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

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

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

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CHAPTER 1

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

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

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

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

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

Until flashing lights brought him crashing back to earth.

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

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

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

Dublin, Georgia’s own Sheriff Finn Kirkland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he sniffed.

Double fuck.

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

“Sure. At my sister’s house.”

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

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

His sarcasm went ignored. “What movie?”

“Ben-Hur.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just takes the right bait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I respect you, sir. I respect you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your legs giving you some trouble, boy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What will you let me do, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good. Get your pants off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Casey’s ass clenched. “Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made his vertigo even worse.

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

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

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

“You know how to use a camera?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brandon interjected, “Close to one hundred.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were rules about refrigerators? “Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

Even with the van thing.

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

Brandon choked, “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is she now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

“For putting it on the line like this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m busy,” floated back to them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go get it set up.” Backing out of the room, Brandon added, “It”ll be okay, really. I promise.”

Nick would withhold judgment on that.

Title	Son of a Gun
Author	AM Riley
ISBN#	978-1-60820-117-4 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-118-1 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	April 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	253 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)
	Barnes & Noble (paperback)
	Amazon.com (paperback)

Politics, drugs and secrets from the past collide in the town of Boerne Texas and end in a chase across the Devil’s Backbone.

Stefan Sanchez number one reason to leave Texas was closeted deputy Chet Blain. When Stefan returns for the funeral of his best friend, he is confronted by painful memories, Chet’s recriminations, and a hunky Secret Service agent who seems determined to make Stefan’s business his business.

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

Chapter One

“It’s really not necessary.” Agnes sounded bored. Through the phone, Stefan heard the click of a cigarette lighter, a long inhale, and could evoke from memory the cloud of smoke around nicotine stained fingers as Agnes studied her shiny pink acrylics. “I’m sure they won’t care.”

“I’d care,” said Stefan.

“Where were you going to stay?”

Well, that took care of the first purpose of his call, he supposed. He’d thought he might stay in his old bedroom, though the suspicious male voice that had answered the phone had Stefan rethinking that idea already.

“Jane will put me up.”

A silence. Belatedly, Stefan realized that Agnes might take this as criticism. That another woman would do for Stefan what she would not. “She already asked me to stay with them. I didn’t want to say ‘no.’ Under the circumstances,” he lied freely, not sure why he always had to mollify Agnes, but always finding himself doing so.

“Oh, I suppose you had no choice,” she said, sulkily.

“I’ll call when I get in.”

“Sure, honey.”

Stefan could think of absolutely nothing else to say. So he merely said, “Goodbye mother.”

She hung up without replying.

* * *

“Texas?” Ron said, exactly as he might have said “Mars?” “What the hell is in Texas?”

“I grew up there.” Stefan shifted the cell phone to the other ear so that he could grab the door handle as his cab swerved wildly through traffic. Stefan had offered the driver a small stipend if he made it to LAX on time.

“You’re kidding me.” These days it seemed that Ron’s voice always reflected a mounting hysteria. “I thought that was just a story your publicist made up. Why, in Christ, go back though? And why now? You’re already months past due on that manuscript.”

“There was a death in the family.”

The requisite polite pause. “I’m so sorry.” Another pause. “Not to be crass, Stefan, but how long do you think…?”

“I have my final draft here. Don’t worry, I’ll get it to you within the week.”

“Of course you will.” The tiny cell phone receiver was not able to deliver an appropriate level of sarcasm. Stefan was the most lucrative client in Ron Roche’s fledgling literary agency, and this lengthy dry spell had probably hit Ron’s pocketbook as hard as it had hit Stefan’s. It was ridiculous, really. Hemingways and Mailers had dry spells. Minor writers of adolescent crime fiction were supposed to spit the stuff out like hamburger meat from a grinder. Grind. Grind. Presto, another Adventure of the Backtree Boys.

“I’ve worked out the kinks. There’s nothing left but the crying.” The cab rocked hard to the left, and Stefan had to grab the door handle to avoid sliding across the seat again.

“Still think you should have taken my advice.” Ron’s solution to everything was usually young, hungry, and willing.

“Doesn’t work for me.” Stefan saw that they were pulling up to the curb outside the terminal. “My flight leaves in half an hour, Ron. I’ve got to go.”

“You’ll stay in touch?” It wasn’t really a request.

“I will.” Stefan shut the phone off, wallet out and ready to pay the driver as he leapt from the cab. He’d only brought his laptop and the small overnight bag, which he flung over his shoulder as he ran through the terminal doors. He still had half an hour, but the last time he’d been here it had taken nearly that long for LAX security to pass him through.

A few minutes later, standing in a line watching his shoes, watch, laptop and belt trundling down a conveyor in plastic trays, he shut his phone down completely before dropping it into the tray. After living for seven years in Los Angeles, there was nobody else to call.

* * *

In San Antonio, Stefan emerged from the airport hangar, crisp air conditioning giving way immediately to deep, humid Texas heat. His sparse luggage and light clothing all seemed to gain twenty pounds of wet, his hair sticking to the nape of his neck, and he remembered one of the dozens of reasons he’d had to leave Texas.

“The weather is reason enough.”

“Nope. Reason number one. Snakes.”

“When was the last time you saw a snake, Tommy?”

“It’s the fact that they could show up ANYWHERE. Did you see that blurb in the paper about the assemblyman who found one in his mailbox?”

“I think someone put that there.”

“And your point is?”

Stefan gambled on his credit card company’s continued leniency and rented a car at the airport. Despite what he’d said to his mother, he had absolutely no idea how his unannounced appearance after such a long absence would be received. He might need a car for a quick getaway. Or maybe even a place to sleep.

He followed the stark clean highways until the rolling hills and genteel old buildings of historical Boerne appeared. Boerne must have been quite a victory for Jane, thought Stefan. Patrick, Sr. would more probably have preferred the state capital.

“Count the Suburbans, Stef. Hey, there’s another one.”

“That joke was only funny the first hundred times, Tommy.”

“Seriously, you’d think oil just bubbled up out of the ground around here. Hey, there’s another one.”

Tommy’s voice, which at times was subtle or even silent, but which always lived in Stefan’s head. His muse, he supposed, if there were such a thing. The deeper Stefan drove into the heart of Texas, the louder Tommy’s voice became.

“You know, no one ever explained to me adequately, why a nice German would want to settle in Texas.”

“A nice German?”

“Imagine some plump German housewife looking out the window of her immaculate kitchen and seeing a SNAKE, Stef.”

“Again with the snakes, Tommy?”

“Ach, Herman, ich war nicht kenne das SNAKEs ven ich…” Tommy’s talent for mimicry was amazing, his face transforming so that suddenly, Stefan could almost see a middle-aged turn of the century hausfrau, plump arms folded over her white apron.

“Stop. God, Tommy, you’re killing me.”

Stefan followed the instructions he’d received from the O’Connor’s legal secretary and parked his rental car across the street from Boerne’s only Catholic church, its single-story moss-covered limestone walls with the old double oak doors, now sentried by Secret Service types. The gravel circular drive was choked with limos and Benz’s with government plates.

“Security?” Tommy’s soft snort. “A little late, don’t you think?”

Stefan showed his identification to one of the men who stood at the door. The men were dressed almost identically, in nondescript black suits, a twisted wire descending into their stiff white shirt collars from earpieces. Wraparound black sunglasses. Tommy would have something to say about them, too.

“Who do they think they are, Will Smith?”

“I think the movie emulated reality, Tommy. Not the other way around.”

“Sure. Sure. Hey-” a nod toward one of the agents who stood near the front aisle, next to what was probably the family pew “-that one checked you out, Stef. He your type?”

“Christ, Tommy! He’ll hear you!”

The man at the door studied Stefan’s ID. Checked it against an extensive printed list. Nodded at the other man, and they let Stefan enter the church and take his place at the end of the line of people making their way past a mountain of flowers and candles surrounding a burnished mahogany casket at the front of the small chapel.

All the way up the aisle, Stefan could hear Tommy in his head. Hear his commentary, sarcastic and amused. So, accompanied by Tommy’s presence, he finally stood before the casket, and the shock hit him all at once.

My God, they’d put Tommy into a box.

A moment later, Stefan wondered what he might have said aloud. He’d gone to his knees there. Not that unusual at an open casket Catholic funeral, but he didn’t remember having done it and thought it likely that he’d more stumbled and fallen than knelt.

Tommy didn’t look peaceful. Aren’t the dead supposed to look peaceful?

Title	The Hitch Hiker #1 in the Tomcat Series
Author	Stevie Woods
ISBN#	978-1-60820-176-1 (ebook) $3.50
Release Date	April 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Sexual Content:	Rated Explicit
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Ian Grayson’s priority is to protect the artifact which could be the answer to all his questions, but he has already been chased across Belize and Mexico by those who would take it from him by any means necessary and he is desperate to find a way to escape from them and get home to Chicago. When he persuades a trucker to give him a ride he has no idea that his life was about to take a whole new direction. When Mackenzie Wallace picks up an unlikely hitch-hiker he soon discovers one should never go by first appearances, Ian Grayson was certainly not what he expected from a Doctor of Archaeology

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

CHAPTER ONE

The young man kept out of sight at the edge of the building, watching the large parking lot of the truck stop in San Marcos. He had been dropped off in the centre of town just over an hour earlier and had made his way to the truckers’ stop on highway I-35. His trip from Laredo had been made in fits and starts, and his last ride from San Antonio had been slower than he had hoped.

Ian had been waiting for a while now. He was still cautious even though he believed his time was limited; he wasn’t sure how far behind him they were. It was quite a few years since Ian had hitch-hiked and he was nervous, but he couldn’t afford to rush his choice. However, Ian was sure he would know the right man to approach; he’d always had a natural talent when it came to judging people.

Ian straightened when he saw the tall man with the silvering hair come out of the diner and move towards the large, dark blue, eighteen-wheeler with silver lettering topped by a pair of silver wings on the side. This man had caught his eye thirty minutes earlier when the rig had pulled in. He cut quite a figure, topping six feet with long, lean lines and an easy confident walk. He didn’t look old enough to have hair that color, but Ian couldn’t help but think it suited him anyway. This second look was enough to convince him and Ian moved forward to intersect the man’s path just as he reached his rig.

“Excuse me,” Ian said politely.

The man turned to him, glancing at Ian casually, but his eyes narrowed and the trucker studied him.

“Yeah?” the trucker answered in a deep voice with a touch of amusement.

Ian smiled, not unaware of the effect he could achieve when he needed to. “I need a ride going north and I wondered if you were going that way?”

“Might be,” the trucker said warily. “Where north?” The young man looked about thirty, tall and slim, with light brown hair and bright blue eyes shining behind his glasses. He was wearing jeans and a dark blue tee with an open light blue checkered shirt over it. Slung over one shoulder he had a large backpack and he was carrying a jacket over his other arm.

“Anywhere north would help,” Ian replied vaguely.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Mac frowned and looked again at the young man. He looked clean, his clothes, while obviously not new, were well looked after. The hitch-hiker looked healthy and well fed and Mac got the impression of intelligence. He had long trusted his instincts when it came to people and he wasn’t getting any bad vibes from this one, yet there was something.

“You in trouble?”

“No, nothing like that,” the hitch-hiker said quickly, a little too quickly. “I just need to get to Chicago and I don’t have enough money for such a long trip. Any help I can get would… well, help,” he concluded with a smile.

Mac didn’t quite believe him, but he wouldn’t mind some company on the long drive ahead. “’Kay,” he said, with a nod, “not going as far as Chicago though. We’ll see how things work out but understand this, any problems and out you go.”

The hitch-hiker nodded and Mac said, “Get in.”

The young man hurried around to the passenger’s side and climbed up as Mac opened the door for him. He clambered in, dropping his pack on the floor.

Mac raised an eyebrow at the heavy thump the pack made.

“What’re you carrying in that thing, rocks?”

“Not this time,” was the oblique reply. “It’s books. My name is Ian Grayson and I’m an anthropologist,” he said, holding out his hand.

Taking it in a firm grip, the trucker introduced himself, “Mackenzie Wallace, but I’m known as Mac.” Turning his attention to his vehicle, Mac switched on the ignition and the engine powered into life, giving a deep roar like a predatory animal just about to make a kill. He deftly pulled the huge rig out of the parking lot, carefully watching his trailer make the turn through his mirrors as he moved off down the slip road to join Interstate 35 heading toward Austin.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Ian surreptitiously glanced at the trucker as the man concentrated on joining the busy I-35. He liked the arch of the brow over the trucker’s eyes and the way he stuck his chin out as if pointing the way. With a little smile he settled back into the comfortable seat only for his pleasant thoughts to be disturbed when he couldn’t help but wonder how far behind him his pursuers were.

They had been on his trail since he’d crossed the border into Mexico from Guatemala and he had only just managed to keep a few steps ahead of them. He had thought he’d lost them in Cuidad Victoria, but his room had been ransacked in Monterrey, and most of his money and identification had been stolen. He couldn’t prove it was them, of course, but he knew. All he’d been left with was what he was carrying with him in his backpack and the few books they’d left strewn about his room.

