Title	The Blood of Love
Author	Victor J. Banis
ISBN#	978-1-60820-154-9 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-155-6 (ebook)  $6.99
Release Date	June 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	208 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

An ancient curse. An endless terror. A love that will never die.

The Amorinii, “the Blood” – the undying sons of the loins of Amor, the ancient Roman God of Love. For desiring men, they are forever cast adrift by the Goddess of Love, Venus herself. Scorned and pursued through the centuries by those who would see them destroyed. For some men, love is a curse.

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

Chapter 1

“Ethan?”

Jonathon Everest, just leaving his office, started and turned his head in the speaker’s direction. What he saw was an old man, round shouldered, leaning on a cane with hands that trembled noticeably. An old, old man, wizened. Staring wide-eyed at him, a look of hopeful expectancy on his face.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is you.” The stranger grinned widely, revealing a gap in his yellowed teeth. “I knew, the minute I saw the picture.” He tugged a newspaper clipping from the pocket of a worn but clean shirt and shaking it open, held it out for Jonathon’s perusal.

Jonathon took no more than a glance at the clipping. He recognized it, of course. It had come from the San Francisco Chronicle, yesterday’s edition. It showed him accepting an award for humanitarian of the year from the Council on Gay and Lesbian Studies. He’d clipped it from the paper as well. At the moment, his copy was tacked up on a corkboard in his office. He knew, also, that it clearly identified him by name: “Jonathon Everest, of Weatherby, Weatherby and Dean, accepts humanitarian award from Gay Council.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said now.

The old man thrust the paper at him determinedly. “Here, take it.” His voice insistent.

Jonathon ignored the clipping. “My name is Jonathon Everest and…”

“No.” It was said in a surprisingly forceful tone. “Your name is Ethan Soames. Do you think for a moment I could ever forget you?”

“I tell you, you don’t know…”

“But I do know.” The old man’s voice was rising in pitch and volume. He was nearly shouting now.

They were in the corridor outside Jonathon’s accounting office. It was five o’clock, quitting time, and the hallway was filled with people hurrying on their way home for the day, eddying around the two men and some of them casting curious glances.

“Look, we can’t stand here arguing,” Jonathon said, mindful of the sideways glances. “Come with me.”

Without waiting to see if he was obeyed, he walked quickly, decisively in the opposite direction from those heading toward the elevators, taking a key from his pocket as he went. He unlocked the unmarked door at the end of the corridor, stepped inside and, as the old man followed him in, closed it after them and locked it again.

They were in the firm’s executive restroom. It smelled of disinfectant and soap, something artificially piney. Other odors lingered beneath those, faint but unmistakable. Bright lights glittered off gleaming white tile and spotless porcelain. Brass fittings winked. There was ice in the unmanned urinals, glittering as well. The stall doors stood open.

The two men were alone. The toilets suddenly flushed in unison, water gurgling, breaking the silence, but it was an automatic system, timed for every six minutes—just in case someone forgot. Executives had other things on their minds, it seemed, more important than flushing when they’d finished Number Two.

Jonathon turned to confront the old man. “Now, then, Mister…?”

“But you know my name. You can’t have forgotten that.”

Jonathon only stared at him, waiting.

The stranger sighed. “Samuel,” he said. “Samuel Barney. Sam. But I can’t believe you didn’t know that. I can’t believe you don’t remember.” Samuel Barney stood now without the help of his cane, and he drew back his shoulders in a determined way. He looked like a man very sure of himself. A man not easily intimidated.

“Mister Barney,” Jonathon said, speaking in a patient and carefully neutral voice. He was sure he could handle the situation. Handling situations was a specialty of his, perfected over long time. At this stage in his life, he thought that nothing could surprise him. “I don’t know what kind of delusion you’re suffering from, but…”

Barney did surprise him, though. “Take down your pants.”

Jonathon’s jaw dropped. “What?”

Samuel Barney smiled. “Your trousers. Lower them.”

Jonathon’s laugh was embarrassed. “Now look here, if this is some kind of, well, I don’t know what—sexual advance, I suppose, whatever, I am not…”

“You have a wound, a prominent scar, right here.” The old man put a hand to his right groin. “You show me. If there’s no scar, I’ll apologize and leave. Otherwise, you’re going to have to do some serious explaining. Or I’m going to raise some serious hell.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, eyes locked. Jonathon gave a shake of his head and sighed. “No. I’m not going to do it. This is ridiculous. A perfect stranger accosts me on my way from work and demands that I drop my drawers for him? I’ve had some passes in my day, but yours takes the cake. Next I suppose you’ll be describing my dick.”

“I could, you know. You know I could. Hard, soft, anything in between. I saw it often enough. The never-cum-dick, I used to call it. You see, I remember everything. And you won’t do it, you won’t show me because you can’t, because you know I’m right.”

Jonathon looked around as if to appeal to some higher, restroom authority. “Look, what is it that you want, really? Forget about my dick, I’m particular who I share that with, but, what then, money?” He reached for the wallet in the inside pocket of his blazer. “I don’t know how much I have, but if it’ll get you out of my hair…”

“Money?” He fairly spat the word. “You dare to offer me money? After what we…after…” He sputtered and seemed to lose the thread of what he had been about to say.

“What were we, Mister Barney? Or, rather, what do you think we were?”

“We were…” For the first time, though, Samuel Barney grew confused, lost the confidence with which he had spoken up till now. He blinked, his head rocking to and fro in a palsied motion. He saw himself in the mirror behind Jonathon, and was shaken by his image, looked quickly away from it. Old men were not fond of mirrors. Especially not old men who had once been young and very, very handsome. Now he was…just old.

“But…but, it can’t be, can it? Look at me. Look at my hands.” He looked down at them himself. They were shriveled, brown-spotted, the knuckles prominent. And they had begun to shake again. “I’m old. I’ll be eighty four in another month. And you ought to be too, but you’re not. You’re so young. As young as you were then. You haven’t aged a bit.” His shoulders, a moment before held back firmly, slumped in an attitude of defeat. “I don’t understand it.”

“I’m forty one. Half your age, if you want to look at it like that. So you see…” Jonathon spread his hands in a dismissive gesture.

“I see that there’s something very peculiar here. Something…something unnatural, something weird beyond comprehension.” Sam tilted his chin up, and his eyes blazed with sudden anger. “Damn you, I want to see your groin. I insist.” He raised the cane as if he meant to strike Jonathon with it. “Show me.”

They were interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock and the door swung inward. Horace Weatherby, Jonathon’s boss, appeared in the doorway.

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” he asked in a voice that said he knew perfectly well he was interrupting. He looked from one to the other, an eyebrow cocked.

“No. The gentleman just mistook me for someone else. He’s leaving.” Jonathon’s tone was final.

Weatherby came the rest of the way into the room, unconsciously moving to stand beside Jonathon, the two of them confronting Samuel Barney with a kind of united front. Barney looked back and forth, swallowing.

“I think you should go home,” Jonathon said in a gentle voice. “Forget whatever you think you know—about me.”

The toilets punctuated his suggestion with another flush, the noise loud in the room’s tense silence.

“Oh, I’ll go all right. Home.” Barney made the single word sound ugly. “But I’m not going to forget. And you needn’t think for a moment you’ve fooled me either. We aren’t finished yet. I’m going to learn the truth. Something’s rotten in Denmark, all right, and I’m going to find out what. What’s more, when I do—and I will, you can believe that—I’m going to share it with the world. I told you, I’m going to raise some serious hell. You aren’t going to jilt me twice, in the same lifetime, and get away with it.” And he added, in a definite voice, “Ethan.”

He went out, once again leaning on his cane, his fingers quaking. The door swung shut behind him.

Weatherby looked at Jonathon. “Ethan?” he said. “Is he…?”

“No one,” Jonathon said firmly. “No one that need concern us.”

* * * *;

Samuel Barney’s “home” was just a room in a Tenderloin hotel for transients. He could have lived better, had often been coaxed by his grandson to move in with him in his Castro apartment, but he’d preferred to be alone. His loneliness was his only legacy from the great love he had once known.

The loneliness, and the mirror. He took it out of the locked drawer where he kept it, held it up and looked into it, as he did every day. He was not looking at himself, but at the shabby room behind him. Or, really, not even at that. He was looking, as he always did, for something. But for what, he had no idea. In some far corner of his mind, he knew there was something he should see, something that he had once seen, but that had slid away from his consciousness without recognition. What? He’d asked himself that question a thousand times or more, but still the answer did not come.

The mirror was small, no larger than a sheet of typing paper. The glass, cloudy with age, was surrounded by an elaborately carved bronze frame, inset with semi-precious stones. It was pre-renaissance, maybe even late Roman, someone had suggested years before, and a collector had once offered him an incredible sum of money for it. He could sell it at any time, he knew, for enough to leave this seedy room behind and make a new life for himself.

He couldn’t bring himself to do that, though, and not only for sentimental reasons. He wasn’t sure how safe it would be to sell it. He’d stolen it, though that had been long ago, and whether anyone else even knew of its existence, he had no idea. Ethan did, surely. And must have known who had taken it. It had been valuable to Ethan, certainly—yet in the intervening years, Ethan had made no effort to reclaim it, which was in itself a mystery.

More than forty years ago. In some ways, it felt as if it had been only yesterday. He’d gone to Ethan’s apartment in not-quite Beverly Hills, unable to believe the note he’d gotten, that Ethan was gone, that they would never see one another again.

How could he believe it? They had been so in love, so devoted to one another. Yes, yes, he knew for certain they had been in love, and both of them. His had been no one-sided passion, his love for Ethan had been matched by Ethan’s love for him. On that score he had not a single doubt: Ethan had loved him too. So, then, what possible reason could Ethan have for ending it so suddenly? It made no sense. What could have led him to pen that note?

“Remember me fondly, please. Our time together has been very precious to me, more precious than you will ever know.” And then, one word, that had never before seemed so stark, so terrible: “Goodbye.”

At Ethan’s apartment he used the key Ethan had given him to let himself in, half expecting to discover that the lock would have been changed.

It hadn’t, but it was clear at a glance that Ethan had gone. Or, at least, that he was in the process of going, of moving out. The closets were empty, his clothes, all his personal belongings gone. Only a few cardboard boxes, already taped shut, stood neatly stacked against one wall.

And atop the boxes, the mirror, with a note attached to it, in Ethan’s handwriting: “Frank: Pack this for me, please, carefully. I didn’t trust myself to do it right.”

Samuel debated just staying there, waiting for Ethan to come back; but it did not appear he meant to return. This looked more as if someone else, movers perhaps, would be coming to finish emptying the apartment. He even toyed with the idea that they must surely be able to tell him where Ethan had gone.

But what explanation could he have given them for needing to know. This was a long time ago. Homosexuality wasn’t as accepted then. Certainly homosexuals had few rights. He knew that. At best, they’d probably laugh at him. Or, worse, throw him out violently. Maybe call the police. Homosexuals were still arrested then, often on the slightest pretext.

He left without waiting to see anyone, but he crumpled up the note and took the mirror with him, partly to have something of Ethan’s, and partly in the hope that Ethan would come for the mirror. He hadn’t even, at the time, thought of it as “stealing.” Certainly he had no qualms about taking it.

If he doesn’t care about me, he told himself, maybe he’ll care enough for it.

He went back to his own apartment with the mirror, a real apartment then, and not just a room in a seedy Tenderloin hotel. He got drunk.

Four years drunk, as it turned out, until he awakened one morning lying in some garbage in an alley, with no memory of how he had gotten there, with no money, everything he’d owned gone—except for the mirror. When he got up, brushing garbage and alley dirt off himself, he discovered the mirror carefully wrapped in his filthy jacket. He had somehow held on to that. Or maybe it had held on to him.

He stood in the faint light of early dawn, staring into the milky glass, trying to remember. Something that he had seen in the mirror, or half-seen, anyway, teased at his memory. Something that he wanted to see again, that instinct told him would solve the mystery of Ethan’s disappearance. The memory would not come. Like the mirror’s glass, the four years were shrouded in mists, and they had remained so.

He sobered up, got a job. Met and became friends with Annabel and her new son, Nate, the only people since Ethan who had really cared for him. He resumed his life—or a pretense of it. Without Ethan, it wasn’t really a life, just an empty ritual. He’d gotten through it as best he could, had managed to regain some sense of self-respect. If he’d ever asked himself what it was that he had kept living for, ever delved into that question, he would probably have told himself it was for Ethan. Somehow, over the years, he had remained convinced against all odds that he would one day see Ethan again.

And, finally, so he had. He had recognized him instantly when he’d seen the photograph in the newspaper. How could he ever forget that face? He was certain beyond any doubt that the man he had accosted today was Ethan Soames, no matter what Ethan said to the contrary.

But that thought no sooner entered his mind than he asked himself, how could that be? Ethan would be as old as he was now, or nearly so. And the man today had been as young as Ethan had been back then. He hadn’t aged a day.

He stared into the glass as if he might see the answer there, but whatever the mirror’s secret, whatever he was supposed to see, had gone with his memory of those four years. And today, too…something flickered in his memory of that scene in the restroom. The artificial stink of pine. He heard the water running, Ethan’s voice as if from a great distance…he had a conviction that he had seen or heard something significant in those brief moments. But, what? Again, the answer refused to come.

Something moved behind him—and as suddenly as that, the mists vanished from his mind and he remembered. In a single instant, the mirror revealed its long held secret to him. The glass into which he gazed showed him an empty room, though he knew with chilling certainty that it was not empty. Just as once before, years ago, in Ethan’s apartment, he’d seen an empty room, though Ethan had stood no more than two feet away from him…and today, too, when he’d glanced in that restroom’s mirror. He had seen an empty glass, that should not have been empty.

He turned. A man stood just inside the room, though the door was locked. How had he come in, through the locked door, without a sound?

Samuel said, “You.”

It was the last word he uttered.

Title	A Deadly Game
Author	J.P. Bowie
ISBN#	978-1-60820-143-3 (ebook)  $6.99
	978-1-60820-142-6 (print)  $14.99
Release Date	June 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	212 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Nick Fallon, private investigator, gets a rude awakening when his past life unexpectedly catches up with him. Four years earlier, Nick, then a member of the Pittsburgh Police Department, was instrumental in arresting Francisco Garcia, a drug dealer and cold-blooded murderer.

Now, Garcia has escaped from death-row, intent on making good his threat of reprisal for the death of his son in the shootout that brought down his notorious empire—a confrontation that also claimed the life of Nick’s close friend, Sam Valance.

Nick, only too aware of Garcia’s ruthless and cunning tactics, fears for the safety of his family and his lover, Eric Jamieson. Nick knows in order to protect those he loves he cannot, for one moment afford to let down his guard, until Garcia is either apprehended—or dead.

A Deadly Game is an erotic thrill ride, filled with danger, excitement and suspense.

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

Chapter One

Laguna Beach. California

The early morning sun, rising in the east behind the hills and canyons that separate the town of Laguna Beach from the rest of Orange County, spilled its light onto the calm waters of the Pacific Ocean, touching the whitecaps with silver as they broke gently on shore. It was early October, but a Santa Ana condition had kicked in the day before, bringing a warm, dry, off-shore wind from the desert that could already be felt, despite the fact it was not yet six a.m.

The runner on the beach churned up the sand as he ran with a long, loping style. Tall, broad shouldered, with lean, hard muscles gleaming under a fine layer of perspiration, he drew admiring glances from the scattering of men and women likewise engaged in their early morning exercise. As he approached Main Beach he stopped, wiped the perspiration from his eyes, then pulling off his tank top, he ran into the ocean before diving headfirst beneath the waves. He swam with strong, sure strokes against the tide, enjoying the coolness of the water, feeling energized by the tugging of the riptide. For a time, he floated on his back on top of the rolling waves, gazing up at the azure sky, his mind turned off to the rigors he knew the day would eventually bring him. This he considered his just reward for getting out of bed at the crack of dawn and running for an hour every day.

The roar of a speedboat’s engine close by shattered the early morning quiet, and he was caught in the undulating wake created by its passing. His reverie interrupted, he flipped himself over, and with a strong kick of his legs, headed back to shore.

Nick Fallon waded from the water and stood for a moment surveying the pleasant view in front of him, his hazel eyes squinting against the glare of the morning sun. From his vantage point, he could look across the sand to the boardwalk and the green swath of grass beyond, dominated by palm and cypress trees. At this time of day, the town was still quiet, affording him a relatively relaxed run back up the hill to the apartment he shared with his lover, Eric. He bent to pick up his tank top, shaking the sand from it then using it to wipe his face and chest, before he set off at a leisured pace toward home.

Nick and Eric had moved to Laguna from New York the year before, mostly at Eric’s urging, but also so that Nick could take advantage of the offer from Jeff Stevens to become his business partner in Stevens’ Investigations, a thriving private investigative business. Jeff had insisted he needed help with his ever increasing client base, and had dispelled Nick’s notion that he’d be bored with the on-the-surface sedate Orange County lifestyle. Nick had learned very quickly that all is rarely as it appears to be, and that wealth and refinement do not necessarily go hand-in-hand. Some of the more lurid cases of larceny and fraud were perpetrated by the extremely well heeled of society. Greed, not need, was their motivation. Still, that’s what kept people like him and Jeff, along with the police force for that matter, in business.

Jeff and his lover Peter Brandon, a celebrated local artist, had taken off on a well-deserved vacation, leaving Nick in charge of the investigative business and Eric looking after Peter’s art gallery in downtown Laguna. They’d be in Europe for a month, maybe longer if they weren’t needed for any urgent business back home. Rounding the corner of the apartment building, Nick bounded up the steps and flung open the front door.

“Hey, stud!” Eric smiled at him from beneath the towel he was using to dry his light brown hair. He was naked, and Nick paused for a moment to drink in the sight of his boyfriend’s lightly tanned, lithe and compact body. In New York, where they had met two years before, Eric had been a paramedic, a job that had kept him in great physical shape. Now that he had what he called the “cushy life,” managing Peter Brandon’s art gallery in town, he worried about getting soft and had joined a nearby gym to keep himself toned, working out regularly with Peter and Andrew, a mutual friend. From the look of things, Nick thought carnally, it was paying off.

“You’re the stud,” he whispered. His voice husky with desire, he pulled Eric’s smooth skinned, still damp body into his arms, and delivered a scorching kiss to his mouth.

“Those early morning runs sure seem to agree with you,” Eric gasped when they came up for air. With a sensuous curl of his lips, he ran his tongue over Nick’s left nipple, tasting the salt from the sea mingled with the sweat of his body. “Mmm…look at you. You’re all sweaty, and I’m suddenly all horny—”

Nick pulled him closer. “I can take care of that for you.”

“I knew there was something I liked about you,” Eric said, wrapping his arms around Nick’s neck and pulling him in for another long and hungry kiss.

Later, after they had showered together, Eric made some pancakes while Nick perused the morning paper. “Jeez,” he muttered, looking at a gruesome photograph of yet more carnage in the Middle East. “When the hell are we ever going to get some good news?” His eyes were suddenly riveted to a piece on an inside page:

Death Row Inmate Escapes From Pa. State Prison:

Francisco Garcia, sentenced to death three years ago for the drug related murders of two Pittsburgh homicide detectives, escaped from prison yesterday during a riot that prison officials are now calling a smoke screen to cover the escape…

“Aw, shit—” Nick exclaimed.

Eric turned to look at him with concern. “What is it?”

Nick closed the paper quickly. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? ‘Aw shit’ about nothing?” Eric narrowed his light blue eyes. “I can see on your face it’s a lot more than nothing.”

Nick rose from the table. “I gotta get dressed and get to the office.”

“Nick.” Eric advanced on him, his eyes glittering. “You do not get to do this, my friend. You are not skipping out of here without telling me what just bothered you. That was the deal remember? Anytime we have a problem, we share.”

“Eric,” Nick groaned. “Don’t push this. I really don’t want to talk about it right now. Later, maybe…”

Eric could not quite conceal the hurt look that shadowed his face, but he turned away quickly and went back to the stove. “Pancakes to go then?”

“Eric, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

“But ya did, Blanche. Ya did!” Eric tried to keep his voice light as he imitated Bette Davis, then he turned round to look at Nick and smiled. “Okay—tell me when you want to.”

Nick took him in his arms. “Thanks Eric. I love you, you know.”

Eric kissed Nick’s chin. “I know. Now go do what you have to do.”

* * * *

Nick pulled into his allotted space outside the office he and Jeff shared. For a moment he sat in the car, mulling things over in his mind, then with a sigh he climbed out and pushed his way through the heavy glass doors that led into the reception area.

“Hi, Nick.” Monica Kwan, their secretary, gave him a wave as he entered.

“Monica. Any messages?”

Monica gave him a shrewd look. “That kind of day already?” She handed him a couple of telephone messages.

“Mmm.” The smile he started became a grimace as he thought of the calls he had to make. “I’ll be on the phone for a time. Just take messages. Okay?”

“You got it.”

“Thanks, Monica.” He went into his office and closed the door behind him quietly. He looked over at Jeff’s empty desk and wished like hell his partner was sitting there so he could talk with him. Jeff was the kind of guy who remained calm under attack, resilient when pushed, and usually had a sensible spin on situations that seemed crazy at times. Nick felt he could certainly use some of that calmness right about now. Francisco Garcia somewhere out there on the loose. This was not good. Not good at all. He punched in a number on his phone, then sat back listening to the ringing tone.

“Detective Hawkins.”

“Andy, it’s Nick Fallon.”

“So you heard, huh?”

“Read about it in the paper this morning.”

“How are you?”

“Okay. Yourself?”

“Fine, until all this shit happened. Margo’s threatening to take the kids over to her mother’s ‘til he’s caught.”

“That might not be a bad idea, Andy.”

“You think he’s crazy enough to try something?”

