Saturday the 2010 EPIC  Awards were held in the wonderful old city of New Orleans. There was much partying, sightseeing, eating, plot bunny births and drinking to be had.

Friday I had the experience of dining at one of the truly best restaurants I have even eaten at — The Commander’s Palace.  It was exquisite. The old house it was located in was gorgeous. The setting across the street from a huge mausoleum-packed cemetery was so atmospheric of New Orleans. The staff was friendly, knowledgeable, elegant and expert at their jobs. We even got a little ghost story with our $.25 luncheon martinis! (I only had two, I swear!)  The food was divine.   Turtle soup with sherry. Braised steak cooked just the way I like, with caramelized onions and seasoned side sauce for extra zing if you wanted it. The bread pudding souffle was heaven, especially with the Jack Daniel’s creme sauce poured in the steamy-warm center. The entire meal was perfection from start to finish. I couldn’t recommend this place more. A real highlight on the trip!

Saturday’s awards dinner was thrilling for MLR. Kirby Crow’s ANGELS OF THE DEEP took the erotic horror category, and MEXICAN HEAT by myself and Josh Lanyon took the erotic romantic suspense/mystery category. MH is published at MLR in print. The electronic format is with Samhain, so it was technically their win but it’s the same story so I’m running with it! lol. While accepting Kirby’s award since Kirby couldn’t be there, I did make a point of mentioning how wonderful it was to be allowed this year to enter our books in the proper categories instead of the previous years’ single GLBT category where romance, horror, mystery, paranormal, sci-fi and everything else competed against each other and only one GLBT book could win. We competed on level ground this year and took two categories home with us!

The trip was a great success. Especially because I got to spend more time with my friends Sandy Hicks, Ally Blue, Jet Mykles, Jade Buchanan, Rick Reed, ZA Maxfield, and Jolie du Pre! There is never enough time to be with friends in this fast paced world and I appreciate every moment that does bring us together. And I got to nudge several of  them about the manuscripts they are writing for me! *g*

As I prepare for my trip to Los Angeles for the 2010 Left Coast Crime conference, my newest release, L.A. Boneyard is getting noticed.

It’s been nominated for Love Romances Cafe’s 2009 Best GBLT Novel. I’m pumped. It’s also been nominated for the Arthur Ellis Award for Best Crime Novel (Arthur Ellis is the biggest Canadian mystery award) and the Daphne du Maurier award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense.

Check out my web site for more information on this and all my other novels, http://www.pabrown.ca

“L.A. Boneyard is phenomenal! Full of suspense, murder, mystery and even explicit sex, Brown left nothing out! What more could you ask for in one book?” Read the rest of the review: http://bk-walker.livejournal.com/6013.html

“The crimes are as turbulent as the gay-cop emotions in this CSI-meets-butch-guys-in-love romantic thriller. Pat Brown has as
sharp an eye for crime-scene forensics as for the ins and outs of gay love among LA’s men in blue.”
—Richard Stevenson,
author of the Don Strachey PI novels

L.A. Boneyard, book 3 in the L.A. series, is getting rave reviews. To learn more and find reviews and buy links visit: http://www.pabrown.ca/laboneyard.htm

BLURB:

Evil is pursued from a shallow grave in Griffith Park, to the streets of West Hollywood into the dark heart of the gang-infested streets of East L.A.

Detective David Eric Laine is no stranger to violence and brutality, but even he is taken back at the sheer viciousness of the murder of two pregnant Ukrainian women. This was just the beginning of a baffling case which would lead from their shallow grave to a bucolic bungalow community in West Hollywood, tree-lined and tranquil, to the heart of the gang-infested streets of East Los Angeles, and points in between.

EXCERPT:

Friday, 8:20 AM, Vista del Valle Drive, Griffith Park, Los Angeles

Something had done a number on the corpse.

The early morning call-out had been brief and to the point.
Griffith Park. Shallow grave. Mutilated arm. Probably wild
animals.

LAPD homicide detective David Eric Laine hoped it was
animals. He crouched beside the makeshift grave, behind the
screen of freshly broken branches and crushed vegetation,
studying the exposed arm with the manicured nails and winking
diamond ring; the animals had nearly worked off the bone.
Wondering what her final moments had been like. Knowing it
had been ugly. He looked beyond the grave, visualizing. Had he
raped her? Had that been the last indignity she had suffered,
before the ultimate one?

