Gay/Lesbian Fiction Excerpts

The Final Curtain excerpt by Victor J Banis in the anthology RED by various authors

2009-07-13T07:00:00.005-04:00

The Final Curtain by Victor J Banis first appeared in the Winter 2007-2008 issue of the ezine Mysterical-E (http://www.mystericale.com). The story is an exercise in Grand Guignol and is included in the anthology RED. The narrator, a touring actor, has been invited to supper with a local arts patron and her preternaturally beautiful young son, Gaylord.

The anthology RED is by multiple authors including 2009 Lambda Award Finalists Victor J Banis, William Maltese and JP Bowie. A gloriously erotic m/m romance, of any genre, any era. Add just a few little items: red, a drink of ice cold water, a cricket, a pebble, the scent of blood oranges. The result? An anthology as versatile and intriguing as it's authors. Red. Who isn't attracted by the color of passion? Due Out soon.

RED
MLR Press (TBA)

Excerpt:

"We ate, not in the immense and over-furnished dining room, but in what she rather pretentiously called 'the supper room,' just the three of us at a table only large enough to accommodate us and the excess of china and crystal, and covered with a fringed cloth that draped to the floor. One of those hideous electric chandeliers cast a dirty yellow light over everything and a steam radiator cracked arthritic joints. The air was crowded with the smell of the overcooked pork and boiled cabbage we ate.

"That she and I ate, in any case. Gaylord sipped champagne and nibbled daintily at the fruit of a blood orange, his lips growing redder with each tiny bite. From time to time, a stained tongue flicked out to wipe his lips clean. He wore a silk robe of the same red. I seemed to see him through a veil of red, a haze cast by my lust enflamed senses.

"I could not have been more enchanted. I had passed the time since our brief meeting in my dressing room thinking of nothing but that ethereal young man who now sat next to me, saying little, smiling occasionally with fruited lips and glancing at me from under lashes that any demoiselle might envy.

"I had never known such desire for anyone. I can't explain it. I, so long content with near celibacy, was possessed, devoured by my passion. It was all that I could do to keep my emotions under control and engage in polite conversation with his mother. Gaylord said little, and answered whatever was spoken directly to him in faint monosyllables. I dared not drink the wine the flowed so freely. I drank glass after glass of ice cold water, hoping to chill the fever that had seized me—to no avail.

"All of a sudden, I felt something graze my knee under the concealing cloth, and a moment later a hand, the mere fingertips, really, slid lightly up the inside of my thigh.

"I gasped aloud and looked involuntarily in his direction, but he was looking at neither of us, his expression distant, as if instead of that vulgar room he gazed upon jeweled isles. He sank his teeth into the littlest segment of fruit, rolled it about on his tongue, and swallowed visibly.

"'Is something wrong?' she asked me.

"'No, no,' I said hastily. 'Forgive me, I just recalled something I forgot to do. Please, go on—you were saying?'

"I let my own hand drop under the cloth, but no sooner had my fingers touched his than the intruders were withdrawn. After that, I could scarcely concentrate on keeping the conversation alive, and I have no memory of whether I tasted the food at all.

"Only one thing penetrated this stupor into which I had fallen. As the table was being cleared and coffee served by a thick, sullen woman who was apparently cook and housekeeper, my hostess said to me, 'But, really, that hotel is such an embarrassment. Why don't you come stay here with us for the duration of your visit? We have far more room than we need, and I am sure Gaylord would be glad for the company, wouldn't you, my darling?'"

"'Yes,' he said, in little more than a sigh. That single word pierced my heart. I was in love, smitten beyond reason. I could no more have refused the invitation than flown to the moon.

"When the time came to drive me back to my hotel, she said, 'I'll just get my purse,' and left us alone, for the first time that evening.

"This was the moment for which I had waited, and I leapt to my feet, convinced that I would have those carmine tinted lips pressed to mine, but even as I came about the table, he moved away from it and into the foyer. He took an enormous red peony from a bowl of them at the foot of the stairs, and buried his face in its exuberant petals.

"I hesitated, waiting for some signal from him, but it did not come, and after all too few moments, I heard his mother's footsteps descending the stairs.

"He glanced at me then, fleetingly, and smiled an impish, blood red smile. It only made me love him more.

http://www.vjbanis.com/
http://www.mystericale.com
http://www.mlrbooks.com/upcoming.php

GayLife.com excerpt by Neil Plakcy

2009-07-06T07:00:00.001-04:00

GayLife.com is a sexy comedy of manners the novel Jane Austen might have written—if she were a gay man living in Miami Beach at the turn of the millennium.

Brian Cohen is handsome, funny and smart, but he’s never been able to get all those good characteristics together enough to score a great job or a great boyfriend. He’s in his early thirties, living in the awesome gay candy store called South Beach, but he’s a man without a plan.

Then his best friend Stella, a gorgeous model, hooks him up with a job helping launch a new gay web site, GayLife.com. Brian immediately develops a crush on his handsome, desirable boss, Nick Petrangelis-- but Nick’s happily coupled with a supermodel of his own, Paavo, the Fabulous Finn.

Will the Internet finally connect Brian to the life he’s always dreamed of? Will Nick join the line of hunky men parading through Brian’s bedroom? GayLife.com is more than just a web site—it’s a fast, sexy romp on a narrow island of sand, Art Deco buildings and neon nights.

GayLife.com
Publisher: MLR Press (May 19, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1608200361
ISBN-13: 978-1608200368

Excerpt:

One late afternoon in September of 1999, I moped around the apartment I shared on South Beach, alternately considering graduate school, celibacy, or becoming one of those guys who stands around in the sun directing traffic around highway construction sites. I was unemployed, I’d been dumped by my latest boyfriend, and there was a huge zit about to pop on my forehead.

Then my best friend Stella, who is one of the top models on Miami Beach, called and told me that if I could get an 8 x 10 glossy down to her agent’s before five, she could get me a day’s work as an extra on a photo shoot.

She had talked me into making up the 8 x 10s a few months before, but I wasn’t fashion model material. My teeth are a bit crooked, my eyebrows have a tendency to grow out in points, like Fu Manchu’s mustache, and I don’t have the right cheekbones. Not to say I’m a dog or anything; I mean, I get my share of stares as I walk down Lincoln Road.

“You’ll be in the background,” Stella said. “I told my agent it was a favor he owed me. Now you’ll owe me one.”

“I owe you my life, Stella.” I’d been dumped by a guy a few weeks before, then I’d lost my job due to budget cuts. Right after that, I’d pinched a nerve in my back that kept me flat on my stomach for hours on end. Stella had been my sole support, bringing me chocolate babka and Dr. Brown’s sodas from the Epicure deli, cheering me with gossip from her photo shoots and commiserating with me about my problems.

At least I’d have some cash toward the rent, I figured. I ran the photo down to her agent’s and found out where I had to go. The next morning the zit had magically disappeared, and I reported for duty to Bobby Maduro Stadium, an ancient ballpark that had long ago been used for spring training. It was located in a slummy area of Miami, not too far from the causeway to South Beach, and by the time I showed up at eight, the prop guys had already been hard at work.

They had laid sod over about half the infield, erected a billboard in front of the old scoreboard, and decorated a quarter of the stadium with pennants and posters. I went to wardrobe, where I was fitted for an old-time baseball uniform, white with blue stripes, with blousy pants and a v-necked jersey. They gave me sneakers and a ball cap and sent me out on the field.

A dozen of us were positioned around the sod. One of the others was this guy Blue, a struggling actor who lives on the first floor of my building and waits tables at a café on Lincoln Road. For a while I watched him trying to make time with one of the photographer’s assistants. Then Stella came out in a white dress that looked like Mia Farrow might have worn it in that ill-advised movie version of The Great Gatsby. It was flouncy and ruffled, and she carried a white parasol. The photographer arranged her lounging in the middle of the field, halfway between second base and the pitcher’s mound.

“Fabulous,” he said, moving behind the camera. “Now give me attitude!”

I wasn’t sure what kind of attitude she was supposed to give him, pretending to be some kind of odalisque in the middle of an old-fashioned baseball game, but she seemed to know, and he clicked pictures with an ecstasy I reserve for the bedroom. Until I can get a photographer (or any other man, for that matter) to act like that, I doubt I will be much of a success at high fashion modeling.

The photographer took a bunch of shots of Stella alone, and then called, “Paavo! We are ready for you.”

He may have been ready, but I wasn’t. The man who strolled out of the dugout was the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen. At least 6’2”, with close-cropped blond hair and eyes I later saw were the same shade of blue as the deep water off Key Biscayne. He twirled his shirt over his shoulder with a single finger, and his biceps and abs rippled as he strolled across the verdant field. My jaw dropped open and my knees got weak.

The photographer met him where Stella was lying, and spent the next two hours arranging their bodies and shooting pictures. For my time, I got paid $150, which I was informed would be mailed to me. After turning in my costume to wardrobe and dressing in my own clothes again, I waited for Stella outside the line of big Winnebagos.

She came out a few minutes later, looking perfect as usual, as if she hadn’t spent the better part of the morning sweating in the middle of a baseball field under the hot sun. “Brian! I’m glad you stayed around. I want you to meet someone.”

Paavo emerged from the trailer behind her, and I thought I might pass out. He was even more gorgeous up close and personal than he had been from a distance. “Paavo’s boyfriend is starting a Website,” Stella said. “He needs some help. You need a job. I think it’s a perfect match, don’t you?”

“Hi,” Paavo said, sticking his hand out.

Dumbly, I reached out and shook it. “Nice to meet you,” I mumbled. “You were great out there.”

He frowned. “I take de clothes off and lie around on de ground,” he said. He still retained a slight accent from his native Finland, as if at any moment he might sprout bushy eyebrows and begin bopping around like the Swedish Chef on the Muppets. It didn’t matter; I was in love. Or lust, as Stella pointed out later.
“Here is de card for de Website,” Paavo said, handing me a business card for someone named Nick Petrangelis, whose title was listed as ‘Supreme Webmaster and Grand Pooh-Bah.’ “I call Nick, he vaits for you at de office.”

I didn’t move, so Stella said, “That means now, Brian. You get in your car and you go back across the causeway to the real world.”

“As if South Beach is the real world,” I said.

“It is for us, sweetie.”

≈ ≈ ≈

It was lunchtime by the time I reached Nick Petrangelis’s office. There was no one at the receptionist’s desk so I stood there and called out, “Hello?”

A twenty-something geek in a Pac-Man T-shirt with goofy, dark-rimmed glasses went past on his way to the copier.

“I’m looking for Nick Petrangelis?”

“Second office on the right,” he said, nodding down the hall. “The one that looks like FAO Schwartz exploded in it.”

I got to the second office and peeked around the door jamb. A blond guy, with broad shoulders and big hands, sat behind a cluttered desk, talking on the phone. His sandy blond hair hung down to the collar of his blue and white striped Brooks Brothers shirt.

Though he wasn’t quite as handsome as Paavo, I was smitten. I like my men tall, on the husky side, and there’s something about a button down collar that makes my heart flutter. I loved the sound of his voice, too, a British burr overlaid with New York directness. Though I was there for a job interview, not a date, I couldn’t help wondering how his lips would taste against mine, if he was as sexy naked as he was with his clothes on.

The walls were plastered with posters from every space movie and television show ever screened, from Lost In Space and Star Wars to Plan 9 From Outer Space and Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. One wall had been made into shelves that were packed with action figures and scale models, from the Enterprise to Obi Wan Kenobi, to a bunch of ships and aliens I didn’t recognize.

Nick saw me in the doorway and motioned me in.

“I’m Brian Cohen,” I said in a low voice. “Paavo gave me your card.”

“Sure, sit down,” he said. Into the phone he said, “No, I’m here. I’m listening.”
As soon as he hung up the desk phone, his cellular phone bleeped.

“GayLife.com,” he said. “This is Nick.” He looked at me and shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, after he hung up. “It’s kind of crazy around here. So, Paavo called and said you were looking for a job.”

The desk phone rang again. “Sorry, with the receptionist out sick I’ve got to get this. If I let the programmer or the artist pick up, God knows what’ll happen.”
A tall dyke with spiked purple hair stalked in carrying a bunch of pieces of paper. While Nick was talking, she laid them out on the desk in front of him. “I’m in the middle of three things,” he whispered to her.

“You’re always in the middle of three things,” she said. She looked at me. “If he’s not on the phone, he’s on the Internet or in a meeting or out of the office. How am I supposed to get this goddamned site designed if I don’t get any feedback?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I shrugged. I always find the very aggressive dykes a little scary. I mean, I know we’re supposed to be one big rainbow family, but what do we have in common after all? She likes pussy, I like dick. I have a lot more mutual interests with straight women like Stella. At least we can compare notes on the men we’ve slept with.

With his eyes, Nick motioned me to take a look at the samples. There were five different designs. “They’re for the background of the pages,” the dyke said to me. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the Internet.”

“I know how to find my way to the naked pictures.”

She glared at me. “He has to pick one so I can get on with the layout. I’ve got to know what kind of background I’m working with.”

“Which one’s your favorite?”

While she looked at them, I considered her. She wore an orange crop top that read “I Hate This Place and I’m Leaving Soon,” khaki shorts, and combat boots, and she had three silver hoops in each ear. “I like this one the best,” she said, pointing to a retro fifties design that could have been lifted from the Formica on my parents’ kitchen cabinets. “But it’s too aggressive. I guess we should go with one of these.” She pointed to a couple that I had to agree were kind of boring.

“What about this one?” I pointed to a pattern of stylized symbols. Two male symbols, two female symbols, in a repeating design.

“Don’t you think it’s too strong?” she asked. “I mean, it might detract from the other pictures.”

“Couldn’t you fade it out?” I asked. “I have this friend who knows Photoshop, and he’s always doing effects like that.”

She considered. “Yeah, that might work.” She looked at Nick. “You like that idea?”

He smiled and nodded.

“Good. Thank you. For Christ’s sake.” She gathered her samples and stalked to the door, where she stopped and turned. “I’m Leslie,” she said. “Leslie Shulewitz.”

“Shalom,” I said. “Brian Cohen.”

“I knew it would take getting another Yid in here to get things moving,” she said. “Welcome aboard the SS GayLife.com.”

Nick hung up, but barely had time to say, “Thanks,” before his cell bleated again. Then the desk phone rang. He looked at me and then at the phone.

What the hell, I thought, and picked it up. “GayLife.com.”

The voice on the other end was frantic. “I can’t do this. I can’t. It’s too much!”

“What’s the matter?”

“My computer crashed!” he wailed.

“Bummer, dude. Did you try restarting it?”

“Yes, I restarted it,” he mimicked back at me. “But I hadn’t saved my document and now it’s gone! I promised Leslie I’d have it this afternoon, and now she’ll cut my balls off and make them into a mobile to hang over her desk.”

I decided to avoid Leslie’s office based on that description. “What program were you using? Word?”

I established that he had been using Word, with Windows XP, and got him to open up Windows Explorer. “Do I have to shut down Word first?”

“Nope. Now go to the C:\windows\temp directory. Anything there?”

“A bunch of files that end in .tmp.”

“Good. Now go to View, Arrange Icons, by date. Anything that’s dated today?”

“Yeah, there’s this tilde wrl file.”

“Great! That’s your file. Double click on it, and you should jump to word.”

“It’s there! There’s some junk at the front but I can deal with that. Oh, you’re a genius! I love you! Can I bear your children?”

“Not right now, thanks. Remember to save your stuff as you’re working.”

He gave me a big smooch that I was sure Nick Petrangelis could hear through the phone and hung up. Nick hung up at the same time.

“It’s kind of a zoo around here,” he said.

“I can see.”

“You seem like you know how to handle yourself.”

I shrugged.

“No, you’re good,” he said. “You worked in an office before?”

We had a couple of minutes together before the phone rang again. I ran through my work experience, Nick nodding and asking the occasional question. “I need an office manager,” he said when I was finished. “Someone who can also be my executive assistant, who can pitch in and do whatever needs to be done. A kind of jack of all trades. You think you can do that?”

“I was an assistant stage manager, and a stage manager, in New York. It’s just the kind of thing I did there.”

The phone rang again. I stood up to go. “Listen, I can come back sometime when you’re not busy.”

“No, don’t go,” Nick said. He had a puppy dog look in his blue eyes that I fell for there and then. It was as if Paavo had never existed, nor had the idiot who had dumped me the month before. There was only Nick. A gorgeous man who was already taken.

“Get me a copy of your resume, will you? For the file. We’ll talk about salary and benefits when things calm down, like after five, OK? There’s a ton of stuff on the desk in the office next door,” he said. “See what you can figure out.” He picked up the phone. “GayLife.com, this is Nick.”

I had a job. I looked up at the poster from Lost In Space, and even though I could imagine that robot was waving his metallic claws and saying “Danger, Will Robinson!”, I went next door and got to work.

http://www.mahubooks.com/
http://www.mysterywriters.org/?q=user/1189
http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=GAYLIFE1

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The Rest Of Our Lives: A Novel excerpt by Dan Stone

2009-06-29T07:00:00.004-04:00

The Rest of Our Lives by Dan Stone is a lighthearted romantic fantasy about the repeatedly reincarnating relationship between ice-blue-eyed, time-stopping, cold weather witch Colm McKenna and hyper-sexy, psychokinetic, hot weather witch Aidan Gallagher. According to Norse legend, the universe came forth from the collision of the energies of fire and frost. One can’t exist without the other, and all of creation is dependent upon the delicate balance between the two. Just as spontaneously combustible Aidan begins to rock frost-flinging Colm’s world with a magical big bang of a romance, the pair learns that they’ve been playing in each other’s back yards for at least a couple of millennia. Aidan becomes increasingly hot for clues about the lessons their karmic connection can teach them, while Colm feels increasingly like a snowball in hell, wondering if multiple incarnations where he’s repeatedly abandoned by his enchanting fireball of a boyfriend, may be one or two bites more than he’s able to chew.

The Rest of Our Lives
Lethe Press (May 25, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1590211472
ISBN-13: 978-1590211472

Excerpt:

The next morning the sun woke me early, a slice of warm, golden delicious light that slipped through our bedroom window. Aidan, usually up before God, was still sleeping. In that soft light, he seemed to literally glow. He looked more like an angel than a witch.

I took advantage of a rare opportunity to study him when he didn’t know I was watching. He was facing me, with one bare arm warming my waist. The crumpled top sheet was draped provocatively over the compelling curve of his bare behind. If I hadn’t known he was asleep I would’ve suspected that he’d arranged himself that way just for effect. But his wide mouth was slightly open, and I could hear the now faint, familiar half whistle/half snore that he made.

He was such a restless sleeper. He moved around constantly during the night and woke frequently. Usually it was me who awoke to find myself looking straight into his always-smiling eyes. But this morning, he was perfectly still. As peaceful looking as I had ever seen him.

I remembered Dr. Nike’s advice to me the day before Aidan and I were leaving, to check in regularly with myself during our time here together. “Just do a ‘PMC’ now and then,” she’d said. A Peace of Mind Check. She’d told me to remember three questions: How am I feeling? What thoughts are behind that feeling? What choice can I make right now that will bring peace of mind?

I looked at Aidan’s body beside me. His arm was lean and solid with surprisingly thick forearms and large hands. Our fingers were nearly the same length but I still felt small in his grasp. My eyes traced his fine lines . . . his faintly freckled shoulder . . . I could just barely feel the rise and fall of his firm belly at my side.

“What else would I need right now to have peace of mind?” I asked myself. As I leaned over to kiss him awake, I couldn’t think of a single thing.

When he realized how late he’d slept he insisted we skip breakfast with the other Tarot Inn guests and see more of the town.

“We’ll grab a couple of slices of breakfast pizza at Spiritus,” he said. “Then we’ll head over to the tower and then the beach for a while before the tea dance.”

But even as we were ascending the cardio workout of a stone stairwell up to the top of Pilgrim Monument, the cloud masses were starting to assemble. They didn’t look friendly.

“I don’t suppose you could blow them back out to sea for a while,” he said as we walked around to the top of the monument with a handful of other tourists casting nervous glances at the sky.

“Who am I, Zeus? What’s wrong with your windmill?”

“Hmm. This could actually be very cool, watching the storm blow in from up here,” he said.

“Cool as in deadly?”

“Cool as in watching the forces of nature flex their muscles and show us their power. Besides,” he said. “Thunderstorms get me hot.”

Less adventurous tourists were already making their way down the stairs. I started to follow but Aidan pulled me back.

“Stay here with me,” he said. “You can get some awesome pictures.”

“We’re going to get soaked and then fried. Streetlights will dim.”

Lightning was already zigzagging out from cast iron cumulonimbus, and a wet wind was spitting in our faces. The drama in the sky and the gray mist starting to shroud the bay were too striking to resist. I pulled my shirt up over my head to protect the camera and started shooting, first just the weather rising and swirling and growling all around us. Then I caught sight of Aidan through the lens. His dark hair was blown back from his face, and his eyes were on fire, wild and determined as a cougar on the prowl.

I shot him from every angle, protecting my camera as best I could as the rain started to pelt and the thunder cracked around us, close enough to raise goose bumps and the hair on the back of my neck. When I refocused on Aidan he was staring right at me. He looked . . . hungry.

“What?” I yelled, looking at him from around the camera, both of us now nearly soaked to the skin.

“Put it away,” he said.

“What for?”

“I don’t want you to drop it,” he said, moving closer.

“I’m not going to drop it,” I said, involuntarily taking a step back.

“You won’t be able to hold onto it,” again moving closer to me. He reached for my camera, gently took it from my hand and slipped it safely into the padded inner pocket of my backpack, which he also slipped off my wet shoulder.

“There’s no one else up here. You know what that means?”

“Death wishes are rarer than we suspected?” He was starting to spook me a little.

“It means we’re alone and two hundred fifty feet above the nearest spectator.” He took hold of the hem of his soaking wet t-shirt and peeled it up and over his head.

“You’re not serious.”

His response was a maniacal grin. He unbuttoned the khaki shorts clinging to his thighs, pushed them and his white Calvins to his feet, and stepped out of them, naked and gleaming wet and wild-eyed, and sporting his own powerfully erect thunderbolt.

There was no mistaking his intention.

“You’re crazy,” I said, as he reached for me.

“Crazed, maybe.” He yanked my own drenched shirt over my head. “There’s a difference.”

“And what would the difference be?” I felt his hands again at my waist, and then unzipping my shorts and rolling them like twin condoms down my legs.

“You,” he said, on his knees now. “The difference is you.”

I don’t know how to describe the rest of what happened up there. It was the first time I could remember feeling so nearly devoured by another person, the first time I had felt such extreme hunger and need coming at me, and from me . . . to the point where I couldn’t tell whose hunger or whose need was driving us . . . pinning us to the stone wall at the top of that tower . . . magnetizing and melting us together. I didn’t know that anything could at once be so violent and so achingly tender.

For every push or shove there was a caress, for every pinch or bite, a sweet kiss. It was a wrestling match and a dance. There were a couple of moments when I could’ve sworn both our feet left the floor, and I couldn’t tell which was the more powerful force—the lightning in the sky behind him or the lightning flashing in his eyes. I had no idea that another body could connect so completely and so perfectly to mine, or that it was possible for two people to arrive at the same awareness at the very same split second, like a single comet streaking across the sky, seen only by two pair of eyes, and to have those most seminal words form simultaneously and appear unmistakably in two minds, transforming everything like the proverbial thunderbolt hitting the tower:

“I love you.”

We finished just as the storm was starting to blow over and with just enough time to wring our soggy shirts and shorts and put them back on before anyone caught us.

“Hey at least we don’t need a shower,” he said as we started down the stairs.

“I still might, after a two hundred fifty-foot walk of shame.”

By the time we wound down the steps of the monument and trudged in sloshy sandals back to the inn, the skies had partially cleared, and we’d at least dried off enough not to drip all over Stuart’s antique rugs.

“Do we need to review the basic principle of coming in out of the rain?” Stuart said from the parlor as we tried to quietly let ourselves in and sneak up to our room.

“We got distracted,” Aidan said, grinning like a milkman who just got lucky.

“Uh huh. Thunderstorms have a way of breaking my concentration, too. You two better get out of those wet clothes. I’ll bring up some extra towels. By the way, tea dance is at four if you want to go with us. You have time for a nap.”