“Yes, I do. You know what he threatened to do when we brought him down, and you know he’s capable of just about anything. The guy’s a killer first and a homicidal maniac second.”

“Jesus,” Andy blew the word out on a long breath.

“What’s the word, anyway? How did Garcia manage this?”

“Beats me—he was on death row. It should never have happened.”

“He had inside help then.”

“That’d be my guess. They’ve got search teams all over the state looking for him of course.”

“Let’s hope they get lucky.” Nick drummed his fingers on his desktop as he spoke. “Andy, make sure you take precautions there. Don’t go anywhere alone. I have a bad feeling about this. Garcia—that son-of-a-bitch is clever.”

“Not so clever. He got caught.”

“And we got lucky, Andy. Don’t forget, he still managed to take out two of ours.”

Andy was silent for a while then he said, “Maybe I should take Margo and the kids to her mother’s house.”

“Good idea.”

Nick felt like saying he should have done it right away, but Andy was a stubborn guy who thought he could handle anything that came along—even someone like Garcia. Nick wasn’t so sure he could, but he didn’t want to voice that opinion right then.

“So, you don’t have to worry way out there in sunny California, right?”

“Andy, just watch your back. If you hear anything, let me know. Okay?”

“You bet.”

“And tell Margo I said hello.”

He hung up and rose slowly from his desk chair to look out of the window at the now bustling activity on Coast Highway. Pittsburgh sure seemed a long way away, he thought. Once it had been his home, where he had gone to school, to college, to work, and where he and his family and friends had gathered to celebrate birthdays and Thanksgivings. Where he had met Martin and lived with him for close to ten years. And then all that had changed in such a short space of time. Martin had died in a plane crash, and Francisco Garcia, along with his henchmen, had shot two of Nick’s associates to death. Yes, they had brought the gang down, but at a terrible price.

Nick had never really been able to find closure in the death of his lover and friends. His move to New York and his year with the NYPD had helped because it had brought Eric into his life. That he had found a man as loving and as caring as Eric had seemed to him, at the time, to be something of a miracle. Nick knew he wasn’t the easiest guy to live with. He could be quick-tempered, pig-headed, sullen even—but Eric rarely seemed fazed by Nick’s moods. Sometimes, showing a great deal of patience, he would just wait quietly for the mood to pass, then other times he would use humor or start a lively discussion to distract Nick.

And then there was the sex, or rather the lovemaking, as Nick preferred to call it. Those moments of sheer bliss when they were alone together, when they could express their love for one another, making everything seem right and worthwhile. That was why he could not tell Eric of what he had read in the paper that morning. He would have to eventually of course, but right then, he had felt that cold shudder of fear when someone you cherish might just be taken away. In the years since Garcia’s trial, Nick had almost forgotten the man’s existence. Now, the events of the past had come back to haunt him.

Francisco Garcia was a cold, lethal killer with many options for revenge. Nick knew there was a network of like killers in almost every section of the country—there just for the paying. Garcia had vowed revenge on the men who had brought him, and his empire, down.

But there was a greater need for vengeance in Garcia’s heart, because of the fact that his son had died in the shootout that had claimed the lives of the two detectives. Nothing would appease him, he had said at his trial. His soul would never rest until his son’s killers had all been destroyed.

That meant Andy Hawkins—and Nick Fallon.

Nick was worried about Andy’s being on the front line. If Garcia was not apprehended in the next couple of days, it put his friend’s life in a great deal of danger. Nick did not doubt for one moment that Garcia would attempt to carry out his threat. Despite the man’s need for obscurity at this point in his escape, no matter how risky it would be for him to get close to a police detective, Nick innately knew that Garcia would gladly take that risk. He had seen him in court, railing against those who had “murdered” his son. The man’s eyes, small, dark and glittering with hate had met Nick’s from the other side of that crowded courtroom, and Nick had been left slightly shaken by the malevolence in the prolonged stare Garcia had cast upon him.

Garcia had been sentenced to death, but it had not stopped him from delivering his own sentence on the two remaining men he considered guilty of taking his son’s life. Before he was led away in the shackles he had worn during his entire trial, Garcia had pronounced his judgment across the courtroom on those who had taken his son’s life. His son would be avenged, he had yelled as he was hustled out amid a rush of reporters and photographers, intent on capturing the moment for the headlines of the day.

Nick could still see the photograph that had appeared in the paper later that day. Andy and himself, standing side by side in the courtroom under a headline that had screamed, “Garcia Threatens Arresting Detectives!” The reporters had a field day recounting Garcia’s threats and promises to “seek out and destroy the men who had taken his young son’s life.” Nick knew that the cops in Pittsburgh would be doing everything they could to find the escaped prisoner, but would it be enough? He also knew that Andy would be given protection until Garcia was caught and back behind bars once more. But what if Andy let his guard down before that happened, and what if Garcia could get through the protection?

“Christ,” he muttered, running his hand through his dark brown hair. There were just too many possibilities, and all of them not good. Garcia was clever. Clever enough to engineer his escape from a maximum security prison and still be on the loose. Nick did not like the feeling he was getting from this. Instinctively, he knew this was going to be bad. Returning to his desk, he pulled a name from his Rolodex and quickly dialed the number. After a couple of rings, a voice with strong nasal overtones answered.

“Tom Carradine.”

“Tom—Nick Fallon.”

When Nick was still a detective with the Pittsburgh Police Department he, and a couple of his associates, had used Carradine as an informant. Once upon a time, Carradine too had been a police officer. He’d been fired several years before for taking bribes. The popular opinion among his fellow officers was that Tom was not a bad guy, just stupid. He’d managed to get a private investigator’s license, but his propensity for trying to make a quick buck frequently got him into trouble. On one occasion, when a man he was dealing with turned ugly, he’d run to Nick for help. Nick had stepped in and made the man back off, earning Carradine’s undying loyalty—or at least as loyal as Tom Carradine could ever be.

“Hey, Nick…” Carradine’s voice took on a wary edge. “What’s up?”

“Garcia escaped from prison.”

“I heard.”

“What else have you heard?”

“Nothin’—too early yet. All’s I heard was what you read in the papers. Looks like an inside job, so they say.”

“It had to be, Tom. And he has to have people helping him on the outside. I need a favor.”

“Yeah?”

“Talk to the people you know. Anything you hear, get back to me right away.”

“Nick…”

“I mean it, Tom. Don’t forget what you owe me. I’m pulling in all my markers on this one. Andy’s right there in the line of fire. You hear anything, you let me know. Got that?”

A deep sigh sounded on the other end. “Okay,” came the mumbled reply. “But Nick… Garcia…man…he’s—”

“I know what he is, Tom,” Nick said, his voice harsh. “I know only too well what he is. That’s why I need you on this. Andy’s life could depend on what you can find out. You owe him too, don’t forget.”

“I don’t forget. Okay, I’ll be in touch.” Carradine paused then asked, “You all right?”

“I’m fine, Tom. Just help me with this one.” Nick put the phone down and sank back in his chair. He closed his eyes…and let himself remember.

Title	The Code
Author	David Juhren
ISBN#	978-1-60820-169-3 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-170-9 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	May 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	188 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)
	Amazon.com (paperback)

London, 1941, and Roger Mathews, a special attache with the U.S. is teamed up with British captain Clive Westmore to execute a secret plan to secure the final key to solving the Nazi’s secret codes from within occupied France. Complicating matters, the two are instantly attracted to each other, beginning a romantic involvement whose tender alliance can only make more intricate their already convoluted mission.

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

Chapter I: Enigma

February, 1941

Roger dropped the cigarette and stomped it out with his loafer. Seconds later, another bomb exploded. About a quarter of a mile away, but still in the Whitehall area, he suspected. It rumbled like a giant, so different from thunder-an ominous, man-made sound he knew he would never forget.

The Nazis are really dishing it out to London tonight, he thought, standing on the rooftop of his blacked-out apartment building. The structure, like the others in the neighborhood, had been built in the latter part of the last century, and had at one time been dwellings for more affluent inhabitants. Designed, in fact, to be so posh that when the neighborhood was constructed, the streets were torn up, and re-cobbled in broadly curved promenades. All of the buildings in the neighborhood looked alike; four stories high, with columned facades, white gingerbread latticework, and second story faux balconies with French doors. But age had taken its toll on the neighborhood, reducing it from its former elegance to that of middle class. The cobblestones had been paved over, yet the water-stained buildings were still architecturally superb, and retained their distinct beauty, like older women who have kept their attractiveness despite unflattering sags and bulges.

The U.S. Embassy had given strict orders that all personnel were to either report to the embassy itself or follow the Londoners down into the Underground. Roger, however, was known by most of his friends to take unnecessary chances with his life, all twenty-eight years of it, as if death might bring some kind of release, and tonight would be no exception. Roger was a political attaché at the U.S. Embassy. His father had worked for the State Department, too, during the Great War, but the elder Mathews had been stationed in Paris. It was through his father’s contacts in Washington that he had landed his job-he and his father preferring an ocean between them. Now, the embassy was doing its best to secretly help the English in its war with Nazi Germany. Despite the fact that the United States would prefer not to enter the war anytime soon, any one of a number of clandestine activities the Americans were doing to assist the British could easily and quickly drag the U.S. into the melee.

Roger had graduated from Georgetown University’s School of Government-summa cum laude, no less. This was unsurprising, but not because Roger was brilliant. No, it was more because Roger applied himself, for he knew that applying oneself can be more beneficial than possessing an attribute like genius. For three years after college he ran one of his maternal grandfather’s factories back in Massachusetts, close enough to his hometown of Boston to visit regularly, which he liked, having spent most of his childhood there. His grandfather had passed away a few years earlier and left his business to Roger’s mother and father.  Although Roger didn’t want to help with the business, he’d acquiesced for the sake of his mother, whom he adored. It had been hell for the first year and a half, until he fell in love. But that situation soured after little more than a year. So, after roughly three years and the end of a relationship, he decided it was time to move on, and begged his father to get him something in Washington. Though on doing so, Roger’s father insisted that, if he were to land Roger a job, there would be none of his college shenanigans or “disgusting behaviors.”

A flash lit his handsome face, followed a millisecond later by the anticipated explosion. That one was only a few hundred yards away, but Roger stood firm, thinking. He thought of his mother, recalling that last year before she finally succumbed to tuberculosis; it was also the year before he graduated from college. Thoughts emerged of his friends, Stephen from college and John from his family’s factory, both of whom he had continued to see regularly, regardless of his father’s insistence that he not. To the world, Roger appeared an eligible bachelor, and well educated. Handsome, with his mother’s brown hair, and his father’s crystal blue eyes, he had small, perfectly shaped ears, a jaw that was slightly dimpled, and lips thin and aristocratic. He was certainly what the English girls called a ‘looker,’ but he was not complete, nor was he looking for what the English girls offered.

“Why don’t you come up and visit me at my family’s summer home in Boothbay Harbor?” Stephen asked, his head lying in Roger’s lap. They were at their favorite hiding spot on Roosevelt Island, which had only recently been renamed in honor of Teddy. Their favorite tree, a large black oak, shaded them from the sun as they watched the muddy waters of the Potomac roll along. Graduation ceremonies had taken place only the day before, and Washington was seeing its usual summer exodus of congressmen, lobbyists, and students.”You wouldn’t have to put up with your father. And now that your mother’s gone…” Stephen stopped, realizing he was treading in painful territory for Roger.

“I need to stay in Boston,” countered Roger, “so that I can continue getting ready to take over part of my grandfather’s business.” He was lying. The reason that he wouldn’t visit Stephen was because his father had found out about their “friendship,” and threatened to disown Roger if he were to continue seeing him. He hated lying to Stephen, but he hated his father more. As if somehow knowing that Roger was lying to him, Stephen replied, “You really need to learn to trust and let go, Roger. In leaps of faith, the hand that catches you will not be seen until after your feet have left the precipice.” It was no wonder Stephen graduated in the top three percent of the class, Roger thought, and lowered his head to kiss Stephen. He was always surprised at how exhilarating it was when he kissed a boy. In the distance, a boat somewhere in the Potomac’s haze blew its whistle in celebration…

The whistle slowly turned into an air raid siren, which lured Roger out of his slumber. He must have fallen asleep, his head resting against an ancient chimney. The siren marked the end of that night’s bombing. He looked at his watch, 4:20 a.m. The sliver of moon had shifted position, surrounded now by a halo of long clouds that glowed a pearly gray.

He stood, stretched, and groggily headed down to his flat. He lived rather well, mostly because on top of his income from the good old U.S. government, he received, much to his father’s chagrin, an expense entitlement. It was something that his mother had arranged before she died. He came from money on both sides, and his mother had made sure she personally managed much of what she had brought to the family coffers when she married his father. Roger had lived a very entitled life, but his mother had taught him the value of all people, to be socially responsible to those less fortunate, and to be fair and honest – all of which were hard to do with a father who was filled with anger and cruelty.

His father had grown up in Philadelphia, girdled in a wealthy family with nine other children. He was the fifth child, born to a house and a father who ruled with an iron hand. His mother was an apathetic woman whose main concern was a social life that kept her busy with grand teas, courtly balls, and elegant dinner parties. Neither the oldest nor the youngest, Roger’s father was a forgotten child-even the two nannies ignored him. Except by the father’s explosive temper-which was usually directed at the children as a group-he was pretty much disregarded.

But there had been a sister, Judith, two years older than Roger’s father, who had taken the neglected child into her care. It happened when the two were six and eight years old, and he reveled in the attention. He grew to adore this older sister who loved him, watched out for him, and sheltered him from their father’s tirades. She gave him the attention he had always craved, so he was devastated and lost when she died at the tender age of twelve after falling from a tree she’d been climbing.

When Roger was old enough to understand, his mother recounted his father’s history, explaining that this was why his father acted the way he did, and although it gave Roger a degree of pity for his father, it didn’t really detract from his feeling of resentfulness. At times, in fact, it made Roger, an only child, angrier that his father had grown up with such distant and angry parents, and yet was not empathetic enough to be a compassionate, loving parent himself.

As he entered the apartment he flicked on the lights, which he had remembered to turn off at the beginning of the air raid. Only once had he forgotten to turn the lights out during a raid, and had gotten into a lot of trouble with the street’s air-raid warden. A lone, lighted window could be seen by the Luftwaffe’s pilots at great heights and used as a target, but worse, if many windows were lighted, the pilots could get a better sense of where they were over London, and hit more strategic targets. So it was imperative that everyone block their windows or turn off their lights during a raid.

He flicked on the walnut-encased radio. The station it was set to was in the middle of playing a popular tune by Vera Lynn called “The White Cliffs of Dover.” He sang along with her, and thought about the song’s positive outlook on the war. How it looked towards a better tomorrow, when the world was free.
How optimistic the English are, Roger thought to himself. It was all over the papers how dire their situation was, and yet, in the face of the nightly blitzes and the ongoing war against Hitler, the common person on the street still walked around whistling, the women did their gossiping and laughing, and handsome young men in uniforms walked around joking with their mates.

Roger walked through his spacious living room, maneuvering his way through the large sofa, table, and love seat ensemble that sat in the middle of the room. He picked up and glanced at the previous day’s London Times, which rested on one of the two overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace, then neatly folded it and placed it on his round Chippendale table.

He walked to a small table with a vase-like lamp and flicked it on, further illuminating the walls, tastefully papered with a muted beige pattern. The light from this lamp gave the room a warm, yellowish glow regardless of the time of day or night, and Roger had always appreciated its beauty. On the wall full of shelves, his eye fell on an oval framed photograph of his mother, who had been taken from him far too early. He loved this photo, and believed it to be the only one to fully reflect his mother’s beauty. It was nestled among the many books and other photos of his family and friends that populated the bookcase. He picked up an empty water glass he had left on the bookcase the night before and headed into the small kitchenette with its long counter and glass-paned cabinets, which always reminded him of the ones at his family’s summerhouse on Cape Cod. He had considered using tape on the cabinets at one point-no sense in having that much glass flying around if a bomb exploded nearby-but he decided they looked too nice to tape up.

He placed the glass in the empty sink, and passed through the small door at the back of the kitchen that led to his den. The den had once been a servant’s quarter, but now housed more of Roger’s books and photographs. Roger pushed the chair further under the desk that sat against the wall, walked over to the den’s large, overstuffed leather chair, and fluffed the pillow that sat upon it. The den opened into his bedroom. Roger always appreciated the fact that the apartment was a full circle. If one went the other way, starting once again from the sitting room, they would enter a short hallway that started from the living room, and ran the length of the apartment. The first door led to the water closet, one of Roger’s favorite rooms because he loved its oversized bathtub, which took an impressive twenty minutes to fill. Then down to the end, where again one entered the second door into his bedroom.

Roger opened the door from the den into the bedroom, its walls painted dark burgundy with moss-green accents; the effect one of refined and gentlemanly taste. He picked up the unused pajama bottoms from the night before, which were draped over the chair by the door, and tossed them into the closet, from which he pulled a gray flannel suit, a shirt, and a matching tie. He gently placed these on the huge, thick sleigh bed that had been left by the previous tenant-probably because it was impossible to get through the doors, and God only knew how they had gotten it through in the first place. He had bought the bed’s thick, tartan blankets on a trip to Scotland shortly after coming to England. It was a handsome apartment, which those few who had ever seen it called charming. A cleaning woman came twice a week, but Roger usually kept the place neat and organized.

He gave himself a quick wash, got dressed, and was out by the time the sun was peaking over the skyline. Because of the smoke and dust that was hurled into the air, the sunrises over London were beautiful after air raids, and this morning’s sunrise was spectacular, with orange and violet drifts of clouds. The only mar was when he turned to the opposite direction of the sunrise, where a number of small ominous columns of smoke rose into the sky. Nevertheless, Roger thought, it looked as if, once the dust and ash settled a bit, it was going to be a crisp and sunny February day.

His morning routine was uninterrupted. He bought his London Times from the boy at the corner and didn’t have to wait long for a passing cab to pick him up. He began reading the newspaper, spreading it out over the roomy back seat of the cab. The headline announced that England’s supply line was drastically in peril due to the Nazis’ constant sinking of Britain’s merchant ships, which took down with them their precious cargo.

Because of the fires raging in White Hall from the previous night’s bombing, his cab ride to the embassy at Grosvenor Square took longer than usual. Roger didn’t mind, though, because it afforded him the chance to read more of the morning’s paper. The eastern sky was bright, almost sunny, as he paid the driver and jumped out of the cab. As it drove away, he turned to look up at the heavy, yet delicately ornate exterior of the Annex, which the English had given the Americans shortly after the start of the war. It was called the Annex because it sat away from the rest of the Embassy’s compound at the Court of St. James and having been built originally as a bank, contained fortified walls, strongholds, and vaults that made for safe places during air raids. It reminded Roger of Washington’s National Archives Building, upon whose steps he’d sometimes sat and read, and where he gained an appreciation of that structure’s resonating sense of protection and security. The Annex now gave him the same feeling, and he liked it. Nodding to the marines at the gate and flashing his identification tag, Roger walked up the twenty-three stone steps (he had counted them many times) that ran the length of the building, and entered the marbleized sanctum of the large foyer. He was halfway up the grand marble stairway when he heard his name being called.

“Mr. Mathews!” the voice of the young woman softly echoed from the walls of the foyer. It was Judith Feniway, secretary to the Embassy’s Chief of Staff. He had known Judy since long before the war, their parents having been acquaintances back in Boston, and so Roger had met her at a number of social events of Boston’s elite. He waited on the landing for her to climb the polished stairs and catch up with him.

“Judy, good morning,” he said, smiling genuinely as she walked up the last three stairs. “Glad to see you’ve survived another one of Hitler’s attacks.”

“Barely,” pushing a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “The building right across the street from mine took a direct hit, and killed a family of six. I had become friends with the eldest daughter and had spoken to her on a number of occasions. It’s just so tragic, Roger. I don’t know why they hadn’t gone to the Underground.”

“Judy, I’m sorry.” Roger was clearly concerned.

“I wish they’d hurry up and end this thing,” she whispered as they started climbing the stairs. “Or at least maybe we could enter the war and help the English end it sooner.” Their conversation was being underscored by an ambulance’s wailing siren in the distance.

“Well, at least we’re helping as best we can without getting into the war,” Roger said as they stopped at the banister at the top of the stairs. Roger followed Judy’s gaze to a shaft of dust-filled sunlight that fell on a fern at the top of the landing. Roger, too, became mesmerized by the sunlight but pulled out of it after a few seconds of silence.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks, Roger. Chief of Staff Peligro wants you to be in on a meeting this afternoon. It’s about the recent work you’ve been doing, so you might want to bring your files and do your homework,” she smiled. “It’s at the British Admiralty Building at three thirty, and you’ll be riding in the Chief of Staff’s car for a pre-meeting briefing at three o’clock.” She started back down the stairs.

“Thanks, Judy. I’ll be ready,” turning and heading toward his office.

Peligro was the embassy’s Chief of Staff, and Roger was titillated by being asked to join such a high-ranking meeting. The Admiralty was the nerve center of the English Navy, and anything taking place there was of the utmost importance.

As he walked the maze of corridors and hallways to his office, Roger reviewed the year that had passed since he had arrived at the embassy, and how quickly things had moved along for him. Upon assuming his duties, he’d been immediately put to work with members of His Majesty’s Government, along with a few select members of the State Department and U.S. military, to finish an assessment of Germany’s use of encryption devices and the various tools the Nazis were using to send and receive coded messages. Working at the very secretive British Cryptanalytic Department at Bletchley Park, he was introduced to Alan Turing, the English mathematical genius working on solving the Enigma machine, which was being used to put the Nazis’ secret messages into codes. The Enigma machine had become Alan’s life by then, and it soon became Roger’s, too.

