To the Max Read online

  Copyright

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  4760 Preston Road

  Suite 244-149

  Frisco, TX 75034

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

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

  To the Max

  Copyright © 2010 by Julie Lynn Hayes

  Cover Art by Anne Cain [email protected]

  Cover Design by Mara McKennen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  ISBN: 978-1-61581-417-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  March, 2010

  eBook edition available

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-418-3

  Dedications

  To my children—Katie, Michael, Sarah and Chris—

  Katie and Sarah for their encouragement, and Mike and Chris

  for putting up with me while I was writing Max.

  To Kitty, my most vocal cheerleader and Max’s number one fan!

  To Gail, who always believed in me and kept my faith alive.

  To Jeia, Carrie, Diane, Kim, James, and Aly, my Internet support team.

  To Scott & Scott, aka the Romentics, for showing me that

  true love among men is both erotic and romantic.

  And to every loving same-sex couple everywhere, may they

  share in love and happiness for all the days of their lives!

  Chapter 1

  To The Max

  I HAVE no proof one way or the other of the existence of a divine being, but if there is such a person, he or she certainly has a twisted sense of humor. As if I didn’t have enough to contend with being born a member of the lycanthropic order, I am also of the homosexual persuasion. In other words, a gay werewolf! Pretty funny, isn’t it? And sometimes it’s hard to tell where the one leaves off and the other begins.

  I’m not sure why I said homosexual persuasion. It’s not as if someone persuaded me to be gay. I just am. It’s not exactly a conscious choice. After all, who in their right mind, even in this allegedly enlightened new millennium—no, scratch that, that’s next year, not 2000, technically speaking. But as I was saying, who would deliberately choose to be of a sexual orientation that is not exactly mainstream and often draws the most scathing and condescending of denunciations from the so-called “regular” people? Not I. But as I said, it’s not a choice; it just is. So I live with it, having taken some forty-odd years to become adjusted to the idea. Now it’s just a part of me, a part of who I am, like the werewolf thing. And my innate fashion sense. All right, maybe I’m feeding a stereotype there. Forgive my warped sense of humor.

  I just realized that I have not even graced these pages with my nomenclature, which sin of omission I shall now remedy, but I warn you, I do not take lightly to random bursts of laughter at my expense, so beware:

  My name is Maximillian Jean-Baptiste Montague. My mother’s name is Juliet Montague, née Montague. Yes, shades of Romeo and Juliet. And no, she did not marry one of her cousins, nor am I the product of selective inbreeding; I can see your wheels turning now. She was never actually married at all. It’s an old joke with us, one I’ve used many times for her benefit. She merely sticks her tongue out at me and tells me not to be so bloody impertinent. It’s an affectation we both possess—this habit of talking like we are somehow British transplants toying at being Americans, but that’s not the case—we’re Midwesterners through and through; don’t let anybody kid you. No, my mother did not marry my father for the pure and simple reason that she did not know him. Theirs was no case of love-struck teenagers with faulty contraceptive devices and overactive hormones. My mother was impregnated while walking alone through the woods on a night when the Selenic orb was gracing the firmament with her horrible presence (as you can see, I am not a moon worshiper, for obvious reasons) and at the height of her power over the creatures that crawl upon the earth. My mother merely refers to it as her Little Red Riding Hood experience. She was attacked most suddenly and viciously by a man who lurked within this forest primeval—a renegade, we presume, with no pack of his own—just prior to his transfiguration into a creature of the night. The result of that attack was me. I suppose I should be grateful. I’ll get back to you.

  My mother has always dealt well with my being a werewolf. In fact, she finds it easier to accept than my being gay, which might explain the women she is always pushing on me and the blind dates she attempts to set me up on. Which, of course, are ridiculous, not to mention time-wasting for all parties involved. I have no desire to be set up or offered like the top prize in some sort of romantic meat shoot. It’s not as if she’s looking for grandchildren from me. She has a grandson already, my sister Diana’s son, Jackson, who is six foot two and seventeen and lives for two things: to play games on the Playstation and to natter with his best friend on the phone (they talk more than any ten women I have ever seen).

