Asylum (Pride and Joy Book 2) Read online

  Pride and Joy: Book 2

  Pride and Joy: Book 2

  By Robert Winter

  Death threats drove him from his country. Can he ever find asylum from his past?

  Hernán had family, college, and a future in El Salvador. Until a vicious gang targeted him as gay. Threatened with murder, he braved a nightmare journey toward a new life. Now, haunted by his trek, he hides from immigration trouble as well as his enemies. He prays to pass in Provincetown unnoticed.

  But a handsome man with a secret like Hernán’s is vulnerable to predators.

  Colin is in town for a wedding when he falls into the harbor. The man who rescues him is dark-haired, dark eyed and gorgeous. He’s also a target because of his immigration status. Colin owes a debt, and wants to repay it by helping his savior escape the monsters who would exploit him.

  Hernán yearns to trust the kind man who offers him sanctuary. Will his demons destroy his chance at a future with Colin?

  Asylum is a standalone gay romance novel but contains spoilers for the prior novel, September. Trigger warnings for brief references to off-page sexual abuse of a child and adult.

  Pride and Joy: Book 2

  BY ROBERT WINTER

  Author’s Note

  By some estimates, the United States hosts more than eleven million men, women and children who entered the country without authorization, or remained once their authorization expired. The reasons they come and stay are individual and complex, but I believe there are common threads. They come to escape violence, persecution, poverty or hopelessness; their journeys are perilous; they live under a perpetual threat of discovery and deportation; and they would become citizens if they could.

  I based Hernán’s past on the specific experiences of two young men who came to the United States without visas, and the things they endured. Certain details and locations have been altered or fictionalized, but the core of their journeys—as related by Hernán—is a combination of two true stories.

  Most of Hernán’s journey to the U.S.—except for what happens to him in chapters 16 and 19—comes from the experiences of my friend Elías. He spent hours with me to explain what it was like to grow up in El Salvador, knowing he was gay but unable to tell anyone. He feared he was targeted by a gang, was actually stabbed, and ran for his life. Ultimately, he achieved asylum, and now he is a citizen of the United States with aspirations of some day running for office.

  If Hernán’s story—so much of which is Elías’ story—illuminates what might drive a person to risk everything to come to a country where he or she will be treated like a criminal just because of a lack of a proper visa, then I have succeeded. I may upset people by writing a main character who is a person of color. To that, I plead only that I made every effort to strike a balance between respect of Latin culture and Elías’ experiences. Sensitivity readers have pointed out where I was blind to my own privilege, and I’ve made adjustments where I could while remaining true to the essence of Elías’ journey.

  In the end, if I’ve caused offense, all I can do is apologize and hope for your forgiveness

  Two notes about the text. First, several of my characters speak Spanish. Because Hernán is from El Salvador, I’ve tried to give him regionally-appropriate phrases to speak, such as “bicha” instead of “chica”. My beta readers have helped my Spanish where they could; any remaining errors are entirely mine.

  Second, conventional style manuals usually dictate that non-English words should be italicized, at least at their first use. One of my sensitivity readers persuaded me that italicizing a word just because it is not in English emphasizes its otherness. For that reason, I chose to italicize words in Spanish only for emphasis, that same way I would for English words. Where a character has dialogue in Spanish, I chose to signal that by surrounding the words with double chevrons rather than quotation marks.

  Dedication

  To Elías Flamenco,

  whose courage and willingness to share his story inspired Hernán’s journey.

  Table of Contents

  About September

  Title Page

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright Page

  Books by Robert Winter

  About September

  About Every Breath You Take

  About Lying Eyes

  About Vampire Claus

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  A man silhouetted in moonlight teetered drunkenly at the end of the pier. Crying out, his legs flew up, and his body disappeared from sight. Hernán was running toward the water’s edge before he even heard the splash. Rejecting thoughts about how cold the water would be, he threw himself into Provincetown Harbor.

  Even though the mid-September weather was mild, his hands and face numbed quickly in the chilly water. He thrust himself to the surface.

  “¡Mierda!” he shouted, tossing hair out of his eyes as he sought out the man who had fallen.

  There he was. About ten feet away, the man thrashed and then went down. Hernán swam over with strong strokes, dove under and wrapped his arms around from behind. He tugged the flailing man to the surface, nearly receiving a black eye for his troubles.

  “Cálmese,” he shouted, and then added in English, “I’ve got you. Stop hitting!”

  The man went limp. Hernán hooked his waist more securely with one arm, and with the other swam them both toward the boat launch ramp about twenty yards away. The weight of their waterlogged clothes threatened to drag them down. The stranger gasped, but Hernán kept paddling with one hand, kicking hard, drawing closer to the ramp. Water slapping against the seawall shoved back on Hernán, swirling around his jeans and sweatshirt as it tried to pull away the man he held.

