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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BLURB:

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

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

EXCERPT:

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

Something had done a number on the corpse.

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

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

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

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

“So what have we got?” he asked.

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

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

“Yes sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You see anybody on the links?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guy was going to spell trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“So you were married? She divorce you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll find him,” he promised.

Cover for L.A. Boneyard, the latest in the L.A. series

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

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

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

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

MUCH ADO – JET MYKLES

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

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

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

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

“Mmmm. What was his name, sugar?”

“I don’t talk to him anymore.” And I couldn’t get you a job with him if I wanted to. He doesn’t do drag queens.

“Is that fact?” Ms. Tyken trailed the two-inch talons of her right hand along the edge of the makeup table. “Wasn’t it Roscoe Schroeder?”

Why did the mere mention of the man’s name have to make his heart race? “That’s the one.”

In a rustle of skirt, Ms Tyken came to stand behind him, blocking the reflection of the rest of the room and providing extra illumination as the makeup lights bounced off her sequins. “Mmmmm. He’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?” 4 Mykles ~ Much Ado

“Do you know him?”

“Oh no. Just met him tonight.”

Hands freezing, Shawn glanced up at his boss. “Tonight?”

She gave him a smug, carmine-coated smile. “Mmm. He’s out front. Asking for you.”

“For me?”

Fingers pasted with black and yellow striped fake nails squeezed his shoulders. “For little ol’ you, sweetie. You sure he’s ancient history? Doesn’t seem like the kind of man you want to let go of.”

No, he wasn’t. Too bad Shawn just couldn’t live under his wing.

Shawn stared at his own reflection, at the cold cream smeared makeup. His hair was still encased in his wig cap. He’d already changed out of his costume into sweatpants. In short, he looked like shit. “What’s he doing here?”

“He only asked for you.” She stroked Shawn’s shoulders. “What should I tell him?”

Go to hell? But his usual mantra didn’t ring true, even in his own head. In truth, it hadn’t rung true for the last few months. His righteous indignation after their breakup hadn’t outlasted the winter. “Tell him…” He blinked at himself. Shit, what’s he doing here? Shawn hadn’t heard one peep from him in the fifteen months since he’d moved out. “Tell him I’ll be out after I change.”

Wise blue eyes studied him for a long moment before Ms. Tyken nodded. “Whatever you say, sugar. But you’re not on the bar tonight. You could just slip out the back.” Trust her to see his hesitation and respect it.

Shawn considered it only for a brief moment. Like it or not, he was curious about why Roscoe was here. “Thanks, but no. I’ll be out as soon as I change.”

She swatted him lightly on the shoulder, grinning wide to show professionally capped teeth in her reflection. “Don’t go changing, honey. Not for any man.” One heavily-lashed eye winked over a wide, lipsticked smile, then Ms. Tyken turned to leave. “I’ll tell the man you’ll come see him when you’re good and ready.”

Shawn sat alone in the dim glow provided by the frame of lights around the makeup mirror, slowly tissuing the remaining cold cream from his face. Thinking. “Don’t go changing.” Well, that was the thing with Roscoe, wasn’t it? He didn’t like who Shawn was, rather what Shawn was. It’s what broke them up. “Don’t waste your talent,” Roscoe had told him when he’d professed to wanting to explore what being a drag queen was all about. According to Roscoe, drag queens were no talent hacks or over-the-top comedians with a twist. Okay, maybe those weren’t his exact words but the meaning had been clear. Roscoe didn’t seem to mind that Shawn liked to wear skirts and makeup, but he’d hit the roof when Shawn had wanted to explore the life for real. Shawn had done the leaving, but Roscoe’s attempt to direct his personal life had made it impossible to continue living together. They hadn’t spoken since Shawn had taken his meager belongings out of Roscoe’s loft to find another place to live in a city he’d only lived in for two years. Shawn had grown past him, found a life, and was doing perfectly fine on his own.

So what the hell did Roscoe want now?

ALL THAT JAZZ – CHARLIE COCHRANE

Brighton, January

“He had it coming. He had it coming.”

One of the merry murderesses was strolling along past the door, getting every part of a strident voice properly tuned up for the dress rehearsal. “If you’d have been there, if you’d have seen it…” The song faded as the singer turned one of the corners of the labyrinthine backstage corridor, heading for the communal homicidal dressing room.

Velma Kelly made a miniscule adjustment to her eyeliner, emphasising her naturally dark blue eyes and creating an effect which was seductive as well as overtly theatrical. Getting the right effect, one which reached to the back row of the circle but didn’t make the people in the front row of the stalls think you were made up with oil paint, was an art in itself. Juliet had the knack and Velma was grateful to have her skills to call on. Juliet had been a dresser and make-up artist for twenty years, having amassed a fund of wisdom and risque stories. She plied everyone with anecdotes of the great, mediocre and downright useless. And she wielded a mean panstick-the company had been lucky to get hold of someone so capable.

“When you’re good to Mama…” A higher pitched voice went past the dressing room door, slightly croaking and subtly out of tune. Not one of the cast this time. Maybe a stagehand putting on the falsetto, or even the doorman, who was built like the side of a barn and probably sang counter tenor.

Velma considered her reflection again. Luscious waves of hair from the black Louise Brooks style wig framed her heart shaped face-it was a decent black wig, to boot, not something that looked like it had come off a dead cat. That sweet face would be vying with the slightly more lantern-jawed features of Roxie Hart for the hearts of the audience in only a few evenings’ time. Opening night seemed to have been a bloody long time coming, the traumas of auditions rounding the corner into the mixed excitement and ennui of rehearsal, then going into the home straight of being in a real theatre rather than just a church hall.

Sorting the technical stuff seemed to have taken forever. Velma knew she should be more patient, should be taking more of an interest in that side of things. The guys on the team worked their backsides off getting the practical aspects right and there were plenty of them in this show. Somehow thinking about the nuts and bolts just seemed to get in the way of what she felt was real theatre. People with their feet on a stage, reaching out to those with their bums on the seats. Strip all the lights and sound equipment and props away, and it was as simple as that.

A small tattoo on the door brought Velma’s thoughts back from performance to reality. “Come in.”

“Just wanted to say ‘break a leg.’” Freddie Wright, the director, put his head round the door, his usual smile not entirely hiding his nerves. There was a lot riding on this production, for all of them. Musicals had a habit of failing, even productions of something as seemingly gilt-edged as this one.

“I’ll ignore the cliche and take all the good wishes lying behind it.” Velma smiled. A lot of affection existed between director and star. They’d known each other since University days, when third year Freddie had taken this seemingly innocent young fresher under his wing. A lot of water had passed under the bridge-or been passed over the parapet on drunken nights-since then.

“You’ll be swell.” Freddie grinned.

“I’ll be great. I’ll have the whole world on a plate.” Velma resisted putting the tune to the words. “Maybe.”

“No time for doubts. Or if it is, they have to be gone for the preview night. Brighton expects and so do I.” Freddie gave a mock salute. “Just off to give Roxie the pep talk as well.”

“Not one for Billy Flynn?” Velma returned the salute by rising and giving a deep curtsey, one that would probably mean readjusting her tights afterwards. Bloody stupid things, seams.

“Nah. He’s the least worried of the lot of you. Done the role four times, amateur through to pro. Could do it in his sleep.”

“Sometimes it seems that’s just how he is doing it…” Velma’s voice followed the director out into the corridor. She’d just got the left seam to a ramrod straight perfection on her left calf when the stage manager’s runner came along, knocking on the door.

“Five minutes, Mr. Yardley.”

“Thank you.” For a moment, a dreadfully long vulnerable moment, Francis Yardley remembered who he really was. Not Liza Minnelli or Chita Rivera, just a bloke from Stoke Newington who happened to have both a brain and a pair of pins to match Cyd Charisse’s. One who’d talked his way into a university production of Oklahoma during his fresher year, and had turned out to be a more than acceptable Curly McLain to an utterly appalling Laurey Williams. It had been a modest start, but a start nonetheless.

Curly McLain had led to Billy Flynn in Chicago-yeah, he’d played that part as well, second year at university. By the time he’d finished, the passable second class degree under his belt had been joined by a range of amateur roles. Freddie was starting to fly by then, getting his directorial feet under the table in the provinces. He’d taken Francis along with him, bypassing back and even front rows of the chorus, and heading straight for Evelyn Oakleigh. You rarely got a better start, even if Evelyn Oakleigh, Billy Crocker, Velma Kelly, wasn’t a natural progression.

“Overture and beginners.” The disembodied voice moved around backstage, hollering the lines which got the adrenaline flowing, penetrating to the most meagre of the dressing rooms and fading away into the depths of the labyrinth. “Overture and beginners.” It came through the crack where the door wasn’t quite closed and brought Francis back to the present with a bump. That was his call and he needed to get his arse in gear.

Another glance in the mirror and a last deep breath. Off with Francis, on with Velma, and off to the wings.

HIS LEADING MAN – KIMBERLY GARDNER

David Sullivan liked parties. He really did. And as L.A. Parties went, this was a damn fine one. Beautiful house on the beach, beautiful night with warm fragrant breezes, dozens of networking opportunities almost literally within touching distance and, oh yeah, some of the finest man-flesh he’d seen since his arrival in southern California three days ago, all combined to make this evening’s gathering a pretty sweet deal for an all around nobody and newcomer to the movie business like himself.

“Hey, Sully, look over there. Isn’t that what’s-his-name?” Gavin Collier nudged his arm.

Vodka sloshed over the back of David’s hand, narrowly missing his jacket sleeve. He followed the direction of his friend’s gaze toward a knot of extremely attractive men all laughing and talking. “Which one?”

“The gorgeous one. God, do I have to point? Right there.”

Everyone at this party was gorgeous, but David didn’t bother to say so. For that matter, everyone he’d seen in L.A. was gorgeous. It must be an unwritten rule or something that you had to be a hottie to reside within the city limits.

“I still don’t know who you mean, Gav.” David sipped his vodka tonic.

“He was in Quentin Tarantino’s last film. I can’t remember his name, but I know you know who I mean.”

“Sure, Quentin Tarantino. Whatever.” David scanned the crowded terrace. Mmm, the eye-candy was out in force tonight. He followed the movements of a petite young man in skin-tight jeans and midriff-baring t-shirt as he broke away from one group of partiers and drifted toward another.

David had had his eye on the little cutie since he and Gavin had stepped out onto the terrace. That was thirty minutes ago and so far he hadn’t stuck with any particular man or woman for more than a few minutes at a stretch. No, David decided, taking another sip, the little hottie was most definitely on his own. Thank you God.

