Deep dish, p.1
Deep Dish, page 1
Deep Dish
A Gay Road Trip Romance
L.A. Witt
Contents
Artificial Intelligence
About Deep Dish
Content Warning
1. Blake
2. Marcus
3. Blake
4. Marcus
5. Blake
6. Marcus
7. Blake
8. Marcus
9. Blake
10. Marcus
11. Blake
12. Marcus
13. Blake
14. Marcus
15. Blake
16. Marcus
17. Blake
18. Marcus
19. Blake
20. Marcus
21. Blake & Marcus
22. Blake
23. Marcus
24. Blake
25. Marcus
Epilogue - Blake
Also by L.A. Witt
Also by L.A. Witt
About the Author
Copyright Information
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.
Deep Dish
First edition
Copyright © 2023 L.A. Witt
Cover Art by Lori Witt
Editors: Mackenzie Walton
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, record ing, 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 L.A. Witt at gallagherwitt@gmail.com
ISBN: 978-1-64230-156-4
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-39874-138-4
Hardcover ISBN: 979-8-39874-150-6
Created with Vellum
Artificial Intelligence
No artificial intelligence was used in the making of this book or any of my books. This includes writing, co-writing, cover artwork, translation, and audiobook narration.
I do not consent to any Artificial Intelligence (AI), generative AI, large language model, machine learning, chatbot, or other automated analysis, generative process, or replication program to reproduce, mimic, remix, summarize, train from, or otherwise replicate any part of this creative work, via any means: print, graphic, sculpture, multimedia, audio, or other medium. This applies to all existing AI technology and any that comes into existence in the future.
I support the right of humans to control their artistic works.
About Deep Dish
Riding the unexpected success of his video channel for as long as it holds out, reluctant influencer Marcus Holloway is on a road trip to find the best pizza in each state. It’s a solitary journey, but he has his dog and kitten for company. What more could he need?
When he interrupts another influencer trying to exploit a homeless person for clout, though, he finds himself on a most unexpected detour.
Blake Wyatt is already down on his luck, living out of his car a thousand miles from anything he might call home. And it only gets worse when someone steals the car. The obnoxious jerk with the camera is just more humiliation.
Then a softspoken savior intervenes… and turns Blake’s world on its head.
Now they’re riding together, and as the miles fly by, both men realize how badly they’ve longed for connection and companionship. Blake adores Marcus’s kindness and his laidback vibe. Marcus melts every time his kitten falls asleep on Blake. And that’s to say nothing of the chemistry steadily heating up between them.
But this isn’t forever. Blake has to get his life back in the rails. Marcus still has thousands of miles to travel. They can avoid it for a while, but sooner or later, their paths will diverge.
As goodbye looms, though, neither is ready to let go.
Maybe they don’t have to.
* * *
Deep Dish is a standalone slow burn road trip romance.
Content Warning
Moderate childhood trauma, past parentification, discussion of Covid-19/pandemic, homelessness, smear campaigns/accusations of abuse, brief mentions of a neglected animal, mild trauma responses in a rescued pet.
If you have questions about this content warning or are concerned about specific content/triggers, please do not hesitate to email the author at gallagherwitt@gmail.com
Chapter 1
Blake
“When are you going to get here?” my mom demanded. “We need your help, and I thought you wanted out of your situation.”
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the brick wall I was sitting against, still holding the phone to my ear as I absorbed my mom’s words. I didn’t know what was more depressing—the utterly impossible prospect of getting back home, or how much everyone there would pile on my shoulders as soon as I walked through the door.
It wasn’t like I had a lot of options, though. Mom may have put a ton of pressure on me whenever she could, but she was also willing to put a roof over my head. Beggars, choosers, and all that.
“Blake?” she prodded tersely. “You still there?”
I swept my tongue across dry lips. “Yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll figure something out. Without my car, though…”
She huffed with annoyance. “If they haven’t found it by now, they probably won’t. Just get on a bus already.”
I did not have the energy to argue with her or listen to why loaning me enough for a bus ticket was an enormous imposition, so I just responded with a noncommittal “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
She reminded me for the fourth or fifth time how much she and my siblings needed me to get my ass to Chicago and help them with childcare, housework, and God knew what else. Then we ended the call. I pushed my phone into the inside pocket of my jacket, then rested my forearms on my bent knees. Head still pressed back against the bricks, I exhaled into the crisp late morning air. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to return to the life I’d bolted from the moment I’d turned eighteen.
It was just as well my family was desperate for someone to pick up the slack, or my mom probably wouldn’t be interested in letting me come home at all. In fact, I’d floated the idea a year ago, back when I was somewhat more stable but could see the ominous writing on the wall, and help hadn’t been forthcoming.