The memory of the scene on top of the tower was still vivid in my mind, and we both seemed a little shy with each other as we undressed in our room.

“Pretty intense, huh?” Aidan said as he quickly hung up his damp clothes and slipped naked under the sheets. He seemed to be studying me.

I took my own wet shirt and shorts into the bathroom and draped them over the shower. When I walked naked back toward the bed he was still looking at me. There seemed to be a question in his eyes, but he wasn’t transmitting. He pulled back the sheet and patted the bed beside him.

As I snuggled in with him I remembered that moment on the tower and the flash of lightning that seemed to drive him into me so deeply, penetrating me physically and emotionally . . . and the words that streaked across both our minds. I wondered what it meant. I had never heard or said or even thought those words with anyone else. I didn’t even know that I felt them until that moment. It certainly hadn’t occurred to me that he felt them. I wasn’t even sure I believed in those words. Were they real? It had only been a thought. A telepathic transmission, not an utterance. A revelation, but not a declaration. I wondered, does it still count if the words “I love you” aren’t said out loud?

Aidan moved beside me, shifted so that my head rested in the curve of his neck, close enough to feel his pulse. Bringing his arm around me he whispered in my ear, out loud, “It counts, Baby.”

www.firstadream.com
http://www.lethepressbooks.com/
http://www.giovannisroom.com/NASApp/store/IndexJsp the gay & lesbian community bookstore in Philadelphia)
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The Geography of Murder excerpt by P.A. Brown

2009-06-22T07:00:00.001-04:00

In The Geography of Murder by P.A. Brown, Jason Zachary wakes in bed with a dead man, George Blunt. Blunt was a person of interest to the Santa Barbara Police for allegedly abusing young girls. Now he's dead and young Jason, with his record for hustling and drug abuse is charged with his murder. But something is off for Detective Spider. Can he clear the man he finds himself attracted to? Because Spider has a darker secret than the fact he's gay in the macho police world of the SBPD. Can he keep his secret but still get his man?

Two strong willed men whose desires collide in the dark BDSM world of bondage and pain. One seeks to be controlled, one seeks control. Will they go too far?

(Book cover created by the always talented Deana C. Jamroz)

Geography of Murder
MLR Press (June, 2009)
Print ISBN #978-1-60820-054-2
Ebook ISBN #978-160820-055-9

Excerpt:

“Do I believe in the milk of human kindness? I'm lactose intolerant.” Detective Alexander Spider, SBPD

Jason

I threw my arms over my face to block out the brilliant light that flooded my eyes. I yelped at the sharp burst of pain it brought on and sat up in bed.

"What the fuck--?"

Under me the bed rocked and rolled. Outside I could hear the high-pitched wail of a gull scream and the gentle, slap of water against fiberglass hull. I was on a boat. Whose? I rolled over to escape the relentless light and bumped up against warm flesh. Oh shit,what had I done this time? Another black out? My last memory was leaving the Vault near midnight. I could have sworn I was alone. Wait -- hadn't some cute, hunky blond guy waylaid me in the parking lot?

The guy beside me was definitely not the blond from last night.

I blinked and stared into his slack face, searching for a clue as to who he was and why I was in bed with him.

I blinked again. I tried to place the face. He was old. At least sixty. Wrinkled face. White mat of chest hair over a flabby paunch, tiny shrunken cock. Faded tats up and down his skinny chest and arms.

A leather dog collar. Black leather harness strapped to his thin chest and nothing else. Not the type I usually slept with. Not the type I ever slept with. What would ever possess me to let a loser like this fuck me? I don't think anyone had that much money.

Then a flash of ice poured down my spine and lodged in my gut. The old man was dead.

I scrambled back, but didn't get very far before hands grabbed me under my armpits and hauled me off the bed. I squawked and tried to swing at my attacker who spun me around and threw me to the floor. One hand shoved my face into the teak deck, redolent of varnish and wood,the other one pinned my arms behind my back. Cold metal snicked around my wrists. What--? A knee landed on my kidney knocking the breath out of my lungs, stopping my protest.

Before I could refill my lungs I was jerked to my feet and found myself staring into a pair of cold gray eyes behind wire frame glasses. He had full lips and a lean, lightly freckled face below a harsh Marine cut. He was a redhead. The freckles didn't fit. They gave him a boyish quality that didn't go with his grimness. He was taller than me by several inches. He had a massive chest that would have split bricks.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Detective Alexander Spider. SBPD. Who are you?"

I gaped at him. "What the hell kind of name is Spider?"

"My father's," he snapped.

I tugged at the handcuffs holding my arms behind my back. My shoulders ached from the unnatural position.

"Who is he?" Spider asked.

It took me about two seconds to realize he meant the body on the bed. I glanced over at the dead man but still didn't recognize him. Not enough to put a name to him. So how had I ended up in bed with him? And whose bed was it? Not mine. I lived in a dump on Los Cerrados Street. I worked at the harbor, at Channel Charters taking tourists out to the Channel Islands for bird-watching trips. I had snuck a trick onto one of the boats more than once. It always impressed the cute twinks and guaranteed a hard fuck, but I hadn't done anything like that last night. Had I?

Spider pushed me around, forcing me to look down at the corpse.

He looked over my shoulder, toward the galley. I caught movement there and realized a second cop was busy photographing everything in sight, including me.

"Who is he?" The detective's voice broke through my confusion. I jerked around to look at him, thinking frantically.

I searched my memory for something, anything that would tell me who the dead guy was and why I was with him. As distasteful as the thought was I even took minute stock of my own body trying to detect any signs I'd been fucked by the guy. Nothing. I couldn't see any signs of sexual activity. So whoever the blond guy I thought I had been with, we hadn't done anything either. No half empty drinks. No used condoms. Thank God there were no lines of coke anywhere or those little glassine packs I get my beans and Oxy in. I could just imagine how that would go over with this law jockey.

He jerked my arm up. Shards of pain shot up my shoulders. "Who is he?" he shouted.

Finally I found my voice. I tried to shake him off, but his grip was like a steel band. "Let me go. I haven't done anything--"

"You always sleep with corpses?" He leaned in so close I could see the dark rims of his irises behind his glasses. His nostrils flared and he showed the tip of his teeth in a feral grin. "Who is he? Why did you kill him?"

"Kill -- I didn't kill anyone. And I don't know who he is."

"What are you doing here? You meet him here or did he bring you? Where'd he find you? Hades? Wildcat? The Vault?"

If I'd been thinking straight I might have wondered how he knew so much about the local bondage scene, but I was too confused, and face it, scared. I was in the middle of something I didn't understand, being grilled by a man who, it was fast becoming clear, wanted to pin this mess on me.

I glared at him, trying to look tough. "Why would I kill somebody I don't know?"

"We'll get to that. What is your name, sir?"

That threw me a bit. I'm not used to being called sir by too many people. Under normal circumstances I might have looked behind me to see if he meant someone else. Instead I opened my mouth to tell him to fuck off. He pulled at my aching arms again, stopping the words in my throat.

"Don't bother," he said. "What's your name? Or do I need to pat you down and find your ID myself?" His gaze slid down my skintight, pocket-less pants and bare chest and his mouth twisted in a grimace. "Guess that would be a waste of time. One last time. Who are you? I want your name."

"Jason," I said. When that didn't satisfy him I added, "Jason Aaron Zachary."

Another cop entered the cabin. Female this time. She ignored me.

"ME's here," she told Spider. "You ready for him?"

"Sure," he said. "Let's get this mutt out of here."

"This mutt isn't going anywhere without a lawyer," I said, bracing my feet as though I thought I could keep the two of them from moving me. It didn't help that Spider looked amused and totally unthreatened.

"Oh, don't worry. You'll get your phone call. You can make two or three for all I care."

"Am I under arrest?"

Spider looked genuinely puzzled at my obtuseness. "Yes," he said, then read me my rights off a card he pulled from a leather folder. When he asked if I understood, I numbly nodded yes.

I vacillated between apathy and terror. I darted glances at the body of the old man on the narrow bunk. It lay on top of a dark navy sheet, which I belatedly realized had darker spots smeared on it. I looked down at my latex-clad legs. Striped Parade pants was about all I had on. What the hell? I only wore my fetish gear on hot dates when I was enticed by someone with deep pockets. My shirt, socks and brand new Captoe boots had vanished at some point. My gaze fell to my crotch and saw the same dark spots. It was the red smear on my stomach that tipped me over. I stared at it in horror. I was covered in still wet blood. His? Mine? Dizziness swept through me. I swayed on my feet, hyperventilating. My stomach threatened to empty itself. Spider grabbed my shoulder and shoved my head down.

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Cruising for Bad Boys excerpts by Mykola Dementiuk & Amanda Young

2009-06-15T07:00:00.002-04:00

The Cruising for Bad Boys anthology edited by Mickey Erlach leaves the cozy confines of the bedroom to seek out sex in the riskiest of locales. Have you ever seen a man in a suit at a truck stop? A preppy frat boy in a public park after midnight? A nerdy man walking down the street in the wrong part of town? They aren't lost. They're looking for bad boys, and when they find them, the fun begins. The best part is when the suit and glasses come off, and the trick is no longer the wildest one in the room ... or in the park.

The first excerpt, from "My Father's Semen" by Mykola Dementiuk, is the disturbing story of a young man who seeks out his biological father only to be forced to survive the one way he knows how. This story will open your eyes to life on the streets of New York in the 1980s and will surprise you in the end.

The second excerpt is from the story "After Sunset" by Amanda Young.

Cruising for Bad Boys
Publisher: STARbooks Press (June 18, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1934187488

Excerpt from Mykola Dementiuk's "My Father's Semen"

My father lived in New York, ever since I was little, and I haven’t seen him six
or seven years. Every Christmas I’d get a card from him with a check for a
hundred dollars --which I immediately cashed-- I suppose it was his way of
saying, Don’t bother me until next Christmas! My mom I never heard from;
grandmother told me she was in San Francisco with her lesbian lover. Oh, I
said, and shrugged. Grandmother knew a lot more but didn’t say much.

The station was packed with people coming and going, but I had to take a
non-descript seat and keep out of trouble. Wasn’t too long ago --about year--
that I got picked up in the Greyhound men’s room, doing nothing, just standing there, but the cops hauled me in anyway.

Cincinnati has no claim to fame, besides Steve McQueen in Cincinnati Kid which took place in New Orleans, and Loni Anderson in WKRP in Cincinnati, a TV show meant more to show off Loni’s tits than her acting ability. And one time the city was know as Porkapolis, before they changed the name to Cincinnati, in honor to some local Indian chief lord, hell, do you think people like to call their home a sty? Fuck off, Cincinnati, or should I say, Oink! Oink!

I only knew three things about New York: it was big, my father lived there, and
whatever Joey told me about it. He had been there about a year ago; having spent a week there, also running away from the therapy clinic his parents put him in because he was gay. His parents were rich enough to send a bounty hunter after him and he nabbed Joey right in the back of the NYC bus station, on his knees, and sucking cock in between two cars. Getting caught in the act was bad enough, but before he nabbed Joey the bounty hunter snapped a Polaroid of Joey sucking cock and which he used to blackmail Joey into giving him blow jobs all the way back home to Cincinnati, or else he’d give the photo’s to Joey’s mom.

Which he did anyway; an envelope full of photos of Joey, kneeling before men, bending over to a standing man, sometimes sucking off one guy while jerking off two others…And of course Joey’s mom never asked why he hadn’t brought Joey home the first day he spotted him but took an entire week to amass twenty rolls of pornographic photos of her son or why there was a receipt among his bills for the Motel 6 outside of Cincinnati.

She paid him 25 thousand dollars to bring me home so he could fuck me right on her doorstep! Joey told me. No wonder he said it took him six weeks to track down Sheila (our friend) in Reno; he had her in a motel for a month, the bastard!

But my grandmother wasn’t as rich as Joey’s parents were so I knew no bounty hunter or parent would come looking for me; but Ralph? Who knew how the social worker would rat me off to his respectable pig friends? Who knew what kind of all-points-bulletin would be issued on me? Warning! Child Molester on the loose! Beware of dreamy-eyes loners writing poetry! That’s him, he’s the one! Smell the little girl all over him! So that’s why I was headed to New York, instead of Chicago, which I had tried three times before.

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Excerpt from "After Sunset" by Amanda Young

Toby sauntered into the park and headed for the wooded area toward the back. Nervous sweat matted a white tank top to his back and sides, making the thin material stick to his skin like a lover’s greedy hands. The full moon peeked from between gauzy clouds, staring down at him like a randy voyeur. It was going to be a damn good night. He could feel it in his bones.

Following along the paved trail, he ignored the deserted swing sets and slides and continued on, keeping an eye out for all the things that went bump in the night. He wasn’t above a little vicarious voyeurism himself.

Up ahead and a little to his right loomed a white cement building that housed the public restrooms; a picturesque reminder of all the fucks and sucks he’d swindled during days gone by. Although he knew he could score some easy ass within those four walls, a sloppy blow at the very least, he’d grown a little choosier about his partners these days.

“Psst. Hey, mister. Over here, mister.”

A grin spread across Toby’s face as he slowed to a stop and looked around. He knew that voice. It was the one he’d been waiting for. Anticipation sped his pulse and fed a steady supply of blood to the cock rapidly hardening against the inside of his fly. He sped up his pace as he reached down and adjust himself to keep his zipper from biting into his dick. Free-balling could be a pain when he was trapped inside the snug denim, but it saved crucial seconds when time was of the essence. There wasn’t time to dill-dally with underwear when you were fucking around in public.

Toby kept to the path, though it grew dimmer with every step. The voice had sounded like it was coming from up ahead, instead of off in the bordering trees. He rounded a bend in the walkway, traveling beyond the reach of the illumination behind him.

A hand shot out of the murky darkness. Rough fingers latched onto Toby’s forearm and clamped down around his flesh. He jumped, but quickly masked his surprise behind a casual mien of indifference, allowing himself be tugged off the path and into the wooded area beyond. With every step, adrenaline spiked his blood and made his heart race in both excitement and a touch of apprehension. The same rush of mixed emotions always bombarded him when he came out on night’s like this—which was probably why he kept doing it. There was nothing like those first few seconds of uncertain possibilities to get his dick hard and his pulse thundering. He fucking loved it.

A stray beam of moonlight revealed a quick peek at the man in front of him. Loose golden curls topped the head of a man several inches shorter than Toby’s own six feet, three inches. Although the guy appeared slim in the black T-shirt and jeans he wore, his forearms were corded with sinew and hinted at the muscle beneath the clothing. The brief glimpse of a bulge beneath the man’s fly made Toby’s mouth water for a taste. He wasn’t too proud to drop to his knees in the dirt and blow the man’s mind right out of the top of his head, if given the chance. It wasn’t as if it would be the first time.
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The Dragon's Pool excerpt by Edward C Patterson

2009-06-08T07:00:00.002-04:00

In The Dragon's Pool by Edward C Patterson, the third book in the Jade Owl Legacy series, a shadow stalks the lanes and streets, from Gui-lin to San Francisco, from Florence to the Dragon’s Pool. In its wake, Rowden Gray and his China Hands follow a course to right the wrongs of time. The relic is hidden, but stirs in the soul and archaic rituals long since forgotten, but never lost. Some books are closed. Others are open, giving up their secrets. In the darkness, ancient terror awaits. A barren field yields up its magic and . . . the comets return to earth.

The Dragon’s Pool, the next installment of an adventure like none other, looms across the landscape giving even the stouthearted pause to reflect. The stalwart characters of The Jade Owl (excerpt posted on 11/17/08) and The Third Peregrination (excerpt Posted on 2/16/09) are back, and joined by new players and helper bees and . . . yes, villains. It is time for the Tien-xin Rite. It is time to close history’s fissure. It is time to complete the prophesy that dwells beneath Her Majesty’s hem. It is time to count the teeth that emerge from the Dragon’s Pool.

The Dragon's Pool
Publisher: CreateSpace (May 7, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1442170999

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Silky

1

The gay kid watched over his shoulder on this dark Castro night, knowing that the men followed him. Anxious, his panic increased along with his pace. No guessing. They were following him. His heart beat double time. His eyes scanned ahead for a safe haven. He hastened. An alleyway was coming up on his right. He could find shelter there, but it could also spell — dead-end. Still, something had to be done. No time for dumb indecision. In the dark alley, he could blend with the trashcans. Perhaps he could discover an unlocked door. Or a fence to leap. His pursuers were hulks — two of them. He, however, was sinewy and young — fifteen in his Nikes. He could outrun them . . . possibly. They were gaining on him, matching his pace. They would bash him . . . no doubt. So he pressed his Nikes to the grayment, and then sprinted into the alley, speed and chance his only hope now.

Darkness could be his friend, except it wasn’t as dark as he supposed. Light threads filtered through the iron slats of the escapement above. Clotheslines hung silhouettes like Spanish moss. Still, he hadn’t shaken the men — thugs grunting threats, probably pissed that their prey had bolted. Why didn’t he leave the club earlier? Too late to wonder now. He always had taken care to avoid the night shadows. This was the Castro, after all. Gay kids were supposed to be safe here, or so he imagined. But when he emerged from the club, he had sensed something amiss. He spied the men across from The Painted Lips . . . and they were waiting. Waiting for something — for someone. But this was the Castro, after all. A gay haven. So he shrugged them off as night revelers tagged up for a tryst. How stupid had he been? These were the night goblins, mongers seeking a gay punching bag. A kid was a perfect mark — young, alone, silky blonde, with a face as smooth as his black leather jacket. The bashers fished — two against one. Coward’s odds. The kid didn’t have a chance. So it was the alley and the filtered light and the cottony Spanish moss.

The kid strained for his night eyes. He assessed the short stretch between this spot and a chain-link fence. That fence would either be a ladder or fly paper. Beyond it was more darkness. However, his pursuers were close behind him. Audible grunts.

"He’s down here."

Now or never. The Nikes pushed toward the fence. Lurch, but then . . . snap. His pants caught on a metallic mass in the shadows — a bicycle. Under different circumstances, this contraption would have served him well, but it twisted his legs with pedals and wheels, spilling him headlong into broken glass and street screed. Dazed. Dizzy. He scarcely heard the grunts now, or the shuffle.

"There. There he is."

The kid inhaled the alley’s urine aroma just as the first blow fell. He couldn’t see his assailants. Blur. Dazed. Dizzy. A sharp knuckle across his cheek. The pain was reminiscent of other pain. He was not a stranger to the pain or to the hatred. However, the last time he had been assaulted, the knuckles were from familiars. Suddenly, boots replaced fists. Kick. Crack. His wind went. His gorge arose, spewing his last beer over his lips. Retch.

"Die, faggot!"

The kid rolled onto his back, meeting another kick.

I must get up, he thought. If he remained a wounded cub, he’d be a headline in the morning. He would beg for his life, but the words wouldn’t form. So he continued to roll, dodging the next kick. He scrambled, crawling like a tadpole. Somewhere in his young spleen, he found his crust, firing his legs out like springs. Pay dirt. The thug tunes changed from mere hatred to unadulterated anger. One of the night goblins doubled-over. Pay dirt.

Good shot, the kid thought. Haul ass, now. He bucked hard, aiming for the chain links. He touched the steel, his fingers laced through the cold strands. He scrambled up, but a clenched claw interrupted his flight. It pressed him into the links.

"That’s the last fucking time you’ll get a chance to shit free," growled the basher.

"Hold him Benny," said the other. "I think this’ll do it."

They pressed the kid’s cheeks against the fence, choking him. So this is how it shall end, he thought. He heard glass break. If he had been the Sunday school going kind, he would have muttered a prayer. If he could have better assessed his situation, he would have known that he was now beyond such things as prayer. The night goblin wielded a broken bottle — a Southern Comfort remnant, long shorn of efficacy.

Hateful slogans. Demonic laughter. The kid heard it and felt a swoon rising. Gasp. They denied him even the urine-bitter air. Suddenly, other sounds. Trembling. Panicky cursing. Hellish screams. Metal pounding — trashcans clashing. Startled, the kid felt air rushing back into his lungs. Dizzy, he slid from the fence, and then tried to whir about, but his legs surrendered. He fell, wondering what had happened to quell the attack.

The kid scanned down the alley.

"Holy shit," he muttered, the words painfully squeezed from his throat.
His pursuers no longer pursued. They had been pelted with a tornado of garbage cans and glass. Benny and his accomplice were sprawled against the graffiti laden wall like the cuss words scrawled illegibly across the bricks. Debris swirled unabated. Still, the kid was mesmerized. The thugs were entwined in bicycle wheels and handlebars. However, what stunned him was a silhouette that loomed over this human trash.

What was this thing? What had wiped the alley clean? What phantom?

The phantom turned, and then moved into the filtered light. It was just a bit taller than the kid, but it appeared to loom to greater heights. It wore a green flowing cape and ruby red tights; and upon its chest emblazoned the silver letter O. The kid knew. He sighed. He trembled.

"The Jade Owl," he whispered.

He had heard the rumors about the crusader of the Castro. Like every gay youngster, he had followed the Jade Owl’s adventures in The Chronicle’s comic section, but . . . here it was in the flesh. The kid raised his eyes to the escapement. Had it come from the fire escape? From the roof? Did it matter? Safety now. Haven true and keen.

The kid took a step toward this green, shadowy phantom, but a silk clad hand stayed him.

"No closer, please."

The kid saw that his hero (for he was his hero now) wore a feathered hood with two tufted ears. And goggles; no, not goggles. Brass spectacles that shimmered blue.

"Who are you?"

"It doesn’t matter." The voice was sweet. The voice was young. "Are you okay?"

The kid glanced at the pile of hate at the base of the wall. He was okay; better than okay.

"I guess so."

"You’re too young to be out this late."

This must be a dream, the kid thought. He shuddered. His savior stretched his hands aloft like a man about to swan dive. He pulled himself through the night air, his blue eyes forming a firefly shower. The kid observed this, his own eyes blinking timed to his heartbeat. He detected an emerald glow at the cape’s edge. Then it, and its owner, disappeared over the roof. The Jade Owl was gone.

"No, don’t go," the kid cried.

He tripped over the bicycle, landing near Benny’s buckled head. He pushed away from the sight, regaining his feet and his momentum. No, don’t leave me. He was saved. He was free, but he had nowhere to go. He wandered in the dark now until he clutched the chain links, and then climbed. At the crest, he tottered, almost losing his balance. He thought he could still see the emerald glow. No, don’t go. He felt the growing bruises on his ribs. They’d be purple by morning. His throat still pained or he would have shouted after the retreating cape. Dizzy. Sharp pain. It hitched him from the top, the ground coming up fast. He thumped over the fence onto the other side. Now his palms and knees would join his ribs competing for the worst color award. He was in another alley, one that opened onto Hartford Street. The kid pushed himself up, the fence a lifeline now. Glancing through it, two crushed thuggish forms confirmed that he had not been dreaming. It did happen. He gazed skyward again.

The kid ran along the thoroughfare, pain chasing him like a fox. He had hope now, but nowhere to go. Time held no consequences for him — or so he thought; the myopic blessing of youth. On Hartford Street, he hobbled, thinking he could still see the glowing cape. Whether it was his imagination or the side effects of the beating, he had convinced himself that he had met his hero. Now, the kid was the pursuer.

At 17th Street, he paused. He squinted at the rooftops. Yes. It was not his imagination. He saw the glow, bouncing like Tinkerbelle. By the time he crossed Noe Street, he knew. The cape had come to rest either on Pond Street or on Prosper. He thought, Prosper. The kid pursued . . . having nowhere to go.

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NEG UB2 excerpt by Rick R. Reed

2009-06-01T07:00:00.003-04:00

In NEG UB2 by Rick R. Reed, the sequel to the best-seller VGL Male Seeks Same...(also published by Amber Allure - see excerpt 12/29/08), poor Ethan Schwartz has just had the most shocking news a gay man can get—he’s been diagnosed HIV positive. Up until today, he thought his life was on a perfect course. He had a job he loved and something else he thought he’d never have: Brian, a new man, one whom Ethan thought of as “the one.” The one who would complete him, who would take his life from a lonely existence to a place filled with laughter, hot sex, and romance.

But along with the fateful diagnosis comes another shock—who is this new love? Had Ethan ever really known Brian? And did Brian infect him? As Ethan says, his love history had been more of a haiku than an epic and Brian seems the likely culprit in his new found diagnosis.