He hadn’t liked lying to Mac, but he had no way of knowing if he could trust him. He had faith in his instincts, but there was too much at stake to risk on just feelings. He had learned to be self-reliant long ago, and though he wished he could offload the responsibility onto someone else from time to time, he didn’t have that option. With a tightening of his gut he remembered the last time he’d allowed himself to develop that kind of trust in another person and how he had been betrayed. It would take a lot, an awful lot, for him ever to feel that secure with someone again.

He wasn’t quite as destitute as he led Mac to believe. He had some cash left and he did have one of his credit cards, but he was loath to use it just in case Simon had some way to track him from its use. He knew he was getting paranoid about the man, but his pursuer had contacts and wasn’t afraid to use them. No, it was safer to hitch and keep his credit card in his pocket. As long as he kept his pack safe it would all be worth it in the end. He just had to get to Chicago.

Mac was aware that Ian was pensive, more than he would have expected now that the man had a ride. As if aware that he was under scrutiny, Ian made a show of looking around the cab.

Glancing at his passenger, Mac said, “Now, why would an anthropologist need to hitch-hike? Doesn’t that make you a graduate of some kind? Shouldn’t you be sitting in an ivory tower raking it in?”

Ian smiled ruefully. “Yeah, if you want to be precise I’m a Doctor and I know of some academics that do just that.” There was an edge to his voice that Mac didn’t miss, probably a story there, he thought. Ian was still talking, “I’ve been on a field trip in Central America and was unfortunate enough to get robbed on my way back through Mexico. I have little more than what I’m carrying, so I’m forced to hitch. What little money I have I need for food.”

“Can’t you go to the bank?” queried Mac, a hint of irritation in his voice. He was no fool and didn’t like to be taken for one.

Ian flushed before saying, “They took everything, my wallet with all my identity, cards, everything. I’ve tried the bank, but without ID…” he trailed off.

Mac didn’t believe him. He believed that he had been robbed sure enough, but doubted about being unable to get the funds. There were ways the bank could have checked up on him. The man was lying and he was not very good at it. However, he knew it was too soon to push him for answers, and he wasn’t even sure yet he wanted to know.

He found it too easy to get caught up in other peoples’ lives, which was one reason why he rarely picked up hitch-hikers anymore. However, there was just something about this man that drew him in, and Mac wasn’t just thinking of his looks, attractive as they were. Perhaps it had been something in those eyes when he studied him, something that reeled him in. He may come to regret it but he had never been one to ignore that inner voice.

“This is quite some rig… Mac?” Ian ended his comment with a question as if to confirm he could use Mac’s given name.

He’s trying to change the subject, Mac realized. However, he nodded his assent, deciding to let it ride for now.

“What do the initials on the side stand for, TFL?”

“Tomcat Freight Line.”

“Tomcat? Then why the wings as an icon?” asked a frowning Ian.

Mac laughed. “’Cause the Tomcat is a jet. The boss is ex-Navy. A lot of his drivers are; he likes to give old friends a new start if they want one.”

“So you were in the Navy too? A pilot?” For a moment Ian was surprised then he realized he could easily see this man in uniform. Damn it, he wanted to see Mac in his uniform!

“Yep, amongst other things,” Mac answered cryptically. “Served for twenty years; retired a few years ago on health grounds. Enjoyed the Service and now I enjoy the freedom of life on the road.”

“It’s quite amazing what they get inside these things,” Ian commented looking behind him through the open curtain into the living area. “Last time I hitched, when I was a student, it wasn’t even remotely like this. ‘Course that was around fifteen years ago.”

“Fifteen years?” Mac was surprised. “You sure don’t look old enough to have been a student fifteen years ago. That makes you, what? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-four.”

Mac nodded. “Well to answer your question, the boss likes to give his truckers the best. Thinks it makes for better drivers. This is one of the latest rigs. Got just about everything.” He grinned. “Can comfortably sleep two if you pull down the top bunk, even got a microwave and, of course,” he added, his voice giving the words a final flourish, “a TV and a fridge so I can watch hockey while in bed.”

Ian smiled. “Ah, a sports fan. Have to admit I have never really seen the attraction. I’m not particularly into violence.”

“Violence!”

“You have to admit that hockey and football are violent sports. Then there’s boxing, if ever there was a misnomer, it’s calling boxing a sport.”

“The sport of Kings,” Mac said smugly.

“Horse racing?” asked Ian puzzled.

“Boxing!” declared Mac.

“No, the sport of Kings is horse racing. Has been for centuries.”

Mac frowned. “You sure?”

Ian laughed. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Mac harrumphed and lapsed into silence for a while. After a few minutes, Mac switched on the radio and Ian was pleasantly surprised to hear opera filling the cab. A minute later he grinned as Mac joined in. The trucker might know the words but his voice wasn’t that good, though it was obvious he didn’t care. He simply enjoyed the music so much he had to join in. His face lit up.

Ian smiled to himself deciding he definitely liked this man. He glanced into the side mirror and looked at the following traffic. He stiffened for a moment when he thought he recognized a dark grey sedan a few cars back. His paranoia was surfacing again. It was a common enough car, the odds on it being theirs… Still, he looked again and it was still there but no nearer. He watched for a few minutes longer, but it stayed in the traffic flow.

Deciding it was just another vehicle going in the same direction; he opened his backpack and pulled out the book on top then settled back to read for a while.

Mac squinted trying to read the title. He stopped singing to ask, “What’re you reading?”

“The Sphinx in Ancient Greek Art,” Ian quoted.

Mac frowned. “That’s history… archaeology? Thought you said you were an anthropologist.”

“Err, yes I am a cultural anthropologist. I’m also an archaeologist.”

“What?”

“And a linguist. They are all linked. Most of my languages are archaic and well, archaeology is a study subject under anthropology.”

“You’ve got more than one degree then?”

“Yes,” Ian said, but with no sign of conceit.

“Confused here,” Mac said frowning. “The Sphinx is in Egypt right? So what’s it got to do with Greek art?”

“The famous Sphinx is in Egypt near the Great Pyramid. However, there is also a legend from Greece about the monster, half human and half lion, which is similar. The Egyptian sphinx is male while the Greek one is based on a female figure. However, there are sphinxes found in many countries, Assyria, Asia Minor…”

“Yep, you really are a teacher,” Mac interrupted with a grin, taking a quick glance at his passenger.

“Oh, sorry. I do enjoy my subject,” Ian said sheepishly.

Mac smiled at his enthusiasm. He never thought he would feel so much pleasure at seeing an academic so wrapped up in his subject. He glanced at him again, taken aback at the sparkle in Ian’s eyes as he turned to look at Mac and their eyes met for an instant. Mac quickly turned back to the road, his insides churning at his reaction.

He took a breath and said, “I seem to be learning about you in dribs and drabs. We’ve got a long way to go, perhaps… if you want; I mean… perhaps you might like to tell me about yourself.”

Ian didn’t answer and Mac took a quick sideways look. “You really going to Chicago?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, Mac, I really am. Why?”

“Just north, you originally said, and then suddenly it was Chicago.”

With a sigh, Ian said, “I teach at the University there.”

“Ah! Why the hedging then, Ian? You could have simply asked for a ride north to Chicago.”

“I… I…” Ian hesitated staring at Mac’s profile. Why did he feel that perhaps this man could be trusted? Ian had no reason to. Ian had known him such a short time, in fact he didn’t really know him at all.

Before he could even decide what to say, or if he should say anything at all, Mac spoke again. “You’re not obliged to tell me. I’m only giving you a ride; you don’t know me, have no cause to trust me. We can drive on in silence if you want, but I am a good listener.”

“No, I don’t know you which is why I don’t understand how I can feel so at ease in your company so quickly,” Ian said quietly.

Mac glanced at him, a pleased expression on his face. “Look, I need to pull in for fuel a little way ahead…”

“Why now?” Ian interrupted. “Why didn’t you get gas at that last place?” A hint of suspicion filled Ian’s voice.

With a rueful smile, Mac answered, “Simple, the boss has an arrangement with this chain of gas stations. I just sign a piece of paper, no cash, no cards. Nice and simple. Fill up here and that should get us where we’re going.”

Ian noticed the ‘us’ and wondered if Mac meant that literally.

“Anyhow, think over what I said. I would like to know more about you.”

After a moment’s thought, Ian frowned and asked, “Are you saying that if I don’t want to talk, you’ll let me out?”

With an exasperated sigh, Mac answered, “No, I’m not pressuring you. We never agreed on a destination. I told you I wasn’t going as far as Chicago, never said how far I was going,” Mac grinned. “Like to hedge my bets.”

Ian stared ahead through the windscreen, glancing at Mac out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to tell someone, but was it safe? Would it make more sense to cut his losses and try and get a ride with another trucker? Mac certainly was curious and he liked to talk, it was doubtful if Ian could continue to ride with him unless he was prepared to talk. Perhaps it was Mac’s way of being paid back for the ride, he wanted to be entertained. Of course, he had no idea that Ian’s tale was more akin to the mysterious, and he suspected more dangerous than that of any other hitch-hiker Mac had picked up.

Ian admitted his… attraction to the man wasn’t exactly helping him to make a judicious choice; he was too influenced by his emotions.

He was getting nowhere and to distract himself from his confused thoughts, he glanced out of the side mirror again. The grey sedan had disappeared. A good sign, surely?

They drove for the next few miles in silence. Mac hadn’t pressed his request, leaving it for Ian to think about it until they reached the gas station up ahead. Ian returned to reading his book, but wasn’t really able to concentrate. Besides considering Mac’s invitation, every so often he glanced at the side mirror to check the traffic behind them. Ian saw innumerable sedans of every hue and decided he was worrying unnecessarily. He had taken special care since leaving Laredo and that was now many miles behind.

It would have been easier if Simon always used the same vehicle, then he would have been certain what to look for, but using rented cars and changing them randomly was a clever ploy. Invariably they were nondescript sedans but unless he saw the occupants, Ian would never know if a vehicle carried a threat.

After a while Mac turned his radio back on, the strains of Madame Butterfly filled the cab and Ian welcomed the distraction. Thankfully, this time Mac didn’t attempt to join in with her singing. Ian smiled at the sudden unbidden image of Mac in a kimono.

“What?” Mac said, puzzled as a low giggle emanated from his companion.

“Ah, sorry, nothing,” Ian said, a faint flush staining his cheeks.

“Come on, something made you giggle.” Which Mac found rather touching.

“Err, you might get mad,” Ian said, his tone belying any real concern.

“Okay, I do have an ego, but I hope I’m not that sensitive!”

“I had a vision of you in a kimono and it wasn’t very flattering.”

Mac guffawed. “I should fucking well hope not. But why would… Ah, the opera,” he said with understanding. “Pleased I didn’t join in this time, eh? Probably would’ve if you weren’t here.”

Ian laughed. “I could probably just about take hearing you sing Pinkerton, but you don’t have the voice for Butterfly.”

Mac grinned at the implied slight and then said thoughtfully, “You know anything about opera?”

“Not really,” Ian answered with a rueful smile, “just what the layman picks up. Less than you certainly.”

“Perhaps you can teach me something about archaeology and I can teach you about opera,” he smiled.

Fifteen minutes later Mac wondered what had possessed him to ask Ian to tell him about archaeology. He didn’t know what half the words meant and he was so out of his depth. At the moment Ian was explaining something about frottage and so far Mac had no idea what that… Whoa! So that’s what it meant — to take a rubbing of some artifact to reveal its form. Thinking of rubbing and Ian in the same sentence was doing things to his libido. Oh, God! That was too much. Now he had this vision of Ian lying flat on his stomach, stretched out and rubbing! Geez, he could almost see that taut ass squirming. He now had some delicious images for his fantasies.

He took a quick look at Ian and found the younger man was looking in his direction. Mac was intrigued to see the glint in his eyes. Did the man know what he doing? Was he doing it on purpose or was Mac seeing what he wanted?

“Do you want to know about opera?” Mac asked casually, while wondering if there was a way of finding out what Ian wanted.

“Large subject too,” Ian said thoughtfully, glancing at Mac just as the trucker caught his eye and suddenly the word large had other connotations associated with Mac etched firmly in Ian’s libido. Oh, God, if he could read my mind right now! Ian knew what he would like Mac’s reaction to be, but the chances were the trucker would knock his teeth down his throat.

“Yeah, so let’s take something central to the subject,” Mac said and began to talk about singing. Mac freely admitted he was no singer himself, but he did know a good singer when he heard one. Mac explained to Ian that one of the most important things for a singer to master was breath control. He began to demonstrate, his lips forming various shapes as he inhaled and exhaled. Ian had to lean forward in his seat to get a proper look at Mac as he had to keep his eyes on the road ahead.

