Jon Michaelsen's Blog: Ramblings, Excerpts, WIPs, etc., page 2
August 22, 2020
Exclusive Excerpt: A Body on the Hill (A Mitch O’Reilly Mystery Book 2) by Brad Shreve
There was a slight drizzle of rain, and typical for Los Angeles, people drove as if it was a blizzard. I was a few miles away from Dominique’s hotel when my phone rang.
It was Devin Doss.
“Oh, Mitch,” Devin exclaimed. “Thank the Lord I reached you. Someone has been in our apartment and ravaged it.”
“What happened, Devin? Did you call the police?”
“No, I wanted to talk with you first. Especially, since I ain’t talked with Cody. I can’t find her.”
“Is she…uh, he at work?”
“She’s supposed to be, but she ain’t there. Won’t answer her phone or texts either.”
“I’ll see if I can get ahold of him and head your way.”
“Thank you, Mr. Detective. I’m scared being here all by myself.”
I sent a text to Cody to see if he was working but got no response. It was likely he didn’t hear his phone buzzing in the crowded club. I tried calling several times, but he didn’t answer.
I was able to reach his boss, Luna Salcedo.
“I have no idea where he is,” she said. “I’ve called and have had no answer. It’s not like him to be irresponsible. I hope he didn’t have an accident or…”
“What time was he scheduled to work?”
“6:00 p.m., and he’s usually here ten minutes early.”
“Over an hour late for his shift is a pretty good sign that he doesn’t plan to come in.”
“I would agree,” Luna said.
“I’ll swing by his place and let you know if I find him.”
“Please do. I’m worried.”
Because of the rain, the neighborhood in Koreatown was dark and empty. I was surprised and excited when I found a parking space in front of Devin and Cody’s apartment building. It’s those little things that made us Angelenos happy.
The light on the second landing of the stairwell was out. That with the tapping of the sprinkles on the window gave me chills I hadn’t felt when I had been there during the day. My steps quickened up to Devin’s door at apartment 302.
click to purchaseI asked, “Any word from Cody?”
“Not a thing,” Devin huffed. “Come on, I’ll show you the damage.”
“I talked to Cody’s boss. She hasn’t heard from him.”
“Oh Lord! I hope nothing happened to her. She best not lose his job whoring around. I can’t afford this place on my own, and Cody’s already late with rent. She better hope she’s in trouble.” Devin put his hand to his lips. “There goes my mouth again. What a terrible thing for me to say.”
“Do you want to show me the damage? Everything out here looks okay.”
“Come with me.”
I followed Devin as he sashayed to Austin’s room. It was empty except for four open boxes sitting on the floor.
I said, “How can this room be ravaged?”
“Hold on.”
Devin opened the closet door. Two more boxes sat with their flaps open, and the rack was full of hanging clothes.
“All the things in these boxes were neatly stacked and flaps were closed. Look at them now?”
“Hardly looks like they were ravaged.”
“Ms. Cody hasn’t been in this room since the last day you were here. It upsets her too much. Austin’s death finally sunk in. Everything here Dominique left for us to take to Goodwill, but I ain’t done it by myself. I came in to grab Austin’s old rain jacket, and this is how I found the place. Boxes open and clothes moved around.”
“It’s probably a good thing you didn’t call the police over a messy closet.”
“I don’t leave things messy, Mr. Detective,” he hissed.
I asked, “Do you know where Cody parked his car?”
“In this neighborhood there ain’t no telling. If you don’t have a driveway, which we don’t, you park in the first place you can find. Sometimes that means a block or two away. Sometimes more.”
I went out the building and walked two blocks down the street in each direction. Cody’s car was nowhere to be seen. I stepped back inside to see Devin.
I said, “Cody’s car isn’t out front. Where else would he park?”
“Sometimes she goes and parks on James Wood Drive. I keep telling her she’s crazy to do that. Cody goes out the back to get there. Totally cray cray.”
“Show me where.”
