifford Henderson, D. Jackson Leigh, J.M. Redmann, Lisa Girolami, Lee Lynch, Lynda Sandoval, Nell Stark, Rebecca S. Buck, and Rebekah Weatherspoon.

  To Linda Daniel, for her tremendous input and encouragement.

  To these incredible organizations for their support of my work: the Amelia Island Book Festival, the Atlanta Queer Literary Festival, Capital Public Radio, the Decatur Book Festival, Giovanni’s Room, the Lambda Literary Foundation, Now Voyager Bookstore and Gallery, Outwrite Bookstore and Coffeehouse, and the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival.

  To my students at Southern Crescent Technical College, who teach me more on a daily basis than I could ever dream of teaching them. To my wonderful colleagues for putting up with me, particularly Alexis Jackson, Arthur Hammond, Ashley Calhoun Stout, Brad Jester, Dr. Dawn Hodges, Gail Daniel, Jamie Hughes, Janis Phillips, Jean Cash, Jennifer Brooks, Jennifer Edwards, Kate Williams, Kelly Batchelder, Leila Wells Rogers, Liz Hawkins Jester, Lynn Futral, Mary Ann Whitehurst, Michael Cook, Olivia Andrews-Beard, Paul Scott, Rebecca Johnson, Shellie Morgan, Sherry Brooks, Sloan Passmore, Steven Marks, Teresa Brooks, and Trevor Alexander.

  For their never-ending support and words of encouragement: Aaron Martinez, Andrea Patten, Anita Kelly, Bethany Hidden-Cauley, Billie Parish, Bryan Northup, Carmel Comendador, Christian Thomas, Christine Svendsen, Collin Kelley, Cyndi Lopez, Dale Smith, Danielle Downs, Dawn Hartman Towle, Debbie Hartman Otto, Debra Garnes, Dellina Moreno, Elaine Mulligan, Elena Corral, Elizabeth Whitney, Elizabeth Yokas, Erin C. Murphy, Fay Jacobs, Frankie Hernandez, Franklin Abbott, Gilbert Villalpando, Haldi Kranich, Janet Milstein, Jessica Lopez Murray, Jessica Moreno, Jessica Moyer, Jill McMahon, Jodi Blue, Joey Jones, Joseph Ramos, Karen Gomez Vega, Karen Head, Kathleen Bradean, Kelly Kinghorn Hurtado, Kelly Norris Delafield, Kelly Wilson Lopez, Kel Munger, Kimberly Faye Greenberg, Lety Cruz, Linda Velasco Wread, Linnea Lindh, Logan Hindle, Loretta Sylvestre, Maria Canela-Fisher, Marilyn Montague, Melanie Faith, Melanie Reynolds, Melita Ann Sagar, Michele Karlsberg, Michelle Boman Harris, Mindy Morgan, Nea Herriott, Nick A. Moreno, Nita Manley, Patricia Abbott-Dinsmore, Raquel Short, Rena Mason, Robin Roberts, Robyn Colburn, Ruby Kane, Ruby Sketchley, Sabra Rahel, Selena Ambush, Sheryl Hoover, Stacy Scranton, Stefani Deoul, Susan Madden, Tara Henry, Therease Logan, Todd Wylie, Trisha Mendez, Trish DeBaun, and Vanessa Menendez.

  To my parents, Samuel Barnes, Jr., and Nancy Nickle, and my brothers, Jamin, Jason, Andy, and Jaren, for letting me be the writer in the family.

  To the loving memory of my grandfather, Samuel Barnes, and my grandparents, Clifford and Dorothy Nickle.

  To Edward C. Ortiz, for the wonderful life and love we share.

  To God, for everything. Without You, I’m nothing.

  To the beautiful city of Chicago. And the always-inspiring people who live there.

  Dedication

  For Elizabeth Ellen Warren

  Who taught me to dream bigger, laugh louder, and make magic.

  Let them see that the important thing

  is not the object of love,

  but the emotion itself.

  —Gore Vidal

  Albert

  Albert was like a car accident that couldn’t be avoided. He was a boxer, constantly tortured by an impulse to destroy something. He walked with an angry gait, tense shoulders, tight jaw. He moved with his head bent to the wind, dodging the pockets of dusk October air that pummeled his numb ears. He was heading south to a fifth-floor gym on Belmont, just blocks from the icy mouth of Lake Michigan. He had a tempestuous look in his dark eyes—fiery, even—determined to prove a point or take on a triple dare. He rounded a corner, nearly clipping the edge of a brick building.

  Albert rammed into a stranger’s left shoulder. The hit was hard; it would have been heard had the train not muted the sound. At the moment of contact, the “L” train above them slammed on its brakes. The metallic scream reverberated against the sides of the skyscrapers before exploding into an echo of a thousand warnings. A shower of blue and orange sparks rained down from the wooden tracks and kissed the sidewalk.

