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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to know what stopped me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hunting a notorious hit man, FBI Agent Chase Nozick and LAPD Det. Enrique Rios Ocha delve into the inner worlds of Santeria, Voodoo and Palo Mayumbe. A missing informant, her murdered brother and a ghost from Chase’s past send them on a hunt through mystics and psychic surgeons to find their witness before it’s too late. Can he rely on leads from a child possessed by Orishas? Do cards hold stronger clues than blood? Chase must conquer his own personal demons to bring the killer of his partner to justice and find the strength to take a chance on Enrique.

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

Chapter One

Desert heat sucked the sweat from Special Agent Chase Nozick’s pores. “Give it up, Garcia!” he yelled. Somehow, he’d managed to shrug into the soft body armor as he slid out the car. Sweat pooled under the vest, plastering his suit jacket, dress shirt and tie to his skin. Damn, it was hot. Chase snorted as he leaned over the hood of his Bureau-issued car. The last thing he really needed to care about was how hot it was.

He aimed his 9mm at the driver’s side window of a pinned Escalade and yelled again, “I mean now!”

Chase never felt calmer. The situation flew by in sharp focus. He smelled oil burning off his Buick’s engine. The pop and hiss of the SUV’s radiator puking over the trunk of the Buick stung his ears. In his peripheral vision, Chase watched Jason crab-walk around the back of the SUV. Sand shifted under the feet of Chase’s partner, Jason Olhms, each grating grain distinguishable from another. Overlaid across it was Garcia’s cursing as he fought with his seatbelt. The impact from Chase’s car must have jammed it when he reversed the Buick directly into Garcia’s fleeing vehicle. One of Garcia’s ever-present goons lay slumped against the dash, his mirrored sunglasses hanging off his face at a bizarre angle. The spider web fracture on the windshield and open doll eyes told Chase the guy wasn’t going anywhere in the near future.

“Come on, Garcia!” he barked.

Garcia looked up. An evil, murderous smile ripped across his mouth. Flat brown eyes, soulless eyes, stared out from under a heavy brow. Chase heard the snap-click of a hammer going back. A hole burst through the SUV’s door. One, two, three rapid blasts shattered the air. A pair of bullets whizzed by Chase’s head. Then the vuv-pop of a ricochet sounded. Pain bloomed in the back of Chase’s neck.

He blinked. Garcia twisted. The gun hidden in his lap came up and pointed out the passenger side of the SUV. Jason stood. Chase’s voice froze as he tried to croak out a warning. Red mist exploded where Jason’s face had been. Chase pulled his trigger. Once, just once. Garcia slumped in his seat.

The world shifted, spun as Chase tried to stand. Hot and sticky, blood pumped down under his vest. Chase sucked in a breath and pain rampaged through his body. There wasn’t time to check Garcia’s status. Jason…Chase figured him for dead already. Even if he wasn’t, every second counted for his own survival. Knees weak and stomach rolling, he reached up and pressed his free hand to the torn flesh of his neck. Chase shook so bad he could barely keep the gun trained on where Garcia had been.

He had to get help. He had to get help fast.

Chase staggered back to driver’s side of the Buick. It took all his will to wrench the door open and slide into the driver’s seat. He fumbled the mike, trying to key it. Slick with blood and sweat, it slid to the floor. Chase almost cried. Bending down sent waves of agony screaming through his neck. He took a deep breath and reached for it.

The world went black.

Sean and Austin’s perfect world shatters when Sean’s eight-year-old son, Jason, vanishes. When Jason turns up days later abused and unable to speak, small town fingers point to the boy’s gay dad as the culprit. Meanwhile, the real villain is close by, intent on ensuring the boy’s muteness is permanent.
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*********************

Chapter One

It was one of their rare lazy evenings. Summer, and the evening air was fresh and clean after an afternoon thunderstorm, with just a hint of a breeze. Normally, Sean and Austin were so busy that if they weren’t trying to change something about the little Cape Cod on the Ohio River they had bought a year before—adding a deck, putting in a new kitchen, stripping away years of white paint from the woodwork downstairs—they were too tired to do anything but crawl into bed and pass out, usually before eleven o’clock. Lovemaking, since they had bought the money- and-time-sucking house, had become relegated to weekend afternoons and the occasional early morning.

But today, Thursday, had been an easy one. Austin had called into work, the Benson Pottery, where he was a caster and taken a mental health day. Things had just been too damn busy lately and he needed the break. Waiting until Saturday was out of the question. Sunday seemed farther away than the next millennium.

Sean, a reporter for The Evening View, the local thrice-weekly compilation of ads sandwiched in with a little editorial, had had the day off. The couple had spent the day in Pittsburgh, at the Andy Warhol museum, then had an early dinner at The Grand Concourse (the best Paella on the Monongahela and Allegheny rivers), beat the brutal thunderstorm home, made love (acrobatically, in the kitchen, atop a Butcher’s block), and now the two were curled up in front of the TV. Sean had rented Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and, after a bowl of Jamaican and a couple of vodka and tonics, the two were teary-eyed with laughter.

Sean looked over at his younger boyfriend and thought how lucky he was to have found Austin, especially in a town the size of Summitville, where the population hovered just above ten thousand. Even better, Austin was his fantasy man, with a broad, beefy body that his mother and her friends would have called strapping, sandy blond hair, and the bluest eyes he had ever seen. When Sean had first met him, he thought Austin’s eyes had to be fake: enhanced by those tinted contacts that never looked real. But he found quickly that the young man was simply blessed with arresting eyes to go along with his broad shoulders, dimpled chin, and infectious smile. He wore that smile right now, coming down from a fit of inappropriate laughter after hearing Elizabeth Taylor tell Richard Burton, “I’d divorce you if I thought you were alive.”

A sick sense of humor was yet another thing the pair had in common.

It was what they both would have agreed was a perfect day. Well, Sean might have had one more item to add to the “perfection” list. Having his son, Jason, around for at least part of the time would have been all it would have taken to make the day ideal, but these days, Jason was for the weekends only.

In any case, this was close enough to nirvana. He closed his eyes and let his head loll back on Austin’s shoulder.