Tossing back the remainder of his drink, David set down his empty glass and touched Gavin’s elbow. “See that guy over there?”

Gavin nodded. “Mmm, I certainly do. He looks delicious. Think I’d like to peel him out of those jeans and lick him all over.”

“Sorry, man, I saw him first, so that means the licking rights are all mine.” He grinned. “I’m going over to talk to him. And hopefully leave with him, so if I don’t see you later, I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Going to ask if he wants to audition for you?” The question was accompanied by a salacious wink.

David laughed. “Perv. I never use my career credentials to get laid.”

Gavin grinned. “Yeah well, that’s because your credentials and five bucks might get you a latte at Starbucks, but that’s about it.”

“Fuck off,” David said good-naturedly.

“Gavin, there you are. And David, it’s great to see you.” Christine Ferrar, Gavin’s sister and the party’s hostess, appeared seemingly from nowhere. Rising on her toes, she kissed David’s cheek then thumbed lipstick from the corner of his mouth. “I’m so glad you could make it, sweetie.” She turned to her brother. “How’s the seminar going? McKee is fabulous, isn’t he? I’m telling you, once you’ve taken his seminar, you will never watch movies the same way again.”

“We aren’t taking McKee’s seminar, Sissy. I told you that.” Gavin rattled the ice in his glass.

“Did you?” She blinked wide blue eyes. “Oh. Well, I would have sworn that’s what you said. Well, you should. You both should. He really is fabulous.”

“You’ve taken his seminar?” With one eye on Christine, David watched as his little brunet hottie leaned in and laughed up at a tall, gray-haired man in a cream-colored jacket.

Damn. That was so not good.

“Me? No, I don’t go in for that sort of thing.” She laughed, a lovely musical sound like the tinkle of fine crystal. “But that’s what everyone says, so there must be some truth in it, right?”

Gray-hair slid his arm around Hottie’s trim waist and tugged him in close.

Crap.

“Gavin, sweetie, you don’t mind if I steal David for a minute, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, Christine slid her arm through David’s. “I have someone I’m dying to introduce you to. I just know he would be perfect for yours and Gavin’s film.”

“Actually, Chris,” Gavin said, “David was just about to-”

But if his sister heard him, no one would have guessed it. As Christine turned on her stiletto, Gavin shrugged as if to say, “sorry, man, I tried.” David gave a small shake of his head that said no big deal as she towed him across the terrace and in through the sliding glass door.

He found himself in a massive grown-up playroom replete with sixty-inch plasma TV, antique jukebox, pinball machine, pool table, and fully-stocked wet-bar.

The playroom was even more crowded than the terrace and the roar of dozens of conversations competed with blaring music, something techno with a driving bass that David didn’t recognize, raising the indoor decibel level to near ear-splitting. He bid a silent goodbye to his chances with the brunet hottie and allowed himself to be led, or dragged, through the crowd by Gavin’s sister.

“This guy is gorgeous,” Christine yelled above the din. “I mean literally to die for. And he’s a real sweetie too. I just know you two are going to hit it off.”

Uh-oh. Inside David’s head alarm bells began to shriek. Beware of scary fix-up attempt at ten o’clock.

He tried to gently extract his arm from her clutches. “Chris, as much as I appreciate the intro, I really have to-”

But just as she’d done to her brother, Christine ignored him. Big surprise there. Gavin’s sister was nothing if not determined, which probably had a lot to do with how she’d gotten to be a major player in the entertainment press with a nationally syndicated column and a blog that logged a ton of hits every week.

With no choice short of physical force, he followed docilely along until she pulled him to a stop. Her hand remained firmly attached to his arm, as if she was sure he might bolt if she let go. “Kieran, sweetie, here’s the guy I was telling you about.”

Kieran?

The alarms in David’s brain went instantly to full red alert, nuclear meltdown imminent. It couldn’t be.

But yes, yes it was.

“David, this is Kieran Reilly. Kieran, honey, this is David Sullivan. Kieran is the star of that new cable series, What a Drag. I’m sure you’ve seen it. It’s like Sex in the City except with drag queens.”

“Cross-dressers,” Kieran corrected. His eyes had gone very wide; those beautiful, intensely blue eyes.

God, how could he have forgotten how blue Kieran’s eyes were.

“Hmm?” Christine lifted one finely arched dark brow.

“Cross-dressers. The only drag queen on the show is Cleo. The rest of us are cross-dressers.”

“Oh. Well. Drag queens, cross-dressers. In any case, it’s a fabulous show.” She touched Kieran’s shoulder. “And the shoes! Honey, I would die to get my hands on some of those shoes. They are simply divine!”

Kieran laughed, but it sounded a little forced. “Tell me about it. You should see my shoe closet these days.”

Christine laughed too. Her gaze was sharp as she glanced from Kieran to David and gave a little nod. “Well, I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about, so I’ll just scurry along. Can’t neglect my other guests, you know.”

And with that she faded into the crowd, leaving them alone.

There was a moment of awkward silence where they just stood there looking at each other. Well, Kieran was looking. David, for his part, devoured Kieran with his eyes. He felt like a man who had been stranded in the desert, dying of thirst, who had now suddenly been presented with a cool, clear waterfall in the form of his ex-boyfriend, the only man in his life who had ever successfully won and then broken his heart, a heart Kieran still held, whether he knew it or not.

“So,” Kieran said, dragging out the single syllable. “Which one of us is going to tell her that she didn’t just make the match of the century?”

“I was sort of waiting for you to do it. I don’t really know her that well.”

“Don’t look at me.” Kieran sipped his drink. “Sorry, but I didn’t want to see our past mistakes splashed across the front of Tine’s blog tomorrow morning.”

The barb struck home, sudden and sharp. “Is that what it was, a past mistake?”

“You know what I mean.” Kieran lowered his voice. His gaze scanned the immediate vicinity as if he was afraid they would be overheard.

“No, I don’t think I do.” David looked around. Suddenly he wanted a drink very badly, if only to have something to do with his hands. His damn hands that kept wanting to reach out and touch Kieran, maybe just to see if he was real. Or maybe to pull him close and see if they still fit together as well as they once had.

Because he was afraid that they would indeed fit just as well, maybe better, he balled his hands into fists and stuck them in the pockets of his linen jacket.

Kieran looked so damn good, so damn touchable, with his dark hair falling in wild curls around his perfect, heart-shaped face, his gorgeous eyes dramatically shadowed and lined, and his lips, full and wet and begging to be tasted.

Fool.

Those pretty lips turned down at the corners and Kieran’s slim shoulders sagged. “Look, David, I didn’t mean… That is, can we start over?” he set his glass down on a nearby table and held out his hand. “Hi, my name’s Kieran. Nice party, isn’t it?” He smiled that heart-stopping smile that still haunted David’s dreams. “It’s a little warm in here, don’t you think? Would you maybe like to take a walk outside?”

For a moment David couldn’t breathe. He stared at Kieran’s extended hand. Oh, this was such a bad idea. He shrugged. “Sure. Let’s walk out by the pool.”

Because he so much wanted to, rather than take that hand, he turned and led the way back through the crowd. Opening the sliding door, he stood aside and waited for Kieran to go ahead. Though he promised himself he would not look, his gaze was inexorably drawn to the tempting swell of Kieran’s ass under shimmering blue silk.

The outfit was some kind of tunic over loose-fitting pants, both were the color of sea and sky on the most brilliant of summer days. The tunic fell to mid-thigh and should have concealed more than it revealed. But thanks to the drape of the silk, David could see every perfectly delineated muscle, the sleek line of slim hips and lean thighs, the trim waist and, oh yeah, the delectable roundness of Kieran’s tight little butt as he stepped through the door and onto the terrace.

Once outside, David half-turned toward the bar. “Do you want a drink?”

Kieran shook his head. “I’m good. But if you want one I’ll wait right here while you get it.”

“No. No, that’s fine. I don’t really need one either. Let’s just walk.”

Rather than heading toward the pool, Kieran gestured toward a path that led around the side of the house. “Let’s go this way. Do you mind? There are some people over there that I’d rather not have to talk to.”

It was on the tip of David’s tongue to ask if he himself didn’t fall into that category, but he swallowed the question back down. It was a beautiful night and beautiful nights were not made for confrontation.

The air was balmy with a light breeze off the ocean and no sign of the rain that had been predicted earlier in the day. As they rounded the side of the house, the scent of flowers tickled David’s nose and soon he knew why. He found himself entering a lush garden with profusions of flowers blooming everywhere. They spilled from beds and speared out of pots and scented the darkness with their rich perfume. A gravel path twisted around bushes and under trellises heavy with climbing roses and lit with tiny fairy lights. In the center of it all shimmered a pool of water with a small waterfall burbling over rocks at the far end, its musical splash blending with the crash of waves against the distant beach.

Kieran led the way to a small, white wrought iron bench.

He sank down on it with a sigh and, after a moment’s hesitation, David sat next to him.

“I love this place.” Another sigh.

“It’s a great house.” The bench was small, their hips snugged up close, Kieran’s thigh pressed warm and solid along the length of David’s. He shifted, trying to gain some space, but there was nowhere to go.

“It is a nice house, but I meant this place, this garden. It’s peaceful. Sitting here you can almost forget that there’s anyone else around, maybe even in the whole world.”

It was true. Although they were not all that far from the terrace, the sounds of the party were little more than a distant murmur, nearly inaudible under the splash of the tiny waterfall and the pounding of the surf.

It was beautiful and very, very romantic.

“Is peace what you’re looking for?” David asked.

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“You said you like this place because it’s so peaceful. I was just wondering…” He let the question trail off, mostly because he wasn’t sure what exactly he’d been wondering.

“It just gets to be a bit much sometimes, all the people and the cameras and having to watch everything you say. Sometimes you just want to turn it all off and just be.” Kieran laughed a little. “That must sound really odd to you, doesn’t it? I mean, after all the work to get where I am, after all the struggle and disappointment and now… Hell, it sounds odd to me and I’m the one saying it.” He touched the back of David’s hand, very lightly, just with the tips of his fingers. “I didn’t mean what I said before, you know, about past mistakes. I don’t think of our relationship that way.”

David didn’t know what to say. Suddenly he was in the middle of a minefield where a single misstep or unwise move might result in catastrophe. So he just sat there, saying nothing, not moving and almost not breathing. Just being, and, yeah, it was nice.

“Do you?” Kieran asked very quietly.