Ian felt his temperature rise as he watched Mac’s chest swell and his nipples strain against his dark tee shirt. His groin swelled in response and he was grateful that Mac wasn’t looking at him as he felt sweat bead on his forehead. Mac suddenly licked his lips and Ian found himself copying the action wishing it were Mac’s lips he was tasting… just as Mac turned in his direction.

Mac smiled at him and Ian felt his face heat up. He just prayed Mac hadn’t noticed anything amiss. Still smiling, Mac turned back, concentrating on his driving.

A little while later Mac said they were approaching the gas station not far from Hillsboro. They had made good time and he was debating whether to take a break there for the night or carry on a little further.

Mac decided Ian was good company, whether talking excitedly about his passion for his chosen career, listening avidly as he soaked up new information, or quietly reading as Mac drove the huge rig. Mac was headed to Illinois; in fact his load was due in Springfield in two days. There was nothing to stop Mac taking Ian onto Chicago if he wanted. Was that what he wanted? To get to know this man better? He knew he liked his looks, God who wouldn’t. Those eyes, he was glad he had to keep his own eyes on the road or he could fall into them and not care where he landed. His smile, Mac wanted to put that smile on Ian’s face. Hair, just long enough to wind his fingers in as he… Well, he couldn’t deny the lust.

He was just a little afraid that it could be more; which wasn’t exactly sensible when he had no way of knowing what the man’s… proclivities were, his little experiment in flirting earlier notwithstanding. Mac could hardly come out and ask the man what his sexual orientation was. He personally had never experienced the so-called ‘gaydar’ that seemed a popular myth in some circles.

The sign for the gas station came up and Mac signaled his turn. Ian put his book away in his backpack, looking around with interest. There was a small diner attached to the gas station with a few cars parked in front. Other than Mac’s rig there were only a station wagon and an SUV filling up.

“While you fill up I’ll make a trip to the men’s room,” Ian told him, climbing down with his pack slung over his shoulder. He was only wearing his tee; he’d removed his overshirt earlier.

“You can leave the pack; it’ll be safe in the cab.”

“Thanks, but everything I have is in here and after what happened I’d rather keep it with me.”

Mac frowned but didn’t question his decision.

As Ian moved away, Mac called after him, “Hungry or shall we go a little further on?”

Ian looked back over his shoulder to say, “I could eat but I’ll leave the travel plans to you.”

“’Kay,” Mac said, watching as Ian walked, enjoying the movement of his buttocks inside those tight jeans.

Mac signed for the fuel. He decided to skip the diner after having a look at the menu and glancing through the window. He had seen enough good diners to recognize a bad one when he saw it. He was walking back to his rig when he decided he should probably pay a call to the men’s room himself while he was here. He changed direction and was approaching the door when heard a noise, a yell that sounded remarkably like Ian’s voice, followed by sounds he recognized all too well. The sounds of flesh hitting flesh that tightened his gut and made him pick up his pace.

He shoved open the door to find two men struggling with Ian, apparently trying to take his pack from him. One man was attempting to hold him in place with an arm around his neck and the other arm around Ian’s shoulders, while the second man was pulling the pack from Ian who was valiantly trying to hold on to it. It took less than a second for Mac to register the bruise on Ian’s face, the long scratches down one arm, and that his tee was torn from the neck on the shoulder where his pack had been.

Ian and the man wrestling with him over the pack were yelling at each other in a language Mac didn’t understand. Ian was struggling hard, gasping as the arm around his neck tightened, cutting off his air. The man struggling with Ian over the pack aimed a kick at Ian which connected with his ankle and Ian cried out.

In the commotion no one noticed Mac as he quietly moved behind the guy holding onto Ian. With a swift movement he dislodged the arm from around Ian’s neck, twisting the man away so he was forced to release his captive, before landing a punch that sent the man sprawling. Swiftly he turned to face the second man.

Ian, taking advantage of the distraction, yanked hard on the strap of his backpack which the other man was still holding, pulling it from his grasp. The stranger, having lost his prize and taking one look at the anger on Mac’s face quickly turned and fled. Mac ran after him with Ian hot on his heels, at least as fast as he could with a hurt ankle.

“Mac, don’t please!” Ian called out.

Mac paused at the desperation in Ian’s voice, turned to look at him, and frowning he asked, “What the hell?” Then he pointed behind Ian as the second man fled from the men’s room, adding, “We’ve gotta stop him!”

It was only then that Mac noticed Ian was favoring his right leg.

“Ian, you all right?”

“I’ll live,” he replied ruefully.

“I’ll call the police, then we’d better get you checked out,” Mac said, moving to take a better look at Ian’s injuries. He wasn’t comfortable involving the police, but he didn’t really have a choice.

“No, Mac, please don’t do that,” Ian pleaded in a quiet voice.

Mac stared at him and Ian dropped his eyes. “Don’t do what?” asked Mac, an edge to his voice.

“Don’t call the police. I’m okay. I can look after myself.” He didn’t look up.

“Right, that’s it,” Mac said in a softly spoken voice but no less resolute for it. “Look at me, Ian.” Slowly the younger man lifted his head and met Mac’s gaze. He licked his lips at the hard look in the normally warm brown eyes. “You tell me everything right now or I leave you here.”

“Please, Mac…”

“I mean it, Ian. I like you and I want to help you, but to do that I have to know… everything. If you can’t, or won’t, trust me then it ends here. I’m sorry but those are my terms.”

Ian looked at Mac and knew it was more than attraction that made him want to stay in the man’s company. For the first time in weeks he felt safe. He knew he had no reason for the feeling. He’d only known Mac, in the loosest sense, for a few hours and yet he couldn’t help the sense of safety, of security he felt with the man. To put it in the simplest terms, he trusted Mac.

With a slight shrug at his own perception, he said. “Can we talk in your cab, preferably away from here if you don’t object?”

“Okay,” Mac said gently, placing a hand on Ian’s back and leading him to the rig, “There’s a truck stop, Knox’s, just this side of Hillsboro, where we can hole up for the night. I’ll help clean and dress your injuries now then we can talk later. You can tell me the truth this time, all of it.”

“I’ve not lied to you, Mac.” Ian glanced at his new friend, a sheepish smile gracing his full lips. “Unless you want to accuse me of being economical with the truth.” He hesitated a moment, dropped his eyes, and then lifted them again to meet Mac’s gaze head on. “But can we just go now? I’m not hurt too bad; let’s just get out of here, please.”

Mac wasn’t happy, but realized Ian needed to put some space between himself and whatever was going on. “Okay, it’s only about twenty minutes further on.”

Even though he was concerned about whatever it was that Ian was going to tell him, Mac acknowledged that he’d been afraid Ian wouldn’t be able to trust him and he would be forced to stick to his word and leave him to his own devices. Mac felt a flush of relief, and pleasure, that Ian wanted to stay. Mac had no desire to see a headline the next morning involving the young archaeologist being hurt… or worse.

Title	No Fear #2 in Conquest Series
Author	S. J. Frost
ISBN#	978-1-60820-136-5 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-137-2 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	March 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

After Conquest’s long tour, singer Jesse Alexander is ready to head home with his partner, Evan Arden. When Conquest hits the studio again, Jesse finds competition from two new bands and tensions reach a breaking point. Facing challenges unlike any he’s ever known, Jesse must somehow duplicate Conquest’s success and reach his ultimate goal: showing NO FEAR and announcing his love of Evan publicly.

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

Unable to contain his excitement, Jesse paced quick strides back and forth across his dressing room.For more than a year, it’d become routine to go out on stage night after night, performing for thousands of raucous people.He woke to a new city nearly every morning, and often slept in one different than he’d awoken.But tomorrow, he would be back in Chicago, and tomorrow night, he and his love would sleep in each other’s arms in their own bed.A smile rose of its own will to Jesse’s lips.He stopped pacing.Home.They were going home.A wave of pure joy surged inside him, making him want to dance, sing, sprint around the room.

Through his thoughts, Jesse caught the voice of his guitarist and lifelong friend, Kenny Cooper.“He’s left us again. He’s back in Jesse’s Happy La La Land.”

“It’s the Frappuccino he finished a little bit ago.He’s always like a gerbil on speed when he drinks those things.”

Jesse faced the two.His older brother, Brandon, met his gaze with a smirk.Of all the people in his life, there were only three he knew he could always depend on, and one was Brandon.Together, they had survived their father, from his fits of rage when they were young to his prejudice against them both for being gay.Brandon stood up to their father to protect him, but in all aspects of his life, Brandon always took care of him.The colorful names they used to address each other were more like pet names, their bickering more an act of play than seriousness.

While Jesse trotted around the world announcing himself as the next greatest singer to hit the scene, Brandon became one of the most popular stage actors in Chicago.Brandon wore his black hair long enough to sport a short, sleek ponytail, perfect for his role as the Phantom in The Phantom of the Opera, which would be putting on its final performance just after the New Year, and he already had his next role lined up playing Billy Flynn in a large scale production of Chicago.Throughout their mutual success, they always sought to support each other, which was why Brandon flew out to New York for no other reason than to see him perform for this last concert.

Beside Brandon was the second person he knew he could always depend on.Jesse met Kenny’s honey-brown eyes.Halfway through Conquest’s tour, Kenny traded in his longish, shaggy dark blond hair for a cut shorter all around and spiky on top, claiming it wasn’t as hot on stage and the fan girls liked the new style better, which he knew was Kenny’s main motivation.

“You back with us now?” Kenny asked.

Jesse’s smile widened.“No.My mind’s already home.”

Julian jumped into the conversation.“Just so long as your body and voice are still here.No one’s interested in your mind, anyway.”

Jesse’s gaze turned to his keyboardist and pianist, Julian Forrester.Julian looked at him with a grin that reached his light blue eyes.The Julliard-trained classical pianist completely shocked him a few months ago when he traded in his perfectly groomed ponytail for a cut that made his pale blond hair look wild and messy.But no matter how rock-starred out Julian tried to get, he never could shake his distinguished air.

“There’s one person who values my mind just as much as my body,” Jesse retorted.

Julian, Kenny, and Brandon all burst out laughing.

“That’s highly debatable,” Julian said.

Jesse allowed a good-humored glare to settle on him.“You know, Jules, I’m starting to miss the quiet, polite, formal boy you were when we first met.”

“Well you have no one to blame but yourself.After spending so much time with you, I came to realize it was a matter of sheer survival, both professionally and for my sanity, to become a smart ass.”

As everyone laughed again, Jesse didn’t catch the high laugh he was so familiar with from the other person in the room.He turned toward his drummer, Trish O’Connell.She sat at a small table with her back to them all, the fingers of her left hand expertly twirling a drumstick.Her dark red hair cascaded down her back in a braid.A white tank top patterned with pink roses revealed her toned arms.

“Hey, Trish,” Jesse called.“Don’t you want to join in on picking on me?”

“Sorry.I’ve got my mind on other things at the moment.”

“Are you still mad at me for hiding your birth control pills?Because you know it was just a joke, and it was pretty funny.Well, I thought it was funny.”

From the others chuckling, they seemed to agree with Jesse.

Trish smiled at him.“It was funny.And I can never be mad at you, Jess.”

At the sound of the door opening, Jesse turned his attention away from her.His smile returned brighter than earlier as his gaze locked with the brilliant azure eyes of the third, and most important, person he knew he could always depend on, Evan Arden.

For Jesse, when Conquest headlined their own sold-out tour it was a dream achieved.Then to be Evan’s opening act on his Addiction World Tour surpassed it.Nothing compared to his joy at being with Evan every day, every night, watching him perform, learning from him, loving him.Evan’s music, his voice, his gift, was a source of unending inspiration.

Labeled as a musical and vocal genius, Evan brought elegance to rock music and his concerts themselves were a work of art, with pyrotechnics, light shows, perfectly choreographed routines with professional dancers, and a mini symphony.Evan could match moves with the best dancers, change between playing guitar, piano, violin, and drums with the ease of breathing, and still hadn’t tapped out all the instruments he was skilled in.He’d sprint across the stage, then blast out his baritone not the slightest bit winded.He could lift an audience up; he could bring them back down.During his time on stage, thousands of people became Evan’s willing captives.

Jesse’s gaze coasted down Evan’s body.A light blue shirt of fine silk formed around Evan’s lean torso.With half the buttons undone, he admired Evan’s smooth chest, the curves of his solid pectorals.Black leather pants hugged Evan’s narrow hips and cloaked his legs down to a pair of black snakeskin boots.He returned his gaze to Evan’s face, his refined cheekbones, his slender jaw.At twenty-eight years old, the superstar vocalist hardly looked twenty-three.His dark chestnut hair shone with highlights of gold and copper, the layers lightly touched with styling wax to have a slight wave, the length falling to the middle of his neck in back.

For all their days together, Evan still managed to take his breath away.

“Hey,” Jesse said, his voice soft.

A smile shone across Evan’s lips.“Hey, gorgeous.”

