break point: a m/m romance novella

  break point

  a

  romance novella

  by:

  daya daniels

  the blurb

  An overzealous instructor.

  A levelheaded student.

  Two men embroiled in the match of their lives.

  Will either of them ever make it to break point?

  contents

  copyright

  acknowledgements

  quote

  dedication

  playlist

  set one

  set two

  set three

  about the author

  Copyright@ 2019 by Daya Daniels

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any way, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or any other means without the explicit written permission of the author, except for brief quotations of the book when writing a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and even facts are the product of the author’s imagination. Wait a minute...especially facts. Any resemblance to actual people—alive, dead, or someplace in between—is completely by chance and likely in your head.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. Holy hell, this is important. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Let’s not forget! All song titles in this book are the property of the sole copyright owners.

  Thank you first and foremost to all the readers.

  Thank you to Hawkeye for proofreading this novella! I appreciate you.

  You’re all awesome!

  warning

  This book is dirty.

  If you are sensitive to explicit sex, then this is not the book for you.

  Move along…nothing to see here.

  But, if you know what you’re about to get yourself into then, enjoy.

  xoxo

  (((smiles)))

  “Being underestimated is one of the best competitive advantages one could ever have.”

  — Unknown

  To all those who believe that four balls are better than two.

  playlist

  “My Kind of Town” — Frank Sinatra

  “On the Sunny Side of the Street” — Esperanza Spalding

  “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall” — Ella Fitzgerald

  “Crazy He Calls Me” — Billie Holiday

  “When You’re Smiling” — Louis Armstrong

  set one

  Gold Stallion Country Club

  Beverly Hills, Los Angeles County, California

  channing

  I NEVER COULD KEEP my dick in my pants.

  Ohhhhhhhhhh, I know what you’re thinking…

  Hey, whatever, dude.

  Calm down.

  Don’t get all upset and decide you don’t want to know anything else about the rest of my story. Take note that I plan to give you complete candor while you’re here…if you can handle it.

  So, truth is, I fuck who I want, and I do what-I-fucking-want.

  In that department, it doesn’t help that my middle name is Fitswell.

  I’m a manwhore.

  I think that’s what they call guys like me.

  Whoa, hands up, I’m caught. Only no one will be arresting me. Because technically, I haven’t done anything wrong. There’s no crime in being yourself, right?

  A tiny laugh leaves me as I wipe my brow with my forearm, then pull my cap back on.

  I’m an only child, born to a mother who loves me far too much and a father who feels quite the same. I’m told it’s part of my “problem” even though I’m far from spoiled. Total truth.

  Mother and Father are divorced now. Mother spends most of her time catching up on her latest Botox injections which are due and the rest of it running around with the twenty-something year old pool boy. Father spends his time mostly behind his desk and dabbling on the dating scene when his schedule will allow. I’ve tried to set him up once or twice with some decent man candy, but he wasn’t having it. Said I’m just a kid, who has no idea what it means to be in love, so my choices are only based on lust. My question back to him was: What’s so bad about that?

  Father only laughed.

  So did I.

  I’m twenty-three years old now and at my parent’s insistence, I’m a student at UCLA, majoring in architecture and a whole bunch of other crap just so I can say I’m attempting to make something of myself. I’m a boy who’s destined for greatness, as I’ve been told many times before, and who will eventually sit at the head of the conference table opposite my father as his right-hand man at the firm which has been in the Lockwood family for almost seventy years now.

  I believe that one day I will build something, but not any time soon.

  My father, Bartholomew, seems to believe the same.

  He believes in ethics and principles since as a man that is everything he represents.

  Bartholomew believes in working for your hard-earned dollar…which means that even though he is one of the wealthiest men in the great big star-studded, opulent and overpriced city, he won’t be giving me one goddamn dollar unless I earn it.

  This is Beverly Hills a.k.a. 90210.

  Celeb-land.

  Home of Rodeo Drive and assorted humans who have more money than God. It is a place devoid of true heart and focused mostly on tradition—no substance, only superficial. But this is home.

  I was born and raised here, and I have no plans of leaving. Don’t think I’d fit in anyplace else anyhow. They’d likely throw me out.

  Peering through the fence, a silver Bentley meanders through the manicured grounds of this fancy country club. Frank Sinatra’s “My Kind of Town” floats from the vehicle. Behind the wheel of it is the valet who likely makes five bucks an hour, yet he’s driving a half a million-dollar car. But, don’t worry, that valet is a kid just like me—working for principle and not for the money, because his parents are making him do it. That Bentley probably belongs to his grandmother anyways.

  It’s quite normal around here to bump into people like Jennifer Lawrence at the local Starbucks. And Justin Bieber while jogging up Laurel Canyon. And Taylor Swift stumbling out of La Scala after drinks and a late-night dinner. Celebrities are all over this place.