Overhead, dense black clouds roiled across the western sky,
a late Pineapple Express had roared in last night, straight from
Hawaii, promising more rain in an already wet spring. The
chaparral and Ceanothus had started their seasonal bloom, thin
green shoots emerging from what had once been desiccated
limbs. Under foot the moisture retaining hydro-mulch, spread
after the ravaging 2007 and 2008 fires, soaked his feet, chilling
his skin. The steady thump-thump of the LAPD airship called
in to do an aerial survey echoed his heartbeat, driving him
relentlessly, as unforgiving of failure as he was.

David scanned the ground, taking in the fresh horse tracks,
and the fading coyote spore. The animals had scattered when
the woman who found the body nearly rode her horse over
them. She stood with her shoulder touching her horse’s neck,
the animal’s reins still held in her gloved hand. Blindly she
touched the burnished chestnut coat, seeking comfort. David
turned away; he had nothing to give her. His promises were for
the dead. They didn’t ask for guarantees. They didn’t get angry
when he was called away in the middle of the night to do his
job.

“So what have we got?” he asked.

The first officer on the scene, Donald Lessing, pulled out his
notes, “I received a call at seven-fifty-six AM that a body had
been discovered in a shallow grave. My partner and I were
dispatched, and arrived about fifteen minutes later.” He
indicated his partner, a paunchy, silver-haired Asian, who was
adding a second loop of barrier tape to keep out the curious,
then indicated the equestrienne, “We found Mrs. Rosenfield
right about where she is now. She was pretty upset.”

“I’m sure the last thing she expected to find was a dead
body on her morning ride.”

“Yes sir.”

Nothing could be done to process the crime scene until the
photographers had taken their shots. Everything had to be kept
intact to preserve possible evidence. They had the time; the
body wasn’t going anywhere. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
He amended that, maybe they didn’t have so much time.

David studied the dark, crouching clouds, and wondered if
Chris would get over his snit long enough to close the windows
against the coming rain. Otherwise their newly refinished oak
floors were going to get a soaking. One more thing for Chris to
get pissed at. He retraced his steps and approached the horse
and rider.

He pulled out a notebook and twisted his arm around to
check the time, only to discover he wasn’t wearing his watch.
Right, he’d stuffed it into his jacket pocket after he’d left an
angry Chris in bed this morning. Chris always seemed to be
angry these days. He got that way when he was between jobs.
He drew out the Rolex Chris had given him for his fortieth
birthday and wrote the exact time, the crime scene location, and
his own name and rank. David studied the watch ruefully. He
had told Chris a gift like that was too extravagant, but Chris
wouldn’t listen. “You deserve it,” he had said. “You put up with
me for four years, didn’t you?” Still, David took it off when he
could; out of sight of Chris, who took it as a personal affront
when he didn’t wear it all the time. David was a Timex kind of
guy. Even after four years he never got comfortable with the
easy wealth Chris displayed.

Mrs. Rosenfield looked young. David doubted she was more
than twenty-five. Under normal circumstances she would have
been attractive–large, doe eyes, soft hair flying loose from
under her riding helmet. But now her face was pale, and her
eyes were glassy with shock. David pushed aside his sympathy
and assembled his cop face; the one Chris hated so much,
claiming it made him look cold and robotic. Well, there were
times when cold and robotic was the right way.

She wore a tailored riding outfit and boots that gleamed,
even in the sunless light. A pulse beat in her throat, like a
wounded animal.

“Mrs. Rosenfield,” he said. “I’m Detective David Eric Laine.
Could I have your full name, please?”

“Danielle,” she said. “Just call me Danielle.” Her gaze darted
toward the grave. “Who is it? Do you know–?”

“No, ma’am, Danielle, we don’t know that yet. Can you take
me back to when you first spotted something out of the
ordinary?”

“S-sure.” She visibly collected herself, her hand going out to
stroke her horse’s neck. “Toby and I were on our morning ride,
when these coyotes came racing right out under our noses–I
thought they were attacking us at first. You hear about how
bold they’ve gotten over the years.”