Their relationship became very close, with Alan adoring Roger, the handsome young American, as Roger was attracted to Alan’s genius and impishly youthful looks. It was known amongst certain sets in London that Alan was a homosexual, but Alan didn’t care much what others thought of him. Roger, on the other hand, felt the need to be very secretive about how things looked from the outside. Alan obliged Roger’s request for secrecy, and their relationship from the outside took the facade of a good working alliance; yet for the three weeks they had been together, they were very much a couple. Roger looked back on that time as one of those relationships hard to place on the continuum between friendship and love. At least on the friendship level, they had, indeed, loved each other very much, and there had also been a lot of physicality, which made it fun and sexually gratifying. As quickly as they had fallen into this loving friendship they fell out of it, but on the best of terms.

It was a healthy changeover, Roger thought as he instinctively stooped to help a secretary pick up some papers she had dropped in the hallway. He smiled as she thanked him, and he continued on towards his office. He marveled that he and Alan continued to have the strongest of friendships-either man would do anything for the other.

As Roger entered his office, he stopped to look around at the books and files that occupied the space he had moved into a year earlier, papers that related the history of the infamous Enigma machine. It was used not only to put messages into secret code, but could also be used to decode messages as well. The Germans had been using the Enigma machine in one form or another for over ten years. It was, in principle, a rather simple device, but one wrought with intense internal complexity, and one whose output was bewildering, to say the least. It contained “rotors” that moved a notch with each character entered and assigned that character its own code letter. Put simply, each of the Enigma’s circular rotors had twenty-six characters, and each time a character was assigned a code letter, one of its rotors would turn 1/26^th of a notch before assigning the next code letter. The result of this was that, even if the letter “a” appeared twice in the same word, neither “a” would have the same corresponding code letter.

The English didn’t have the time or resources it would take to try each possible permutation of the code. But neither had Poland in the years leading up to the war, and yet they had discovered a way to break the Nazis’ earlier codes. What the Poles found useful was a mathematical system called permutation theory which reduced this time to a more realistic schedule. Poland’s move to break the code had come in response to a little-known man named Adolph Hitler, who had just been elected to office, but who in 1933 quickly seized control of the German government and began pushing his military leaders to develop treaty-breaking militaristic might. As the thirties wore on, the Reichstag began making menacing threats to the Polish government.

In 1939 the Poles, using decoded messages, knew they were about to be invaded by the Nazis, and arranged a secret meeting with British Intelligence. They surprised the British by handing over all of the Enigma equipment and information they possessed. In turning over its knowledge of the Enigma machine, Poland gave the English a greatly needed head start. No one knew it at the time, but the Nazis, with the addition of three new rotors, had just vastly improved the Enigma machine. This would bring the number of rotors to five, rendering the Enigma’s codes almost unbreakable.

Since then, the English had been urgently trying to break the codes. On top of almost daily blitzes from the Luftwaffe, the German Navy was torpedoing Britain’s merchant ships at a perilous rate. England’s plight was desperate, and it would be only a matter of months before it would run out of supplies. That’s what was driving the deciphering efforts at Bletchley Park, and what was motivating this group of Englishmen and Americans through every waking hour.

Roger thought about his admiration for Alan, who was more than a mathematician, he was a philosopher-a combination that made him a fascinating person to be around. Roger loved to listen to Alan’s lengthy dissertations about the world, his thoughts on life and death and the internal mechanisms of the universe. Alan would go into lengthy discourses about the future and the wondrous things it would bring. Like machines that would eventually think and perform computations and tasks at speeds not unlike those of the human brain.

But these other interests were now secondary, and Alan, who had already done major work on cracking the Enigma’s previous codes, was currently working on a more formidable problem. Bletchley Park had recently turned its attention to the German Navy’s development of a stricter Enigma code that was proving almost impossible to break. It was this new coding method that was causing the British to steer their merchant ships straight into the paths of waiting German U-boats. If this new code wasn’t broken soon, England could well lose the war. Without England to worry about, the Nazis would easily conquer the rest of Europe, including the Soviet Union, and become the largest and most powerful nation on the planet. Alan was heading a team that was close to breaking the German Navy’s stricter encoding methods, but the final key was proving elusive and obtuse.

As Roger sat at his desk, his mind quickly turned to what he might need at today’s meeting. Being called to join a meeting at the British Admiralty was no small thing. He had labored greatly to get to this point in his life, and always worked harder than most. Maybe it was his own homosexuality, and the internalized struggles caused by a society set against the love of two people of the same sex that drove him-and not by coincidence a drive possessed by other gays Roger knew-to stay one step ahead of his peers.

Getting up, he passed through the very narrow suite he shared with his secretary, Elizabeth. He went past her neat desk, opened a file cabinet and pulled out their master file, then headed back to his own desk, which sat under a very large window. Roger liked a lot of light, and usually kept the shades drawn open, even when the sun splashed blindingly across his desk. This always reminded him of when he was first assigned Elizabeth.

He had already been at the embassy a few days, and was in his office with his back to the door when he heard a raspy voice say, “Your papers are all going to turn yellow with all that sunlight on ‘em.” It was Elizabeth, with a deep London accent to boot. He swiveled around to see the short, white-haired lady standing at his doorway. He told her he liked things with an historical look, to which she replied that he’d then like having her around, which made them both laugh, and since then they had been good friends. Elizabeth was smart, but more importantly intelligent, and although she had never gone to Oxford, she exhibited a sophisticated view of the world and was able to analyze problems using an amazing knowledge of facts and figures. She was also very faithful to Roger in a maternal way and on occasion had gone out of her way for him. She mothered him, and he treated her as he would have treated his own mother.

He sat down and began a list of what documents he’d need to bring to the afternoon’s meeting. It was still early, but already the sound of typewriters and voices could be heard filtering into the hallways. Although working at the embassy was a job, both American and English staffers knew that somewhere at that very moment, there were brave men who were doing the actual fighting and dying in this war. So coming in early and staying late, working at home, and donating their time to war drives was their way of supporting the war effort.

Elizabeth came in wearing her customary brown “uniform,” which always reminded Roger of an outfit that would have been worn by a headmistress of a reformatory school. But like most English women working jointly for the U.S. and British governments, she wore her uniform proudly. She went to work without so much as a word, and was in his office in ten minutes, carrying several folders under her left arm.

“Good morning, Mr. Mathews. I trust you slept well?” This was a private joke between the two, as few Londoners slept at all during bombing raids.

“Slept like a baby,” he grinned, not removing his eyes from the paper he was writing on. He dotted a period and handed the sheet to Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth, I’ve been asked to attend a meeting at the Admiralty, and have been told to prepare for it.” He raised his face now to look at her and hand her the sheet he’d been writing on. “I’ll need the following papers and files before three o’clock.”

She took the list with her right hand, examined it, and placed the files she was holding on his desk.

“Here are all of ‘em, except the Coding file, which we don’t have because it’s still with the Department of Navy. I’ll have it here by two o’clock.” She started to walk out of his office when Roger started to say something, and she cut him off as she continued walking, “I know, I know, I bumped into Ms. Feniway. She told me.”

He smiled at the now empty doorway, and went back to his preparations. He was both elated and nervous at having been asked to join this meeting. He couldn’t wait to wire his father about it, and only wished he could see the old bastard’s face when he read it. Ever since he was a boy, he had succeeded at almost everything he touched and yet nothing was good enough for his father. It wasn’t really that his father thought he could do better, only that he thought Roger never really did well enough. But this, this taking part in a meeting at the Admiralty on such a highly significant matter, certainly should impress the old man.

Roger was at the office of the Chief of Staff shortly before three that afternoon. He had met Mr. Peligro several times, and given him a number of briefings on the Enigma machine. He was shown into the large office where Mr. Peligro was seated at his desk. Another man was seated in one of two low, sunken armchairs that were situated across from the desk, both men were silhouetted by large windows that took up half the room and framed by heavy moss-colored curtains.

“Roger, how are you?” Peligro greeted him, rising and shaking Roger’s hand from behind his desk. “I’d like you to meet Milton Pomboi of the FBI,” he motioned to the middle-aged man who was now moving to a standing position. Roger shook Pomboi’s limp hand and looked into the stony face of age-worn arrogance, but also an undeniable intelligence. Pomboi looked older than his age, and his face had many wrinkles caused, Roger assumed, by a lifetime of pure career-mindedness and daily doses of cigarettes and cheap gin.

“Good to meet you,” Pomboi said, with so little sincerity that nothing on his face moved but his mouth.

“Let’s get going, we’ll explain a bit of what’s going on in the car,” Peligro said putting on his coat.

The ride to the Admiralty Building was not a long one, and the Embassy’s Chief of Staff didn’t need that much time anyway.

“Roger, we’re meeting with the British on something that you will be involved in-Milton, can you explain?”

“Well, Mr. Mathews,” Pomboi began, “we can’t go into great detail now, but let me just say that the British are in a position where they will do almost anything to break the Enigma codes. I’m sure you saw this morning’s London Times?”

“Why, yes,” Roger answered, “that if the tonnage of lost supplies because of merchant ships being torpedoed continues at this rate, England has only about seven months before… before…”

“Before it must throw in the towel and negotiate a separate peace,” Pomboi finished, his yellowish fingers lighting a cigarette. “I’m glad you understand the gravity of their situation, Mr. Mathews. Keep that in mind when we meet with them in a few minutes.” It was then that Roger noticed that Pomboi had a slight accent, but because it was so slight, he couldn’t tell what kind of accent, though certainly European.

“Can I ask, sir,” Roger said, turning now towards Mr. Peligro, “what my involvement might be in this matter other than supplying information on Enigma?” He was now somewhat bewildered and just barely covering his intimidation by the FBI agent. Pomboi put him on edge, and Roger was trying everything he had not to stammer, or say something stupid.

“You can ask,” Peligro responded, “but your answer won’t really come until we’re in the meeting.” Roger nodded and turned to the window, watching the city pass as the car neared the Admiralty Building, looming in the distance, its facade oddly lit in the rare February sunlight.

Title	The Temple of Skanda
Author	Roland Graeme
ISBN#	978-1-60820-167-9 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-168-6 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	May 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	260 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)
	Amazon.com (paperback)

Determined to turn his life around after a run-in with the law, Conor desperately needs a job, and a place to stay. He finds both with Murray, an importer, who hires Conor as his shipping clerk and live-in handyman. What Conor hadn’t counted on was falling in love with his new boss–hopelessly, he thinks, because Murray still seems obsessed with his memories of Derek, the lover he recently broke up with.

When Murray takes Conor along on a buying trip to India, the two men team up with Spence, an Australian anthropologist investigating rumors that a secret homosexual religious cult devoted to the Hindu god Skanda exists in parts of rural India. All three men’s lives are changed after their initiation into the orgiastic mysteries that are celebrated in the temple of Skanda.

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

Chapter One:
Dancing in the Ring of Fire

Conor O’Malley was doing his best to dance his cares away when he stepped off the edge of the dance floor and fell flat on his face.

Conor would soon be thirty, an age at which (he kept reminding himself) a man should start acting a little more responsibly. The kind of screw-ups that might, or might not, be excusable in a younger guy would be much less attractive now.

At least he still possessed the physical resilience of youth. Conor had a lean, muscular build, blue eyes, and pale, tawny-freckled skin that flushed rose-gold when he exerted himself. He tended to wear his reddish-blond hair long. Knowing that he had retained a certain boyishness, he had long ago grown a mustache and a goatee, in an attempt to look more mature.

Women found him attractive, which was unfortunate, since he was immune to their charms. Gay men found him extremely appealing, and they could generally count on better luck.

The accident could not have taken place at a worse time. Conor was drifting, moving from one dead-end part-time job to another. The only reason he hadn’t been reduced to living in his car was because he was lucky enough to have an old fuck buddy, Dave, who let him sleep on his couch. Conor put out in exchange for the couch privileges, of course, but Dave was a light sleeper who preferred not to share his bed with anybody overnight.

When he took that false step on the dance floor and twisted his ankle, Conor tried to ignore the pain and swelling. Back at Dave’s apartment a few hours later, he was in agony.

“What the hell am I going to do if it’s broken? I don’t have any insurance.”

“Go to the emergency room,” Dave suggested.

“They’ll still end up billing me.”

“Let me make a few phone calls.”

As Conor continued to self-medicate with beer, Dave made the calls, and was finally able to obtain, through a local gay and lesbian organization, a list of doctors who did a certain amount of pro bono work. Dave took the half-crocked Conor down to the free clinic, where a Dr. Chandani Mohatra diagnosed the injury as a sprain.

“Am I correct in assuming alcohol played a part in this accident?” the doctor asked, as she inspected Conor’s ankle.

“He was hammered, Doc!” Dave said, with obvious glee. This was Dave’s idea of trying to be helpful. Conor and the doctor both ignored him.

“You might say it was a combination of alcohol, a lack of coordination, and horniness,” Conor admitted. “We were at the tea dance at Club Inferno, you see, and I was on the dance floor. It was kind of dark, because they had those stupid strobe lights going. I-uh-turned my head to check out this good-looking number, and I didn’t realize I was so close to the edge of the platform, and I took a tumble.”

Dr. Mohatra smiled. “Did this good-looking gentleman at least come to your assistance, and give you his phone number?”

“No. He was too busy making out with some other guy.”

“Pity. I think there’s a lesson to be learned from this experience.”

“Don’t drink and dance?” Conor guessed.

“Not a bad idea, but I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Keep both feet planted firmly on the ground while cruising.’”

Despite his pain, Conor had to laugh. He decided Dr. Mohatra was cool.

She gave Conor a small supply of what turned out to be some killer painkillers, warning him not to combine the pills with any more alcohol.

Back at Dave’s place, he took one of the painkillers. The throbbing in his taped-up ankle gradually subsided, replaced by a delightful lightheadedness. He was stoned, all right, good and stoned. Dave sucked him off, and Conor fell asleep on the couch.

In due course he went to see Dr. Mohatra again for a follow-up, as she’d arranged-not at the clinic, but at the doctor’s rather more upscale office downtown. His ankle looked, and felt, almost back to normal.

Dr. Mohatra was a middle-aged woman, who, beneath her professional veneer, was the motherly type. Conor assumed she was a lesbian. Or perhaps she did the pro bono work simply because she was gay-friendly. Conor didn’t ask: as a general rule, he didn’t like to be asked too many personal questions himself. Instinctively, he extended the same courtesy to others.

At first he had assumed that Dr. Mohatra was a Muslim, but he discovered, in the course of their subsequent conversation, that she was a Hindu. That explained the small bronze statue of a multi-armed god, standing on one foot with the other one raised, which was prominently displayed in her office.

“That’s Shiva, isn’t it?” Conor asked.

“Yes, it’s what they call a Nataraja Shiva. He’s dancing in a ring of fire, as you see, and he’s holding that little drum in one hand, and flames in the other.”

“Why is he stomping on that little dude?”

“The dwarf-I suppose it’s politically incorrect to say ‘dwarf,’ nowadays, isn’t it-the little dude, as you put it, symbolizes ignorance and egotism. That’s why Shiva is subduing him.”

“Interesting. Well, I don’t think I want to risk doing any more dancing myself, right at the moment. And I’m afraid my sympathies are entirely with the dwarf.”

“I do want you to take it a little easy on that ankle, for the next few days. If there’s any problem, call me. Otherwise, you’re a reasonably healthy physical specimen, on the whole. What are you planning to do, now? I mean, about eventually getting some kind of medical insurance, in case anything like this should happen in the future?” The one thing Conor had been forthcoming about, of course, had been his current financial straits.

He shrugged. “I’m in between jobs, at the moment. I need to find a real job, a place to live, and start saving some money.”

“What kind of work do you want to do?”

“I don’t care. Anything. And I do mean anything. I can’t afford to be particular, just now.”

Dr. Mohatra looked thoughtful. She had a soft spot for Conor. He was polite, and he took the trouble to pronounce her surname correctly. That was more than she could say about some of her colleagues in the medical profession.

“There’s a possibility I might be able to help you. I know a man named Murray De Souza. He lives in a small town about twenty miles from here. He owns an import business. He deals in things from the Far East-India, mostly, and Thailand, Cambodia, places like that. I bought the statue of Shiva from him, as a matter of fact. That’s what reminded me. He lives in an old farmhouse and he’s renovated the barn so he can use it as a warehouse. What he’s looking for is somebody to work in his shipping department. It involves packing the pieces up and taking them to the shipping depot, in the town. Some of the bigger items have to have shipping crates made especially for them, so the person’s got to be handy with tools. If the person is really handy with tools, then Murray told me he would be willing to throw in free room and board, because there’s always a lot of repair work and maintenance that needs to be done around the house.”

“I know my way around a tool shop. And I may not be much of a carpenter, but I’ve worked in construction.”

“You wouldn’t be bored, doing that kind of work in a small town?”

“I wouldn’t be bored. It’d suit me fine, until something better came along.” He hesitated. “Is this guy gay?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“I’d rather not work for a homophobe, that’s all. Let alone maybe be shacked up with one.”

The doctor smiled. “Let me just say that my friend Murray is the opposite of a homophobe.”

So this prospective employer was some sort of an antique dealer. Conor pictured some fussy queen, who maintained an inventory of overpriced junk. The farmhouse was no doubt filled with ostentatious furniture and works of art. Well, at least Conor would be working with his hands, doing something tangible, from the way it sounded. He’d probably be spending much of his time fending off his employer’s unwelcome advances. The “live-in handyman, room and board,” bit sounded like a euphemism for a houseboy. A hired stud. Well, if he didn’t like the guy’s looks or manner, he could back out; and if he did take the job on a trial basis, but found out he couldn’t take it, he could always give his notice, and leave.

“There’s one other thing, doctor.”

“Yes?”

“How do you think this friend of yours would feel about…hiring an ex-con?”

She didn’t seem at all surprised-much to Conor’s surprise. “We’ll have to ask him,” she said, simply.

So Dr. Mohatra, with predictable efficiency, promised to call Murray De Souza and tell him about Conor; and Conor could expect a call from De Souza in turn. Conor had a long telephone conversation with the man the very next day.

De Souza was direct, but had a way of putting Conor at his ease as they talked. He had a nice voice; he certainly didn’t sound effeminate, although of course you could never be sure. Conor found himself answering the man’s questions and even volunteering information about himself, good and bad, with much less self-consciousness than he’d anticipated.

They decided that Conor would drive over to see De Souza the following morning; De Souza gave him detailed directions, which Conor wrote down.

He called the doctor to thank her. “Mr. De Souza sounded nice on the phone,” Conor admitted.

“He’s not quite what you expected, is he?”

“Frankly, no. I only hope I can live up to whatever expectations he has of me.”

“Don’t be intimidated by him when you meet him face to face, Conor. If he seems a little remote at first, don’t take it personally. He’s-well, let’s just say he’s been though a lot, lately. Good luck tomorrow.”

The following day Conor found himself driving through farm country. He passed through the town, since his destination lay on the far side of it. There wasn’t much out of the ordinary to look at-or to do, he suspected. Well, if he ended up living and working in this backwater and he got bored, he could always make the drive back into the city.

On the road leading outside the town, he passed several working farms, until he came to De Souza’s property-which was obviously a non-working, former farm. A small sign identified the business, along with the caveat by appointment only. The farmhouse, a modest two-story clapboard structure with a porch running the length of its front, was set well back from the road at the end of a driveway. A van and two cars were already parked in front. There were a couple of dilapidated storage sheds. The barn, by contrast, was a striking structure: it looked as though it had recently been given new siding and roofing; and large plate-glass windows, which couldn’t have been part of the original structure, pierced the walls. There was a neglected orchard nearby, with symmetrical rows of apple trees. The fields behind the barn, which must once have been planted with various crops, were now broad expanses of tall grass and weeds.

On the porch, Conor rang the doorbell. De Souza opened the door almost at once; he must have seen him drive up and park.

“Hi! You must be Conor. Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“Not at all.”

“Come right on in.”

“Thanks, Mr. De Souza.”

“Call me Murray.”

Murray’s handshake was firm and masculine, without making an issue of the fact. Conor hadn’t been prepared for-well, for such a butch number, he had to admit. Murray was perhaps in his late thirties, a brown-haired, brown-eyed, olive-complexioned man, who was laid-back, but exuded self-confidence. He had a nice body, Conor couldn’t help noticing, as he glanced at the way it filled out the thoroughly broken-in jeans and frayed sweatshirt Murray was wearing.

If Murray wasn’t what Conor had expected, neither was the inside of the house. The living room was spacious, but sparsely furnished, and the sofa and armchairs were worn to the point of shabbiness, and looked as though they’d been chosen for comfort rather than style. There was a large fireplace, which showed every sign of being put to good use during the cold winter months. The flat screen television set was of modest proportions, and so were the audio components on one of the several bookshelves, which were well stocked with books. A staircase led to the upper floor.

On the other side of the staircase, through an alcove, was a large home office, which looked as though it had originally been a dining room. There was a littered desk with a laptop computer, a printer, and a fax machine.

The one touch of luxury were some oriental rugs, multicolored, with intricate patterns, spread over the hardwood floors.

What was unusual, and immediately caught Conor’s eye, were the statues-all of them bronzes, like the Shiva in Dr. Mohatra’s office. One, nearly two feet tall, stood on the coffee table in front of the couch. Two more figures, half as tall, were displayed on the mantelpiece. A third small statue was on the desk, where it had been pressed into service as a paperweight. At least three or four more figurines were interspersed among the books on the bookshelves. The statues all seemed to be of various Hindu gods and goddesses, none of whom Conor could identify.

“These are the sort of things you sell, aren’t they?” he asked.

“Yes. I always keep some of them here in the house. I like to rotate the stock, so to speak. Come on, I’ll show you the upstairs.”