  The stranger stumbled back, instinctually reaching out to empty air, grasping for something to break his fall. Albert’s quick hands moved on impulse. He held the stranger just above the elbow, steadying him.

  They stood in front of a 7-Eleven. Evening commuters streamed back and forth in a dizzying display of neckties, briefcases, leather shoes, and paper cups of coffee spilling splashes of milky brown on hands, sleeves, concrete. Fast-forward city motion circled and swirled around the two men, who were standing completely still, as if the collision had momentarily suspended them.

  The connection between Albert and the stranger was immediate and severe. Energy ignited; it was fierce and electric. Their eyes locked, and they couldn’t look away.

  *

  Albert was a Puerto Rican with a bad attitude and delicious lips. He was intimidating, even in a soft blue and wheat brown flannel jacket, black sweatpants, and a pair of athletic shoes threatening to break open at the soles with another step. A red and black duffel bag was slung over his shoulder.

  The stranger was gangly and tender, with refined grace and a tempting naïveté. Girlish, even.

  At once, Albert was fascinated by the stranger’s vulnerability. He seemed like the sensitive sissy type, constantly waiting for someone to tell him what to do and feel. His boyish innocence allayed the swell of the rage that soaked Albert’s blood like century-old te
quila. The timid way the tall kid lowered his pale eyes to the ground, to the frays in the laces of his scuffed Adidas, before lifting his gaze up again with flushed cheeks, caused an arousing conflict in Albert. He wasn’t sure if the stranger was perfect for an ass kicking, or a new disciple capable of unflinching hero worship.

  And one thing Albert needed was to be worshipped.

  Albert gave him a playful wink and asked, “You all right, kid?”

  “That scared me,” the stranger admitted in a voice just as gentle as Albert had imagined it would be. The kid looked down again, shivering beneath his hooded sweatshirt, blinking the frosty air. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  Albert’s hand moved up to his own face, caressed his chin and dark goatee, nervous and apologetic as if forgiving himself for something. It seemed like the stranger was waiting for him to speak again. “It’s a good thing I was here to catch you. Must got a lot on your mind.”

  The kid answered with a slight shrug, “I haven’t slept in a couple of days.”

  “You a party animal?” Albert asked, grinning.

  The stranger responded, “No, but I did something I shouldn’t have. I guess it took longer than I expected.” His expression widened a little. He leaned in. “Your eye. It’s black.” He stepped back, cautious. “Did I do that to you?”

  Albert laughed a little. “How could you?” he asked. “No offense, but you don’t look like no fighter.”

  The kid’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you a fighter?”

  Albert’s words rang like a round two bell. “Yeah. Amateur boxer. Cruiserweight.”

  The stranger’s eyes filled with a deep admiration, subconscious lust shifting the expression on his young face from smile to desire. His tone changed. His words sounded more secretive, hushed; an awkward attempt at flirting. Perhaps he was scared the conversation would end too soon. “You should have someone look at that.”

  Albert stared at the stranger, felt his jawbone throb. What the fuck is this kid doing to me? Albert couldn’t define or deny the incredible sense of want slinking through his body and shaking the corners of his soul. He hadn’t felt this much passion in years. Not even on his wedding day.

  It seemed evident the kid was gay. Yet Albert was intrigued by him because of the alluring sweetness he sensed in him. The way the kid looked at him, with an enamored fondness, gave Albert a buzz, making him feel like the vigilante he always imagined he would be. And the kid didn’t come off like he was looking for sex. He seemed lonely, even desperate, for a friend.

  Albert had often pretended to have a definitive disdain for gay men. Said that he hated them, calling them fags and cocksuckers whenever they popped up on television, swearing he’d punch one in the face without a second thought if they came on to him, and telling his buddy Jackson once over shots of Stoli at a strip bar that he considered them weak and ridiculous.

  They were freaks of nature.

  But the truth was Albert was curious, and had been since the day of his father’s funeral. Only fifteen, he’d needed a place to cry. He found refuge in the basement laundry room of the apartment building where he’d grown up in Humboldt Park. He tucked his tears away when his grief was interrupted by a basket-carrying neighbor boy who brushed against Albert in an attempt to squeeze by the narrow space between them and the machines. The sensation scared him, caused Albert to race back upstairs. He’d barricaded himself in the bathroom and beat off to a fantasy he hadn’t allowed himself to have since.

  Albert returned the questions lingering in the stranger’s eyes with the same invitation in his voice. “You hungry, kid? I’m starvin’, myself.”

  The kid’s eyes shone hot with anticipation. “I’d like that,” he answered with a small nod. Thick strands of his toast brown hair fell across his sea green eyes as if he were playing half a game of peek-a-boo.

  “C’mon.” Albert moved and the kid followed. Albert knew that he would.

  The two men walked in silence, shoulder to shoulder. At the next corner they waited for the light to change. Albert saw their reflection in the dirty passenger window of an idling cab.