“Yes, ma’am.” What coyotes could do was frightening. What
people could do to each other was so much worse. “What
then?”

“Once they ran away I realized they were just as scared as
we were. I was going to head back home. I’m supposed to be to
work at ten.” She shook her head, a strand of hair falling over
her eyes. She swept it aside with a kidskin gloved hand. “I guess
I should call my boss. I don’t think I’ll be in today–” Her voice
broke.

“Yes, ma’am,” David said gently. “What was the first thing
you noticed before the coyotes appeared?”

“Toby spooked.” Rosenfield grimaced. “I guess when he got
wind of them. He nearly dumped me. That was when I saw the
arm. I screamed. That must have scared them away without
taking…taking it with them.” The grimace deepened and the
flesh around her mouth whitened.

More thunder cracked, closer this time. She looked around
uneasily.

“Anything else you can recall about your ride?” David asked
even more gently, knowing she was very close to losing it.
“Before you noticed anything amiss?”

“We rode by the Roosevelt Municipal golf course,” she said.
“I go that way all the time. Usually it’s so peaceful…”

“You see anybody on the links?”

“Two players, and a caddie.” Rosenfield squinted as she
recalled her morning. “I don’t pay much attention to the
golfers, unless they’re driving carts. Sometimes they spook
Toby.”

“Would you recognize the golfers if you saw them again?”

“W-what? You don’t think they had anything to do with
this, do you?”

“It’s just standard procedure,” David assured her. “Look, I
know this is tough. Even cops can have a hard time stumbling
across something like this. If you like, I can give you the
number of a victim’s support group. They can help you with
this, if you want.”

“T-thank you. I don’t think that’s necessary…”

David handed her the card anyway. “You might change your
mind. I hear they’re good.”

She slipped the card into her jacket pocket. He knew she
wouldn’t call. He’d seen it before. Misplaced pride would keep
her from seeking help. “What did you see then?” he prompted.

“I didn’t know what it was at first, then I thought it was a
mannequin.” She gave a short bark of laughter, quickly stifled.
“That someone had stolen a storefront dummy and was playing
a gag. It was only after I saw the teeth marks that I knew.” She
swallowed convulsively and David wondered if she was going to
be sick. The human arm had been heavily gnawed by strong
jaws. He distracted her as smoothly as he could.

“I need you to come down to the station, to make a formal
statement. I can send someone out to get you if you like–”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll drive myself. Will I have to go to
court?”

“I won’t lie to you. It depends on the D.A., and whether a
suspect is found, and it all makes it to court. But I’m sure
someone from the prosecutor’s office will be in touch with you
if it becomes necessary.”

David watched her stiffly remount her horse and urge it
back onto the trail. They broke into a fast trot before they were
out of sight. He very much doubted she would ever ride this
peaceful trail again.

Out of the corner of his eye, David saw a white Pontiac
Firehawk, splattered with debris from the previous night’s rain,
pull up beside the LAPD crime scene van. It was driven by a
lithe, dark-skinned Latino man, with that young urban scruffy
beard thing going on. Chris, always quick to adopt new fads,
had tried it once, until David complained that it was like kissing
five o’clock shadow, all day long, and he reluctantly shaved it
off.

The Latino climbed out of the low-slung car. He surveyed
the scene of controlled chaos with dark eyes, taking in
everything in a sweeping glance, before he shrouded them with
a pair of Ray Bans. He looked like he just stepped out of GQ,
sharp creases on his wool dress pants and sedate black and blue
tie. He wore his gold detective’s badge on a chain around his
neck. David caught a glimpse of his Beretta nine under his
LAPD blue nylon wind breaker. Incongruously, he wore a pair
of hand-tooled black and blue Tony Lamas boots instead of the
usual military gear most new detectives favored. David wouldn’t
be surprised if he had a closet full of Levis and Stetsons at
home. He was a tall man, though not as tall as David’s six-four,
dark-skinned, with high cheek bones. His eyes were dark and
dangerous. Too dangerous for David’s taste.

The guy was going to spell trouble.