  I suppose outside of school hours when my head is usually buried in a book or I’m writing exams, I could be standing behind the counter at McDonalds. But, instead I’m here, at the country club doing what I love the most.

  It’s getting up to eleven o’clock in the morning which means he’s already late.

  Oh, the hubris of it all…

  Who does this guy think he is!

  Twirling the racquet in my hand, I stroll around the court and shut my eyes at the warmth of the August sun as it beats down on my shoulders. I kick the ball that’s near my foot across the court. It ricochets off the far wall and comes flying back at me. I give it a good right-hand serve and send it out of the court and over the fence.

  In less than a few seconds, a car alarm blares.

  It appears I’ve set something off...

  Whatever.

  Smiling, I spin around and take in all the green which surrounds me.

  It’s magnificent.

  White lines stained on the tarmac. Stiff poles. A taut net. All the balls lying around.

  It feels like I’ve spent my entire life on the tennis court. Year after year while growing up, I’d come here to this very country club that probably cost my parents at least two hundred and fifty grand a y
ear in membership fees just to pace this court. To learn how to get better and better. To improve.

  Bartholomew had always fed my hobby, pouring whatever money into it that was necessary. Never questioning when I wanted to play. In fact, often he’d even come here with me to whack a ball around even though he hadn’t a real clue about how to play the game.

  We’d laugh and talk about anything and everything on those sunny days spent out here. Honestly, this place is probably where we did our best “relationship building” as Bartholomew had called it. I became more of a sharer out here, not sure why. Everything was easier for me to do while on the tennis court…

  After watching the men’s championships during Wimbledon when I was ten years old and how the game had ended half way across the world, I begged Bartholomew to bring me here just so I could stand on the tarmac. It was one of the best days ever because we played a singles match and he let me win. Then Bartholomew spent the next hour helping me to improve my serve and fending off tennis balls which often hit his shoulder or arm and often even his head.

  I was a beast on this court and was determined to get better, to become like the very men I admired.

  Unable to help myself, I dreamed of one day playing the Big Four—Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal, Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray. But of course, only in my heavenly tennis dreams.

  This tennis court is a place where one comes to relieve stress. It induces calm. It helps you to forget about all the problems in the world.

  Bartholomew prefers to play golf these days. He often says that at forty-five years old now, he might need to quit the whole tennis-in-his-spare-time thing. It isn’t good for his heart, he claims. It’s too arduous. Causes too much perspiration and it’s a good recipe for a twisted ankle or a damaged wrist.

  It’s complete nonsense.

  Bartholomew plays the age card when it suits him…

  Old ladies are out here every-single-day pacing the court from baseline to the net and none of them have dropped dead, yet.

  Bartholomew speaks of age as if it makes him much wiser than me.

  I’m not sure I believe it though, mostly because over the years I’ve witnessed him do a lot of stupid shit. If you ask me, Bartholomew could benefit immensely from taking my advice regardless of my youthful tone which accompanies it. I had told my father that for him continuing on a steady diet of Château Lafite and vintage cote de boeuf wasn’t a good idea unless he wanted to have another heart attack and need another triple bypass. I had told him that nightclubbing on Sunset Boulevard on a Friday night with a bunch of college kids wasn’t a good idea either. That was all before he had passed out and fell down on the dance floor from low blood sugar and consuming too many shots of Patron. I had also told him before he ventured out on his last blind date that it’s completely okay for him to shave his pubes. He only gasped, horrified, shooting me a disgusted look since back in maybe like the fucking 80s or some shit, every man on the planet rocked one fantabulous dick-froe.

  Juuuuust revolting.

  I take a breath, sniff the air and glance at my watch one-more-time.

  The ball boy, Scott, looks close to dropping dead.

  “Hey, dude.” I gesture with my arm. “Put on a hat, maybe get some water before you pass the fuck out.”

  “Is he not coming?”

  I lift a shoulder. “My guess is probably not. We’ve been waiting here forever. I have no plans to wait any fucking long—” I pull my cap off and toss it.

  “Good morning, gents.”

  Gents?

  Smiling, my new student, Rupert Noel Adley—the one who I’ve never met before this lovely morning—waltzes through the gate and onto the court.

  I lift a brow.

  His deep voice along with his accent kisses my ears.

  Intrigues me.

  Okay, I bite.

  He strolls toward me. “Channing, I’m very sorry I’m late.”

  Sea-blue eyes. Perfectly coifed mahogany hair. Six foot two. Maybe two hundred pounds.

  Hot.

  Handsome.

  Not a California boy by a longshot.

  Looks and sounds like he just rolled right on out of Buckingham Palace.

  My eyes narrow on the gray which edges his hairline.