The course of true love never runs smoothly, right? And for Ethan and Brian, their new love, once so bright and shining, now appears tinged with darkness and deceit. Can they face this hurdle together with honesty and forgiveness? Or will this revelation tear them apart?

Ethan turns to creating a blog, Off to See the Wizard of Poz, to help him deal with his diagnosis and love troubles, and what he finds there just may be more hope and support in the world than he once believed. And one of his blog readers just might have the key to Ethan’s happily ever after...

NEG UB2 by Rick R. Reed
ISBN: 978-1-60272-516-4 (ebook)
Publisher: Amber Allure (May 10, 2009)

Excerpt

The front door to Brian’s high-rise had never looked more foreboding. Oh, what are you doing, Ethan? Just go home and wait until tomorrow. Sleep on it. You’ll be more prepared come morning. You can think out in advance what you want to say. He hesitated in the shadows of the shrubbery at the front of Brian’s building, uncertain of whether or not he should listen to the voices that were telling him to go home, wait until tomorrow, procrastinate.

But he knew, deep down, these so-called sensible voices were not sensible at all. They were fearful. They were the voices that had Ethan back away in the past from promising relationships, finding fault with every Tom, Dick, and Harry. And Ethan realized now that he was afraid of getting too involved…no, make that he was afraid of being rejected. One way to avoid being rejected was to end things early yourself. You could always take comfort in the fact that you were not the dumpee, but the dumper.

Tell that to the cat you buy to keep you company some cold winter night.

And right now, he knew he was afraid to talk to Brian, to find out where things stood now that Ethan had ended their relationship, told him he was HIV positive, and been just plain mean to him. Maybe now that Ethan was willing to open the door to reconciliation (maybe), he would find that Brian had acquired the good sense to firmly shut it.

It would serve Ethan right.

Tomorrow would be one more night spent in limbo, lost and alone. Tomorrow he might not feel as passionately and may give himself permission to wait one more day and that day might follow another, then another, until Brian was nothing more than a sweet, but flawed, memory, something to think about as he cleaned out a litter box and opened a can of Fancy Feast.

And tomorrow, he would not have the fire that inspired him to leave his apartment, lights burning, computer online, the TV playing in the background. Had he even bothered to lock his door?

He needed the passion that caused him to rush over here to Brian’s.

Several months ago Brian had given him a key to his place. Now, from so many visits, even the doorman knew him by name and Ethan could easily waltz right in, just like any other resident, and go right on up to Brian’s apartment.

But that was before. Now, he didn’t feel right using the key, even if it was in his pocket. Now, he felt demoted to a caller, a guest, and needed to rely on the formality of ringing Brian’s buzzer outside and—hopefully—being let in.

Ethan closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, imagining himself an actor in the wings. He strode up to the intercom box and, without letting himself hesitate, punched in the code that would cause the phone in Brian’s apartment to ring.

“Hello?”

Ethan was surprised when he answered so quickly, his voice sounding slow and sleepy…and unbearably sexy. Memories of early mornings and late nights rushed into his brain and, for a moment, Ethan was speechless.

“Hello?” Brian said again. “Anybody there?”

“Hi. It’s me.”

There was a long pause and for a moment, Ethan was afraid Brian had simply hung up the phone. Wouldn’t that be just what he had deserved after how he had treated him? Ethan thought of a bouquet of beautiful purple irises flung to cold concrete, to wither and die among discarded can, papers, and cigarette butts. But then Brian spoke again, “What are you doing? You’re downstairs? Why didn’t you just use your key?”

A good sign! “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know if that was appropriate…any more.”

He could hear Brian’s sigh come through the box. “Oh, for God’s sake. Do you have your key?”

“Yes.”

“Then just get up here.”

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Dreaming of You excerpt by Ethan Day

2009-05-25T07:00:00.001-04:00

In Dreaming of You by Ethan Day, restaurateur Aden Ingle has been in love with the perfect man since his fourteenth birthday. Unfortunately, his perfect boyfriend only exists in his dreams. But Aden’s always believed it was his destiny to meet his dream man, and he's perfectly content to wait around for him to walk into his real life.

When he meets Logan Price at a Hotel/Restaurant Trade Show, he finds himself drawn to this man who shakes him out of his dream world. Pretty soon, the flesh and blood reality is becoming more appealing than the fantasy. The only problem is Logan lives half way across the country in California.

Aden's going to have to choose whether to give up everything he’s built for himself professionally and uproot his whole life for Logan, or wait for the man from his dreams to become a reality.

Dreaming of You
Publisher: Loose ID (2009)
ISBN: 978-1-59632-922-5

Excerpt:

After we were showered and all shiny and clean, Logan told me he’d already made lunch plans for us. When I asked him where we were going, he told me it was a surprise. We ran by his hotel so he could change clothes, then climbed in yet another cab, and I listened to him give an address to the cabdriver. I resisted the urge to whine until he told me where we were going, and instead, settled into the seat with him. I smiled when he put his arm around me.

“I could really get used to this,” I said teasingly.

He chuckled and pulled me closer to him. “Me too.”

After a twenty-minute ride, the cab pulled up in front of a large three-story house with two-story giant columns. The yard was impeccably manicured, and there were black door-length shutters and French doors along the first and second stories, which opened up onto a two-story porch.

“Um…where are we, Logan?”

“My mother’s house,” he said matter-of-factly, as if telling someone the weather.

“I thought we were going to lunch?” I asked, trying to keep myself from panicking.

“We are, silly boy; we’re having lunch with my mother.”

“Yeah, hi… I’m thinking no!” I started squirming in my seat. “I can’t meet your
mother… I mean… Jesus, Logan, I had your dick in my mouth a few hours ago!”

“Okay.” His eyes widened as he tossed some money over the seat for the driver. “How about we get out of the car and talk?” He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the cab. I felt the inevitability of what was happening to me sink in. Shutting the cab door, he looked at me and smiled. “Aden, it’s going to be fine. My mother doesn’t know you had my dick in your mouth last night.”

“Last night, try this morning.” I watched the cab drive off, leaving me no escape. “Jesus, I know it. She’ll be able to tell. Mothers know things like this.”

“Aden”—Logan grabbed my already sweaty palm and led me up the driveway—“if it makes you feel any better, she asked me to bring you to lunch yesterday when I was talking about you. That was before we had sex.”

“Okay, you have a point.” I was walking next to him and said, lowering my voice, “An idiotic one, but a point just the same. Why didn’t you tell me about this beforehand?”

“Because you would have said no,” he said with a slightly ornery laugh.

“Um…yeah!” Shit, I’d met parents before, but never on the second day. “Sure…we’ll just waltz in and you can say…‘Hey Mom, here’s the ho I fucked last night.’”

He stopped walking and started laughing. “That would be funny.” He turned and placed his hands on my shoulders. “It’s going to be fine…you’ll love her.” He leaned in and started to kiss me.

“Are you nuts!” I twisted away from him. “I’m not gonna mack on you on her porch!”
The most adorable smile spread over his face. “Damn, if you aren’t the cutest thing I think I’ve ever seen. Come on,” he added, grabbing my hand, “and stop fidgeting.”

Easy for you to say, I thought as he opened the front door, allowing me to go first.

Lamb to the slaughter! Lamb to the slaughter!

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Best Unspoken excerpt by Bryl R. Tyne

2009-05-18T07:00:00.003-04:00

In Best Unspoken by Bryl R. Tyne,twenty-five year old social butterfly, Levi Finley couldn't be more mismatched for his middle-aged, introverted counterpart, biomedical tech, Rob Langston. What happens when two so utterly opposite men come together? Besides the hottest sex in Levi's young life? Throw in one opinionated mother, misunderstanding friends, and one hell of a birthday party at the wildest, gentleman's gentlemen club in town, and friction, a notch above wild, is bound to ensue. Will Levi allow doubts to destroy their relationship? Not if Rob has any say in the matter. But that might not be as easy as it sounds, considering Rob's preferred communication is always best unspoken.

Best Unspoken
Noble Romance Publishing (2009)
ISBN: 978-1-60592-034-4

Excerpt:

No matter how I struggled, Rob refused to release me. Without a word, he marched to the valet’s station, demanded his key, and located his car—all with me in tow. After unlocking the passenger door and yanking it open, he shoved me toward the seat. I’d never experienced an angry Rob. Despite wanting to inform him of the bruises he inflicted, or scream about the humiliation he’d brought upon me in front of my friends, for the first time in my life—I was speechless.

As we exited the lot, my insides warred. Hurt? Pissed? Maybe I was in shock. Every inch of my body felt numb. I stared out the window. Never had I seen him like this. I should’ve gotten out when he walked around the car. Why’d I just sit here?

I glanced his way. Jaw tight, his teeth ground a frightening rhythm as he focused on the highway. Had I provoked him to physical rage? “Rob, where—?”

His cool, hazel-green eyes had mutated into a fiery, burnt orange gaze that he cast in my direction. Any moron should’ve recognized the intent behind that glare. He didn’t have to add his thoughts, but he did. “Shut. Your. Mouth.”

I did. And kept it shut throughout the twenty-minute ride.

Under the eve of a shanty, ma and pa roadside motel, Rob slammed the shifter into park and exited the car. Why didn’t I run?

My door whipped open. Rob stood glowering.

“Here.” He slapped a room key into my palm as he hauled me from the car. “You’re a ball of energy tonight. Find the room on foot.”

I stared.

He pointed to the right of the lobby.

I followed the sidewalk in the direction he’d instructed. Maybe I should’ve listened to Mom? I could turn around, bolt for the lobby, call the police. It’d take Rob a good minute to get out of his car and chase me down. I stood before room twenty-five as he pulled the car into the space behind me. Still, plenty of time to make a break. In a daze, I unlocked the door and stepped into the room.

The slamming of the car door and the clunk of the room door registered as my mind reattached to reality. I recognized the dead bolt click. “Rob—”

Air left my lungs, and I dropped the room key to the carpet as he twisted me around and pressed me against the wall. Pinning my arms above my head, he covered my mouth with his.

Tracing the seam of my lips, his tongue enticed my mouth open. He teased just inside my upper lip, retreated, and closed his mouth over mine without entering. Christ, I love when he teases. He backed away, jagged amber outlining a now calmer green in his eyes. His salt and pepper sideburns accentuated high cheekbones, as his gaze followed his hand roaming down the front of my suit pants. He paused, palm over the pulse behind my fly, and his eyes met mine. “You want me to talk more do you?”

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LA Heat excerpt by P A Brown

2009-05-11T07:00:00.003-04:00

L.A. Heat has been revised and reissued by MLR Press: Forbidden love, forbidden desire. Fast paced roller coaster ride through the dark underbelly of the city of Angels.

Additional excerpts can be read on the blogs dated July 24th and February 2nd, 2008.

LA Heat
MLR Press (April 9, 2009)
ISBN:978-1-934531-85-3(print)
ISBN:978-0-9817464-4-9(e-book)

Excerpt:

Downstairs he booted up his computer. By the time the coffee was ready and he poured himself a mug, he was logged in and online, ready to launch his queries. First he ran some simple searches on Bobby Starrz that brought back several links of film credits. Bobby had been a busy boy. The videos went back over three years, which meant Bobby had started when he was underage, since Chris doubted he’d been much over twenty-one. He printed off a couple of pages that listed the production company that had done most of the videos. StarFlight Productions. A quick Google search returned a hit for an office on Ventura Boulevard in North Hollywood. Even better, it gave him his first lead. A website. Bingo.

Opening StarFlight’s website landed him on a smarmy page featuring suggestive images without substance and a lengthy list of available titles. They even had a secure site for making online purchases. MasterCard, Visa, Amex or PayPal. Convenient. The videos could be ordered or downloaded as streaming video. Instant porno without leaving home.

StarFlight even sold a line of sex toys for the connoisseur. Dildos, specialty condoms, and the really fun stuff like butt plugs, cock extenders, bondage and S & M gear in every material from silk to leather.

All that merchandise meant a back-end database to store customer information and inventory. Was there also an employee database for the talent? The only way to find out was to gain access to it.

Chris dived into his laptop case and pulled out an unmarked CD binder. Leafing through it he found a page that had not CDs but USB flash drives. He slipped one into his USB port. A screen popped up and demanded a password before it opened. He used 1344 bit military strength disk encryption on the flash drive and only when he issued the pass phrase were the algorithms used to unlock the virtual drive he had created on the device. Until the algorithm ran, all the flash drive revealed were a number of folders containing music files. He played the Red Hot Chili Peppers latest while he launched his hidden files.

He knew if StarFlight paid big bucks to the right people their site would be nearly impregnable. But if, like most businesses, they were cheap with their IT dollars, this was going to be a snap. It took Chris all of ten minutes to determine that StarFlight didn’t invest in IT security. The site was wide open to his snooping.

He needed only one more thing. He wasn’t about to launch this attack from his own PC. If anyone at StarFlight realized they were being hacked he didn’t want them — or the cops — tracing it back to him. He had to find a vulnerable PC he could hijack.

He launched his port-snooping tools from the same CD and left to refresh his coffee while his software went out on the Internet in search of a computer that hadn’t been secured against hackers. He knew it wouldn’t take long. Home users were notorious for not securing their machines. No matter how often the media warned them, their blissful ignorance made them ideal targets for what he needed.

Back with his second coffee, he found his sniffers had discovered opened ports on several vulnerable machines and launched tiny, malformed packets that caused a buffer overflow. The vulnerable machines had no way to handle the overflow, so they allowed the packet in and Chris followed. He looked around his hijacked PC. All it had on it were a few cheesy games, chat software, and several dozen spyware gadgets installed by other unscrupulous netizens. The owner of this machine was a perfect dupe.

Chris launched a second set of tools, dug out of another virtual vault. These would set up the hijacked machine to run the processes he needed in the background, so even if the owner was working on his computer, he’d never know what was happening.

The hidden processes ran flawlessly, and within minutes he had a perfect little zombie machine doing his bidding. That was when he set to work hacking StarFlight’s back-end server.

The tools he used for that were a lot more sophisticated and he was sure the police would be very interested in knowing he had them. He had password-cracking tools and decrypters as well as a whole range of key loggers.

While the crackers and the decrypters ran against the database he refreshed his coffee one more time. Then it was back to check the progress of his hacking job. He was pleased to see that StarFlight most likely had chosen their operating system and their security model on the basis of office politics and management schmoozing, instead of good IT judgment — their system was the easiest one in the world to hack.

In another ten minutes his zombie machine registered success. He was in.

Within minutes Chris had a list of every movie Bobby had participated in — Chris refused to think of it as acting — and something even better. Bobby Starrz’s real name and his social security number.

Just like David had said: his name was Robert “Bobby” Allen Dvorak. Born in Topeka, Kansas, June ninth, twenty-one years ago. Quit high school at sixteen and, like so many before him, took off for granola land to become a star. And like so many before him, he was eaten up by the heartless, insatiable machine.

Best of all, a street address on Western Avenue in the still- ungentrified part of Hollywood. Maybe just ten minutes from Chris’s. He jotted down the full address just in case his memory failed him.

He knew he should call David. Dump what he had found in his lap. Only, how would he explain how he came by it? Admit to hacking StarFlight? Admit to having military grade encryption software? Homeland Security would love that. It wouldn’t help his credibility with the local cops, either.

Could he just give them the information without saying how he got it? No, David would think he’d known it all along.

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The Paper Mirror excerpt by Dorien Grey

2009-05-04T07:00:00.001-04:00

In this excerpt from The Paper Mirror, book #10 in the Dick Hardesty Mystery series by Dorien Grey, Dick and Jonathan are attending a party hosted by one of Jonathan's favorite writers, Evan Knight.

The Paper Mirror
GLB Publishers (September 12, 2005)
ISBN: 1879194570

Excerpt:

“So how did it go with Evan’s writing friends?” I asked.
“Great!” Jonathan said, his face brightening. “That tall one is Phillip Tanner―he writes the Grant Moss detective series. I’ve read them all. The other is Charles Beeman…he won a couple of awards for his last book…The Ghost of Years,it’s called. I was embarrassed that I haven’t read it, and told him I would pick up a copy as soon as I could. They were both very nice guys. I’ll try to introduce you later, if you’d like. I was really impressed.”
Again, though, I knew full well Evan Knight’s attentions to Jonathan were based on more than his being a nice guy. But I was happy for Jonathan’s opportunity to meet people he admired.
We went back out to the patio for another drink before, as Jonathan suggested, hitting the buffet table. Jake, Jared, and the guy Jake had been talking to in the pool were nowhere to be seen, and there seemed to be several more guys wandering around without their clothes. Evan was just walking away from the bar, his shirt unbuttoned to display a very nice set of pecs and a forest of chest hair.
Watch it, Hardesty, a mind voice cautioned. You don’t even like the guy.
Yeah, well, my crotch responded, paraphrasing an old standard gay joke, I didn’t come here to fuck personality.
“You about ready to come in the pool?” Evan asked as he passed.
“In a minute,” I said.
“Shall we?” Jonathan asked. I noticed that he’d given Knight’s impressive torso a rather lingering glance.
“If you want,” I said.
I saw that there were several chairs around the pool with clothes on them.
“Don’t you want something to eat first?” I asked.
“Not if we’re going swimming,” Jonathan replied. “It can wait.”
Very un-Jonahan, I thought, but we detoured to one of the few still empty chairs and began taking our clothes off. Odd, I’d done this a hundred times in the past without a second thought, but now that I was with Jonathan…
You don’t want other guys to see him naked, a mind voice observed casually.
Well, damn it, I realized it was right. I didn’t.
But you don’t mind them seeing you? the voice asked.
That’s different, I thought defensively.
Oh, yeah? Like how, for example?
Get over it, Hardesty, the voice said. You are Tarzan. Jonathan is Boy. He’s your possession. You don’t own him.
It was right again, of course.
We undressed and walked over to the edge of the pool, where seven or eight guys were splashing around, or doing underwater laps, or floating on their backs. Jonathan stuck one foot in. “Nice,” he said. “Come on!” and he dived in. I followed.
I must admit, it was a lot of fun. Jonathan insisted on ducking me every chance he got, and we got into a couple underwater scuffles. We weren’t even aware of the other guys around us until all of a sudden we came up for air, laughing, and Evan Knight was there right in front of us.
“Enjoying yourselves?” He asked. He was able to touch bottom, and was standing right in front of Jonathan. I saw him staring at Jonathan…and not at his face. “Ah,” he said with a big smile, “very nice! Just as I remember it.”

* * *

It was as if somebody had just kicked me in the gut…hard.
“What the…?” I heard myself say.
Jonathan looked quickly toward me, his face a study in mortification. “I…” he started to say.
“Oh, oh…sorry,” Knight said, his tone making it perfectly clear that he was no such thing. “No offense. But I knew knew you from somewhere. It wasn’t until after you’d left the other day that I remembered from where. We met at Hughie’s quite a while ago…you’ve changed so much I didn’t recognize you at first. You’ve really filled out nicely. Dick must be treating you right.” He reached out his hand under the water, and Jonathan stumbled quickly backwards.
He still looked stunned, and then I was afraid he might start to cry.
Knight looked at me, his face a mask of fake concern. “Hey, I’m really sorry if I opened any closet doors,” he said, his eyes shifting back to Jonathan. “I rather thought that might have been how you met Dick, too. No shame in being a hustler, especially if it pays off.”
I’m not sure quite what happened next. All I know is that there were little clouds of red in the water and Evan Knight was holding both hands to his face and a trickle of blood was running down one arm and dripping from his elbow into the water. I grabbed Jonathan by the arm and we waded to the steps at the end of the pool and got out of the water. There wasn’t a sound to be heard, except music coming from the house. I wasn’t aware of anyone or anything―just a bunch of statues standing around as if frozen in time.
I grabbed our clothes and we padded through the house, dripping water across the carpet, and walked out the door, stark naked.

* * *

And look for the June release of Aaron’s Wait, Book #2 of the Elliott Smith Mystery series, and for the July release of Roger/Dorien’s non-fiction Navy memoir, A World Ago.

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Self Preservation excerpt by Ethan Day

2009-04-27T07:00:00.001-04:00

Davis always assumed they would wind up back together, until Jack calls and invites Davis to his wedding to Tadd Austin, a prominent architect in Chicago. Jack's only known Tadd for two weeks, so whatever Jack feels for Tadd couldn't possibly compare to what he shared with Davis. There's no way in hell Davis can stand by and watch the life he always expected to get back slip away to some guy Jack barely knows. Tadd Austin, indeed…more like Toad Ass-ton, Davis thinks.

With his best friend, fashion designer Deseree Wildwood in tow, Davis has to shed his sweet, guy-next-door persona, and re-vamp his image into a self-confident, hot piece of eye candy. He's going to the wedding with only one goal in mind: to do whatever it takes to win back Jack. The Toad is toast!

Once in Chicago, Davis discovers it isn't going to be as easy as he thought. Not only is Tadd very un-Toad-like, but a mysterious British playboy named Alex Parker manages to interject himself into the mix. Only true love will survive as the tug of war ensues in this Bermuda love triangle from hell.

Self Preservation
Publisher: Loose Id, LLC (2009)
ISBN: 978-1-59632-869-3

Excerpt:

Davis jumped as someone ran a hand over his ass. He whirled around but couldn't tell who'd done it. Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, he returned to Deseree and Alex, who were laughing hysterically. Deseree handed Davis his cocktail.

"You have to come visit me the next time you're in New York," Deseree said to Alex.

"Darling, I will," Alex said, glancing up at Davis. "We can tear through the city being shamelessly decadent."

"I'm your gal," said Deseree.

Davis rolled his eyes and moved forward a step to make room for two men who stepped up to the bar laughing as they waited for the bartender.

"Exactly what is it you do, Alex?" Davis asked as Alex placed a hand on the small of his back.

"It's just like Tadd to throw himself a bachelor party like that," one guy said. "Have you ever been to a bachelor party where the mother-in-law was the main event? Where were the goddamn strippers?"

"Oh, she's here too," the other guy said in a can-you-believe-it tone.

"The mother-in-law?" the first guy said, as Davis looked at Deseree and frowned.

"It's sick, isn't it," the second guy said. "I really hate Tadd. Nothing bothers him. It's not natural…the fucking Boy Scout."

"Nothing except bad press, the vain prick," the first guy added, laughing as Davis smiled and chuckled to himself. "A nice fucking scandal in the tabloids would probably kill him."

The two men laughed, grabbed their drinks, and walked back into the crowd. Davis peeked over at Deseree, and they both smiled. Davis scanned the room and spotted Candace on the dance floor surrounded by shirtless, sweaty men, twirling and laughing.

"People can be so beastly," Alex said with a smile.

Davis took a sip from his now-lukewarm martini. "It's really quite disgusting."

"I think it's deliciously fun," Deseree said, clapping her hands and giggling.

Alex placed his hand on Deseree's knee. "You and I are going to get along famously."

"Time will tell," Deseree said with a wink.

"Deseree, since you're one of the few people who apparently knows Davis, perhaps you might tell me what one has to do to win his favor."

"You mean get in his pants?" Deseree asked, looking up and placing her hand on her chin. "Do you know any hit men?"

"Deseree, honestly," Davis said, shaking his head as he moved away from Alex and turned to face him. "Look, Alex, I'm sure you're a very sweet man…"

"Ouch," Alex said, placing a hand on his chest. "That one really hurt."

"I'm going to be perfectly honest with you."

"Darling, please," Alex said, groaning, "anything but that."

"You have something against honesty?" Davis asked, looking irritated.

"In my experience, nothing kills romance like the truth."

"Hear, hear," Deseree said, lifting her glass. "Cheers to the fantasy!"

"Well, brace yourself, buck-o," Davis said to Alex while shooting Deseree a disapproving look.

"Good Lord," Alex said, setting down his cocktail. "Buck-o…really? Who in the name of John Wayne still uses the word buck-o?"

Davis rolled his eyes, completely frustrated as he placed a hand on his hip. "I just don't want to lead you on."

"I don't mind, honestly."

Davis threw his hands in the air as Deseree giggled. He took a deep breath and pointed across the bar toward Jack and Tadd. "You see those two guys over there?"

"The two that are getting married?" Alex asked, raising an eyebrow. Jack noticed Davis pointing at him and waved, smiling.

Davis waved back with a big smile, putting his hand down and turning slightly red. He turned his attention back to Alex.