Evan closed the door, muting the sounds of the audience chanting for entertainment.He walked toward Jesse, his gaze moving over him.Jesse wore a pair of stylishly faded Diesel jeans that fell off the tops of his slender hips, and the tight, V-neck, dark purple T-shirt gave his indigo eyes a violet tint.His Jesse, his savior, his shining warrior.The only person who knew all his secrets, who had seen all his flaws, who he trusted completely and fully.

Jesse moved to meet him.The distance between them closed as Evan slipped his arms around Jesse’s waist.

Jesse embraced Evan’s neck.“You appreciate my mind just as much as my body, don’t you?”

A thoughtful expression crossed Evan’s face.“That’s a difficult question.I guess it depends on the situation.”

“Point proven!” Julian called out, Kenny and Brandon laughing with him.

“That’s not what you were supposed to say!” Jesse said over their snickering.

“Well, you have to set the scenario up better.”Evan dipped his head down and laid a gentle kiss on Jesse’s neck.He drifted one hand lower on Jesse’s back, his fingers tracing the curves of his ass.“Like how long has it been since we’ve had sex?Or what are you using your mind for when I’m supposed to appreciate it?”He raised his head to meet Jesse’s eyes.“Are you using your brilliance to create beautiful music, or are you babbling about old gods and ancient people?Because if it’s the first, we could not have had sex for months and I would still appreciate your mind.But if it’s the latter and we haven’t had sex within twenty-four hours, then I might be forced to put something thick, long, and hard in your mouth to express my appreciation for your other qualities.”

Jesse’s attempt to maintain a serious countenance withered as a chuckle slipped from his throat.

Julian and Brandon broke into hysterics.Even Kenny snickered.Trish stood up and headed toward the door.

Jesse looked over Evan’s shoulder at her.“Don’t go too far.We’re hitting the stage in twenty.”

Trish flicked her hand in acknowledgment and opened the door, nearly running into Conquest and Evan’s mutual producer, Greg Hansen.

Greg glanced back at her in confusion over her hasty retreat, then aimed a scowl at Jesse and Evan while closing the door behind him.“Roadies, groupies, security, performers, and countless other people running all over here and you two can’t keep from wrapping around each other.”

Evan dropped his arms from around Jesse’s waist.“The door was closed.”

“And doors don’t accidentally get opened with this many people trying to find their way around a new venue every night?You could at least lock it.”

Evan sat on the tan leather couch.“If only I had remembered.”

From the glare Evan gave Greg, Jesse caught his meaning, and from how Greg’s scowl deepened, he saw Greg did as well.Greg hadn’t traveled with them on the tour except for meeting them at special events and award shows.His role at Phoenix Records was steadily shifting to his taking on more administrative duties, and Jesse felt it was just as well.

A little more than a year had passed since rumors erupted in tabloids alluding to just how intimate Jesse’s relationship with Evan was.The rumors forced Evan to leave him, believing he needed to let Jesse go to protect him.And he walked away from Evan for fear his presence would hurt Evan’s comeback.But the devastation their break-up caused made them realize their hearts, their spirits, their minds, their bodies, no longer belonged to themselves.They were no longer whole without the other.Though the innuendo in the media calmed with them not giving the paparazzi further fodder, they had enough stress watching their actions in public without Greg yelling at them every time they sat too close in a private situation.

Jesse lowered his gaze, his bright mood sobering.For as perfect as their relationship was, the one black spot of having to keep it silent from the public hung over it.At times it seemed like a void that threatened to swallow all happiness that neared it.

He understood, or at least understood in part, the need to stay silent until his career grew stronger, and Evan was the main advocate as he didn’t want to affect Conquest’s success, but Jesse yearned for the day when he would have Evan’s full support in coming out together.He didn’t blame Evan for their secrecy; there were other obstacles too, such as convincing his band their coming out wouldn’t destroy Conquest and making sure they had Phoenix backing them, but he felt if he had Evan’s support, no obstacle could hinder them.It really was rather funny how they both cared more for each other’s careers than they did for their own.Soon though, he wouldn’t have Evan’s career to worry about.

Jesse met Evan’s gaze.He saw in Evan’s eyes that he knew his thoughts as if he’d spoken them aloud.Evan raised his left hand to him.Jesse went to him and took it.On Evan’s left ring finger was the gift Jesse gave him for his twenty-seventh birthday, a ring of white gold holding a finely faceted, round cut alexandrite stone, its color a rich burgundy at the moment, but would change naturally to deep bluish-green in the sunlight.Eight diamonds, four on each side, embraced it.On the inside of the band, hidden from all eyes but always touching Evan’s skin, was the inscription, Forever Yours, Jesse.

Of all the rings Evan had a penchant for wearing, only two were ever-present on his fingers; the alexandrite, and on his right index finger a ring that had belonged to his father, also made of white gold and featuring an eagle in flight atop a square cut onyx, gripping a blood-red, marquise cut ruby in its talons.

Evan took Jesse’s left hand so he held them both.His gaze went to the ring he gave Jesse on the Christmas night they reunited, white gold trimmed in yellow gold, shining with a square cut diamond of a size that always brought attention.Nestled in the yellow gold trim were diamond chips, and the Greek meander wrapped around the band.The inside of the band bore the inscription, All My Love Forever, Evan.

He had watched Jesse in many interviews where he was asked about the ring, and always Jesse answered the same.With a sad smile on his lips, he’d say it was a gift from the person he loved most in the world.Jesse may have bent slightly in upholding the wishes of everyone to keep their relationship on the down low, but he refused to yield fully.If Jesse were single or dating a regular guy, his sexuality might not be as much of an issue, but Evan being Jesse’s partner made things more complicated.Evan feared because of his place in music and the straight persona he’d put up during his career, his fans would react with hostility toward Jesse.

But even with the suspicion floating around, twenty-two year old Jesse had conquered a large portion of the world with his music and beautiful tenor voice, and he knew Jesse wouldn’t stop until he claimed the entire world.Jesse’s inner strength, his confidence, his pride, were just a few of the characteristics Evan loved so dearly about him, and it broke his heart that he couldn’t give him the one thing Jesse wanted most.Only reminding himself it wouldn’t be this way forever eased the pain.

Evan felt Jesse squeeze his hands.He looked up.Jesse gazed at him with a warm smile.He returned Jesse’s smile, then with a hard tug, yanked him forward so Jesse fell half on him, half on the couch, laughing.He silenced Jesse’s laughter by covering his mouth in a deep kiss.

Greg exhaled a loud sigh and dropped into a chair.“I don’t know why I bother.”

Evan drew back from the kiss, looking into Jesse’s eyes.

Jesse saw from the playfulness in Evan’s gaze, the kiss was his way of telling Greg to back off.

“I don’t know why either,” Jesse said, shifting on the couch to sit beside Evan.“We’ve done pretty damn good this past year without having you being our watchdog.”

“And this is the last concert,” Evan added.“It’s a little late for you to start criticizing us now.”

“Plus, I thought you came to New York on Phoenix business that had nothing to do with us.You shouldn’t add to your workload by nagging at us.”

Greg ran a hand through his dark brown hair, more peppered with gray than the previous year.“You guys can stop the double team routine.I get it.”

Evan laid his arm across the back of the couch.His fingers sank into Jesse’s hair, absentmindedly toying with it.“You never did say what your official business was.”

“That’s because it’s being kept quiet for now.”

“Come on!” Jesse said.“What do you think we’re going to do if you tell us?Go running to the media?And since Phoenix would’ve gone under if it wasn’t for Conquest, I think I have a right to know more than anyone else.”

Evan cleared his throat.

Jesse grinned at him.“Your album sales and tour helped a little too, I guess.”

Evan laughed softly and shook his head at him, then looked to Greg.“But he does have a point.Phoenix wouldn’t be here right now if Conquest and I hadn’t shoved the label into the black.”

Greg stared at them for a moment.He glanced at Kenny, Julian, and Brandon.“I guess it really doesn’t matter.It won’t be a secret once the contracts are signed, anyway.I’m here to help finalize bringing Black Heart Down under Phoenix.They were having some major issues at their label and turned their attorneys loose to get out of their contract.Their agent called us expressing BHD’s desire to come under Phoenix, and we weren’t about to say no to a band who’s been as successful as they have for the past seven years.”

Jesse took a long, deep breath in an effort to maintain his composure.Black Heart Down had been one step behind Conquest all year.Admittedly, they were a hell of a rock band, and he had nothing against the majority of them.He thought their lead guitarist, Robbie Russo, was awesome, both as a musician and as a person.Their drummer, Adam Hunter, and bass player, Kevin Moore, seemed like great guys, but when it came to Kyler Christenson, the lead singer, there were some issues.

The first issue: it disgusted Jesse how Kyler sold-out on their last album and used a songwriter to write all their material.Yes, it was a common practice, and maybe Jesse was of an old school mentality in believing musicians should create their own original music, but it bothered him all the more with Kyler because he knew Kyler had the talent in him.For Black Heart Down’s first four albums, Kyler and Robbie wrote all the material.Jesse didn’t know why Kyler went with a songwriter for the last one; whether he hit a mental block, became too lazy to do it himself, or thought he could make more cash by having someone else write songs for him, none of the excuses were valid enough for Jesse personally.

The second issue: Kyler knew what Evan looked like naked, and especially a certain choice part of Evan since Kyler had wrapped his lips around it.Evan had told him about the incident.It happened back when Evan was traveling the world on his own.He returned to the States for his mother’s wedding, but throughout the ceremony he couldn’t shake his anger in believing she was betraying the memory of his father by remarrying, and what was more, his new step-relatives sickened him.

After the ceremony and five glasses of champagne at the reception, Evan left, deciding he needed to let his frustration out.He knew Black Heart Down was in New York, and his name got him in the door and backstage without a ticket.Kyler took Evan to his apartment, but when Kyler grew uncomfortable with the things they were doing, Evan stopped and left.

Jesse looked at Evan.“So Kyler will be signed under Phoenix.Isn’t that a special little treat?”

“It was a long time ago,” Evan said softly.“And just because Black Heart’s under Phoenix doesn’t mean we have to associate with them.Chances are they’ll record in New York where they all live and we’ll never see them.”

“And if they end up recording in Chicago, then what?Even though he doesn’t officially know we’re a couple, I’m pretty sure he suspects it and still has a thing for you since at award shows he always looks at me like he’s picturing me under the wheels of his Range Rover.”

“He wouldn’t dare touch you,” Evan said, his voice carrying a protective edge.

Brandon chimed in, “Maybe you guys could introduce him to me.He’s painfully hot.”

Jesse scowled at him.

“You’re not my enemy, so I wouldn’t do that to you,” Evan replied.

“And what about the waiter at the little café up the street from your apartment you’ve been telling me about?” Jesse said.“That Christopher guy.You don’t like him anymore?”

“No, I do, I just haven’t made a move on him yet.”Brandon laughed under his breath.“He’s so cute.Every morning when I go in to grab my usual bagel and mocha, even if he’s not working the counter, he always comes up to take my order and make small talk.He’s been trying so hard to get my attention, he really deserves a reward.”

Jesse looked away to hide the concern on his face.Brandon, always desperate to please the men in his life, had been taken advantage of more than once.He knew he didn’t have any reason to not trust this Christopher guy, but with how Brandon’s bank account had swelled with the success of his career, and he now lived in a very nice neighborhood on the North Side, Jesse wanted to meet the guy as soon as possible to make sure he wasn’t out for Brandon’s cash and status.

Greg’s talking brought him back to the moment.

“Well, don’t get yourself too wound up over BHD, Jess.It seems you’ll have some other competition from a group out of L.A. called Swiller.They’re new, but they show a lot of promise from what I’ve been told.I’m not sure when they’re supposed to come in, or if they even will.They may end up staying in L.A. to record because apparently the guitarist is on probation for a DUI.I guess the court hit him pretty hard since he’s underage and his license was already suspended.I’ve known their manager, Jon Kurtz, for a long time.He called me the other day and said he thinks this group is a ‘Conquest killer.’”

Jesse’s right hand balled into a fist.“No band can take us down.”

Kenny leaned toward Greg, speaking in a pleading voice.“Greg, c’mon man.Don’t get him riled up, or he’ll drag us straight from the airport to the studio.I need a break!”

“I’m not trying to fire him up.”Greg looked at Jesse.“Actually, I hear the lead singer is quite a fan of yours.”

Evan flung his arms around Jesse and rocked him.“Awe!You see?You do have a fan!”

Jesse let out a couple chuckles, though there wasn’t much humor in them.

Evan kept his arms around him and looked at Greg.“I think that’s enough business talk.He needs to finish getting ready so he can hype up the crowd for me, and if you keep talking, you’re going to completely ruin his mood.”

Greg held up his hands innocently as he stood.“Sorry.I didn’t mean to break your concentration for the stage, but you wanted to know.”

Brandon, Kenny, and Julian all rose to follow Greg’s lead out.Silence filled the room in their wake.