At the top of the stairs there was a broad landing, with another statue standing guard on top of another bookcase, leading to a long hallway. Murray paused at the first door, which was open. “My bedroom.” Conor glanced in. The room was spacious, untidy. The most remarkable feature was yet another large statue-an eight-armed Ganesh, the elephant-headed god, set on top of a dresser. As though it weren’t enough that the god was holding a different bronze object in each of his bronze hands, he was pulling double duty as a valet. Murray’s neckties and belts were slung around his neck and his arms; a bracelet dangled from the tip of his coiled trunk; two of his arms held, respectively, a neck chain with a pendant, and a wristwatch.

Conor was so amused by the Ganesh that at first he didn’t see the large framed color photo on the wall nearby, where it could be seen from the bed. It showed Murray and another man, both casually dressed, smiling at the camera. The other man was remarkably good-looking: male-model, porn-actor handsome. Very interesting, Conor thought.

He followed Murray down the hall, with Murray identifying the doors they passed. “My bathroom. Linen closet. These rooms are empty-or rather they’re full of junk. And this would be your room, at the end of the hall,” Murray finally pointed out. “So you’d have some privacy. You’d have your own bathroom.” Murray opened the bathroom’s door, so Conor could see inside. “Here’s the room.”

It was, if anything, larger than Murray’s own bedroom, with windows overlooking the orchard. There was a double bed, chests of drawers, a desk with a chair, an armchair, and a closet. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was tidy; in fact, it looked as though it had been recently spruced up. The robin’s egg blue paint on the walls, for one thing, was new.

“This used to be a guest room,” Murray explained. “We used to have overnight guests from out of town all the time.” Conor wondered if the other half of the “we” had been the other man in the photograph, and what had happened to him. Dr. Mohatra had definitely told him that Murray lived alone.

“It’s really nice,” he said.

“Let’s go back downstairs and talk in the kitchen. I’ve got coffee on.”

It was a big farmhouse kitchen. The stove, refrigerator, and other appliances looked up to date and expensive. The coffee maker, for example, was a gleaming Italian machine and would not have looked out of place in a commercial coffee shop. But the kitchen table was an old wooden one, massive, sturdy, and battered. It probably doubled as a second home office; one end of it was littered with papers and pieces of mail. In an adjoining room were a washer and dryer. A door led to a small back porch, with the barn visible across the yard.

They sat down and had coffee. “I’ll show you the warehouse in a moment. You’ll meet James.” Murray smiled. “He’s a college kid who comes over for a couple of hours most days during the week and on Saturday mornings, to help me with the orders and the bookkeeping. He’s also one of those computer geniuses who can do anything on a computer. He helps me maintain and update my website. We have photos of every item we have for sale posted on the website-multiple views of each item, so the customers can see them from different angles, and in detail. Most of the purchases are made through the website. Customers can reserve pieces they’re thinking about buying, put them on layaway and pay for them in installments, or just buy them outright.” Murray paused. “I’m doing all the talking. You must have some questions.”

“We pretty well covered what I wanted to know when we talked on the phone. What I did want to ask you-”

“Yes?”

“This is kind of awkward for me.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.”

“What I wanted to ask you, I guess, is how you feel about giving me a chance. I told you I did time.”

“And I did exactly what you told me I should do. I called your parole officer last night. We had a good long talk. He said you were a model prisoner. No previous run-ins with the law. Well, nothing serious, anyway. Time off for good behavior. You served out your parole, too-no problems whatsoever. Now you’re done, he told me. The system doesn’t have any further interest in you. A clean start.”

“I promise, if you hire me, I won’t steal anything from you.”

“Conor, I don’t want to deflate your ego, but let’s face it-from what I heard, you were hardly Public Enemy Number One. You’ve seen the house. There isn’t much worth stealing in here. The only money I keep on hand for the business is petty cash. Almost everything is done by electronic transfer of funds. Of course the inventory, in the barn, is worth a lot of money-to me, anyway. But it’s not exactly the kind of thing that could be easily fenced. If I may be immodest for a moment, I’m fairly well known in this business for specializing in certain types of items that are more or less unique. If somebody walked into a pawn shop, or an antique store, with one of my pieces anywhere around these parts, and tried to sell it, the owner would probably say, ‘Hey, that looks like one of Murray De Souza’s pieces!’ And he’d want to see what we call provenance-proof of where it came from. It’s not like you can go up to somebody on the street, open your trench coat, and whisper, ‘Hey, buddy-you wanna buy this bronze statue of Vishnu, cheap?’ Hell, if I thought you could make more sales that way, I’d try it myself.”

Conor couldn’t think of anything to say. He realized that at least he wasn’t having any difficulty meeting, and holding, Murray’s gaze. He decided that he liked Murray’s warm dark eyes.

“If you’ve finished your coffee, I’ll show you the barn.”

They went out the back door of the house. The side of the barn was equipped with a sliding steel door, large enough to drive a van through. There was another, smaller entrance door, also heavy duty steel. Mounted high up on the wall over both doors was a security camera-a high tech one, from the looks of it. Conor had noticed that the farmhouse had keypads, beside both its front and back doors. Murray may have downplayed the security issue, but he was obviously no fool.

The interior of the barn was one vast open space. The windows let in a great deal of light.  Conor instinctively glanced up, and noticed more security cameras, mounted high up in the rafters just below the roof, aimed at the doors, the windows, and the floor.

He and Murray were standing near a small forklift truck and a low wall formed by wooden crates, stacked two or three high, the smaller ones the size of trunks or filing cabinets, the largest ones big enough to contain a refrigerator.

“I have to warn you, if you decide to take this job, this’ll be your first chore. This is my latest shipment from India. I have everything shipped by sea, by freighter, so it can take it a while to get here. The truck delivered all this the day before yesterday, but I haven’t had a chance to do more than check the crates against the cargo invoice, so far. We have to get everything unpacked and checked for damage and inventoried. Then get them photographed and priced and put up on the website. We try to be careful when we open the crates, not just because of what’s inside, but because the crates can usually be recycled. The ones that can’t can always be used for scrap, or for firewood.”

They walked around the wall of crates, and Conor saw that most of the warehouse space was taken up by sturdy, free-standing metal shelves, which were loaded with objects-not just more bronze statues, but porcelain and wooden items, in a wide range of sizes.

“This looks like a museum!” he exclaimed.

Murray laughed. “A museum where everything’s for sale. I have a pretty good turnover rate, but some of these pieces have been gathering dust for years.”

Some of the statues, too large for the shelves, sat on wooden pallets at the ends of the rows of shelves or were lined up against the walls. Conor paused to examine one: a five-foot-tall image of a young male god, elaborately decked out in jewelry, smiling as he held a flute to his lips.

“My God. Look at the size of that.”

“That’s Krishna. He’s often shown playing the flute.”

“It must weigh a ton.”

“Not quite. A little under two hundred pounds, I think.”

“How do you ship something like that?”

“Very, very carefully, as you can imagine. In fact, over here’s what we rather grandiosely call the shipping department. And here’s James.”

Murray introduced Conor to James. The college student looked more like a high schooler. He had his own workstation, an L-shaped desk with a computer, a printer, a telephone with an answering machine, a fax machine, and filing cabinets. Nearby was an area with a long, broad steel table, storage lockers and cabinets, a tool bench-well equipped, Conor was quick to notice-and stacks of flattened shipping cartons in various sizes, with generous supplies of packing materials at hand. There were also some wooden boards, presumably for the construction of the shipping crates.

James was short, compactly built, with pale, delicate features. Conor couldn’t help wondering if Murray was fucking the kid. He immediately dismissed the notion. James had “obsessed with pussy” written all over him.

James, Conor saw, had personalized his workspace. Among the items was a fire engine red Japanese tin robot, holding a laser gun-and wearing a badge that said Security.

“I like your robot,” Conor said.

James was eyeing him just a tad warily which, Conor realized, was understandable given the circumstances.

“Do you think you’re going to take this job?” the kid demanded.

“Murray and I haven’t decided that yet.”

“Well, if you do, there’s only one rule you have to remember: never, ever, touch anything on my desk. Especially my computer. If you can remember that, we’ll get along just fine.” James relaxed a little. “You look big enough to handle the job, at least. I guess you’ll do.”  He turned his attention back to his computer screen.

Murray smiled. “Now that the real boss has laid down the ground rules and given his approval…let’s walk around some more.”

He led Conor down one of the aisles, between the rows of shelves.

“Don’t mind James,” he said, when they were out of the boy’s earshot. “He’s not as much of a hard ass as he comes across sometimes. He knows the business inside and out. Practically runs it, even when I’m here and I think I’m the one in charge. You’re the intruder on his turf, that’s all.”

“I know.” Conor stopped to admire a bronze on a shelf at eye level. “This looks familiar.”

“This is one of my more popular items. It’s a-”

“Don’t tell me. It’s a Nataraja Shiva, isn’t it? Dancing in a ring of fire. And the dwarf symbolizes stupidity.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. I was bluffing. Once you get past Shiva and Buddha, I’ll need a scorecard to tell the players apart. The only reason I know this one is thanks to Dr. Mohatra.”

“That’s right. She bought one like this from me. She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” Murray picked up another small statue. “This is Tara. She’s a Buddhist deity.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“The female goddesses are usually depicted with nice big bare breasts. It makes them the perfect décor for some straight guy’s bachelor pad. And this is what they call a Somaskanda Shiva. It’s got Shiva and his wife Parvati, sitting down, with their son, Kartikeya, standing between them.  Or, as I like to call them, Papa Shiva, Mama Shiva, and Baby Shiva. Kartikeya is known by a lot of other names-Kumara, Subramanya, Shanmukha, Murugan, Skanda.”

Conor was impressed by how Murray rattled off the names, the way most guys would list their favorite ball players. “Murugan, for example, just means ‘young man.’ Skanda is a little more interesting. It literally means ‘spurt of semen.’ That’s because, in one version of the myth, Skanda was born when Shiva had, uh, what I guess you’d call a spontaneous ejaculation.”

Conor laughed. “Well, it’s a good thing that doesn’t happen every time we mere mortals-! There’d be a real population explosion.”

Now that their conversation had taken a slightly sexual turn, Conor could feel his gaydar kick in. He was definitely getting a signal from Murray, albeit a subdued one, and he hoped that he was transmitting as well, loud and clear.

“You’ll learn your way around them, eventually.”

“How’d you get interested in all this stuff in the first place?”

“I’ve always been interested in it. Probably because I’m part Indian, myself.” Murray smiled. “Usually, when I tell people that, they ask, ‘What tribe?’ and they expect me to say something like, ‘Cherokee.’ But my grandmother came from Chennai. That’s the big city in the Tamil Nadu region of southeast India. Chennai used to be called Madras, but since Madras is a Portuguese name, they prefer the old, traditional place names now. Just like Bombay is no longer Bombay, it’s Mumbai. Back there-in Chennai, I mean, in Grandma’s day-the family business was steel mills, of all things. Not something I’d particularly be interested in. But maybe it explains why I like the old metal casting techniques. The De Souzas, as I always say, are an old and undistinguished Portuguese family. I suspect my distant ancestors were pirates and slave traders.”

“You’re lucky. I don’t know anything about my ancestors. I was adopted, you see. My birth mother gave me up.”

“I was going to say I’m sorry, but ‘sorry’ sounds sort of inadequate. I come from such a large family that I probably have no idea of what that must’ve been like for you.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. My Mom and Dad-the ones who brought me up-are wonderful. It’s not their fault I fucked up my life.”

The two men fell silent for a moment. Then Murray said, “I have a confession to make.”

“Yeah?”

“Murray is just a family nickname. My legal name is Henry Murugan De Souza.  Grandma liked the name Murugan. When the kids at school found out, they started calling me Harry Murgatroyd. I wanted to kill them. I’m serving you notice that if you ever, ever address me as Harry Murgatroyd, even in jest, I’ll fire your ass on the spot.”

Conor laughed. “I’ll remember that.”

He realized that Murray had deliberately changed the subject, in order to spare him embarrassment.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut, he thought. About being adopted. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me, or to think I’m fishing for sympathy. No, he was just being kind. Thoughtful. He’s a nice guy.

A nice gay guy. I wonder if there’d ever be any chance-? Oh, who the hell do I think I’m kidding?

“I’ve run out of things to say,” Murray admitted. “Do you have any questions?”

“Not right now. We’ve pretty well covered it.”

“We discussed money over the phone. I know it’s not much. If you’re at all interested in the job-well, it’s yours. Including the room and board option, if you want it. Like I said when we talked before-if you’d rather not move in here, then I’d be willing to pay you the higher amount, since you’d be paying rent somewhere else. You could find a room in town easily enough.”

“I really want this job. And I need a place to stay. I’d rather have the room and board.”

“Then we’re agreed.”

“Yes.”

“When would you like to start?”

“I’d like to start right now. Why don’t I start in on those crates?”

Title	Word on a Wing
Author	Jamie Craig
ISBN#	978-1-60820-156-3 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-157-0 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	April 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	248 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)
	Amazon.com (paperback)
	Barnes & Noble (paperback)

Young, directionless Casey Eller is the perfect bait for a trap Sheriff Kirkland’s been laying for fifteen years. On Christmas Eve, he uses Casey to stage incriminating photos of the most powerful man in town, a brutal sadist who takes his pleasure from torturing his subs. A man whose cruelty has only grown since Kirkland subbed for him.

When Casey ends up hurt, Kirkland realizes his mistake. Ashamed of himself, he treats Casey’s injuries and offers the unconditional acceptance and devotion that a slave craves from his Master. Kirkland knows he can’t give Casey a lifetime, but will two days be enough for either of them?

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

CHAPTER 1

The car speakers blasted David Bowie’s Station to Station, the highway was empty except for the occasional oncoming headlights, and the yellow lines seemed to extend all the way to the stars. Casey drove with the window down, the wind cool enough to keep him alert, despite the dime bag he had split with Ned. Everything was elastic and free, and Casey couldn’t imagine a more perfect night. His fingers tattooed a rhythm against the steering wheel, and he murmured along with the well-known lyrics, singing under his breath, soaring higher with each verse.

Casey thought he could drive forever. He was almost tempted to do just that. He had a full tank of gas, a wallet full of hundred- dollar bills, and enough pot under the seat to get him through the week. If he did keep driving, nobody would notice he was missing. The wheels humming against the pavement kept time with the music, hypnotizing him into his own daydreams. By dawn, he could be on the other side of the state. By the following night, he could be hundreds of miles from the shitty town he called home, from his shitty family, from his shitty friends.

Knowing he could drive straight into the rising sun made him feel good. Calm, even. Ned always got super paranoid when they were smoking. He saw cops around every corner. And those cops morphed into faceless monsters the more he smoked. He couldn’t even leave the house. He never seemed to have any fun. Casey didn’t get that. The world made the most sense when he was floating five feet above everything. It gave him perspective. Made him feel stronger. He wasn’t just some stupid kid, some stupid fuck-up embarrassing his family.

And all he had to do was keep driving. Play David Bowie on an endless loop. Stop only when he had to.

Casey’s mind drifted further, and he pushed harder on the accelerator. The speedometer in his little Mazda crawled over numbers, creeping into the dangerous zone that he recognized but didn’t really care about. He was going to reach those stars.

Until flashing lights brought him crashing back to earth.

Casey’s heart stopped and his stomach dropped. Fuck, fuck, fuck. A speeding ticket wouldn’t be bad. Driving under the influence. Carrying enough pot to stick him with an intent to sell charge. Those would be bad.

“Keep it together. Just keep it together. Keep it together. Turn down the music.” Casey slowed gradually, and the lights seemed to flash brighter, illuminating everything in his car. He could do this. He could keep it together. It wasn’t the first time a cop had caught him speeding, and he had always lived to tell the tale.

Casey managed to stay calm until he saw just who was exiting the cop car and approaching his window.

Dublin, Georgia’s own Sheriff Finn Kirkland.

Casey’s blood turned to ice water. There was no bullshitting Finn Kirkland. When it came to the sheriff, the best thing to do was stay out of his way. Fuck.

The man wasn’t smiling. Then again, Sheriff Kirkland never smiled. He stared at you with those chilling black eyes, his square jaw solid and set, and everything inside you shriveled up. Ned claimed he’d seen the sheriff shoot a drunk in the kneecap just for pissing on his shoes. Casey believed him. Fuck, he didn’t think the sheriff needed even that good a reason to put a bullet in someone. He’d do it just because he was bored.

His knuckles went white around the steering wheel. Deep breath.

The shadow in the sheriff’s hand lifted as he approached the window. Casey looked up in time to be blinded by a sudden, piercing light. He winced and lifted a hand to shield his eyes.

The brilliant illumination from the flashlight disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“Mr. Eller.” Kirkland’s deep voice emanated from the darkness. “Step out of the car.”

Casey had been pulled over enough times to know stepping out wasn’t standard operating procedure. More importantly, he wasn’t convinced he could stand without swaying. “What seems to be the problem, Sheriff?”

“Looks like the problem’s with your ears. I told you to step out of the car, Mr. Eller. I won’t tell you again.”

Casey didn’t want to be pulled out the window, and Kirkland was certainly strong enough to do it. He didn’t wait for a third demand to open the door. As he fumbled with the handle, he prayed his legs didn’t betray him and send him crashing to the pavement.

He had to look up to see Kirkland’s face. He hated the way the bastard used his size to intimidate people.

“Yes, sir?” The words almost choked him, but Casey didn’t see the harm in playing it safe.

Kirkland didn’t speak. The several inches he had on Casey’s five-nine loomed even larger with the hard set of his broad shoulders. Behind them, his squad car’s headlights provided the only light for miles, casting half his face in shadow. His heavy brow heightened the ominous effect. Anything lurking in his eyes was hidden from view as they swept over Casey.

Then he sniffed.

Double fuck.

“Care to tell me where you’ve been tonight?”

“Sure. At my sister’s house.”

“A little late to be visiting, isn’t it?”

“Nah. We ate dinner and watched a movie. It was fun, you know. Relaxing. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

His sarcasm went ignored. “What movie?”

“Ben-Hur.”

“More of an Easter movie, don’t you think?”

“It’s never the wrong time of the year for Charlton Heston. He seems like he’d be your type.”

“So dinner. Charlton Heston. Any other details you want to add to your story before you forget what it is I asked you in the first place?”

Casey stared at Kirkland, and for a moment, it seemed like the larger man was moving away. Not just moving. Gliding. Like he was on a pair of rollerblades. But that couldn’t be right. Casey blinked and shook his head, and Kirkland returned to his rightful place.

“Dinner at my sister’s place, followed by Charlton Heston. We had hamburgers.”

“And brownies, I’ll bet.” But there wasn’t a shred of humor in his tone. “Walk to the rear of your car, Mr. Eller.”

It wasn’t brownies, but Casey bit his tongue. Volunteering that info would not make his life easier. But moving to the rear of the car so Kirkland could search him wouldn’t make his life easier, either.

“Don’t you have anything better to be doing tonight? I was just on my way home.”

“Better than teaching you a lesson? No, I don’t.” For a split second, the headlights caught his eyes, obsidian glinting in mockery though Kirkland’s lips never twitched. “Turn around and put your hands on the hood of the car. Oh. Wait. I forgot. Your ears are giving you problems tonight.”

For such a big guy, Kirkland moved fast. His hand was on Casey’s shoulder in a blur that left behind a fuzzy trail. He dug his fingers into the muscle, his broad thumb pressing painfully against Casey’s collarbone, and whipped Casey around to shove him face first into the back door.

“You stink of it.” Kirkland’s mouth was at his ear. Hot breath wafted beneath his shirt collar as he tightened his hold on Casey’s shoulder. “How stupid do you think I am, boy?”

For a split second, it wasn’t the bastard sheriff’s body pressed against his back. Casey couldn’t relax, but that didn’t stop him from being distracted by the heat, the pressure, the solidity. The car’s cold metal only made Kirkland’s flesh seem hotter. He held himself perfectly still and could almost see the air flowing in and out of his mouth.

“I’m guessing you don’t want me to answer that.”

“Not if you want to keep your dick attached to your scrawny carcass.” Without abandoning the pressure against Casey’s back, Kirkland kicked the driver door further open and turned his flashlight back on to sweep it across the interior. “You need a better class of friends, Mr. Eller. Your buddy Ned gave you up before I ever laid a hand on him.”

Fucking fuckity fuck. “Look, you’ve already got one tonight. It’s not like you have a quota to fill. Why don’t you call the night good and let me go with a warning?”

“Who said I didn’t throw him back? Sometimes, it takes a little fish to catch a big one.”

Cool steel clamped around one of Casey’s wrists. Panic surged through him, but rather than help him twist away, it only succeeded in making him stumble harder against Kirkland’s powerful body. The second cuff snapped into place.

He was helpless to stop the sheriff from leaning into the front seat. Within seconds, Kirkland straightened with Casey’s stash dangling from his fingers.

“Just takes the right bait.”

“Well, congratu-fucking-lations.” He was already fucked. There didn’t seem to be any reason to be fully cooperative. “I guess you’ll win tonight’s dick measuring contest at the station.”

Kirkland tossed the baggie onto the roof, inches from Casey’s face. “This is your second bust, isn’t it? That’ll make you a repeat offender.”

You can count to two. I guess that’s why you’re the most qualified to be sheriff. “Yes, sir. I’m…is there any way we can work something out? I wasn’t going to deal. I’ve never been busted for dealing.”

“And I should believe you because you haven’t been lying to me since I pulled you over?” Kirkland stepped closer, invading personal space, invading breathing room, consuming Casey’s senses until he had to turn his head away in order not to be overwhelmed. “I don’t like being lied to.”

“I’m not lying. You know my record. I’m not a dealer.” Casey spoke fast, though he wasn’t at all convinced Kirkland cared. Why should he? He’d get his bust, and he’d get lauded for taking another dangerous user off the street. Even so, Casey didn’t stop talking. “Look, I’m not asking that you let me go. But an intent to sell…please, I can’t have that on my record.”