Sean was just thinking about slowly undressing Austin and then leading him into the bedroom for round two when the phone rang. Its chirp startled both of them out of the cocoon of warmth that had surrounded them, a cocoon built from good sex, supreme relaxation, and the afore-mentioned Jamaican weed.

Austin: sleepily from under Sean’s arm on the couch, “Don’t get it. Please don’t get it. Just let the machine pick up. I don’t want to talk to anyone. And I don’t want you to, neither.” Sean eyed the little answering machine next to the cordless, wondering when they would enter the 21^st century and use voice mail like everyone else. But, unlike voice mail, the machine did allow them to screen calls and for two men who appreciated their privacy, this feature had voice mail beat all to hell.

Sean let the phone ring its customary four rings, although his tendency would have been to answer it. But if this would make Austin happy, then he was willing to do it. Especially since he had things in mind for Austin that did not involve the telephone. Things that would erase their fatigue and perhaps keep them up the better part of the night. Sean grinned.

On the fourth ring, Sean pressed the pause button on the remote control and sat up straighter to listen.

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” Austin whispered in Sean’s ear, flicking his earlobe with his tongue and giving his crotch a playful squeeze.

And then the moment shattered.

Shelley’s voice, almost unfamiliar under the veneer of tension that made it higher, quicker, came through. Shelley and Sean had been married once upon a time and their union had produced Jason, the best little boy in the world. As soon as Sean heard Shelley’s voice he thought of his son, who shared his dark hair, green eyes, wiry frame, and his fascination with stories.

“Sean? Sean, I hope you’re there. This is important. Please pick up.” There was a slight pause. “It’s about Jason. He…”

Before she could say anything else, Sean sprinted for the phone in the entryway. “Shelley? Sorry, I was…”

“Jason is missing.”

“What?”

And then Sean heard her begin to sob and the relaxation in all of his muscles vanished, replaced by a tightness that felt like steel bands snapping taut across his muscles. Blood rushed in his ears; his heart began to pound. A queasy nausea rose up in his gut.

“Jason never came home tonight,” Shelley sobbed. “I don’t know where he is. Please say he’s with you.”

Sean sat down on the little oak chair in front of the desk. Well, collapsed into the chair was more like it. “Shelley, I’m sorry, but he’s not here. Don’t you think I would have called if he had come here? How long’s he been gone?” Sean rubbed the back of his neck, his mouth curiously dry. He glanced out the window at the complete darkness.”I went to work at six and he wasn’t home yet.” She blew out a sigh. “But, you know, we just thought he was horsing around in the woods or something and lost track of time. Then I called Paul and…”

“Wait a minute, Shelley. It’s a quarter ‘til eleven.”

“I know. I know.”

“Why didn’t you call sooner? You mean to tell me you’re just starting to look? Christ, he’s eight years old.”

“I thought he would’ve come home while I was on my shift. Paul was here and he fell asleep and…”

“Paul. Great.” Sean rubbed his sweaty palms against his thighs.

“Please Sean, it’s not the time. I fucked up. Okay? Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I need some help finding our son.”

She was right. In spite of the thoughts running through his head, most of them centering around how he and Austin would have been better parents, but the courts couldn’t see that, all they could see was a little boy growing up under the wings of two queers, Sean knew she was right.

This was an emergency.

He looked over at his partner, who was sitting up, alert on the couch, concern making his fair features somehow darker, eyebrows pulling together, mouth open as if to say something. Austin mouthed, “What’s wrong?”

“Just a minute, Shelley.” Sean covered the receiver with his hand. “Jason has disappeared. They haven’t seen him since this afternoon.” Sean closed his eyes to try and center himself; this was feeling unreal, like a nightmare come to life. The room shifted, like he was drunk. He wished away any high the Jamaican he had smoked earlier brought on, but it wasn’t that easy. A feeling of giddy dread pulsed through his veins, electric.

This is how it feels, he thought, to be totally helpless.

Austin got up from the couch and began rubbing the cords in Sean’s neck, which had tightened into iron.

Sean swallowed, trying to summon up some spit. “You haven’t seen him all day?”

“That’s right and I don’t need the accusations. You know how it is around here in the summertime. Kids play outside until it starts getting dark. It was like that for you. It was like that for me.”

“I’m sorry. Listen, we’ll be right over.”

“‘Kay.” There was a pause. “Sean? Would you mind just coming alone? Paul…”

“For Christ’s sake, Shelley.” Sean hung the phone up.

“I’m going over there. See what I can do to help.”

“Let me throw something on.” Austin stood, his blue eyes alive with concern and sympathy.

“No.” Sean practically winced at the look of surprise on his lover’s face. He bit his lower lip and added, “I mean, maybe you should stay here in case anyone calls.”

Austin frowned.

“Like Jason, Austin. Like Jason.” Sean groped in a desk drawer near the front door and pulled out his cell. “I’ll have this on me so you can reach me. Okay?”

Sean was out the door before Austin had the chance to offer any sort of rebuttal.

² ² ²

By the time he pulled up in the driveway, Sean was hoping, without much optimism, that Jason would have come home during the time it took him to drive over to Shelley’s. He even had a vision of his knobby-kneed little son running out the back, screen door slamming behind him, and calling, “Daddy!”. He ran a trembling hand through his close-cropped dark hair and yanked on his mustache. Even under the best of circumstances, he didn’t particularly like going in that house: Paul and Shelley had done their best to make sure he never felt comfortable there. When was the last time he’d been inside? He couldn’t remember. Usually, he just gave a couple of toots on the horn when he picked up Jason and out the boy would run, nylon weekend bag in hand.

It had been easy. Unlike his divorce from Shelley six years ago…

But thoughts like that were for another time. Weren’t crises supposed to draw people together?

He took the back porch steps two at a time and could see them both waiting through the screen door. The light in the kitchen seemed unusually bright and the silence of his ex-wife and her husband, sitting at the table, heads bowed, erased any hope that Jason had already returned home.

Sean gave a couple taps on the screen door to alert them to his presence and went inside.