Already the eyes of the two female SID criminologists kept
straying his way. David had heard rumors about the guy, even
before he was assigned to Northeast; he’d ignored them at the
time, like he ignored all the trash talk around the squad room.
In the stories the guy was a wannabe actor. David had heard–
and dismissed–the story about his involvement with a
producer’s wife that had ended messily. The tabloid press had
been all over it. Maybe the guy had a problem keeping his dick
in his pants. Maybe he was only guilty of bad judgment. He
wouldn’t be the first. Cops and badge bunnies went together
like chili and fries.

David extended his hand and introduced himself. Might as
well give the guy the benefit of a doubt, he didn’t like it when
people jumped to conclusions about him. Being one of the few
openly gay detectives carried its own baggage. “Glad to have
you on board.”

“Thank you, sir,” the detective said. “Detective Jairo Garcia
Hernandez.” He pronounced it Yairo. “Most gringos call me
Jerry.” His smile was all teeth and David knew he was being
tested by the new D.

He’d nip that one in the bud before it went south. “I think I
can handle Jairo.” He gave the word a Spanish lilt. The guy
wasn’t going to catch this gringo ignorant of the language.
Good looking or not, he was just another rookie D.

Jairo saw the Rolex on his wrist and whistled. “Nice watch.
Your wife give you that?”

“No, I’m not married,” David said. Deciding to make small
talk, he ventured, “You?”

“Yes.”

“How’s that going for you?” Cops loved marriage; so many
of them did it so often.

“Fine.” Jairo grew defensive. “You gonna tell me that’s
gonna change? Already got that from my smart-ass sergeant
first time I showed up for roll-call.”

“It’s hard,” was all David said. “Marriage is a work in
progress.”

“So you were married? She divorce you?”

David shrugged. He finally slipped the Rolex off and tucked
it back into his inner pocket, over his heart. It would be safer
there, away from nosy rookies. “It’s complicated.” Then he saw
Jairo had noticed the plain gold band he wore on his left ring
finger. The gold band Chris had given him following the first
year they had lived together. He closed his hands into fists, but
made no attempt to hide the thing. What was the use? He was
almost as notorious in the LAPD as Mark Fuhrman.

Jairo’s disingenuous eyes widened. “You’re the… you’re
him.”

David saw something glitter on the ground at the entrance
to the crime scene, and crouched down to study it. It was a
bottle cap. Still, he signaled a photographer over to take a
picture. Sometimes the littlest things proved useful. Sometimes
they were just litter. All around them crime scene techs were
placing evidence flags, and doing their best to catch everything,
before the skies opened up. He was glad to see that the victim’s
hands had been bagged, covering the ring he had seen earlier.
“You can say it, you know.” David stood up and brushed debris
off his pants. “I’m the gay cop.”

Jairo flushed and looked away. “Yes, sir.”

Now what was that all about? Surely as soon as he knew
who his latest senior partner was going to be, Jairo would have
known all about David’s sordid “secret.” He would have found
all kinds of officers eager to share the scuttlebutt about who
he’d been saddled with. “That’s Detective, Hernandez.” David
was already beginning to miss Martinez, his partner of ten years.
He had been reassigned to South-Central, for the next six
months, to work a gang detail. They had forged a tight
partnership; a partnership that even David’s abrupt outing over
four years ago had not disrupted. David wasn’t looking forward
to breaking in the new kid, even if he was, as rumor also
claimed, top of his graduating class. Good grades, like good
looks, weren’t everything.

He moved around to stand beside the grave again. A tarp
had been laid over the torn earth to protect against the coming
storm. He thought he could still see the outline of the arm. He
glanced sideways when a flash of lightning illuminated the dense
brush. He almost felt sorry for the boots who was going to have
to guard this site all night.

He turned back to face the grave and its nameless victim.
Jairo came up to stand beside him. David kept his eyes on the
tarp, ignoring the man beside him.

“I’ll find him,” he promised.

Title	Encore! Encore! Anthology
Author	Jet Mykles
	Kimberly Gardner
	Charlie Cochrane
ISBN#	978-1-60820-131-0 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-132-7 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	February 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	240 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Take a bow and blow a kiss as the curtain falls on love. Or does it?

From London’s West End to a New York drag bar and onto the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, three couples rediscover the passion that once burned as brightly as the stage lights.

Their plays might be over, but the show goes on. For these players, the heart discovers that just when you think a love story has come to its end, if you have the courage to turn the page then love will make a return to the stage.