“Because you’re a shining example of what’s so right in our society today? I don’t think so. The way I hear it, there isn’t a sin you haven’t committed. If you’re not intending to sell now, you’ll do it tomorrow or the day after that instead.” Kirkland caught both Casey’s wrists in a single hand and used the cuffs to pull Casey upright. His other hand came to the front of Casey’s throat, but he didn’t squeeze. He just rested it there. Warm. Calloused. Ready to do whatever he wanted. “Begging for mercy only works if you’ve got something I want, boy. What is it you think you can offer that could possibly be worth getting your sorry hide off my streets?”

“What do you want?” There were rumors the sheriff was gay. A person couldn’t fuck around in a county this size and not expect people to talk. Casey had a friend who admitted he had sucked Kirkland’s cock. “Please, I’ll do whatever you say.”

“Only because you think you don’t have a choice.” His mouth was back at Casey’s ear, and the pull on the cuffs meant both Casey’s hands and Kirkland’s rested against his ass. “You don’t respect me. You’re afraid of me, and of getting in trouble, but there isn’t an ounce of respect for me anywhere in that.”

Casey’s eyes widened. If Kirkland wasn’t interested in playing games, he would have slapped Casey upside the head and pushed him into the back of the cruiser. That gave him a bit of hope. But the very same hope was dashed as he realized he didn’t understand what the sheriff wanted or what he was playing at.

“I respect you, sir. I respect you.”

“Words again. They don’t mean the same as what a man does.” His fingers tightened infinitesimally on Casey’s throat. It didn’t block his air, but it damn well reminded Casey what a vulnerable position he was actually in. “You can offer anything you want, but I’ll bet you’d rather cut off your left nut than make the same offer when I didn’t have the power to take you in.” Something wet dragged across the skin below his ear. Fuck. Did Kirkland lick him? “I’m not interested in taking something from you, boy. What I want is for you to give it to me.”

Casey opened and closed his mouth, unsure of how he could prove it-prove anything-to Kirkland. The words wound around his mind, chasing themselves, until he almost forgot how the beginning of his speech started. What a man does. Kirkland wanted action. But he was immobile, incapable of doing anything to prove himself.

“I’ll give you whatever you want, sir. Uncuff me. I can show you if you uncuff me.”

“And now we’re back to you thinking I must be stupid. You must love circles, boy. You keep going in them.”

When Kirkland abruptly let him go, Casey slumped forward, his balance well and truly fucked now. He struggled to remain upright, barely aware of Kirkland taking back his stash, then reaching in to remove his keys from the ignition. The door slammed shut and the reverberations rubbed against his cock. With the keys and pot in hand, Kirkland walked behind him and toward the patrol car.

“Come on, Mr. Eller,” he said without looking back. “And don’t try running. I’ll shoot you the first step you take in the wrong direction.”

Casey didn’t doubt Kirkland’s word. He did, however, doubt his ability to put one foot in front of the other. What if he fell on his face? He hoped Kirkland would help him up again, rather than run him over or just shoot him and be done with it. Sudden fear clenched him. He was going to die on the side of the road and who would know or care? Nobody. The sheriff isn’t going to kill you. But how did he fucking know that? He didn’t.

Despite his fear, he kept moving, stumbling forward until he reached the hood of Kirkland’s car.

Kirkland tossed the pot through his open window, followed by Casey’s keys. The face that turned toward him was as closed as ever, but there were other changes, other ways to tell that he wasn’t as unaffected by what was happening as he let on. Though it could have been a trick of the shadows, there was a bulge in the front of his pants, thick and long where his cock had hardened against his thigh.

“Your legs giving you some trouble, boy?”

“No, sir.” Casey straightened and took another half step forward. “The ground is a little uneven, that’s all.”

“You have an excuse for everything, don’t you?” Oddly enough, he didn’t sound annoyed, not as much as he had before. “But we weren’t talking about that. We were discussing your desire not to get locked up for the next three to five.”

Casey moved to stand directly in front of Kirkland, but something told him that he didn’t want to make direct eye contact. That might have just been a desire to hide his bloodshot eyes, but he didn’t want to do anything to provoke a more severe reaction from the bigger man.

“I know you won’t believe me if I say it won’t happen again.” He licked his dry lips. His tongue rasped across the skin like sandpaper.

“You’re right. But I think we might be able to come to some kind of arrangement. You have to prove to me you can do it, though.”

Casey wanted to jump into action. “Tell me how to prove it.” He took a deep breath and realized he was close enough to catch a whiff of aftershave “I’ll do whatever I can, sir.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” came the low response.

Casey nearly jumped when Kirkland pressed him closer to the car, holding his breath as the sheriff reached around to touch his wrists. The cuffs fell away, tossed to join the keys and pot on the front seat, but Casey resisted the urge to move his arms too much. Kirkland still stood there with his hands now resting against the edge of the roof, pinning him in place without laying a finger on him.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors,” Kirkland said. “But just because I’ve let one boy suck me off to get out of running a red, doesn’t mean I’m going to let you do the same.”

Playing stupid would not be a good idea. Kirkland wouldn’t buy it-he’d probably take it as an insult if Casey tried. That was a risk he couldn’t take. Especially since the sheriff’s scent was filling his head and making him more than a little dizzy. His shirt was open at the collar, exposing his tan throat and a hint of dark hair emerging from behind the material. A slow, shallow throb at the base of Kirkland’s neck helped him focus.

“What will you let me do, sir?”

He snorted softly. “I’ve got a little favor you just might be able to help me with. But all that hinges on how good you ride cock.”

Casey was half-hard before, but the thought of riding cock made him fully erect. Kirkland had to feel the nudge of Casey’s arousal against his thigh. “Do you want…a demonstration?”

“I’m not about to unleash you until I know.” He bent his head, his mouth grazing across Casey’s temple. His shoulders nearly blocked the sky. “Take me out, boy.”

Casey flexed his fingers. He felt like he had sausages tied to his hands. He was just relieved Kirkland’s body was keeping him from falling flat on his face. He knew the pot would wear off eventually-but by then, he’d probably be in a prison cell if he couldn’t keep his shit together. Despite the thickness of his fingers, he sought out the zipper beneath Kirkland’s heavy belt. He pulled the fly down and shuddered as soon he came in contact with the sheriff’s fat cock.

Beads of pre-come already gathered at the slit. Instinctively, Casey ran his thumb over the broad head, but when his hand tightened around the length, the sheriff grabbed his wrist and held him still.

“I didn’t say you could play with it.” His grip was painful and unyielding. “If you can’t take orders, you’re no good to me.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” Casey relaxed his hand, hoping that would prompt Kirkland to do the same. “I can take orders.”

“Good. Get your pants off.”

Casey tried to look over Kirkland’s shoulder to the highway. Just because they were all alone out in the middle of nowhere didn’t mean that they would stay on their own. Anybody could pass by at any time and see him pantless and high, pinned to the car by the sheriff. On the other hand, if anybody did pass by and see that, he wouldn’t be the culpable one. Embarrassed, yes. Culpable, no.

Casey ripped the buttons of his jeans open without protest and then pushed the pants down to his feet.

Kirkland’s thick lashes dipped. The tip of his tongue appeared between his lips and swiped swiftly over the lower one in obvious hunger.

“You just might do after all,” he said huskily. His gaze returned, just as heavy, just as dangerous. “I’ll bet I’m not the first one to think you might have a knack for this.”

Casey’s hands closed into fists, his nails digging into his palms. “No, sir. You’re not the first one.”

“So you give it up to anyone with a hard-on?”

Casey’s ass clenched. “Yes, sir.”

“So you’re a slut as well as a pothead.”

“Yes, sir.” Casey studied Kirkland’s face, trying to gauge what he wanted, but he seemed to be moving away again. He blinked and looked away. “A slut. A whore.”

“Well, tonight, you’re my whore, you got that, boy?” Kirkland nudged his hips forward. As their erections rubbed against each other, he grasped both of them in one hand, squeezing them together.

Casey gasped. “Yes, sir. Yours.” He wasn’t sure how this was going to save his ass. Kirkland had implied that he needed Casey for some other purpose, but what that purpose was, Casey didn’t know or care. If the sheriff wanted him to be his little whore, he would do it without question. “Your whore.”

Slowly, Kirkland stroked their cocks, never venturing near the heads. The tilt of his hips smashed their balls together, too, and the hard teeth of his zipper cut into the tops of Casey’s thighs. “Whores know when to spread them.” His nostrils flared. “But seeing as you’re having problems with your legs, I’m willing to help you. Just this once.”

His free hand slid around the back of Casey’s thigh. Casey tensed to help him once it became evident what he was doing, but Kirkland lifted him off the ground with ease, using the car at his back as leverage long enough for Casey to wrap his legs around Kirkland’s hips.

As soon as his feet left the ground, the world tilted hard enough to make his stomach lurch. He wrapped his arms around Kirkland as well, clinging to him with his ass spread and waiting for Kirkland’s cock. Heat poured off the man, and his belt and holster dug into Casey’s flesh. Their mouths were closer to even, and he briefly wondered what the sheriff’s would taste like-what it would feel like. Especially since now he was close enough to see there was dark stubble ringing the firm lips.

“My whore,” Kirkland muttered. Letting go of their cocks, he lifted his hand and pressed two fingers into Casey’s mouth. At the first suck to get them wet, the sheriff made a sound that would’ve been a groan if Casey had heard it from anybody else. “You do have a sweet little mouth, boy. Once I test your ass, I might have to see if it works as good as it looks.”

Casey kept sucking, his tongue winding around both fingers. The taste of salt was amazing, and he felt every single line, every single swirl on the fingertips. He had never been more aware of the taste and texture of another person. His heart thudded in his ears, almost loud enough to obscure Kirkland’s words.

He whimpered as the sheriff pulled his hand away, but the whimper stilled as soon as he realized Kirkland was seeking his tight hole. He teased the flesh, circling the opening until Casey’s breath came in rough gasps. Without warning, Kirkland thrust his hand forward, burying both fingers in his passage. “Fuck!”

“Not yet.” Kirkland twisted his wrist, almost as if he was trying to screw his entire hand into Casey’s ass. “But soon enough.”

Each thrust and twist prompted another shout from Casey. There was more pain than pleasure, but Casey could barely tell the difference between the two. He had the feeling the sheriff wanted him to shout-and would keep pushing until he got what he wanted if Casey didn’t give it freely.

The hand holding his thigh disappeared, and through the haze, he felt Kirkland rummaging around in his pocket. He gritted his teeth when a third finger was added, squeezing his eyes shut, but a light slap across his cheek, with something sharp scratching at him, made him open them again.

“Put your hands to good use.” In front of his face, Kirkland held up a condom between two fingers. “You don’t want me to stop stretching you to do it myself.”

Casey plucked the condom from Kirkland’s fingers, and for a moment, was at a complete loss. The foil package was far too small, his fingers far too long, and the world spinning far too quickly. The pot made things difficult-the fingers buried in his ass made things impossible. He blinked, took a deep breath, and then tore at the foil, hoping it would work. To his surprise, it gave easily, freeing the latex in his palm. Once that obstacle was gone, Casey felt much better about sliding the condom down Kirkland’s impressive length.

It seemed the rubber was all Kirkland waited for. His fingers slid free of Casey’s channel, and he brought his palm up to his mouth and spit on it before rubbing it over the condom. Hitching Casey a little higher, he angled his cock between Casey’s thighs, unerringly finding the tight ring. The blunt head pushed at the opening. As soon as the head was lodged within the muscle, Kirkland grasped his hips and pushed him the rest of the way down.

Casey dropped his head back, the shout stuck in his throat. He wanted to scream as Kirkland tore into his ass, but he didn’t have the breath, or control over his lungs. The car was hard against his back, the window insanely cold against his hot skin. He didn’t have the chance to catch his breath before the sheriff pulled out and then slammed forward. Casey didn’t think he could handle more, but he didn’t think Finn Kirkland would give him a break.

“Look at me.”

The order was incontestable, even though Kirkland didn’t raise his voice. Casey dragged his attention back to find those black eyes boring into his. Kirkland cupped the back of Casey’s head, his fingers digging into the scalp as he forced Casey to stay in that position. No looking away. He got it. Why, he had no idea, but the sheriff was in charge here. They were playing by his rules.

Every time his eyes darted away, to look over Kirkland’s shoulder, or up to the stars, the sheriff tightened his grip. His head was beginning to throb, like the rest of his body. Once, he thought he saw approaching headlights, and he tried to tell Kirkland, but he seemed to think Casey’s attempt to speak was just an invitation to pound harder. Casey felt boneless, like nothing more than a rag doll. An easily disposable rag doll Kirkland could just toss aside when he was done, indifferent to the fresh bruises and the growing ache in his flesh.

He gasped when Kirkland slid his other hand between their bodies and fisted Casey’s cock. The wet tip had already smeared once across the sheriff’s shirt, and Kirkland tilted it sideways in order to get it inside Casey’s loose T-shirt.

“You don’t come on my uniform,” he said.

Casey wanted to snap that maybe Kirkland should’ve thought of that before getting him so hot and bothered, but then the man started pulling at his cock, long sure sweeps from head to balls that made the back of his thighs quiver, and Casey forgot completely what he’d been about ready to protest. Strong guys always gave the best handjobs.

He wasn’t going to last long. He never did when he’d been smoking. And he didn’t have a chance against the double assault of Kirkland’s cock and fist. Even though the sheriff had Casey’s entire future in the palm of his hand, he couldn’t be sorry Kirkland had caught him. Not at that moment, when his black eyes bored straight through Casey, and his body carried Casey toward greater and greater pleasure.

Kirkland gave a good squeeze that made stars explode in front of Casey’s eyes. That was it. That was all he could take. He slammed his head back as his cock erupted, and hot pain rushed through him as he connected with the car. That wasn’t enough to distract him from the fingers that pulled and squeezed every drop of come from his body, though.

The world tipped around him as Kirkland jerked his head back up. Casey opened his mouth to protest, but the seal of Kirkland’s hard mouth, his tongue driving forward as hungrily as his cock, stifled his words. Casey clutched at his rigid arms, unsure in the throes of his orgasm just what to do. It took several seconds of pounding and tasting and then Kirkland’s teeth nipping at his lower lip for Casey to respond.

Kirkland grunted into the kiss. His hips slammed upward one more time before his entire body went hard, practically vibrating as he shot deep inside Casey’s ass.

Casey didn’t break away from the kiss. He didn’t dare lean back until Kirkland finally released his mouth. He didn’t know if he should say anything-or if he had anything to say. His ass burned and though Kirkland had softened, his length was still buried in Casey’s body. A breeze picked up, blowing across his damp skin and making him shiver. “Sir?”

Kirkland didn’t speak. His hands released Casey, both cock and head, and while Casey fought the new wave of vertigo, the sheriff pulled out-more gently than he would have expected-and set him back on the ground.

That made his vertigo even worse.

“Get your pants on.” Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, Kirkland wiped off his sticky fingers. “I’m putting you in lock-up for the night for driving impaired.”

Casey opened his mouth to protest, but decided against that. Putting him in lock-up for the night didn’t necessarily mean Kirkland planned to charge him with anything. And he couldn’t drive anyway. Everything was still spinning wildly, his stomach was rolling, and Kirkland had his pot.

Moving very carefully, he bent and held the material as he stepped into the pants. He moved just as slowly as he straightened, securing the jeans over his hips. When he straightened, the sheriff still watched him with inscrutable eyes. Kirkland could have been satisfied with fucking Casey, or he could have been furious, or annoyed, or ecstatic. There really was no way for Casey to know.

“You know how to use a camera?”

Casey blinked, trying to filter the words through his brain. He didn’t think Kirkland meant right at that moment, so he nodded. “Yeah, I can.”

“Good. You’ll need that for my little favor. I want you to get video of you and an old friend of mine. I want proof of him buried in your ass. Even better if you can get him on his knees sucking you off. Do that, and I’ll forget about intent charges.”

All Casey heard was forget about intent charges. That was all that mattered. He didn’t even allow the rest of Kirkland’s deal to process before blurting, “I’ll do it.”

For a second, it looked like Kirkland’s mouth moved. Like he was going to smile. But Casey knew that was impossible, knew it was just the pot fucking with his head because Kirkland never smiled about anything, let alone a kid agreeing to some stupid plan.

“Get in the back seat.” Kirkland sounded different, too. Quieter. Not quite so mean. Casey realized he must be more tired than he thought. “I’ll have one of the deputies come around and bring your car back to the station for you in the morning.”

Casey had been in the backseat of a cop car many times, but never without cuffs. He didn’t want to give a reason to slap the bracelets on, so he quietly ducked through the door Kirkland held open. A part of him began to doubt any of this was really happening, but the pain in his ass and head was enough to keep him grounded. That was very, very real.

Casey just wanted to go somewhere quiet and sleep it off. Hopefully, things would make sense in the morning.

When an enigmatic tattooed woman approaches freelance journalist Kyler Withers, he begins remembering a past life as a mage. Once known as Etherwolf, he served a sentient evil known as the Darkness.

Horrified, Kyler fights to keep his humanity. Against him are growing memories of the monster he previously was. Aiding him is the love he rediscovers he had for a powerful mage artist named Sorin. If Kyler cannot overcome his past, he’s afraid he’ll help the Darkness destroy everything, starting with his lover.

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

Kyler Withers decided it was safe to teach journalism again when he stopped dreaming of dead children.

He celebrated his decision by leaving his townhouse and driving downtown to pick up a few things. San Jose had grown since he’d lived there as a teenager. The lush orchards that had once dotted the landscape were gone, replaced by a foliage of glass and steel.

Kyler lost himself in this man-made jungle, passing corporate hunter-gatherers and potted trees. It reminded him of the green twilight of South America, where people lived and died under the shadows of…

South America.

He was doing it again.

Kyler focused on the afternoon, the light traffic, the people around him. Summer had died, leaving this October day cool and mourning. The wind whispered over him, tugging at the end of his leather duster as he went from shop to shop, picking up a new briefcase, some notebooks, and, in an alley between two buildings, a knife camouflaged like a pen. The notebooks he placed in the case; the knife, an inner pocket of his duster. He found it ironic that such a deadly thing could look so innocent.

The brooding thought followed Kyler back to his black Scion. He toyed with calling his old college roommate. They could have an early dinner, watch Citizen Kane, and try to convince themselves they loved the movie. Old times. It could be fun.

He couldn’t do it.

Kyler started the car. He would be replacing Owen in the spring, and while Owen looked forward to starting his life over, Kyler feared his gloomy nature would taint his friend’s hopes. Life, he knew, could twist in a moment. Owen might change his mind. The San Jose/Evergreen Community College hiring committee might have another look through Kyler’s last book and become uneasy. The dreams might return.

In this moment, the fears were just ephemeral things. Owen was happy. The District Board was fond of him. No one was dead.

His car got awesome gas mileage.

Laughter blossomed inside of him. Mileage. He was at a place where that was a concern. He was lucky.

Fifteen minutes later, Kyler and his awesome mileage car pulled in front of a two-story townhouse.

The house was too new to really feel comfortable, but the trees in front hid it from the street, and the red brick façade gave it a subtly elegant look. Anyone could live here. A new teacher. A Pulitzer-winning journalist. A rumored murderer.

Kyler told himself no one thought that. It was just a house. He was just another man.

Murderers could look like anyone, though. They could live anywhere. He might not remember what happened, but it didn’t make the people who were killed less dead. They…

The memories he’d spent the afternoon running from had found him.

Kyler frowned and headed for the house.

In all honesty, there were parts of the last two years he was proud of. He’d originally gone to Colombia to investigate the effects of the government’s crackdown on drugs on a small town, and ended up substituting for a former lover in his school. When people began disappearing around the area, Kyler stayed, first to investigate, then as he got to know the students, to protect.

And he had protected them, hadn’t he? He might not remember what happened the day the guerrillas came into his classroom, but he knew that some of the children got out alive. The scar that crept from the corner of his left eye to his hairline told him he’d been in danger, but it proved…

It proved nothing.

An ache threaded out from his stomach. It crept through him, tightening his chest and stealing his breath. He didn’t know what had happened but the surviving children did. They never spoke against him but whenever he approached, they crossed themselves.

And trembled. They were afraid of the dark. They were afraid of shadows. They were afraid of him.

Kyler unlocked his door and slipped inside, snapping the bolt shut behind him. Until that realization, until that afternoon, he’d wanted to remain there. Let others chase stories. He’d found himself.

Well, others had found him too, and they’d rather he be several thousand miles away. So Kyler had left and, being him, wrote.

Kyler dropped his briefcase on the coffee table. He thought the words would give him closure. Instead, they sharpened his nightmares and got him the Pulitzer.

He’d dreamed of the award. Now that it was his, he dreamed of it still, only now the neat black print on the certificate was crimson. The world recognized him. Fucking great. He didn’t.

Kyler shoved the thoughts back. Tearing himself apart over what had happened hadn’t helped in the past. If he didn’t force himself to move on, he was afraid it’d kill him.

The ache in his stomach changed, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since that morning. The quiet pain comforted him, giving him something to focus on. Pizza, he decided, and maybe some coffee.

Kyler walked across the library/living room. When he’d moved in four days before, this room had been unpacked first, and now bookcases lined the walls.

At the entryway, he took two steps down to what he was currently calling the Valley of the Kings, for most of the kitchen was still in boxes. Three miniature pyramid-stacked structures set around the hard wood floor. Somewhere, hidden within one of the cardboard sarcophagi, was his Pulitzer.

The award had been his dream for years. Now it was just a slip of paper, a physical representation of missing time.

It had allowed him to pretty much choose his next place of work, though. Kyler could have approached any university or newspaper in the area and been fairly certain they would offer him something. He could’ve tried his hand at Stanford, San Jose University, anywhere.