Shelley stood. “Sean! God, I’m so glad you’re here.” Then she glanced over at Paul to see how he would take what she had just said, but he was looking at once bleary-eyed and dour. “I mean, Paul and I have been worried sick.”

“Have you called the police and reported him missing yet?”

Paul stood. “Of course we did that. As soon as Shel got home from the diner. What do you think?” Paul’s large frame looked imposing. He was the kind of man at whose hands Sean had always received taunting and torture. A man’s man, with no tolerance for sissies like him. He had heard from Jason the names Paul had called Sean, the snide remarks about his masculinity, and the none-too-subtle hints that he, Paul, would make a fitter father for Jason.

Sean ignored the big man, with his glowering good looks and the smell of beer and perspiration that wafted off him. Sean caught his ex-wife’s gaze. “What do you say we take a little ride? Check out his favorite haunts? Just do a little searching on our own?”

Shelley was already heading toward the door. Paul was behind her. Shelley stopped and turned at the sound of his footfalls. “No.”

Paul’s mouth dropped open.

Shelley grinned, the little half smile looking sickly on her pale, worried features. Sean wondered then if he ever beat her. “I mean, someone has to be here in case he comes home or the police call.” She then turned back to Sean. “They’re on the way over here right now. Paul, you’ve got his school picture, right?”

Paul consulted the ceiling. “It’s right where you left it, dear. On the kitchen cabinet.”

Sean could see the 5 x 7 color photo lying near a stack of newspapers.

“Just give them the picture. The guy I talked to on the phone said they could make signs.” She paused. “If necessary.”

² ² ²

As Sean drove through the night, he battled a feeling of sick helplessness. If something horrible had happened to Jason, he couldn’t bear the thought of it. The loss would rob him of more than just an only son, it would rob him of a life.

He didn’t know how he could go on.

He had to fight back accusatory words, so he turned the radio on. He pushed the button that was set on the classical station in Pittsburgh and the car was filled with trumpets: Pachelbel’s Canon. Shelley had always despised his love of classical music, but tonight he thought she might find it soothing.

And it gave them a way to deal with the silence and the anxiety, which thrummed in the car like a third presence.

“Have you checked the woods across from the house?”

“Paul went out there a little while ago, with a flashlight. He knows right where Jason has his little fort built.” She brushed away a tear. “There was nothing there, except for his iPod and a couple apples in a plastic bag.”

Sean bit his lower lip. “He would never leave the iPod. He loved it. Loves it.” Sean and Austin had given him the iPod Shuffle just last Christmas and the little boy went everywhere with it.

“I know,” Shelley whispered. “I know.”

“How about his friends? I suppose you’ve called around.”

Shelley answered in a voice barely above a whisper. “Friends, classmates. Christ, practically everyone he’s ever bumped into in his whole life.”

“No luck?”

“Yes, Sean, I had a lot of luck. Actually this is just a ploy to get you alone. I thought I’d take another crack at seeing if I could convert you.”

Sean sighed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I’m so damn worried. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Sean pointed the car toward the river, deciding not to call Shelley on saying that it was the worst thing that ever happened to her. She was upset; her terror and anxiety wafted off her like a scent. The Ohio curved along the town of Summitville and even though Jason had been warned, over and over, to keep away from its muddy banks, both parents were certain that wouldn’t keep him away. Parental warnings had failed to keep generations of boys, including Sean, away from the allure of the river.

Both grew silent, thinking things they didn’t want to: the number of boys over the years who had been claimed by the Ohio’s treacherous and unpredictable currents.

Would they find Jason washed up on a bank? Or worse, would the current carry his body downstream, to turn up days later when everyone concerned would be fragile from lack of sleep and worry?

Sean steered the car down a bumpy road, filled with potholes, and headed toward the river. In front of the two of them, cooling towers from Summitville Power, one of the nation’s first nuclear power plants, rose up against the night sky, tiny lights on the towers blinking in the darkness. The towers, sentinels against the dark and starless night, gave an almost surreal feel to their venture. Wafts of steam came off the tops of the two towers, to be snatched up by the wind.

After they had passed the small neighborhood filled with decrepit tiny homes, sheathed in peeling paint or tarpaper masquerading as brick, called Little England for as long as anyone could remember, Sean pulled the car over to the side of the road. Just ahead of them, the road dead-ended. Beyond where the cinders ended was a large grassy field that backed up to Summitville Power. For as long as Sean could remember, kids had been coming here: as prepubescents to explore the tall grassy fields nourished by the river and later, to smoke and make out.

Sean swallowed hard. If Jason was in this field, there was no way they would find him safe. Sean was gripped by a numbness that made his movements those of an automaton, doing each action separately, right down to putting one foot in front of the other.

He wished he had some optimistic words for Shelley, wished he had some optimism for himself. But what answer could there possibly be for an eight-year-old boy, smart and always well-behaved, to be out now, after a thunderstorm and hedging in on midnight? Still, he kept a part of his mind open for something he hadn’t thought of.

The air, after the storm, had a slight chill to it. Shelley wrapped her arms around herself and Sean noticed, for the first time, how much she still looked like a child. Her thin build, barely clinging to a frame little more than five feet tall, gave her a waifish appearance. The baggy T-shirt and jeans she wore did little to dispel the illusion that Sean had a child along with him. Her reddish brown hair was pulled back away from her face, a face unlined, but now creased by worry and dread.

“It’s going to be okay,” Sean said to his ex-wife. “There’s got to be something we’re not thinking of.”

Shelley said nothing as the two of them stepped over a chain that supposedly barred anyone from entering the field.

The ground beneath them squished with each step they took and as they progressed, their feet sank deeper into the mud, causing them to have to pull their feet out sometimes, with a loud sucking noise once the foot was freed. An odor of fish wafted up from the river.

“He’s not here,” Shelley said. “This is pointless. We should be home so we can talk to the police when they get there.”

“Paul can handle that. Besides, I’ve got my cell phone and I assume you do, too.”

Shelley looked at him then, her eyes bright with tears in the darkness. She didn’t need to say anything.

“Let’s hurry.”

