You Are the Reason

Readers love

The Blinding Light

by
R
ENAE
K
AYE

“…fun and entertaining… There’s a steady pace throughout, good descriptions, a solid plot…”

—Literary Nymphs

“This was just a fun, romantic read… My fellow hopeless romantics are going to love this one.”

—MM Good Book Reviews

“This book keeps you on your toes and just when you think you have the ending figured out the author throws you for another loop… this was an excellent book.”

—Hearts on Fire

“It will keep you smiling from start to finish and will leave you blissfully happy for, well, a long time. My glow has yet to wear off!”

—Love Bytes

“
The Blinding Light
is another reason I am impressed with Renae Kaye’s abilities as a writer. This story was well written, well thought out, and well executed.”

—Prism Book Alliance

By
R
ENAE
K
AYE

Loving Jay

Safe in His Arms

Shawn’s Law

The Shearing Gun

A Taste of Honey (Dreamspinner Anthology)

T
HE
T
AV

The Blinding Light

You Are the Reason

Published by
D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Published by

D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

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

You Are the Reason

© 2015 Renae Kaye.

Cover Art

© 2015 Bree Archer.

http://www.breearcher.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. 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, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-63476-483-4

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63476-484-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015943713

First Edition August 2015

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

This one’s for me. I can dedicate a novel to myself, can’t I?

An introduction to Davo

W
HEN
I
was eleven years old, I worked out what it was to be gay. Being gay meant you were a boy but liked girly things. Being gay meant you were bashed at school and ridiculed by the sports teacher. Being gay was not good.

I didn’t want to be gay.

So I took my entire My Little Pony collection, which I had lovingly looked after for years, and I dumped it all in the bin. And I didn’t cry. Much.

And when my little sister begged me to help her pick out some matching shoes for her Barbie? I sneered and told her boys didn’t do girl stuff like that. I cut my hair macho short, I practiced kicking a football until I was the best in the class, and I made sure that no one ever had a reason to call me gay.

When I was thirteen, I worked out what it
really
meant to be gay. Being gay meant you had a choice. You could be one of
those
gays who liked girly things, got the shit kicked out of you at school, and was ridiculed by the sports teacher, or you could say “up yours” and tell everyone that you were gay and didn’t give a flying monkey about their opinion.

Okay. I may’ve said “flying fuck” instead of flying monkey, but I was thirteen, and saying the fuck word was part of my hate against the whole world.

But I still despised anything girly. I made myself a slogan.
I may like dick, but I’m not a pussy.

I wrote this in my secret journal (only girls have diaries) and used it as my daily mantra. By the time I was fifteen, I’d told my mother I was gay and proudly printed those words across my bedroom wall.
I may like dick, but I’m not a pussy.

Mum wasn’t impressed.

But Dad was. He stewed about it for days (the fact that I was gay), and then said, “Well, at least I don’t have a pussy for a son.”

So I kept playing football. I wore all black and swore like a sailor. I refused to have any friend at school who was even a touch feminine (because it might rub off on me). I also refused to have anything to do with anyone who was a homophobe. So my friendship group was reduced to two people—Thor and Harry. Both were straight but didn’t give a flying monkey about me being gay.

Okay—they may’ve said “flying fuck” too. We were fifteen. Every second word out of our mouths was either “fuck” or “shit.”

However, disassociating myself from any gay person who was even a smidgeon feminine was devastating to my sex life. By the time I’d worked out the error of my ways, there was something inside of me that still shied away from the “girly gays.” I didn’t end up losing my virginity—“all the way” virginity—until I was eighteen.

Nineteen.

Okay, so I was twenty. That’s not a crime, is it? And besides, I made up for lost time.

Not that I’m promiscuous or anything. Much. I just like getting off. A lot. Frequently. And it doesn’t really matter what the guy looks like in the dark, does it?

Relationships are for girls—so I told myself—which meant that, at the grand old age of twenty-seven, I was single and still participating in blow jobs and fucking that didn’t require last names. Actually, most of the time, they didn’t require first names either.

I thought I was doing really well in life. I had a job, great friends, a place to sleep, and no strings to bind me. No one could be happier… right?

And I was extremely happy. Until Jake got himself a baby.

Jake Manning is my closest gay friend. Thor and Harry still take the joint title of being my best mates, but they get squeamish and maidenly if I want to discuss the fact that I like to put my dick in other guys’ arses. They don’t understand how great the feeling is and that I like to occasionally suck off another man.

Jake got that. He was gay and single—so he got the pickups and the problem of trying to make time for friends who had partners. Jake was also a teensy-weensy bit my idol. Okay… I fuckin’ loved the guy, in the nonromantic, non-girly type of way. He had a shit life, a shit family, and shitty-titty luck, but he was still facing up to every morning with a grin. I worked all day at my shitty job and grumped though the evening. Jake worked three shitty jobs and still managed to smile.

But curse words peppered his speech, and the only hint of femme on him at all was a stud in his ear. He was gay, but he was a man. My inner thirteen-year-old was happy with that. If Jake could do it, then I could.

Then Jake—my gay idol—up and got himself a boyfriend and adopted a baby. I internally crapped my pants. Moondancer, Applejack, Sunburst, and Minty all laughed at me from their My Little Pony heaven, telling me that sooner or later I was going to end up as one of
those
gays who called everyone “darling” and knew all the songs from
High School Musical
.