FIRST FOREVER

  THE ISLAND BOOK 1

  DECLAN RHODES

  Copyright © 2023 by Declan Rhodes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Be the first to hear about all of my upcoming books and receive free stories not available anywhere else. Sign up for my newsletter at this link and receive a free book, Late Night Means Love, just for joining:

  https://claims.prolificworks.com/free/34zXEjYv

  Declan Rhodes also previously published under the pen name Grant C. Holland.

  CHARACTERS

  Nathan - 40-year-old middle school principal

  Lucas - 28-year-old photographer

  Gayle - Nathan’s recently deceased wife

  Jason - Nathan’s son finishing first year in college

  Ryder - Recently moved to Garfield Island from New York City

  Gretchen - Lifelong Garfield Island resident, cousin of Gayle’s

  Marco - Ryder’s fiance

  Jack - Ferryboat captain

  Jefferson - Caretaker of the Pioneer’s Home Museum

  CONTENTS

  1. Lucas

  2. Nathan

  3. Lucas

  4. Nathan

  5. Lucas

  6. Nathan

  7. Lucas

  8. Nathan

  9. Lucas

  10. Nathan

  11. Lucas

  12. Nathan

  13. Lucas

  14. Nathan

  15. Lucas

  16. Nathan

  17. Lucas

  18. Nathan

  19. Lucas

  20. Nathan

  21. Lucas

  22. Nathan

  23. Lucas

  24. Nathan

  25. Lucas

  Epilogue - Lucas

  About the Author

  Also by Declan Rhodes

  ONE

  LUCAS

  The night was star-strewn and clear, and Lake Michigan reflected the moonlight like a still, silver mirror. At the edge of the lake, upon a rocky island, a single beacon of light shone brightly in the darkness.

  Ok, so it wasn’t quite so poetic as all that. It was a rather ordinary night, and I was still awake at 2:00 a.m., terrified.

  It was the middle of my first night on Garfield Island, and I found myself wide awake with only fear for company. I desperately needed a boost in my confidence. When I first heard that I’d received a grant opportunity to photograph the people of the island, it thrilled me. Next, reality set in followed by the twin demons—apprehension and dread. if I failed to deliver, all my career dreams could vanish in an instant.

  That beacon in the darkness was my room at the Sea Drift Motel. I was Lucas Mirren, a 28-year-old professional photographer aspiring to turn the corner from weddings to the rarefied art world. Unfortunately, my plans for how to accomplish the feat were scattershot at best.

  As insomnia took hold, I desperately sought something that could lull me into Dreamland. A small bottle of bourbon from the room’s minibar was the most viable option, and I knew it would taste much better chilled over ice cubes.

  Therefore, I decided that it was only logical to go on a daring middle-of-the-night search for the infamous “Ice Machine” described by the motel clerk upon check-in. A map hung on the back of my room door with an alluring “X” that pointed out my destination.

  The motel was quiet. Seemingly all the other guests had retired for the night. I quickly threw on my pajama bottoms and tiptoed toward the door. If anyone happened to see me half-naked and barefoot at such an ungodly hour, they'd be sure to think it was just another part of a night’s worth of odd dreams.

  As I stepped into the hallway, I heard a muted click when the door shut behind me. It was enough to trigger a sickly sensation in my gut. I spun on my heels and grabbed for the door handle, but it was already locked. I’d made a horrible mistake. I forgot to take the card key with me!

  I gasped and murmured, “Fuck.” Adrenaline coursing through me, I scuttled past the ice machine, plus an extra six doors, to reach the motel's reception desk. A night clerk would surely be my saving grace. They'd sympathize with my plight, grant me access back into my room, and check out my ID if necessary.

  My mood plummeted when I found no one at the front desk. All that greeted me was a sign that promised a return in roughly an hour. I was left alone with the ghosts of past travelers forced to linger in the hallway for eternity.

  I wandered up and down the corridor, observing the floor, toeing the carpet, and attempting to work out what to do next. Just as I contemplated whether or not my pacing would wear a dent in the hallway’s rug, I heard a noise at the end of the hall.

  I took a few steps back as a man advanced toward me. He scurried toward the room next to mine. He wore a bright red coat and clutched a small paper bag in his right hand. I watched with curiosity as he silently swiped his card key and vanished into the room.

  Left alone in the hallway wearing only my pajama bottoms, I felt like a fool as I watched the door close. A sensation akin to misery washed over me while I stood exposed, clueless about what to do next. I thought perhaps I should simply go back to the motel lobby and wait it out. Someday, I would surely laugh about the entire catastrophe.

  Suddenly, the door opened again, and the man in the red coat reappeared. He waved to me and said, “Hey, I saw you standing there outside my door. I thought you might need some help.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck. Turning the corner of my mouth up into a sheepish half-smile, I said, “Yes, I’m locked out. I—I came out to get some ice for my bourbon, but I left the key inside. The desk clerk won’t be back for an hour, and—well—here I am.”