I followed Devin down the hall on the first floor. In the rear of the building was a door that opened into a courtyard between the buildings.
“Where does he go?” I asked.
“Straight down that alley, but you’re on your own. It’s getting dark, and I won’t go out that way.”
The courtyard was barely visible from a small yellow light hung on the side of the building next door. There was a basketball hoop, but judging by the board hanging sideways it looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time. In one corner was a homeless camp with blankets rolled out and several piles of garbage bags. No one was there to stake their claim. From the courtyard, I took a slow walk up the alley leading to where Cody’s car was parked. The entire alley was free and clear except for a pile of debris midway to the street. There were several garbage bags opened and with trash spewing out. Some broken furniture and an old box spring on its side leaning against a gray stucco building.
Finding bodies is not a habit I enjoy, and I was worried I’d find Cody’s body there. Could also be rats, or some crazy man with a knife or a broken bottle. When I got close my heart sank. Sticking out from behind the box spring was a pair of bare feet. As I got closer there was heavy breathing and grunting sounds. Goddamn in hell, they were still alive.
When I tilted the box spring forward, I found a haggard, grungy woman lying silently while holding a shopping bag from Target. I carefully let go of the box spring and backed away so as not to wake her.
I cased James Wood Drive for five minutes before I spotted Cody’s dark green 2012 Ford Focus parked in front of Ultra-Fast Check Cashing. Cash in Minutes with Low Fees the sign promised.
A car is just a car, and I should have had no qualms approaching it, but experience had taught me that sometimes there are dead bodies inside. It was a day I wasn’t feeling up to reliving.
Bio:
After growing up in Michigan and North Carolina, I crisscrossed the country while working in the hotel industry. In addition to working in hotels as a bellman, front desk clerk, and reservation call center director, I managed coffee houses, waited tables, sold potato chips off a truck, and even hawked pre-burial funeral plans.
Author Brad Shreve’s WebsiteWhere the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak developed my first interests in art and storytelling. I’d spend hours on the floor sketching and painting and writing stories.
My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George gave me my first inklings that I’d like to be a novelist someday. Authors Lawrence Block, Sue Grafton, Gregory Mcdonald and Robet B. Parker, influenced my love of mystery.
I was delighted when I discovered the gay mystery subgenre and the list of writers who inspired me to follow this more comfortable direction are too numerous to mention.
Though my interest in writing began at an early age, entering the hotel business soon after graduation steered me in a different direction. The secretary, the big office and a prestigious title were great for the ego but weren’t all that fulfilling.
As a grownup I was thinking of what I wanted to do when I became a bigger grownup and the answer was obvious. My fingertips have been on the keyboard ever since.
I’m a proud dad, beach bum, and coffee house squatter.
I currently live in the Los Angeles South Bay with my husband, Maurice.
Links:
Book:
Kindle available on Amazon
Paperback available everywhere
August 15, 2020
Exclusive Excerpt: The Same Breath (The Lamb and the Lion Book 1) by Gregory Ashe
5
Jem went to the bar in the Apollonia, one of the most expensive hotels in Salt Lake City, situated between Temple Square and the Salt Palace Convention Center—in other words, the perfect place to stumble across closeted gay Mormon businessmen who had some extra cash to burn. He timed his entrance so that he collided with a stout, middle-aged guy in a Jazz jersey. They exchanged apologies, and Jem made his way to the bar. He ignored Stef, who was drying glasses behind the bar and rolling her eyes. Her hair was red now, and the sides of her head shaved.
It only took a moment to scan the sheep at the bar: four men, two in conversation, two sitting by themselves. Jem immediately crossed off the guy on the right; he was engaged in a loud phone call with someone he kept calling princess. The guy on the left, though, had looked over when Jem collided with the other man at the bar’s entrance, and he’d already glanced at Jem a second time. He was a nice looking, blond, late thirties, probably really starting to feel the pinch of a wife and two and a half kids. Between his hands, he cupped a tumbler—so maybe he wasn’t the nice Mormon daddy he looked like. Jem counted three stools over and sat.