  They were an odd pair. The giraffe-like stranger stood next to short, stocky Albert. Albert’s gaze was locked on the image in the finger-smudged glass but the kid’s eyes were turned toward Albert, studying his profile. He stared at Albert, almost as if he were a present about to be opened on Christmas morning.

  The kid’s nose was too thin and large, marring what would’ve been only an average face. He wasn’t what most people would consider attractive. He was simple, the type of guy who was overlooked. His apparent weakness made him a likely target for ridicule and domination.

  Albert looked at his own reflection. He was equally unattractive. His hair—dark and unruly—had started to recede near the edges of his temples. His nose had been busted twice. Neither time was a result of a fight in the ring, as most people supposed. It was his wife’s wrath that broke it. His bent nose brought attention to his face, because it looked like it belonged to somebody else. He had a thick scar above his right brow; a souvenir from a neighborhood fight when he was twelve. His front teeth were crooked—they bent in toward each other—and he had a slight overbite. His features had a roughness to them, adding to his street-smart persona. Yet, his lips betrayed his image—they always looked like they were begging to be kissed.

  The light changed and they stepped off the curb in unison.

  I’m old enough to be this kid’s father, Albert thought. And it was true. Albert had turned thirty-nine on his last birthday. The stranger looked eighteen, maybe twenty at the oldest.

  Albert led the kid to a coffee shop on Belmont Avenue. They were seated in a booth in the front window. The kid stared through the open slats of dusty miniblinds to the world outside. Strangers passed by, intent on their destinations. The neon pink and green OPEN sign was buzzing and flickering, as if the lights were aware of the lives merging inside.

  “I don’t usually eat dinner this early,” the kid said.

  “Yeah, me neither,” Albert agreed.

  After ordering a club sandwich and a vanilla Coke with no ice, the stranger nervously toyed with a straw wrapper, stealing occasional glances at Albert. Albert sat back with his arm draped over the top of the red upholstered booth, waiting for his basket of onion rings and a bottle of mustard. He took a couple of gulps of tongue-burning black coffee, cleared his throat, and looked at the boy.

  “Why so nervous, kid?”

  His bottom lip quivered. “I’m not.”

  “Since I almost knocked ya out, I figure the least I can do is buy you dinner.”

  The kid flashed a sudden smile. “It’s nice of you, thanks.”

  Albert’s jaw tightened. “I’m not usually this nice,” he warned.

  The boy looked up, expressionless. “No?”

  “No. I don’t like people.”

  The kid’s eyes fell again as he concentrated on twisting the straw wrapper around his index finger so tight the tip began to turn purple. “I don’t either,” he said. Albert wondered if this was the first time that the kid had admitted his dislike for people. “That might surprise you since you probably think I’m some dumb kid, but I think most people are motherfucking assholes.” The boy laughed a little, amused by his own thoughts.

  Albert leaned in, caught off guard. The kid was unpredictable. Albert liked that.

  A lot.

  “Oh yeah?” he urged. “Tell me more.”

  The kid’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What do you want to know?”

  “I don’t care. I just like hearing ya talk,” Albert replied, also in a whisper.

  He blushed a little. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Tell me who ya hate the most.”

  The kid chewed on the right corner of his bottom lip before answering, “The obvious choice is my mother.”

  Albert finished his cup of coffee and signaled to a lazy waitress for a refill. “Why do you hate your mom? What’d she do to ya?” he asked
.

  The boy shrugged. “She embarrassed me, I guess.”

  “What’s so bad about that?”

  The edges of the kid’s pale colored eyes dimmed from the inside out with a sense of remorse. “She died.”

  “You’re embarrassed because she’s dead?”

  The kid shook his head, looked out the window. Maybe he was trying to find someone he knew in the passing crowd of the evening rush. “My mother drove them off a cliff. My father was with her.”

  A lick of fear touched the center of Albert’s spine and shot a round of tension into his posture. “On purpose?” he asked. “She did it on purpose?”

  “No,” the kid said, maybe too casually. “I guess the brakes failed.”

  An element of truth danced in the heavy air between them, like an invisible string pulled from the sudden tears the kid was trying to keep from falling. In that moment, Albert suspected what the kid had done. And it scared him. But it thrilled him, too.

  “Did you hate your dad, too?” he asked.

  The boy shook his head. “No. It wasn’t his fault.” He leaned forward and his voice dropped again. “He wasn’t supposed to be in the car.”

  Albert breathed. “Where’d it happen?”

  “In Maine. Where I’m from…Portland.” He said it like the place was hell.

  “Damn, when did this go down?”

  A few tears won the battle and spilled down the sides of the kid’s face. “Last night,” he said.

  The waitress appeared with a coffee pot. She splashed more into Albert’s cup with a sigh before sauntering off again. “That’s rough,” Albert said.