“Have you warmed up your voice yet?” Evan asked.

“No,” Jesse grumbled.

He moved to stand up.Evan caught him by the back of the shirt and pulled.Jesse flopped heavily back down, then felt Evan’s hand drift under his shirt.The single touch was all it took to shift his mood from irritated into an opposite direction.

Evan leaned close to him.“Then I’ll help you.”He licked down the outside edge of Jesse’s right ear to the two small silver hoop earrings in the earlobe.

Jesse closed his eyes.A hushed moan hummed in his throat.He tipped his head away from Evan, offering his neck.

Evan moved his lips from Jesse’s ear to his neck, placing a line of tender kisses down to the curve.“I’ll make you hit every note you’re capable of.”He pushed his hand between Jesse’s legs, and at the same time, took the skin near the curve of his neck between his teeth in a firm bite.A high groan broke from Jesse’s throat.Evan grinned and lifted his head.“And some you didn’t know you could hit.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve discovered my whole range a thousand times at this point in our relationship.”

With a light push, Evan directed him to lie on his back.“I still think you have more talent hidden away and I’m determined to find it.”He eased on top of him, softly stroking Jesse’s hair near his temple.“Have I put you in a better mood?”

“Almost.”Jesse placed his hand behind Evan’s head and guided him to his lips.

Evan’s tongue glided into his mouth. Jesse massaged it with his own and tightened his hold around Evan’s back.A dizzying rush spun through him at the strength he met, Evan’s body, so firm, so warm.

Evan passed a pleased sigh into his mouth as Jesse worked his tongue.He shifted his hips, pressing their erections together through their clothes, and pushed Jesse’s shirt up.Evan kissed down Jesse’s throat.His lips moved over the two black leather cords of the choker around Jesse’s neck, from which dangled a gold pendant of the sixteen-rayed Vergina Sun.He moved lower to Jesse’s chest, licking and sucking at one nipple.Jesse groaned and pushed Evan’s head to his chest.Evan smiled and gave him a light bite.

Jesse sucked in a sharp breath, then laughed.“That’s the second time you’ve bitten me.You’re in one of those moods, aren’t you?”

Evan tugged the button loose on Jesse’s jeans and lowered the zipper.“Maybe.”

Jesse glanced at a clock on the wall.“It’s too bad we don’t have enough time to get into playing like that.I have to hit the stage in ten.”

“If you’re late going on, it’d just keep to the pattern of half the other nights on this tour.”

“True, or you could always let me unleash my youthful impatience.That is, if you think you could keep up, geezer.”

Evan paused in reaching inside Jesse’s boxers.“I guess my mind must be going with old age, because I seem to have this memory of a certain someone crying out a few nights ago, ‘Ev, please!I’ll die if you keep doing that!I can’t take it!’”

Jesse pointed an accusing finger at him.“I said it that night and I’ll say it now, next time, we’re going to see how long you can take being tied down while I’m teasing you with my mouth and shoving a vibrator up your—”

Evan silenced him with an index finger to Jesse’s lips.“Shhh, you shouldn’t let talking ruin how pretty you are.”

Jesse laughed and pushed on Evan’s shoulders.“You’re so denied!”

A knowing grin curved Evan’s lips.“Is that so?”

A mischievous smirk graced Jesse’s lips as he wrapped his arms around him.“Well, maybe not.”

Title	Mahu Men
Author	Neil Plakcy
ISBN#	978-1-60820-130-3 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	March 2010
Cover Artist
Paperback:	212 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)
	Amazon.com (paperback)

Mixing mystery and erotica, the stories in Mahu Men take readers into the world of openly gay Honolulu homicide detective Kimo Kanapa’aka. Moving from pickups to murders, Kimo surfs the waves of his professional and personal lives in a sexy, sensual tropical paradise, where danger and desire lurk behind every palm tree.The stories fill the gaps between Neil Plakcy’s Mahu novels, showing Kimo dating as well as solving cases and establishing a relationship with his new detective partner. Mixing the sensuality of Plakcy’s erotica with the sharp-edged attitude of his mysteries, Mahu Men is a chance for new readers to meet Kimo, and for fans to delve more deeply into his world.

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

I Know What You Did

Dark clouds were massing over Tantalus as I responded to the discovery of a murder victim at the Vybe, a gay club on University Avenue in the Mo‘ili‘ili neighborhood of Honolulu, near the M?noa campus of the University of Hawai‘i. But it was sunny on the H1 highway, and I wasn’t worried that rain would damage the crime scene. Our island is composed of microclimates, and if you don’t like the weather where you are, just drive a few minutes away. It will change.

What does not change is that people commit murders. I am a homicide detective, and that means there will always be a job for me. A few months before, after six years on the force, I came out of the closet, the first openly gay police detective in Honolulu. I’d been to the Vybe before, for the Sunday afternoon tea dance. My friend Gunter liked the Vybe’s outdoor patio area, which had a good dance floor, a couple of bars and a stage. If I hadn’t been on duty, I might have been at the club myself, dancing and having a good time.

When I pulled up across from the club, I spoke to the first cop on the scene, a middle–aged Chinese guy named Frank Sit. We shook hands, and then he nodded toward the corpse. “911 got an anonymous call, reporting a man injured in the parking lot here.”

Sit had already cordoned off the immediate area around the body, and called for backup to help us conduct a search. “Looks like a bashing,” he said. “Poor guy was coming out of the bar, and somebody came along and started whaling on him.”

I kneeled down to examine the body. He was a haole, or white male, in his early thirties, lying face down on the ground. He had been beaten extensively around the head and upper body. Head wounds are often big bleeders, and this case was no exception. Blood had pooled around the man’s head, running in a single stream down toward the curb. His skull had been fractured, but there was no brain matter exposed, a small favor for which I was grateful.

I took a couple of pictures with my digital camera, memorializing the scene and the way the body had been found. Then I stepped aside to let the medical examiner’s guys do their work.

Four uniforms showed up to help search the immediate area for the weapon. “Look for any kind of blunt object, or anything that looks like blood drippings. We can get the crime scene techs to spray with luminol if we can’t find anything else.”

They walked off, and I looked toward the small crowd of men in short shorts and tank tops who clustered just beyond the crime scene tape, speaking in low tones to each other. Most of them were in their early twenties, probably students at UH.

It was just after six, and the tropical sun was turning the sky orange as it began its descent over Sand Island and the Ke‘ehi Lagoon. The air was heavy with humidity, exhaust from the highway, and the faint scent of plumeria blossoms coming from a discarded lei on the ground nearby.

“My name is Kimo Kanapa‘aka, and I’m a homicide detective,” I said, to the crowd at large. “I assure you I’m going to do everything possible to find out what happened here this evening.” I pulled out my pad and pen. “Any of you know the victim?”

A muscular guy in his late thirties, with a brush cut and combat boots, said, “I danced with him but I never got his name.”

A slim Japanese guy said, “His name was Jimmy. He was here every Sunday.”

I worked my way through the crowd, one by one. No one could recall any incidents involving the victim, no one claimed to know him well, and nobody remembered seeing him leave. The crowd had been sparse at the tea dance, and the rest of the businesses in the area were closed on Sunday evening, so no one had seen anything outside.

By then, the medical examiner was finished with the body, and I pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and knelt down. I carefully turned the body over. The victim was wearing a silver chain with a St. Christopher’s medal on it, and a couple of silver rings. One of them was in the shape of a snake, wrapping around his right index finger. I found his wallet in his front pocket and extracted it.

There was $18 still in it, along with his identification: James Fremantle, 31, a Waik?k? resident. So his assault wasn’t a robbery, which lent more credence to the idea of a gay bashing. Since I had come out, I’d started paying closer attention to crimes against gay men and lesbians, and I’d noted that gay bashings were on the rise—just a few days before, a couple of teenagers from Aiea had been caught in Waik?k?, punching a gay man who they said had made advances toward them, and that was by no means an isolated incident.

I stood up and told the ME’s team that they could take the body away. Then I walked inside the Vybe. It was decorated in Pan–Asian neon, all paper umbrellas, earthenware ashtrays embossed with ideographs, and electric signs like those in Tokyo’s Ginza.

The bartender, a blonde woman with a bouffant, told me Fremantle was a regular, and that afternoon she had served him a couple of Cosmopolitans. Her name was Peg, and she’d been working at the tea dance since opening. Fremantle wasn’t one of the first to arrive, but she knew he’d been there at least two hours.

Within about fifteen minutes, I’d spoken to anyone who had anything to contribute, and I walked back outside. Sit called me over; he had found a bloody baseball bat in a dumpster down the alley from the club.

The bat was brand–new, and though I couldn’t see any fingerprints, there were several smudges in the blood consistent with a perpetrator who used plastic gloves. “Something here doesn’t seem right,” I said to Frank. “The new bat, the gloves. That sounds like premeditation.”

“Bashing’s an impulse crime, in my experience,” he said.

“Mine, too.” Usually a bunch of guys got liquored up and went out looking for trouble. Sometimes they found prostitutes, and sometimes they got into traffic accidents or other minor scrapes. And sometimes they found some innocent gay guy, by himself or with a friend, and they used their fists and whatever debris they found handy. Buying a new baseball bat and a pair of gloves didn’t fit.

I spread some newspapers on the floor of my truck and gingerly placed the bat there. The last thing you want to do with something that’s wet and bloody is put it into a plastic bag and seal it up, particularly in a hot, humid climate like ours. You do that, and very soon you get bacterial growth that wipes out any DNA evidence.

Then Sit and I walked the parking lot, looking at the position of the building, the cars, the street light. “At this point, I don’t want to assume that Fremantle was the victim,” I said. “We don’t know if the killer targeted him, or he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I looked around. “If Fremantle was a target, then the killer needed a place he could stay out of sight, but with a good view to who came out of the club.”

The Vybe fronted on University, with an alley on one side. Across the alley was the back door of a photocopy place where no one would notice you, and yet you’d have a clear line of sight. Sit and I searched the immediate area around the back door, finding a couple of fresh Juicy Fruit gum wrappers, which I placed in an evidence bag.

It was dark by then. I pulled out my cell phone and got Fremantle’s number from directory assistance. When I called, I discovered he had a roommate, who said he’d be home for the next hour.

Waik?k? is gay headquarters for Honolulu and the island of O‘ahu. Most of the gay bars are there, and the hotels and stores cater to gay tourists. I lived there, along with lots of other gay men, particularly those who have been in the islands only a few years, and who work in some kind of service industry. Waiters, store clerks, personal trainers and hotel employees live two, three or four to an apartment in the towers and rundown low–rises between Ala Moana and the Ala Wai canal. More affluent or educated gay people, such as businessmen, teachers and so on, tend to live a little farther out in the suburbs, but they still come to Waik?k? for a social life.

Fremantle had lived in a high rise on Kal?kaua, about two blocks from its intersection with Ala Moana. From my days as a detective in Waik?k?, I knew that the area was busy, noisy, and moderately unsafe. There were drug deals regularly at the convenience store, and the tricky confluence of streets made for a lot of minor traffic accidents. I had trouble finding a parking spot and ended up walking four blocks.

When he answered the door, Fremantle’s roommate wore only a pair of white Calvin Klein briefs. He was a queeny boy in his early twenties, with pouffed up blonde hair that came to a stylized point above his forehead. He was waifishly thin, but his arms and legs were muscular.

“You’re the gay cop!” he said, when he saw me. “Oh, darling, I’m so excited.” Before I could react, he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. His breath tasted sweet and somehow familiar. “Oh, now I can say I kissed the gay cop!” He danced backwards a little, leading me into a living room furnished with Salvation Army castoffs. Dirty clothes littered the tattered sofa, and were strewn over the no–color carpet and a couple of dubious–looking chairs. A big old TV squatted in one corner, one of the talk show hosts encouraging some poor soul to bare his problems.

The boy, whose name was Larry Wollinsky, sprawled on the sofa, knocking a jumble of shorts and T–shirts to the floor. “Come sit by me,” he said, patting a place on the sofa next to him. “I’m just crushed by all this, you know.”

I sat in an armchair across from him, and he pouted. “Tell me about James Fremantle,” I said. “Was he your lover?”

Larry laughed. “Jimmy? My God, no. Although,” he leaned forward, “there was this one time, after a volleyball game at Queen’s Surf, when we were both so horny. I mean, you know what that’s like, you just have to do something about it. But no, we were just roommates.”

Queen’s Surf was the gay beach; I’d been there myself a few times, but had not yet joined in a volleyball game. “Not friends?”

“Not really. Jimmy was kind of a loser. He didn’t have a lot of friends.”

I learned that Jimmy Fremantle was from Nebraska, employed in store merchandising, what I’d be tempted to call window dressing. He’d worked his way west doing that: Lincoln, then Denver, then San Francisco. He’d come to Honolulu about two years before, working first as a clerk at Liberty House, then moving up to merchandising again once the chain was bought out by Macy’s. Wollinsky gave me Fremantle’s boss’s name and the store phone number.