Movement was tough, what with the damp and the sliver of a moon hidden behind slate gray clouds.

As their gaze roamed the darkened empty fields, Shelley grabbed Sean’s arm suddenly. “There! Oh God, do you see it?”

And Sean followed Shelley’s gaze and her trembling finger to what he first saw as just more high, yellowing grass and weeds. And then he noticed how some of the vegetation was tramped down.

And then he saw the little red Converse shoe.

Shelley collapsed against Sean and he wrapped his arms around her. “It’s his shoe! Sean, it’s his shoe!” She sobbed against his chest and Sean feared he would vomit. But he knew one of them needed to stay strong. “Shh-h.” He stroked Shelley’s hair. “It’s just a shoe. It doesn’t have to be Jason’s. It could be anyone’s. You know how people dump trash around here.” Even as he voiced the reassurances, Sean doubted them himself. The shoe, almost glinting in the dull light, was exactly the right size. And his son wore little else besides red Chuck Taylors. When he outgrew one pair, he demanded another.

They trudged on through the darkness and the damp, silent. Shelley scooped up the shoe, and held it, muddy, to her chest. What other horrors awaited them? Perhaps just beyond where the tree line started? Sean couldn’t bear to think that his son was dead. That just couldn’t be. God wouldn’t do that to them. To him. Sean was thinking even if they found Jason lying unconscious somewhere, it would be better than this not knowing. He flashed forward to coming through the doors of City Hospital with Jason in his arms. The emergency staff would take Jason from them. They would fix him up and everything would be all right. Tomorrow, he and Austin would visit Jason in a hospital room, with the Audubon bird guide they had put back for his birthday next month. Jason would complain about being confined, wondering when they would let him go. There would be appeasements made, promises of ice cream and new toys.

Things would slowly come back to normal. Sure, Jason had fallen, bumped his head, passed out. Things like that happened all the time.

Didn’t they?

Shelley stumbled and fell to the ground. She grunted as the air was knocked out of her. “What the hell?” she groaned, when she had found enough breath to put behind her words.

The two looked down to see a mound of fresh dirt. Drying weeds and branches had been pulled over it, but the dirt looked freshly dug, nothing could hide that. All around them, weeds and various grasses grew unchecked. But there was this spot, a rough rectangle in shape, about as long as Shelley was tall.

Both stood and stared at what looked like a fairly fresh-dug grave with horror. Shelley chewed on her thumb. She whispered, “Do you know what that looks like?”

“Yeah.” Sean’s gut twisted itself into a knot.

Shelley dropped to her knees in the mud and began digging.

Sean grabbed her shoulder and pulled out his cell. “Maybe we should call the cops.”

“I can’t!” Shelley shrieked. “I can’t wait for them to get here. I have to know.” She threw up clumps of wet dirt behind her as her hands went deeper and deeper into the moist soil.

Sean couldn’t wait either. He put his cell back in his pocket, knelt beside his ex-wife, and began to help her. From the recent rain, the earth was moist and easy to move.

They dug for about a half hour before Sean’s hand hit on something. He recoiled, wanting to vomit, yanking his muddy hand back from what he had just touched.

“Shelley, stop.” He pulled her hands out of the dirt. She turned to him, her lower lip quivering.

“What is it?”

“I hit something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Sean said, but he was lying. He knew all too well what he had felt: flesh and bone. “Please, let’s go call the cops. I think we need to.”

“I won’t stop, Sean.” Shelley buried her hands in the earth once more.

Only seconds passed before she stopped as if stunned and screamed. She then began to laugh, first in little hiccups, then in an all-out hysteria, beating the ground, the tears pouring down her face.

Sean looked over her shoulder and a kind of sickening horror and giddy relief rushed through him.

Someone had chosen this spot as the final resting place for a dog. The moon appeared from behind a cloud, revealing that the animal was far gone in decomposition, bits of flesh and fur still clung to the bones, but maggots were busy erasing even those traces.

Shelley turned away from the stench and the ruin and grabbed Sean, burrowing her head into his chest, whispering breathlessly, “It’s not him. It’s not him.”

And Sean stroked her hair, wondering: where is Jason, then? Where could he be? He clutched the little red shoe tighter in his hand, behind Shelley’s back.

Shelley pulled away and looked up at Sean. “Oh God, where is my boy?”

Title	Conspiracy of Ravens
Author	William Maltese
ISBN#	978-1-60820-061-0 (ebook)
Release Date	June 2009
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	174 pages
Sexual Content:	Rated Explicit
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Inside the grounds of the infamous Tower of London. Patrick whose Irish lover, Ian, was killed by an English homicidal butcher behind the wheel of a speeding car. Tad whose American parents have sent their erring son to live with Brit relatives, one of whom is a Tower yeoman. Six Tower Ravens, the subjects of legend that predicts-they gone, the British Empire soon to follow. A man and five Tower Ravens murdered. One man determined to see the sixth bird dead, no matter the consequences.

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

Title	Drag Queen in the Court of Death
Author	Caro Soles
ISBN#
Release Date	June 2009
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	253 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook) B&N — coming soon Amazon–coming soon

Was his ex-lover really a twisted killer?

While cleaning out his dead ex-lover Ronnie’s apartment, staid history professor Michael Dunn-Barten makes a grisly discovery–a mummified corpse in a trunk. Suddenly Michael must travel back 25 years to find answers by revisiting everybody who knew Ronnie. Back to the 1960s, back to the realization of his sexuality and the boy he loved. Back to the troubling time when his wife threw him out and his family disowned him. Back to uncover disturbing answers amidst drag queens and murky memories–and to reveal whether or not his first real love was truly a twisted killer. Drag Queen in the Court of Death is a taut thriller about a man who needs to face his past in order to forge a future. He must unravel a mystery that’s a quarter century old–no matter how painful the truth may be.

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

Chapter One

The last time I climbed up these stairs was exactly three weeks ago. I would have stayed away longer, but Ellis was insistent, pining over all those gorgeous gowns and shoes and wigs; imagining great bolts of flashing silks and glittering lengths of magical cloth that ran through your hands like a sigh.