Stef was rolling her eyes again.
Ignoring her, Jem asked about local whiskey and bourbon.
“We’ve got High West.” Stef had her lines pretty much perfect by now. “They do a traditional, Old West blended whiskey: rye, scotch, and bourbon. Do you want to try it?”
Jem made a face.
“It’s pretty good,” the guy to Jem’s left said. “I tried the Campfire.”
“Yeah?” Jem said. “Honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing.” He laughed. “I’m not much of a drinker, but, I don’t know. Tonight I was feeling a little reckless.”
“Get him a Campfire neat,” the guy said, and then he swiveled on the stool, his legs spread, studying Jem openly.
click to purchase
Jem had never really mastered blushing on demand, but he could do a pretty good job of combing his fingers through his beard, biting the corner of his mouth, looking away and looking back. The guy’s grin got bigger, more confident. When Stef came back, setting a tumbler in front of him, Jem patted himself down and lurched off the stool.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jem said. “Hold on.”
He made his way back to the entrance, studying the floor, squatting near the door. After about a minute, the guy from the bar came over.
“What happened?”
“Somehow I dropped my money.”
“You lost your wallet?”
“No, I left my wallet in my room. I just brought cash and my ID.” He flashed the Montana driver’s license, one of many fakes. “Dang it. Never mind. This is like a sign, you know? I should have just watched Rocky and gone to bed. I cannot believe I dropped that money. It was the rest of my per diem.”
“You know what?” the guy said. “I don’t think you dropped it.”
Jem worked on his quizzical expression; he was getting pretty good at quizzical. “What do you mean?”
“That guy who ran into you on the way out? That’s a classic pickpocket move. Crash into a guy, take his wallet while he’s recovering, and he doesn’t realize until you’re long gone. A hotel like this, with a lot of people from out of town? Perfect venue.”
“Oh my gosh,” Jem groaned. “Are you serious? That actually happens?”
“All the time. Don’t worry; you’ll learn these things.”
“No way,” Jem said. “I’m going back to Missoula tomorrow, and I’m not leaving again.” He chuckled. “Would you believe I was so proud of myself for getting around the last few days? I thought I was street smart.”
The guy laughed a little too, touched Jem’s shoulder, and tugged him toward the bar. “Come on, have a drink. On me. Don’t beat yourself up about it; guys like that, they prey on people who are just a little too confident.”
“Gosh,” Jem said, trying hard to ignore Stef pretending to stab herself in the ear. “That’s crazy.”
This time, they sat next to each other. The guy introduced himself as Patrick; he had a whole story about working out of San Francisco, but when he put his phone and keys on the bar, his keychain had a loyalty card for a sandwich shop that only operated in the Salt Lake Valley—Jem recognized the logo—and his ring finger showed a lighter patch of skin where he normally wore a wedding band. Jem spun him a story back, something about ranching in Montana, keeping the details light. When Patrick spread his legs, Jem spread his legs. When Patrick leaned on the bar, Jem leaned on the bar. Jem asked questions, always tagging on Patrick, Patrick, Patrick, working the name into conversation as much as he could. Nothing too personal, because he didn’t want Patrick to spook and think Jem might have realized Patrick was local and not a California tycoon, but he asked business questions, then questions about whiskey, questions about life. Questions about women, Jem unspooling his doubts: why couldn’t he find the one? Why didn’t it feel ‘right’? Anything to make Jem look naïve and inexperienced; anything to make Patrick feel worldly and sophisticated.
When Stef brought sliders, nachos, and a draft beer, Patrick’s hand moved to Jem’s thigh.
Deer-in-the-headlights was a Jem Berger classic, and Patrick ate it up like candy.
Patrick smiled. He was in control, the mature guy who was about to make a contest and also provide a moment of sexual awakening. Jem focused on the sliders so he didn’t throw up a little inside his mouth.
“I think maybe you want to keep talking,” Patrick said. “Do you want to go back to your room?”
