Jason Zachary finds himself with a map straight into a murder rap when he runs afoul of Santa Barbara detective Alexander Spider, charged with the murder of a man he’s never met.

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

“What the fuck-?”

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

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

I blinked again. I tried to place the face. He was old. At least sixty. Wrinkled face. White mat of chest hair over a flabby paunch, tiny shrunken cock. Faded tats up and down his skinny chest and arms. A leather dog collar. Black leather harness strapped to his thin chest and nothing else. Not the type I usually slept with. Not the type I ever slept with. What would ever possess me to let a loser like this fuck me? I don’t think anyone had that much money.

Then a flash of ice poured down my spine and lodged in my gut. The old man was dead. (continue reading…)

A long-defunct gay activist group seems to be threatening radio shock jock Jay Plankton. As The J-Bird, the man’s hate-filled rants offend Strachey deeply. Among the subjects Stevenson tackles in this series entry is homophobia in modern police services like the NYPD, where coming out carries more than its usual share of costs.

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Chapter One

The 24-across clue was “‘The Oblong Box’ writer,” and the answer was looming just over the hazy horizon of my Friday-morning mind when the man in the Amtrak seat next to me whipped out his cell phone, punched in some numbers, and announced, “Ed, it’s Al.”

I looked up from the folded-in-quarters arts section of the Times and said to the back of the seat ahead of me, “Ed, it’s Al.”

Missing just a fraction of a beat, Al said, “I’m on the train. I’ll see Quinn when I get there, and I’m having lunch with Margaret Wills.”

While Al listened to Ed’s reply, I said, “I’m on the train. I’ll see Quinn when I get there, and I’m having lunch with Margaret Wills.”

Al peered over at me, and I peered back. Then he told Ed, “Listen, there’s a guy in the seat next to me who…”

Like a simultaneous-translation whiz at the UN, I was right behind him. “Listen, there’s a guy in the seat next to me who…”

I grinned as I said it, and Al’s look of annoyance was turning to apprehension. This would make a good story when he met Quinn and then when he dined with Margaret Wills —”Would you believe, I was sitting next to this prick on the train who…” — but for now it must have been starting to seem to Al that I could be dangerous. (continue reading…)

Lovers and Other Strangers by Josh Lanyon Recovering from a near fatal accident, artist Finn Barret returns to Seal Island in Maine to rest and recuperate. But Seal Island is haunted with memories, some sweet, some sad; three years ago Finn found his lover in the arms of Fitch, Finn’s twin brother. Since that day, Finn has seen neither Conlan nor Fitch. In fact, no one has seen Fitch. What happened to him? Did Fitch run away, as everyone believes? Or did he meet a more sinister fate? To put the past to rest – and see if there’s any chance of a future with Con – Finn must discover the truth. But the deeper he digs, the more reason he has to fear Con is the only one who knows what truly happened to Fitch…

Body Art by Jordan Castillo Price His lover has betrayed and swindled Ray Carlucci out of everything he valued, including a tattoo business. Hounded by creditors, weary of heart, he accepts the job of chauffeur and body man for the dying owner of a remote estate. The island, minus its wealthy summer colony, is colorless in winter and Ray thinks he understands why staff on the estate periodically desert. But, he’s baffled by, then drawn to, Anton, the eccentric artist who haunts the forest, bringing strange life to bizarre and disquieting sculptures amidst the ice and trees. When the body of a man who once held Ray’s job rises from the frosty earth, Ray wonders what part Anton’s wildness has in the escalating violence.

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Chapter One

If he had been painting the scene before him, he would have used only four colors: Permanent Rose alkyd for the pink streaks in the fading sunset and the reflections in the water; Dioxazine Purple alkyd for the shadows lengthening on the creamy sand, the crevices of the rocks, the glint and gleam of water, the edges of the pier; Cadmium Yellow alkyd to blaze from windows, for the dimples in the sand, to limn the rocks, to gild the tips of scrubby, windblown grass, more reflections in the water; Indigo oil for the tumbling waves, for the indistinct forms of the buildings beyond, for the swift coming night. (continue reading…)

This second title in a new gay mystery series is a fast-paced tale that melds mystery and erotica. When a lingerie manufacturer goes to Thailand on business, he gets far more than he bargained for. While innocently shopping for silk and taking in the sights of Bangkok, Stud Draqual finds himself being stalked by a mercenary — one who’s been implicated in the murder of a male prostitute.

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Prologue

Whoever slit Rhee Dulouk’s throat should never have let the victim, second mouth still bubbling blood, reach Jeff Billing. Billing would have been gone in another day … or two … or three. As he’d left the Philippines, Borneo, Bali. As he’d left Australia, Cambodia, Burma. As he’d left Spain, France, Germany.

For Billing, Thailand was just another stopover on the way to … he never knew to where … just somewhere.

Rhee Dulouk wasn’t even a great lay. He wasn’t even Billing’s type. He was just another wham-bam-thank-you-man someone. One of many. A diversion. An exotic. Another notch on Billing’s belt. One more fuck in Billing’s ongoing fuck of the world. A keeper, beyond the first fuck, only because of pillow-talk that interested Billing who knew a little something about Far-East antiquities. But not likely to keep Billing’s interest for long.

Therefore, Rhee Dulouk dead on someone else’s doorstep would have been one thing. After all, there had been plenty of other bodies in Billing’s life … in the deserts of the Gulf, in the mountains of Iraq, in the back alleys of Afghanistan. Bodies left behind. Throwaways. Job-product.

Rhee Dulouk dead on Billing’s doorstep, though … somehow … made the death personal. Not only to Billing but to me.

Though I sure as hell didn’t know it at the time. (continue reading…)

A painful past. A mysterious stranger. Footsteps vanishing in the fog. All Stanley wants is just to hear Tom say, “I love you.” All Tom wants is Stanley safe. And the stranger? Ah, there’s the rub–what exactly is it that he wants? Be careful what you wish for, fellows. You may get it. Dreams can be deadly.

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Prologue

“Gone?” Her voice went up on an ascending scale, like an opera diva’s in full song. “What do you mean, gone? They took him?”

He shook his head, trying to get his mind clear. Too much pot, and he was pretty sure the last joint had been laced with something, PCP maybe. His thoughts refused to settle, drifting like the acrid clouds of smoke that swirled in the room’s cold drafts.

“It must have been them. The baby was right there when I went into the john.” He pointed at the crib. You could see, or certainly imagine, the indentation where the baby had been. “And when I came back, they were gone, and the baby too. I ran outside but their taillights were clear down to the crossing, and then they disappeared. Just…” he shrugged, and finished lamely, “gone.”

She stared at the crib, empty now of even the blankets the child had been wrapped in, and lifted a hand to the bottom of her throat, as if choking off the anguish rising up in her. “The woman,” she said. “Delia, her name was. She said what a sweet baby he was.” (continue reading…)