“And the makeup,” Ellis said, behind me on the stairs. “There’s probably mountains of the stuff.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Remember, he left most of it to Wilde Nights.”

“Well, I’m in Wilde Nights,” Ellis said.

“So am I.” That was his friend. Some young thing named Jaym or Jayce. A non-name. An effort at re-creation that I might have appreciated in my younger days. Now it just annoyed me.

I paused at the landing, the key warm and moist in my hand. The air danced with dust and heat. I didn’t understand why Ronnie had stayed so long in this place, the top-floor apartment of an old converted rooming house in a part of the city that was finally becoming fashionable again. When he had moved in, he was just a student. In my homeroom. It was the ’60s, and we thought anything might happen. Anything might become something else entirely. Something wonderful and engaging and strange. Like Ronnie himself. At least, to me.

“Come on, Michael.” Behind me, the heat from Ellis’s tight body radiated close to my back. “I’m dying here.”

Immediately he caught his breath and I felt the air go still. Dying. But it was Ronnie who was dead.

For a moment I rested my hand flat against the painted door. The deep purple surface was warm. I put the key in the locks, all three of them, and stepped back. The door opened outward, making it awkward for a moment, balanced on the steps. Behind me, the other two muttered and shifted to make room as the plum door swung to the left and I walked into Ronnie Lipinsky’s apartment.

Hot, dust-filled air hit me in the face. It was like pushing into a wall of solid heat.

Ellis coughed. “Hell on wheels! Air! Air!” He rushed towards the full-length window, which opened onto the fire escape. We used to sit out there on hot nights, Ronnie and I, wrapped safe in the darkness and liquid emotion, talking the night away. Ellis struggled with the old, much-painted wooden sash and finally forced it open. He stood for a moment, panting in the heat, the sunlight dancing on the frosted tips of his short hair.

Beside me, Jaym was looking around at the eccentric decor, his dark eyes taking in every detail. “Cool.”

Some time ago, Ronnie had remodeled the top floor, which was originally three separate rooms, into a small apartment. I didn’t understand why he’d bothered, but he loved the place. It had memories, he said. Associations. It gave him back the roots he had voluntarily broken when he left the US and came here twenty-five years ago at the age of seventeen. Technically, he was not a draft dodger, since he hadn’t been called up yet. But he would have been. Here, in this eccentric top floor of an old house in Toronto, he re-created himself over the years, till at last, when I met him again, he was a different person.

The sloping walls were a deep midnight blue, the ceiling silver. The furniture was all upholstered in white, with painted cushions on the sofa and piled on the window seat. Near the dormer window hung five or six mobiles Ronnie had made from bits of colored glass and crystals and sparkling ornaments. They moved gently, emitting a soft tinkling sound that set my teeth on edge.

“What’s that about?” Jaym asked, pointing at one wall. It was covered with pictures of angels and saints, Madonnas and plaster cherubs and dried flowers with dusty ribbons hanging from their stems. There were pictures of men, some formal, some snapshots. Some were very old. There were also antique in memoriam cards bordered in thick black, with people’s names in spiked Gothic script. On the floor stood two large painted wooden candlesticks, holding squat beeswax candles.

“It’s a memorial to friends who have died of AIDS,” I said.

“It’s creepy,” said Ellis, with a mock shiver.

I shrugged. It was just another theatrical touch in a room filled with dramatic flair. “The gowns are through here,” I said, opening the door to the room at the back of the house.

This one was painted white, with a wall of mirrors along one side. The lighting was bright but muted, so that the effect in the mirrors was flattering. Rows of clothes hung in plastic bags along both sides of the room.

Ellis descended on the gold mine with cries of delight. Jaym merely stared as the light bounced off the sequins and satins, the bugle beads and seed pearls. It was as if the room winked at us.

I left them to it and went into the bedroom across the hall. Here the walls were sky blue. Someone had painted clouds on the ceiling. A mobile of stars hung in the window. This closet, I knew, was filled with sober, expensive suits, which Ronnie wore to work at the accounting firm of Shaw and McGinnis. It was not one of these suits he had chosen to be buried in, but a gown of old rose with beadwork on the bodice and a high, almost Victorian neckline. I knew because I had taken it to the funeral home, per his request.

Across the hall I could hear Ellis’s laughter, his delighted exclamations, the ohhhs of appreciation. Jaym’s low voice answered him, and occasionally he would laugh too. I pulled myself together and collected the mail from the box downstairs, took it back to the living room to sort. There was the usual junk, some bills that needed attention, a few letters and notes I put aside to answer later.

My concentration kept wandering, and I soon gave in. I wasn’t ready for business. I took a box of photos from the top of the desk and sank into the couch to look through them. Some of the pictures I recognized, but they were mostly of people I didn’t know, taken in bars and during drag shows, at parties where Ronnie smiled and talked with wide-shouldered transvestites and men holding wine glasses or cans of beer.

Ellis and Jaym were piling selected gowns on the brightly painted chest in one corner of the living room. I vaguely remembered the chest, a trunk, really. In the old days, it had stood in the middle of the room, used as a coffee table. Seeing it now brought back unpleasant memories of our breakup, an abrupt and painful wrenching apart of something I had assumed solid. I was a fool, but I had never really been in love before, and Ronnie’s sudden, erratic behavior was incomprehensible to me.

The laughter and screams of delight from the other room had faded now as the two became serious in their winnowing of the treasures that crammed the racks. I raised my head to watch, catching alluring glimpses of Ellis posturing and pouting in one gown after another, his short, spiky blond hair almost glittering in the bright light. Occasionally Jaym would try something on, but mostly he seemed to see his role as valet, the one who puts everything away, smoothing out wrinkles and zipping up the garment bags. I was glad he had come along.

“What a bitchin’ collection,” Ellis said, arms akimbo as he looked at the gowns he had piled on top of the old trunk. “How the hell can I choose just three?”

“Find a way,” I said. Three had been an arbitrary number, but having chosen it, I felt bound by my own careless words, something that often happened to me.