Jem gulped. It might have been a little over the top, based on the face Stef made, but it worked a surprising amount of the time. “My buddy’s here with me.”
“Oh.”
“But we could go to your room,” Jem said, and then he played with his beard and stared at the food, mumbling, “If, you know, if you want to.”
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “I definitely want to.” He laughed, squeezed Jem’s leg, and excused himself to go to the bathroom.
“You are a bad man,” Stef said.
“Fuck that,” Jem said. “This asshole probably lives fifteen minutes from here,” the words emerged between bites as he shoveled the remaining food into his mouth, “and he’s going to get a room right now because he thinks he’s going to get his dick wet. My bet is that he’ll try to get me to leave right after, and if I won’t, then he’ll make up an excuse and jet. The little wifey will miss him if he’s gone too late.”
“You are a very bad man,” Stef said, and then she drifted away as Patrick came back.
“Hey, cowboy,” Patrick said, his hand light on Jem’s shoulder. Jem tried, again, not to throw up a little. “Ready?”
Jem licked the last of the nacho cheese off his finger, grinned, and nodded.
A nice-looking guy, the first good meal all week, some decent whiskey, a soft bed, and a room that had honest-to-God heat. Jem whistled “Home, Home on the Range,” while Patrick groped him in the elevator.
Blurb:
Teancum Leon, who goes by Tean, is a wildlife veterinarian. His life has settled into a holding pattern: he loves his job, he hates first dates, and he only occasionally has to deal with his neighbor Mrs. Wish’s cat-related disasters.
All of that changes, though, when a man appears in his office, asking for help to find his brother. Jem is convinced that something bad has happened to Benny, and he thinks Tean might be able to help. Tean isn’t sure, but he’s willing to try. After all, Jem is charming and sweet and surprisingly vulnerable. Oh. And hot.
Then things get strange: phone calls with no one on the other end of the line; surveillance footage that shows what might be an abduction; a truck that tries to run Tean and Jem off the road. As Tean and Jem investigate, they realize that Benny might have stumbled onto a conspiracy and that someone is willing to kill to keep the truth from coming out.
But not everything is as it seems, and Tean suspects that Jem has been keeping secrets of his own.
More About Author Gregory Ashe:
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.
Gregory AsheFor advanced access, exclusive content, limited-time promotions, and insider information, please sign up for my mailing list here or at http://bit.ly/ashemailinglist.
Exclusive Excerpt: The Same Breath (The Lamb and the Lion Book 1) by Gregory Lamb
5
Jem went to the bar in the Apollonia, one of the most expensive hotels in Salt Lake City, situated between Temple Square and the Salt Palace Convention Center—in other words, the perfect place to stumble across closeted gay Mormon businessmen who had some extra cash to burn. He timed his entrance so that he collided with a stout, middle-aged guy in a Jazz jersey. They exchanged apologies, and Jem made his way to the bar. He ignored Stef, who was drying glasses behind the bar and rolling her eyes. Her hair was red now, and the sides of her head shaved.
It only took a moment to scan the sheep at the bar: four men, two in conversation, two sitting by themselves. Jem immediately crossed off the guy on the right; he was engaged in a loud phone call with someone he kept calling princess. The guy on the left, though, had looked over when Jem collided with the other man at the bar’s entrance, and he’d already glanced at Jem a second time. He was a nice looking, blond, late thirties, probably really starting to feel the pinch of a wife and two and a half kids. Between his hands, he cupped a tumbler—so maybe he wasn’t the nice Mormon daddy he looked like. Jem counted three stools over and sat.
Stef was rolling her eyes again.
Ignoring her, Jem asked about local whiskey and bourbon.
“We’ve got High West.” Stef had her lines pretty much perfect by now. “They do a traditional, Old West blended whiskey: rye, scotch, and bourbon. Do you want to try it?”
Jem made a face.
“It’s pretty good,” the guy to Jem’s left said. “I tried the Campfire.”
