The Other Five Percent

Riptide Publishing

PO Box 1537

Burnsville, NC 28714

www.riptidepublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

The Other Five Percent

Copyright © 2017 by Quinn Anderson

Smashwords Edition

Cover art: Natasha Snow, natashasnow.com

Editors: Sarah Lyons, May Peterson, maypetersonbooks.com

Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

All rights reserved. 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, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.

ISBN: 978-1-62649-598-2

First edition

July, 2017

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Logan Vanderveer has a joke he’s been telling since college: he’s ninety-five percent straight. He did some experimenting in school, but none of the men he fooled around with inspired him to abandon the plan: meet a nice girl, get married, and settle down, just like his parents always said.

None of them except Ellis Floyd, who aroused desires and feelings that scared Logan. So much so that he abandoned their burgeoning relationship just as it might have become something. But four years later, Ellis is back, and Logan finds himself questioning his sexuality in a big way.

Ellis doesn’t fit into Logan’s plan. He’s happy being a starving artist, whereas Logan has sold his soul to corporate America. Ellis is ripped jeans, and Logan is tailored suits. And, most notably, Ellis is out. But seeing him again is dredging up memories—like how it feels to kiss Ellis, and that time they almost went all the way. With chemistry like theirs, Logan isn’t sure he can—or should—keep ignoring the other five percent.

To Jef Rouner:

An incredible author, feminist, and friend.

I can’t thank you enough for giving me the idea for this novel, however unintentionally it was done. And more importantly, for letting me take your offhand Facebook comment and poke it with a stick.

This one’s for you, buddy.

About The Other Five Percent

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Dear Reader

Also by Quinn Anderson

About the Author

More like this

Logan shoved his hands into his silk-lined pockets and tried not to vibrate with impatience. Tilting his left wrist up, he craned his neck until he could see the face of his watch: 8:19 a.m. Shit. At this rate, it’d be ten till by the time he got to the office. If he wasn’t fifteen minutes early, he might as well be late.

He swallowed the groan bubbling up in the back of his throat and jiggled a trouser-clad leg just to have something to do. There were only three people in line ahead of him, but in Starbucks time, that could mean anywhere from five minutes to twenty-five. There was also a hoard of people standing on the other end of the counter, waiting for their drinks. Three baristas flitted between the various machines, snatching up cups and jugs and syrup bottles, but no matter how quickly they spat drinks into outstretched hands, they never seemed to make a dent in the throng.

Forget traffic. This was the true early-morning rush hour. The things Logan did for sweet, sweet caffeine.

The line shuffled forward, and he shuffled with it, his polished brown brogues making a soft noise on the tile floor. He looked down and wiggled his toes, watching the calfskin bulge. They’d cost almost as much as his suit, but his boss was always telling him, The shoes make the man.

I guess that makes me a baby cow.

Mr. Cooper had a whole arsenal of pseudo-wise sayings that he liked to trot out whenever anyone asked him a question. Things like, Nothing ventured, nothing gained! and He who hesitates is lost! It was decent-enough advice, Logan supposed, but once, when he’d attempted to ask Mr. Cooper about the quarterly sales figures, he’d been met with, All’s well that ends well! It wasn’t exactly helpful.

He shook his head to himself, and a strand of blond hair fell across his eyes. It caught the early-morning light and blazed white. Surreptitiously, he glanced at his reflection in the polished surface of a nearby espresso machine. Dents in his impromptu mirror turned his brown eyes into lopsided smudges sitting atop his cheekbones. His suit—which had cost most of his last paycheck—was transformed into a gray, amorphous blob. He swept a hand over the rest of his combed hair, fixing the errant strand. Or at least, he was pretty sure he fixed it.

Line’s moving, pretty boy, said a gruff voice behind him. Logan peeked over his shoulder just in time to watch a guy fold large arms over a Day-Glo construction worker’s vest. Gonna stare at yourself all day?

Logan squeaked out an apology and closed the gap. Now there were only two people ahead of him. Just as he was starting to feel optimistic, the customer at the register pulled a checkbook out of her bag. Who the hell even carried checks anymore?