"That's Jack, he's my ex, and well…I'm here to get him back."

"Christ," Deseree said, looking at Davis in shock. "Why not go and announce it over the loud speaker."

Alex examined Davis with wide eyes. "You're here to break up the wedding?"

"Okay, it sounds worse when you say it," Davis said, scrunching up his face.

"Blow me," Alex said, looking Davis up and down. "You look so sweet and wholesome."

"Yeah, well, he was mine first, and… and…"

"Jolly good fun," Alex said, as a mischievous expression stole over his face.

"Huh?" Davis and Deseree asked at the same time.

"You little vixen, you should let me help."

"What?" Davis asked, looking at Alex suspiciously. "Why?"

"I have nothing better do," Alex said matter-of-factly, "and I'm gorgeous. Let's see if we can make him jealous?"

Davis sucked down the last of his martini. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Oh come on, Davis," Deseree said, patting her hand on the bar. "He's cute. Can't we keep him?"

Davis watched the two of them as they looked up at him like two children who had been naughty but still wanted dessert. He tossed his arms into the air in a full-body shrug.

"He's looking right now," Alex said, getting off his bar stool as Davis turned to look. Alex placed his hands on each side of Davis's face and pressed his lips onto Davis's. He slowly moved his tongue into Davis's mouth. Davis tensed as he closed his eyes, and to his surprise he reciprocated, kissing him back. Alex's full lips covered his and Davis let out a tiny moan as Alex pushed farther into his mouth, massaging Davis's tongue with his. Davis placed his hands on Alex's hips to brace himself as his body began to tremble with chills running up his spine.

Jack stopped talking with the people around him and watched Alex and Davis from across the bar. Tadd looked at Jack and turned to see what Jack was staring at. Tadd rolled his eyes and looked back at Jack before turning his attention back to the group of people they were standing with. Jack excused himself from Tadd and the other men and headed toward Davis.

Davis felt a stirring between his legs as Alex pulled away slightly, looking into Davis's eyes. Alex smiled and gave him another soft kiss, lightly brushing his lips over Davis's. He reached down and gave Davis's ass a little squeeze before pulling away and sitting back down in his bar stool. Davis stood motionless for several seconds as Deseree looked up at him smiling.

"All right, now," Deseree said, slamming her hand onto the bar. "That's what I'm talkin' about."

"Why did you do that?" Davis asked, clearing his throat and trying to compose himself.

"I thought it might help," Alex said, shrugging, obviously pleased with himself, as he took a sip from his glass.

"Help who, you perv?" Davis asked, trying to sound indignant.

"I think it did," Deseree said as Jack came up behind Davis.

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Deadly Nightshade excerpt by Victor J Banis

2009-04-20T07:00:00.006-04:00

Gay homicide detective Stanley pays his disapproving father a hospital visit, and finds himself falling in love with his straight cop partner, Tom. The first in a new mystery series including Deadly Wrong (excerpt 3/16/09).

Deadly Nightside
Publisher: MLR Press (January 3,2009)
ISBN-10: 193453174X
ISBN-13: 978-1934531747

Excerpt:

His father was conscious. Stanley realized with a sense of guilt that he had rather been hoping he wouldn't be. He was propped up in bed, connected to an elaborate array of ominous looking tubes and cables. What appeared to be an entire wall of electronic equipment gave the room an eerie green glow.

He blinked when Stanley came into the room, seeming to have some difficulty at first recognizing him. You could see exactly when the truth dawned on him—followed a split second later by the predictable disappointment. He looked away without a word.

"Hey, Dad, how are you doing?" Stanley forced a grin and came to stand by the bed. His father closed his eyes.

"I'm going to sleep," he said in a petulant voice.

"Good idea," Stanley said. "Why don't you rest? I'll just stay here for a bit to see that you're okay."

"I'm fine. I don't need you watching over me." The eyes remained closed. "You go on home. Or wherever."

"Uh, Dad, it's like, three o'clock in the morning. I just drove up here from San Francisco. I guess I can hang around for a few minutes." Stanley pulled a chair over by the bed and sat in it.

The eyes opened then. They were yellowed and blood shot, and stared angrily at Stanley. "I never asked you to come," his father said. "I'd way rather see your sister. You know that."

"Yes, I do know that," Stanley snapped. "I also know that the reason you don't see her is because she doesn't want to see you. That's why she doesn't come, you stubborn old fart."

His father's lips tightened. He glared at Stanley in anger, but behind the anger, hurt cowered. He looked away again, staring at the blank whiteness of the wall.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Stanley said. He put a hand on his father's shoulder. "I shouldn't have…"

"Get the hell out of here." He shrugged Stanley's hand off.

Stanley sat for a moment longer, feeling frustrated and ashamed and wishing he knew how to make things better between them, wishing he could take back what he'd said in anger, but he couldn't. Words only went one way.

"Go on, I want to sleep."

Stanley sighed and got up, brushing an imaginary fleck of dust off his trousers. "I'll see you next week," he said.

"Don't bother."

Stanley started to reply, and held his words. Maybe by next week his father would have forgotten this whole conversation. It was maddening, the things he remembered, and the things he didn't.

Probably he'd remember, Stanley thought, walking away. People always remembered the crud.

* * * * *

His father hadn't always hated him. Surely his memories of his childhood were of a happy family, father, mother, two beloved children. Everything changed when the mother died, in a car crash. His father had been driving, after probably one too many joint. Theirs had been an era of joints, and quite often, one too many of them.

Peter Korski had survived the accident. Wanda hadn't. She'd been thrown from the car—her seat belt unfastened—crushed between the car and an ill-placed tree, an instant death. Better, at least, Stanley thought, then what had happened to his father—because, surely, Peter Korski had begun dying then as well, a process still not complete, agonizingly drawn out. Sometimes, Stanley thought he clung to life the way he did so he could suffer longer.

He blamed himself, of course and, it seemed, in some odd way, he blamed his children, maybe for not being there, for not dying with her. Stanley had never understood it. Who could understand grief, grief laced with guilt? Whatever you did, whatever anyone did, it was almost certainly part of the fault, wasn't it? The whole world, and everything in it, in his father's eyes, had conspired to this awful fate that had befallen the woman they all loved.

Stanley knew Irene, his sister, suffered more from it, maybe just because she was a woman—necessarily, now, the woman of the house, a role she hadn't wanted, had no choice but to fill, and couldn't help being the usurper in doing so. A girl might want to be her mother, might even on some level dream of taking her mother's place. How could you not feel guilty when it happened like this? Did she ever, Stanley had wondered more than once, feel as if she had wished her mother's death on her?

Stanley, male like his father, had somehow been, like him, the loser, the living victim—until the day, that fateful day, when he'd told his father the truth about himself.

It had been one of those conversations that had started out innocently enough. A teen-aged Stanley had wanted to use the car. His father never drove it now except of sheer necessity. Probably, he blamed cars too, although this was a different one. He didn't seem to mind, though, Stanley's driving it.

"Big date?" he'd asked, with a wink and a man-to-man kind of grin.

"Sort of," Stanley had said. Man-to-man had always made him uncomfortable, even when he'd been a little boy. Even then, he knew the difference. By now, he was practicing it.

"Who is she? Anyone I know?'

'It's a he, actually," Stanley said, thinking, with a mix of relief and terror, that he had been given the opening he had long been looking for, to broach the subject that he knew sooner or later had to be broached.

"He? Big date? I hope you're not turning queer on me, son." A laugh that said, I don't seriously think so, but it's entered my thoughts a time or two, so put my mind at ease anyway, why don't you?

Followed by a long, long silence, so long, that Stanley needn't have bothered answering the question. The silence had done that for him.

"Actually, Dad…"

Up until then, from the time Mom had died, it had felt to Stanley like he and Irene were competing for Dad's attention. Later, looking back on that period in their lives, Stanley had the impression that they had been so caught up in their interpersonal turmoil, they had all but forgotten to grieve for the woman who died. They mourned, but it was more like they mourned for themselves and not for her.

After that, though, after Stanley had come out, Irene emerged as the clear winner in their unspoken competition for the most sympathy. His dad barely spoke to him again, hardly looked at him and then never with anything that might have been called affection.

But Irene discovered boys about that time, maybe just a little earlier than one might have expected, a quick succession of them. She was forever rushing to meet one or the other of them, flying out the door as if she were in a big hurry to be away. They hardly saw her. Stanley thought his Dad blamed him for that, too, as if he were the one driving her away.

The blame the senior Korski heaped upon his son wasn't altogether personal. He hated Stanley for being queer. That part of it was intensely personal. The rest of it, all that blame he ladled out, that was like the mashed potatoes to accompany the overcooked turkey when they tried to pretend it was Thanksgiving. Everybody got a spoonful, wanted or not.

It wasn't only Stanley, either. He blamed everybody. For everything. That was when he started retreating inside himself. Stanley saw it happening, he wanted to do something about it. But his father no longer let Stanley get close. "Inside himself" was someplace in particular that Peter Korski wouldn't let his son go. And if Irene noticed, any of this, she was too busy dashing out to be with those boys, to do anything.

So, Irene won, but they all three lost, too. Victims of victims.

* * * * *

"You lost the sling," Tom said when he saw him.

"It must have fallen off," Stanley said. Tom nodded, as if that made perfect sense. They didn't speak again until they were in the car. The Petaluma streets were empty. It took no more than a minute or two to reach the freeway. There was nearly always traffic on the I-5—at this time of night, mostly the big rigs.

"How'd it go?" Tom asked, fitting onto the interstate in the space between a couple of semis.

"Fine," Stanley said curtly.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, the headlights piercing the night. Even the semis thinned out, till they had long stretches of the highway to themselves. The rain had stopped, the clouds lifting.

Tom found an oldies station on the radio. Janis, The Doors. Even Credence: Proud Mary. Stanley listened the way you do with old songs that you know so well you forget whether it's you or John Fogarty performing them.

After a while, Stanley felt some of the anger and the pain begin to drain out of him. Oddly, the silence between him and Tom wasn't awkward the way it had been in the beginning. He found it comforting; there was nothing angry or petulant about it. It was patient, understanding, one of those amicable silences that lets everyone settle into his own personal comfort zone before it asks anything of you.

They were curving down the hill that led to the Golden Gate when Stanley said, "Thanks for taking me. I'd have been a mess by myself."

For an answer, Tom took the cut-off that led to the parking area at the end of the bridge. Posted signs warned that the area was closed after dark but Tom parked along the drive and put the SFPD sign in the window in case any highway patrol came along.

"Come on," he said to a surprised Stanley. "This is where I come when things are bugging me."

They walked out onto the bridge and paused by the railing. Tom took a joint out of his pocket, lit it, puffed and handed it to Stanley. Stanley hesitated for a moment. He rarely smoked. It tended to make him silly.

Tom was watching him, though—weighing him, it looked like. Stanley took the joint, sucked in a big lungful of smoke, let it out slowly. Tom grunted. Stanley was glad after all that he had joined in. It was like they were bonding. The way cops did in the movies and books.

It was the hour between night and dawn. Even now, the lights of the city were still bright, sparkling on the ripples of the bay. Far below, black against black, a ship slid slowly under the bridge. A faint breeze blew saltwater breath in their faces. The sky above was washed clean, one huge cloud looking so full a pin might burst it, and a faint ghost of a moon still hovering overhead, pale, like silver that has been polished until it is worn thin.

"'A little silver slipper of a moon'," Stanley said.

"What?"

"Oh, just a line from a play."

Tom looked searchingly at him. "You really like all that stuff, don't you?"

"Stuff?"

"Plays, poetry—I'll bet you like to hang out at art galleries."

"As a matter of fact, I do." Stanley's smile was a little embarrassed. "Too fruity for you, I guess."

They passed the joint back and forth. Tom considered Stanley's remark for a moment. "No," he said finally, actually looking up at the moon. "I don't know any of that shit. I'm just a dumb cop. It's kind of nice, to tell you the truth, knowing someone who does. I guess I could learn stuff from you."

"You're not dumb," Stanley said. Tom only grunted again.

The sun was almost up now, hurrying before the night changed its mind, the gray sky enameled with streaks of bronze and amber, the famous skyline silhouetted against them. The ocean was dark gray and green, like the verdigris one sees on old brass, and the headlands in the distance were smoke purple, flecked here and there with a dusty gold, as if a painter had just daubed at them with his brush. There were those little flecks of gold everywhere, really—gold gray, gold green, gold purple. A pair of early rising gulls called to one another, celebrating the day to come, or maybe jeering their layabed cousins.

Stanley had seen all this many times, but never before at this time, at this late night, early morning hour and not from the bridge. It was a spectacular sight. "It's beautiful," he said.

"I never get tired of it." Tom flicked the roach over the railing, a wink of red as it disappeared. He did the one-handed thing with a stick of gum. "The bridge, the hills, all of it. I come here when I need to quiet my mind down. I guess it's my kind of poetry."

Headlights brushed over them. A lone car, its windows down, went by headed for Marin, leaving little ribbons of Pretty Woman in its wake

Stanley glanced at Tom then, and he had a sudden, almost frightened realization of Tom's beauty. Oh, he'd known all along that he was good looking, sexy, hot—he just had not until now thought of the word "beauty" in connection with him.

But he was, though, as beautiful as any museum statue or great painting. Not just handsome, which all at once Stanley found too inadequate a word for that dark nest of curls that was his hair, for those brown eyes that glinted sometimes with gold and could turn as dark as thunderclouds in an instant; for the full lipped mouth—how he had loved kissing that, more than he would have dared admit—and the high cheekbones as if carved of marble. He felt his knees grow weak, and was unaware that he was staring until Tom glanced back at him, his expression puzzled.

"What?" he said, chewing.

Stanley felt something inside himself stir. He wanted to fling his arms about Tom, but he knew that he did not dare. He was afraid to speak, even, to shatter the spell. He took a tiny step closer, not quite close enough to touch, but close enough that he was sure he could feel the warmth of Tom's body. It made his breath quicken, and he had to cough into his hand to disguise his arousal.

He opened his mouth, fully meaning to say, "I love you."

What came out instead was, "I saw a flying saucer once. When I was twelve."

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The Academician excerpt by Edward C Patterson

2009-04-13T07:00:00.003-04:00

"A bigger fool the world has never known than I - a coarse fellow with no business to clutch a brush and scribble. I only know the scrawl, because my master took pleasure in teaching me between my chores. Not many men are so cursed . . ." Thus begins the tale of Li K'ai-men as told by his faithful, but mischievous servant, K'u Ko-ling - a tale of 12th Century China, where state service meant a life long journey across a landscape of turmoil and bliss. A tale of sacrifice, love, war and duty - a fragile balance between rituals and passions. Here begins the legacy of the Jade Owl and its custodian as he holds true to his warrants. The Academician by Edward C Patterson is the first of four books in the Southern Swallow series, capturing the turbulence of the Sung Dynasty in transition. Spanning the silvery days under the Emperor Hui to the disasters that followed, The Academician is a slice of world events that should never have been forgotten.

The Academician
CreateSpace (March 4, 2009)
ISBN-10: 144149975X
ISBN-13: 978-1441499752

Excerpt:

Chapter One

The Corpse of Pao Chin

1

A bigger fool the world has never known than I — a coarse fellow with no business to clutch a brush and scribble. I only know the scrawl, because my master took pleasure in teaching me between my chores. Not many men are so cursed by a scholar and saddled with the baggage of literary aspirations. Still, what I know, I know. What I have seen, I have seen; so what I scrawl is no more than a witness and a guess on how things grew along my path, which was his path after all. Now that he raises his spectral cup in the Dragon’s Pool with the Other, I can do little but sit on the riverbank, boiling the fish soft for my toothless repast and serve destiny with these recollections. Better men have managed it, so I am doomed to failure. So we begin with a flourish of the brush — with a big Nan and a giant Ya, my master’s pen name — Southern Swallow. Then, we commence with . . . an ending. In fact, without an ending, this story could not begin; and it began at Su-chou inside the Superintendent’s official residence.

2

A gadfly buzzed in the courtyard watching the Superintendent work. The place seemed deserted. While the city market hummed just over the Ya-men wall, the great official appeared engrossed in his industry — perusing memorials destined for his superior in Yang-chou, a critical eye, who examined every character for proper usage. Perusing every document, from petty requisition to execution warrants, served the Superintendent’s best interest, although the gadfly buzzed.

Xin Ch’u, the chief clerk of the Ya-men, took his ease in the doorway behind the sandalwood screen. It was stifling indoors, yet he knew that to make his presence known to the Superintendent would immediately enlist his aid on the papers at hand. It was better to stall here in semi-shade and watch the official toil. There would be plenty of tasks for Xin Ch’u’s staff, but why suffer the imposition now? Xin Ch’u’s several chins ran wet. His fan gave him scant relief. As he watched, he saw an inviting bowl of wine on the Superintendent’s desk. It would be tepid, and might even heat his blood, but Xin Ch’u longed for it. His own larder was far off, at least a quarter hour’s walk, so Xin Ch’u hoped that if he presented himself before his liege-lord that he could avert the tasks if not preempting some of the glorious wine. He fluttered his robes, airing his soaked vestment, and then prepared to enter the courtyard like a man lost in the summer heat.

Then, he heard the gadfly. So did the Superintendent, who gazed up from the scrolls. His brush outlined the fly’s trajectory as it buzzed about the desk, landing on the ink block. Xin Ch’u halted, still unseen by his lord. The Superintendent fluttered his hand across the block, his fingers flicking the air. He did this three times, and then rose slightly from his chair. He grasped his chest. He choked, and then sprawled across the desk. A slight man, he brought no harm to the desk.

Xin Ch’u observed these things calmly. He pressed forward slightly until he heard the gadfly’s buzz. It hovered over the Superintendent for a short spell before nestling in his ear, perhaps to sing a last song for His Excellency. A slight smile blossomed on Xin Ch’u’s lips. He walked around the desk, scanning the man and his workload. There was little doubt of the condition, but still if a mirror could be clouded, the guards must be summoned — the doctor would be fetched and the courtyard would fill with a plethora of assorted busybodies, all seeking news and . . . well, the spoils of death. That wouldn’t do, not for Xin Ch’u. He sneered at the Superintendent’s helpless form, and waited for a last ditched burble or fart. None came, so the chief clerk reached down for the glorious wine and drank the bowl dry.

“Dead,” Xin Ch’u said. “What a bother. Another one dead.” He looked about for more wine, but saw none. “At least this one has not left posterity to complicate things.”

Xin Ch’u was a hefty man— quite able to lift the Superintendent from the desk and carry him to a more dignified locale. However, the chief clerk’s instincts were focused on the importance of him being in charge. He poked around the table for various small riches — an ink plate, a fine brush and a lovely vermilion sealing pot. These quickly vanished beneath Xin Ch’u’s robes. He continued to probe, even to the Superintendent’s hair comb, when suddenly he spied something shiny. A silver ring on the dead man’s middle finger just beneath the gadfly that had rested on the knuckles and sucked on death. The ring was simply set with an emerald at its crest. It was a handsome reward for the clerk. A few twists and Xin Ch’u pulled the signet over the Superintendent’s long fingernails. It was heavy in the hand, much heavier than it appeared on the finger. The clerk slipped it on, and then quickly cast a glance about the courtyard assuring that no one watched. Safe. Xin Ch’u raised his hand to the fading light.

“Brilliant,” he said. He sneered, gazing down at the man who was his overlord. “More brilliant than you were, Pao Chin. This is my reward for diligence. I had forgotten that you had such a treasure.” He had spied it once at court, but mostly it hid under robe sleeves, or bent to the angle of the brush. Xin Ch’u raised it higher. “Now, as I look at it in a better light and on a better finger, I will not think much of you, Pao Chin.” I do not think anyone will ever think much of this man, he thought. The Superintendent had been grafted on the scene. Everyone knew that the clerks ran the Ya-men, and everyone recognized that Xin Ch’u ran the clerks.

Someone was coming. Xin Ch’u slipped the ring from his finger and into the larder hidden beneath his robes. He assumed a pose of alarm. Less so when he saw it was his lieutenant, Mao Fei. Mao squinted as the sun’s Western decline now cut across the courtyard. He shaded his eyes, sniffing like a dog. He walked like a scarecrow if a scarecrow could walk.

“Xin Ch’u, is there anything amiss?”

Xin Ch’u sighed. “Nothing is amiss, Mao Fei. Pao Chin is dead, that is all.”

“The superintendent is dead?”

“Dead,” said the chief clerk.

Mao Fei circled the body. He prodded it with his fan as if he were waking the man from a late afternoon snooze. When Pao Chin failed to arise and dance the harvest fling, Mao Fei smiled. He may have even given a chuckle, but it was hard to tell with the man. He was as creaky as a hinge. “This is most inconvenient,” Mao Fei said. “Most inconvenient, indeed. But are you sure he’s dead?” He prodded some more, but was really looking for loot. His pouty, thin lips showed disappointment. He probably knew that if he had come upon Pao Chin as he collapsed over the desk, he would be more the richer and Xin Ch’u as barren as Mao-tien’s old ox.

“Most assuredly,” Xin Ch’u confirmed. “Pao Chin is dead.”

Mao Fei blinked. “But how did it happen?” He peered under the table. “Did he perform the death ritual?”

“Do you see any blood?”

“None.”

“He was working, as he always has, and then there was a . . . gadfly.”

“Gadfly? He was killed by a gadfly?”

“I suppose so. I mean, he waved it away and must have strained his ch’i, because he just slumped across the desk.”

“And the fly?”

“Survived. I saw it on his . . . well, I saw it.”

“You let it live?”

Xin Ch’u shrugged. “I have done many things in service to this Ya-men. I shall not become the minister of fly swatting.”

He thought on this for a moment, and then began to chuckle, his chins shimmering in the golden light of sunset. Mao Fei cackled. It was a rare moment in the comraderie of these men. They had served in many capacities in this place — served many lords, but never considered being on insect patrol, until now. Alas, too late, because Pao Chin was dead.

3

Pao Chin is dead. Or I should say, was dead. Well, that would mean he is alive, but he is dead. I can most assuredly state that case. Pao Chin died and that is a good thing for this story, because without his death, my master would not have taken his place as the Superintendent of Su-chou. Timing is everything, or so I have been taught through this fateful existence I lead. With death comes vacancy. Vacancies must be filled — opportunities gained.

My master, the revered scholar Li K’ai-men, had just passed the regional examinations for office. He had attained the highest possible grade, a distinction aided with much vigilance by your humble servant, who filled his soup bowl and empty his piss pot during the interminable days he was pocketed in the examination cubby. But he did well. More than well. First place. He was marked to receive an immediate post, a position sufficiently grand for such an achievement. So Pao Chin’s end became . . . Li K’ai-men’s beginning.

I was a young pup then, attending my master’s every whim. What did I know? I, K’u Ko-ling, son of K’u Fei, a lowly son of the soil from Gui-lin. All I knew was what my master taught me. He showed me how to mix the ink, to prepare the brushes, to boil the soup, to pay the whoremistress, and . . . and I loved to spy on that. I could tell you much, and probably will, but everything in its time and place. Little did I know how much I would learn in service to a great scholar and a man of high governmental rank. I probably learned more than half of the piss-ant bumblefuck sons of scribblers that roam the land from town to town with petty services and warrants. I had warrants of my own. But all in time. Everything to its time and place.

My master, Li K’ai-men, was to be the Superintendent of Su-chou. What an honor that was. He would rule over an important district. First appointments are usually a shit-hole in An-hui or a cold, ball-chilling hut on the Yen border, but not for my master. He drew the bastard plum — Su-chou.
I think that Pao Chin’s death was for the best. The gods were good that day. I did not know the man, nor would he have known me. Yet, I feel so intimately grateful to him for passing on to his ancestors that I could swell with joy when I think of his life, long and healthy, fat and greasy, sated and mated until the end. Never was there such a well deserved or well timed
death as his.

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BASHED: A Love Story excerpt by Rick R Reed

2009-04-06T07:00:00.001-04:00

Three haters. Two lovers. And a collision course with tragedy.

When Donald and Mark left the Brig that October night, they had no idea their lives and love were about to be shattered by fag bashers, intent on pain, and armed with ridicule, fists, and an aluminum baseball bat.

The cowardly hate crime leaves one half of a couple alone and haunted—literally and figuratively—by the memories and denied promise of new love.