“Yeah?” Jem said. “Honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing.” He laughed. “I’m not much of a drinker, but, I don’t know. Tonight I was feeling a little reckless.”
“Get him a Campfire neat,” the guy said, and then he swiveled on the stool, his legs spread, studying Jem openly.
click to purchase
Jem had never really mastered blushing on demand, but he could do a pretty good job of combing his fingers through his beard, biting the corner of his mouth, looking away and looking back. The guy’s grin got bigger, more confident. When Stef came back, setting a tumbler in front of him, Jem patted himself down and lurched off the stool.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jem said. “Hold on.”
He made his way back to the entrance, studying the floor, squatting near the door. After about a minute, the guy from the bar came over.
“What happened?”
“Somehow I dropped my money.”
“You lost your wallet?”
“No, I left my wallet in my room. I just brought cash and my ID.” He flashed the Montana driver’s license, one of many fakes. “Dang it. Never mind. This is like a sign, you know? I should have just watched Rocky and gone to bed. I cannot believe I dropped that money. It was the rest of my per diem.”
“You know what?” the guy said. “I don’t think you dropped it.”
Jem worked on his quizzical expression; he was getting pretty good at quizzical. “What do you mean?”
“That guy who ran into you on the way out? That’s a classic pickpocket move. Crash into a guy, take his wallet while he’s recovering, and he doesn’t realize until you’re long gone. A hotel like this, with a lot of people from out of town? Perfect venue.”
“Oh my gosh,” Jem groaned. “Are you serious? That actually happens?”
“All the time. Don’t worry; you’ll learn these things.”
“No way,” Jem said. “I’m going back to Missoula tomorrow, and I’m not leaving again.” He chuckled. “Would you believe I was so proud of myself for getting around the last few days? I thought I was street smart.”
The guy laughed a little too, touched Jem’s shoulder, and tugged him toward the bar. “Come on, have a drink. On me. Don’t beat yourself up about it; guys like that, they prey on people who are just a little too confident.”
“Gosh,” Jem said, trying hard to ignore Stef pretending to stab herself in the ear. “That’s crazy.”
This time, they sat next to each other. The guy introduced himself as Patrick; he had a whole story about working out of San Francisco, but when he put his phone and keys on the bar, his keychain had a loyalty card for a sandwich shop that only operated in the Salt Lake Valley—Jem recognized the logo—and his ring finger showed a lighter patch of skin where he normally wore a wedding band. Jem spun him a story back, something about ranching in Montana, keeping the details light. When Patrick spread his legs, Jem spread his legs. When Patrick leaned on the bar, Jem leaned on the bar. Jem asked questions, always tagging on Patrick, Patrick, Patrick, working the name into conversation as much as he could. Nothing too personal, because he didn’t want Patrick to spook and think Jem might have realized Patrick was local and not a California tycoon, but he asked business questions, then questions about whiskey, questions about life. Questions about women, Jem unspooling his doubts: why couldn’t he find the one? Why didn’t it feel ‘right’? Anything to make Jem look naïve and inexperienced; anything to make Patrick feel worldly and sophisticated.
When Stef brought sliders, nachos, and a draft beer, Patrick’s hand moved to Jem’s thigh.
Deer-in-the-headlights was a Jem Berger classic, and Patrick ate it up like candy.
Patrick smiled. He was in control, the mature guy who was about to make a contest and also provide a moment of sexual awakening. Jem focused on the sliders so he didn’t throw up a little inside his mouth.
“I think maybe you want to keep talking,” Patrick said. “Do you want to go back to your room?”
Jem gulped. It might have been a little over the top, based on the face Stef made, but it worked a surprising amount of the time. “My buddy’s here with me.”
“Oh.”
“But we could go to your room,” Jem said, and then he played with his beard and stared at the food, mumbling, “If, you know, if you want to.”
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “I definitely want to.” He laughed, squeezed Jem’s leg, and excused himself to go to the bathroom.
“You are a bad man,” Stef said.