  He tightened his grip and maneuvered them both through the water until he found the concrete of the ramp. Once his feet were underneath him, he heaved the man forward and to safety. They collapsed on the wet slope. The man ended up on his ass with his hands across his chest while Hernán rested on hands and knees, panting as water splashed over his ankles. When he had his breath again, he shuffled further up the ramp and away from the harbor.

  “What happened?” the man slurred. He looked up at the night sky, and then rolled his head toward Hernán, shadowed eyes difficult to read. In the uncertain glow from a few light poles, it was impossible to be certain of age, but the man didn’t look more than a few years older than Hernán. He wore leather shoes, khaki pants, a blue woolen sweater over a white button-down shirt, and a yellow bowtie. Seawater dripped from his dark hair and across his pale face, catching the moon and shining silver light around his head.

  “You fell, hombre,” Hernán told him. “Didn’t look like you meant to go for a swim.”

  The man blinked dazedl
y as he processed the words. Finally he shook his head. “Nope. Din’t wanna swim.” Shivering a little, he suddenly levered himself to a sitting position. He craned his head around, clearly confused.

  Hernán climbed to his feet and held out a hand. “We need to get dry,” he said. “It’s not too cold tonight but this isn’t exactly comfortable.”

  The man focused on Hernán then. Some awareness returned to his face, yet he made no move to take the proffered hand. “I fell in the water?” he asked.

  “Sí. Well, fell or jumped. ¡Dios mío!” Hernán exclaimed. “You didn’t jump, did you?”

  The man tilted his head back to look at the moon, weight on his arms, hands propped behind him. A definitive shake of the head, and he spoke again. “No, I din’t jump. Too much to drink, so I think I took a walk t’ sober up.”

  Despite his heavy, dripping clothes and the slight quaking in his limbs from the combination of adrenalin and effort, Hernán had to laugh. “I bet you’re getting sober now. And colder. Come on, stand up.” He again held out his hand, his tennis shoes squelching as he braced himself. This time the wet stranger took it, his grip stronger than Hernán would have expected as he rose.

  He was slender, and stood a few inches taller than Hernán once on his feet. Clean cut, with brown hair that would probably be short and straight when it dried. Almost the stereotypical tourist Hernán had become used to in Provincetown, but surprisingly handsome in a way he associated with American life.

  Water streaming from their clothes ran down the ramp in a small river. The stranger patted his shirt pocket inside his sweater, sighing in relief as he pulled out a pair of glasses. Putting them on, he said, “Glad I put these away ‘fore my walk.” His voice sounded steadier as the night air seemed to counteract his inebriation.

  “Maybe you should have kept them on, hombre. You know, to see how close you were to the edge.” Hernán’s voice was teasing, and the man’s lips quirked up a bit.

  “Thank you. Seriously. My fall could have turned into something a lot worse.” The man looked down at the concrete of the boat launch. Hernán would bet he was blushing, though the moon and lamplight cast too many shadows to be sure.

  In a soft tone, Hernán said, “Don’t worry. Everybody’s been trashed at least once, right?”

  The man shrugged and turned self-consciously to frown at ripples of white and silver and black in the harbor. The Long Point lighthouse rotated its beam through the night, and beyond, distant lights sparkled along the opposite shore of Cape Cod as it arced back toward the mainland. He muttered, “I don’t remember getting so drunk before. And I guess I know why.” He was starting to look ill. Even in the near-dark, Hernán could tell what was about to happen. “Y’ know, I don’ feel so good…”

  “Over here, chero,” Hernán said as he pulled the man over to some bushes, just before he fell to his knees and vomited up a lot of liquid. Hernán rubbed his shoulder and tried not to lose his own dinner at the sight. He swallowed hard, and then said, “Get it out. I know it isn’t pleasant but you’ll feel better.”

  The man heaved twice more before collapsing back on his heels and hanging his wet head. “Shit,” he sighed forlornly. “Now I’m even more embarrassed.”

  “Hey. No one saw but me, and I’m probably just a figment of your imagination anyway.”

  The stranger looked up at Hernán as he swiped awkwardly at the corner of his mouth. Through his glasses, blue eyes glittered in the light of a streetlamp. He muttered, “I don’t have that good an imagination.”

  Hernán surveyed the parking lot. “Stay put,” he instructed, and then jogged over to a pole holding a roll of plastic bags for dog walkers to clean up after their pets. He ripped off a bag and came back to the man, whose head once again hung down.

  “This isn’t much, but it’s clean. You can wipe your mouth at least,” Hernán said as he offered the bag. The man accepted it mutely and swabbed at his face. Hernán took an arm to get him on his feet. “I think you’ll feel better if we walk. We both need to get out of these clothes.”

  “Please remind me never to drink so much again,” the man muttered as he began to walk beside Hernán.

  “Well, I would, but remember—I’m just a figment.”

  Moonlight glinted off the man’s glasses as he turned to look Hernán full in the face. “You’re not a figment. Maybe an angel.”

  “Hah! Tell my cousin that.”

  “Who’s your cousin?”

  “Never mind.”