BASHED, by Rick R Reed, charts the course of a journey from grief to hope, from death to life, and from hate to redemption. Come along on a trip that encompasses suspense, horror, and—ultimately—romance.

BASHED: A Love Story
Publisher: MLR Press (Mar 26, 2009)
ISBN: 978-1-60820-028-3(print)
ISBN: 978-1-60820-029-0(ebook)

Excerpt:

The night had turned cold while they were in the Brig, one of Chicago's oldest and most infamous leather establishments. A strong wind out of the north had blown away the cloud cover that allowed the city of Chicago to retain a little Indian summer heat this late October night. With the wind, the temperature had plunged nearly twenty degrees, from a relatively balmy 62, down to the low forties. But the wind had also revealed a sprinkling of stars, visible even with the ambient light from downtown. And the moon had emerged, almost full, lending a silvery cast to North Clark Street.

Donald wrapped his arms around Mark as they headed south on Clark, toward the side street where they had left their car. Even with his chaps, biker jacket, and boots, Donald felt the chill bite into him, vicious. He couldn't imagine how Mark was faring, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. He'd get his boy into leather one of these days! It was just past three a.m. and the far north side neighborhood called Andersonville, once the province of Swedes and working class folk, and now the home of yuppies and gays, was quiet. A lone taxi headed north up Clark, looking for fares. Someone even unsteadier on his feet came out of the adult bookstore ahead of them, blinking rapidly, and looking around, perhaps for more excitement than he had found in the bookstore. Donald thought that once upon a time, he could have been the sad, singular man emerging from an adult bookstore while the rest of the world slept, but things had changed since he had met Mark six months ago.

"I feel almost-almost-like we're the only two people on earth," Donald said to Mark, pulling him in close for a sloppy, beery kiss. When he pulled his mouth away, he flashed the crooked grin he knew entranced his boyfriend, and completed the thought with: "And that's fine by me."

Mark grinned back, then rubbed his upper arms. "It's not fine by me. Not when it's this frickin' cold! Let's get home!"

They wrapped their arms around each other to ward off the cold, much as they had done the night they had met, back in March, in the same leather bar. And once again, they were just a bit boozy and flushed with need for each other. Tonight, the weather outside may not have been as frigidly cold as it had been last winter, when they had first laid eyes upon each another, but the heat and electricity passing between them was still burning as brightly as that very first night.

Donald stopped again in the middle of the sidewalk, pulling Mark close and planting a kiss on his cheek. There was no one around and in this neighborhood, such displays really were nothing to worry about, Donald thought. Hell, most anyone they encountered would either be sympathetic or jealous. He nipped at Mark's earlobe and whispered, "I love you, you know that?" He paused to breathe in Mark's scent and to nuzzle his nose in Mark's blond curls.

And Mark stopped, right there in the middle of Clark Street, on an early Sunday morning, and placed his hands on Donald's shoulders, so he would stop walking and so he could look right back into Mark's penetrating stare. "And I love you, Donald." He gave a small grin and looked down at the ground for just a second, almost as if he was embarrassed and then said, "And I always will. This is a forever thing."

Donald felt a rush of warmth go through him at the exact same moment a harsh wind, full of chill and with the smell of dark water, glided east from over Lake Michigan. He pulled Mark close and kissed him full on the mouth, his tongue lifting Mark's and doing a little duel with it. Neither of them closed their eyes, preferring instead to stare into each other's rapt gazes. Just as they were breaking apart, they stiffened as the roar of a souped-up engine shattered the still of the night. The backfire issuing forth from the car's muffler made both men jump. They gave each other a quick glance, then laughed.

The car, an old maroon Duster that had been tricked out beyond good sense, taste, or fiscal responsibility, slowed across from the pair. Three shadowy figures moved inside. One of them rolled down a window and a young male face, pale and marred by acne, in the moon's light, emerged making a kissing sound, exaggerated and prolonged. Donald heard the other guys in the car laughing. He stiffened and felt a trickle of sweat roll into the small of his back, in spite of the chill in the air.

Just as suddenly as they had arrived, they roared off, leaving them in a wake of sour-smelling exhaust. But they did not leave without casting a parting shot out the window: "Fucking faggots!"

Donald shook his head, glancing over at Mark, whose young face was creased with worry. "Don't let shit like that get to you. They're idiots. And chicken shits...it's pretty easy to call names at people from a speeding car." The pair continued south. Up ahead, they needed to turn and head east to make their way to the little side street where they had parked Donald's Prius. The street could usually be counted on for a spot, even on a busy Saturday night. Donald thought that it was more the fact that the street was hard to get to than the fact that it ran along the northern border of St. Boniface Cemetery that made it such a good parking bet.

"I know. They're just a bunch of assholes," Mark said as they continued east. Donald could feel the defeat and fear in his voice. He hoped the hotrod homophobes hadn't broken the spell of their night. Because Mark was much younger, he hadn't been exposed to some of the same ridicule and taunting Donald had, growing up in the late sixties and seventies.

Donald bit his lower lip, suddenly feeling all the shame and embarrassment he had once associated with being gay rise up again. It never really disappears, does it? His face felt flushed and a curious mixture of emotions warred within him. First, there was the shame, which he chastised himself for, but still couldn't stop the little inner voice that scolded him for the public displays of affection, even on an early Sunday morning and in a part of town that was very gay. Second, there was a more recent, more reasonable voice that was enraged, and asked, "How dare they?" This voice was ready to chase after the speeding car, shouting epithets right back at the cowards who hid behind the car's macho posturing and tinted glass. And the final voice, the other half of the fight or flee duo, just wanted to grab Mark's hand and run back to the car, jump inside, and make sure all the doors were locked before roaring off into the night themselves. Thank God they had a secure garage to park in at home.

"Yeah...assholes," Donald whispered, then spoke up, "I need to be getting you home, young man, it's way past your bedtime." Donald quickened his pace so that Mark would match his step and tried not to let the name-calling weigh too heavily on the evening. He was pissed about how a mood could be so easily shattered, especially by some more-than-likely suburban rubes that were not entitled to it. Fuck them! He wished he could make the mood come back, but not now, not with the "fucking faggots" still ringing fresh in his ears.

Maybe when they got home, Donald could put things to right. No maybe about it! He would light candles, open a bottle of wine, put on some trance music and urge Mark over to the couch. He would undress him slowly, gliding his strong hands over every inch of Mark's silky skin as he exposed it. He could already taste Mark's lips and the clean heat of his mouth.

They were almost to their car when they both tensed, slowing, as they heard the growling muffler of a car behind them. Donald closed his eyes, thinking, Oh God, please not again. Not them. They both stopped for just an instant. Donald didn't have to look back to know who was in the loudly idling car behind them. His heart began to thud in his chest and he resisted an impulse to simply grab Mark's hand and run the three or four feet it would take them to get to the car. But such a sissy maneuver was probably just the kind of thing those assholes would take particular delight in seeing. And the hot pursuit of a couple of scared queers would be the perfect capper to a boring night.

Donald spoke quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. "Let's just walk to the car. Don't look back. Don't even give them the satisfaction we're aware of them. We both know who it is. But to look back will just open the door to more shit."

Mark kept apace. "Right." His voice was clipped and Donald could pick up on the fear and tension in it.

Behind them, they heard the kissing sound again, over the beat of some heavy metal music, the bass throbbing hard enough to shake the car's frame. "Hey boys!" a falsetto voice, mocking, rang out through the autumn night. Donald wanted to freeze in his spot and could tell Mark did, too, by the way he tensed, unmoving. But Donald had enough presence of mind to keep moving forward, slowly, cautiously, the way one would back away from a lion about to pounce. No sudden moves. No eye contact. Donald had to remind himself to breathe.

A wolf whistle cut through the night air. "Hey if you guys are gonna suck some dick tonight, can we get in on the action?" The car's passengers erupted with laughter.

Donald dug in his tight-fitting Levis for his keys. His hand was trembling. His stomach was churning. He wished they had left much earlier. He wished they had parked on busier, more brightly-lit Clark Street. He wished they had taken a cab. He wished he had left his leather gear at home, just for tonight. He managed to grasp the keys just as they arrived at the car. Mark hurried around to the passenger side. When Donald met Mark's gaze, he saw that the younger man's eyes were bright with fear. He mouthed the word, "Hurry" to Donald.

The sound of car doors slamming behind them made Donald's hands shake so badly, he dropped the keys into the gravel by the side of the road. "Fuck," he whispered. They were off busy Clark now, and the side street was dark. Empty. He couldn't see where the keys had fallen. He could see where they should logically be, but of course, that's not where they were.

Mark said, in a tense voice, "Hurry up, Donald."

Donald didn't have to look behind him to know that the car's occupants were no longer in the Duster and were getting closer. Each slam of a car door caused his heart to beat a little faster, his breath to quicken.

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Transgressions excerpt by Erastes

2009-03-30T06:50:00.000-04:00

England 1642: Two young men fall in love in a country poised on the brink of Civil War. David Caverly—who longs to escape his father's smallholding to join the King's Army, and of Jonathan Graie, the puritan apprentice David's father brings to help at the forge. They become friends, but it is not until Tobias--a King's Army scout who stops at the farm and seduces David--that David knows his friendship with Jonathan should be so much more.

Transgressions
Running Press (April 13, 2009)
ISBN: 0762435739

Excerpt:

Hal had been gone a fortnight and David was worried. Of course he had no idea where the man had gone, it could be anywhere in the country, so two weeks, looked at from that perspective, was not that long a time, but still, David fretted. He had made a couple of drinking acquaintances among the other recruits: Robert Godwin, tall and slim, man, a natural pikeman, according to the reluctant praise of their Sergeant, and Allan Blake, who, despite being drunk nearly every hour God gave, somehow managed to fire a musket without blowing himself to kingdom come or getting himself flogged for his inebriation. These two young men had approached David one evening while he was sitting cleaning his musket and asked if he was going to the town. He had thanked them but refused politely, then found himself physically lifted off his bedroll and lugged like a sack of provisions down the stairs, where they dropped him on the cobbles of the yard.

"You can walk from here, Master Gray," said Blake, removing his hat to give a mock bow. "We are not your packhorses, although my learned friend here may resemble one more than most." At that, Godwin head-butted Blake in the stomach, who fell backwards over the still seated David and the men had been friends ever since. David was glad of it; being an only child for years, and then becoming so close to Jonathan, now he sorely missed a friend and companion.

Sixteen days after Hal's disappearance all three of them were outside an inn, shaded by leaves in a tree-lined courtyard.

"Still no word of your dashing corporal, David?" Blake teased, pulling the wench he had in his lap closer to him so he could look down her ample bosom.

David shook his head and tried to look as if it did not bother him; it was vitally important that his proclivities did not become common knowledge, as he knew men had been executed for such "unnaturalness." He made a mental note to try and bring the subject up with Hal--as to how he and Tobias managed it in secret--if he could, without upsetting his friend over the memory of the dead trooper. The sorrow of Hal's losing Tobias weighed almost as heavy on David's heart as his own loss of Jonathan. At least after the war he could, if he wanted to, swallow his pride and go home, hope his father had forgiven him, and go on his knees to Jonathan and beg for forgiveness. Hal's love was gone forever.

David's unusual moroseness caused Blake to tear his montero from his head and throw it at David. "Cheer up, for God's sake, David. Anne my dear," he waved airily at a buxom blonde watching them. "Please do me the great favor of attempting to make my poor friend smile. You would think by the way he misses our handsome corporal, that he had no other friends, which offends us." David looked up at the approaching strumpet and laughed out loud as she stalked down on him, her hips swinging, calling out to the other women about her challenge.

There were a few ribald comments and one wag from Pennyman's regiment shouted, "Ye won't be allowed as far as his lap me girl, you've not got the right artillery!"

David found himself blushing and in a desperate attempt to take the suddenly riotous attention away from himself, he pulled the girl into his lap and with an elegant wave to Pennyman's men and a dazzling smile, he kissed her hard.

There was an enormous cheer from the entire inn, everyone laughed and to David's enormous thankfulness they continued with their own affairs. He let the girl sit up straight and muttered his thanks.

"S'all right love," she said quietly in his ear, making it look for all the soldier's benefits that she was whispering lewd suggestions, "We all know that you be under young Haldane's protection. Pretend to say something to me, and then follow my lead." He did as she said, putting his mouth to her ear and she roared in laughter for all to hear.

"Why, you young scamp!" she shouted as she got off his lap in mock affront. "I don't do that for less than a Colonel! Come back when you've been promoted!" This caused another general laugh, but afterwards David was left in peace to drink and sing with the rest. As they swayed and sang their way back to the barracks, Godwin linked his arm through David's as they watched Blake skipping on ahead doing a passable impression of a jackass.

"Did you hear the rumors about the regiment?" Godwin said quietly and more soberly than he appeared to be.

David looked glanced at his friend's pale thin face in inquiry. "Rumors? No. I've hardly been off the training ground these last few days." The Sergeant had had him working with his musket for hours after the other men had been dismissed.

"I've heard we will be moving, and pretty soon, too."

David felt the color drain from his face. "Do you know where?"

Godwin shook his head. "Not really. Could be west, could be north. Things are muddled; where we are needed I suppose. Doesn't really matter though, does it? Action! At last! This is the year that Essex gets what he deserves!" And with a laugh, Godwin pulled a thoughtful David into their barrack.

David walked down to the end where his place was and his heart leapt to find Hal sitting on his bedroll. Hal jumped up and grabbed David by the arms.

"David! God, I've missed you." His handsome face was pale but wreathed in a smile. "I surmised you would be out drinking, you rascal. I have been waiting for hours. I was not going to scour Oxford searching the taverns for you." He ruffled David's still ragged hair. "Come out, walk with me for a while." He ignored David's concerns about curfews and Sergeants as he led the way out and down the stairs into the moonlit courtyard. As Hal went to step out into the quadrangle which was almost as bright as day, David caught him by the arm, still worried about being caught.

Hal winced and David was immediately solicitous. "Hal? You're hurt!" He sat him down on the grass and peeled off his jacket. Hal's shirt was badly bloodstained and cut off at the shoulder; his upper arm was bandaged. Hal smiled ruefully at David's concerned face.

"Looks far worse than it is, believe me. The man who fired at me was not trained by a Sergeant Winter, or I would be dead. I didn't even see him--the horse did, shied and between the shooter's stupidity and my horse's brains, together they probably saved my life." He pulled his jacket back around his shoulders. "Don't look so tragic. I'll live. The shot grazed my arm nothing more, and I've had worse. Master Thornell has patched me up." He reached over, took off David's hat and tipped his chin up so he could see his face. David's heart contracted at the story and he felt his eyes fill with unbidden tears.

Hal was smiling, but his brow was furrowed with concern. "Crying? Nay, not over me?"

"Not really," whispered David quietly, "but so much loss. I can't explain, I'm sorry." He stood up, embarrassed by his lack of control partly due to the ale and partly in concern for Hal's welfare.

Hal caught up with him at the quadrangle door and pulled him round. "Are you ever going to tell me what makes your face twist in agony when you think I do not see? Am I not enough of a friend that you can share your sorrow as well as your drink? If not, then tell me and we will be no more to each other than your new drinking companions, but tell me one way or the other for I deserve at least that courtesy. Don't let me hope..." His voice faltered.

David leant against the warm shadowed wall and slid down it into a crouching position. He kept his face turned from Hal and said "Don't, Hal, I can't bear for you to berate me. I left behind...someone. At home. Someone I loved."

"A lass?"

David gave a snarl, startling Hal with his sudden unexpected anger. "Don't play games with me Hal! You know what happened 'twixt me and Tobias. You helped arrange it. I was younger then, but not addled. You met him."

"Your brother?" Hal seemed to struggle to remember that day.

"No, not my sibling, but my blood brother, my friend, my conscience, my soul. Everything that was good about me, I left behind. With him."

Hal's voice was strangely quiet. "But you left him. Why?"

"We quarreled. Don't ask me any more for pity's sake." David's voice broke. "Don't you see, Hal? That's what destroys me. We quarreled. I was stupid, but I had no choice. I left him, the best person I have ever known. But he goes on, he lives. I could go back, he might even forgive me. But you... you. You lost your love, and you can never go back. I blame myself for both of us." His voice came in huge sobs for his own sorrow as much as Hal's; allowing all the loss of the last year, right from Edgehill to this moment, to wash over him. "Perhaps if Tobias and I, had not...he would be...would be..."

Hal moved swiftly to David, knelt in front of the youth and pulled him forward onto his knees and into his arms. "Don't ever say that. Do you hear me? Not ever! It is not your fault. Tobias and I… I do not expect you to understand our friendship, but we had known each other for many, many years. I knew him so well that I knew that I was not enough for him, he needed more than I could give him and I loved him enough to let him go because he always came back to me."

"But not..."

"No. Not after Edgehill." The bitterness and sadness in Hal's words tore through David. "Somehow I knew he wouldn't. After he came back from you that night he was so quiet, somehow I knew, and I think he did too." He kissed David's hair softly. "It's not your fault, David, I promise. It's just war." Hal pulled David into an alcove between the buildings and bent towards David, grazed his face, with the softest of kisses, drew the tears from his eyes, and followed the trail of salt to his mouth.

David returned the kiss, as gently as it was given. Hal's tongue was tender, almost hesitant as he explored David's mouth, their lips barely connecting. Hal brought long fingers up to David's face and outlined the shape of his lips, as if attempting to memorize their shape and feel. As the kiss broke, David whispered, "He said as much to me. He knew he was not coming back. And then he never did..."

"Can we not comfort each other then, you and I?" Hal whispered into David's ear, his arms slipping around his waist. "Is your loss too recent? For mine is not...I have been lonely for too long a time."

David tipped his head back, opened his eyes. His gaze met Hal's, and he saw something he recognized. They were both lonely, but wanting. He gave the smallest of smiles, then leant forward and kissed Hal deeply, his hands fisted in the thick hair, as his hesitation vanished and his teeth clashed with Hal's in his haste. Finally, when David was quite breathless. Hal stopped, and without a sound led David by the hand and out of the courtyard.

http://www.erastes.com/
To purchase click here

If I Were a Lady excerpt by Bryl R. Tyne

2009-03-23T07:00:00.009-04:00

Fifth grade English teacher, Kendra Wright, doesn’t believe in instant love. In fact, at twenty-nine, she’s all but given up hope of ever finding love, period. That is, until she meets the new principal, Valerian Riche.

He may be stunning, gentlemanly and honorable, but falling for the man is the last thing on Kendra's agenda. But when Val makes the first move, Kendra’s life as the youngest spinster to ever grace the pages of history is turned upside down. She’s longed to be treated like the lady she knows she is, but technically, is not. But if the truth comes out, it will destroy her career and end the wildest romantic ride she’s ever known.

Kendra must end the relationship before she’s in too deep. Before the truth is revealed. But, how does a lady say no to the charm-charged wiles of a man as determined, and eager, as Val Riche? While she anticipates the horror of breaking the news, he persists on making her decision as difficult as possible. Maybe Val should’ve checked Kendra’s package before he unchecked his heart.

If I Were a Lady...
Noble Romance Publishing (March 16, 2009)
ISBN 978-1-60592-025-2

Excerpt: (scene from a theme park sky car ride)

I felt Val next to me as I gawked at the menagerie fifty-feet below us. “They’re everywhere.”

“You’re funny,” he said, pecking me on the cheek. “You’ve never seen animals before, either?”

“Oh, please.” I flashed him a sideways snarl. “Yes, in zoos. Not like out in the wild or something . . . . Look!” I poked the glass. He bumped my shoulder out of his way to see the pair of giraffes. Fighting or flirting, I wasn’t sure. When he started laughing, I shoved him toward the other end of the car. “What’s so funny, jackass?”

On the car’s floor, he lay where he landed, laughing with gusto and clutching his stomach.

“Whatever.” I returned to animal-watching. He’d lost his damned mind. Less than a minute later, Val had me pinned to the back of the seat by my shoulders. No laugh, not even a smirk, the second time I’d witnessed such seriousness in his eyes.

Prying my legs apart, he lowered himself to his knees between them. “Kendra.” I averted my gaze and looked out the window. He brought my attention back to him with a soft touch to my face, but I lowered my head just as quickly. “Please look at me.”

Those tears aren’t real. I tried convincing myself, shutting my eyes, only to open them wide as his lips flitted over mine. “Kendra.”

“What? And why are we whispering?”

Silence. So silent, I swore I could hear the bead of sweat I watched descend the inside bridge of his nose. His tongue glided over his top lip then his bottom. Why am I shaking?

I wasn’t shaking. “Val? What’s wrong?” I brushed a droplet from his cheek.

“Kendra, I . . . I-think-I-love-you.”

Why had I been so worried about this moment? All the anxiety and the fear were for nothing. I answered him with ease. “You can’t, Val.” With the same sense of calm, I replied to his questioning eyes. “We’ve been around each other less than a week. You can’t love me. You don’t know me. Not at all.”

“Don’t tell me I don’t know what I want, Kendra.” He leaned forward and kissed me.

Inhibitions forgotten with the intensity of his touch, I forged ahead. My tongue met his and I lured him inside. He wants me. I sucked on his bottom lip. He sucked on mine. God, I want him to suck—

“I want to make love to you,” he said.

Okay, inhibitions almost forgotten . . . . Fear seized my gut, doubts taunted me, but I forced them away. I couldn’t remember ever wanting anyone as badly as I wanted Val Riche. I wanted him inside me, deep inside, fulfilling my desires, filling me.

If he gave me a minute, I’d figure out how to make it happen, too...

http://bryltyne.com/
http://nobleromance.com
To purchase, click here

Deadly Wrong excerpt by Victor J Banis

2009-03-16T07:00:00.001-04:00

In this excerpt from Deadly Wrong by Victor J Banis, Stanley has come to the town of Bear Mountain at the request of an old friend, who believes her brother is innocent of the manslaughter charge that has been brought against him. The authorities believe the death of Donnie McIntosh, the town queer, was an accident, plain and simple; but Stanley has begun to think that it was murder.

Deadly Wrong
MLR Press (February 1, 2009)
ISBN:1934531863

Excerpt:

Libby's gallery was closed, though he saw lights in the rear and in the apartment above, indicating she was there. He paused on the sidewalk outside. She'd said she had some work to do, hadn't she? He knew that, by all rights, he should ring the bell by the door, tell her that he had changed his mind, that he wasn't the man for this job.

It was true, he had solved one murder in San Francisco, but with sheer luck and Tom Danzel's help. He wasn't an idiot. He knew perfectly well that he wasn't a real homicide detective. He had neither the temperament nor the equipment, mental, emotional or physical. He owed it to Libby to tell her that, now, before wasting anymore of her time or her hopes.

And yet, he couldn't stop thinking of the boy who had died, despised and ridiculed by the very men who used him for their selfish pleasure and their convenience, cared for by no one but the young man accused of killing him, who probably loved his friend more than either of them had ever grasped.

Little Donnie McIntosh hadn't just been murdered, either. He had been robbed—of his innocence, of his dignity, of any chance of happiness. Now the authorities wanted to rob him even of justice.

How could he walk away from that? Because if he did, no one was going to step up to the plate in his wake? Not just one life lost then, but two—because almost certainly, Carl Hunter would never recover from the damage of being convicted of Donnie's death, of having killed his friend.

He walked on, torn. At the far end of the street, before it turned and became highway again, he found a little church. Not a mission, he knew that the Camino Real hadn't extended in this direction, up into the mountains, but an old church, nonetheless, and interesting looking.

In San Francisco, the roughly carved wooden doors would have been locked for security purposes, but when he tried them, these opened with only a faint squeak of protest. He went in. The interior was small and Spartan, it's plain walls freshly whitewashed. Stained glass windows splashed Technicolor puddles across the floor—amber, vermilion, green. The scent of old candles, of incense, hung about the wood and plaster saints that lurked in little niches in the squat columns.

A feeling of nostalgia descended upon him. At one time he'd attended a church much like this one, and he felt a momentary sense of peace in the silence that hovered as palpably as the potpourri of familiar scents. He paused to look around. Along the wall to the right, candles flickered before an altar to the virgin, and opposite it, a statue of Saint Anthony, with candles of his own, fewer than the virgin's, but still plentiful. A lot of prayers answered, presumably.