  Also, I already have a mate of my own and have had for years, Richard by name; although to be honest, there are times when I think I would have been much better off had we never met. I love him with all my heart, yes I do, but he is the inconstant moon personified: at times both fickle and exceedingly heartless. He treats me like I am his own private public transportation, getting off and on whenever he pleases, both metaphorically and figuratively. He disappears for periods of time, and I won’t hear from him, not a word in any sort of written or oral form whatsoever, as if I have ceased to exist for him the moment he walks out the door—and don’t even tell me that he is even remotely faithful to me, that ungrateful cur, for it isn’t part of his nature—and then with no warning I’ll wake up one morning to find him curled up next to me in the bed, his lips filled with soft words and softer kisses, and I melt all over again. God, I can be incredibly stupid at times. Or is that simply naïve?

  Richard and I met during college—mine, not his. I was a student, part time anyway, at Washington University. I found myself unable to keep up with the demands of a full-time schedule, but with my innate love of learning, I chose to attend a couple of classes. It was in my Greek literature class that I became acquainted with a fellow student, one Nigel Wallace, who invited me to go out with a few friends of his to a local disco that he assured me quietly catered to those of the homosexual persuasion. (There’s that phrase again. Sorry.) Normally I never had anything to do with other people, shunning their society, for the most part. But his invitation came at a particularly vulnerable moment for me when I was still regrouping from the effects of the previous full moon and looking for a legitimate reason to avoid my mother’s latest romantic offering. On a whim, I agreed to go.

  The disco was located on the East Side—that’s the term St. Louisans use for places that are in Illinois—where we turn up our noses at the residents, and yet we seem drawn to some of the seamier night spots that are located there. Garishly lit with what appeared to be the illegitimate spawn of Ready Kilowatt’s nursery, it boasted a huge glittering disco ball that hung directly over the illuminated dance floor. Nigel’s friends had procured for us a table that was distressingly near it and therefore a bit too well lit for my taste, but it couldn’t
be helped, so I accepted the situation with my usual good grace. Which, translated, means I bit my tongue and said nothing.

  I, although being quite able to dance, chose not to and was content to sit at the table, sipping my mai tai, watching the gyrations of the dancing throng before me. Disco clothes tended to be as distinctive as the music itself, and they could be as colorful as their wearer’s imagination. Sorry, that is my sarcastic side slipping through. To think of the sartorial errors inherent on that dance floor! Makes me cringe even now. Gold chains bouncing off exposed chests, the whole encased in vanilla cloth ala Travolta, pastel skirts with slits up to the navel and makeup laid on with a trowel!

  I appear to be getting off the subject once again. I was sitting there, minding my own business, watching the dancers swing their hips to the Bee Gees rhythm that throbbed through my head, running over in my mind some thoughts I had on a paper I was writing about Iphigenia in Aulis, oblivious to all else around me, when from the corner of one eye I caught a motion and realized there was someone standing beside me. At first I assumed I was in the way and went to move, an apology spilling from my lips, but a hand on my arm stopped me, and I looked up to behold the most beautiful midnight blue eyes I have ever seen in my life. They were framed by golden lashes, lemon yellow—though I had not thought that particular shade existed in any form on the human anatomy, but there it was—with long flowing tresses of the same rich shade that hung in beautiful waves down to this fantastic creature’s shoulders. He was dressed in black, a direct contrast to the ice cream vendor suits I saw around me, and although he wore no golden chains, his shirt was unbuttoned just enough to give an enticing glimpse of the creamy skin beneath. I blushed when I realized I was indeed staring and quickly turned my head.