“Do I what?”

“Think of it that way, as a mistake?”

Yes. It was a horrible mistake, the worst mistake he’d ever made. But not the relationship. No, the mistake had been letting Kieran Reilly slip out of his life.

Beside him, Kieran shifted, started to rise. Clearly he’d taken David’s silence as an affirmative. “I’m sorry. We should just-”

“No.” David caught Kieran’s hand and tugged him back onto the bench. “Don’t go.”

In the reflected light from the fountain Kieran’s eyes were luminous, the blue so dark it looked black.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the pitch black under the gatehouse the several pints of inferior porter he had drunk at the theatre made their presence known again. The night swayed about him and the world receded, until all his reality was the horse hair and leather beneath his hands. Falling asleep on my feet. Just the state of weakness most likely to attract the devil, or his minions… Or my father.

There was a more rational threat. As he took off Sultan’s tack, fumbled around in the dark making sure the weary animal was supplied with hay and water, the thought of Ambrose Latham drove away all other terrors. “You wastrel,” his father would bellow, loud enough to echo in the kitchens and make all the servants sit up in glee. “You mother’s milk-sop boy with your clever friends and your expensive women. Do you think I built up this family’s fortune only to have it squandered by you, sirrah? Do you?”

Having drunk, Sultan nudged his shoulder, leaving a smudge of dirty water and horse-snot on the jonquil silk of his jacket, pulling him up again from his reverie. He still had to get inside without being seen, and it was now less late at night than very early in the morning. If his luck was bad, those very servants might have already begun to wake. They could be standing, watching him as he rolled through the front door with his wig in his pocket and his blond hair singed and sooty from sitting too close to Theo Tidy’s spike of tallow candles.

What did you expect, sir, when you sent me to University? That I would slake my appetite for learning in a mere three years, and be content to rusticate thereafter, among a company whose highest pinnacle of wit is to describe their new carriage for four hours together? I honour you for opening my mind to a wider world, but I cannot now go back to the provincial concerns from which you raised me.

A small pain, dull and heavy as a shotgun pellet, caught him just below the breastbone at the thought. Truth was he didn’t want to be a disappointment to Ambrose Latham, Fourth Earl of Clitheroe. He didn’t want to be a drain on his family’s resources or a blot on their reputation. But, forbidden as he was to join army or church, in case George should crack his head hunting and a spare heir be required, what else was there? If he could find some subject on which to become an authority, perhaps? If he could get himself invited by the Royal Society to give talks, his erudition the toast of newspapers and coffee-houses all over London? But what subject interested both the learned gentlemen and himself? They had no taste for plays.

Annoyed by his own hopeless thoughts, Charles nudged Sultan’s nose towards the basket of hay, reeled out of the door. By God, did he only have a choice of pathos or fear? Was he to be a coward as well as an embarrassment?

Four steps out of the stables, away from the horses’ drowsy whickering, and the answer seemed to be “yes.” Silence arched over the world like a collector’s dome pressed over a doomed insect. The shift of pebbles beneath his feet sounded obscenely loud. Something snapped a twig as it walked beneath the distant oaks, and it might have been a pistol shot. He tried to think of Theo—actor manager, wit, raconteur. If he could only have some of Theo’s relentless cheer to armour him now. It was foolish, childish, to find himself with clammy hands, muffling his breath in case it made him miss the faint noise of the creature shambling behind him… Oh damn!

He stopped, rejected the thought of returning to the stables to sleep. He was not a coward! Summoning up Theo’s filthiest anecdote, the one he didn’t fully understand, he put his head down and walked—walked mind you—out to the drive.

As he turned towards the house, Theo failed him. Charles’ imagination populated the lane behind him with horrors. What if they did exist? In this silence, anything that fed on blood should sense his heart speeding in his chest. Would they make a noise as they prowled? Would he hear anything before the creature’s hand came out of the darkness, dragged him to its insatiable mouth?

No, it was nonsense. Absolute tosh. No rational man could possibly believe… And yet, would the Prussians really send officials to dig up graves, make observations and write reports if there wasn’t something in it?

He swallowed, panting, and thought about what his father would have to say about this. But even that threat failed. Truth was he’d be glad if Clitheroe slammed open the door, lantern in hand, and gave him a piece of his mind. Please do, father. A nice long peroration to follow me up to bed and banish my own thoughts. Come down and shout at me. Please.

But the façade of the house remained shut. Did the marble portico and the sweep of stairs up to the entrance look gloomier than they had? Well, what of it? The moon must simply be going down.

Stopping again, he bit his lip until the blood flowed. Then turned. He clutched at his sword hilt, and slowly, shakily let it go. Yes, the moon had gone behind cloud. The trees of the park sighed in the wind, and that man-like pale shimmer beneath them… was only the statue of General Percival Latham attired in the robes of a Roman senator.

Leaning over to prop his hands on his knees in the weakness of relief, Charles gave a small spasm of laughter. As he did so the wind strengthened, the trees roared, and terror rose out of the ground around him like a fog. His breath hung white in the black air. Cold bit through alcoholic haze, jacket and flesh, piercing him to the bone. The skin across his shoulders and down his arms rippled as the hair stood up, and the little voice of reason within him blew out like a candle flame.

Chest heaving, his shallow breath scorching his throat, he turned again. There was something wrong with the house; darkness oozed over it like a coating of oil. A shadow sucked away from the stone and came flooding out towards him in a whispering tide. His legs locked. His bowels froze. He lifted an arm to push the black tide away, and so it touched his hand first. Burning cold. Faintly gritty. Sticky as cobwebs. It slid up his fingers, around his palm, burrowed beneath his cuff. Clammy strands touched the inside of his elbow, the pit of his arm, and then it flowed over his face.

No! Oh God! He pinched his eyes and mouth shut. Strands of it, like the tendrils of long filthy hair, brushed across his lips. Then something groaned by his ear. He heard the wet noise of an opened mouth. Shuddering, he let out a little ‘nnn!’ of terror, groping for his sword, his hand pushing through the cloud as if through sand. The thing by his face giggled, and dust pattered on his eyelids. He bit down hard on the mounting desire to scream. God forbid he should breathe it in!

Dimly, beyond the voice whispering with gleeful hatred in his ear, came a sound like racing hooves. Was it the wind or his own blood stoppered in his breathless body thundering in his ears? Dizziness swept through him and his locked knees gave way. He staggered forward, his lungs screaming for air, agony shooting along his ribs, and thought again of Theo; that half-joking, half-challenging offer of a kiss. Maybe he should have taken the man up on it after all. Sin aside, it seemed a shame to die, never having been kissed.

His fingertips grazed his sword hilt. A final push and he could close clumsy fingers around the hilt. He drew the blade, and as he did so something hit him in the back so hard it lifted him off his feet. For a moment he thought he would crack between the two forces like a louse between fingernails. Then the night air was clean again, and with a confused rush, a red pain in his cheek and shoulder, he was suddenly lying on the drive with a face full of gravel and two men pulling at his coat.

“What? What? Did you see it?” He batted their hands away, scrambled up and made a frantic circle, searching for the thing. Was it gone? Let it be gone!

Doctor Floyd’s landau stood with lanterns swinging and open doors, all glorious green leather and brass, just in front of him. Beside him, Dr. Floyd—almost a perfect sphere in his greatcoat—reached out a glacially cautious hand as if to restrain him. Charles turned, grabbed the man by his black velvet collar and shouted again, “Did you see it!”

A colourless, fat man, whose professional life seemed to have prematurely embalmed him, Floyd leaned away. He blinked, slowly as a torpid lizard, while propriety and self preservation warred behind his eyes.

“We almost run you over, Mr. Charles.” Floyd’s groom spoke with the reassuring tone he used to his horses. Protectively, he interposed his beaming red face between Charles and his master, put a gnarled but gentle hand on Charles’ wrist. “What you doing out here in the road in the dark anyway? Come to get us, was you? You’d’ve done better wait in the hall.”

Charles shook his head, tried to speak and could not force words past the chattering of his teeth. His grip on the Doctor’s coat gave way, and he would have fallen if the two men had not moved in and caught him in their practiced grip.

“The blanket, Sam, and less of your chatter. Here, Mr. Charles, take a drink of this.”

A heavy blanket around his shoulders and a long drink of brandy later, Charles let Sam tuck him into the corner of the carriage, concentrated on trying to stop trembling. As he did so, Floyd clambered in beside him.

“I’m most terribly sorry, Mr. Charles. Your brother’s message was so urgent. We weren’t expecting… And I must say I was looking towards the house. I saw nothing in the road until Jewel clipped you as she passed.”

Charles wrapped his arms around himself and chafed his biceps to get some warmth into them. Cold radiated out from the marrow of his bones. But the old felted blanket around him glowed in the lantern light with blue, yellow and red stripes, speckled with dog hair. He basked in wet dog smell, brass polish, leather wax, and Floyd’s orange-flower-water cologne. These things and the terror that had passed could not exist in the same world, surely?

“A cloud,” he said, in a reedy, shocked voice. “There was a cloud. A black cloud. It… rushed at me, and…”

“Most probably the dust cloud from the landau, sir.” Sam spoke over his shoulder as he flicked the whip encouragingly above Jewel’s ears.

“No it…”

“Yes, that would account for it. Undoubtedly why we neither of us saw the other coming.” Floyd nodded, fished out a handkerchief and wiped his cheeks and forehead with fingers only a little less unsteady than Charles’. “You, um. You fell upon your head, sir. And, mm, if my nose doesn’t guide me wrongly, have already imbibed a fair amount of… mm, conviviality. No doubt you are also distressed about your father. I think we need look no further for the cause of a temporary, understandable, overturning of the wits.”

“That’s not how it…” Charles clutched the blanket more closely, trapped a pawprint between his knee and the seat. The dried mud flaked off and scattered to the floor, and a convulsive choke of disgust forced its way out of him at the patter of falling soil. He smeared it underfoot, looked down blankly for a moment before the words finally penetrated his understanding.

The landau swept through the great curve before the marble steps of the portico. Lights now glimmered in the hall, and as they drew up George flung open the door. His candle showed a white, sickened face, its distinguished lines set in strain.

“My father?” Charles rose to his feet, holding tight to the calash of the landau as it sprayed gravel with the speed of its stop. A fist of dread tightened beneath his breastbone and the waves of shivering returned full force. “What’s wrong with…?”