“Shit,” said Ellis. He passed several of the gowns to Jaym, who obediently hung them up. I was sure in the exact same place they had come from. “I’ll have to shorten them,” Ellis went on, “but other than that they fit great. What’s in the trunk?”

I shrugged. “How would I know?” I glanced pointedly at my watch.

“Okay, okay. Just let me take a look in case he was keeping some gems hidden, for some reason. Jaym, give me a hand here. It seems to be stuck or something.”

I watched the two of them struggle with the trunk for a while. Irritated that it was taking so long, I got up and went over to help. The lock had sprung open, but the top refused to budge.

“What the hell has he got in here?” Jaym asked. “His tiara collection?”

“Hold on.” I went into the tiny, immaculate kitchen and came back with a screwdriver and a hammer. I resented that trunk. It had always been there, changing slowly as Ronnie changed, painted, repainted, covered with pictures or draped with shawls, while I had been banished, my life broken apart.

As I tried to force the screwdriver under the lip of the top of the trunk, I realized Ronnie had sealed it with something.

“Weirdness,” murmured Ellis.

Jaym had discovered the end of a tape and slowly and carefully removed it. Underneath was another kind of sealant, but with three of us working on it, we chipped and peeled it off too. By now, we were all determined to discover the treasures within. I felt the faint beat of an excitement I hadn’t experienced for many years. Anticipation. Adventure. I smiled at Jaym as he handed me the hammer. It was warm from his touch.

“One more whack should do it,” he said. “Go for it.”

I did. The top swung open with a creak. They cheered. Paint chips from the hinges flaked onto the deep blue rug. A heavy smell of dust and mold rose from inside.

Ellis pulled back, coughing. “I don’t think I want anything that’s been in here,” he said.

“Don’t be too hasty,” I said, pulling out the heavy green tapestry material that lay on top. It was just material, nothing else. Underneath was something that looked like old leather, cracked and brown, discolored with neglect. I tried to pull this out too, but it wouldn’t move. Jaym reached in to help, and we both pulled at the thing, finally getting it half out. It appeared to be sewn together, so that the entire bundle filled the large trunk in a mass of stiff, dusty leather.

Ellis coughed again. “What it this? Bondage gear?”

“You wish,” said Jaym, his dark eyes dancing. He flashed a sudden grin. “Let’s heave it out on the floor.”

It wasn’t that heavy, no more than you would expect from a package of leather, but I was beginning to sweat. Something wasn’t right about this. I had never heard of Ronnie being into anything leather before. The thought that there was a lot about Ronnie I might not know was surprisingly painful.

We crouched on the floor, looking at the awkward package. Whatever it was, it had been in there a long time.

“Turn it over,” Ellis said.

When we did, he pointed to a row of heavy stitches. “So where are the scissors?”

I shrugged.

Jaym got up and went into the room where all the gowns hung. There was a sewing machine in there. He had remarked on it earlier. Now he went unerringly to the box where the scissors and such things were, and came back triumphant.

“Piece of cake,” he said, and began to snip away. When the scissors proved too slow, he picked out a utility blade and sawed through the thick stitches.

The heavy leather peeled away from the package slowly, almost reluctantly. It took a while, turning the bulky package around, moving it farther into the room to give us more space. The dust was heavy, smelling strongly of mothballs now. I turned away to sneeze.

Ellis screamed.

Jaym dropped his side of the bundle and jumped backward, knocking over the telephone table.

I swung around and stared. The air rushed out of me, as if someone had hit me hard in the stomach. Staring up from the leather cocoon was a mummified face, the skin shriveled and brown, pulled back over yellowed teeth.

“Christ!”

Jaym rushed to the window and opened it. I thought for a moment he might crawl through to the wide ledge outside, but he didn’t. Ellis had scooted back till he was against the farthest wall. He held both hands over his mouth, still staring at the corpse.

“Holy Christ,” I said, my mind whirling in confusion.

A body. A mummified corpse forced into the confines of Ronnie’s trunk. A full-grown man crammed into a space that would barely fit a child. Or so it appeared.

There was no rational explanation for this atrocity. All I could think of was seeing this trunk all those times over the years when I had visited Ronnie. Was this monstrosity inside while we made love on the floor beside it years ago? I felt my insides well up, and rushed to the bathroom. Nothing came up.

I threw cold water on my face, went back into the living room, and dialed 911.

Title	Time After Time
Author	J.P. Bowie
ISBN#	978-1-60820-056-6 (print)
	978-1-60820-057-3 (ebook)
Release Date	June 2009
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Amazon	coming soon
B&N	coming soon
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Bewildered by a series of erotic dreams, Michael Ballantyne, a young graphic artist living in Los Angeles is eager to uncover their meaning. When he is informed that he is the sole beneficiary in an unknown man’s will and is now the owner of a large estate in Hertfordshire, England, Michael feels that somehow he has been given a key to unlock the dreams’ mysteries. This feeling grows stronger when he comes face to face with Jonathan Robertson, a handsome Englishman, who more than just resembles the man in his dreams.

Together they attempt to solve the mystery that surrounds the disappearance and apparent murder of Jonathan Harcourt, the son of the previous owner of Bedford Park.

The mutual attraction they quickly feel for one another is hampered by the sudden arrival of Michael’s jealous boyfriend, Steve Miller, and by Jack Trenton, a formidable and uninvited presence who has occupied the lodge by the estate gates.

When Michael, along with his now ex-boyfriend, Steve, is held hostage by Trenton, it becomes clear that Bedford Park holds many more secrets than anyone ever thought. Michael and Jonathan are soon to discover that the keepers of those secrets are dangerous men, willing to stop at nothing in order to make an ancient oath come to pass.

*****************************
For the umpteenth time in twenty minutes, Michael Ballantyne glanced toward the diner entrance to see if his brother Brad had yet deigned to arrive for their lunch date. “Where in hell is he?” he muttered to himself, sucking up half his iced tea in frustration. He caught the waiter’s eye and ordered a burger. No point in waiting any longer—looked like Brad was a no show.He tried to shuck off the feeling of disappointment that his brother hadn’t even bothered to call him to say he couldn’t make it, but just as the waiter took his order, Michael saw a red-faced Brad dash into the diner and scan the crowded room. On seeing Michael wave at him, he hurried over to the booth.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, sliding onto the seat opposite Michael. “Had a client who just wouldn’t get off the phone. What’re you having?”