  And something inside me deflates.

  He’s old.

  Probably spends most of his time worrying about shit like ED, high blood pressure and maintaining healthy cholesterol levels. I wonder if he stays up past nine at night…likely not.

  Sigh.

  But for some reason, he’s still not any less fuckable-looking.

  In my world, what does that even mean?

  This might be the first time in my life that I can’t find my fucking words. They’ve been stolen right from my brain, hijacked by the situation that’s now going on in my standard uniform issued white shorts.

  “Rupert.” He extends a hand in my direction.

  Slowly, I reach out and shake it—warm, strong, commanding. “It’s no problem.”

  He’s wealthy. But he’s a nobody. His shoulders are hunched, and the indentations left there on both sides of his prominent nose for the moment tell me he wears glasses. Probably the Coke bottle type. He doesn’t exude the confidence I’d expect a man of his age to. Odd. He’s demure. Almost shy even. Usually, I wouldn’t care but for some reason I find myself curious and even more annoyed at myself that I’m not ripping him a new hole for making me wait an entire hour for him to arrive. But I don’t say a word about it, only stare, trying not to drool.

  “Good.” Smiling, Rupert unzips the case tucked beneath his arm and extracts his racquet. “Well, let’s get started then.”

  “Yes, let’s.” I grin.

  rupert

  THE BLOND HUNK JOGS to the baseline, his thick hair flopping all over the place as he does.

  He’s pompous.

  Some rich kid who’s been given far too much in life even though he’s had to work for just some of it. Clearly, his parents think it’ll teach him something. It won’t. It’ll only give him a better and more insightful story to tell…And he’s pissed about all that. Resentful, I’d say, and it shows on his features.

  Straight nose.

  Pouty pink lips.

  A mouthful of straight white teeth.

  And the prettiest hazel eyes I think I’ve ever seen which are rimmed by long sable lashes.

  Hazel.

  Rare.

  It’s a dangerous color. A mixture of hues. So arresting that I have to turn away from them so that they don’t pull me into his cage, lock me up and never let me out.

  He takes risks. He’s has an unwavering sense of pride. And, he’s sensitive.

  I could be wrong…

  Afterall, his impressive CV I’d read along with the details this fancy country club had already supplied me with along with his age didn’t tell me all that. They’re informed guesses. Assumptions I guess you could call them.

  Squinting my eyes against the blazing sun, I absorb the rustling of the palm trees overhead. The air is warm and crisp and the mountains in the distance are remarkable to look at. It’s scenic here but I can’t say I’ve missed it.

  After landing at LAX just a few days ago, I should feel as if I’m home. But if anything, I feel out of place like I’ve been thrust right back into the madness I ran screaming from so long ago.

  A broken marriage.

  A busted-up family.

  So much bloody sadness.

  After everything I had caused, I knew then that it was best to leave this place…

  Not that I ever belonged here to begin with.

  Since then, I made my home back in London, England, and lived a quiet boring life slinking from home to the university every day then back again. And when I say the word “boring” it’s no understatement. No drinking. No partying. No dating. No fun. I immersed myself in giving lectures and drafting assignments. I dedicated myself to teaching students about the importance of men like William Faulkner and Ernest He
mingway and what impact they’d made on the world of literature. And I became a junkie, high on my job. Work grew to be an addiction which made nothing else in my life seem to be of any importance even the things that should’ve been…

  But that’s what people who have no life do, right? They toss themselves into their work since it’s usually the last shred of normalcy they have left to hang on to.

  I’m forty-three years old and divorced now which means I’m a few million old Adley money dollars lighter in the pocket of my slacks. Even though it’s been years now, I’m still traumatized by it all.

  Especially the day I had to give up my autographed Billie Jean King photograph.

  It hurt like fuck.

  Divorce is hell.

  I’ll never change my opinion on that.

  “I could teach you the basics, Rupert, about this sport—” Channing’s voice cuts in to my thoughts.

  I cover up my laugh with a smile.

  A guy back in the late seventies had told me the same thing while I was playing at Waterlow Park back in London. Adam. Yeah, that’s his name. Or rather was, since I found out he had expired a few years ago from a heart attack which claimed him right when he was on the tennis court and setting up the perfect topspin shot. Adam had taught me everything I needed to learn about tennis. He even gave me my very own personalized racquet which I still have to this very day.

  I hold a hand up. “Nope, not necessary. I just want to play.”

  Channing’s tawny brows knot. “Play?” He shakes his head. “So, you don’t actually need to be taught how to play this sport?” He’s annoyed.

  “No.” I snatch up a ball and bounce it a few times while staring at the tarmac.

  This is the very same court I played on back in the 1980s…

  A smile creeps its way across my lips at the memory.