“You’ll figure it out,” she’d assured me.
Yeah. Spoiler—I didn’t.
At least by the time my situation turned really dire, she and my siblings were getting overwhelmed by the kids, and suddenly I was less of a burden and more of an opportunity to delegate. Nice to feel loved.
Ironically, though, what frustrated me most right now was that I both needed to go back home and couldn’t. If I’d left three days ago, I might’ve been able to get from Albuquerque to Chicago. Wouldn’t have been able to eat much, and I’d have had to pray like hell that the car didn’t break down and that gas prices didn’t shoot up, but by the skin of my teeth, I probably could’ve made it.
If I’d left three days ago.
Now I didn’t have a car or the extra two hundred bucks to cough up for that bus ticket my mother was so annoyed with me for failing to buy.
I swore softly and thumbed the strap on the backpack sitting beside me. It was wrapped around my arm in case someone tried to run off with it. The other bag—my laptop case—was clipped to my jacket with a carabiner. I was not taking chances.
Because everything I had with me right now—the laptop, the backpack with a few clothes, the phone—was everything I had to my name.
The cops insisted they were diligently looking for the car, but they’d cautioned me not to get my hopes up. The best-case scenario was some kids wanting a joy ride and abandoning it after they got bored. The worst was a chop shop. In between those two options was someone seeing the small collection of boxes and bags—all the worldly possessions I had left besides my backpack and electronics—and seizing the opportunity to find something to sell.
Somewhere in my chest was some sadness for the personal things that were gone. A handful of books I’d been carrying with me since I’d left home. A box of photos. The crocheted afghan from my grandma. Eventually, I’d probably feel that sadness for real. I’d probably be angry. I might even grieve.
But ever since I’d found a vacant parking space where I’d left my car, I’d been in survival mode. There was no time or headspace for worrying about worldly possessions when I’d lost my only means of transportation and the only place I’d had to sleep for six long months.
What the fuck do I do now?
I’d asked myself that question hundreds of times over the past three days. I still didn’t have an answer.
My mom had suggested pawning my phone or laptop for bus fare, but ironically, I couldn’t afford to let either of those things go. I was still doing freelance work—enough for car insurance, a cell phone, and a little bit of food and gas, but nowhere near enough to get a place to live that couldn’t be stolen the second my back was turned. Yeah, selling the devices would put some cash in my pocket, but it wouldn’t keep the money coming, and I couldn’t take that risk.
I closed my eyes and sighed again. I had a couple of invoices outstanding from clients who were reliable about paying. If I could make it until the end of the week, I’d see a payment from one. The other would be along on the fifteenth, which was a few days later. Two other invoices were out there for clients who I hoped didn’t flake out on me; that was one of the risks of freelance work.
If the reliable clients paid, that would tide me over enough to pay the bills I absolutely couldn’t let lapse. If one of the others paid on time, that would be enough for a bus or train ticket to Chicago. Maybe if I canceled my car insurance, I could save some money. But then if they found my car, I’d have to reactivate it, and my lack of a home or stable job might be a problem for—
“Excuse me, sir?” A soft female voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
Blinking against the bright New Mexico sun, I looked up to find a pretty blonde woman around my age—mid-twenties, maybe—leaning over me. There was a brunette standing behind her, a smartphone in her hand.
Living on the street had made me wary of most people, and even a couple of smiling, non-threatening girls had me on edge. “Um. Yeah?”
Her smile was suddenly huge, which actually made me want to draw back, though the bricks behind me kept me in place. “I saw you sitting here, and you looked like you could use some help.” She extended her hand, and I did a double take at the thick wad of bills she was holding. Especially since the only one that was fully visible was a twenty. My mind immediately jumped on a million ways to stretch that twenty over the next few days. Didn’t matter how guarded I was about people—desperate times, desperate measures.
Dumbstruck, I nervously reached for it. “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”
Just before my fingertips brushed the cash, though, her friend said, “Wait!”
The blonde withdrew the cash and turned around. “What? Did I get in the frame? Crap. Okay. Let’s try it again.”
I blinked. In the frame? Try it again?
But then I figured it out, and my stomach twisted. The brunette wasn’t just holding a phone—she was filming.
Seriously?
“Okay. Okay.” The blonde brushed her hair back and rolled her shoulders. To me, she said, “Do you mind doing this again? Just like, reacting like this is the first time?”
Yeah, I did mind. I minded a lot.
But I also wasn’t in a position to say no to the money she was offering, no matter how much I had to humiliate myself to get it from her hand into mine. If that meant being her dancing monkey until she had the shot she wanted…
I died a little inside as I nodded. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
Four takes later, I was genuinely ready to cry. It was starting to feel less like an attempt to get just the right video and more like a prank. How many times could they make me do this before I finally broke? I didn’t know if that was their end goal, but it was quickly becoming inevitable.