George ran down the stairs. The light shone on his open shirt and bare feet as his scarlet silk banyan trailed behind him. His uncovered hair shone silver-gilt. It was the first time in years Charles had seen his brother so careless of his appearance, and his wild unconscious beauty added a new terror to the night.

Flinging down his candle, George caught Dr. Floyd as he bent to retrieve his bag and hauled him bodily out onto the grass. Floyd raised an eyebrow at the treatment, while George in turn gaped at the sight of Charles leaping down beside him.

“Oh I do have a brother then? No, say nothing, this isn’t the time. You’d best come too.”

Charles followed his brother’s impatient strides past the stone pineapples on the sweep of white stairs. Their footsteps echoed and re-echoed like a volley of rifle-fire against the chequered black and white marble of the entrance hall. A candelabrum set on a table within lit Doric pillars and the portraits of his ancestors with a bubble of amber light. The door up from the kitchen stood partially open. Blurs of white faces, above white shifts, showed ghostlike in the crack.

On the landing, George’s valet Sykes stood waiting with a candlestick in his hand, his cravat lopsided and his chin shadowed by an aggressive growth of black stubble. Another twist in the garrotte of fear about Charles’ throat. They were normally both of them so impeccable. “George! What’s…?”

“Just,” George flung up a hand, “be quiet.” He took the candle and whispered to Sykes. “Stand outside the door. Mrs. Latham’s rest is not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Should Mrs. Sheldrake awaken, you may inform her, but you will not permit her to come in.”

“I understand.”

They hurried down the passage, their feet silent now on the runner of blue and white carpet. Outside the windows at either end of the corridor, the night pressed inwards. As they stopped outside his father’s room, George dropped a hand to the doorknob and bent that exposed, vulnerable head. “I feel I ought to warn you. It isn’t… Ah. Well. See for yourself.”

Candlelight caught the cream and gold plastered walls, glittered like the ends of pins in the tassels of the bed-curtains and the gold embroidered comforter that lay in a kicked off crumple against the claw-footed legs of the bed. The fire had been made and burned clear yellow in the grate.

Soberly, imagination finally at bay, Charles did what his soldier ancestors would have expected of him. He walked forward into the line of fire, looked down.

Ambrose Latham, Earl of Clitheroe, lay on his back in his nightgown, his limbs fettered by the sheets, his swollen face purple. His open mouth brimmed with vomit. Across his nose, lips and chin the mark of a woman’s hand stood out in livid white. His nostrils were stopped with earth.

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

Chapter One

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

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

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

“How does it feel to have my man-meat shoved oh-so-deeply up your man-pussy, kid?” I slightly changed the angle of my hips so that I was deep-diving my cock up his asshole from an entirely different direction than the last time.

“Feels good.” His naturally deep voice was made all the more sexy by being punctuated with his little grunts that interrupted his speaking cadence.

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the very best?”

“Eleven,” he said. “All of your fucks are elevens, except for your twelves and thirteens.”

“Flattery will get you a continuing good fuck, kid.” I was more than eager to do my best by him, and not just because I promised his father.

I like Mallory very much. I like fucking him very much. What’s more, I like the feel of his dick each and every time I let it plug my asshole, or drill through my tonsils and into my throat. My enjoyment, surprisingly enough, was experienced even the very first time I let him have at me, his cock having never before been up an asshole before it was up mine. My asshole admittedly so jaded to fucking by hard cock, by the time that Mallory’s young dick was in it, I was genuinely amazed by how his first–time efforts somehow managed to conjure pleasure for me beyond what some truly experienced dicks had managed before his. The kid has turned out to be a natural at getting fucked and at fucking.

“You’ve surprised me by how well you’ve taken to packing shit up my asshole, and getting your shit packed by me in return,” I said. Certainly, I never saw it coming, and had been more than a little reluctant to take on the not always pleasurable task of initiating a novice into my way of life, seen by many as pure and unadulterated debauchery.

“I wanted to be fucked by you, and to fuck you, from the first moment I saw the picture on dad’s grand piano of you and my father at the Countess Marchensa’s Grand Summer Ball in Venice,” he said, not able to get it all out in one smooth sentence because of his attending guttural gasps caused by my pumping dick continuing to stick him. “There was just something about you, almost naked, except for a few leather straps and a thong, which gave me a boner from the get-go.”

“You do know that your father was afraid you’d come to look upon all of this as deviant behavior, and leave him a second time?”

“If I’d been eighteen sooner, I would have been knocking on his door a long time before mom took her dive off that yacht in Cannes. I always knew dad could offer me more, by way of fun and games, than could my hypocritical mother who locked me away in the equivalent of a monastery while she went out and played the whore.”

“How did your asshole survive private school?” I put my dick fully inside him, once again, so that my sable-brown pubic hair pressed indents into the inner curves of his buttocks.

“I always knew I was saving myself for someone and something better than anything my fumbling peers had to offer, and I was strong enough to fend off the advances of even the biggest bully.” Mallory gave his ass a skillful roll, like I’d taught him, which sensuously slid his asshole around the bolt of my stuck dick. The kid, from the beginning, has been a fast learner, and he retains pretty much all he’s learned. If his sexuality had been on hold during his adolescence in that Swiss Catholic boys’ school, he’s making up for it by blossoming in the world his father has now opened for him.

For the minute, we quit talking and pretty much started communicating merely via a series of our grunts and groans, moans and sighs, accompanied by the increasing speed and cacophony resulting from the speed-up of my fucking his butt.

My nuts had elevated from any semblance of low-hang to look like burls configured at the base of my fucking tree-trunk dick. Mallory’s sizable nuts were, likewise, gathered about the roots of his impressive erection.

“I’m getting close,” I told him in language not completely garbled by my swelling pleasure. “If you want to get off with me, you might want to start doing some speedy hand-stroking of your stiff dick.”

“I don’t think I’m going to need any hand-stroking,” he said. “I think it’s going to be another orgasm for me with nothing but your cock fucked up my butt to do the deed.”

It had happened with him and me before. I was always flattered when it did, since I seldom have it happen to someone I fuck, and it has never happened to me with someone’s cock up my asshole. There is a definite satisfaction in knowing that what I do, I do so well that the obvious stud on the other end of my dick is excited enough to need nothing more than me inside of him to jump-start his orgasm.

“Hold tight to the bed, buddy,” I said, “because I’m just about ready to finish my … ohhhh, Jesus, fuck! … ride.”

I wasn’t kidding, either. His asshole was just so marvelously wrapped about my dick, when I was fully slotted inside him … and it was just so reluctant to let my prick free, when I pulled out. Despite all of the natural lubricant with which I’d soaked the inside of his anus — my cock a profuse natural leaker — his asshole never seemed any looser. In fact, quite the opposite, as if my pre-cum somehow converted to alum, and made the whole corridor of his fucked rectum pucker.

“Come your cum inside me!” he commanded. “I want it. I need it. Fuck me … ugh .. ugh …. Screw me! Fucking-A, drown me in your spunk!”

“Oh, shit!” I said and slotted my dick all of the way, leaving it there, my belly locked tightly against his sweaty ass cheeks.

I held to him tightly, dropped my head back on my neck so that my Adam’s apple pointed directly toward the canopy directly above us.

“I’m coming” I said, as if there could be any doubt about it in the face of my powerful eruption. My nuts were hydrants expelling my seed, through my stiff dick, with the intensity of water under pressure through a fire hose meant to douse an in-progress runaway conflagration.

“Oh, fuck … yes … yes … yes!” Mallory said.

I knew from the way his asshole suddenly grasped tightly to my cum-spewing dick that his prick was in eruption, leaving the orange Draqual sheet soaked beneath his chest and belly.

Our mutual orgasms left us panting as hard and as loud as two athletes having just successfully completed a fast-run marathon.

It was hard for me to imagine, at that point, that Mallory had come to me a virgin and ended up already such an expert in the short time we’d been together. He was and remains a willing student, and I enjoy our time together. He has held my interest more than others have, which says a good deal about his attractiveness, his versatility, his capacity to experiment, and his considerable charm. If he was desirable — and he was — before my cock and I had at him, he is even more desirable now, albeit in a different way, in his possession of skills, thanks to me, that leave grown men begging for more of him.

I’ve never put much value on innocence and virginity, mostly feeling both more bother than they’re worth; although, yes, I do know people who put great store in the pair. Frankly, though, I would rather take up with Mallory, now trained by me in the ways of pleasing a man, than when I did take him on as a special favor to his father. If not for Count Paul von Burel’s specific request of a favor from me, I would likely have steered clear of his heir-apparent altogether. Firstly, Mallory is the son and heir of Paul; the Burel family one of the few with more money and social connections than mine. Secondly, Mallory was so obviously out of his element in the party setting in which I first met him.

“I’d like you to meet my son,” Paul had introduced us; I extended my hand and took the clammy fingers of someone with the appearance of a hen realizing there was more than one fox loose in the chicken coop. “Mallory, this is the long-time friend about whom I told you. I look forward to the two of you becoming fast friends.”

My left eyebrow actually arched quizzically, wondering if Paul was really offering up his own flesh and blood to me and my dick on a silver platter, or if I’d merely misread the signs. His smile, though obviously sincere, lacked any real clarification of his intention.

Mallory’s grip, although damp at the time, was firm and, thank God, not a ‘see-how-butch-I-can-be’ squeeze. His eyes are chocolate brown, matching his hair which drops over his forehead in a low-hanging leftward swoop touching thick brown strands to the tips of his lush brown lashes. His cheeks are dimpled. His mouth is full and sensuous. His chin has as small cleft that will likely disappear if and when his face takes on any excess weight. His Adam’s apple is evident without being disconcertingly so. His body appeared obviously fit beneath a bespoke steel-grey suit and charcoal-grey silk shirt, the latter opened at its collar to reveal a hairless vee of tanned and silky young-man chest.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother,” I said.

He grimaced only slightly. Jenny Danson (nee von Burel, nee Lensbrook, nee de Chichillino) had disappeared one night, off a yacht anchored at Cannes during the film festival. Her fourth husband, film star Craig Danson, reported her missing, telling police his wife had a little too much to drink at dinner and had headed to their cabin for a nap. She was later found drowned, her death making the tabloids and, much to Paul’s chagrin, conjuring up all of the old scandal surrounding their divorce; her having called and proved him a libertine in open court in order to get full custody of their son, despite all of Paul’s considerable money spent, and favors called in, to prevent that from happening.