“Fuck that,” Jem said. “This asshole probably lives fifteen minutes from here,” the words emerged between bites as he shoveled the remaining food into his mouth, “and he’s going to get a room right now because he thinks he’s going to get his dick wet. My bet is that he’ll try to get me to leave right after, and if I won’t, then he’ll make up an excuse and jet. The little wifey will miss him if he’s gone too late.”
“You are a very bad man,” Stef said, and then she drifted away as Patrick came back.
“Hey, cowboy,” Patrick said, his hand light on Jem’s shoulder. Jem tried, again, not to throw up a little. “Ready?”
Jem licked the last of the nacho cheese off his finger, grinned, and nodded.
A nice-looking guy, the first good meal all week, some decent whiskey, a soft bed, and a room that had honest-to-God heat. Jem whistled “Home, Home on the Range,” while Patrick groped him in the elevator.
Blurb:
Teancum Leon, who goes by Tean, is a wildlife veterinarian. His life has settled into a holding pattern: he loves his job, he hates first dates, and he only occasionally has to deal with his neighbor Mrs. Wish’s cat-related disasters.
All of that changes, though, when a man appears in his office, asking for help to find his brother. Jem is convinced that something bad has happened to Benny, and he thinks Tean might be able to help. Tean isn’t sure, but he’s willing to try. After all, Jem is charming and sweet and surprisingly vulnerable. Oh. And hot.
Then things get strange: phone calls with no one on the other end of the line; surveillance footage that shows what might be an abduction; a truck that tries to run Tean and Jem off the road. As Tean and Jem investigate, they realize that Benny might have stumbled onto a conspiracy and that someone is willing to kill to keep the truth from coming out.
But not everything is as it seems, and Tean suspects that Jem has been keeping secrets of his own.
More About Author Gregory Ashe:
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.
Gregory AsheFor advanced access, exclusive content, limited-time promotions, and insider information, please sign up for my mailing list here or at http://bit.ly/ashemailinglist.
August 8, 2020
The Keeper of Bees (Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Book 5) by Gregory Ashe
SOMERS TOSSED A SALAD: romaine, cucumbers, grape tomatoes, feta, and big, fat kalamata olives. Then he seared chicken breasts. His eyes went to the clock. At first, every five minutes or so. And then, after the chicken breasts were cooled and sliced on a cutting board, every two minutes. After that, he started checking his phone. The digital clock on the lock screen stared back at him.
When the garage door rattled up, Somers blew out a breath, gave himself a mental shake, and took plates out of the cabinet. He gave the salad another toss as the door between the house and the garage opened. Look at me, happy and domestic. Could he paint a sign on his back?
“Hey,” he said, turning to grab the first plate, “did you get held up? I thought you were going to be home early.”
His fingers closed over the plate; his hand lifted. And then he saw Hazard’s face: washed out, dark spots under his eyes, like he was sick or exhausted. Somers tried to set the plate back down, but his fingers released too early.
“Ree, are you—”
The plate wobbled on the edge of the counter. Somers saw it out of the corner of his eye and reached for it, but he was too slow. The plate tilted, slid, and crashed onto the tile.
Hazard went rigid. His body tightened, while his face seemed to slacken, as though the fine muscles there had stopped responding. Then he surged into motion, charging into the kitchen.
“Jesus fucking Christ, John. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
click to purchase“I’m sorry, I—”
One of Hazard’s big hands came out, caught a stack of envelopes on the counter, and smacked them into the air. “Is that what we’re doing now? Just throwing shit whenever we want? For the fucking love of God, John, you’re a fucking adult. Pick up those fucking pieces, will you? Do you want Evie to cut herself?”
Somers took a step across the ceramic shards. He wasn’t even sure if Hazard realized it, but the big man veered away, yanking at the collar of his t-shirt.
“Evie’s at Cora’s tonight,” Somers said. “Will you take a breath please?”
“I am taking a breath, I’m taking a really deep breath, ok? I just want to know why you don’t seem to care that those fucking plates cost fucking money, John. We’re fucking strapped as it is, and I have to come home to you breaking the little shit that we do have.”