Instead, he chose San Jose City College. Or, to use the vernacular, Silly College. Ghetto College.

His choice had surprised many. Despite the new tech building on the corner of Bascom, the small campus was an old place, one that had little funding and had to do the best it could with the resources it had. Its students were a varied mix of race, gender, and age, its teachers and administration at once working together, and yet apart. When Kyler was there, he felt… something. Alive. Needed.

It was a Colombia thing, he suspected. Whatever might or might not have happened that afternoon, he’d liked the man he had been. Since he’d left, he had been living a half life. Perhaps, once he returned to teaching, he’d be whole again.

After ordering a pizza, Kyler picked up a package of coffee, put water to boil, and then rummaged for his favorite mug…a large black cup that one of his dead students had made him. He cradled the cool shape against him and carried it over to the counter.

Something glinted red out of the corner of his sight. Kyler followed it to the edge of the counter, and to a tabloid-sized newspaper.

His lips quirked. There were no mysterious deaths there. The staff would be his in the spring, so Kyler had gone through the eight-page issue that morning to get to know them. A couple of hours fresh from the printer and he’d debauched it with red ink. A word in the caption was misspelled on page four. Someone relied a little too much on quotes on page six. And, Kyler’s personal peeve, they forgot to continue a story from one page to another.

Beautiful page design, though. If Kyler hadn’t known the editor was an art major, he would’ve suspected after seeing the young man’s strip on the entertainment page. The kid had talent. In a world that wanted something big and shiny to look at, he would get attention. Someone who drew readers to a publication could be forgiven a couple of spelling mistakes. All Kyler needed to do was find him a copy editor and the Spectator would be perfect.

A chill breeze stirred his hair.

Kyler turned.

Across the kitchen, the back door crept open. Sunlight bled across the hardwood floor.

Unease unfurled inside of him. He always locked doors behind him. When he didn’t, someone died.

Kyler crossed the room.

His image scowled at him from the door’s glass as he approached. He’d once been told he was classically handsome. The man who’d said it had wanted to sleep with him, though, so one had to take that with a grain of whatever salt best suited their diet.

Personally, Kyler thought he was more Byronic. That wasn’t any better, he’d written a term paper in college arguing that the type should come with a surgeon’s warning, but it was more accurate. Cerulean eyes, aristocratic nose, and lips that were set to frown. At thirty-six, he unfairly looked thirty.

When he was with others, he set his shoulder length black hair free, letting it hide the scar. Alone, he preferred it out of his way.

He also preferred not to watch himself, so when he reached the door, Kyler shoved it away, knocking his doppelganger aside.

Outside, sunlight painted the small yard in an ethereal light. There was a patch of concrete, some grass, and a cluster of yellow flowers. The gate in the left corner was locked. No one was there.

Behind him, someone sighed.

Kyler turned.

A shadow spilled across the entryway to the kitchen.

Kyler’s heart thumped staccato-quick against his chest. In Colombia, the guerrillas had come up silently behind him.

They were dead, though. He’d seen the bodies, the way their heads had been nearly twisted off. They couldn’t be here.

But what if…

Kyler reached into his coat and withdrew the penknife.

A quick tug at the cap, and then the blade caught a flash of the overhead bulb, sending a splash of light over the wall, across the room, and into the eyes of the figure stepping into the room. It…she…raised one hand over her eyes.

Kyler studied her. She was pretty, with light brown skin and short dark hair. She wore a black vest and jeans, exposing the various tattoos that dotted her flesh. Butterflies lay along her right arm, a long red serpent wound around her left, a couple of small spiders dotted the bit he could see of her stomach, and a dark slash of color lay across her neck.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice was sweet, with a trace of an Irish accent.

The surprise faded into disquiet. She wasn’t from Colombia, but she’d broken into his house. Judging by her empty hands, she’d discovered he didn’t have much she could steal.

“If you leave now,” he said, “I won’t call the police.”

Her fingers splayed, allowing Kyler to catch a glimpse of her eyes. They were the green of Colombian woods. Very pretty. People disappeared into them and were never seen again.

“You can call them, if you like,” she said. “It won’t matter.”

Kyler’s unease sharpened, making his hand twitch. The reflected light jumped and stabbed her eyes.

The woman’s fingers shuttered. She chuckled, and the soft noise made her chest and shoulders shake. “I’m pleased to see you too, Etherwolf.”

Etherwolf? “What’re you…”

A shadow. Ethereal, a second skin that he could never touch. That’s what he saw, the night the guerrillas came. Just his shadow and theirs; his crouching while theirs towered over him. Crouching, shifting, waiting…

Kyler blinked. For a moment he’d thought that he was in Colombia again. The shadows…

God. What was he thinking?

“It’s going to be all right,” the woman said. She drew closer.

“Get out,” he said.

“No.” She unbuttoned her vest. “There’s something you need to see.”

Kyler closed the distance between them. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he could scratch her. A light pain would hopefully send her running.

He raised the penknife.

And then discovered that he couldn’t hurt her. She wasn’t threatening anyone. She simply wasn’t well.

The realization was a relief. A worry. He couldn’t attack her. He wasn’t a monster. He was just in trouble.

“I’m not interested,” he said, pushing past her. The phone was on the counter. Hopefully the police would arrive in a few minutes.

Movement whispered behind him. “I was never your type.”

Fool! To turn his back on an unknown. Had he learned nothing?

Kyler turned and scowled at her.

“My name’s Rhune,” she said, undoing the last two buttons. “You’ll understand soon.”

She took a step towards him, causing his shadow to fall over her. Then, she turned. The vest slipped off her shoulders, giving him a hint of another tattoo. His shadow hid its features. Considering the odd dichotomy of the others, this one was likely either as innocent as a butterfly or as deadly as a spider.

Kyler clicked the phone on. If he was straight and she wasn’t weird, this could’ve been interesting. As things were, this still was interesting. Interesting wasn’t always good. “I’m calling…”

Circles rippled across her skin.

Kyler stared, watching the movement sweep over her shoulders and down her arms. Where it crossed, spider legs stretched and butterflies fluttered.

What? How?

Kyler slid back along the counter. His shadow slipped away from her flesh.

Light swept over her, revealing pale cocoa skin and an obsidian tattoo of a man. The figure echoed his posture, his stance, the curve of his face. It was odd and beautiful and…

It shifted, turning its subtle features toward him.

Different shades of black wove a nose, hint of eyes, lips. It smiled.

Kyler stilled. It couldn’t be moving. He had to be imagining this. Had to be dreaming or hallucinating or…

He wasn’t.

Kyler set the phone and penknife down, then touched Rhune’s back.

She had warm skin. Warmer where the shadow was.

The darkness lapped at his fingers, sending a cool shiver through him. Images flickered at the edges of his mind. The guerillas, their shadows…

…painted a story across the wall. Two of the men wanted to take a student outside to talk, yes, just talk. Kyler said no, but it wasn’t a request, and he was introduced to a knife.

It traced from the corner of his left eye to his hairline, giving his burgeoning scar the illusion of Egyptian kohl.

It was a game, the guerrilla explained. The knife would go in deeper if he blinked.

Kyler remained quiet as blood snaked down his face. Behind the guerrilla, the shadows drew closer.

A breeze traced over him, whispering… something.

The guerrilla’s hand twitched, sending the knife in deeper.

Pain stabbed Kyler, blurring his sight. Men became shadows, shadows men. When he could see again, the guerrilla smiled.

The wind sharpened, making the shadows dance.

“Etherwolf,” the wind whispered. It caressed Kyler’s skin, lapping at the blood. The touch was familiar. Comforting.

Behind the guerrilla, the shadows approached.

Kyler stared at them, at their man-made darkness, and knew who he was. Kyler, yes, but also…

Kyler yanked his hand back. God. There’d been something in the wind, something alive and…

Black tendrils followed him, tugging at his fingertips.

He stumbled back, hitting the counter. The tendrils snapped and retreated into Rhune’s flesh.

A cold breeze brushed over Kyler, stealing his warmth.

“Etherwolf,” it whispered.

“Did you hear that?” Kyler asked.

Rhune half turned toward him. “No. I can sense it, though.” She held out an arm. Ripples moved across her skin, stirred as if a breeze was playing across water.

A moment later, the breeze swept over him.

It teased his skin, slipping beneath the ends of his coat and shirt to taste his skin.

“Ether…”

“No!”

The wind stilled.

Kyler snatched the penknife off the counter turning to Rhune. “What the hell was that?”

“The Darkness.” She glanced at the knife and smiled. “A sentient culmination of all of humanities’ fears and hates.”

Dear God. “What does it want?”

“It’s mercurial. Sometimes it wants death. Sometimes domination. Every once in a while I think it wants to look at something pretty. Right now, it wants you.”

No. “Get out.”

Rhune’s smile faded. “I’m beginning to wonder if I should’ve brought someone for you to kill.”

“I don’t kill people.”

Rhune laughed. The quiet sound shook her body, making the ink shimmer. “Oh, my friend. Do you think the Darkness would be able to call you if there wasn’t something inside you yearning for it?”

She was wrong. The only thing Kyler wanted was to remember and…

Was that really true? He’d begun to remember something a moment before and he’d shied away from it.

Rhune’s laughter faded. “I read your last book. I know how the guerrillas died.”

“The authorities believe they turned on one another.”

“The authorities can be blessedly stupid.”

Kyler drew back. When he’d woken up beside the bodies of the guerillas and five of the children, the surviving kids said nothing. Kyler had hoped he hadn’t hurt anyone.

What if he had, though? What if Rhune was right and this was in him? What if he had killed them?

“It’s going to be all right,” Rhune said.

She was wrong. It might never be all right.

Rhune approached him. “You’ve been reborn into a marvelous time. Once you’ve killed again, you’ll remember the Darkness and…”

Kyler stabbed her in the chest. No darkness, no moving shadows or tattoos, no, no, no.

Rhune slumped against him.

Kyler held her. God. What had he just done?

A tremor ran through her body. Her blood was hot. The heat surprised him. He’d never stabbed anyone before.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Rhune chuckled. “Don’t be.”

What?

Rhune shoved him back. Obsidian liquid crept down from the knife wound.

“We’re going to have to do this the hard way,” she said. The green in her eyes leaked out, leaving brown.

Kyler stumbled, and then caught himself. Her blood…her eyes…spilled into the dark splotch across her neck and stomach, disappearing. The surrounding tattoos trembled.

Then the ink crept down her body.

Rhune’s skin lightened to the gray of cigarette ash. A moment later, black ink bled out of her skin and onto the floor, forming a pool.

Ripples flowed across the surface. After one passed, an onyx butterfly leapt out of the center of the pool. Gossamer wings fluttered, black veins solidifying in the semi-transparent material. It was beautiful and ugly and…

He had to get out of there.

Kyler headed for the back door. He’d have to go around the house to get to his car but at this moment he didn’t care.

Heat spiked through Kyler’s foot, stopping him.

Kyler looked back and saw a glistening black hand stretched out of the pool, clinging to his leather shoe.

He jerked, breaking free. The fingers flexed and then came after him.

Cursing softly, Kyler leapt up onto the counter. The hand searched the ground for him and then returned to the pool.

A tremor lanced through him. God. This was happening. He couldn’t deny it, couldn’t unsee. How the hell was he going to deal with it?

On the ground, Rhune slumped beside the pool, sinking her fingers then her hands, into it. The surface shimmered, and the liquid pulsed.

Kyler looked around. Weapon. He needed a weapon, preferably something he could use at a distance.

He hadn’t unpacked much in this damn room, though. What was he going to throw, that stack of paper plates? Some plastic forks? The hose from the sink?

Holy crap. The hose. And by hose, he meant hot water.

Years working with ink and paper had taught him that water and ink didn’t mix. The liquid might only irritate Rhune, but it would have to do something to the tattoos.

Kyler grabbed the hose from the sink and turned the knob. Water erupted out, turning the soft plastic cool, then warm, then hot. He turned, aiming the nozzle into the growing black pool and…

Rhune disappeared into the pool.

Fuck. What was she doing?

Maybe he didn’t want to know.

Kyler flicked his wrist, sending a strike of water over the pool.

The liquid trembled beneath the water, broke apart, then leapt in different directions.

Kyler pursued it, sending water over one pool, then another, then another. Could he weaken her this way?

Distant ringing echoed into the room. The phone…

No. Not the phone. The doorbell.

On the ground, the pools pulsed, darting towards the entryway. Butterflies erupted out of the ink, followed by quivering worms, ants, and spiders.

Kyler cast a spray of water across the floor. The ink scattered, then dragged itself out from the water. It reformed and disappeared into the living room.

The doorbell rang again.

Kyler stopped the water. Rhune hadn’t fled the water. She was running to the door.

Fuck. If Rhune got to whoever was there…

“Run!” Kyler hopped off the counter and ran into the other room. “Run!”

At the doorway, butterflies and spiders crept under the front door, leaving small drops of onyx across the threshold.

“Run!” Kyler ran up to the door and yanked it open.

Outside, a young man stood on the new welcome mat. His smile twitched, and the plastic pizza container in his hands shook.

Black shadows bled across the young man’s skin, settling into new shapes. A snake twined around one arm, a spider crouched in the hollow of his throat. A butterfly fluttered across his face and disappeared into his hair. He dropped the pizza.

The young man blinked. One blink, he had blue eyes. Two blinks, green.

Shit.

Kyler threw himself at the door, shutting it.

A hand appeared at the last moment, forcing it ajar.

The pizza man chuckled.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the door. To Kyler’s horror, he felt the door slowly pushed open. “This isn’t my preferred gender, but it’ll do for now.”

Title	The Good Thief (ebook release)
Author	James Buchanan
ISBN#	978-1-60820-146-4 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	April 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Sexual Content:	Rated Explicit
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

What if the wrong guy, turns out to be the right guy for you? Caesar Serrano thought he screwed up when he landed in the bed of LAPD Officer Nathan Reilly. But when Caesar breaks into the wrong house and stumbles upon a heinous crime, implicating a high ranking LAPD officer, Nate is the only person he knows to turn to. The resulting investigation throws the Blue Brigade into panic. Now he’s running for his life and Nate is his only hope for survival. Can two men, on opposite sides of the law, come together to bring a monster to justice?

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

Nate stood adrift in the barren yard. He should just walk away. He’d pissed the guy off and that was that. But there was no way he was going to leave it there. At the very least he was going to apologize properly. He’d rather get a phone number and a date, but he’d live with not leaving things completely fucked up. Hell, if Caesar had treated Nate, the way Nate had treated Caesar, he’d be pretty damn mad, too. Swallowing his pride, he turned the knob and stepped in.

The door opened onto the scent of sawdust and oil. A yellow light hung from the rafters, throwing shadows into the corners. Lathe, table saw, jig, Nate hadn’t seen half those tools since high school woodworking class.

Caesar settled onto a stool as he grabbed a piece of sandpaper and a bit of wood. The little dog darted between Nate’s legs and crawled onto a pillow under the work bench. It looked like Caesar spent a lot of time in his little shop. Nate shut the door, crossed his arms and leaned against the frame. “Look, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Caesar didn’t look at him.

Damn, the man was going to make this hard. “For being an ass. That was shitty, the way I treated you Sunday morning. I’d be pissed, too. I wasn’t feeling good and, fuck, I haven’t had anyone over in ages. It really freaked me out, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” Caesar just kept sanding the surface of the wood. Shit, shit, shit. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“Like what?” Caesar slammed the board on the workbench. Turning on Nate, his eyes were dark and narrowed. “Thanks for the lay, get the fuck out of my garage?” They stared at each other for a while. Finally Caesar looked away. He grabbed a peg and some wood glue, twirling the end in the sticky yellow goop before jabbing it into a hole drilled along the edge.

Nate watched as Caesar picked up another narrow piece of wood. “What are you making?”

Without looking up, Caesar answered. “A TV cabinet.” He squeezed more glue into the holes in the end of the board.

“You do a lot of those kinds of projects?”

“Some.” Caesar sighed. It was one of those, why haven’t you left yet sighs. “My dad taught me how.”

More tense silence stretched between them. Nate broke it. “Okay, look, I was a jerk. I said I’m sorry. But, I had fun, and I want to get to know you better.”

Slowly Caesar set the glue back up on his work bench. He put his hands on the surface and pushed back. “You and me, not a good idea, okay?”

“How do you know?”

“You’re a fucking cop.” It looked like Caesar was thinking hard. Finally, he spat out, “Look around you. This is Avenidas’ territory. You think that blue uniform and blond hair is going to go over well around here? They’d pop you just because. Nobody bugs me because I stay low. I just try and live my life and stay out of people’s way. Being seen with a cop ain’t staying low.”

“I thought you liked my blond hair?” The moment he said it, Nate regretted the words. Caesar was trying to give him some serious reasons and he was cutting up. “Look, I guess I should have told you what I do, but a lot of gay guys don’t like cops. They want to buy the fancy uniforms at the Pleasure Chest and play dress up, but meet some guy who wears the real thing and they’re gone.”

That earned him another glare. “Gee, I wonder why? Wouldn’t have anything to do with the blue gang being notoriously homophobic, would it?”

“Obviously, I’m not.” Nate cocked his hip against the work bench and crossed his arms over his chest. “Give it a chance and see how things work out. Maybe after a couple of dates we’ll find out we really don’t get along, but maybe we will.” Tilting his head and smiling with his eyes, he added, “Give me your phone number.”

Caesar went back to fiddling with the wood. “Why?”

Up-close Nate realized it was part of a door frame. Caesar would probably fit it with glass when he was done. “So I can have your number, so I can call you.” For some reason he really liked that Caesar worked with his hands. It made him so much more down to earth than the actors and production assistants Carol always introduced him to. The neighborhood, too, it just fit that Caesar wasn’t all uppity about working in the industry. He tried to remember exactly what his sis said Caesar did at the studios, but couldn’t bring it to mind. Set construction, maybe that was it.

“Why would I want you to do that?” Caesar was stubborn. Nate liked guys who were stubborn. With his tough guy build and blond looks, he didn’t have to go after many guys. The working out was more of a defensive strategy. Even if someone in the department figured out he was gay, the fact that Nate was built like a brick wall made them keep their opinions to themselves. The few times he’d hit the scene he’d had men drooling all over him. But the kind who came chasing after him, Nate didn’t really want.

“Okay, be that way.” Nate pulled the pen from his pocket. Leaning over Caesar’s shoulder, he scribbled his home phone on the wall. “Now you have mine.” Then he tucked the pen back in place.

Caesar reached for a clamp. “My landlady’s gonna love you for that.” Nate grabbed the end of the board to steady it while Caesar fitted a plastic bar clamp where it would be most effective. “Thanks.” Quick squeezes of the trigger tightened it down.

“No problem.” Nate’s chest was still pressed up against Caesar’s back. He could feel the warmth through the heavy cotton of his uniform shirt…at least the portions not swathed in Kevlar. God, the man was sexy, even with wood glue dripping off his fingers. Voice low, seductive, Nate whispered, “You know I’ve been thinking about you a lot since Saturday.”

“I don’t date cops, Nate.” Each word was given separate emphasis.

“Why?”

“Cause it’s just gonna cause a lot of trouble.” Caesar dropped the piece he was working on onto the counter. Then he propped one elbow on the edge and put his forehead against his palm. There was still glue on his fingers. Now it was also in his hair. “It’s not you personally. I just don’t need that kind of trouble.” There was an undercurrent of fear in his voice. Living in Highland Park, Nate didn’t doubt Caesar was worried. Still, he knew cops who’d grown up avoiding the Avenidas. If you wanted to, you could survive it.

“So I won’t come around here in my uniform.” With his head dropped forward, thick, black hair fell about Caesar’s face. It hid his eyes, but exposed the warm brown skin of Caesar’s neck. Nate pressed his lips against that sexy flesh and whispered, “Give me a chance.”

Caesar hissed. “It’s not a good idea.” Then he shook himself out from under Nate’s kiss. “Besides, I’m still upset about you.”

“Then let me apologize.” Nate purred, pressing his lips against Caesar’s neck. Caesar tried to pull away, but it was a half-hearted gesture. Desire drifted off his skin. Nate’s touch snaked down the soft, thin cotton of Caesar’s t-shirt. Pulling the fabric up, he stroked Caesar’s belly. The fingers of his other hand worked along the muscles of Caesar’s arm. Then he ran his palm over Caesar’s crotch. Yeah, Caesar was getting hard…. “Don’t you want me to apologize to you?”

Caesar’s voice was tight. “What do you think is going to make up for what you are?” It lingered somewhere between fuck me and get the hell out of here.

Yeah, he’d been a jerk, but that wasn’t who he was. If Caesar would give him one chance, Nate would prove it to him. “I bet I can think of something.” He fumbled with the button on Caesar’s jeans.

“Shit.” Caesar sucked in his breath. He reared back and grabbed Nate’s wrist.

“I know you want it.” Nate didn’t let it stop him. Not that Caesar was making much of an effort. The grip on his arm was loose. “You just don’t want to admit you want it.” He moved between Caesar and the workbench, pushing the stool back with his knee. Dark maple eyes brooded under heavy brows. Caesar’s lips were full and turned down ever so slightly at the corners. The barest feathering of a mustache and goatee contrasted nicely against his cinnamon skin. It was more like he’d forgotten to shave for a week, than he was actually cultivating facial hair. All of it was so sensual.

Nate went down on one knee. Concrete, pressing against the heavy-duty fabric of his uniform pants, was rough on his knee. As he moved, he drew Caesar’s zipper down. Both men sucked in their breath to the tune of metal clawing against metal. Slow and easy, Nate spread the denim and freed Caesar’s cock. Half-stiff, and still slightly trapped under denim, it begged for Nate’s kiss. He used his tongue to drag it the rest of the way out. As he caressed that hot flesh with his tongue, Nate could feel Caesar swell. It was so erotic having a guy come alive under his fevered kisses. He sighed. “Oh fuck, your taste.”