  Reaching out one slender hand, he caught my chin and tilted it toward him. His eyes conveyed an amused expression, and the lights fairly danced in his dark pupils. “You can do better than this,” he said. I didn’t know if he meant the place, the music, or the people, but at that particular moment, I didn’t really care either. I had been with other men before—I was no innocent schoolboy, believe me, even at the tender age of twenty—but I had never experienced anything like what was happening to me at that precise moment in time, although I had eagerly looked for all the signs with every boy I dated. You see, it is a peculiarity of wolves, werewolves being no exception, that when we find that particular someone who is our soulmate, we mate for life and become incapable of loving anyone else ever again. I had always yearned for that, longed for it with all my heart and soul, but so far had always come up wanting in that department. Until now. I looked into Richard’s eyes and I knew—something inside of me was sending out frantic signals, my heart to my brain, that this was him, this was the one—my mouth began to bear a strange resemblance to the Sahara even as my heart was attempting to exit through my rib cage and my ability to speak in meaningful sentences was quickly becoming a thing of the past.

  The only reason I could even hear him over the din of the brothers Gibb was my fantastically sharp lycanthropic hearing. Which he did not possess. And which made my mangled response even more impossible for him to decipher. But Richard Burke was not one to let such a small thing stand in his way when he wanted something. He reached for my hand, motioning with his godlike head toward the exit. I knew at once what he meant, and for a moment I glanced toward my companions, thinking that perhaps a goodnight at least was in order, but a second look at that glorious profile, as my blood pressure went skittering toward critical, convinced me that was not necessary. I gulped down what remained of my drink and followed my unknown prince through the cacophonous crowd and out the front door. Straight into destiny.

  Well, enough of that. I can pen those details later. First meeting, first kiss, first everything. The point that I was trying to make… what was the point that I was trying to make? Nothing, I guess, just me going on about Richard. Even my fingers blush to admit it.

  I never did receive a degree. Once Richard came into my life, education took something of a backseat, although I still read voraciously. That is a lifelong habit I shall never lose. My being a werewolf has made steady employment difficult to obtain and retain. How do you tell a prospective employer that you might disappear each month about the time of the full moon—nay, that you will disappear each month? Most people would tell you take a quick hike, don’t darken my doorstep, don’t let the door goose your caboose… you get the idea. Not to mention that I never did exactly settle on any sort of career that was guaranteed to take me anywhere. My interests have always lain with the esoteric. Not much call for experts in Greek lore and literature, is there? Maybe in Greece, but not in St. Louis, anyway.

  I am exceedingly lucky that my maternal grandfather left his only daughter enough money not only to live on, but to enable me to do the same. My memories of this gentleman are rather vague. I know that he took care of my mother once her enceinte condition became obvious even to him, and never judged her in any way for not giving up the product of her awful encounter. His wife, my mother’s mother, had already been dead for years at that time, and the two of them had developed a close relationship which even my birth could not tear asunder, even when my mother told her father the nature of the beast that resided within me. He accepted me for what I am and never made me feel different or wrong because of it.

  When he passed on, everything he had went to Juliet. My mother is far from stingy. She is rather generous to a fault, as evidenced by her allowing my sister (actually my half-sister, if you wish to be precise) and my nephew to live with her rent-free all these years. And I have been able to parlay some of that money with a few successful investments into enough of a windfall to enable me to buy my home, a small stone cottage nestled high on the bluffs overlooking the Missouri River in St. Charles County. I have no near neighbors, and that is the way I prefer it, for their sake as well as my own. Being in the country as I am, the sound of an occasional wolf howl does not give rise to cries of terror, nor cause the locals to arm themselves with pitchforks and stakes and flaring torches in their frantic efforts to kill the monster as they storm my humble abode…. Okay, I’m exaggerating there. But I do prefer my solitude, to be honest, and I can more easily ensure that the wolf does not terrorize the countryside as he does not always play nice.