“Cheeseburger…”

“I’ll have the same,” Brad told the waiter, “and a beer.”

“Drinking at lunch time?”

“I’m taking the afternoon off. I’ve been working way too hard lately.”

Michael chuckled. “Who told you that?”

“I told me that, my boy, and it’s the truth. Five closings in one month, two of ‘em utter bastards—I’m exhausted.” Brad slumped in his seat to emphasize his words.

“You should be pleased; everyone else I know in real estate is bitching about how slow it is.”

“That’s ‘cause they don’t know how to play a bad market.” Brad grinned at his brother. “So, how’re you doin’?”

“Okay.”

“Still seeing Steve?”

“I guess…”

“You guess?”

Michael gazed at his brother’s handsome face, his forehead now creased by a frown. “Well, he’s out of town right now on a business trip trying to find new clients. I haven’t seen very much of him lately. I think he’s losing interest.”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “What a clown. Losing interest in a good looking dude like you—if you weren’t my brother, I’d be putting the make on you myself.”

Michael laughed softly. “You’d have to turn gay too. I don’t think Miranda would approve, do you?”

“Probably not.” Brad touched Michael’s hand. “He’s not good enough for you, bro. Miranda and I both agree on that.”

Michael shrugged. “Steve’s all right. He’s just a businessman first.”

“Huh…” Brad fell silent as the waiter delivered their burgers and his beer. “So, you said you hadn’t been sleeping too well lately. What’s up with that?”

Michael hesitated. Did he really want to tell his brother about the strangely erotic dreams he’d been having? Dreams that would wake him in the middle of the night and keep him awake with the memory of how incredible they were—how incredible the man in his dreams was. He felt his face flush as he remembered.

“What’s wrong?” Brad was staring at him with concern.

“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve been having these strange dreams for the last three weeks or so. It’s a bit embarrassing…”

“How so?”

Michael shifted in his seat and couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes as he answered. “Um… they’re kind of erotic…” He cleared his throat. “You don’t want to hear this.”

“Try me.”

“Well, there’s this guy, and he’s making love to me.”

“And it’s not Steve, I take it,” Brad said through a mouthful of burger.

Michael shook his head. “No, it’s not anyone I know, or have ever known. I’d like to know him,” he added with a shaky laugh. “He’s English, and he’s quite, uh… incredible.”

“English, huh? So what’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem. I’m just a bit confused as to why I should have the same dream about the same guy night after night.”

“Some kind of wish fulfillment maybe,” Brad suggested. “I mean, it sounds like your relationship with Steve isn’t going anywhere, so you’re compensating by dreaming of a guy who’ll love you unconditionally.”

Michael stared at his brother. “Okay, when did you become a budding Freud?”

Brad chuckled and picked up a napkin to wipe his mouth. “Nothing very complicated there, Michael. You’re horny, so getting off in your dreams works like a charm.”

“Brad!”

“Well, doesn’t it?”

“Trust you to take it to the lowest common denominator.”

“And trust you to make more of it than it is,” Brad said, grinning. “Every guy has a wet dream now and then, Michael—especially when they’re not getting any.”

Michael groaned and shook his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you about this. Now you’re going to give me shit about it every time we’re together. Don’t tell Miranda!”

“Are you kidding? She’ll love this. She’ll think it so romantic that her brother-in-law has a dream man in his life.”

“That’s the problem—he’s not in my life.”

“Nor is Steve by the sounds of things. You know what I think?”

“No, but I know you’re about to tell me.”

“I think you should tell Steve to go to hell. He keeps you dangling there for his own convenience. You know, Miranda and I have talked about this—”

“Oh great,” Michael moaned. “My brother and sister-in-law sit around talking about my love life.”

Brad chuckled. “Or lack of it. But seriously, I haven’t said this before, but Steve’s not the guy for you. He’s just way too self-centered…”

“Well, he’s got a lot on his mind. Running your own business is a full-time commitment…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brad made a dismissive gesture. “But that night we all had dinner together, I couldn’t get over the fact that every time the conversation strayed to something that didn’t directly concern him, his eyes sorta just glazed over, and he lost all interest in what we were saying. I mean, what d’you guys talk about when you’re together? Is he remotely interested in what you do?”

“Of course he is.” Michael looked away from his brother’s searching gaze. “Well, I think he is…”

“Well, he should be. Graphic art is… is art for Chrissakes. You’re a talented guy. What does he do? Sells computer parts—no talent needed for that, is there?”

“Brad, you’re being very judgmental all of a sudden.”

Brad’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Michael. “I don’t want to see my little brother get hurt, that’s all. It doesn’t take an analyst to see you’re unhappy. Dreaming about getting laid instead of getting the real thing means you’re compensating for what’s lacking in your life.”

Michael sighed. “Okay, I admit I’m a tad ticked off he doesn’t seem to want to spend more time with me, but I really don’t think the dreams have anything to do with Steve. They’ve just started recently…”

“Because you’re frustrated…” Brad gave him a mischievous smile. “Tell me, how d’you feel when you wake up from one of these dreams? Are you, uh… damp?”

“Brad!” Michael felt his face grow hot. “You really are too much.” He looked around the crowded diner, praying no one could hear their conversation, but the noise level was reassuringly high.

Brad laughed at his brother’s embarrassment. “Michael, you and I have shared just about everything in our lives. There’s not much you and I don’t know about each other—we’ve slept in the same bed, shared the same tent on camping trips, skinny dipped together—and then there was that time when we…”

“Okay, now you’re really embarrassing me,” Michael hissed under his breath. But what Brad had said was true. Unlike a lot of siblings, he and Brad had always been close, with a bond that had grown even stronger after the unexpected death of their parents. Now he gazed fondly at his brother’s smiling face, at the sparkle in his eyes, and knew he could tell him just about anything.

“All right, yes I’m… I’m…”

“Wet.”

Michael groaned. “Yes.”