That Paul had murdered his recalcitrant wife wasn’t off the playing board, as far as the group I ran around with was concerned. A lot of money — everyone knowing that anything can be had for a price — makes killing even a more viable solution for us than it is for ordinary folks unable to buy their way out of anything. More than once, Paul confided in me that, knowing what he’d quickly come to know, he would have been far better off disposing of his wife before he ever let her get as far as she had. The only thing that saved her, even then, was her being the mother of Mallory; although even that rationalization for her salvation might have worn thin in the end. Certainly, Jenny’s convenient exit from the scene made Paul a helluva lot happier, especially with Mallory back in his life.

“Your son here for a visit, is he?” I asked Paul when Mallory was sent by his father to retrieve a bottle from one of the several cases of private-stock Chateau von Burel champagne brought and left cooling in the host’s large walk-in fridge.

I was tempted to add a comment about how the kid definitely had his father’s good-looks — when actually Mallory’s dark sultry looks took more after those of his Italian mother than they did after Paul’s cool and pale Slavic handsomeness — but was saved from it by Paul saying, “I want you to take him to my lodge in Romania and fuck him every which way from Sunday.”

“Beg your pardon?” I’m hardly ever at a loss for words, but I was at that particular instance.

“Though his mother was a slut, she kept him way too sheltered for him, now, to adapt all that easily to my life-style, to your life-style, to our friends’ lifestyle—without a little help. I’m counting on you to give him all the help he’ll need to fit in. Now that he’s back in my life, I don’t want to lose him, again, because of any sophomoric mores he picked up in that stickup-its-ass conservative Catholic private school he attended in Switzerland.”

“Jesus, Paul!” If I sounded reluctant, I was. Innocence isn’t something I purposely seek out. More often than not, as previously mentioned, I find it far more bother than it’s worth. Paul and his son would have been better served by several other people in the room, any one of whom would have appreciated, more than I, the invite to have at Mallory that his father was offering. I said as much.

“I want him broken in by a teacher, not a lecher,” Paul said. “I need someone I know he finds physically attractive, and who has the finesse to capitalize on that without sending the kid running scared into the woods.”

“Not everyone I’ve bedded has enjoyed the experience,” I reminded him. Flattered as I was, and knowing the unsatisfied people to whom I referred were as scarce as hen’s teeth, I was still reluctant to get involved. “Have you thought of turning him over to one of our very experienced lady friends?”

“I don’t want him soured on gay sex by having his first sex with a cunt,” Paul said.

“You’re sure he’s not already put it to pussy, or to male asshole? He’s exceedingly attractive, Paul, and we both know what can happen in those private boarding schools, whether they’re Catholic and in stick-up-its-ass Switzerland, or anywhere else in the wide world.”

“He says he’s virgin, and I believe him.”

“Not every virgin takes to cock up his asshole,” I said; then, to prove I was always willing to shift my own sexual role — although Paul was the last person to whom I needed prove it — I added, “or put virgin cock up someone else’s asshole.”

“He’s my son,” Paul said. “I know he can be brought along by just the right person. Meaning, by you. Are you going to hem and haw and lose brownie points, or are you going to be gracious and

accept the chance to do me the good deed I’m asking?”

“And if I fail?”

He shrugged. “If you can’t make the kid enjoy cock up his

ass, and his cock up yours, then I doubt anyone can.”

I already had more than enough money and social position so that neither needed supplementation by Paul, but he was a long-time friend, and it wasn’t like he was asking me to trek the swamplands of Botswana.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, Monica, it’s Eric. Is he there?”

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

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

“Heck if I know. He arrived this way and hasn’t snapped out of it so far. His door is closed, and that’s always a bad sign. Did you cut him off or something?”

Eric chuckled. “No, but we’ve been real busy with both Peter and Jeff away. Maybe he just found the pressure too much.”

“Well, thank goodness Jeff’s back today,” Monica said with a sigh. “Maybe he can straighten Nick out—oh sorry…” She giggled. “Wrong terminology.”

“Tell me.” Eric laughed. “A grumpy and straight Nick would send me running for the hills.”

Laughing, Monica said, “I’ll put you through.”

After a few beeping sounds, Eric was greeted by an almost churlish, “Nick Fallon.”

“Hi. You sound mad.”

“Hey, Eric…” Nick blew out a long sigh of frustration. “Not mad at you, just some asshole trying to make my life more difficult than it need be.”

“Who’s that?”

“Remember that LAPD cop I had a run in with some time back—Bob Morales?”

“Yeah, I remember. What about him?”

“He’s tryin’ to get my license pulled. The son-of-a-bitch filed a complaint against me.”

“After all this time?” Eric frowned. “On what grounds?”

“On the grounds I withheld evidence in the John Hammond case. He’s saying they could have solved the case with no loose ends still attached if I had been ‘more forthcoming.’ My guess is the jerk’s in trouble with the bosses and he’s looking for a scapegoat—me.”

“How serious is this?”

“Serious enough. Jeff’s not going to be too pleased when I give him the news. I got a call in to Joe French to see if he can help any.”

“Good idea. Listen, I was going to bring you lunch.”

“Sounds good, babe. How about a meat sandwich?”

“A meat sandwich. What kind of meat?”

“You, between my thighs.”

Eric roared. Nick might be in a bad mood, but he could still come up with some good ideas. “I’m flattered,” Eric purred. “After six years together you still want me at lunchtime.”

“Want you all the time,” Nick growled. “When you comin’ over?”

“Let’s see…” Eric looked at his watch. “In about an hour.”

“Terrific. See you then.”

“Bye, lover. Keep those thighs warm for me.” Oops. He hadn’t seen the man enter the gallery, and there was no doubt he’d heard Eric’s last comment. “Good morning,” Eric sang out, trying not to look embarrassed. “If you have any questions, just let me know.”

“Actually, I do have a few questions.” The man approached Eric, smiling. He was about forty, in good shape, wearing cream-colored slacks and a navy blazer Eric guessed was an Armani. A receding hairline did nothing to detract from his overall good looks. “Are you the owner?” the man asked.

“No, that would be Peter Brandon, the owner and the artist.” Eric held out his hand. “Eric Jamieson. I manage the gallery for Peter.”

“Chad Glover.” His handshake was warm and firm. “I own a nightclub and restaurant in San Diego, and I’m looking for some nice art pieces for the reception area. A couple of these New York cityscapes look interesting.”

“Yes, that one looking across Central Park Lake in winter is a favorite of mine,” Eric said.

Glover nodded, his eyes narrowing as he studied the painting. “I also like the one of Brooklyn Bridge. He’s got an incredible talent, hasn’t he? I mean, that looks like real metal.”

“Yes, Peter has an eye for detail, Mr. Glover, and he has a photographic memory.”

“Chad, please. Gene, one of my partners, and myself are originally from New York,” Glover remarked. “We’ve given the club a kind of New York feel—you know, a bit more formal than Californians are used to. So far it’s paid off in the amount of return clients we’ve had. I’d like to continue the theme in the artwork.”

“Both of these are good choices,” Eric murmured, stepping back slightly so as not to crowd the other man. Eric had always believed in the ‘soft sell’ approach. He hated it when sales people were too pushy, especially on a high end item, like one of Peter Brandon’s paintings. If he bought just one, Eric would have made his commission for the week—two, and Nick was going to get much more than a meat sandwich.

“You’re right. It’s hard to choose between them.” Chad’s eyes skimmed over the two framed canvases. “So much strength in the one, and serenity in the other. I guess I’ll just have to take them both.

Yippee! Eric gave a silent cheer. Peter would love this news when he got back.

“Will you take a check, and can you deliver? I’d take them with me, but I’m driving a two-seater, so space is limited.”

Eric smiled. “Yes, on both counts. We have this new fangled machine that will clear your check immediately, and I can drive down to San Diego tomorrow, if that’s all right?”

“Excellent.” Chad pulled his checkbook from his blazer’s inside pocket. “There should be enough in the business account to cover this,” he said as he formed the final zero then signed his name. “Here’s the address.” He handed Eric a business card.

“Above Fourth,” Eric read aloud. “Great name—presuming you are above Fourth Street?”

“We are. The outside bar for the smokers overlooks Fourth.” He smiled at Eric. “Bring a friend with you, stay for lunch. We have an excellent menu, and a chef to do it justice.”

“Thanks, Chad.” Eric returned the man’s smile. “If I can drag my boyfriend away from work, I might be able to bring him with me.”

Eric fed Chad’s check into the machine and tried to not hold his breath as he waited for confirmation of funds. No problem. The check went straight through, the machine sliding out a printed receipt.

“There you are,” he said, handing over the receipt. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow about one o’clock. Is that all right?”

“That’s great.” Chad held out his hand. “Nice doing business with you.”

“Here are some of Peter’s business cards. Perhaps you could put some near where the paintings will hang.”

“Sure.” Chad pocketed the cards after looking at them briefly. “See you tomorrow.”

Eric watched him go, then went over to the desk and pulled out two “Sold” cards. Smiling as he affixed the cards to the frames, he wondered how long it would take Peter to notice them. Not too long, he figured. Nothing much escaped Peter’s attention.

§ § § §

“So how worried should I be about this?” Nick asked his friend Joe French, a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. “I mean, is Morales getting any backing on the complaint he filed?”

“More than he should,” Joe replied. “My question is, why did he wait so long? What triggered this self-righteous outburst?”

“Or who.”

“Yeah, or who.”

“Wanna know what I think?” Nick asked.

“Absolutely.”

“The big cheese, Chief Robertson, doesn’t like me too well, especially after the John Hammond debacle. He practically burst a blood vessel when I asked Morales to set up a sting operation to catch those bastards involved in the ‘snuff’ killings.”

“You know, Nick, I never heard a word about that until you told me. I figured something was up, ‘cause Morales was going around the department like he’d been well and truly chewed out.”

“Well, I don’t want to think that Robertson’s protecting that asshole Forsythe, but the way he went off when I mentioned Harold Forsythe’s name, gave me pause.”

Joe chuckled. “I can believe it, what with Forsythe campaigning against McCain for the Republican nomination.”

“Yeah, but wasn’t it strange when he suddenly announced he’d changed his mind? Right out of the blue, and with the feeblest excuse I’ve ever heard. Family pressure, my ass.” Nick snorted in disgust. “I betcha anything his wife and daughter would have loved to redecorate the White House. I think Robertson put the wind up him, and he realized he wouldn’t get to third base if the news ever got out.” Nick was quiet for a moment, thinking, then said, “You know, this is probably some kind of vendetta. Robertson warned Forsythe, Forsythe got pissed, and he’s been festering over it ever since he backed out of the race. I bet he told Robertson to put me out of business, and Robertson’s using Morales as the one to do the dirty deed.”