*******************************

MUCH ADO – JET MYKLES

Someone was watching him. That wouldn’t be so odd if he was onstage, but he was in a deserted dressing room. Shawn stopped mopping cold cream from his face and looked toward the dressing room doorway.

Ms. Tyken stood there in all her sequined glory. Without the bouffant wig and the three inch heels, the drag queen was five- feet even if she was an inch but once she started talking, you’d swear she was all of six foot. Tonight she wore a vivid yellow and black evening gown that brought to mind a shimmering bee. The black wig atop her head had been threaded through with yellow ribbons and had even been fashioned to a stylized curved point high above her head to resemble a stinger. Heavy makeup almost disguised the fact that Ms. Tyken was no longer a young queen.

Once seen, she put on a broad smile and sashayed into the room, carrying a cloud of jasmine scent with her. “Shawna, darling, did you mention once that you used to date a director?”

Inwardly, Shawn fought the immediate memories that filled his head. Had he mentioned it to her? He didn’t think so. But he probably did mention it to the other girls. He shrugged, turning back to the mirror then lifting a new tissue to wipe off some more cold cream. “That’s ancient history.” (continue reading…)

Title	The Wages of Sin
Author	Alex Beecroft
ISBN#	978-1-60820-125-9 (ebook)
Release Date	January 2010
Paperback:	230 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Charles Latham, wastrel younger son of the Earl of Clitheroe, returns home drunk from the theatre to find his father gruesomely dead. He suspects murder. But when the Latham ghosts turn nasty, and Charles finds himself falling in love with the priest brought in to calm them, he has to unearth the skeleton in the family closet before it ends up killing them all.

********************************

Moonlight sucked the colour from damp grass and silvered rising wisps of dew. The deer-park lay dim and still to Charles’ left, receding to a black horizon. To his right, the Latham family chapel loomed dark against the lead-colored sky.

Sultan’s hooves whispered across the verge as Charles rode past the private graveyard’s wrought iron gate and averted his eyes from the white glimmer of Sir Henry’s mausoleum. It was one thing to laugh together over newspaper reports of vampires in Prussia while reclining in the comfortable lewdness of an actor’s garret—lamps blazing, the magic revealed as greasepaint, squalor and hard work—quite another to think of it here, beneath a slice of pewter moon, in a silence so huge it annihilated him.

A fox cried. Sultan snorted, ears flicking. His own heart racing, Charles gentled the horse over the gravel drive that swept up to the white Grecian pillars of the mansion. They turned towards the stable-yard—coach houses, stalls and groom’s quarters arranged about an enclosed square, entered by a short cobbled tunnel beneath the stable-master’s rooms. Both of them balked at the darkness beneath the arch, Sultan sidestepping as Charles dismounted. He wrenched his wrist, landed with a slap and slither loud enough to conceal the footsteps of a thousand walking corpses and stood propped against the horse’s strong shoulder, gathering himself. Sultan’s warm, straw-scented breath spiralled up comfortingly into the pre-dawn sky.

“Easy there, Sultan. Nothing to worry about.”

Thanking God that no one was watching his folly, Charles slung an arm about Sultan’s neck, took the hilt of his sword in the other hand. Emboldened by the feel of it, he urged Sultan forwards, towards his own stall and rest. (continue reading…)

Title	I, Debauchee #1 in the ‘I’ Series
Author	William Maltese
ISBN#	978-1-60820-092-4 (print)  $14.99
	978-1-60820-093-1 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	January 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	208 pages
Sexual Content:	Rated Explicit

This is the first in Maltese’s m/m “I” SERIES of books that will eventually include I, HUSTLER; I, SATYR; I, VOYEUR; I, MASTER; I, SLAVE; I, CATAMITE… I, DEBAUCHEE takes Maltese fans on a roller-coaster ride into the depths of corruption by intemperance and sensuality as one man is led and, then, leads others, via seduction, on the all-too-easily-taken detour from duty and virtue to homosexual excess and self-indulgence.
****************