“So he kept to himself?” I asked. “You said before he didn’t have many friends.”

“Not for want of trying,” Larry said. “You’ve got to give the boy credit, though. He was out there all the time. He caught every strip night at every club. He’d be at Fusion one night, then Trixx, then the Rod and Reel Club, then Windows, then Michelangelo.” He leaned forward like he was confiding a secret to me. “He even started country and western line dancing. I mean, really!”

“Can you tell me some other people he knew?”

He gave me a couple of names and phone numbers. “I swear, it’s not safe to go out anywhere without a police escort.” He leaned back on the sofa and casually moved his three–piece set from one side to the other through his Calvins. “How about you, detective? Would you like to escort me to a club some night?”

I ignored the overture. “You have any problems with him?” I asked. “Any reason why you might want to see him dead?”

Wollinsky shook his head. “Like I said, I wasn’t exactly his best friend, but I didn’t hate him.”

“Know anybody who did?”

“I’m sure people got annoyed with him—he was an annoying kind of guy.”

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“Here. Asleep. A boy’s got to get his beauty rest, you know.”

“I appreciate your help,” I said, standing up. “If we need any more information, an officer will be in touch with you.”

Larry Wollinsky stood up and trailed me to the door. “At least he had his fifteen minutes in the spotlight.”

“You mean getting killed?”

“No, silly, being on TV. He was on The Shirley Ku Show last week.”

I turned around and nodded him back toward the sofa. “Tell me about The Shirley Ku Show.”

“Only if you sit next to me.”

I sat. He looked at me and I scooted over a bit, so my left leg was next to his right one, close enough that I could feel heat rising from it. His skin was as smooth as a baby’s. “Talk,” I said.

Shirley Ku was a Chinese–American woman with a trash talk show in the middle of the afternoon on KVOL, the island–based station my older brother Lui manages.

“You never know what she’s going to do,” Larry said. “I’m like a total Shirley Ku addict. I work nights, I’m a dancer, so I watch her every day. Jimmy was sick one week, a cold or something, and he was home with me, watching. They announce ideas they have for future shows, and they ask you to write in if you want to be on. One day she said they were going to do a show on “I know what you did.” They wanted people who had secrets about other people to come on and tell them. On TV. Can you believe it?”

I believed it, and I had a sinking feeling that I knew what was coming. Larry shifted next to me, resting one pale hand on my thigh. Through the khaki I felt my skin tingle.

Gently, I lifted his hand off. “What did Jimmy know?”

“There’s this guy he used to work with at Liberty House,” Larry said. “The guy was like, totally homophobic. He used to make jokes about fags, Jimmy said. He was mean.” His gaze drifted for a minute. “Poor Jimmy. I guess nobody was really as nice to him as he deserved.”

I spoke gently. “What did Jimmy know about him?”

“Jimmy was at the store late one night, changing a display, and he went back to a storeroom to get something. He saw this guy, Vince, giving a blow job to another guy.” He smiled. “Vince quit the next day and Jimmy didn’t know what happened to him. But just before he caught that cold, he saw Vince working at a store somewhere.”

I shifted my leg from Larry’s. “And that’s what he did? He went on this Shirley Ku show and said he’d seen Vince giving this guy a blow job?”

Larry nodded. “But it was more than that. They’d tricked Vince into coming on the show, too, and they kept him in a soundproof booth while Jimmy told his story. Then they brought Vince out, and when they told him what happened, he looked like his world had fallen apart.”

I knew what that felt like; I’d been outed in the press while investigating a murder case. I sympathized with Vince, but at the same time I could see a motive for murder forming.

“You know where I can reach Vince?”

Larry shook his head. “But The Shirley Ku Show, I’m sure they know where to find him.”

I stood up, and Larry stood with me. “You think Vince killed him?”

“I’m going to find out.” I stopped at a framed picture of Jimmy and Larry. They both looked happy. “Can I borrow this? I might need to show Jimmy’s face around.”

“Sure.” He picked it up and handed it to me, and then walked me to the door. “Jimmy was just my roommate. Like I said, we weren’t really friends. But I miss him already.”

“You’ll find another roommate.” I took his hand in both of mine. “Think good thoughts about Jimmy.”

Since I was already in Waik?k? and it was the end of my shift, I called in a brief report and went home. The next afternoon when I got to my desk I found the autopsy report on Jimmy Fremantle. He was dead by the second or third blow to his head. The rest had just been insurance. It was sounding like somebody had a real beef with him.

I called Fremantle’s boss, and the couple of friends whose names Larry Wollinsky had given me. No one knew anyone who had a grudge against Jimmy, or any reason to dislike him. I started to get a picture of Jimmy and the lonely life he must have led.

A production assistant on The Shirley Ku Show told me that the show was about to go on, for its daily four p.m. live broadcast. “But I can get you in with Shirley at five, when she comes off,” he said. The studio was just a couple of blocks down from headquarters on South Beretania and it was a gorgeous fall afternoon, sunny and crisp, so I walked over there.

I showed my badge at the door and was allowed to slip into the back of the audience, where I caught the last half hour of The Shirley Ku Show. The guests were caregivers who had sex with their elderly patients. The audience laughed loudest when an elderly lady commented on the size of her beefy male nurse’s member. She was a frail little thing with white hair pulled up like Pebbles and tied with a pink bow. “I been around the block a few times, and let me tell you, he’s got a big one,” she said. I was afraid for a minute that Shirley was going to ask him to prove it.

The other two patients were both elderly men cared for by young, attractive women. One said she had to use a vacuum pump to help her patient perform, and the other said she sat on her patient’s face so that he could lick her. The audience roared and Shirley Ku made a few funny comments.

Shirley was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, with a thousand–megawatt smile. There was a small step that the camera never showed that helped her get up onto the barstool where she sat, her legs demurely crossed, while her guests revealed their innermost secrets.

When the show was over, the retirees, middle–aged women and teenagers in the audience filed out and I went backstage. A grip pointed me down the hall to a door that had Shirley Ku’s picture in the center of a big red star.

She was sitting at a counter taking off her makeup when I walked in. Just beyond her was what I could only call a shrine to Connie Chung–– a life–sized cutout, and dozens of candid and posed photos of the former network newswoman. “You like Connie?” Shirley asked when she saw where I was looking. “Shirley Ku is her biggest fan. Someday, Shirley is going to be a big star, just like Connie.”

“I wanted to talk to you about a show you did recently,” I said. “It was called I know what you did.”

“Good show. What about it?”

I explained that Jimmy Fremantle had been killed, and that I wanted to know more about his appearance. “It may be related to his death.”

Shirley looked stunned. “We had four guests on that day. A mother confronted her teenaged daughter about having sex. A clerk at a lingerie store downtown identified a man who admitted to shoplifting lace panties there. Jimmy Fremantle was the third guest. The last was a woman who revealed that her sister had an abortion when she was a teenager.” She continued taking off her makeup. “The sister is married to Councilman Yamanaka,” she continued. “You know, the one who makes such a fuss about Christian values.”

She looked back at me. “Great ratings for that one. And you know something, the next day Councilman Yamanaka resigned from the anti–abortion group he chaired and it fell apart.” She stood up and walked to a Japanese screen painted with a silver egret standing amidst green reeds. At the edge she stopped and said, “So you see, Shirley Ku does some good things, too.”

She stepped behind the screen and began changing her clothes. “Tell me about Jimmy Fremantle,” I said.

“I guess you know the basic story,” she said from behind the screen. “We brought the other guy in saying someone had a secret crush on him.” She stuck her head around the screen. “I think that was a little true.” She disappeared again. “We kept him in a soundproof room while the audience heard Jimmy’s story. We got hold of his personnel record from Liberty House, which showed he quit the day after Jimmy saw him. Then we brought him out.”

She emerged from behind the screen wearing a sleeveless white blouse and a pair of pink shorts. “He wasn’t happy, but he didn’t go crazy either. He admitted he’d done it–– you know, had sex with that other guy in the storage room. He said, “So I did it. So what?” And then we cut to commercial. We came back to Councilman Yamanaka’s sister–in–law.”

“Do you have a last name and an address for Vince?” I asked.

“My assistant will get it for you. I’m sure we had him sign a waiver before he went on the air.” She paused. “Anything else?”

“How about a copy of the tape? I’d like to see it for myself.”

“You never saw it? How’d you know to ask about it?”

“Fremantle’s roommate, Larry Wollinsky. He told me about it.”

“Wollinsky? He was Jimmy Fremantle’s roommate?” She looked like she was ready to spit.

“You know him?”

“He submits ideas for the show every week. Dozens. Stupid ideas. He’s a drag queen, you know? He does Edith Piaf. Who wants to see Edith Piaf in Hawai‘i? He’s not even very good. We finally had him audition for one of our makeup tips shows. He was terrible!”

I thanked her, and she found her assistant, who copied the episode onto a DVD and gave me an address for Vince Gaudenzi in Mo‘ili‘ili. “I think he works at that big bookstore in the Ward Warehouse,” she said. “You might be able to catch him there.”

“Thanks.” I walked back to headquarters and retrieved my truck from the garage. I drove over to the Ward Warehouse, fighting the rush hour snarl, and found Vince Gaudenzi behind the bookstore’s information counter. I showed him my badge and asked if there was somewhere private we could talk.

Title	L.A. Bytes #3 in the L.A Series
Author	P.A. Brown
ISBN#	978-1-60820-040-5 (print)
	978-1-60820-041-2 (ebook)
Release Date	February 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	332 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)
	Barnes & Noble (paperback)
	Amazon.com (paperback)

Malicious hackers break into Ste. Anne’s hospital and alter records, resulting in a patient’s death. Chris Bellamere is hired to track them down. It soon becomes obvious this cracker is only starting. Can Chris stop him before he brings a cyber Armageddon down on the city of Angels?

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

Chapter One

Monday, 10:55 am Ste. Anne’s Medical Center, Rowena Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles

Christopher Bellamere studied the traffic on Hyperion Avenue, eight stories below. A blanket of brown smog lay over the nearby Golden State Freeway. Behind him, Terry Corwin, the network manager at Ste. Anne’s, fiddled with his Blackberry and carried on whispered conversations with himself. Terry was the anxious type.

“What are you saying?” Terry asked him. “Please don’t tell me what I think you’re telling me. I know I saw some anomalies, but they only started last night. You gotta be wrong.”

“I’m not. You were right in your initial assessment.” Chris pivoted to face him. Terry wore a custom made suit Chris recognized as a Dolce and Gabbana. Chris remembered him from CalTech, where he’d been more of a T-shirt and ripped jeans kind of guy. He never had that kind of taste—or discretionary funds. Chris was glad he’d worn his newest Versace to this meet. He hated to be upstaged.

Still, he felt bad for the news he had to deliver.

“You were hacked. By someone who knew what they were doing.”

“A virus? Trojan—?”

“Nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s got enough of a unique signature to suggest it was written just for your system.”

Terry shoved his glasses up his nose. “Who?”

“Don’t know that,” Chris said. “Whoever it was, they’re good. Covered their tracks well.”

“But you were able to spot them?”

“They’re not that good.” Chris held up his hand to forestall Terry’s next question. “There’s more. The attack came from inside your network. And my guess is, it’s still occurring.”

Terry slumped into one of the swivel chairs crowding the oak and brass table. He stared down at the report Chris had given him earlier. “How much damage?”

“Hard to say at this point.”

“Any indication our patient records were compromised?”

“That will take more time to determine.”

“How much time?”

“Can’t say at this point.”

Terry swelled up like an angry cat. “What can you say? I need answers on this fast. We have an audit coming up, otherwise I wouldn’t have called you in. I’d have taken care of it myself.”

“I’ll need at least two more days.”

“I’ll have to clear it with management.” Terry was still pissed. Chris didn’t blame him. “They’re not likely to be as accommodating.”

Chris nodded. He’d expected that. He gathered his laptop and tucked it into his carrying case. He’d make himself scarce while Terry argued with the suits about the catastrophe that had hit on Terry’s watch.

Terry held up his hand.

“Don’t go yet.” His fingers fluttered over his tie after hanging up. “We need to talk. Let’s go to my office. I’ve got some decent coffee. You can fill me in on how you’re going to approach this so I have something more concrete to take upstairs.”

Chris glanced at his watch. David would be done at the doctor’s downstairs in about twenty minutes. He had time. “Sure.”

He followed Terry out to the elevator. They didn’t speak on the short ride down to the second floor. Terry’s office mirrored his attire. His dark cherry veneer desk was clutter-free except for an IBM laptop and a picture of his wife, Cathy. They had no kids as far as Chris knew. Terry and he hadn’t done much socializing over the years. He hadn’t been invited to the wedding and hadn’t invited Terry to his, either.

On a sideboard were a drip coffeepot, an assortment of free trade coffees, and the usual mix of large and small mugs. “What’s your flavor?” Terry asked, holding up the coffee filter.