“Could be, and Morales is no fan of yours.”

“And he should be after I handed him that case on a plate.”

“Well, if you want me for a character witness, you only have to say ‘please’.”

“Thanks, Joe, appreciate it.” Nick sighed. “I still have to break this to Jeff when he gets back from his vacation.”

“Don’t sweat it too much, Nick. Morales is basing his case on the fact you didn’t hand over that tape right away, but you did give it up eventually. I was a witness to that, and you did practically solve the Hammond case all by yourself. So, unless he wants to look stupid…”

“Which he does frequently, and with great skill,” Nick said, chuckling. “I don’t know if that would stop him, quite frankly.”

“Well, like I said, don’t sweat it. I’ll poke around this end and if I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Take it easy, Nick.”

“Thanks again, Joe. Talk to you later.” Nick sank back in his chair and stared moodily out the office window. Somehow, he’d always known the whole mess from a year ago would come back to bite him in the ass one day. What had started out as a fairly straightforward case of ‘whose body is this?’ had turned into a nightmare of murder, deception, and police ineptitude. Or rather, one detective’s ineptitude—Bob Morales, the jerk who was now trying to get Nick’s license pulled. Or so it seemed. The more he thought about it, the more Nick was convinced that Morales was just the dumb puppet in all this. After he’d gotten chewed out by Robertson, Morales had probably never wanted to hear Nick’s name again.

The investigation John Hammond had started when he came to Nick’s office with a newspaper article about a body found in Laurel Canyon had led Nick to uncover a sordid collection of well-heeled people who hired young men and women for sexual purposes. But what had angered Nick most was the realization that some of those wealthy people, their sexual appetites sharpened by violence, were involved in ‘snuff’ movies. As one man had told Nick, “They pay more to see the kids struggle.”

Arrogance and a taste for revenge, had led John Hammond to set up a duped and drugged Detective Morales for a ‘snuff’ movie starring the detective himself. Nick and his partner, Jeff Stevens, had thwarted that plan, their intervention leading to the arrest of those involved and the breakup of the organization—for a time. When Nick discovered that among the rich and famous was Harold Forsythe, currently campaigning as a Presidential hopeful, he decided the man’s murderous tendencies should be exposed. That decision had caused him to be the object of Forsythe’s and Chief Robertson’s rage—and now Morales’ move to pull Nick’s license.

There was, however, one small item Robertson and Forsythe had overlooked. Not overlooked, exactly. They didn’t know about it. At least, not yet.

When Nick had spoken to Harold Forsythe on the phone, in the guise of Nick Lamont, pretending to be a procurer of young men and women who’d be up for just about anything Forsythe’s perverted little mind could envision, he’d taped the conversation. Of course, he’d have to prove it was Forsythe on the tape, but that Southern twang was, in Nick’s estimation, a dead giveaway, and might just be enough to have Robertson back off.

And then there had been the whole personal side of last year’s situation that had seen he and Jeff almost come to blows, and Jeff and Peter’s relationship come close to falling apart. Jeff had made a wrong turn thinking that Peter and he were drifting away from one another due to the pressure of Peter’s work, and his celebrity status in the art world. Feeling lonely one night he had picked up a guy in a bar, but had changed his mind, apologizing to the man for not being able to go through with what they had planned. Unfortunately that man was John Hammond, Nick’s lying client, who threw a fit right here in their office in front of Peter. It was proof positive of their love for one another that Jeff and Peter were able to work things out and get on with their lives and their relationship.

Nick had to admit he hadn’t helped things by asking Peter to accompany him to the crime scene and use his psychic ability in determining just what had happened to the man whose body had been found buried there. Jeff’s protective nature had made him lash out in anger at Nick, accusing him of putting Peter’s fragile psyche at risk by bringing to his mind terrifying visions of rape and murder. Again, there had been resolution, but the threat of losing Jeff as a friend and partner had a sobering effect on Nick’s at times brash behavior.

And then he’d had to contend with Eric’s disapproval, and that had hurt—a lot. He’d seen the flicker of real anger in Eric’s normally gentle, light blue eyes that told him he’d overstepped the bounds of friendship. Nick knew he could be egotistical, domineering, and demanding at times, but he was also loyal to a fault—and he loved Eric so much that sometimes he ached from it. He’d come close to losing him a couple of years back when a madman from Nick’s past had held them both at gunpoint. In the resulting struggle Eric had been severely injured, and for a time it had been touch and go. Nick still went cold when he remembered those terrible days sitting by Eric’s bedside in the hospital, praying for his recovery…

His thoughts were interrupted by Monica’s voice on the intercom. “Eric’s here, Nick.”

“Tell him to come in, then.”

Monica was trying to keep the laughter out of her voice. “He says he’s scared. Wants to know if you’re still grumpy.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Nick pushed his tall, rangy frame away from his desk and strode to the office door, flinging it wide open, scowling at his secretary and his lover.

Eric ran behind Monica’s desk. “Don’t let him hurt me, please, Monica,” he wailed, clutching at the pretty Asian girl who collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“Cut it out, you two!” Nick tried to hold the scowl, but couldn’t. He chuckled, then smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, Monica. I guess I’ve been a bit of a bear this morning. You…” He jerked his thumb at Eric. “Get in there and fix my sandwich. I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

Eric grinned. “If you hear sobs of anguish, Monica—don’t come in.”

Monica sighed. “You guys. I’m going out to lunch, so you can make all the noise you want.” She held out a fistful of messages. “I suggest you answer these before Jeff gets back,” she sniffed. “Might be some new clients among them.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nick gave her a winning smile as she picked up her purse and made for the exit. “Have a nice lunch.” He walked back into the office and closed the door. Eric was bent over his desk, laying out their sandwiches, his butt nicely defined under his beige slacks. Nick cupped said butt with his hands, stroking it firmly, then pulled Eric against his chest, his lips nuzzling the nape of Eric’s neck.

“Mmm…” Eric ground his ass into Nick’s groin. “That feels real nice.” He squirmed as Nick nibbled on his ear. “Even nicer…” He turned in Nick’s arms and smiled into his hazel eyes before delivering a searing kiss to his man’s lips. As their tongues meshed, both men felt a rising urgency of desire course through their blood.

The sound of voices outside the office had them groaning in frustration. “Damn,” Nick muttered, releasing Eric from his embrace and slipping behind his desk to hide the very obvious bulge in his pants. “It’s Jeff and Peter, by the sounds of it.”

“They’re early,” Eric grumbled, then whispered, “I was so into you doing me on this desk.”

“Ssh…” Nick shifted in his chair. “I’m trying to get rid of this hard on, and you’re not helping. ‘Sides, we’d have squished the sandwiches.”

Eric giggled, then held the sandwich bag in front of his crotch. They both affected welcoming smiles as Jeff and Peter pushed the door open and walked in.

“Hi, guys.” Eric beamed at them. “How was the trip? You both look great.”

And they did. Peter’s naturally fair hair was almost white-blond from his time in the sun, his tan lending a deeper blue to his eyes. Jeff, his wide-shouldered quarterback physique and smoky grey eyes, always reasons to turn heads, was even more stunning with the added tan.

Peter bounced over and gave Eric a hug. “We had the greatest time—oh, sorry, we’re interrupting your lunch.” he said, looking at the sandwiches spread out on the desk.

“No problem.” Nick eased himself carefully out of his chair to give Peter a hug. “Good to have you back.” He grinned at his partner. “So, Jeff, ready for the big grind again?”

Jeff shrugged. “Do I have a choice?” he chuckled, squeezing Nick’s shoulder. “So, what’s the damage report?”

“Would I have you come back to problems?” Nick said, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, partner mine, all is well in the investigative business.”

“You both look terrific,” Eric said. “Must have got a lot of tanning time,” he added, admiring Peter and Jeff’s handsome, healthy, glowing faces. He beamed at Peter. “And I have some great news. I was going to save it ‘til we got over to the gallery, but what the hey. This morning I sold two paintings, Peter. Your two New York Cityscapes.”

“Wow.” Peter gave Eric another hug. “That’s fantastic.”

Nick pouted. “How come you didn’t tell me?”

“I was going to, but we got kinda distracted, if you remember.”

“Oh yeah, that—”

“Anyway,” Eric continued, “the guy who bought them owns a nightclub in San Diego. I have to deliver them tomorrow afternoon.”

“Great,” Peter said. “I’ll go with you.”

“Oh yeah, he’d love that—getting to meet the artist.” Eric looked at Nick and Jeff. “Why don’t you guys come too? We could make a day of it. Have dinner down there.”

Jeff shook his head. “I’ll have to take a rain-check. Got a lot of catching up to do from the looks of the messages in my inbox.”

“Me too, babe,” Nick said, thinking of what he had to tell Jeff once they were alone.

“Oh, okay. So, it’s just you and me, Peter.”

Peter smiled. “You and Nick have your lunch. I’ll see you over at the gallery when you’re done.” He gave Jeff a peck on the cheek. “And I’ll see you back home when you’re done here. Ciao, guys.”

How much heat do two men need to melt so much snow? Stories from three of the hottest gay erotic romance writers in the genre will show you. Feel the heat with William Maltese, Jason Edding and Ethan Day.

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

Chapter One

My eyes fluttered open, and the overcast daylight filtering in from the huge picture window slowly came into focus. was looking out over a panorama of snowy mountains dotted with sprouts of green from the evergreens that poked through the white blanket. The small mountain town of Summit City, Colorado, stretched out along the floor of the valley below. The light drizzle of snow was softly floating from sky to ground. I heard rustling coming from behind me and I sat up, realizing I didn’t know where I was.

I lifted my hand to my forehead as the dull, achy-throbbing began – my hangover waking up with me. How much had I had to drink last night? Not that it took much, but damn. I rubbed my temple and cringed as the swimming in my head began to settle. One more thing I blame Phillip for. I looked down, realizing I was naked, and was startled again by the rustling to my side. Slowly turning my head toward the source of the disruption, my eyes widened taking in the wide, expansive muscular back.

I quietly began to scoot toward the edge of the bed and winced from the twinge of pain coming from my backside. What the hell had he fucked me with? Christ on a cracker…my ass felt like it had been reamed, but good. I shook my head and continued to crawl over to the side of the massive bed. Probably another bartender, I thought as I finally made it to the edge. This happened every god damn time I drank. Why couldn’t I just leave a nice tip like a normal person? Honestly, Boone, do you really have to offer up your ass? Are you seriously that cheap? I reached back and rubbed my ass somewhat thankful I had no memory of last night considering it felt like this dude had seriously fucked the hell out of me.