Rejoice with me, for I have found that which was lost.

But when he remembered those familiar words, he unexpectedly found himself thinking of what Carl had said about Donnie's abusers: "Even a priest…" The memory brought him up short.

Had Donnie McIntosh come here, seeking solace, to kneel before the Saint of lost causes? Had he found peace here, however fleetingly? Had his prayers been answered, or had he only found himself delivered over to yet another tormentor? Wherever God erects a house of prayer, the Devil always builds a chapel there.

A carpet of vivid red ran down the center aisle, making him think of a dying boy's blood pouring into the sand. He followed the crimson path down to the low rail, carved of pine—probably locally, he thought. Behind a simple altar, a painting of the ascension served as reredos, brave in its heady use of bright colors to achieve a beatific, if not an altogether artistic, effect.

Stanley had heard no one come in or disturb the quiet, but someone cleared his throat behind him and he turned to find a priest watching him from a distance—a small man, remarkably young for his snow white hair, with wide set eyes and a thick lips that gave him a sensual appearance when he smiled.

"Did you wish to make a confession?" His voice had a thick accent. Mexican, Stanley thought, or Spanish.

"Thank you, no." Stanley smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid I'm just an intruding tourist."

"There are no intruders here," the priest said, making a sweeping gesture with one hand. "You're a visitor to Bear Mountain? Perhaps I could give you a tour of our humble church. You were admiring our Saint Anthony. It's quite a lovely one, is it not? It was, how does one say, un don en Dios. Through the auspices, as it were, of a generous worshipper."

Stanley listened politely, his smile fixed, but it was Carl's words, not the priest's, that rang in his ears. Even a priest… Of course, that might have been an exaggeration, Donnie's or Carl's. Or, even if true, there was no reason to suspect it was this particular priest. One read of all those abuses, scandals—but that was surely still only a small number of wayward priests when one considered the overall number.

Still, the sense of peace that he had felt when he first came in had abandoned him and he found that his earlier disquiet had returned in full force.

"Perhaps some other time," he said, starting back up the center aisle. Midway, though, he paused and looked back. "Father, to be frank, I've come to Bear Mountain to look into the death of a young man. Donnie—Donald McIntosh. Did you know him?"

"I knew of him." The smile vanished. A veil seemed to have fallen over the priest's face—or perhaps that was only a trick of the dim light and the flickering candles. And Stanley's imagination.

"Did he come here, to Saint…?" Stanley realized he didn't even know the name of the church.

"To Saint Boromeo's? Perhaps. I can't really say."

"But you never saw him yourself? Never took his confession?"

"No. I never took his confession. Everyone is welcome here regardless, of course. We are here to offer comfort to the weary, and solace to those who are troubled."

Stanley could not help thinking of one who had assuredly been troubled, and who presumably had found no solace here.

"Good night, Father," he said, and turning his back on the motionless priest, followed the red carpet to the vestibule. The wooden doors complained again faintly as he went out.

http://www.mlrpress.com/ShowBook.php?book=DEADLYWR

The Butcher's Son excerpt by Dorien Grey

2009-03-09T07:00:00.001-04:00

Dick Hardesty is pressed into service when someone starts burning down gay bars all over town and the police chief (nicknamed "the butcher") shrugs the whole thing off. Then drag queens and female impersonators get into the act and Dick is required to sleuth out who is hot and who is not. From the first of the Dick Hardesty series.

An additional excerpt posted 1/16/08.

The Butcher's Son
GLB Publishers (May, 2001)
ISBN: 1-879194-86-4

Excerpt:

It had turned rather cool by the time we reached the street. We made a circle around to the car to drop off the plastic grapes Chris had made me steal from the bar we'd just left, and then turned toward the Dog Collar. I didn't much care for the place. It was a big, cavernous dump that boasted 4 pool tables and a downstairs "dungeon" for those into group sex. Like a lot of older buildings, it had very high ceilings, which the management had recently tried to make appear lower by stretching some sort of black mesh fabric from wall to wall.

The clientele, as the bar's name might indicate, was supposedly ultra-butch. I've got nothing at all against being butch, mind you—if it's authentic. But the Dog Collar crowd was plastic grapes butch. Still, it always drew a good crowd, and was obviously packed tonight.

We were about two doors from the entrance, when we heard a muffled "Whoomp" which sounded like it came from the alley behind the bar, and a moment or two later, the double front doors burst opened and a tidal wave of men washed out into the street, running. Shouts of…"Fire!" could be heard from inside and from those in the river of men gushing through the door. Chris and I stood frozen in mid step, then moved away from the buildings with the crowd and into the street. A wide, flat ribbon of smoke unfurled slowly out the top of the door, over the heads of those scrambling to get out.

No dictionary could ever have described the word "chaos" more vividly. Men were running, pushing, tripping over one another as they emerged, turning around to shout for friends still inside. Two or three guys fought against the tide, trying to go back in, but they couldn't buck the crowd coming out, and the smoke was getting heavy now.

The single fact of that outward-opening, double-door entrance was all that prevented a human logjam forming there, and blessedly anyone who made it as far as the door was able to escape.

In the far distance, the sound of sirens could be heard. The street was a milling mass of men; leathermen, pseudo leathermen, male strippers in g-strings and loincloths, college types, hunks, average Joes, older, younger; a cross section of the male gay community. Ironically, music still blared from inside the bar.

Small clusters of guys gathered together, some holding each other, some holding others back. Others pushed their way back and forth through the crowd, trying to locate friends. There were obviously many people hurt—most were coughing uncontrollably as they ran out, and others collapsed just outside the door and were dragged away from the entrance and carried across the street to be laid out on the sidewalk, where others huddled over them, doing what they could to help. Some just stood staring wide-eyed at the door as a few snake-tongues of orange fire began to lick out over the top of the doorway, as if tasting the air. The cacophony of sounds, however, could not hide what were too obviously screams from inside. The music had stopped.

Chris and I were totally walled in by the crowd, many still coughing and smelling of smoke, on one side of the semi-circle of onlookers. We weren't close enough to the front to be able to do anything, and we were sick with the feeling of helplessness. Still they kept coming out—guys at the front of the crowd, which was being driven back by the increasing heat and billowing smoke, would rush forward to grab anyone who made it through the doors and lead them to safety, or run interference to prevent others from trying to reenter the building to save friends or lovers..

We stood there, pressed against those crowded around us, and looked around to see if there were anyone we knew. Chris stood on tip-toe, trying to see over the heads of those directly around us. Fewer were coming out, now. One guy—probably one of the strippers—stumbled through the doorway, totally naked, obviously badly burned, his hair smoldering. He appeared slowly, back-lit by an angry pulsating orange, and leaned against the door frame as though it were a part of his number. Then he pushed himself forward, made it just outside the door, and toppled like a fallen tree onto the sidewalk before those dashing in to help him could reach him. They picked him up and carried across the street, the crowd parting to allow them through. And an instant later, a form appeared, from the other side of the doorway, crawling on all fours, his shirt on fire. He was grabbed and pulled forward by several guys who slapped at his shirt with their hands to put out the fire. They got him to his feet, but he looked frantically around at the crowd, then broke away and ran back toward the door, from which no one else was emerging. Two of those who'd helped him ran after him and grabbed him just before he reached the door, which was by this time engulfed in flame. They dragged him backward as he fought to break free, straining forward and yelling something we could not make out over the incredible din. There were no more screams coming from inside the bar; just the triumphant roar of the flames.

The first squad car came racing down the street, siren wailing, lights flashing, horn blasting, followed by no fewer than three fire trucks, with the lights of others closing in from both directions. The crowd scattered before them.

And over all the sirens, and the yells, and the dull thrum of the fire, which was now pouring out of the door and had broken through the roof, I heard a voice:
"Dick! Dick!" I looked around and Chris pointed to the guy whose shirt had been on fire, still being held by his rescuers. It was our neighbor, Bob Allen.

Ambulances were beginning to arrive as the firemen rolled out their hoses and the police…several squads of them by this time, began moving the crowd back to allow the arriving ambulances to get through.

We shouldered our way through the mass of guys to Bob. He had blood running down his left temple from a gash somewhere just above the hairline. But his face! I hope I never see another expression on anyone's face like I saw on Bob's. The two guys holding him, seeing that we knew him, reluctantly released him. He grabbed us both, one with each hand, and his knees started to buckle. We grabbed him and held him up between us.

He tightened his grip on our arms. "You've got to help me go back in!" he pleaded, and suddenly my head jerked up to meet Chris's eyes, which mirrored my own shock in realizing why.

"Ramón!" Bob said, pointing to the inferno. "Ramón's still in there!"

http://www.doriengrey.net/

IM excerpt by Rick R Reed

2009-03-02T07:00:00.005-05:00

To celebrate the e-book edition release of IM from MLR Press, I’d like to share with you a particularly chilling excerpt from the book. IM is about a serial killer preying on gay men online through Internet hook-up sites. I like this excerpt because it shows the cat and mouse game played throughout the book by victim and killer and this excerpt does it especially intriguingly.

IM
MLR Press (May 10, 2007; February 14,2009)
ASIN: B001T4YTZS

Chapter Ten

IT HAD been so long. So long since he had felt the embraces of a man, so long since he had “punished” one. All the emotions of caring, affection, lust, and rage wrapped into one twisted bundle.

Timothy Bright sat on his bed. Behind him, the bedclothes were a mass of rumpled sheets and blankets, the striped mattress peeking out at the bottom. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a night of untroubled sleep, one not tormented by nightmares, one in which he had not awakened, the darkness closing in, his heart running the last leg of a marathon, panting, his mouth dry and the bedclothes a sweaty mess.

Beside him was his small computer desk, topped with his iMac. All the men he had chatted with, even the ones leaving explicit e-mails about what they wanted to do and what they wanted done to them, were desperate: pathetic figures all reaching out.

Reaching out, in his case, for a hand that would bite, rather than feed. What they deserved.

Timothy rose and glanced at the clock. 4 a.m. Didn’t these guys ever take time to sleep or was their sleep as troubled as his?

The last one he had chatted with, the one with whom he was about to “hook up” had looked extremely handsome online: crisp pictures of big muscles, big dick, everything about him young and hungry. All of them probably several years old, his online description exaggerated. All of it, in fact, lies. None of the guys with 44 inch chests, 30 inch waists and 9 inch dicks were what they said.

No matter. He was not what he had told the guy, either. It was amazing how many of these guys just believed the descriptions he dreamed up, without having any photographic evidence for back up. The funny thing was, once he arrived, once he was there on the threshold of their doors, it no longer mattered. He was there and he was male.

That was what mattered.

Timothy rooted through his drawers, looking for his slut clothes. He dressed quickly, pulling on the black jock strap, fraying where the straps met the pouch, ripped and faded Levis, the Bulls T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, the leather biker jacket and engineer boots.

The last thing he did was tuck the knife, recently purchased in the sporting goods department of K-Mart, into his jacket pocket. Having it there, he felt secure, recalling how sharp the blade was, how its pointed tip promised certain death. Power.

The knife was perfect for gutting animals.

***

Mark Deitrich hoped the guy didn’t show up. He had been disillusioned so many times in the past with guys whose pics were, well, overly flattering. And the one on the way didn’t even have a pic.

But that was okay. Mark was suddenly very tired of all the online games and even the games played in the bars, superficial and never what he really wanted. Besides, a sense of weariness washed over him, filling him with a lethargy that bordered on comatose. He wanted nothing more than to just hop into bed, curling up with the latest Stephen King and letting those fantastic nightmares lull him off to sleep. He would awaken the next morning hopeful. Today he would meet someone who was in it for more than just the sex. Today would be the start of a relationship, the first he’d had with a man in his twenty six years.

Mark went into the bedroom and shooed his two cats, Chloe and Purdy off the bed and pulled back the comforter. He kicked off the gray Nike shorts he wore and looked at himself in the mirror over the bed.

Why couldn’t the guys on the line be honest? So many of them, when they did bother to show up, were disappointments, nothing like their pics or profiles. Didn’t they realize they would be found out as liars as soon as their prospective “date” opened his door?

He guessed they were like salesman, hoping against hope that once they got in the door, he could be persuaded.

But they never could persuade Marl. More often than not, he tried to muster up an apologetic expression before saying the line that would send them away. “Sorry. I think I’ll take a pass.”

He would have respected them more, he thought, if they had tried to argue. Even if they had called him a jerk. But they were all wimps and if they didn’t tell him that the situation was “cool,” they would at least walk away, wordless, head hung low in disappointment. Mark knew he was good looking, everything he claimed on the line, and coming so close to finding what he was sure they were seeking, had to be hard. Listen to you! Ever hear of modesty?

But he wasn’t about to sleep with a guy just because he’d bothered to make the trip to his front door. It was his own fault, anyway, for not being honest.

***

Timothy finally found a parking space on Pine Grove. If he had showed up a few hours later, when the residents of the neighborhood had gone off to work, perhaps parking wouldn’t have been such a challenge. During the twenty minute ride from Rogers Park, he had smoked five Marlboros and drunk two Blue Moons. Before he left, he had done three one hitters. What was wrong with him? He wondered as he bumped first into the car behind him, setting off its alarm and then into the one in front of him, the bumpers sounding a hollow ‘boom’ as the cars made impact. It seemed he needed the drugs and alcohol to do what needed to be done. He wondered if clouding his vision this way would one day cause him to get in trouble.

The pre-dawn air was cold, suffused with the damp of Lake Michigan just a few blocks to his east. A wind blew out of the north, chilling him, cutting through the leather of his jacket. He quickened his pace.

***

Mark pulled the covers up around him. He was on page 676 of Insomnia and wanted to get through it. Why did King have to write these long tomes that took him weeks to read? He had three other books waiting and it seemed the pages just kept coming, no end in sight. But he was too far along in the book to just put it aside.

The buzzer sounded. “Oh shit,” he whispered, throwing back the covers and setting his book on the nightstand. He was tempted to just let it sound a few times, inducing in him a guilty nervous tension, and not answer it. The guy would go away eventually. Where had his horniness disappeared to?

Still, he couldn’t just leave the guy down there. That was exactly the kind of behavior he abhorred. He slid into his shorts and went to the front hallway, where he pressed the intercom buzzer.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Ray, from the line.”

Mark buzzed him in, wondering if this guy would be the blond muscle boy he promised. Fat chance.

He waited by the front door, thinking the guy would have to be an Adonis for him to do anything with him tonight. There was no anticipation as he imagined the elevator bringing the guy up, only dread. But hey, get through this and you can crawl back into bed and let sleep overtake you. Another night alone, chalk it up.

A tentative knock.

Mark peered through the peephole and saw nothing. This does not bode well, he thought, imagining the guy stepping back, out of view. If he was everything he said he was, he would not hide from my view. He would step proudly up for inspection, if he had any confidence in his looks.

Oh well, I didn’t really want anything tonight anyway.

Mark swung the door open.

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Longhorns excerpt by Victor J Banis

2009-02-23T07:00:00.000-05:00

Longhorns by Victor J. Banis is a bawdy love story set on the Texas plains. Longhorns ranges from hard riding action and sex as hot as the blazing Texas sun to lyrical descriptions of the Old West.

In this excerpt, Buck, Les and Red have gone to a barn dance at a neighbor's farm, but the neighbor's sons do not welcome the cowboys, and the oldest of them, Ron, challenges Buck to a fight.

[Additional excerpt posted June 9, 2008]

Longhorns
Publisher: Running Press (July 12, 2007)
Kindle Edition (2009) sold by Amazon Digital Services
ASIN: B001QOGW5G

Excerpt

“Come on, then,” Ron said, and began to shoulder his way through the crowd that had gathered. They went out into the barnyard, a distance from the barn, so that they were mostly in shadows. Buck stripped off his shirt as he went, since it was borrowed and he would not want to give it back with no blood on it. His bandana went too, and he tossed them to the ground,and unlaced his holster, and the sheath for his Bowie, and put his weapons aside with his shirt.

Ron began to do the same, but seeing his opponent like this, he couldn’t help having some second thoughts. Parading around on the dance floor the way he had been, Buck had looked more like a frolicsome boy than a man to be concerned about, but now that he was shirtless, flexing his muscles as he waited, he looked like someone to be reckoned with.

Ron looked at some of the boys crowding around the open door of the barn. “Someone go find Brett and Tom,” he yelled,“tell my brothers to get their asses out here.”

One of the boys in the throng turned toward the barn and yelled, “Brett, Tom, Ron is fixing to kick the shit out of this half breed.”

A minute later, the two younger Hansens, neither as tall as their brother but both of them thickly built, rushed out and pushed their way through the crowd.

“Hang on, there, brother,” Tom called, and Brett said, “I’m wanting to carve me a piece of that Indian’s ass while you are at it.” Tom already had a Bowie in his hand and Brett pulled his from the sheath strapped to his legs as he ran.

They stopped abruptly. A six foot three inch cowboy had stepped directly into their path, his feet planted wide, his hands resting on the handles of his six shooters. While the brothers blinked, trying to take this in, the big red headed fellow came up to stand alongside him, hand on his gun as well.

“What you cowboys got on your mind?” Brett asked, making a show of bravado.

“We got on our mind that those two over yonder will have themselves a fair fight, one on one,” Les said. “Without no help from you two and without no knives.”

“Well, who says you got any right to say how things will be, here on our farm?” Tom asked, but he took a step back so that he was half behind his bigger brother.

“It ain’t me saying it,” Les said, running his fingers over the butts of his guns. “It is Mister Colt’s idea.”

“Maybe we could just tell you and Mister Colt to go somewhere and mind your own fucking business,” Brett said.

“You could,” Red said, speaking calmly, like a man without a care in the world, “but you wouldn’t want to if you had good sense. Some people don’t take kindly to being smart mouthed.”

Tom took another step behind his brother, and Brett swallowed hard and slipped the knife back into its sheath, but he put his hand on his gun instead.

“You ain’t scaring me none with them damned guns,” he said. “Hell, I got me a gun of my own, if you are looking for a shooting match, and I know how to use it, too,” and he started to draw it, but it hadn’t begun to clear its holster, before he saw that there were two six shooters aimed right at his middle section. Damn, he hadn’t even seen the fucking cowboy’s hands move. The other one, the redhead, his gun was still holstered, but he was grinning from ear to ear like he had just heard a
good story.

“Shit,” Brett said, shoving his gun back down into his holster, “ain’t got nothing to do with us anyway, that’s between the two of them, seems like to me. Say, Tom, I hear some of the boys have got them some Pensacola rye down back of the house, and I reckon I am feeling a mite thirsty. Whyn’t you and me go get ourselves some?”

“I could use a snort myself,” Tom said. They began to move in the direction of the corner of the house, backing up at first, and then turning and moving quickly.

“Hey, where you guys going?” Ron called after his brothers, but they didn’t answer, they just kept going, not quite running but not exactly walking either, until they reached the corner of the house and had disappeared around it.

“You come back here, Brett, Tom,” Ron called after them, and got no reply. “Damn chicken shits,” he said, and spit at his feet.

He turned back to the half-breed and took stock of his situation. Damn, what worried him the most was that the guy didn’t look like he was scared at all, even though he stood a head shorter than Ron himself. Didn’t even look nervous, in fact. What it was, actually, was he looked like he was fucking crazy, now that Ron took a good look at him. Shirtless, the half breed stood kind of in a crouch, like a cougar getting ready to spring, his muscles still shiny with sweat from the dancing he had done earlier. His eyes glittered in the moonlight, it almost seemed like there were sparks coming out of them, and the way he grinned, his teeth showing, unnerved a fellow. There was something else too, that he did just then, that Ron had never seen nobody do before. His nostrils flared as he stood there waiting, like he was sniffing the air, or something—like an animal, looking for a scent.

Ron suddenly thought of when he was a boy, and older fellows had scared him with stories of Apaches, the things they did when they were in hand fights. He had heard of one, sprang on a man and ripped the fellow’s throat wide open with nothing but his teeth. There was another tale, too, about a fellow, got into a hand fight with an Apache and had his balls clawed right off him while they was wrestling on the ground, the Apache just reached down and grabbed a hold of them fast as lightning and tore them loose before the other man knew what was happening.

Remembering, Ron felt a little shiver of fear zigzag its way up and down his spine, and all at once it felt like he was about to take a shit in his britches. Sure thing, this fucking Indian looked plenty crazy enough to have something like that in his mind. He did not much care for the idea of losing his balls, let
alone having his throat ripped open.

“Shit, I ain’t of a mind to fight with no half-breed Indian trash,” he said, buttoning his shirt up again. “I got me more important things to do.”

He turned his back and began to walk away, but you could see that he was listening for any movement behind him. Buck was motionless though, until Ron had disappeared after his brothers, walking a bit faster as he got further away.

Buck looked at Les and Red then. “I didn’t start it, Les,” he said. “Don’t be sore at me.”

“I know you didn’t,” Les said, holstering his guns.

“And I appreciate your help, boys, really, I mean it,” Buck said, donning his shirt and his bandana, and strapping his weapons on, “but I wasn’t worried about that peckerhead. I could’ve took him on with one hand tied behind my back, him and his piss ant brothers too.”

“Sound mighty sure of yourself,” Les said with a grin. “He is a pretty good sized dude, appears to me.”

“Reckon so, but he was scared shitless,” Buck said. “I could smell it on him.”

“Like them Indian horses do?” Les asked.

Buck grinned back at him. “Guess it just runs in the blood, "he said. “Anyway, once you got a fellow scared, you got him half beat already.”

“Reckon you could have whipped him, at that,” Les said.

“Didn’t mean to say that you couldn’t. Imagine you could have easy enough, as long as a fight stayed fair. We was just providing knife insurance. Ain’t got no mind to see any of my cowhands carved up by a couple of polecats.”

“I am much obliged to you for that.” Buck stepped forward and the three of them shook hands all around, in a strangely formal sort of acknowledgment of their comradeship.

“You planning on any more dancing?” Les asked.

Buck glanced at him, and toward the barn, and thought of little Maggie, but there wasn’t much likelihood now of any trips behind the barn, and he knew well enough that nothing more than that was ever going to come of it.

He looked back at Les and shook his head. “I reckon it would just cause trouble for her with her brothers,” he said.

“They won’t forget they was humiliated, and others to see it happen. And by a half breed, that will make it worse.”

“Then I expect we might as well be heading for home,” Les said.

Red said, “Unless you want to wait and dance with old Ron there and his brothers when they come back, looked to me like they was pretty light on their feet,” and they all three laughed.

* * *

When they were on the trail for home, Buck looked from one of his companions to the other. The night smelled of sage and dust, and the faint scent of something dead and decaying that came downwind at them, a stray steer, maybe, that the coyotes had brought down, but a long ways off. The air was warm and dry, and fine for riding.

He thought about the two of them backing him up the way they had, and he felt like his chest was about to bust with happiness. There wasn’t anything in the world better, the way he saw it, than to have a couple of true friends, cowboy friends.

He began to sing at the top of his lungs: “Oh, bury me not, on the lone prairie….”

“If I had known you was going to howl like a wounded coyote,” Les said, “reckon I would have let them boys cut you up back there.”

He larruped his palomino up to a gallop, and after a moment Red and Buck spurred their horses and galloped alongside him, Buck between the other two, the three of them pounding across the plains, feeling free in the way that only a cowboy can feel free, on his horse, out on the range.

Out of nowhere Les, who was not as a rule a man to show excitement, yelled at the top of his lungs, “Yippee-i-o, cowboys.”

Buck answered him by throwing back his head and giving a coyote howl, and they all three laughed, for the sheer joy of being cowboys and being alive, and riding through the summer night together, the hooves of their horses beating a steady thrumedy-thrumedy-thrum on the iron hard ground.

http://www.vjbanis.com/books/VictorJBanisReleases.php

The Third Peregrination excerpt by Edward C Patterson

2009-02-16T07:00:00.001-05:00

In The Jade Owl Legacy Series: Book 2 - The Third Peregrination by Edward C Patterson, the world is on the brink, now that the relics flow together again. The new China Hands should have left the Jade Owl in the tomb, to fester silently for another age, but they didn’t. Now there is a tapping in the basement and a flowering of new relics, all seeking to move Curator-General Rowden Gray and his crew into the field again to solve the mystery of The Seven Sisters. However, the world has changed since Rowden managed his first task. The new China Hands are sucked into the maelstrom of time, flowing together with the relics, now that the world is at the brink.