His own cock was throbbing under the polyester. Damn, that heavy belt, slung with cuffs and pistol and radio, was in the way. The weight of it pressed against his erection. It was too much trouble to take it off. Too many things were clipped to it and then to him. Nate unzipped his pants and pulled himself free. The cold buckle caught his head and he gasped. One hand pumping his own prick, the other wrapped around the base of Caesar’s cock, Nate started to lick. “You taste so good. I’ve been dreaming about this dick in my mouth.” He loved being down on his knees in front of a guy. It was one of those things he really got off on.

Nate looked up at Caesar. The thick prick lay against his cheek as Nate sucked on the side. Deep, musky, God, the man even smelled like sex. Caesar’s eyes were fogged with lust. The rest of his expression was unreadable. “Then put it in there and suck.” Caesar ordered. Oh yeah, a man who knew what he wanted and asked for it. Nate shuddered and twisted his own prick in his hand.

Nate ran his tongue from base to tip. Then he dipped it in the slit, tasting the salty bead hiding there. “See, I knew you wanted it.” His mouth roamed all over Caesar’s cock. Nate loved playing with the area just below the head because every time he did, Caesar would tremble.

Caesar’s fingers were dancing across the back of his neck sending sparks down his spine. Combined with the heat he was stroking into his own skin, Nate’s senses were rolling. And there was something deliciously dirty about doing it while he was in uniform. That just threw fuel on the fire.

When Nate’s mouth was watering he knew it was time to suck. First, he tickled the tip of Caesar’s prick with his tongue. Then he wrapped his lips over the head, sliding down the shaft, long and slow. He used his lips to drag the skin back up over Caesar’s head. Each time he did, Caesar would moan. Nate’s own hips were bucking into his tight fist.

Caesar’s ass was coming off the seat. For the first time, Nate heard him drop into Spanish. “Chulpalmae.” Caesar panted… Suck me. Hell yes, Nate was going to suck him. Caesar’s fingers clawed into Nate’s scalp as he drove between Nate’s lips. Nate loved the feeling of Caesar’s prick filling his mouth. The thought that something could be that hard and that soft, all at the same time was incredible. Nate worked Caesar’s balls in his hand. Pulling and sucking that tender flesh, Nate felt the cock in his mouth swell.

Then Caesar was thrusting uncontrollably. His hand yanked Nate hard onto his prick. With a grunt, he filled Nate’s mouth with his flavor. As Nate jerked himself hard, he sucked the last of Caesar’s spunk down. He twisted his cock once, twice through his own tight fist, then he went over the edge. Grinding his face into Caesar’s thigh, he blew all over his uniform.

Title	Red
Author	Multiple Authors Edited by Kris Jacen
ISBN#	978-1-60820-065-8 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-066-5 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	April 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	218 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

An erotic romance with a dash of ice cold water, a cricket, a pebble, the scent of blood oranges and the color red. With stories from some of the genre’s luminaries as well as some newer names, this collection is sure to make you see RED.

SENSE AND SENSUALITY by JP Bowie ~ Alan Robinson has been left a fortune, but what he really wants is someone to love him. When he meets writer Jim Thornton it seems as if his life will now be complete – but can they survive the dysfunctional family that surrounds them?

SCARLET LOVER by P.A. Brown ~ After a rocky start, Jason and Spider have become a couple. Will a visit from Jason’s sister help bind the couple or disrupt the still fragile bond between them?

LUDUS SCAENICUS MORTIS RUBRAE by William Maltese ~ Edgar Allen Poe made the party famous; William Maltese provides yet another perspective of the deadly goings-on through the eyes of two lovers.

THE FINAL CURTAIN by Victor J. Banis ~ Be careful what you wish for. Nick wanted the ephemeral young man in the worst way…

BLUSH by Kimberly Gardner ~ Once Vinn might have believed that vampires were nothing but legend and myth. But when his life is threatened by a legend, it takes a myth to save him.

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

Chapter One

Vinn watched as the waiter filled his glass, the wine as dark and rich as liquid garnets. Or blood, he thought, with a little shiver of excitement.

The waiter turned to Julien. But when he raised the bottle to pour, Vinn’s companion covered his glass with one long elegant hand and shook his head. “Not for me. I’m driving.”

“Very good, sir.” The waiter nodded and retired, giving them back their privacy.

Vinn chuckled. “I’m driving? That’s rich.”

Julien lifted his shoulders in one of those Gallic shrugs that were so Julien. “And what would you have had me say instead? Sorry, my good man, no wine for me. But if you’ve a pint of AB negative on hand, by all means, serve it up.”

“It might have been worth it just to see his face.”

“Hardly.” But Julien smiled and motioned toward Vinn’s glass. “Go on, taste your wine.”

Enrico Caruso played quietly in the background. Vinn knew it was Caruso because Julien had told him. Opera wasn’t his thing, but it suited the little Italian restaurant perfectly.

Vinn raised his glass. He paused and inhaled the fragrance of the wine, just the way Julien had taught him. The rich, fruity aroma blended with the scents of garlic and spices wafting up from his plate of pasta. He felt very sophisticated.

He swirled the wine then held it up to the light, the way he’d seen people do on TV. Sure enough, there were the legs. He grinned and took a tentative sip. It was good, not nearly as sweet as he’d been expecting, nor as tart as the swill he and his friends chugged down on the rare occasions when they bothered with some beverage that didn’t come in a can with a pop top.

Julien’s lips curved. He was laughing, silently, but he was laughing.

Vinn set his glass down. “What’s so funny?”

“What are you doing, Vincent?”

“I was looking for the legs.” He felt a little silly admitting it, but he ploughed on anyway. “You can tell how good wine is by whether it gets these lines on the sides of the glass when you swirl it. How come you don’t know that if you’re such a wine connoisseur?”

It was rare that he ever knew anything Julien didn’t, so silly or not, Vinn enjoyed it.

Julien shook his head. He was laughing outright now. “I do so enjoy you, Vinn.”

“What?” Vinn felt the heat rising to his face.

Julien sighed. “The legs, or tears as the French call them, have nothing to do with the quality of the wine. That’s a myth, given credence by pretentious fools who know nothing yet pretend to know everything.”

“I saw it on TV.”

“Which carries it into the realm of the utterly credible, no doubt. Oh, my dear, don’t be obstinate in your ignorance.” Julien reached across the table and took Vinn’s hand in his. Julien’s skin was as white as the linen tablecloth, his fingers chilly. “Let me educate you, my darling Vinn.”

He didn’t want to be thrilled by the hand holding, but he was. None of the other men he’d been with had ever held his hand so openly in a restaurant. Sure, they might fuck him in the back room of some bar, or suck his dick in an alley, but hold his hand in a restaurant? Not a chance.

So Vinn listened as Julien explained that the streaks that formed on a wineglass when you swirled its contents had only to do with alcohol content and surface tension and nothing at all to do with quality.

So you see, if I cover the wineglass like so.” Julien released Vinn’s hand and used his palm to cover the top of the glass. “Then I swirl the wine like so.” He held it up for Vinn to see. “No tears this time, because alcohol doesn’t evaporate without the air.” He replaced Vinn’s glass and sat back. “You see?”

“How do you know this shit?” Vinn reached for his wine, lifted it and downed the contents. He thumped the empty glass down on the tablecloth, opened his mouth and belched. Julien had made him feel silly and he hated that.

His companion rolled his eyes. “Eat your dinner, Vincent, or we’ll be here all night.”

Forty-five minutes later, as they left the restaurant, Julien once more took Vinn’s hand in his. “What would you like to do now? We could go dancing, if you want. We haven’t been dancing in a while.”

“Let’s go home.” Though he knew Julien’s hearing was excellent, Vinn leaned close and placed his lips next to his lover’s ear. “I want you to fuck me.”

Dark eyes met Vinn’s and Julien’s lips curved. “Oh, I plan to, my darling. But before I do, I need to have my dinner. But I can take you home first.”

“No.” Vinn stopped the other man when he lifted a hand to flag down a taxi. His heart drummed hard and fast. “Take me with you. I want to watch you hunt.”

Julien’s smile faded. “We’ve been over this, Vinn. I’m not taking you with me.”

“Why not? It’s not like I don’t know what’s going to happen. You’ve—”

“Hush.” The single word was sharp as the crack of a gunshot. “Keep your voice down.”

A cab swerved to the curb directly in front of them. Thunder rumbled overhead. Several fat raindrops fell, darkening the sidewalk.

Julien tugged on Vinn’s hand. “Come now. Let’s go home.”

Vinn planted his feet. “No. I don’t want to go home.”

Julien let go of his hand and walked to the cab. He opened the rear door then turned and looked at Vinn. His eyes were hot even if his expression was utterly impassive.

Get in the car, Vincent.

Though Julien’s lips never moved, Vinn heard the words. He heard them inside his head and his feet began to move, seemingly of their own accord.

Inside the taxi, Vinn slid to the farthest corner of the seat and turned his face toward the window and the not-quite-darkness beyond. Rain spattered the window, big, splashy drops that left streaks in the grimy glass.

Julien gave Vinn’s address to the driver then sat back. “I’ll drop you off, but I won’t be coming up.”

So he was being punished for that little display outside the restaurant. On any other night, Julien would come upstairs, the two of them would fuck or suck or jerk each other off and Julien might even spend the night. But Vinn knew he had made his lover angry, not so much with his request, which he made on a regular basis, but with his insistence and what Julien would no doubt call his childish display of temper on the sidewalk.

As the streets of Northern Liberties rolled by, Vinn watched out the window. Despite the late hour, the sidewalks were crowded, the bars and restaurants doing a brisk business. Expensively dressed young professionals and club kids attired in ragged chic all hurried through the rain, most without umbrellas. The driver’s partially open window admitted the distant murmur of conversation and occasional laughter, along with the hiss of tires and the rumble of engines.

The sounds lulled Vinn and he felt his eyelids growing heavy.

He wondered if Julien had meant what he said about just dropping him off. Or would he maybe stay after all and give Vinn the sex he so desperately wanted. That depended on how angry Julien was and whether he could get him over it with the right mix of flirtatiousness and apologetic regret. In any case, he intended to try, because sex with Julien, that special brand of sex, was so freakin’ amazing.

Inside his jeans, Vinn’s cock stiffened. He shifted and adjusted himself. He would do just about anything to get Julien’s dick inside him. He supposed that made him a slut, but what if it did?

They reached his building, a high-rise of student apartments in the heart of West Philly on the border between the campuses of Drexel and the U of Penn.

The taxi pulled over to the curb and Julien opened the door. He got out and held out a hand to help Vinn. “Good night, Vincent.”

When his lover would have gotten back into the cab, Vinn held on to his hand. “Julien, wait. I’m sorry. Please, come up with me?”

Julien hesitated and Vinn held his breath. Seconds spun out but then Julien reached for his wallet and Vinn breathed a sigh of relief. He was forgiven.

Vinn followed docilely, still clinging to Julien’s hand, as his lover mounted the steps and crossed the courtyard. Neither of them spoke. In the lobby, Vinn took out his student ID and showed it to the security guard who grunted and hardly glanced away from the small TV behind the desk.

“I’m glad you’re coming up.” Vinn said.

Julien chuckled and punched the elevator up button. “Me too, Vincent.”

The apartment was as bad as Vinn expected. The laundry piled in the corner was beginning to reek. Textbooks littered the futon where he slept, studied and did just about everything else as it was the sole piece of furniture aside from a desk and straight-back chair. The air was a little sour since he’d forgotten to take his trash out to the shoot. But under the detritus of study material the futon was made up and, unless he was misremembering, the sheets weren’t more than a few days slept in. And Julien was here, so it was all good.

Not bad, Vinn thought a little smugly.

He walked to the window and opened it to the cool spring night. He could hear music coming from one of the other apartments, an old Billy Idol tune about being caught between flesh and fantasy.

He turned from the window, found Julien standing in the center of the room watching him, his expression unreadable.

“What’s the matter? I said I was sorry.”

Julien nodded. Sighed. “You always are.” But he held out his hand. “Come here, Vincent.”

Vinn went to him, slid his arms around Julien’s neck and pressed close. Julien’s arms slipped around Vinn’s waist and he nuzzled the corner of his jaw. “What do you need, my love?”

“You know what I need. I need your cock in me.”

Julien’s lips traveled down Vinn’s throat, raising goosebumps all over his body. “You know that isn’t possible until I’ve fed.” He nipped lightly at Vinn’s pulse. “And I’ve yet to feed tonight.”

Vinn shuddered and his dick throbbed. “You can feed on me. I want you to.”

“I know you do. And you know I won’t, not more than a taste. I should never have taken even that much from you.”

“I like it. It’s like coming, only more…”

“I know.” Julien rubbed his lips over Vinn’s pulse. He slipped his hand between their bodies and cupped the bulge in Vinn’s jeans.

“Please?” Vinn shifted his hips, pushed into that touch. “I need.”

“I know what you need, my darling. I know everything about you.” Clever fingers made short work of Vinn’s button and zip even as Julien walked him backward toward the futon.

The backs of his knees bumped the edge and Vinn teetered. Julien supported him and slid his jeans down his hips revealing his cock.

“Take them off, then lie back and spread your legs.”

A little awkwardly, Vinn toed out of his sneakers then kicked free of his jeans. He sank down on the futon, shoving books and papers out of the way as he did. He lay back and spread his legs as instructed. In this aspect of their relationship, he always obeyed Julien’s instructions. And his obedience was always rewarded.

Julien knelt between Vinn’s splayed legs and rested his cool hands on Vinn’s bare thighs. “I should punish you for being so recalcitrant.”

“Yeah, you should. But please don’t,” Vinn whispered. “I promise I won’t do it again.”

“Yes, you will. But I’m weak for you, Vincent. And giving you pleasure is one of my greatest joys. So I forgive you.”

Lowering his dark head, Julien rubbed his cheek over Vinn’s cock before softly kissing the tip.

Vinn caught his breath but when he reached for Julien’s head and tried to direct him, the other man caught his wrists and returned his hands to his sides. Knowing what would happen next, Vinn reached once more for Julien. This time those coldly beautiful hands held him down, pinning his wrists against the blue and green cover of the futon.

Vinn’s hips lifted in response to the small restraint. He loved it when Julien held him down. He whimpered.

Julien’s lips slid over the head of Vinn’s cock, his tongue stroked and swirled, teased and tormented just the tip.

“Please,” Vinn begged. He would die if Julien didn’t take more of him into that amazing mouth.

Be still, my beautiful boy.

Vinn heard the words in his head and resisted the urge to struggle. Even after a month together, it still blew his mind when Julien talked inside his head like that. Damned convenient though, at times like this when his lover’s mouth was filled with his dick.

Julien began to move his head. Up and down, up and down, with excruciating slowness and care.

Vinn knew this was as much to torment him as it was to ensure that Julien’s teeth didn’t inadvertently nick Vinn’s cock.

The wet, silky slide of Julien’s mouth, the play of tongue against smooth, hard, and oh so sensitive flesh, as Vinn shut his eyes and concentrated on not coming too fast. He wanted to make this last, even if he knew his will power was no match for his lover’s skill.

Julien took Vinn deep and swallowed around the head. He dragged his tongue up the big vein before flicking it inside the slit.

Vinn thrashed his head from side to side and squeezed his eyes shut as need and lust fisted low in his belly and little zings of electricity sizzled along his thighs.

As if sensing Vinn’s breaking control, Julien sped up, sucked harder, pushing Vinn ever nearer the knife’s edge of his own release.

“Julien,” Vinn gasped. “I don’t want—”

But that was the moment Julien once more took him deep, the moment when Vinn felt the prick of Julien’s fangs at the base of his cock and he exploded.

His orgasm burst through him like a wave. It lifted him and tossed him down. Colors burst and sparkled behind his eyes as everything inside him, everything he was, rushed out through his dick. He felt the excruciating drawing down as his lover sucked him, pulse after pulse of cum shooting down Julien’s throat.

But that’s not all, a part of Vinn’s mind cautioned. Spunk isn’t all he’s taking.

But Vinn didn’t care because this was what he wanted, what he’d begged for and what no one but Julien could give him. Even if it was bad for him, and he wasn’t convinced that it was, even if Julien was bad for him, he would cling to this feeling with everything he had in him. And one day, he promised himself, he would have even more. He would have it all.

Title	All or Nothing #3 in the Taking the Odds series
Author	James Buchanan
ISBN#	978-1-60820-147-1 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-150-1 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	April 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	212 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)
	Amazon.com (paperback)
	Barnes & Noble (paperback)

Blundering his way forward in his relationship with Nevada Agent Nick O’Malley, Riverside Detective Brandon Carr brings his daughter, Shayna, to Las Vegas to meet Nick. Nick has his own reasons for pushing Brandon toward a deeper commitment. But when the unthinkable happens, what every cop knows ends in tragedy, can Brandon hold it together long enough to solve the crime? As Brandon spirals into the hell of being a cop and a distraught parent will his love of Nick, and Nick’s love for him, be enough to see them through? It’s all or nothing and they can’t afford to lose.

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

Chapter 1

Nick eyed the baby-blue, slope-hooded, four-wheeled box taking up the end of his driveway with unbridled suspicion. Drawling out, “What the fuck is that?” as he glared at Brandon, Nick looped one arm across his chest and cocked his hip.

He”d told Brandon just to come over and let himself in with his key when he hit town’the key Nick had made for Brandon back in October. Still, Nick expected to hit home and find the Harley parked out front, not a blue minivan.

Between the vehicle and a pile of luggage, Nick’s driveway bordered on impassible. Nick parked his Kawasaki on the lip of the cement, by the back bumper. Just as soon as Brandon’s luggage got stowed, the bike went into the garage. No way was he leaving his bike out all night. Especially not in Vegas. Especially not in Vegas in December; not with the cold wind carrying the hint of rain in its touch. A winter thundershower and the bike would be toast. If no one stole it. Nick didn’t live in the best part of town.

Brandon snagged a duffle from the rear seat, stepped back and slid the door shut. “What?” he mumbled as he turned.

Pointing, like it wasn’t the huge, hulking and completely obvious monstrosity that it was, Nick hissed. “The thing in my driveway.” Although, scarily enough, the van fit the neighborhood quite well: one time suburbia sliding into inner city disrepair.

Brandon looked at the minivan then looked back at Nick. “It’s a car, Nicky.” He tossed the bag on a pile of suitcases that looked like it might do for a month instead of the week they”d had planned. And since most of the cases were pink leopard print, Nick figured those must belong to Brandon’s daughter, Shayna.

While he might be gay, Brandon certainly wasn’t swish.

Brandon’s daughter and her luggage were part of the plan. Not the best plan, but the only feasible one under the circumstances. Nick”d been the one prodding Brandon, since August, to step up to the responsibility plate and spend more time with his daughter. He couldn’t very well bitch when Brandon’s ex asked him to take Shayna for the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Well, he could bitch, but not to Brandon’s face. And it was either have Brandon and his daughter come to Vegas or not see Brandon for yet another month.

There were a lot of reasons why not seeing Brandon wouldn’t work.

“It’s a minivan,” Nick drawled out the correction. “Four doors of soccer-mom hell.” Shifting his weight to the other hip, Nick asked what seemed to be the obvious question. “Why?” He had suspicions about the reason, but he wanted to hear it out of Brandon’s mouth.

“I bought the thing off my stepbrother, Jacob, for fifteen hundred.” Brandon shrugged. “It belonged to his wife, Carol.”

Nick shook his head. Trust Brandon to sidestep the question. “I didn’t ask how”but why? What compelled you to go out and buy a Yuppie mobile?” Nick stepped back and considered the whole picture. Brandon stood in his typical attire: jeans, biker boots, T-shirt and black leather jacket. The tips from the pattern of his full back tribal tattoo were visible at the collar of his shirt. A series of rings strung through the edge of his left ear matched the bar in his left eyebrow. Behind Brandon hulked the ten-year-old minivan. It was probably the most discordant set of images Nick could imagine.

“You,” he drew out the word as he pointed first at Brandon then the vehicle, “are as far from Yuppie as a Goth cop can be. Your tattoos alone should bar you from ever owning a car like this.” Rolling his eyes for emphasis, he added, “Didn’t it like blow a fuse when you tossed Everything Dies, Black Number One or, hell, just about anything you”ve downloaded from Type-O Negative on the CD.”

“Why did I buy a piece of crap that I can’t stand?” As Brandon crossed his arms over his chest he snorted and shook his head. “Dian’s exact words, “You put my daughter on the back of that damn bike of yours and ride to Vegas, I will hunt you down, cut your balls off and feed “em to the dog.” So Carol just got a new station wagon and I offered to buy this off Jacob.”

“You baby your bike.” Not quite understanding the thought process of Brandon’s ex, Nick shook his head. “You could eat off the goddamn engine it’s so clean. This thing’s, what, ten, twelve years old?” He kicked a tire and was surprised when the van didn’t collapse into a pile of rust and spare parts. “Gotta have at least sixty thousand miles on it”"

Brandon interjected, “Close to one hundred.”

“A hundred thousand miles on it.” Holy crap that was a lot of mileage for an American built tank. “It’s beat up as all hell. How many accidents has it been in?” Dings and nicks dotted the paint and the front driver’s side bumper was crumpled up. “Your ex would rather have you take some junker you don’t care about across the desert than your bike?”

With a snort, Brandon leaned against the side of the van. “Look, one thing you never do is get between a Jewish mom and what she believes is right by her kids.” He laughed. “Don’t ever doubt that if I defied her, Dian would castrate me and when she did it, the blade would be dull.”

Looking around, Nick asked the obvious question. “Ah, so where’s the little demon spawn?” Evidence of Shayna’s existence littered his driveway, but so far he hadn’t seen her.