“Okay,” the girl chirped for probably the seventieth time. “I think it’ll work this time.” She grimaced and shrugged with exaggerated apology. “Lighting—what can you do?”
I just nodded, biting back the threat of tears and hoping this really was the last time. The money wasn’t even worth it anymore at this point. I was already hungry—what was one more skipped meal if it meant holding on to a tiny sliver of what little dignity I had left?
The brunette signaled that she was filming. The blonde approached from what must’ve been off-camera, with the phone following her. A foot or so to my left—apparently with the lighting on her good side now, and no weird shadows, and nothing happening in the background—she stopped. “Um, excuse me. Are you—”
Music suddenly started up. Loud music. Loud… Disney music? Was that… Was that “We Don’t Talk About Bruno”?
Both of the girls and I looked around, and I quickly found the source of the music—a white guy in a gray baseball cap, holding up his phone as he approached. His glare was hard, locked right on the blonde.
“What the actual fuck?” she shrieked. “Can’t you see I’m trying to film?”
His laugh was sharp and caustic. “Uh, yeah, I can.” He jiggled his phone. “And good luck not getting it demonetized.”
Fury turned her fair skin bright red. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugged flippantly. “Maybe that you’re using a human being to get internet clout?” He gestured at me. “He’s a person. Not a photo opp. Leave him alone.”
She pushed her shoulders back and gave a haughty huff. “At least I’m helping him.”
“Are you, though?” Sarcasm dripped off every syllable. “Because you still have the money you’re so generously giving him.”
She glanced down at the fist that still held the wad of cash. Swearing at him, she threw the bills at me and stalked away, her camera-wielding friend on her heels.
I hated how eagerly I grabbed at the money she’d left. Humiliation or not, I couldn’t afford to be too proud right then.
The guy stooped to pick up some of the bills that had fluttered out of my reach. At some point, he’d turned off the music, too, though I hadn’t noticed. I’d been too busy doing sidewalk cash grab.
“Sorry she did that,” he said quietly as he handed over the bills he’d collected. “Fucking influencers.”
I was struggling hard to keep my emotions in check now that there wasn’t a camera on me anymore. I was grateful for him intervening, but I was too ashamed and too close to breaking to look in his eyes.
“Yeah,” I croaked. “Can’t stand them.” Hands shaking, I busied myself arranging the bills back into a stack. And while I was grateful for anything I could get, it rankled a bit to realize the stack she’d been holding consisted of a visible twenty padded by a bunch of ones. Thirty-five dollars was more than I’d had half an hour ago, but it stung to think that if she’d been able to finish her video, she probably would’ve told her followers she’d given me a whole lot more.
The guy cleared his throat, reminding me he was still there. Oh God. Was he going to expect me to fawn all over him for scaring her off? Maybe demand a cut of the money?
Cautiously, I looked up into the gentlest, most mesmerizing brown eyes I’d ever seen. His brow was pinched beneath the bill of his cap, and some dark curls stuck out around the edges of the hat. Full lips twitched as if he couldn’t decide between a friendly smile or a sympathetic grimace.
Finally, he said, “Listen, uh…” He swallowed hard, then gestured up the street. “I was heading in to have lunch. Do you want to join me?”
I blinked. “Join… Really?”
A half-shrug. A blush I couldn’t quite understand. A lopsided little smile that somehow hinted at both shyness and boldness, as if this wasn’t something he usually did but he’d committed to it. “Yeah. I mean, you don’t have to, but I’ve heard they have good pizza.”
The growl in my stomach was almost painful. “I, uh…” I glanced in the direction he’d pointed, and realized it was Lorenzo’s Pizzeria. I’d eaten there a number of times in my past life. “Yeah, they’re… They make good pizza.” Seriously good pizza, even when I wasn’t so hungry that some of the area’s hardy desert vegetation was beginning to look appetizing.
The guy gently pressed, “Join me?”
I swallowed as I looked up at him again. “I can’t afford to eat there. Not even with…” I gestured with the cash.
He was already shaking his head. “It’s on me.” Before my pride could protest, he added, “Consider it one influencer making up for another one’s bullshit.”
I stared at him. “You’re…”
Rolling his eyes, he nodded. “Yeah. Not exactly what I signed up to be when I became a YouTuber, but I swear I’m not like…” He motioned in the direction she’d gone.
That much I believed. His behavior hadn’t come across like one influencer trying to bully another or gain his own clout. He’d seemed genuinely pissed off at what she was doing to me. He hadn’t told her his name or mentioned his own influencer status.