Chapter One

I fucked Mallory von Burel on the large four-poster bed … as I’d fucked him in the basement dark room where I’d chained him to a wall, shackled to a rack, where I’d manacled his arms, head, and legs to a stake … as I’d fucked him in the Main Room of the Lodge with its galleries of stuffed animal heads, so many of them with record-breaking horns, but none as horny as Mallory and I … as I’d fucked him in the manicured parkland, his back and ass cushioned by emerald-green sylvan moss…

He was on his knees, kow-towed so his ass was elevated, his arms wrapping a pillow, his right cheek against the bright orange of a Draqualian-silk sheet. The exquisite overall tan of his body, with the exception of where a small European-style bikini swim suit was worn during more than one sunning session, looked even more impressive against the colorful backdrop. The rest of our covers were thrown back so that I had full view of the exquisite handsomeness of the young man I butt-fucked. The line from his asscrack to the nape of his neck was parenthesized by an intricate interplay of muscle in movement as I pressed my cock deep inside of him and, then, pulled free until only my cock’s corona remained implanted inside the rubber-band moue that was his gumming sphincter.

I firmly gripped his hips, not only to steady him but to exert those slight pulls and pushes that first securely anchored his asshole over my dick, then, slid him almost free of it. Occasionally, my cock fully buried, I let go just long enough to put my handprints to his asscheeks in coordinated slaps that had a way of echoing loudly in the large bedroom. (continue reading…)

Like that’s anything new.

January 17, join James at Kink On Tap the smart sexuality netcast for the kinkily inclined.

Tired of the pulp eroticization of sexuality? Annoyed by the self-aggrandizement of sex bloggers? Want a more thoughtful, heartier, smarter approach to sexuality, society, culture, feminism, and queer activism? These are the droids you’re looking for.  Kink On Tap is more than just a netcast about sexuality; it’s also a community of people for whom intelligent conversations about sexuality and how sexuality relates to other aspects of their lives is a motivating force for Doing Good.

The show will air live on Sunday, January 17, 2010, 8pm Eastern-5pm Central http://live.kinkontap.com/ you can log in, listen and chat in real time during the show.

Murder Above Fourth
Author	J.P. Bowie
ISBN#	978-1-60820-120-4 (ebook)
	978-1-60820-119-8 (print)
Release Date	December 2009
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	228 pages

http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Above-Fourth-J-P-Bowie/dp/1608201198/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1261781439&sr=1-2
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/books/e/9781608201198/?itm=2&usri=mlr+press

Nick Fallon always knew there would be a day of reckoning between himself and Harold Forsythe, a millionaire who headed a secret group paying big bucks to watch young men and women have sex-sometimes dangerous sex, that had resulted in the deaths of two young men.

When one of the owners of ‘Above Fourth’, a popular San Diego nightclub, is needlessly murdered, Nick vows to take Forsythe down, but in his determination to see the man behind bars, Nick throws caution to the wind. In a reckless and ultimately dangerous move, he not only puts his own life in jeopardy, but also the future of his relationship with his lover.

*******************************

Eric Jamieson looked down the length of the art gallery, at the polished wood floor, at the paintings hanging in neat rows on both walls, at the green fern plants strategically placed here and there among the pieces of sculpture. He swiped a hand over his short brown hair, his light blue eyes gleamed, and he exhaled a long, satisfied breath of completion. Yes, he had done it, given the gallery the facelift he’d promised Peter Brandon, the gallery owner, and all before Peter was due back from his vacation. Actually, he’d been due back this morning, but he’d called to say he and Jeff Stevens, his lover, were running just a tad late and he’d see Eric in the afternoon.

Perfect, Eric had thought, that’d give him time to take lunch over to Nick’s office so they could spend the hour together—something they hadn’t had enough of recently, what with Jeff and Peter away on a two week vacation. Jeff was Nick’s business partner in the investigative business—Stevens and Fallon. Their office was within easy walking distance of the gallery. Eric could be there and back within the space of an hour or so. He picked up his cell phone from the desk at the back of the gallery and speed- dialed Nick’s number.

“Stevens and Fallon, Private Investigations. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Monica, it’s Eric. Is he there?”

“He sure is.” Monica sounded edgy. “And I sure hope you can put him in a better mood than I can. He is Mr. Grump today.”

“Sorry.” Eric knew a bad-tempered Nick could be worse than a threat of weapons of mass destruction—and just as loud. “What’s he mad about?” (continue reading…)