He was tempted to play with his phone, but if he got distracted and let the line move ahead again, he had a feeling Mr. Day-Glo wouldn’t hesitate to cut in front of him. Instead, he fiddled with his cornflower-blue tie, which he’d accidentally knotted too tightly. It would strangle him if he moved his neck the wrong way. His job didn’t require him to wear suits to work—most of the guys in his department walked the razor’s edge between business and casual—but suiting up made Logan feel mature. Sophisticated. Like a real adult.

At twenty-three, he was one of the youngest hires Harrison & Cooper had ever made. He spent most of his time feeling like he was tricking the older employees into accepting him as one of their own. Looking the part helped, in his experience. He even had a monogrammed briefcase that he’d spent an exorbitant amount of money on. He took it to work with him every day, even though all it held was a few empty file folders and the occasional banana.

The check lady finished paying—finally—and joined the pool of waiting customers. He consulted his watch again: 8:23. It was weird how time could crawl and yet still make him wish it would slow down.

Logan eyed the guy in front of him. Middle-aged. Sunburned. Wearing khaki cargo shorts and a shirt with a print they could hear a state over. A tourist? Probably. Maybe he was stopping through town on his way to Atlantic City. There weren’t a whole lot of other reasons to come to Brigantine, tiny island that it was. Logan would know. He’d lived here for a year now and could say with certainty that there was jack all to do.

He leaned forward, eavesdropping with what he hoped was masterful subtly.

Can I get a cup of coffee? the man said.

A simple enough request. Logan looked at the barista.

What kind would you like? The smile on her face looked like it had been plastered there for so long, it was now a permanent fixture.

The man responded in the unhurried tone of someone who has nothing better to do. Just a regular cup of coffee.

We have a few different kinds, sir. Which would you prefer? The barista waved behind her to a row of hand-written signs above three coffee pots.

The man leaned over the counter and squinted at them. What’s the difference? I just want a cup of coffee. Each slowly formed word flayed Logan’s skin from his bones.

Well, Pike Place is our biggest seller, but our dark roast, Sumatra, is popular as well.

You’ve already lost me. Which one is regular coffee?

Oh my god, Logan blurted out. Guy, it’s not that hard. They have three different roasts, and you can have them decaf or regular. That’s a total of six choices. Think you can manage that? If not, I recommend you go for caffeinated.

The man and the barista both glared at him. Logan instantly regretted opening his mouth.

Rude, said the man.

Sir, please wait your turn. The barista’s chastising tone still somehow managed to be polite.

Logan muttered an apology and ducked his head down. Guilt washed through him. Since when was he one of those dicks who acted like they were the only people with places to be? Morning Douches, as he called them. The kind of people who treated every minor inconvenience like a world-ending calamity. Next he knew, he’d be asking to speak with a manager over getting a dash of nutmeg instead of cinnamon. He did not want to be one of them.

He knew what part of his problem was. Three long months had passed since he’d had his last cigarette. They were supposed to be out of his system by now, but the need for nicotine still niggled at him. Whoever had said the first twenty-four hours were the hardest was full of shit. The hard part had come months later, when random cravings popped up out of nowhere. He was stuck in this horrible limbo where it had been too long for him to relapse with dignity but not long enough for the habit to have died hard.

He’d already announced his success to everyone at his office. If he fell off the wagon now, he’d be the boy who cried nicotine. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets to keep his fingers from twitching.

Jonesing or not, he should have kept his mouth shut. If Abby and Rachel knew he’d mouthed off to a stranger, they’d skin him alive at their next Sibling Night. They’d want to pore over every aspect of his life and figure out the source of his discontentment or whatever new self-help crap they were peddling this week. But they weren’t here, so unless they had one of their weird sister-ESP moments, he was off the hook.

Mercifully, the man got his coffee and shuffled off, leaving Logan to approach the barista in the manner of a prodigal son anticipating a scolding.

She eyed him neutrally. What can I get for you, sir?

Logan stumbled through his order: a venti coffee, a cappuccino with three shots of espresso, and a dirty chai. His fumbling was compounded by the fact that the barista was exceptionally pretty. Like, so pretty he almost apologized just for looking at her.

Making a move never crossed his mind, however, both because of his earlier faux pas and because he never hit on women while they were working. It was poor form to hit on someone who couldn’t tell you to fuck off without risking their livelihood. And with the way his love life had been going lately, he’d probably get hot coffee thrown in his face.

When he finished ordering, he gave her his name. He watched as she spelled it wrong on the cup—in what