“Please let him have worn a condom,” I mumbled as I threw my feet over the side of the bed. I cringed as I looked down to see my foot had landed on used rubber. I made some sort of ick noise as I lifted my foot, which now had the condom stuck to it.

“That is so not sexy.” I tentatively reached out, touching as little of the condom as humanly possible. I began pulling it

off and closed my eyes feeling the skin from the bottom of my

foot peel away from the latex which I then tossed back onto the floor as a ‘that’s-gross’ chill swept over my naked body. I looked around, disgusted and feeling ‘all class’ as I took the edge of the

sheet to wipe the sticky off the bottom of my foot.

I stood up too quickly feeling the bed move from behind me. My head was spinning a bit as I turned and looked down at the ass abuser that lay before me. He was massive, whoever he was. I imagined him being like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. He was now on his back and his hairless expanse of a chest was spread out before me. He practically requires his own zip code, I thought as my gaze followed the sinewy trail of muscle down his abs. He was hot at least. I rubbed my head desperately needing coffee and aspirin while scolding myself for being the type of asshole that cared whether or not he was hot. I scanned the room trying to get my bearings. I spied my jeans on the floor which somehow made me feel less panicky.

I poked around the room and discovered that the bedroom was up in a loft which overlooked the living area below. I got slightly dizzy and nauseous as I peered over the railing. Knotty pine beams stretched out overhead and I caught a whiff of the fire below, that was now probably just embers. I felt a sudden chill and began to look around for the rest of my clothes. I spied a shoe and my briefs on the floor by the bureau.

I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror as I crossed the room and my mouth fell open. The back of my head looked as if someone had taken a comb and teased the shit out it. Spotting the huge-ass hickey on the curve between my neck and shoulder, I scowled and turned back to the bed. I was half tempted to chuck my shoe at him. Dirty bastard…all but branded my ass. My eyes widened as I quickly spun around, using the mirror, relieved to see there wasn’t a hickey on my ass.

I made a quick scan inspecting the rest of my body to make sure nothing else was…different. I gathered up all my things and crept naked down the stairs, clutching everything in my arms. A flash of the previous night popped into my head and I stopped, leaning against the railing for a moment for balance as I vaguely remembered clinging to Mr. Muscles while we made out, him carrying me up the stairs. I shook my head, feeling my cock stir a bit, almost able to remember what it felt like to have the guy’s tongue in my mouth. I let out a disapproving sigh, and continued down the stairs.

I stumbled into the living room, spotting my keys and cell phone on the coffee table next to two glasses each of which had a tiny amount of red wine left in them. The room was decorated in what I assumed to be mountain-gay, bachelor-chic with its brown leather furniture, a solid looking wooden rocking chair and dark mission style accent tables. It did actually feel lived in and homey, which was nice after Phillip’s sterile, everything-inits-place condo.

The fireplace was massive, large stacked stone’s stretching up from the floor all the way up the two-story wall and disappearing into the ceiling. The five foot long mantle consisted of a long, thick rough cut chunk of wood which was shiny from the multiple layers of varnish. I spied a small plasma through a cracked door in one the built-ins, on either side of the fireplace.

I smacked my lips, feeling the fuzz of drink and sex from the night before. God only knows what depraved acts I allowed myself to partake in with the beast. I felt another achy-twinge in my ass as I meandered into the kitchen. I felt the texture and temperature change under my bare feet, going from the wood floors to the stone tile in the open kitchen and dining area. A picture window twice the size of the one upstairs in the bedroom provided another breath-taking view of the mountains which surrounded the valley below. I had to blink a few times in order to tear my eyes away, imagining I could become easily mesmerized by the sight, losing entire days – getting lost in the scale of it all. That was saying a lot, considering Albuquerque came with its own amazing views, thinking back to the warm, rusty-red glow

of the Sandia Mountains baking in the late afternoon sun.

As my gaze ran over the gourmet looking kitchen with the smoky caramel stained cabinets and stone countertops which

appeared to have tiny fossils imbedded in them, I paused at the professional grade looking stainless steel appliances. Maybe I’d

fucked a chef and not a bartender after all? That would be some

type of progress. If given a dollar for every bartender I’d woken up with over the past thirteen years of my life, I’d be a rich man. The confusing thing was, I remembered the bartender from last night, unlike the man I’d found myself in bed with. Life really was a twisted bitch sometimes. I was jerked out of my inner

thoughts hearing a noise come from upstairs.

I noticed a hallway off the back of the kitchen and headed that direction. I found a bathroom and took the longest piss of my life. It was one for the ages that piss, the kind that gave you chills and goose bumps all over your body from the relief of the release. I flushed the toilet before pulling on my briefs and jeans, then finally looking back over my hair as I yanked on my socks and boots. I turned on the faucet and did my best to dampen my scruffy, shoulder length, light brown hair back into some sort of submission. It was tangled all to hell, another reminder of what a good-time guy I was when I drank. They didn’t call me Low-Tolerance Tommy for nothing.

I usually don’t have alcohol unless my friends are around to try and keep me from doing things like this. Unfortunately I was up here in Colorado all by myself, thanks to Phillip. Happy one year anniversary, you cock sucking piece of man-shit. This was what I deserved for dating a surgeon. You think they’re all heroic, saving lives – making the big sacrifice. What I realized now was what a controlling, god-complex, piece of scum he was. Why do I never see it until it’s over?

I ran my finger tips over the hickey on my neck and let out a

long sigh. Thinking back over the past year there had been plenty

of signs. Phillip never asked about me or my day. It was as if he never gave a shit who I was, only caring that I looked good

on his arm and in his bed. That should’ve been the biggest clue.

The fact that I’m a writer, made him seem perfect. He worked

long hours which left me with tons of time to work. The sex

was incredible. The vain, god-complex worked for the son of a bitch, and his confidence in his abilities in the sack were well warranted. If nothing else good could be said about Phillip, he did

have a can-do cock.

I laughed at my reflection in the mirror thinking I’d actually convinced myself that Phillip had invited me up here, to the place we’d met a year ago yesterday, because he was going to ask me to move in with him.

“What a dumbass you are, Boone.” I said to myself, still worried in the back of mind why it was I hadn’t cried. Had I been broken-hearted so many times in the past that I’d now become desensitized to the pain of it? “Am I broken?”

I shrugged and picked up my t-shirt, flipping it inside out. Nope – Phillip sent me up here because he wanted to dump me, and the really sad part was that he didn’t have enough respect for me to do it face to face. He’d called instead, letting me know the cabin was paid up for another week and to stay as long as I liked. That he’d already dropped the few things I’d been allowed to leave at his house back off at mine and that my spare key was in the mail.

My response to what he’d said? “Thanks.”

I slipped on my shirt and went back out into the living room, trying to avoid the views from the large picture window. I snatched up my phone and dialed information; getting the number to call a cab. I scurried about when they asked where to pick me up, eventually snagging the address from the magazines piled up on the coffee table. I flipped through the stack as I hung up my cell. A Sports Illustrated, how butch, I thought. Funny that was on top…trying too hard, perhaps? That slightly critical thought brought a smile to my face. There was also an Advocate, an Entertainment Weekly, some skiing catalogues and a TV Guide. I read the name, which for some reason sounded familiar. Wade

Walker.

I stood up and went back into Wade’s kitchen, rifling through the cabinets until I found a bottle of Advil. I poured out five and popped them in my mouth. I went to the sink and bent over, sucking in the water directly from the stream coming out of the faucet. My eyes drifted toward that wonderful view. Whoever the big-dicked-mother-fucker Wade was, he was certainly lucky to have that view.

I wondered for a split second about the man sleeping upstairs. He was, if nothing else, strikingly handsome, sort of a more beefed version of Christopher Reeves with his wavy black hair and cheekbones to die for. I briefly considered the possibility of dating Superman and then rolled my eyes. I’d had enough drama in the past twenty four hours as it was.

“You just can’t seem to help yourself can you?” I mumbled. I loved men who were nothing like…me. My worst nightmare would be to wind up marrying myself. I honestly couldn’t think of anything less exciting. I needed to be challenged, forced to look at things from other perspectives. I’m a writer damn it. I crave what I do not understand. And while I guess that always made for a very exciting love life, it had also been my very own, little slice of hell at times.

Hearing a honk, I turned and dashed into the living room, snatching up my things off the table. I yanked my coat off the rack by the door. I slipped it on, sucking in my breath as I opened the door, greeted not so gently by the cold. I tried to quietly close the door until I thought I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye coming from the stairs. I slammed the door and ran like mad for the cab. I was certainly in no mood, or condition, to face my trick. I climbed into the cab and shut the door, asking the driver to take me back to the lodge. Back to the cabin Phillip had rented for us to spend our anniversary in. No more tricks for this kid, I thought, refusing to look back at the

house as the cab pulled away. ****

As I slowly made my way down the walkway, struggling with the damn skis and poles, I cursed under my breath. This was stupid and I knew it. I’d never had the slightest interest in learning how to snow ski, but Phillip had insisted I learn. He’d set up these lessons and bought me all the gear and clothes, teaching me how to put it all on before I left. The sick part was he knew he was going to break up with me while he was doing it. I’d now come to the conclusion this was all part of my severance package, the trip, the gifts, the ski lessons. Phillip’s way of buying off his guilt I assumed, if he did indeed actually posses the humility for such

an emotion.

I stopped, adjusting the skis in my arms. The army green pants I wore looked like normal old cargo pants, and I did like the matching parka with the faux fur trimmed hood. The warm snuggly layers of oatmeal colored shirts and sweaters, the ski boots, it had all cost him like nine or ten thousand dollars. It was nuts, a ludicrous amount of money, but if nothing else, at least I looked the part. I planned on selling it all on eBay when I got back home. Maybe I could use the money to buy myself a second vacation on a beach somewhere?

I looked up as a couple passed by me coming from the

opposite direction. They barely noticed my presence as they

giggled and stared at one another all googley-eyed, his dimpled smile and rosy cheeks, her long perky blonde curls bouncing. It was disgusting! I resisted the urge to call back at them, informing the ill-fated lovers it would never last, that their happiness was fleeting. The harbinger of love-death would soon be upon them! It made me smile to think it, even though I didn’t say it.