“Inside,” Brandon waved at the house, ‘somewhere.”

“You know,” Nick stepped up close, almost nose to nose, and teased, “I don’t see you as Jewish.”

Brandon bumped Nick’s knee with his own. “I don’t see you as Catholic.”

“Point taken.” God, Brandon smelled good: cloves, leather, and a faded hint of cologne. Nick leaned into his body just a hair more, not quite touching but close. “We”re both lapsed former whatevers.” Maybe he should just pin Brandon to the van and give him a real Vegas welcome. Make sure Brandon’s ex hadn’t already cut off his balls”at least literally. She seemed to have done a fine job on the mental end. Unfortunately, a hard-core make out session would probably have to wait. The whole kid-lurking-about-somewhere put a damper on his hormones.

Nick stepped back and ran one hand through his hair, trying to put his thoughts into words. “Which brings up another point. I haven’t, like, bought anything special. I mean, you mentioned, you know, last night,” he groused, ‘thank you so much for the advance warning ‘that Dian is a lot more, ah, into the whole cultural/religious life. Are we going to get in trouble with, like, food and stuff?”

“Naw,” Brandon shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Dian’s observant, but not completely Frum.” Apparently that meant something, but Nick was clueless as to what. “She ain’t gonna freak if the milk’s in the same fridge as the meat.”

There were rules about refrigerators? “Huh?”

“She don’t expect me to keep kosher.” Another shrug, then Brandon stuffed his hands in his back pockets. “I got some rules,” his tone sounded like he”d gotten an earful beyond some rules, “written out: beef franks, no cheeseburgers, and the dishwasher’s good enough for sanitizing. Dian says Shayna’s practically a vegetarian anyway, doesn’t like meat much. Don’t worry, we’re good.”

“Okay,” Nick grumbled. “I’ll take your word on it, but I’m going to be so completely freaked out on this.” He wished he could be mad at Brandon for putting him in this position, but it was his own damn fault. Step up to the plate; be more responsible, he kept prodding. And Brandon”d been making little baby steps toward that. Then Dian got hit with training at the same time as her new husband had to go back to New York for business”and for the first time she”d actually thought of Brandon to help out.

Nick’s own damn fault and he”d have to live with it. Still, it was hard enough knowing he had to play their relationship down because of his pint-sized houseguest. The whole kosher thing added another layer of stress to the whole visit. “I mean, maybe we should just stick to paper plates or something?”

“Look, Nicky.” Brandon reached out and gripped his shoulder. After a squeeze, he used the touch to pull Nick in closer. Almost whispering, he reassured, “I’m the complete and utter fuck-up of the ex-husband.” One of his come-hither smiles flashed and Nick’s annoyance faded under the onslaught. “I get Shayna back to Grover Beach with brushed hair, bathed more than twice and in one piece-we could feed Princess ham and cheese sandwiches the entire week and Dian would consider it a roaring success.”

Any effort was better than no effort. Dian probably gave Brandon more leeway than she might if he”d been around more. Most likely she didn’t want to scare him off of his tentative steps to reconnect with his daughter. Nick had never met the woman, but since Brandon never trashed talked her and she seemed enthusiastic about the attempt, she possibly was a reasonable person.

Even with the van thing.

“You know,” Nick grinned, “the van kinda suits you.”

Brandon choked, “What?”

“Yeah,” with two fingers, Nick goosed Brandon in the ribs, “matches your baby blue eyes there.”

Brandon jumped. “Get over here, Nicky.” With his hand already on Nick’s shoulder, he managed to twist around and wrap his arm around Nick’s neck. “I’m going to kill you ,” he taunted as they wrestled a bit.

Brandon’s body was warm in the cold afternoon. “Getting rough with me?” Nick taunted. He didn’t, however, resist much. “You know I like that.” Stepping back a little, Nick managed to push his ass against Brandon’s hip. He ground into the touch. “I sure as hell know you like that.”

Brandon pushed him away. “Quit it, Nicky.”

“You started it.” Nick pointed out the obvious as he straightened his winter-weight street-style motorcycle jacket. As a concession to high desert cold, matching overpants covered his business slacks. Wasn’t quite the slick, crotch rocket biker look he”d prefer, but Brandon had seen him in far worse shape. At least he”d been able to score a set in black and red to match the jacket with the red demon face on the back. Wouldn’t want to trash the look completely.

“Fuckhead.” Brandon thumped the back of Nick’s head as he backed away.

“Okay, I can fuck you with my head.” Nick tugged off his riding gloves before shoving them in his pocket. “And the rest of my cock, too.” He grinned.

“Stop.” It was Brandon’s turn to growl. His came off more threatening than gruff. “Last thing I want is for Shayna to overhear something like that and go spouting off to her mom.”

“Sooner or later,” Nick grabbed one of the bags and slung it over his shoulder. His helmet, resting on top of the baggage, got tucked under his arm. Then he reached for the handle on a wheeled suitcase. “You’re probably going to have to say something to Dian, you know about you and me? Didn’t she ask about why you were spending a week in Vegas with another guy?”

“I don’t think she even thought to ask about that. I mean, I told her we”d planned this trip a while back and you”re one of my best law enforcement buds.” He shrugged. “And, you know, Shayna apparently started bitching about getting left with her two baby brothers and her aunt Marion. Marion treats her like she’s still four. I think Dian was just relieved to give Shayna an option and stop the whining.” Somehow Brandon managed to tuck a duffle and a rolled up matching sleeping bag under his arms while toting his own leather backpack and another one of Shayna’s bags toward the back door. “And on the whole coming out to Dian? Maybe, someday,” Brandon hedged. “But when she finds out, I want it coming out of my mouth not Princess-Phone-Stuck-In-Her-Ear in there.” Nick just shook his head and followed.

Once inside, Nick asked about the new nickname, “Phone in her ear?” He hooked the small bag he carried on the handle of the suitcase before plunking his helmet on the counter. Shucking his jacket, he tossed that over one of his high backed kitchen chairs. “What do you mean?”

“Shit,” Brandon dumped the luggage in the center of the kitchen and leaned against the table. “Dian brought her down yesterday, on her way to San Diego.” With his other hand he made a swooshing motion down and out. “Shayna breezes past me, flops on the couch, flips on cartoons, grabs the cordless and says, “I got to call my friend Beth.” An hour later, I’m like, “get the fuck off the phone.” I mean, I didn’t use that word, but what the hell can two nine-year-olds talk about for an hour? They”re like watching the same cartoon and telling each other about it. I didn’t think that started until they were sixteen or something.”

“Don’t look at me on that.” Nick laughed and dropped into one of the chairs. As he stripped off the overpants, he pointed out, “You, at least, are a dad. I don’t even got the title.”

“Well, expect your phone bill to be like triple.” Brandon hooked another chair with his boot and pulled it out. As he sat down, backwards, he hooked his arms over the back and rested his chin on the spine. “I’ll try and keep her off, but you know, she’s nine and she’s addicted.”

“Where is she now?”

“I think, in the living room.” Brandon jerked his head, indicating the room through the door at his back. “Playing your video games and, probably, on the phone.”

As long as she wasn’t digging through his closet and finding the fun toys, Nick would deal with a long distance bill. “I guess your road trip went all right?” He added as he jerked off his tie. Man, time to ditch the monkey suit and put on some proper clothes.

Brandon grinned. “Yep, except I had to listen to pre-teen pop for four hours.”

“Hey.” Nick pooled the tie on the table. “Can I say one thing?”

Rocking the chair onto the back legs, Brandon teased, “You can say more than one thing.”

“Asshat.” Nick picked up the tie and tossed it at him. Not much of a threat. It kinda drifted down to the floor into a pile of Escher print jumbles. “No, I mean thanks.”

“For what?”

“For putting it on the line like this.”

Brandon honestly looked confused. “I don’t get you.” Trust him to be obtuse in the relationship arena.

Nick shrugged. “Bringing Shayna out here.” He wanted to tell Brandon how he felt, but didn’t want to scare him off. “I mean, this a big step for you, and for you and me.”

Brandon dropped his gaze to the floor and chewed on his bottom lip for a bit. Finally, he looked back up and smiled. “Yeah, it is.” For agreeing with him, Nick thought that smile was awfully forced.

“Thanks for trusting me.” He tried to ease it a bit.

“Hey, you know, it’s,” Brandon fell silent for a moment, then the rest of his thought came pouring out in a rush, “well it’s not easy and I thought a lot about it. But, if you”re going to be around, it should happen.”

That was as close as a declaration of, well something, as Brandon had ever got. Shit, the only times he”d ever said I love you was after he shot his wad. “I intend to be around.” Even with all the other crap, Nick did intend to be around. That is, if things went well in the next few days and if Brandon didn’t freak with what Nick needed to talk to him about. The reason that the whole trip couldn’t wait. Now wasn’t the right time to broach it, though. He needed things to settle down a bit, get Brandon relaxed and then they could talk.

Brandon shot him one of his thousand watt smiles, then twisted in the chair and yelled through the doorway into the living room, “Princess, get off the phone and come here, I want you to meet someone.”

“I’m busy,” floated back to them.

As darkness dropped into Brandon’s expression, he yelled again, “Get off the phone before I shove it down your throat.”

“Fine,” she snapped back. They heard the rattle of a remote or controller hitting the floor and small feet stomping toward them. “Beth, Brandon says I have to go,” came from the other side of the bar style doors leading out of Nick’s kitchen.

“She calls you Brandon?” Nick hissed the question. “What does she call her stepfather?”

Brandon looked at him funny, like he wasn’t sure what Nick asked. “Daddy.”

The hem of a floral skirt, pink leggings and a set of glittery sneakers became visible under the bottom half of the door. “Yeah, it’s so lame. Bye.” She added as she pushed through the door. “What?”

Shayna”Nick had only ever seen pictures of her and most were not terribly recent. A sharp face with bright blue eyes was framed by masses of curly brown hair. Gangly knees and elbows seemed at odds with the more feminine clothes. Well, fem for a little girl, Nick supposed. He”d never call himself an expert on kids” duds or women’s for that matter. A long sleeve T-shirt stuck out under a baby-doll short skirt, but with leggings. It all looked almost hip, like Shayna fought for stylish against a heavy hand of a mom. He remembered similar battles with his folks over things like: “boys don’t wear eye-liner.”

“Shayna,” Brandon stood and held his hand out indicating Nick, ‘this is my best friend, Nick O”Malley.”

“Hi, Mr. O”Malley,” Shayna drawled it out as though she were supremely pissed that Brandon interrupted a scintillating discussion so that she could meet an adult.

Well, okay, new situation for everyone, Nick let the tone pass. “Why don’t you call me Nick?” In three days, if she kept up that snot attitude, then he”d have a discussion with Brandon. Right now he could live with it. It had to be difficult for her, too; stuck for a week with a dad she didn’t know well and dragged off to visit one of his friends. “Less of a mouthful.”

“Mommy says,” those two words dropped Shayna’s speech into the smug, look at me, I’m listening to my mom mode, “I shouldn’t call adults by their first name.”

“It’s okay.” Nick smiled, reminding himself that baby steps were needed to win Brandon over, why should it be any different with his daughter? “Otherwise it’s going to be weird all week hearing Mr. O”Malley.” Then he pointed out, “Besides, you call your dad, Brandon.”

“I guess,” Shayna huffed and rolled her eyes. Okay, maybe Nick wouldn’t wait three days for that discussion.

“Okay, hey.” Like he was trying to break the tension before someone cracked, Brandon dove into his duffle. After a little bit of searching, he stood up and shoved a bundle wrapped in holiday paper at Nick. “Look I got you something.”

A for the thought, B- for the wrapping effort, and D+ for timing; Nick took the package. “I was thinking we could open Christmas presents over at Miri’s. She wants us to come for breakfast day after tomorrow.”

Again the superior tone out of a yard-ape’s mouth, “We don’t celebrate Christmas.”

Fuck the discussion with her dad. “Great then,” Nick snapped, “I’ll just take the stuff I bought for you back. Maybe take the things to the alliance center, someone there will appreciate it.”

“Play nice,” Brandon glared down at his daughter, “it ain’t going to corrupt you to open a couple gifts.” Taking a deep breath, Brandon turned to Nick and smiled. His voice sounded strained, “Open it, now please.”

“Why?” Oh shit, he sounded as snotty as the kid. Nick figured a deep, relaxing breath wouldn’t hurt him either. A little calmer, he asked a more reasonable question, “Sure you don’t want to wait?”

“Now. Please.” Brandon’s smile grew so tight it threatened to rip his face apart.

Try and be nice and what do you get? With a huff, Nick ripped open the paper. “Hey, skull camouflage lounge pants.” Why would Brandon buy him something like that? Commando all the way, Nick couldn’t stand to sleep with something between him and the sheets. To be polite, he smiled and tried to sound appreciative, “Just what I needed.” Wadding them back up into the paper, he added, “I don’t usually wear stuff like this to bed.”

“I know.” The way Brandon said it, both words getting separate, slow emphasis, spoke volumes. Not so subtly, Brandon rolled his eyes toward where his daughter stood bouncing the phone handset against her knee. “But you have a nine-year-old house guest’so wear “em.”

“What does Nick normally wear to bed?” Out of everything else going on, how did she pick that one comment out?

“Really ratty stuff.” Brandon shot Nick a glare like he was daring Nick to contradict him. “Why don’t you get a soda, snack or something? Take it in to the TV.” Apparently, that was all she needed. Shayna hit the refrigerator like she”d been starved. Maybe her mom kept the sweets on a leash, too.

Nick looked at the present in his hands and then over at the pint sized Diva raiding his refrigerator. “Only for you,” he hissed, low enough so only Brandon would hear, “you know that, right?”

They both watched as Shayna dashed out of the room cradling a Coke.

“Thanks man.” When he turned his attention back to Nick, Brandon managed a rueful smile. “I owe you.”

Nick tossed the bundle on the table and then pinched the bridge of his nose. “If this is how the week is going to go”yeah, you do, “cause I don’t, like, sleep well with anything between me and the sheets.”

“Okay, well,” Brandon grabbed the luggage off the floor, “you said you had one of those cots you could put up?”

“Yeah.” Still trying to rub the tension out of his forehead, Nick stood. “Borrowed it off Miri, it’s in the front room.”

“Let’s go get it set up.” Backing out of the room, Brandon added, “It”ll be okay, really. I promise.”

Nick would withhold judgment on that.

Title	Son of a Gun
Author	AM Riley
ISBN#	978-1-60820-117-4 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-118-1 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	April 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	253 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)
	Barnes & Noble (paperback)
	Amazon.com (paperback)

Politics, drugs and secrets from the past collide in the town of Boerne Texas and end in a chase across the Devil’s Backbone.

Stefan Sanchez number one reason to leave Texas was closeted deputy Chet Blain. When Stefan returns for the funeral of his best friend, he is confronted by painful memories, Chet’s recriminations, and a hunky Secret Service agent who seems determined to make Stefan’s business his business.

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

Chapter One

“It’s really not necessary.” Agnes sounded bored. Through the phone, Stefan heard the click of a cigarette lighter, a long inhale, and could evoke from memory the cloud of smoke around nicotine stained fingers as Agnes studied her shiny pink acrylics. “I’m sure they won’t care.”

“I’d care,” said Stefan.

“Where were you going to stay?”

Well, that took care of the first purpose of his call, he supposed. He’d thought he might stay in his old bedroom, though the suspicious male voice that had answered the phone had Stefan rethinking that idea already.

“Jane will put me up.”

A silence. Belatedly, Stefan realized that Agnes might take this as criticism. That another woman would do for Stefan what she would not. “She already asked me to stay with them. I didn’t want to say ‘no.’ Under the circumstances,” he lied freely, not sure why he always had to mollify Agnes, but always finding himself doing so.

“Oh, I suppose you had no choice,” she said, sulkily.

“I’ll call when I get in.”

“Sure, honey.”

Stefan could think of absolutely nothing else to say. So he merely said, “Goodbye mother.”

She hung up without replying.

* * *

“Texas?” Ron said, exactly as he might have said “Mars?” “What the hell is in Texas?”

“I grew up there.” Stefan shifted the cell phone to the other ear so that he could grab the door handle as his cab swerved wildly through traffic. Stefan had offered the driver a small stipend if he made it to LAX on time.

“You’re kidding me.” These days it seemed that Ron’s voice always reflected a mounting hysteria. “I thought that was just a story your publicist made up. Why, in Christ, go back though? And why now? You’re already months past due on that manuscript.”

“There was a death in the family.”

The requisite polite pause. “I’m so sorry.” Another pause. “Not to be crass, Stefan, but how long do you think…?”

“I have my final draft here. Don’t worry, I’ll get it to you within the week.”

“Of course you will.” The tiny cell phone receiver was not able to deliver an appropriate level of sarcasm. Stefan was the most lucrative client in Ron Roche’s fledgling literary agency, and this lengthy dry spell had probably hit Ron’s pocketbook as hard as it had hit Stefan’s. It was ridiculous, really. Hemingways and Mailers had dry spells. Minor writers of adolescent crime fiction were supposed to spit the stuff out like hamburger meat from a grinder. Grind. Grind. Presto, another Adventure of the Backtree Boys.

“I’ve worked out the kinks. There’s nothing left but the crying.” The cab rocked hard to the left, and Stefan had to grab the door handle to avoid sliding across the seat again.

“Still think you should have taken my advice.” Ron’s solution to everything was usually young, hungry, and willing.

“Doesn’t work for me.” Stefan saw that they were pulling up to the curb outside the terminal. “My flight leaves in half an hour, Ron. I’ve got to go.”

“You’ll stay in touch?” It wasn’t really a request.

“I will.” Stefan shut the phone off, wallet out and ready to pay the driver as he leapt from the cab. He’d only brought his laptop and the small overnight bag, which he flung over his shoulder as he ran through the terminal doors. He still had half an hour, but the last time he’d been here it had taken nearly that long for LAX security to pass him through.

A few minutes later, standing in a line watching his shoes, watch, laptop and belt trundling down a conveyor in plastic trays, he shut his phone down completely before dropping it into the tray. After living for seven years in Los Angeles, there was nobody else to call.

* * *

In San Antonio, Stefan emerged from the airport hangar, crisp air conditioning giving way immediately to deep, humid Texas heat. His sparse luggage and light clothing all seemed to gain twenty pounds of wet, his hair sticking to the nape of his neck, and he remembered one of the dozens of reasons he’d had to leave Texas.

“The weather is reason enough.”

“Nope. Reason number one. Snakes.”

“When was the last time you saw a snake, Tommy?”

“It’s the fact that they could show up ANYWHERE. Did you see that blurb in the paper about the assemblyman who found one in his mailbox?”

“I think someone put that there.”

“And your point is?”

Stefan gambled on his credit card company’s continued leniency and rented a car at the airport. Despite what he’d said to his mother, he had absolutely no idea how his unannounced appearance after such a long absence would be received. He might need a car for a quick getaway. Or maybe even a place to sleep.

He followed the stark clean highways until the rolling hills and genteel old buildings of historical Boerne appeared. Boerne must have been quite a victory for Jane, thought Stefan. Patrick, Sr. would more probably have preferred the state capital.

“Count the Suburbans, Stef. Hey, there’s another one.”

“That joke was only funny the first hundred times, Tommy.”

“Seriously, you’d think oil just bubbled up out of the ground around here. Hey, there’s another one.”

Tommy’s voice, which at times was subtle or even silent, but which always lived in Stefan’s head. His muse, he supposed, if there were such a thing. The deeper Stefan drove into the heart of Texas, the louder Tommy’s voice became.

“You know, no one ever explained to me adequately, why a nice German would want to settle in Texas.”

“A nice German?”

“Imagine some plump German housewife looking out the window of her immaculate kitchen and seeing a SNAKE, Stef.”

“Again with the snakes, Tommy?”

“Ach, Herman, ich war nicht kenne das SNAKEs ven ich…” Tommy’s talent for mimicry was amazing, his face transforming so that suddenly, Stefan could almost see a middle-aged turn of the century hausfrau, plump arms folded over her white apron.

“Stop. God, Tommy, you’re killing me.”

Stefan followed the instructions he’d received from the O’Connor’s legal secretary and parked his rental car across the street from Boerne’s only Catholic church, its single-story moss-covered limestone walls with the old double oak doors, now sentried by Secret Service types. The gravel circular drive was choked with limos and Benz’s with government plates.

“Security?” Tommy’s soft snort. “A little late, don’t you think?”

Stefan showed his identification to one of the men who stood at the door. The men were dressed almost identically, in nondescript black suits, a twisted wire descending into their stiff white shirt collars from earpieces. Wraparound black sunglasses. Tommy would have something to say about them, too.

“Who do they think they are, Will Smith?”

“I think the movie emulated reality, Tommy. Not the other way around.”

“Sure. Sure. Hey-” a nod toward one of the agents who stood near the front aisle, next to what was probably the family pew “-that one checked you out, Stef. He your type?”

“Christ, Tommy! He’ll hear you!”

The man at the door studied Stefan’s ID. Checked it against an extensive printed list. Nodded at the other man, and they let Stefan enter the church and take his place at the end of the line of people making their way past a mountain of flowers and candles surrounding a burnished mahogany casket at the front of the small chapel.

All the way up the aisle, Stefan could hear Tommy in his head. Hear his commentary, sarcastic and amused. So, accompanied by Tommy’s presence, he finally stood before the casket, and the shock hit him all at once.

My God, they’d put Tommy into a box.

A moment later, Stefan wondered what he might have said aloud. He’d gone to his knees there. Not that unusual at an open casket Catholic funeral, but he didn’t remember having done it and thought it likely that he’d more stumbled and fallen than knelt.

Tommy didn’t look peaceful. Aren’t the dead supposed to look peaceful?