Now available in Audiobook: The Czar of Wilton Drive by R.P. Andrews

The Czar of Wilton Drive
Author: RP Andrews
Genre: Gay fiction; gay erotic fiction; LGBT fiction
Length: Novel
eISBN: 978-1-937796-70-9
Price: 0.99 USD

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Cover art: Les Byerley

The new boss is in…

In the course of minutes, twenty-one year old Jonathan Antonucci, barely out of the closet gay man from suburban New York, finds himself a multi-millionaire. His great uncle Charlie has unexpectedly died of a heart attack, leaving Jon the sole owner of several of the most successful bars in Wilton Manors, Ft. Lauderdale’s gay ghetto.

Flying down to Lauderdale to claim his bequest, Jon encounters Uncle Charlie’s dubious friends and business associates, and is immediately drawn into Lauderdale’s scene of unbridled sex and heavy drugs. He also discovers his great uncle’s memoirs which reveal truths not only about Jon’s own past but also what may have really happened to his uncle. In the end, Jon is torn between avenging Uncle Charlie’s death or loving the very man responsible for it.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

“C’mon, take it, you hairy motherfucker, take it! yes!” yelped Jon.

Lucky for them, Ernie and he had just shot their loads over the hot cock pics of Aussie Fuzzy Mate on Growl’r when Jon got that crazy, off-the-wall call from Gramps on his Samsung Galaxy.

“Hope the hell you aren’t in some kind of trouble,” roared Gramps so loud Jon didn’t have to put his phone on speaker. “You just got a letter Fed Ex from some lawyer down in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Get your ass home now!”

Jon twirled his nose ring and pulled on his grizzly beard like he always did when he was contemplating what bullshit story to tell Gramps to cover his butt, but this time he was stumped. Not only had he never been in Lauderdale, he didn’t know anybody there either, not even on the gay hookup sites.

Except, that is, for Uncle Charlie, Gramps’s brother, who Gramps hadn’t talked to for over forty years once he found out Charlie was a queer. And Jon hadn’t seen him since Charlie flew up for Mom and Dad’s funeral when he was two and Sally, his sister, was practically in diapers. Christ, that was almost twenty years ago.

Ernie laid the ashtray on Jon’s furry chest as he handed him the roach holder for a last puff of whatever they had left. Ernie, chubby and smooth at five foot eight and already losing his hair at twenty-one, was almost the exact opposite of his six foot two, slim, trim, dark and hairy jerk-off buddy with the blue eyes and the wild mane of black hair.

“So what do you think it’s about?” asked Ernie brushing some ashes from his jeans.

“Fuck if I know,” said Jon, reaching for their cum rag to wipe his cock of Elbow Grease and spunk before pulling up his 501’s.

“You know, that was the fifth time we jerked off over Aussie Fuzzy Mate,” quipped Ernie grabbing the rag from Jon.

“Yea, and probably, the five hundredth time we’ve shot our loads looking at pics since high school.”

Ernie and Jon had known one another since tenth grade, when Ernie moved to Staten Island from Brooklyn, but they stopped trading stamps, their favorite after-school past time, for pics of hot naked men when Ernie, searching for some shit for a school paper on Jon’s laptop, discovered all those dirty pictures of humpy guys with their big dicks hard enough to hang clothes on ‘em. The secret out for both of them, they killed time up in Ernie’s attic apartment, smoking joints and getting stiff over naked men on the web. The phone apps made it even easier.

And unlike some guys he read about who had this compulsion to tell their shitty little world that they were gay, Jon saw no need to tell Gramps or his sister or anyone else for that matter. Not just because of how Gramps felt about his brother, Uncle Charlie. It just wasn’t anybody’s business, and frankly in a twisted way, Gramps might actually be glad Jon wouldn’t be knocking up any girls like Sally’s skivvy boyfriend Robbie did her.

“I’ve also seen that sorry cock of yours all that time, too,” Jon went on. “Don’t you think we should maybe branch out and see if we can get one of these guys for real? Shit, there’s plenty of hot dudes right here on Staten Island. We don’t even have to go into Manhattan.”

Ernie laughed.

“What, and spoil the fantasy? Plus with all the shit goin’ around out there, this isn’t just easier, it’s safer.”

Yea,” Jon answered with a sigh. “Well, we both have to get to work. You don’t want Fat Wallie to yell at us again for being late. This time the fuck might fire us.”

Ernie and Jon had worked at Perkins on Hylan Boulevard, Ernie in the kitchen, Jon as a server, for the last six months, their fifth fast food job since they graduated Tottenville High.

“Listen, you go on your own to work,” said Jon as he grabbed his coat. “I gotta get home first and find out what all this shit’s about.”

Thanksgiving was three weeks away and it was barely thirty degrees outside, but Jon managed to get his banged up ’97 Camry to turn over. He hoped he could wrap up the mystery with Gramps quick.