  The stranger checked me out from head to toe. If we were in a bar, I would have believed he was giving me the once-over. He was attractive enough himself. In a different context, it might have been the beginning of an evening of friendly chat and flirtation.

  “That’s no problem. I’m a night owl, and I wasn’t feeling so well. I’m going to stay up until my stomach settles. Maybe I can help you, too. My name’s Nathan, by the way—Nathan Woodhouse. Come on inside. I already have ice.”

  I hesitated for a moment, unsure whether I should trust a total stranger, particularly one who might be sick. However, the thought of spending an hour in the cold hallway sucked to the skies. I reminded myself that it was Garfield Island, home to 2,000 hardy souls, not the city streets back home in Milwaukee. Nathan seemed kind, and his offer was generous. I nodded and followed him into his room.

  He answered my first question without needing a prompt. “I think I either ate something that didn’t agree with me, or I caught a stomach flu bug. I thought I had some medicine in the car’s First Aid kit, but I ended up driving the three minutes to the one bar on this little island just before closing. The bartender, a kind man named Tim, offered me a bottle of Pepto from the back.”

  “Wow, the bartender moonlights as a pharmacist,” I muttered. “Mind if I sit?”

  Nathan had a thick mat of salt and pepper hair. It complimented the peppery stubble on his chin. I noticed creases on the backs of his hands, but his face was still smooth with only delicate smile lines at the corners of his eyes. I adored older men, and Nathan had my full attention.

  He confidently grabbed two tumblers from the kitchenette’s shelf, dumped in ice cubes, and split a small bottle of bourbon between them.

  “Care to share a drink?”

  “Do you think that's wise on an unsettled stomach?”

  Nathan smiled. “What's the worst that could happen? If I don't die, I guess that means the Pepto is doing its job.”

  I accepted the offered drink, taking a sip of the strong liquid. The warmth of the bourbon spread through my throat and chest, easing my frayed nerves.

  Nathan moved to sit next to me on the room’s small sofa, his thigh pressing against mine. The intensity of his gaze drew me in, and it made my pulse quicken. Our eyes met again, and I saw a spark of desire in his expression. My forgotten key was turning out to be the luckiest of accidents. Nathan wanted me, and I lusted after him.

  Just as I leaned in to close the gap between our lips, he asked, “So what brings you to Garfield Island?” He pulled back and folded his hands into his lap while he waited for my response.

  I gritted my teeth to avoid a frown. The heat of attraction still hung in the air as I stumbled over my words. “I—I—I’m a photographer. I’m on a grant project taking photos of the island’s residents. I practice what’s called street photography and look to capture everyone in their most natural state. And—and I’m Lucas.”

  Nathan took another sip of the bourbon and then set the glass to his right on a small round table. He moved ever so slightly to create a gap of perhaps two inches between our bodies. “That’s fascinating. I don’t know many working artists, but the ones I do know are tremendous people.”

  I laughed a little nervously. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of my state of undress while he remained fully clothed. He’d dropped his coat on the bed, but he still wore a red plaid quilted shirt and crisp, dark blue jeans.

  Nathan ran his right hand throu
gh his hair and looked at me with a hunger in his eyes that made my heart skip a beat. I told myself I couldn’t be imagining it. Unfortunately, his gaze and his actions didn’t quite synch up.

  “You know, Lucas, the ability to capture the essence of people through a lens is a rare talent. I would love to see examples of your work sometime.”

  I took another sip of the bourbon, feeling the warmth spread through my body. The atmosphere was charged with desire, and I didn’t know how Nathan could so easily resist the magnetic pull between us. He was a mature man who’d surely seduced many men in less desperate circumstances. I started to lean toward him again with my lips leading the charge, but he pulled away.

  Glancing down, I saw a visible tent in my pajama bottoms. My face flushed red, and I quickly folded my hands into my lap. It would be impossible for Nathan not to notice, but he pretended that his thoughts were elsewhere.

  Next, he asked about the location of my home. I answered, “Milwaukee—west side, not far from the stadium.”

  “Ah, the city.”

  “And you?” I asked.

  “I’m a slightly more rural man. I live in a small town named Mt. Ezra, about half an hour from Madison. It’s beautiful country there. Have you ever visited?”

  I’d never actually set foot in Mt. Ezra, but I remembered passing signs on the way to Madison. “Uh—no, I don’t think so.”

  I sipped the bourbon again, hoping that a buzz would calm both my head and my cock. I desperately wanted to see what Nathan was hiding under his clothes, but his body language made it clear that he wasn’t ready.

  Still—that gaze.

  I couldn't shake the sensation of Nathan's eyes on me. It was as if he were undressing me with his stare and could see right through me. I shifted on the couch while the heat from the bourbon continued to spread through my body. I looked at his lips and wondered what it would feel like to have them pressed against mine.

  “Is this your first time on Garfield Island?” Nathan asked.

  I gripped the arm of the couch when I realized I was sighing audibly. I answered the question with a quick, “Yes, it is. I’ve been to Door County multiple times but never clear out here to the island.”