  My home, my castle, my asylum, is an unpretentious stone cottage in the midst of an incredible sylvan setting that I love for its very simplicity. It sits at the end of a winding road of the bituminous variety that I have tongue-in-cheek designated Lupercalia Lane. My cottage sits alone. Originally two-bedroom, I completely converted one of these into a library, stuffing it with hundreds of books covering a wide range of interests, including a number of volumes of Greek drama as well as Greek myths and legends and history. I have also collected a number of Greek knickknacks, which I have proudly set into a curio cabinet within the library. Many of these knickknacks were bought by me during trips to Greece; I try to go every year or two, more often if I can. I have an affinity for the place that draws me back. I often take Richard with me and have spent many happy hours with him there, reblazing the paths once taken by the ancient Hellenes, whether making love in the shadows of the Parthenon or the steps of the Acropolis or sundry other places, such as the agora where I happily haggled for my purchases. I was apprehensive of being caught by the tourists—a tendency to worry being an intrinsic part of my nature—but Richard merely laughed at my inhibitions, helping me to reach new heights of ecstasy in ancient places.

  In my living room sits a black upright piano, one obtained from an estate sale Juliet and I attended in the upscale neighborhood of Ladue. Just looking at it brings back happy memories of my boyhood, of hours spent at the keyboard meticulously learning the lessons set for me by the stern taskmaster who was my piano teacher. Mrs. Lyndon, I think her name was. While the other boys were busy gaining tans at games of kickball and squareball, baseball and tetherball, I was pallidly learning the intricacies of Chopin and Bach
. If I was really good, I would be given the arrangements of one Mr. Percy Grainger with the complex time signatures that would make most people’s heads spin! I had no use for sports or playmates and preferred to spend my time indoors. I had very few companions, as I was homeschooled at a time when it was not the norm, but one doesn’t miss what one doesn’t know. At least I didn’t.

  My piano has been a source of great joy to Richard and myself. He has a lovely baritone voice, which thrills me to no end, and although I do not consider myself to be a great singer, I am a passable tenor (my sweet boy tells me that I have a sexy werewolf voice, which I simply eat up), and we are often to be found together at the keyboard.

  Okay, moving on, as I have wandered back to Richard. Again.

  Undoubtedly by now you are wondering what I do to occupy my time. Do I simply lie about with bated breath, waiting for my errant lover to decide to show up? Am I simply a drain on my mother and society as a whole? A misanthropic lycanthrope who roams the countryside at the full moon, howling about his thwarted love to the unknowing, uncaring world? A useless expert on Hellenic culture who can hold his own at the keyboard? Well, surprisingly enough, I do have an occupation, one which I rather fell into by chance. It provides me with the means to satisfy my own requirements for living without depending upon my mother. It also funds my travels about the globe, with or without Richard (I do prefer the latter).

  It came about in the most unusual way… but most of my life is unusual, so that in itself is not surprising.

  I just realized that I have neglected to mention my cousin Sebastian—Sebastian Ares Montague—son of my mother’s twin sister, Ophelia. And you thought Juliet had it bad? Hah! At any rate, my aunt Ophelia was always the wild one in the family, the member most likely to have her picture displayed in the post office. Sebastian was the result of an encounter with a sultry-eyed college professor with a silver tongue who spent his spare time reading bad poetry at open mic nights in dark coffeehouses and who promptly disappeared once the results of the pregnancy test came back, never to be seen or heard from again. The Montague girls just couldn’t catch a break. Personally, I think they were better off for it. Ophelia and Sebastian lived with a succession of men—the first one, I think, was an insurance salesman who maintained a little love nest for his young lover and her child far from the prying eyes of his wife—until the last one, who definitely turned out to be Mr. Wrong. He murdered poor Ophelia one morning when she didn’t make his eggs to his liking—broke her neck in one fell swoop, so they say—and my suddenly orphaned cousin came to live with us. Therefore, Sebastian and I grew up together. And although most people find him a tough nut to crack—he does have an incredibly vicious side to him, I must admit—he has always been rather protective of me, being older than me by some five years and one of only two companions of my youth.