He had less than a half hour to get to work. He was broke and payday was tomorrow.
~~~~~

Ten minutes later, Jon pulled up to 714 Sharrott Lane in what had once been considered the boonies of Staten Island. The tall, two story house with the peeling brown asphalt siding had been the only home he and Sally had ever known. Apparently, they had both been safely stowed in the back of the car at the time of the accident, but Jon remembered nothing and only learned what had happened from Gramps.

Seems Mom and Dad had been visiting Mom’s parents in Pennsylvania’s Poconos when, in a heavy rainstorm on one of those winding country roads, a deer went through the windshield and killed them both. Gramps, Dad’s dad, and Grannie, his mom, became Jon and Sally’s mom and dad, and when Grannie, a heavy smoker, died of breast cancer two years ago just as Jon was graduating high school, everything fell on Gramps. No wonder he sounded like he needed Ex-Lax most of the time.

At his son and daughter-in-law’s funeral, Gramps promised Grannie he would fix up the house, get new aluminum siding, and maybe even install an above-ground pool in the backyard for Jon and Sally with some of the insurance money from the accident. But here, almost twenty years later, no pool and no siding, and what had once been a quiet country road was now filled with auto body shops and construction yards. Luckily they were on the right side of the Island when Sandy hit, or chances are the house would have been stripped dry.

Gramps was sitting at the kitchen table where he sat most of the time when Jon walked in. Thirty years of driving a truck and delivering cookies for Nabisco had taken its toll on his back and knees, and, last year at sixty, he began collecting disability.

“There it is,” grumbled Gramps, pointing to the large white envelope with the Fed Ex logo on it, sitting on the table. “I didn’t open it. It’s your mail.”

It was from Applebee and Folsom, Attorneys at Law, Fort Lauderdale, Florida. And what was inside was simple and direct.

“Dear Mr. Antonucci:

As the attorney of record for Charles J. Antonucci, a legal resident of Fort Lauderdale, Florida, I am writing to advise you of your great uncle’s unexpected passing last Thursday from a heart attack, and to inform you that he named you in his will as the primary beneficiary of his estate. Since you are of the age of majority, your immediate presence here in Fort Lauderdale is required to complete the necessary paperwork and accept this generous bequest.”

“So, so what does it say?” asked Gramps impatiently, his hand shaking from his morning’s overdose of caffeine.

“Uncle Charlie is dead.”

“From what? AIDS I bet. Well, the fairy deserves it.”

“No, he died of a heart attack, and…”

“And what?”

“He—he left me almost everything.”

Gramps was silent for ten seconds, pretty unusual for him. Then he put down his coffee mug.

“And just exactly what did he have? He probably pissed all his teacher’s salary away on young boys and dope anyway.”

“It doesn’t say but they—they want me down there right away to go over things.”

“And how do you expect to get to Florida? On fairy wings? Your airhead sister’s wedding has already put me in hock.”

Just then, the envelope slipped from Jon’s hand and out fell an airline ticket on Jet Blue and one of those Visa gift cards his neighbor down the street would give him for watching her dog when she was out of town.

“Yea,” laughed Jon. “You might say I am getting down there on fairy wings.”

Jon returned to the letter.

“Enclosed you will find an airline ticket to Fort Lauderdale from Newark Airport, and a prepaid Visa card for two thousand dollars to cover any expenses. I have also arranged to have a cab meet you at the arrival gate to transport you to my office.
Looking forward to meeting you.
Sincerely,
Edward Applebee, Esq.”

“Well, estate or no estate, you’ve gotta be back by Friday for your sister’s wedding before she gets any bigger. That’s just three days away. Christ, today’s Monday already.”

Sally had dropped out of Tottenville High when she learned she was pregnant, and with her skinny frame, she was already beginning to show. Though he claimed he blamed God for the accident that killed his son and daughter-in-law, and had not stepped foot in St. Sylvester’s since the funeral, Gramps had contacted the pastor to perform the wedding vows for Sally and Robbie, who worked at Walmart, and had arranged with his fellow Vietnam vet buddies for a reception at the local VFW. But Gramps was right. Jon had to be back in time. He was best man.

“And what about your job?” asked Gramps.

A call to Ernie, who was already at work, took care of that.

“But what if I tell Wally to shove it like you said, and you find out your uncle left you shit?”

“I don’t care if it’s only five grand. I’ll manage.”

Then he asked Ernie, who was off the next day, if he could drive him to Newark.

The plane ticket on Jet Blue was dated for tomorrow at 9:10 a.m.

Sally was upstairs in her room watching TV when he went up to tell her.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said, expressionless. “Gramps is still in the stone age. This wedding shit was all his idea to make everything look respectable. Like, really, who gives a fuck?”

Then she laughed. “Just promise me you’ll buy Robbie and me a new car if you really strike it big.”

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About Sedonia Guillone

Pubished author of lgbt and m/f romance. Ghostwriter and editor with fifteen years' experience. Publisher of two imprints, Ai Press for romance and Kokoro Press for mainstream, gay fiction, spiritual and memoirs.
This entry was posted in Available books, Gay fiction, Novel Length, R.P. Andrews. Bookmark the permalink.

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