“And the guy?”

“Incredible, like I said. He’s like a god come to life. Dark hair that falls in curls over his forehead, eyes so dark blue they’re almost cobalt, lips that… Jesus, why am I telling my straight brother all this?”

“Because you want to share, and we always share, remember? You listened to me when Miranda and I were having our problems; and despite the fact that I’m straight, I love my gay baby brother, and I want to see you happy—and laid.”

Michael’s laugh was followed by a smile of real affection. “I love you too, big brother—and you’ll be the first to know when it happens.”

“Well, after you, hopefully,” his brother kidded him.

§ § § §

Later, as he entered his apartment, Michael immediately noticed the flashing light on his answering machine. Steve? He could only hope. He hesitated before pressing the message button. What Brad had said about Steve still bothered him. Was he being blind to Steve’s faults simply because he didn’t want the relationship, such as it was, to fail?

“Oh, come on,” he muttered. “Get a grip.” He pressed the button and sighed with disappointment as a voice rasped in his ears. It wasn’t Steve.

“This message is for Mr. Michael Ballantyne. My name is Ronald Fortescue of Fortescue, Reynolds and Haversham, Solicitors. My office is located in London, England, and we represent the estate of Mr. Lionel Burroughs. Mr. Burroughs, I regret to say, passed away quite recently and has left a will that names you, Mr. Ballantyne, as his sole beneficiary.”

Michael stared at the answering machine in disbelief. “What the hell? Is this some kind of joke?”

“If you would care to phone my office as soon as possible, I will make arrangements to inform you of the exact details of Mr. Burroughs will, along with the conditions of your inheritance. Here is my number…”

Michael had to play the message twice more before his shaking fingers could write the number down. This had to be some kind of a hoax, like one of those emails he got now and then telling him he’d won a million dollars on a lottery he’d never entered. But the man had left a phone number… He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock. London was what… eight hours ahead? No point in calling right then. He’d do it first thing in the morning. Should he call Brad and tell him? No, he’d wait until he’d spoken to this Fortescue guy. Maybe the whole thing was one big mistake; they’d gotten the wrong Michael Ballantyne. Yeah, that was it… there had to be a hundred Michael Ballantynes in the Los Angeles phone book. They’d just picked the wrong one.

Maybe he should call Brad after all. Quickly, he punched in his brother’s number. “Hi Brad, it’s Michael.”

“No kidding. I do have caller ID y’know.”

“Right. Listen, I just got a weird message on my answering machine.”

“Well, this is L.A., Michael.”

“Be serious. Some guy from England is telling me I’ve been left an inheritance or something…”

“Sweet. How much?”

“I don’t know that—but Brad, I’ve never heard of this guy, a Lionel Burroughs. Have you?”

“Burroughs? Nope, can’t say I have.”

“You think he might have been a friend of Mom and Dad’s?”

“I have no idea, Michael. I don’t recall them ever mentioning a Lionel Burroughs. They were only in England that one time, remember?”

Michael remembered only too well. It was shortly after that trip that his parents had been killed in a deadly freeway accident involving multiple vehicles. The memory of that terrible time sent an involuntary shudder through Michael’s body.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I remember… Anyway,” he continued after clearing his throat, “I have to call this solicitor guy in London tomorrow. I guess he’ll be able to tell me what the connection is.”

“Can’t wait to hear more, bro. Call me soon as you’ve talked to him.”

“Will do… I’ll talk to you later. Tell Miranda I said ‘hi.’”

With another glance at the phone number he’d written on the notepad he kept by the phone, Michael walked through his bedroom and into the bathroom to undress. He had no plans for the evening and was looking forward to lounging in sweats in front of the television with a pizza and beer. He stood for a moment in front of the mirror as he removed his shirt and gazed at himself critically.

What was it about him that Steve found so easy to resist

?He wasn’t bad looking. Even Brad said he was good looking. He kept himself in shape, and he always made sure he smelled nice. But it wasn’t enough obviously, he thought despondently. Sighing, he ran a hand through his chestnut-brown hair and threw his shirt into the laundry basket. As he met his own green-eyed gaze in the mirror, he wondered if Brad had been right about those dreams. Was he simply dreaming this beautiful guy to replace the man he could tell was slipping away from him?

Wow, that’s really pathetic

, he thought, grimacing at his reflection. Yet, those dreams seemed so real—the man felt real, warm and hard bodied under Michael’s hands, his skin so smooth, his lips so soft, his kiss a sweet hunger… Jesus!

Michael stepped back from the mirror. He was hard as a rock. “Pull yourself together,” he muttered. The phone’s strident ring brought him back to reality. He picked it up in the bedroom.”Michael Ballantyne.”

“Mikey, how are you?”

Steve.

He was the only one who called him Mikey and got away with it. Michael hated that particular abbreviation, but from Steve he’d grin and bear it.”Hey, it’s good to hear your voice.” Michael sat down heavily on the bed. “Where are you?”

“Still in Vancouver, but I’ll be back in a couple of days. Wanna get together?”

“That’d be great…” He paused, then said quietly, “I miss you.”

“Yeah… miss you too, Mikey.”

“What are you doing?”

“Right now I’m lying in bed watching Canadian television. It’s even worse than the dreck they serve up in the States. What are you doing?”

“I just got home. Going to kick back and watch some dreck on TV, too.” Michael had a vision of Steve lying on the hotel bed, his muscled, quarterback physique stretched out in all its glory, his blond hair rumpled by the pillow. He was hard again.

“Well, you have a good evening,” Steve said. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

No, don’t hang up yet. Talk to me some more

. “Oh, okay, Steve. Look forward to seeing you when you get back.”"Right… Take it easy. See ya, Mikey.” And he was gone.

“Damn,” Michael muttered, putting the phone down. Why couldn’t he have thought of something to keep Steve talking on the phone longer? Why hadn’t he told him about the call from England? Surely that would have intrigued Steve. His hand strayed to his crotch, gripping the hard flesh through his slacks. He lay back on the bed, but the face that swam before his closed eyes wasn’t Steve’s… it was the man in his dreams.