  They crossed the parking lot, their shoes sloshing with each step. Hernán was dreading his own walk home in wet clothes. The man had begun to shiver slightly, and glanced back at the harbor. In a low voice, he said, “I remember I was looking out at the water and just feeling sad. Then I was wet.”

  They reached the top of the lot, and he looked left and right along Commercial Street. “Hell. I have no idea where I am.”

  Hernán shook his head and laughed. “When you decide to get drunk, you don’t go halfway. Where are you staying?”

  “I’m at The Brass Key. Do you know where it is?”

  “Sure. That’s a nice place.” Nice, and very, very expensive. If the guy was staying there, he had some money. “I can walk you to the Key, if you want.”

  “I shouldn’t be any more trouble,” the man protested. “You’re already wet because of me and my midnight swim.”

  “It’s all part of an angel’s duties, chero. Besides,” Hernán lied, “I don’t live far from there.” He actually lived about a twenty-minute soggy walk in a different direction, but he felt sorry for the blanquito and wanted to make sure he got dry and safe. “Come on. It’s this way.”

  The pair headed east on Commercial, shoes slapping the asphalt as they walked. Two elderly women passed by with a small dog on a leash. When they looked slightly scandalized at the dripping men, Hernán called out, “We lost a bet!” One of the women laughed but the other scooped up her dog.

  The stranger gave a soft chuckle, but otherwise remained silent, his head down. Perhaps he needed to talk about how he ended up in such a state. “Why were you sad, when you were looking at the harbor?” Hernán risked.

  The man sighed. “My best friend got married today. I thought I was in love with him, but he loved somebody else.”

  Hernán wasn’t surprised at the pronouns. It was Provincetown, after all, where the size of the gay population almost matched the straight. “That must have hurt. Did you tell him how you feel?”

  “Sort of. He and the guy who’s now his husband broke up for a while, and I thought maybe I had a shot. I asked him out on a few dates, but nothing clicked. He wasn’t over David. Then some bad shit happened and it brought them back together again. Now they’re married.” The man shook his head ruefully and muttered, “Come to think, it’s my fault. I’m the one who called David when Brandon was in the hospital.”

  “Okay, this sounds interesting. Do you want to tell me about it while we walk?”

  Hernán caught the slightest curve of the hapless man’s mouth as he said, “The thing is, I had a crush on Brandon from the minute I met him. But I tried to play it cool. To wait him out, see? We hung out as friends, but I was waiting for the right time to ask him to dinner or something. I waited too long, though. The first time Brandon told me about David, I knew what he felt was real. Even Brandon didn’t seem to catch on for a while, but I could tell he was a dead duck. All David had to do was reel him in.” He frowned. “What a terrible metaphor. I’m ashamed.”

  Hernán chuckled softly, even as he wondered, What would it feel like, to find someone so perfect for you even your friends could see it? What would it be like to be so exposed? All he said was, “So-so metaphor, sad story for you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s a love story, just for someone else. Thanks though.” The stranger was quiet for another block, but then he said, “You called me ‘chero’ twice.”

  “Uh, it’s just a term,” Hernán temporized. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

&
nbsp; “You think I’m a friend?”

  Oh shit. He knows some Spanish. “Hey, I’m not real, right? I’m just an angel you dreamed up to get you out of the water so of course I’m going to be sweet to you.”

  The man chuckled. “I’m going to be mad if this does turn out to be a dream. So far this is the most adventure I’ve ever had in my life.”

  Hernán grunted. “Lucky you.” Unbidden, memories of the dilapidated house in the border town surfaced. Huddled in a corner, next to the girl he’d been told to pretend was his sister in case Immigration caught them, he watched as the handlers looked over their chickens with hungry eyes. Even though he’d failed Albert and Andrea, he was glad they weren’t there to see. The girl next to him tried to make herself as small as possible, but one of the handlers looked their way…

  “Where’d you go?” the man asked, and Hernán shook his head to refocus.

  “Sorry. Is this your first time in Provincetown?”

  The man nodded. “Yes but I should have come before. I spent time in Nantucket growing up, but I never made it here. It’s an amazing place. How about you? Where are you visiting from?”

  “I live here.” For now. “I’m staying with my cousin until I get set.”

  “Oh.”

  They walked quietly for a few more blocks. Since it was mid-September, the tourist crowds had thinned to a fraction of what they were in July and August. Some of the restaurants and shops lining Commercial Street had already closed for the season and their owners were off to warmer environments.

  Hernán didn’t miss the crowds but he missed summer. On a humid day, certain parts of Provincetown reminded him of home. With the autumn chill coming in, though, he had a harder and harder time pretending he was anywhere familiar.

  Provincetown remained a mystery to him, even after nearly five months of working there. The restaurant where he washed dishes every afternoon and evening would soon be cutting its staff. Even the house cleaning service where he worked some mornings would need him less as the stream of renters and non-resident homeowners trickled off. He didn’t know what he and Rudy would do then. Maybe it was time to think of heading to Boston, to see if they could get work in a restaurant there.