  Our conversation soon descended into everyday small talk. It all focused on me because I didn’t want to prolong the conversation by asking Nathan questions. I hoped that he might read the room properly and offer me a kiss. Those lips looked soft and inviting.

  He didn’t. He kept his distance.

  The time passed quickly. It went by too fast. I didn’t want to rush things with my new acquaintance. His gaze kept me in a state of anticipation. As long as we were still talking, hope remained. Maybe something could happen—maybe at least a tiny little peck on the lips that could promise more in the light of day.

  As the clock ticked closer to 3:00 a.m., I found myself getting more comfortable with the conversation, and I started to open up a little more about myself. We chatted about my past failed relationships. I was too willing to date, and then I had a hard time breaking things off when I knew the attraction wasn’t there. My friends told me I was too timid—not shy but scared to take control of my destiny.

  “It’s not easy to find the right one, but I think you know when they look at you that way,” Nathan said.

  Was he trying to say he could be the right one? I couldn’t think of any other way the right one would gaze at me. Maybe it was the bourbon taking over and fuzzing my brain. I talked about my work as a wedding photographer.

  “It’s all fun and games until you meet a Bridezilla,” I said.

  We both laughed.

  He offered to keep us together a little bit longer. “One more glass? I think my minibar has another bottle of bourbon.”

  I nodded and hoped that another drink would relax us both and make everything less awkward. Maybe I could forget that I was barely dressed.

  Nathan rose from the couch and walked over to the minibar, his movements smooth and graceful. The motion of his body made my heart race, and I couldn't stop staring at him. He turned his head and caught my gaze, holding it for a moment before turning back to retrieve the small bottle of booze.

  He poured me another drink, and I took a sip and savored the low burn of the bourbon as it trickled down my throat. He joined me back on the couch, and we talked more. His interest in me hadn’t waned, but I didn't know how to bridge the final gap.

  I tried one last movement, and Nathan backed away again. It was not the night to consummate our connection. The digital clock by the side of the bed read 3:10. It was time to go before Nathan pointed out the hard-on in my pajama bottoms and raised questions about it.

  “I think I should head out, but thank you for everything,” I said. “The motel clerk’s sign said they would return in approximately an hour, and we passed that point a few minutes ago.”

  Nathan nodded, disappointment etched across his features. He walked me to the door and opened it for me, silently begging me to stay a little longer. I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest, but I knew that I couldn't stay.

  The mixed messages—the conflict between his body language and his gaze—toyed too much with my mind while the bourbon buzzed in the background. As the door to the room closed behind me, I exhaled deeply and bent over, my hands resting on my knees.

  After I caught my breath, I walked down to the motel’s front desk. A middle-aged female clerk was eager to assist. Her name badge read “Eunice.” Less than ten minutes later I climbed into bed, hoping to catch at least a few winks of sleep before sunrise.

  TWO

  NATHAN

  I exhaled with a ragged gasp, and my heart pounded like a caged beast in my chest. When the door clicked shut behind Lucas, I shuddered. He electrified the air with his presence despite being gone. A mixture of relief and longing roared inside me like a whirling hurricane.

  One truth—his company could cure an upset stomach. When I first returned to my room, my gut growled and twisted itself into painful knots. By the time Lucas exited, my gut was settled, replaced by a mind in turmoil.

  Was he a sign? A test? An angel sent to tempt me? How else was I to take the appearance of such a man outside my door in the wee hours of the morning? Dressed only in plaid pajama bottoms, every inch of his body was perfect—lightly sculpted muscle and a gentle dusting of hair on his otherwise smooth, chiseled pecs.

  When I looked into his eyes—they sparkled with all kinds of mischief. They offered the promise of a thrilling night ahead if only I were brave enough to accept. When his lips curled into that mischievous smirk—my whole body ached with desire and wanted nothing more than to be skin-to-skin with his chest pressed against mine.

  I stepped up to the back of the door and braced myself with my hands. I needed to get a grip. Lucas was an opportunity that stepped right out of my dreams. Over and over I saw the desire in his eyes—he stared at me like a hyena getting ready to jump on a gazelle. Yet—I backed away, and I couldn’t pull the trigger—not yet.

  It wasn’t only my lack of experience with men that caused the hesitation. I knew all the body parts well because I had them, too. No, it was more than that. Perhaps it was just too early. Maybe I needed more time.

  The funeral of my wife, Gayle—whom I'd loved with my entire heart and body, too, for twenty years—flashed through my mind. The lack of people who I could trust with my big secret was always dismaying. Only she knew, at least officially, and the disaster took her away. Her friends and family were as straight and conventional as could be. I couldn’t see her discussing a bisexual husband with them.

  When I came out to her and confessed my attraction to men, she was a safe harbor from the judgmental glares of my religious father and his strict Bible-thumping beliefs about anything that deviated from his expectations. I always thought he suspected I found men attractive, and he treated me harshly as a result, but I’d never confirmed the fact. Perhaps it was time to put aside every past fear and explore—seek out what I’d never investigated outside of an overactive fantasy life.