I lifted my skis, tucked them under my arm and began walking toward the main lodge. The massive five story building, with its new European-style architecture, seemed well matched to the natural environment. Despite being newer construction, the lodge seemed to fit in perfectly with the sleepy little Victorian mountain town that was Summit City. It had sixty or seventy rooms in the main lodge along with the smaller single occupancy chalets that dotted the grounds for those people, like Philip, who enjoyed their privacy. Whoever designed the place had done a great job of taking advantage of all the views. There were two towers on the main lodge on opposite corners, one provided views of the valley and town below, the other of the mountain. I rounded the side of the lodge to find other guests and attendants, all busying about going to and from, while twisting the knife in

my gut by laughing and having a grand old time.

“The tram should be back around any minute,” a young man

called out to me from the entrance area.

I nodded and smiled, contemplating whether or not I should just walk up the road to the ski lift area. It wasn’t that far, and despite still feeling a smidge funky from my hangover when I’d left the cabin, the cool air and exercise appeared to be doing the trick. As I started to step off the curb the small tram rounded the corner. Already late for my lesson as it was, I decided to hop on and ride up after all.

As the glorified tractor/trolley bounced up the slight incline of the road, I let out a sigh. I knew exactly why I wasn’t all that upset about Phillip breaking things off, but I refused to admit it to myself. It seemed wrong to let the prick off the hook for the shitty way he dumped me. But I had indeed, come to realize that I hadn’t actually been in love with the man so much as the idea of him. What a waste of a year, I thought as the tram came to a stop at the ski lift area.

I hopped out, back into the snow and slid my skis and poles out, fighting with them as I tried to gain control with my uncoordinated limbs. This was a bad idea, and I knew it, but I’d spent all morning and my entire lunch trying to piece together what the hell had happened the night before. I’d driven myself crazy attempting to suss it out. So, despite having no interest in skiing, here I was. I needed a distraction from the gnawing nit-pickiness that was my over active brain. Skiing was one of those sports that looked easy, therefore I knew it was going to be ridiculously difficult to learn.

I was wondering if you could cram a couple of more hours into the day.  Between the Evil-Day-Job, the Spawn, eating, sleeping, Dommeing…I really need a few more hours to fit writing in.  Yeah, I’d be trimmer if I cut out the eating part, but then I’d pass out while roaring down the 101, flip the bike and it just wouldn’t be pretty. 

Do you think the elves could develop plot bunny birth control?  I’d like to finish one project before a dozen ideas for other’s are born.  It’s not so much that I mind the overabundance of story lines, it’s just that they tend to mature and hop off somewhere else to find their destiny as card-sharks or pole-dancers before I can catch them. 

Intravenous Caffeine.  You of all people have to understand the glory of the concept. If you can’t add any time to the day at least I could be hyper and amped at later, or earlier, hours.   

Maybe you could manage for all the ultra conservatives to wake up on Christmas morning with the sudden realization that if they put all the energy they use fighting against things like Marriage For All, Inclusive Hate Crime Bills, repeal of exclusion of GLBT in the military and expansive Reproductive Health and Sex Education, into say solving world hunger….shit, can you imagine what they could accomplish?   That’s probably pushing it huh?

Alright, well, then maybe Santa, you might manage to get a few people to just make another person’s day a little brighter with a smile, or by opening a door, or just telling the poor wage-slave behind the Micky-Ds counter, “thanks.”  If we could start there, I’d be happy.

That’s about it.  Don’t bust the elves too hard and maybe get the reindeer a new whip, ‘cause we all know they like that crack across their rumps.  Take care,

Love

James

Two men: one with memories he can’t escape, the other with memories he can’t recapture — both trusting strangers who lie.

Amnesiac Peter Killian, suspected art thief, can’t understand why LAPD detective Michael Griffin takes his memory loss so personally.

American expatriate Jack Stoyles, exiled in a distant Atlantic outpost, is suddenly in love with a stranger who kisses him — and then dies. With good reason Jack calls his place “Heartache Cafe”.

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

You wouldn’t think it even gets hot in a place like this, but let me tell you, brother, it does. Around the middle of July, the fog clears away, and the sun comes out, hot enough (as they say around these parts) to split the rocks. It’s a different sort of place, not like anywhere I’d ever been before, but when you have to leave home as suddenly as I did, you don’t much care. You just pick a direction on the map and head out and hope things turn out okay. Twelve hundred miles as the crow flies to St. John’s, Newfoundland, from my hometown of Philadelphia; I slept nearly the whole way, never mind the roaring of the airplane engines. Some things hit harder than others, and I’d been dealt a knockout punch.

When we landed at the airstrip in this little town called Torbay, I felt like I’d come to the end of the world. Nothing much to see except trees, black spruce and tamarack and scrub pines, and the red gravel airstrip. I got out of my seat and climbed down, stiff and sore, feeling like I’d been run down by a truck. I guess I was still in shock a little bit. The air was colder than I was used to; even Philadelphia winters don’t have this kind of soggy bite. All I wanted was to get inside the little terminal and maybe get a cup of coffee. I had five hundred bucks, American, in my wallet, a passport and a copy of my discharge papers from the army. I guess I should have felt ashamed, because here was Hitler stomping his jackbooted way across Europe, and there was nothing I could do about it. Unfit for active service. Yeah, that’s me — thirty-eight years old and already broken beyond repair.

This — all of this — was a blur to me. I was seeing other streets and hearing a different accent, and I was remembering walking into Moe’s first thing in the morning for a cup of joe, sitting down at the counter to look over the newspaper before I went outside and took a sharp left toward the waterfront. Maybe that’s what drew me to this place: the promise of cold salt air and the tang of the sea in my nostrils, the bustle of the waterfront, and ships coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I loved the idea that I could do the same, just go whenever I wanted to, anywhere I liked in the world, and not have to answer to anybody. If I felt like it, I could hop a freighter to some other place and work my way across the world. It was something Moe and I had talked a lot about whenever I was in there. You thinking of going somewhere? He’d always refill my coffee cup without my having to ask, and I’d always leave a tip. Thinking of leaving old Philly, huh? Right up until the last, I wasn’t sure. Even after it happened, I figured I could just keep on the way I was, doing all the things that I’d been doing. I figured I was strong enough to take it, right up until I stood on the Delaware River Bridge one morning, looking down into the swirling water and wondering if I had the nerve.

You want to know what stopped me?

Egypt. Yeah, you heard me: Egypt. See, I’d always wanted to go, and standing there on the bridge with the wind whipping me around, I figured if I followed through with what I had in mind, I’d never get to go. I’d never get to see the pyramids and ride a camel and do all that stupid, touristy stuff that people do. Pretty dumb, huh? Maybe, but it was enough to get me down off the bridge before the cops came, and it was enough to make me understand that if I ever wanted to see the pyramids at Giza or stroll the native quarter in Cairo, I had to get out of Philly. I had to go somewhere far away and try my best to forget about it.

“Passport?” She was young and pretty, the girl behind the counter, with dark red hair worn in rolls at the sides of her head. She smiled at me like she meant it. “Welcome to Newfoundland, Mr. Stoyles. If you follow that corridor and turn right, there are taxis out front to take you into town.”

“Is it…” Goddammit, it was starting again. I took a deep breath and tried to get hold of myself. “Is it far, into town? I have a room booked at the hotel, I just…” I fumbled in my pockets and found the scrap of paper. “Yeah, I have a room at this hotel downtown.”

She looked it — and me — over and smiled again. She sure was pretty — and nice, in that way that women hardly ever are anymore. She looked at me like she was interested in more than how much money I had on me or where I was likely to go in life once the war was over.

Listen, Jack — why don’t you come up to Newfoundland with me? They’re building all kinds of stuff up there and the whole place is ripe for the picking.

Frankie Missalo, an old army buddy of mine; we’d both joined up long before the whole thing went to hell at Pearl Harbor. Only thing was, he stayed in while I’d gotten kind of…waylaid. Lots of Army contractors up there, and lots of Yanks like us needing somewhere to get a proper cup of coffee. Come on! Ain’t you always said you wanted to have your own place?

So I did what he said and bought my ticket, and here I was. All I wanted now was to live a quiet life, waiting out the war to the best of my ability and minding my own business. I wasn’t interested in anything but that.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

I spent three days at the hotel while Frankie and me scouted around for an empty space downtown. I’d just about given up hope when a real gem came on the market: a little storefront with lots of room for chairs and tables and a piano. The space was longer that it was broad and flared out nicely toward the back. Already I was making mental nips and tucks, adding a pot of flowers here, some ornaments and paintings there, and over here the bar, with its rows of bottles and a big mirror behind it. I found a cash register for cheap in a consignment store, and when Frankie showed up with a truckload of café chairs and tables, I didn’t ask him any unnecessary questions. I just got busy moving in.

“Whatcha gonna call it, Jack?” Frankie spread his hands out in front of him and squinted. “Whatcha want’s a big sign, neon lettering. JACK’S CAFÉ.”

“Naw, that’s been done. I want something that people are gonna stop for, something that’ll really bring ‘em in.” I slung a towel over my shoulder and came out from behind the bar. “Something catchy, you know?”

“Yeah.” Frankie shook his head and lit a cigarette. “Something like Moe’s Place?”

I faked a punch at his jaw. “Keep it up, mug.” We both laughed. “How about a beer?” I couldn’t stop touching the shiny brass taps; it was hard for me to believe that this was my place, my very own.

“You, ah…” Frankie’s eyes skidded away from mine. “You having one, Jack?”

“Nope.” I got a glass for him. “What’ll it be?”

“Whatever you got’s none too good for me.” He sat down at a table near the bar and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “So, here you are, Jack. Lock, stock, and barrel, huh? An honest-to-God property owner.” He thanked me for the beer as I sat down. “How much trouble they give you about the license?”

“You kidding me?” I sipped from the glass of ice water I’d poured for myself. “They couldn’t give it to me fast enough. Anybody woulda thought I was the Second Coming or something.”

Frankie, a lifelong Catholic, grimaced. “Yeah, cut that, okay?” He glanced around and nervously raked a hand through his sandy hair. “Don’t be bringing bad luck on yourself before you’ve even started.”

I didn’t answer him. Yeah, I’d been brought up in the church, too, but on me it never stuck the way it stuck to Frankie. I’d known him since we were kids, when he was serving at mass and singing in the choir. He wasn’t what I’d call superstitious, but he sure had a healthy respect for the church.

“So tomorrow’s the big day?” He laid the beer glass down.

“Yeah. Tomorrow’s the big day.” I spread my arms wide. “Welcome to the Heartache Café.”