“Something dark.”

“Sumatran?”

Chris nodded and looked around the small office. The walls were covered in framed certificates that spoke of Terry’s long years in the industry. He’d been a real go-getter at CalTech. That drive apparently hadn’t left him. There were several O’Keeffe prints showcasing New Mexico. Under the certificates and prints, something he never would have expected, an acoustic guitar with the patina of long use leaning against the wall.

Terry followed Chris’s gaze. “I took it up about a year ago. Play some jazz and blues.”

Chris approached the instrument. He didn’t touch it, but he did notice the half dozen photos taken at small clubs on the wall above the guitar. In each one Terry was part of a trio of musicians. In them, he had eschewed his suit in favor of jeans, a T-shirt and a neon headband.

“Where do you play?”

Terry grinned. “Around town, did a couple of gigs in San Francisco.” His frown returned. “Just what did you find in our system?”

Chris continued to stare at the images. You thought you knew a guy. “Besides the signs of file activity you mean? Password cracking tools. Some pretty sophisticated stuff. It can be deconstructed, which might point to who wrote it, but I’ll need time to do it.”

Terry opened his briefcase and drew out several pages that he handed to Chris. “This is what your final contract will look like. Check it over, let me know if you have any problems with it.”

Chris skimmed the contents quickly. It looked like a standard boilerplate non-disclosure, work-for-hire four-week contract. He’d signed a similar, shorter one for the initial assessment. No unusual term that would limit his ability to do his job or bind him up afterward.

“Take it home,” Terry said. “Read it over. Have your lawyer vet it.”

Chris held out his hand. They shook. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.” He glanced at the guitar one more time. For some reason it intrigued him. “Let me know when your next gig is. I’ll bring David. He loves jazz.”

Terry nodded; he seemed too preoccupied to pay attention. Chris could tell his mind was already back on his computer problems.

Chris stuffed the contract into his laptop case. He strode across the dove gray carpet toward the elevator. Once inside, he pulled out his Blackberry. No messages. At least he wasn’t late picking up his husband. David hated tardiness.

David’s doctor had an office in a building attached to the main hospital. David, who hated needles, was due to get his allergy shot. Chris made the appointment for him, knowing David would avoid it as long as he was left to his own devices.

The receptionist showed him into a small consulting room off the main waiting room.

David scowled up at him. “They’re not here yet. We have to wait.”

The fierce look on David’s face didn’t faze him. He dropped into an uncomfortable chair beside his husband of eighteen months. “Who’s not here?”

“The pharmacy.” David’s scowl deepened. “And my shot.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “You mean I get to watch the tough as nails homicide detective take his medicine? Think of all the good that comes of it—you won’t be sniffling and carrying on when the animals jump on you. And we’ll save a fortune on Kleenex. You’re always after us to save, right?”

“Right, a fifty dollar bottle of wine is acceptable, but a two dollar box of Kleenex isn’t?”

Chris grinned. After several seconds, David followed suit. The smile lifted his dour face and reminded Chris of why he loved this man.

One of the clinic nurses bustled in. A diminutive Korean, she smiled when she saw Chris and glanced at their joined hands. “Come to comfort the patient?”

Everyone, it seemed, knew about David’s aversion to needles. David quickly disengaged his hand from Chris’s.

David refused to watch as she uncapped the syringe and swabbed his arm with alcohol. He winced as she deftly slid the needle into the muscle and depressed the plunger. She covered the puncture mark with a circular Band-Aid.

David rubbed the spot. The nurse deposited the used syringe in a sharps container and left the room.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” He waited for David to stand. Chris reached for his arm, carefully avoiding the injection site.

David shook his head. Suddenly he blinked and swallowed convulsively.

“David?”

David wheezed, struggling to catch his breath. His face went rigid. Lips pressed together, his eyes unfocused.

“David!”

His entire body stiffened. He drew in a convulsive breath, then struggled to draw another. His face blanched as he clawed at his throat.

David arched forward and spewed out a stream of vomit across his jean clad legs and the tile floor beside the bed. Before he could take a breath, he repeated the action. The room filled with the sour stench.

Chris’s stomach rolled over at the smell. He darted toward the door.

“I’ll find the doctor,” he said. He emerged in a waiting room full of expectant patients. Several of them turned startled eyes on him.

“Where’s the doctor?” he shouted.

In the room behind him metal crashed and David’s guttural cry was abruptly cut off.

Title	Tales From the Sexual Underground
Author	Rick R. Reed
ISBN#	978-1-60820-140-2 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-141-9 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	February 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	204 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)
	Barnes & Noble (paperback)
	Amazon.com (paperback)

I wanted to write about people who were not just out, but out there, people who lived their sexual lives in ways most of us could only imagine…and for whom the flavor vanilla had absolutely no appeal. I interviewed porn stars, prostitutes, self-proclaimed sex pigs, and delved into bizarre sexual practices. It was eye-opening, arousing, and a lot of fun (but never, never good clean fun). I also include here my favorite dirty stories. They all explore a side of life that exists not in the twilight zone, but in my favorite destination…the sexual underground.

*********************************
He knows me, so he knows the best time is a quiet one. We stay in. Dinner, drinks, and of course, the last part, the best part.

He starts off casually, wearing a pair of faded Levis, a white T-shirt worn soft, bare feet, hair still damp from the shower. There’s a CD playing, low, maybe Oscar Peterson conjuring up Gershwin from his piano. He’s got a few candles lit, but nothing scented. The air in his apartment is clean, with a trace of the soap from his shower lingering.

We sit on the couch and he makes me a drink. He already knows what I like, a dirty martini made with vodka, heavy on the dirt. We laugh about how I like things dirty, but not too much. We keep our minds out of the gutter, at least for now.

After the drinks, the music, the light fading to purple outside, we move to the dining room. Old oak pedestal table, mismatched chairs and cream pillar candles…used before. He makes a light meal, because he knows that later, we won’t want anything too heavy weighing on us. A simple salad, arugula, red onion, plum tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. There’s a chicken breast, poached in broth, lemon juice and walnuts, some rice. Strawberries with sour cream and brown sugar for dessert. A glass or two of white wine, an Alsatian Riesling.

We linger over the dinner, slow; the candles burn down. The sky outside fades from purple to navy blue, a glow to the south…city lights. We move to the bedroom, undress slowly.

He knows how to touch me. Knows where to make the pressure slippery and where to make it rough. Knows when to move slowly, when to increase the tempo, and when to slow it down again…he doesn’t want things to end too quickly. He knows that my nipples are sensitive, and toys with them just hard enough so I will feel the ghost of his caress in the morning. All the while, music, orchestrated to ebb and flow, a soundtrack to our passion. We start off with Bach, Mendelssohn, end up with Crystal Method and Prodigy. Romance to filth. And he tells me, the whole time, about past lovers, knowing it excites me as much as his touch. Like the music, he starts off slow and romantic, telling me about his first love, Ron, how they were playful, in love, existing only for each other…so young. He tells me about a particular New Year’s Eve, in a darkened bedroom in Florida, high on pot and champagne, bringing each other the most incredible gifts. But as our passion rises, so does the depravity. He moves on to orgies, nights with strangers fueled by Ecstasy, a frantic, furtive coupling with a Northwestern student in an alley by the el tracks one night in August, fucking each other sweatily while the train crackled and roared above, its human cargo oblivious. He tells me about backroom sex, the smell of poppers, leather, cum and spit in the air, groping, being groped, connecting with shadows. He tells me everything, moving faster and faster, until even his tales and touch blur, and I offer up my seed; it covers my belly in viscous arcs.

And I roll over and look at him…in the mirror. He is me.

He is me.

Title	Bound To Please
Author	Kimberly Gardner
ISBN#	978-1-60820-044-3 (print)
	978-1-60820-045-0 (ebook)
Release Date	February 2010
Cover Artist	Anne Cain
Paperback:	332 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Brought together for pleasure, bound together by love.

Jason doesn’t do monogamy, and as a much sought-after Dom he doesn’t have to. But when he gets the chance to play with Benny, his sweet young assistant who wants only to please him, Jason holds back.

Benny’s no sub, but for a chance to be with the sexy Dom he’s sure he can change. Except he’s only fooling himself, and deep down he knows it.

Enter Rain, a sexy badboy who’s got a taste for the lash and pretty young things, like Benny. What’s a man to do when the two men he lusts after are determined that even a hook-up is not in the cards? Why, orchestrate one single night of pleasure, of course.

But when the whip comes down, and one night isn’t enough, it’s love, not leather, that’s bound to please.

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

Chapter One

“Jason, are you sure these ropes will hold me?” The young man’s slender body swayed in the rope harness. To and fro. To and fro.

Benny gulped and averted his eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered how the models stood it, hanging there like that, sometimes for an hour or more, motionless, while Jason took roll after roll of pictures.

“They’ll hold.” Jason peered through the viewfinder at the blue-haired young man suspended in an elaborate crisscross of brightly colored ropes, his ass mere inches above the point of an evil-looking torture device.

“I just don’t want to end up with that point up my ass is all. What did you say that thing was called again?”

“It’s a Judas cradle. They used to use it to torture people during the Inquisition. The person’s own body weight was used to drive the point home, so to speak. Now, stop squirming, baby, or I’ll never get this shot right.” Jason frowned and made some adjustment or other to the camera.

The model was naked except for the red and purple ropes cradling him. The colors were perfect, contrasting beautifully with his pale skin. His hair fell in a luxurious sweep like a bright blue waterfall.

Benny itched to run his fingers through that gorgeous mane. He had a real thing for beautiful hair, even a total stranger’s beautiful hair.

The model’s name was Rain. That was it, just Rain. He’d heard that for Rain’s real job, he acted in gay porno films. But he hadn’t had a chance to Google that and so he didn’t know if it was true or not. Privately he thought the man was certainly hot enough to be in movies.

The shutter clicked and clicked again as Jason took a few experimental shots. He made another minor adjustment and took a few more.

But something wasn’t right. Benny could see it in the deep lines dug around his boss’s mouth and between his eyes. He straightened and muttered something indecipherable about the light.

“Benny, where’s the blue gel?”

“Right here, boss.” Leaning down, Benny grabbed the light gel from the floor beside his chair and held it up.

“Would you take that light away and bring in the smaller one and put some gel on it?”

“You bet.” Benny scrambled to do Jason’s bidding.

“Adam, can you lower the harness just a little, so his ass is just above the point?”

“Sure thing.” Adam Highland, dressed in a tangle of black leather straps that made him look like a cross between an Inquisitor and a dungeon Master, stepped into the picture and reached up to the handle that would lower the other model closer to that wicked point. He grabbed it and cranked.

“Not so fast-” Jason said.

“Whoa, dude-” Rain stiffened, doing his best to lift himself in the ropes.

The harness jerked and he swung wildly.

Benny’s stomach rolled. No way could he do that, all the swinging back and forth. He’d be barfing for sure.

“Easy there, Adam. Stop. Stay right like that.” Jason stepped from behind the camera. He went to Rain, steadied him and stepped back.

With his head nearly at crotch level, Rain fluttered his lashes and smiled up at Jason. “Mmm, is that a flashlight in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me, Master?”

“Thought you weren’t interested in getting anything up your ass, boy?” Grinning, Jason reached down and adjusted the rope supporting said ass. He let the backs of his fingers linger against the model’s hip.

Rain licked his lips. “I wouldn’t mind some of that when we’re done.”

Adam rolled his eyes and snorted a laugh. “Slut.”

Rain stuck his tongue out. “Perv.”

Jason chuckled. “Now boys. You two have played so nicely all day, and we’re nearly done. So let’s see if we can keep it up, hmm?”

“I’d love to keep it up for you, Sir,” Rain sighed.

Adam groaned. “Oh dude, you are such a man whore.”

They both laughed.

Returning to the camera, Jason looked through the viewfinder once again. “Adam, stay in the shot, will you?” The shutter clicked. “Nice. You look great. I love the boots. They’re a nice touch.”

Adam smiled. “You like them? I got them at the thrift store. It’s amazing the stuff you find there.”

“Put your foot up on the – That’s it. Let me see those boots. Great. Very Dom. Very sexy.”

They went on like this, Jason complimenting and instructing, his models teasing and flirting with him and each other.

Benny suppressed a yawn. They had been at this for nearly two hours. Oh sure, every now and then they’d change props or costumes, locking and unlocking cuffs, tying and untying ropes, Jason giving orders, Benny moving lights or swapping this or that piece of equipment, then sitting around while Jason took roll after roll of pictures, always looking for that perfect shot, the one that would make his show.

Once Jason had tried to explain to him the erotic charge he got from looking at a really hot model, male or female, through the lens of a camera, the connection that occurred between photographer and subject when the shoot was going really well. He’d likened it to the link between Dom and sub in a really good scene, or like great sex.

And Benny had listened, just as he always did when Jason talked. The man could have been expounding on anything from Einstein’s theory of relativity to the process of paint drying and he still would have listened. He loved listening to Jason talk.