Rowden Gray and Nicholas Battle, joined by three new stalwarts in pursuit of the next level in the triad, find a fortress in a mystery deeper than the first warrant, something that compels them to return to China and unravel a more difficult truth - one that challenges them beyond time’s membrane. This second book in the Jade Owl Legacy Series pushes the new China Hands to the world’s brink - now that the relics flow together again.

The Third Peregrination
Publisher: CreateSpace (January 21, 2009)
ISBN: 1441456724

Excerpt

Chapter One

Secrets Among Friends

1

In his soul’s hollow, Rowden Gray harbored a secret — a private terror kept from friends and family. A dreadful secret. Ponderous, and yet somehow in need of a reckoning. A hidden, burning coal that could liberate him from his current impasse . . . if he would let it. At such times, when this secret bubbled uppermost in his mind, Rowden Gray would bask in the Museum’s inner sanctum; in John Battle Memorial Hall — a hall of quiet relics now, promises not withstanding. This kept him near the brink of stability.

Rowden loitered about the display case that housed his greatest acquisition, known to some as the U-gu-ku, to others just as damned, but to the world as the Jade Owl. Six inches tall. Light green. Avian in all respects. A stubby, perky-eared hoot-bird. Rowden cracked his knuckles.

It served us well, he thought. Or who has served whom? Open question that. Since the Jade Owl returned to its display case, it had not flickered once. It had not charred so much as a piece of toast. No images cast. No time portals broached. Dead now — one hoped. A quiet relic displayed naked in this inner sanctum, the Museum world ruled by Curator-General Rowden Gray. His greatest acquisition, but innocuous now, sitting on its red velvet drape, set beside its pearl cage. Mysteries, it still kept. Still Rowden harbored . . . his secret.

A year had past since the tomb. A funny thing, time, tinkering with Rowden’s noggin. He tried to close a thirteen hundred-year-old circle, but in that more questions were raised than settled — -more rosebuds like hordes of killer bees from hell’s bowels — the Museum’s basement. From . . . the secret. A burning cannonball dropped heavy into Rowden’s gut.

“Curator Gray,” came a cracked voice from the shadows.

A man in a white shop coat stood clearing his throat. He clasped a clipboard to his chest, his latex gloves giving him the appearance of an intern on his rounds. Stat. His ebony hair was matted and in want of a combing. His earflap held a No. 2 pencil and heavy tortoise-shell spectacles. Lips pursed, perhaps a sign of impatience, or perhaps concentration on some matter at hand. Despite the late hour (the Museum having closed its massive doors to the public hours ago), this man seemed to harbor a full agenda. He continued his attempt to get the Curator-General’s attention with another croak.

“Curator Gray.”

“Yes, Sydney?” Rowden said, not diverting his attentions from the display case.

“I don’t mean to disturb you, sir.” Ah, but he did. Sydney blinked. He tapped the clipboard, not that it refocused Rowden’s attention. “The loaners are ready for conservancy.”

Rowden smiled at Sydney’s warble. Despite his assistant’s appearance, Sydney was a competent conservator. Beyond competent. Rowden had known few like him — quality delivered in spades. Now that the Shang-hai loaners had arrived, he had entrusted Sydney Firestone with the validation and conservation of these relics so that they might become a dazzling new exhibition for the good citizenry of San Francisco. Sydney cleared his throat again.

“Any special instructions sir?”

Rowden cracked his knuckles. Yes, competent indeed. Although Sydney cut a nerd’s figure, he was a worthy Sinologist. In fact, Rowden detected something of himself in Sydney.

“You’re a lucky fellow, Sydney. I had to wait years before being exposed to a collection like these Shang-hai loaners.” Rowden’s hand swept the air, a favorite gesture, although a trifle melodramatic. “China is at our fingertips.” He came within a pin-throw of Sydney’s pencil, and then whispered. “Do you hear her call?”

Sydney’s eyebrows arched over the thick, black rims.

“Do you know what she says?” Rowden didn’t say it. He hoped Sydney was keen to know the answer.

Report my secrets to the world, so the world will never forget me.

Sydney just shrugged, gathering the clipboard higher in his arm’s crook.

He’s missed the point, Rowden thought. “Is it really just science to you, Sydney?”

“Just science?” Sydney played with the latex cuffs.

“It’s okay, if that’s all it is. Not everyone has passion.”

“I have passion. Believe me, Curator Gray, I have passion.”

Rowden placed his finger to his lip, and then observed Sydney — inspecting the professional package, expecting a blend of passion and competence.

“Are you sure it’s passion and not just the process that’s gotcha? The process can be as riveting as the big picture.”

Sydney let the clipboard slip to his side. He twiddled with the No. 2 pencil. He puckered his lips, perhaps frustrated at not getting an answer to his question. He smacked his lips, revealing a small gap between his front teeth.

“I love to touch old things.” He blinked. An odd statement, but a valid one. “I like to clean them up — attack a crack and make it disappear.” He shrugged. “Or give it prominence, if that’s the case. I like to watch the tarnish vanish, to see fine lines revealed.” He grinned as if the sun still shone. “It’s like . . . like excavating an old ruin, watching bricks emerge to tell their tale. Now, you might call it process, but it feels like passion to me.”

Rowden laughed a hearty stage laugh. Ha Ha. It might have offended Sydney, had Sydney been the offended kind, but Rowden knew where the lines were drawn.

“Keep to that passion, my boy and you’ll soon put me to shame.” Sydney beamed, the gap spreading, his tongue revealed. Rowden swept his hands aloft. “This place is my passion. Whatever my mood, I can always drift into my hall of relics.”

Quiet or otherwise. His eye caught the elevator in the periphery. And my secret. He sighed.

“I’m restored here. Take a deep breath Sydney; take it in. Fill your lungs. From Golden Gate Park to the Golden Gate Bridge, there’s no other place like John Battle Memorial Hall.”

Rowden’s mood broke. He gazed at the Jade Owl again recalling thoughts of another place — a place deep in the heart of a secret tomb, where the waters healed and a selfish Empress defied death. In that place, the Jade Owl did its worst, shattering the porcelain dame. Death and destruction. Rowden shivered. These images still crammed his dreams . . . when dreams came. The cannonball stirred.

“Are you okay, sir?”

“Yes. The one fly in the ointment is the reminder of my last field trip and . . .”

“. . . the Jade Owl expedition.” Sydney was animated. “I wish I could have been on that one. That would have been pay-off, indeed.”

Rowden gazed at his assistant. Yes. Much like me in my younger days.

“Sydney, you would have been an asset.”

“Thank you, sir. I guess it’s a matter of timing. If I had graduated six months earlier, I could have applied for employment here and . . .” Rowden raised his hand cutting Sydney off mid-résumé. “Sorry,” Sydney said. He adjusted his shop coat, and then resecured the No. 2 pencil in its natural holder. “The relics are in the Conservancy.”

“As you’ve said.” Rowden smiled. “Took a fucking year.”

“The old slow boat from you-know-where. In any case, I want to start. I need your authority to . . .”

“. . . you have it.” Rowden’s mind drifted again. “The usual protocols. This’ll be on the grand scale, you know. If you need help, I’ll get you some.” Sydney blanched at that suggestion. Good. “I’ll join you . . . soon. Start with an inventory.”

Sydney drove his hand into his pocket.

“Inventory’s done. Your copy.”

“Very good.” Rowden glanced at it. Was there ever such an assistant? “Pick some samples for authentication. These relics are a unique acquisition. Some day I’ll tell you . . .” Rowden’s attention waned. His glance drifted back toward the elevator — back to haunted places. Ponderous. Disquieting. He would go to it tonight. However, there was the party. Had he forgotten the party? Audrey would brain him if he missed the party. Still, he was compelled to visit it . . . tonight.

Sydney strode off at a march, his footsteps echoing to the skylight. Rowden stared at the inventory sheet. Was there ever such an assistant? It slipped his grasp, floating to the ebony floor, like a leaf on an ice pond.

2

The inventory sheet spun twice over the black marble tiles before resting beneath the rubber soul of a black and white Nike. A quick hand snapped the paper into spidery fingers, and then popped the surface.

“Rowdy, you litterbug.”

Rowden turned.

Lavender.

“Nick.” He smiled at Nick Battle, son of the Old China Hand. Of course, it would be Nick. Time was fleeting.

“Are you ready to go?” Nick asked. He grasped Rowden’s hand with both his.

“I guess so. I’m a bit edgy.”

“Forget it. You think too much. Besides, what’s there to brood about here among my father’s things — in his hall of quiet relics that don’t sing or play or glow or hoot?”

“Always the smart-ass. Good to see you too. And good timing. I was just pondering some ideas for the Shang-hai loaners. Perhaps a theme. Perhaps ...”

“Perhaps you’ve found something new among the relics?”

Rowden glanced at the elevator doors. Had Nick guessed? Something new among the relics? “Perhaps . . . but, where’s Simon?”

Nick leaned on the Jade Owl display. “A fashion crisis. His blush didn’t match his evening bag. He’ll be along.” Rowden chuckled. With Simone, the world balanced on color congruency. There was nothing else to say on the subject. “You’re not plunging into one of your moods, are you? Not tonight. If you do, I’ll drag your ass out to the Painted Lips.”

“No dancing tonight. Not that I don’t enjoy going deaf and choking on smoke. Besides, I don’t think Audrey would approve of my dancing with the gay boyz now.”

Nick twirled, his sneakers squeaking on the marble.

“Bring Cousin Audrey along. What’s different now?”

Rowden returned his attention to the vacuity. Nick pursed his lips, and then cocked his head.

“Keep your secrets then.” He snapped his fingers under Rowden’s nose. “And I’ll keep mine.”

Rowden’s face broadened, a full sunray smile from behind the thunderhead — a give me a fucking break smile.

“Nick Battle with secrets? How novel.”

Nick snapped his fingers again. Rowden turned to tell the gadfly to buzz off, but Nick performed a trick. He balanced a mossy wooden box on his fingertips. That got Rowden’s attention — Svengali snagging his Trilby.

“I have what every Sinologist needs. Another relic to fart around with.”

Mesmerized, Rowden’s attentions bolted to the box.

“Do tell. You know I have a whole Conservancy filled with loaners.”

Nick pushed his secret toward the Curator-General.

“Leave the loaners to your assistant. This relic comes from Gui-lin.” Rowden touched it with his naked fingers. “Where’s your latex?”

“Will I need it?”

Nick popped open the box. Secret revealed. A ring — an enormous opal ring. Pale. Near jade in translucence. An inch long, at least. Fat. Marbled like fine beef. The silver setting, a dragon’s claw shimmering in the display lights.

Forget the Conservancy and its heap of loaners. This piece was worthy of a Trilby. “Where?” But as Rowden reached for it, Nick pulled it back, cheeky monkey, teasing his elder. Rowden interlaced his fingers like a Franciscan viewing a splinter from the cross.

“May I?” Hold still, he thought. Rowden hadn’t seen such ring craft in his entire voyage on history’s Ark. No two-by-two experience this.

Nick relented. He tossed Rowden the box.

“It’s yours to study, dear friend. Let’s call it an anniversary present from one adventurer to another — from a New China Hand to an Old China fart.”

Rowden touched the ring. Cool, almost icy. Something from the freezer perhaps, a mini-Klondike bar set in a serpent’s clutch. He sniffed it, and would have licked it, if it hadn’t been unscientific to do so. From his shirt pocket, Rowden seized his magnifier, the great loupe of the snoop. He combed every scintilla with his expert’s eye, perusing the network of spidery green filigree. How do opals to look? This one appeared like none other in his experience. He wasn’t a gemologist, but this one might be from a new vein. Ancient. Definitely a Sung Dynasty setting. Bai-ch’i huan Silver from K’ai-feng. He knew the trademark silver overlay on the claw, but that was the setting. He couldn’t estimate the age of the stone. It would be like kissing the seashore and proclaiming it Mesozoic.

“It’s from the Sung Dynasty,” Nick said.

Rowden gave Nick the fish-eye. How would he know that? He wouldn’t know Bai-ch’i huan from Gogol Bordello.

“You’re guessing.”

Nick smiled. “Yep, lucky guess.” He whistled.

Rowden continued his scan, but sensed that Nick still toyed with him — a Nick pastime. “Keep your secrets then, but it doesn’t help me study this fine relic if you don’t reveal the source.”

Nick’s lemur eyes assaulted him. “You’re right. There should never be secrets between us. Never.”

Never. No secrets. The cannonball reset in the pit of Rowden’s tummy.

“So in the spirit of No secrets, I’ll tell you. This ring was a thank you gift from Huang Li-fa.”

“The CTS guide?”

“The one I call little Cricket. You do remember him?”

Who could forget him? Huang Li-fa was key to their success in regaining the Jade Owl when it went missing in Gui-lin. “But how could Huang Li-fa come by such a thing? I mean . . .”

Nick templed his hands to his lips as if preparing to sing a psalm.

“The ring is his family’s heirloom. It once belonged to an ancestor — a Sung Dynasty bureaucrat.”

“Some thank you gift.”

Nick pouted. “I helped him, Rowdy. I freed him from the closet.”

“As I said, some thank you gift.”

Nick turned away. “No joke, Rowdy. It’s a bitch being gay in a repressive society. Still, he came out. Brave little Cricket. He was grateful, and that ring is a worthy thank you gift, don’t you think?”

No comment. Rowden recalled that a special bond had formed between Nick and little Cricket.

“So you’ve had this for a year and you kept it to yourself?”

“I was waiting for the right occasion.” Nick clapped twice. “In fact, I was gonna give it to you at the party tonight, but I figured that would end the party. So I’ll let you fuck around with it now. Go ahead. Put it on.”

“It’s a woman’s ring.”

“I’m no expert, but no woman wore that ring. Simon wanted to wear it in his act, but I told him it was too butch. Put it on.”

The stone lay heavy in Rowden’s palm. Still, he slipped it over his rugged middle finger. Queer feeling. Like poking a digit into a monkey puzzle. He raised his hand admiring its look in the florescent lighting.

Nick bowed in Chinese fashion, hands clasped to the forehead. “My lord, you must rule something mighty with that ring. And since it’s too heavy for you to wear and also crack your knuckles, perhaps you should wear it all the time.”

“Smart-ass.”

Suddenly, Rowden had guilt pangs. Nick had revealed a guarded, year-old secret. Yet Rowden grit his teeth about his own secret. The cannonball rolled.

“Your mind’s drifting again,” Nick said. “I don’t have another relic up my ass to keep you floating.”

“No, Nick.” Rowden slipped the ring off, and then boxed it. He gazed into Nick’s intense blue eyes. “No. Your secret’s delectable. Mine’s . . . a horror.”

Nick braced Rowden’s arm. He shook, excitement brimming to his gaping maw. Alarm.

“Don’t tell me you’re sick. I couldn’t bear that. I just couldn’t.” He sucked the air. “Too many friends . . . gone. Too many. I couldn’t . . .”

“No, Nick. I’m not . . . It’s nothing like that.” He braced Nick, calming him. “It’s just that . . . I’ve been less than honest with you.”

Nick’s eased, scrunching his shoulders. If anger welled, Rowden couldn’t tell. Nick had little reserve for a dark side. Yet at times, Rowden sensed something deep, a drop off into a shadowy ravine. Nick was the Jade Owl’s chosen One — Po-huai. He merited the first warrant — sown, sealed and delivered.

Rowden captured whatever bubbled to the surface now, and then redirected it to a spot across the hall, to the elevator doors.

It was time for revelations. That cannonball, how it rolled.

http://www.dancaster.com/

Calico excerpt by Dorien Grey

2009-02-09T07:00:00.004-05:00

An old-fashioned 'they-don't-write-em-like-that-anymore' feel-good Western romance with a kick--and enough mystery and adventure to keep you riveted to the very end.

Calico
Zumaya Publications (October 2, 2006)
ISBN: 978-1934135334

Excerpt:

They set up camp in a small clearing between the town and the wagon train. After unsaddling the horses, Calico set up the campfire after urging Josh and Sarah to wander down to the train in search of young people their own age. Josh made it clear that he would just have soon have remained with Calico at the campsite. But Calico was well aware that, other than for himself, the twins had had no other company since leaving Hutchinson. Perhaps, he told himself, much of what he perceived to be going on between himself and Josh was largely his own imagination responding to Josh's natural need for male companionship.

Loneliness was a part of Western living, and Calico had long since accustomed himself to it, even to the point of enjoying being by himself most of the time. But for active teenagers used to the bustle of city life and a social circle
unimaginable to him, Calico mused, the crushing loneliness of vast open spaces and few people would be a heavy burden.

Josh returned alone shortly before sunset.

"Where's Sarah?" Calico asked.

"She's at the wagon train, with one of the families," Josh replied. "They've got a
son just a little older than us."

"What about girls?" Calico asked. "Wasn't there any girls there your age?"

"None that I saw, except one, and she was married and had a baby. But, then, I
wasn't looking for girls," Josh said dismissively. Looking for a reaction from Calico and receiving none, Josh hunkered down beside Calico at the fire. "Sarah wants to know if its okay if she stays to supper with that farmer and his folks."

Calico shrugged. "Sure, it's okay with me. Didn't they ask you to stay, too?"

Josh stared into the fire, picking up a stick to push a few unburned pieces of wood into the flames. "Yeah," he said without looking up, "but I said I had to get back. I'd rather be here with you."

Calico remained silent a moment, filled once again with the sense of a developing relationship in some ways like his own relationship with Uncle Dan, yet in other ways far, far different. He wasn't sure he was ready for it.

"Well," he said, reaching into the saddlebags for food, "we might as well have our supper right now. Then later on, you go back to the train an' fetch Sarah. Close as it is, I don't want her walkin' back here alone."

While they ate, Josh pried Calico with questions about life on the range, about
ranching, raising cattle, dangers commonly encountered, and a myriad of other subjects of interest to a city boy suddenly thrust into a new and, to him,
adventure-filled lifestyle. Throughout their talk, though, Calico detected that Josh had something else on his mind. Finally, after a slight pause in the conversation, Josh said "What do you think of me, Calico?"

Caught completely by surprise, Calico was at a loss for words. After a moment, he said "I'm not sure what you mean, boy?"

Josh was staring at him, and it made Calico once again both nervous and...he couldn't pin it down, but the sensation was warm, and good, and like he'd never felt before.

"That's just it: 'boy.' You think I'm still a boy, don't you?" Josh asked. Calico
started to speak, not having any idea at all what he was going to say, and was grateful when Josh continued. "You think I'm a kid who isn't old enough to know what I want."

Calico felt,in his gut, that he knew exactly what Josh was getting at, but he could not be sure, and so he just shrugged, hoping Josh would continue talking.

"I do know what I want, Calico. I've known what I wanted since I was six years old. It's not a something I'll grow out of. It's not something I've ever been ashamed of, or feel I have to be ashamed of. It's who I am—who I've always been and who I'll always be. I said I always knew what I wanted, but I never found it until…" he paused, staring at the fire, then raised his eyes up to look into Calico's, who had been watching him at him intently, unable to take his eyes off the young man.

"Somehow," Josh continued, forcing himself to keep eye contact with Calico, "I've felt since the day you met us at the train station that you understood that. Sarah thinks so too. If we didn't, I couldn't be talking to you now. You do know what I'm talking about, don't you, Calico?"

Calico felt almost dizzy; he was flooded with feelings that were both familiar
to him and yet at the same time, alien. He realized they had been with him all his life, but which he had never fully acknowledged before. He nodded.

"Yeah, I think I know, Josh."

"Did you ever…do you...feel the same way, Calico?"

Calico sighed deeply, a little embarrassed at the thought that even Sarah had apparently seen something in him that he had not fully acknowledged himself. "Yeah, Josh," he said finally, "I guess just about everything you said's pretty much the same fer me, 'cept you're a lot more aware of it than I been. I always just figgered I was different'n most men. Not that it ever bothered me much, or that I ever thought there was anything wrong with it, but feelin's are kind o' private out here—folks,'specially men, don't show 'em all that much. So 'til you come along, I just sort o' kept everythin' inside. I gotta tell 'ya it feels kind o' funny puttin' words to things I never spoke out loud about before in my whole life."

They sat in silence a long minute, Calico staring at the fire, trying to sort out he flood of feelings washing through him.

Finally, Josh spoke again. "You think there might be a chance, Calico?"

Calico looked up from the fire, thinking but again not quite sure he knew exactly what Josh meant. "A chance?"

"For...for you and me," Josh said quietly.

Calico ran one hand over his face and thought another long moment before replying. "You sure do know how to bowl a man over, bo...Josh," he said with a weak grin. "I'd be lyin' if I didn't say that a big a part o' me wants t'say 'yes' . But out here,the law means a lot to decent folks, and by the law, you're still a kid."

Josh nodded. "I know. And by the law I'll be an adult in a little over a week and
nothing will have changed except that I'll be at Aunt Rebecca's and you'll be somewhere between there and your ranch and we might never see each other again."

The thought of never seeing Josh again had been in the back of Calico's mind long before the conversation they were now having but, like so many things actually being spoken about for the first time in his life, the impact of the thought only now surfaced.

Calico said nothing for a moment, then sighed deeply. "We're talkin' about somethin' that's mighty hard f'r me t' find words for, Josh. I thought about it a lot, I uess, an' I guess it's somethin' I wanted all my life, too. And what you say is true about your just about bein' an adult in the eyes of the law. But we only knowed each other less than two weeks, an' much as an adult's you might be already, you still got a lot o' livin' t' do." He smiled and raised his hand to forestall Josh's objections. "If there's one thing I learned, it's that it's lots better t' grow int'a somethin' than t' jump int'a it."

"But we'll be at Aunt Rebecca's soon, and you'll be leaving us there!" Josh said.

"True enough," Calico said "An' that'll give ya' time t' think. I got nine years on
you, Josh. I never put words t' it before, but I think I been waitin' all this time, too. So I reckon I can wait a while longer. I just want you t' have the time
t' be sure you know that what ya' really want is what ya' think ya' want now. You understand me?"

Eyes downcast, Josh nodded.

"An' one more thing…'bout me callin' you 'boy' so much. My Uncle Dan called me 'boy' right up t' the day he died, an' I know he didn't mean no disrespect by it. I think I know now it was his way a lettin' me know that he cared about me."
Calico stirred the fire with a stick, then looked into Josh's face. "You just keep
that in mind if I should call you 'boy' again sometime."

The two sat in silence until Calico said: "Well, it's 'bout time we had our supper
an' then you c'n go get Sarah."

http://www.doriengrey.net/
http://www.zumayapublications.com/title.php?id=189

The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks excerpt by Josh Lanyon

2009-02-02T07:00:00.001-05:00

In Josh Lanyon's The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks, shy twenty-something artist Perry Foster, his romantic weekend in ruins, learns that things can always get worse when he returns home from San Francisco to find a dead body in his bathtub. A dead body in a very ugly sportscoat -- and matching socks. The dead man is a stranger to Perry, but that's not much of a comfort; how did a strange dead man get in a locked flat at the isolated Alton Estate in the wilds of the "Northeast Kingdom" of Vermont? Perry turns to help from "tall, dark and hostile" former navy SEAL Nick Reno -- but is Reno all that he seems?

The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks
MLR Press (December 19, 2008)
ISBN-10: 1934531146
ISBN-13: 978-1934531143

Excerpt

Chapter One

There was a strange man in Perry’s bathtub. He was wearing a sports coat -- a rather ugly sports coat. And he was dead.

Perry, who had just spent the most painful and humiliating twenty-four hours of his life, and had driven over an hour from the airport in blinding rain to reach the relative peace and privacy of the chilly rooms he rented at the old Alston Estate, stood gaping.

His headache vanished. He forgot about being exhausted and starving and soaked to the skin. He forgot about wishing he was dead, because here was someone dead, and it wasn’t pretty.

His fingers still rested on the light switch. He turned the overhead lights off. In the darkness, he heard rain rattling against the window; he heard his breathing, which sounded fast and scared; and from the living room he heard the soft chime of the clock he had bought at the thrift store on Bethlehem Road. Nine slow, silvery chimes. Nine o’clock.

Perry switched the light back on.

The dead man was still in his bathtub.

“It’s not possible,” Perry whispered.

Apparently this didn’t convince the corpse, who continued to stare at him under half-closed eyelids.