But this, sitting here like this for interminable hours while Jason took pictures was, from Benny’s point of view, mind-numbingly boring. Now, if Jason ever asked him to model, that would be totally different. Yeah, like that would ever happen. Resuming his seat, Benny picked up the magazine he’d been using to help pass the time. It fell open to one of Theo Wright’s photographs. Theo was a famous fetish photographer and a friend of Jason’s.

Benny examined the picture, trying to view it with a critical eye, the way Jason would. He just didn’t get it. To his admittedly untrained eye, all Jason’s photographs looked awesome, as good as Theo’s and worlds better than the crappy pics he himself took on the rare occasions when he actually remembered his camera. Even on the few occasions when Jason pointed things out to him, like the particular play of light and shadow or the composition of this or that shot, Benny still didn’t see it.

But photography, fetish photography in particular, was Jason’s passion. So he always pretended interest, even when the only thing on his mind was how the other man smelled or the heat of his hand as it rested on his shoulder. Or just the timbre of Jason’s voice. The words didn’t even matter.

From the first day he’d met Jason Bonner, Benny’d had a total hard-on for the Dom, maybe even from his first glimpse. He showed up for his interview, needing, if not really expecting to get the job as office manager. Then he saw Jason and he’d sworn to all that was holy that he was going to get that job, no matter what he had to do to make it happen.

As Jason made yet another minute adjustment to the angle of his camera, Benny let his gaze slide down the man’s body. He wore snug fitting black jeans and a white T-shirt with a faded Grateful Dead skull and roses logo on the back. His blond hair was pulled into a tail that hung nearly to his waist. Once more Jason stepped out from behind the camera, bent down and adjusted one of Rain’s ankle restraints, the denim pulling tight across his ass. Benny suppressed a sigh even as his mouth watered. He was so gone on the boss it was pathetic. He hadn’t gotten laid in longer than he cared to remember because nobody else ever measured up in comparison.

Rain said something too low for Benny to catch and Jason laughed. As he straightened, Jason let his fingers trail up Rain’s leg and over his hip. Their eyes held and Benny could feel the heat in that look even from where he sat. Once more he thought of what Jason had said about the erotic connection between photographer and model.

Damn, but he wanted Jason to look at him like that.

Stupid, sexy Rain.

The cell phone at his hip began to vibrate. Pulling it from its clip, he checked the number. It was Dante at the front desk.

Benny slipped out of his chair as he flipped open the phone and held it to his ear. “What’s up, Dante?”

“Is the boss still busy?”

Benny pushed open the heavy wooden door to the dungeon room and stepped into the corridor. He propped his butt against the wall. “Yeah, he’s still with the models. Why?”

“There’s a guy here who wants to see him. He says Jason’s expecting him.”

“He doesn’t have an appointment.” He knew the boss had cleared his schedule for the rest of the afternoon and wasn’t expecting any visitors until the end of the week. “Is he a sub?”

“Nope, this one’s all Dom. He says they’re old friends and that he doesn’t need an appointment.”

“That’s what they all say.” Benny sighed. “I’ll be right up.”

“You gonna tell the boss?”

“No, he doesn’t want to be disturbed. Put the dude in the library and I’ll be right up.”

“But what if-”

“Dante, just do it, will you?” Benny snapped the phone closed before Dante what iffed him to death. Returning the phone to its clip, he took the stairs two at a time.

As he emerged from the stairway, he breathed a little easier. The basement gave him the creeps. Even though he knew it was just the basement of an old factory, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something watched him when he was down there. Not that being watched was any big deal, not around here. Jason had the whole club wired with cameras. Every room, every hallway and alcove could be watched from the monitor in the boss’s office. He’d never seen the cameras in action, but he knew about them, how they worked, doubling as security and peep-show cameras, giving his voyeuristic employer an up-close view of anyone, anywhere at any time within these walls.

Benny went straight to the library. Opening the door, he found the room empty. What the hell?

Why couldn’t people-Dante-just follow simple directions? But that was Dante. The man might be good-looking in that dark, sharp-featured way, but as far as Benny was concerned he was also the personification of an asshole. From the day they’d met, Dante had copped a huge hairy attitude, questioning every request and arguing with every decision, though Benny had yet to figure out what the hell he’d done to the guy to earn such hostility.

Benny had no trouble tracking down his nemesis. The dark-haired assistant manager sat behind the front desk, a cell phone pressed to one ear and a solitaire game on the computer screen. He never even glanced up as Benny approached.

Making a fist, Benny knocked lightly on the desk. “Dude, where’s the guy?”

Pulling his cell away from his ear, Dante covered the microphone with his thumb. “I put him in Jason’s office.”

“Jason hates people in his office when he’s not there. I told you to put him in the library.”

“You said to put him in the office.” The man’s thin face took on that obstinate look Benny knew too well. It made him look like a pissed off ferret. “I wouldn’t have put him in there unless-”

“Whatever, man.” Benny bit down on his irritation and with a slight shrug turned away.

He went quickly to the office and opened the door without knocking. He stepped across the threshold, a greeting on the tip of his tongue. It instantly shriveled up and blew away like a dry leaf in the wind when he saw the visitor.

Not that he was familiar. No, but God, didn’t he wish. He was one of those men who could strike you blind with his sheer physical beauty. Darkly handsome, his thick, black hair fell in soft waves just past his collar and made Benny long to touch. From where he stood, he could see his face only in quarter profile, the neatly trimmed beard and moustache framing the promise of a sensual mouth. He sat in one of the leather guest chairs, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, relaxed but very much aware of his posture, a god well-used to the admiration of mere mortals.

He had only a second or two to take all this in before the man turned and he was pinned to the spot by restless dark eyes that took his measure, assessed and catalogued him all with a single glance.

Benny opened his mouth and no words came out.

Oh, get a grip. He’s just a really, really, really handsome guy. So quit acting like the village idiot.

Stepping forward, Benny started to extend his hand. But before he could speak, the visitor spoke.

“So, my old friend sent me a boy to entertain me while I wait. How thoughtful.” He smiled. “What’s your name, boy?”

His hand fell back to his side and he licked his lips. “I’m Benny Sagan, Sir. I’m Jason’s PA.”

“His PA, are you?” His smile grew, his teeth very straight and white against his olive skin.

Benny nodded. “That’s personal assistant.”

“I’m aware of what it is.” He uncrossed his legs and sat forward. His dark gaze raked down Benny’s body and back up, lingering over-long at his crotch. “And what is it you assist him with?”

That look made Benny’s skin tingle under his clothes. “I…Uh, I work here, in the office …I’m like the office manager.”

The man laughed, a rich, low chuckle that did deliciously wicked things low in his belly. “I take it you aren’t here for my entertainment, then.” He sighed. “Too bad that. You’re a pretty one.”

God, that laugh, and that voice. Everything about this man crackled with sexual energy, and that energy was making him hard.

He entertained a brief fantasy. In it he was naked except for a collar and a cock ring, his hands bound behind him, kneeling at this man’s feet…

He blinked. What was he doing? That was one of his favorite Jason fantasies. Except with this man looking at him in that way, it seemed like it could quite possibly come true. Like if he just walked over there and knelt down at the Dom’s feet, his little fantasy could cross the border into reality in the space of a breath.

It was those restless eyes and that mobile mouth that seemed to smile and sneer at once. Or something…it was something, but fuck him if he knew what.

“I should go let Jason know you’re here.” And get out of there before he embarrassed himself any further. He turned toward the door.

“I’ll come with you.” The man leaned forward, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair.

Even his hands were beautiful. Elegant, with long fingers and well-tended nails; the backs lightly dusted with dark hair. Very masculine and yet…beautiful.

What would those hands feel like on his…

Benny gave himself a hard mental shake. “I can’t let you do that, Sir.” One dark brow lifted and he rushed on. “Master Jason prefers that his guests wait in the library where they can be comfortable. So, if you’ll follow me, I’ll see that you have whatever you need while you wait.”

“Whatever I need?”

Benny nodded, eager, for whatever reason, to please this man. “Whatever you’d like. Coffee? Tea?”

“Or?” There was that smile again.

“Or what?”

“Or, I was just wondering if there was something else being offered.”

“Oh.”

It was like he’d plucked the thought right out of Benny’s head. And what was he supposed to say to that?

“Never mind, boy. Show me to the library then go tell Jason I’m here.”

“Yes, Sir.” He backed toward the door, unwilling to take his eyes off this compelling man. He felt behind him, found the knob and grasped it.

He led the Dom to the library and saw that he was settled comfortably in a large leather armchair. But as he turned to go, the man stopped him with a gesture. “Just a minute.”

Benny froze.

“Don’t you need to know my name, boy?”

Oh crap, there he went acting like a moron again.

Heat flooded Benny’s face. “Yes, Sir. I do.”

“It’s Mario.”

“Mario?” Benny waited but nothing more was offered. Then it struck him just who this man was. “Oh! Mario. You’re Jason’s friend from the old days. I mean…er, not that you’re old or anything. But-”

Mario laughed and waved away Benny’s embarrassment with a sweep of one of those elegant hands. “Indeed, compared to you, I am old, as dirt, as it were.” Another laugh. “Go on, boy. Just tell your Master, Mario is here.”

Benny nodded mutely and escaped, closing the door behind him. Once outside, away from those strip-you-bare-ass-naked glances, he could breathe a little easier. Even so, his dick pressed painfully hard against his zipper. What the hell was wrong with him? He so needed to get laid if just a look and a smile could do that to him. Granted, that smile had come from one of the best looking men he’d ever seen, but still. Mario wasn’t just any hot guy. He was Jason’s friend, someone he’d known for like twenty years and whose visit Jason had looked forward to for weeks. Though Benny was sure he hadn’t been expected until Friday or maybe even Saturday, he was here now, with his sexy voice and his movie star good looks and Jason would certainly want to know.

He paused and adjusted himself. Hopefully, his boner would go away before he got downstairs. Jason might not notice he was sporting wood, but sure as hell, either Adam or Rain would.

Returning to the basement, Benny hesitated just outside the dungeon room. The door was cracked open maybe two or three inches. Had he left it like that?

Then he heard it, a few murmured words ending on a groan. His pulse accelerated and he leaned in and peered through the opening.

Sprawled in the director’s chair he himself had only recently vacated, was Jason, head thrown back and eyes closed, his hair spilling over the canvas back. His long legs were spread and between them a figure knelt, like a supplicant with his head bent, though definitely not in prayer, not unless he was paying homage to the patron saint of blowjobs.

One of Jason’s big hands cupped the back of Rain’s head, the fingers twined in the long blue strands. “Ah Christ, baby. Just like that. God, your mouth.”

Rain’s head bobbed. Up and down, up and down, up and down, the wet slurping sounds very loud, the only competition coming from Jason’s breathing and his murmurs of encouragement and praise for Rain’s skill.

Benny scanned the room beyond. Where the hell was Adam? Nowhere that he could see.

He should leave. Just back away, go back upstairs and let that blue-haired slut do his thing.

But something kept him rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to look away.

Jason groaned. His fingers fisted in Rain’s hair. Rain’s head was forced down, Jason’s hips bucked up.

Inside his jeans, Benny’s cock jerked. So much for getting rid of his hard-on.

He reached down and palmed his dick through the worn denim. Gripping his shaft he stroked, matching his pace to the movement of Rain’s head and the thrusting of Jason’s hips. From where he stood, he could just see Jason’s dick as it pistoned in and out of Rain’s mouth, the length gleaming with spit every time he pulled back. Rain’s cheekbones stood out as he sucked. His eyes were closed, the lashes long and dark against his pale cheeks.

“Open your eyes, baby.” Jason’s words came out a little breathless, the command ending on a moan as he raised his head and focused on the face of the man sucking his dick. “I want to see you when I shoot my load down your throat.”

Rain pulled back and opened his eyes, his gaze locking with Jason’s.

Shit, could Rain see him from where he knelt?

No, he was just being paranoid. There was no way, not with the way the chair was turned and Rain’s mouth full of Jason’s cock.

Rain took Jason deep, making him moan. His fingers flexed in Rain’s hair.

Benny squeezed his prick and bit back a moan of his own. He jacked himself right through his jeans. God, he was going to come in his pants, but who gave a fuck. This was just too hot and he was just too fucking horny to care.

“Coming,” Jason gasped. His hips jerked and he thrust once, twice then the third time he shoved into Rain’s mouth and held himself there.

With a strangled gasp, Benny came, his dick throbbing and pulsing as he shot, wet heat soaking his underwear.

Rain pulled off of Jason’s cock with a soft pop. He smiled and licked his lips. “Mmm. Thank you, Master.”

Jason laughed. Leaning forward, he reached for the man on the floor.

Benny stumbled back from the door. If Jason was going to kiss Rain, he didn’t want to know about it. There were just some things he didn’t need to see. And that was definitely one of them.