The dead man was a stranger; Perry was pretty sure of that. It -- he -- was middle-aged and he needed a shave. His face was sort of greenish-red, the cheeks sunken in as though his features were slipping. His legs stuck out over the side of the tub like a mannequin’s. One shoe had a hole in the sole. His socks were yellow. Goldenrod, actually. They matched the ugly checked jacket.

The stranger was definitely dead. His chest wasn’t moving at all; his mouth was ajar, but no sounds came out. Perry didn’t have to touch him to know for sure he was dead, and besides that, nothing on earth would have made him touch the corpse.

He couldn’t see any signs of violence. There didn’t seem to be any blood. Nor water. The tub was dry and empty -- except for the dead man. It didn’t look like he had been strangled. Maybe he had died of natural causes?

Maybe he’d had a heart attack?

But what was he doing having heart attacks in Perry’s locked apartment?

Perry’s glance lit on the mirror over the sink, and he started, not immediately recognizing the pale-faced, hollow-eyed reflection as his own. His brown eyes were huge and black in his frightened face; his blond hair seemed to be standing on end.

Backing out of the bathroom, Perry closed the door. He stood there trying to work it out through the fog of weariness and bewilderment. Then, eyes still pinned on the closed door, he took another step backward and fell over his suitcase, which was still sitting in the center of the front room floor.

The fall jarred Perry’s thoughts into some kind of order -- or at least action. Scrambling up, he bolted for the apartment door. His fingers scrabbled to undo the deadbolt.

He yanked open the door, but it banged shut as though wrenched away by a ghostly hand, and he realized the chain was still on. Fingers shaking, he unfastened that too and slammed out of the flat.

It seemed impossible that the hall should look just as it had when he had trudged upstairs five minutes earlier. Wall sconces cast creepy shadows down the mile of faded crimson carpet leading to the winding staircase.

The long lace draperies stirred in the window draughts. Nothing else moved. The hall was empty, yet the disturbing feeling of being watched persisted.

Perry listened to the sound of rain whispering against the windows, as though the house were complaining about the damp, the wood rot, the mustiness that permeated its aged bones. But it was the ominous silence on the other side of his own door that seemed to flood out everything else.

What was he waiting for? What did he expect to hear?

Despite his desperation to get downstairs to lights and people, he felt peculiarly apprehensive of making the first move, of making a sound, of doing anything to attract attention -- the attention of something that might wait unseen in the dim recesses of the long hall.

He had to force himself to take the first step. Then he barreled down the hallway, narrowly missing the half-dead aspidistras in their tall marble planters. Despite the reassurances of his rational mind, he kept expecting an attack to launch itself from the cobwebbed corners.

Reaching the head of the stairs, he hung tight to the banister to catch his breath. His knees were jelly. Uneasily, he looked behind himself. Nothing but the twitching draperies stirred the gloom. Perry headed down the stairs. Fifteen steps to the next level; he took them two at a time.

Reaching the second floor, he hesitated. Ex-cop Rudy Stein lived on this floor. An ex-cop ought to know what to do, right?

Mr. Watson had also lived on this floor, but Watson had died a week ago in Burlington. His rooms were locked, his belongings collecting dust waiting for a man who would never return.

Not that Perry believed in ghosts -- exactly -- or was too chicken to face another dark, drafty hallway, but after that moment’s hesitation, he continued down the rest of the grand staircase until, at last, he reached the ground floor which served as the lobby of Mrs. MacQueen’s boarding house.

Someone was just coming in the front door, pushing it closed against the sheets of rain. Overhead, the chandelier tinkled musically in the gust of the storm’s breath, throwing eerie blue and red shadows across the man’s figure.

He wore a hooded olive parka, and for a moment, Perry didn’t recognize him. In fact, he couldn’t see any face at all in the cowl of the parka, and (his nerves shot to hell) he gasped, the soft sound carrying in the quiet hall.

Shoving the hood back, the man stared at Perry. Now Perry recognized him. He was new to Mrs. MacQueen’s rooming house, an ex-marine or something. Tall, dark, and hostile.

Perry opened his mouth to inform the newcomer about the dead man upstairs, but the words wouldn’t come. Maybe he was in shock. He felt kind of funny, detached, rather light-headed. He hoped he wasn’t going to pass out. That would be too humiliating.

“What’s with you?” the man said. He was frowning, but then he was always frowning, so there wasn’t anything in that. He actually wasn’t that tall -- a little above medium height -- but he was muscular, solid. A human Rock of Gibraltar.

Finally Perry’s vocal cords worked, but the man couldn’t seem to make out his choked words. He took a step closer. His eyes were blue, marine blue, which seemed appropriate, Perry thought, still on that distant plane.

“What’s the problem, kid?” the man asked brusquely. Obviously there was a problem.

Breathlessly Perry tried to explain it. He pointed upward, his hand shaking like a Jesus freak who lacked conviction, and he tried to get some words out between the gasps.

And now the corpse upstairs was the second problem, because the first problem was he couldn’t breathe.

“Jesus Christ!” said the ex-marine, watching his struggle.

Perry lowered himself to the carpeted bottom step of the grand staircase and fished around for his inhaler.

* * * * *

Perfect ending to a perfect day, Nick Reno thought, watching the queer kid from across the hall sucking on an inhaler.

The divorce papers had arrived that afternoon, but what should have felt like relief felt like another failure. The job at the construction company hadn’t panned out, either. It was the wrong time of year for construction -- the wrong time of year for everything, it seemed. And now this. For the last few hours Nick had been hanging on to the idea of a stiff drink and some solitude, and what he got was this damn boy having hysterics.

“Kid, pull yourself together.” What was his name? Something Foster. Nick had noticed it on the mailbox in the lobby.

The kid continued to huff and puff, his thin chest rising and falling with the struggle to breathe. Maybe he’d just missed an episode of his favorite soap opera. Maybe they had discontinued his favorite flavor at Starbucks. Who the hell knew? Queers.

Nick looked around the suspiciously silent lobby. Where were all the busybodies who normally littered the halls of Mrs. MacQueen’s nuthouse?

“I could use some help here,” he called out, whether to the Almighty or the closed doors, he wasn’t sure. But after a moment he heard a chain slide. Deadbolts began scraping, latches cranking, turn knobs clicking. Old Miss Dembecki’s door opened a crack.

The kid, who had turned a lovely shade of blue, lowered the inhaler long enough to wheeze, “There’s a…dead man --” Suction resumed.

“There’s a what?” Nick demanded. “Where?”

People were now creeping out of their rooms into the hall. Miss Dembecki, wired for sound in pink curlers, pulled a gingham nylon bathrobe around her skinny body. “What’s happened?” she demanded querulously. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t touch him.” Nick glanced up as a floorboard creaked.

Suspended above them was a white moon of a face. Stein, the ex-cop, shone down on them. His mouth made an O as round as the rest of his perspiring face: round eyes, round mouth, squashed nose. “What’s going on? Somebody in an accident?” His voice floated down.

Dourly, Nick eyed the kid. “I don’t know.”

“Perry, whatever’s wrong?” quavered the old lady.

Perry. That figured, Nick thought grimly. A pansy name if there ever was one.
Across the hallway another door opened.

A cat wafted out of the Bridger woman’s apartment and pussyfooted toward them, white plume tail waving gently. The kid made a panicked sound and pointed with his free hand.

Nick pivoted impatiently, but Ms. Bridger, six-feet-nothing, red haired, and clad in an emerald kimono, was already scooping up the offending feline and shutting it back in the apartment.

Dembecki called, “Miss Bridger, perhaps you… Something’s happened to Perry.” She cast an accusing look in Nick’s direction.

Nick began, “Look, lady --” then gave it up, stepping aside as Jane Bridger rustled up in her silk dressing gown. There was a dragon embroidered on the back of her gown. She was doused in Poison perfume. Nick recognized it as Marie’s favorite, and his stomach knotted.

“Perry, sweetie,” she cooed, joining the kid on the bottom step. “What’s wrong?” To Nick she explained, “He has asthma.”

“I noticed.”

Foster lowered the inhaler once more and got out, “Dead man…in my…bathtub.”

He was speaking to Nick as though somehow it was Nick’s problem; maybe he thought Nick was the only one equipped to deal with a dead body scenario.

The door to the landlady’s apartment opened at last, and Mrs. MacQueen billowed out in a cloud of cigarette smoke. “What’s all the racket?” she rasped. “What are you people doing now?” A blast of canned TV laughter followed from her rooms.

“Perry’s ill,” Miss Dembecki quaked. “It’s his asthma.”

Bridger patted Foster’s shoulder kindly. Her long fingernails were bloodred against his white shirt. “Hang in there, sweetie. Take slow, deep breaths.” Her robe slipped open to reveal the outline of breasts so perfect they had to be fake. Nick raised his eyes. If Stein leaned any further over the banister he was going to take a nosedive.

Two small dogs burst out of MacQueen’s rooms, and nails slipping on the hardwood floor, scrabbled their way to Bridger’s door, barking hysterically.

Fed up, Nick stepped back, treading on Miss Dembecki’s slippered foot; he hadn’t noticed her sidling up behind them. Now she yowled like an injured cat.

“Sorry,” Nick exclaimed.

“Why can’t you look where you’re going?” moaned Miss Dembecki, hobbling to one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace. The fireplace was unlit. It had never been lit as far as Nick could tell. Maybe it was supposed to be décor. It just emphasized how unwelcoming the damn house was.

Foster gulped out more vehemently, “There’s a dead man in my bathtub!”

Dead silence. Another burst of televised laughter. Someone tittered nervously.
“What does that mean?” demanded MacQueen finally. She reminded Nick of James Cagney in drag, sort of sounded like him too.

“It means somebody ought to go upstairs and check it out,” Nick said.

The boy shot him a grateful look.

“Who, me?” MacQueen actually backed up in one of those you-won’t-take-me-alive-copper moves.

“You own the place. You’re the manager, aren’t you?”

“But, that’s…I mean…sure, but…” Her bug eyes traveled from face to face. She licked her colorless lips. The others were making sounds, wordless excuses, apologetic noises.

“Forget it,” Nick said. “I’ll go.” It would be a relief to escape the freak show for a minute or two. “Where are your keys, kid?”

Foster said, “I didn’t…lock the…door.” He still sounded breathy, but he wasn’t blue anymore. He kept a tight grip on the inhaler.

“It’s the third floor. The tower room opposite yours,” Bridger informed Nick.
“Got it.” Nick started up the stairs.

On the second floor, he passed Stein, who twitched him a meaningless smile but didn’t speak.

Nick continued his climb to the third floor. It was dark and quiet up here; the scent of cats and the sound of TV didn’t reach. Neither, half the time, did the heat. Lace curtains over the poorly sealed windows floated up like specters, then flattened back against the wall. Not the best visibility: the long hallway was badly lit; a pair of half-dead plants on tall pedestals provided suitable cover for ambush.

A funny feeling prickled across the back of Nick’s scalp. It was a feeling he had learned not to ignore during fourteen years in the service -- though unexpected in a broken-down mansion in the middle of the Vermont woods.

He considered, and discarded, going back to his quarters and arming. He was pretty confident he could handle any garden-variety scumball who might have sneaked in.

Approaching the kid’s apartment cautiously, Nick turned the doorknob.

The door swung open onto a large chilly room that smelled of rain and turpentine. It looked more like an art studio than someone’s living quarters. The curtains had been removed to allow more light. A spattered drop cloth covered much of the floor. A canvas half-covered with inky pine trees rested on an easel near the window. Blank canvases were stacked against the wall; painting utensils covered what appeared to be the dining room table. There were paintings everywhere: on the walls, on the floor.

In the middle of the room was a suitcase.

So the kid had been gone overnight; that meant someone could conceivably have got into his rooms and…dropped dead.

Except the bathroom door was open, the light on. Nick had a clear view of the tub. It was empty.

http://www.joshlanyon.com/
MLR Press:http://www.mlrpress.com/ShowBook.php?book=GHOST001
Loose Id: http://www.loose-id.net/prod-The_Ghost_Wore_Yellow_Socks-826.aspx

I Do anthology edited by Kris Jacen

2009-01-26T07:00:00.001-05:00

Do you support the right of any human being to marry the person they love? The right to say 'I Do' to a life of commitment and sharing with that one special person? We do.

The following authors have donated stories to the "I DO!" anthology in support of Lambda Legal Fund, which will receive all profits from the anthology. Printing and distribution costs have been kindly donated by MLR Press.

Alex Beecroft: Desire and Disguise
Sexual starvation makes for strange bedfellows in this 18th Century tale of love and despair.

Charlie Cochrane: The Roaming Heart
Sometimes you shouldn't believe everything you read in the gossip columns.

Fiona Glass: Salad Days
A fennel bulb causes havoc between two lovers in this 'kitchen-sink' style romp.

Jeanne Barrack: Finally Forever
A dream destroyed. A promise fulfilled. In today's America, there are still some places where wishes come true.

P.A. Brown: The Mistake
A hungry West Hollywood hustler, a hot cop and a pair of keyless handcuffs come together in a Hollywood motel room.

Erastes: The Snow Queen
The Snow Queen is impervious to love. Josh isn't.

Tracey Pennington: Lindorm's Twin
To save two kingdoms, an outcast prince without a name and a lonely young man half-freed from enchantment must outwit a serpentine king and his sorceress spouse.

Clare London: Outed
Guy said afterwards it was a relief to him that someone finally said something, but did it have to be Auntie Queenie's apparently artless comment, right in the middle of her eightieth birthday celebration tea?

Sharon Bidwell: Swansong
Richard believes what little love he had in his life has withered and died, but now the time has come for him to sing his own song.

Lisabet Sarai: Making Memory
A workaholic city girl facing her father's senility and a middle-aged widow from down-east Maine learn that love has no boundaries and that only the present matters.

Storm Grant: Lust in Translation
Sex, drugs, and a blinding reaction.

Marquesate: Code of Honour
The legion's motto was "Legio Patrio Nostra", but with Sergent Roux, Joe found more than just his home.

Lee Rowan: Wedding Announcement
For Kevin, telling his father the truth was more unnerving than anything he'd ever faced on the battlefield.

ZA Maxfield: Tango and Temptation
Dance and dishonesty bring two men closer than they necessarily want to be in this contemporary story of choosing between what is easy and what is real.

Moondancer Drake: True Love
Shona and Kai discover that even though their dream of having a child together is about to come true, not all dreams come with a perfect ending.

Mallory Path: Rules of the Game
When words fail, Charlie must come up with a new way of finding out what his partner really wants.

Emma Collingwood: Semi-detached
Is gay marriage a matter of equality, commitment or home improvement?

Allison Wonderland: Holy Macaroni (and Cheese)
At the ripe old age of six, two girls decide to jump the broom.

Jerry L. Wheeler: Templeton's In Love
A farewell concert frames a tale of two reunited lovers.

Cassidy Ryan and Zoe Nichols: Better than beautiful
Becca is busy planning her wedding to Charlotte, but Charlotte has been making plans of her own.

----------
Victor J. Banis
Author of The Man from C.A.M.P., Lola Dances and Deadly Nightshade

Double Your Pleasure
This is like the steak specials at my local market: buy one, get one free. When you buy this book, 100% of the proceeds go to the Lambda Legal fund, to help in their fight against California's Proposition 8. That's a good thing in itself, as I'm sure you will agree. But, not only are you making a donation to a cause we all care deeply about, you also get—this is the FREE part—a collection of 20 stories from an elite list of M/M and LGBT writers. How can you beat a deal like that?

And what a collection! There's surely something here for every taste: man on man and woman on woman; fantasy and funny and sizzling and sweet. Swans and Snow Queens and salty sailors and slithering serpents, oh my! And Holy Macaroni, but you're going to have to buy the book to figure that out. French Legionnaires do it in the mud; little girls grow up married from childhood, and first timers discover the magic. All of the myriad elements of love lost and found and refined and redefined. I could go on and on, too, but every story here is a treasure on its own; together, they make up one of those rare "read-over-and-over-and-keep-forever" books.
I recommend stocking up. Get some steaks while you're at it, you're going to be doing a lot of curling up.

----------
Josh Lanyon
Author of the Adrien English Mystery Series and Man, Oh Man! Writing M/M for Kinks and Ca$h

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue: twenty tales — funny, sweet, erotic, poignant — from some of the best and brightest writers in GLBT romance. Never has support for a good cause been more delicious, more delectable than in this generous helping of life — and love — affirming stories.

I Do anthology
Publisher: MLR Press (January 2, 2009); Kindle edition
ISBN: 1934531707

Excerpt from Code of Honour by Marquesate

They got shipped out to Mayotte, an island in the Indian Ocean, which the legion used for jungle training. Joe found himself in a place he'd never hoped to visit, and even the excessive training didn't subdue his spirits. Not the swimming for miles in the crystal clear sea, with their kit heavy on their backs, and neither climbing Mt. Kali Keni, eight hundred meters straight up in full kit, and not back down in constant rain, either.

Yet wherever they were, whatever they did, the sergent was with them. No matter how much Joe tried to ignore his superior, he was there. Getting over a wall? Sergent Roux did it faster and with less effort. Jumping into a pit and back up the other side? No one could beat Sergent Roux. Balancing along poles, climbing ropes, crossing ravines on a tightrope, jumping hurdles... Roux was there, with his grey eyes, his wiry strength, and his measuring gaze.

Eventually, they got sent out for jungle survival training. One week together as a section, then one week alone. Each legionnaire was given a compass, a map, a bottle of water, and sent into the bush to make their own shelter, find their own food, and survive the week, while solving mock missions, such as finding the supposed crash site of a comrade.

When they were separated in the early hours, it had been raining steadily for days. None of the men had a dry shred on them, and the morale would have been even worse, had they not been kept on their toes by the sergent, who sent each of his men off. Joe was the last one.

He had been given the details of the first mission for the following day, checking over the map, when he heard a strange sound: part voice, part roar. The moment he turned, he saw Sergent Roux's raised arm, a last glimpse of the green beret, all rapidly disappearing, sliding, slipping, crashing downwards and gone. The earth had opened in front of him, and the mudslide pulled the man with it, tearing branches on the way, burying the helpless body beneath the brown floods.

"Sergent!" Joe shouted, running after the man. Losing his footing, he slipped forward, towards the drop, managed in the last minute to hold onto thick, leathery leaves, which slowed his fall.

He couldn't see the body any more, a whole pile of dead wood had fallen on top. He slid downwards on his belly, and once he'd reached the bottom, he frantically pulled branches and vegetation out of the way. Finally managing to grab what felt like an arm, he pushed his legs underneath roots for leverage, and pulled with all his strength. Everything was slippery, soaked from rain and covered in mud, and he nearly lost his grip, but with a last bout of effort, Joe pulled the body free and to safety.

He was breathing hard as he knelt beside the sergent, shaking him, but there was no sign of life.

"Sergent!" Clearing the mud off the face, Joe checked the vitals. Pulse, yes, then he tried to clear the airways, but he couldn't get rid of the mud. Reaching for the bottle on his belt kit, Joe didn't think twice, using the precious drinking water to wash the sergent's face. Mud ran in ever-clearer rivulets down the sharply cut face and over the shaved hair. Water gathered on perfectly shaped lips that were relaxed now, not sneering, nor shouting. Joe couldn't look away, mesmerised by the face that was revealed beneath the grime, and he found himself staring at those lips.

He didn't think when he leaned down, nothing held him back or screamed at him to stop. All his hard work to ignore, lie, and pretend had been in vain, when he pressed his lips onto the sergent's. Lingering against the wet warmth, he felt their shape beneath his own, sensed the traces of mud, and he closed his eyes for one brief moment, savouring the kiss; his first kiss.

Joe opened his eyes and pulled back. The shock registered within a heartbeat as he stared down into wide open, grey eyes that looked at him coldly. That was it. He was dead.

"Sergent... Je n'ai..." Joe never finished his frightened stammer. A hand grabbed the back of his neck and he was pulled down, crushed against the lips that parted now. Tongue and teeth clashing, demanding entrance, as the sergent claimed his mouth, and Joe obeyed the order.

Taste, strength, everything different to anything before. He was pulled on top; the sergent held him, then rolled them around, changing positions. Joe groaned into the other man's mouth. Hands were suddenly on him, groping and taking, while Roux thrust down onto Joe's groin. Joe froze, unable to think, act, caught in the fulfilment of a need he'd fought for all of his young life.

Another shove, and the sergent's hard cock ground into his. That very moment Joe let loose, forgot who they were and how forbidden this was. Lust won, conquering every thought. Two bodies, mud drenched, wet, dirty and slippery, moving together and against each other in frantic need. He found total fulfilment in the strength of the sergent's body and the non-negotiable demand. No asking, but taking and willingly giving. Joe struggled and fought, both muscular and strong, he relished each grip and every forceful touch.

Thrusting their hard cocks against the other's, lust built, spiralled out of control, and seconds felt like eternities of insanity and greed.

When Joe came inside his uniform, he wanted to cry out and lose himself in the abandon, but the sergent's mouth captured his own, and a hand at the back of his neck kept him in a vice grip, not allowing any sound to escape. Roux's body bore down onto his own, forcing him to lie still, while the sergent came with nothing but a shudder and a strangled groan.

Joe was trapped by the weight, the hand and the kiss, and for a while, there was nothing but heartbeat and tremors that ran through him in aftershocks. All too suddenly, though, Roux rolled off. Bereft of the heat and the strength, Joe forced himself to move as well, but his mind couldn't catch on to what his body had just experienced. The whole magnitude of what had happened was too much to comprehend.

He sat crouched, still breathless, trying to will his fingers to do something, anything, like wiping mud off his drenched uniform.

"You must learn to lie." The sergent's voice cut into the silence, and the sudden English with its French accent didn't register straight away. It took Joe a second to make out the meaning.

"You speak English?" The moment he'd said it, Joe cursed himself.

"What does it sound like to you?"

"English, Sergent."

"Clever." Roux let out a soft snort. "You'll go far."

That stung, like everything the man was saying, or not saying. Yet all Joe could do was swallow the jibe, like any other. Ranks and discipline were everything in the legion, but he was too curious to let go, despite the potential consequences.

"You are not 'Belgian', Sergent?"

"Wrong and right." Roux stopped wiping himself down, the mud would have to get washed off with the steady rain. He didn't bother to look up when he graced Joe with an explanation. "Canadian. French Canadian." Picking up his beret, Roux put it onto his head after a disdainful glance at the soggy mess. "You are too transparent."

"Pardon, Sergent?"

"Your face. Your eyes. You were obvious."

"I don't understand." The sergent had him outgunned like an RPG against a pistol and Joe was certain he didn't believe the feigned ignorance.

"What were you trying to prove when you joined up?"

Not even the question if he did want to prove anything. Joe swallowed hard. "That I am...a man, Sergent. Not..."

"Men don't stammer."

Bastard. "Not a fag." Pédé, he'd heard it often enough as an everyday insult amongst the legionnaires.

"And you joined the legion for that? Of all places?" Roux's brows rose with thinly disguised amusement. "Have you forgotten to look into your trousers lately? That should have given you enough proof."

Joe felt anger rising, why the hell hadn't he just let that arsehole drown in the mud? Would have saved his water, too.

And why the hell had he given into that stupid, dangerous impulse to kiss that man?

"I wanted to be someone."

"Someone who was tough and an elite soldier, or someone who wasn't a fag?"

Both, was the first thing that came to Joe's mind, but he bit his lip. No, wrong. Not both. He didn't want to be a fag. "An elite soldier, Sergent."

From the minuscule flash in the remarkable eyes, Joe knew that the sergent had caught his lie, but Roux merely nodded curtly.

"You will receive a new mission tomorrow from the caporalchef, and I suggest you be more careful with your precious water." The sergent switched back to French. "Cinq jours de plus."

Five days. The whole survival exercise with hardly any water.

"Oui, Sergent!"

Roux turned and Joe made the mistake of opening his mouth before engaging his brain. "Sergent!"

"Oui?" Roux looked at him. Impassive, the same cool, mocking gaze as always, and Joe felt that look twist his guts.

"Rien, Sergent!" Nothing. Nothing at all. "Désolé, Sergent."

"T'as fini, Evans?"

"Oui, Sergent." Of course it was all, what else could he possibly want?

The next moment Roux was gone, vanished with a few steps into the thick vegetation.

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