“All right. That’s enough.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Hazard shouted, and then he kicked one of the kitchen chairs. It toppled, sliding across the tile until it came up against the wall, and then Hazard had to kick it out of his way so he could leave the kitchen.
Somers took two steps after him before he stopped. Then he ran shaking hands down his thighs, turned, and leaned into the refrigerator. In his mind’s eye, he saw the extra-cold drawer, where—months before—they had kept bottle after bottle of Bud Lite. And now, Pepsi and sparkling water and fruit juice. But he could walk to St. Taffy’s and get a beer. He could even get a shot, maybe two. Maybe a line of them, like dominoes—knock the first one down, and it took the rest with it. And Somers at the end, the final domino, when the last shot kicked so hard it knocked him right out of his fucking head. He ran his hands across his shirt. He didn’t even need to go to St. Taffy’s. Spud’s Liquor was within walking distance too; he could pour his own line of shots.
Upstairs, a door slammed. Their bedroom. And then, muffled, another door slammed. Their bathroom.
Somers got the broom and swept up the broken plate. Then he got a Pepsi. He got through half the can before it was too sweet, his teeth starting to ache, and he left it on the counter. Climbing the stairs, he talked himself through all the reasons he loved Emery Hazard: he was kind, smart, strong, passionate. He was good. The list seemed short tonight. The bedroom door was locked, and Somers backtracked to the key they’d hidden on the frame for Evie’s door. It was just a flat piece of metal, designed for the generic privacy locks that weren’t really meant for any serious kind of security. He went into their bedroom and found it dark.
Something warned Somers to leave the lights off, so he picked his way through the darkness. They’d lived here almost a year, and even after a year, Somers couldn’t find his way through the room without a light. He bumped into the dresser. He hit the bed. He stubbed his toe on something—he had no idea what; maybe Hazard had been ordering enormous bronze urns for their bedroom, because it sure fucking felt like it—and when he swore and hopped up and down, the ragged breathing inside the bathroom cut off. When Somers finally reached the door, he knocked.
“Go away,” Hazard said, his voice thick. “Please, John.”
Blurb:
Emery Hazard has pretty much everything under control. He and his fiancé, John-Henry Somerset, are more in love than ever, despite the stress of wedding preparations hanging over them. His business as a private investigator is growing. He’s even enjoying time with his growing circle of friends. The only major problem on the horizon is whether or not he and Somers will be dancing at the wedding reception.
When Mitchell Martin shows up in his office, though, everything changes. The year before, Mitchell was abducted and tortured by a sadistic killer known only as the Keeper of Bees. Now Mitchell is convinced that the Keeper has come back, and he wants to hire Hazard to protect him.
While Hazard works to keep Mitchell safe, Somers must adjust to changes at work. A spate of new hires has disrupted the Wahredua Police Department, and Somers finds himself locked in a struggle to determine how the department will grow and evolve, with long-term consequences that will affect the town for years to come.
Then a woman is found murdered, and she has been staged and posed in a way that is eerily similar to the Keeper of Bee’s former victims. As Hazard and Somers race to prevent more deaths, Hazard fears they are already too late; the Keeper of Bees has been ahead of them the whole time.
More About Author Gregory Ashe:
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.
Gregory AsheFor advanced access, exclusive content, limited-time promotions, and insider information, please sign up for my mailing list here or at http://bit.ly/ashemailinglist.
August 1, 2020
Exclusive Excerpt: Drama Runway: A Nicky and Noah Mystery (Nicky and Noah Mysteries Book 10) by Joe Cosentino
Miles scratched at his head. “Not that it’s any of my business, but what do you have against your mother?”
Cory’s body tensed. “She doesn’t love me.”
“You don’t really believe that, Cory.”
He leaned over and his pecs widened like boulders. “My childhood memories of my mother are watching her talk on the phone, work at her computer, design at her drafting table, and sew at her machine.”
“So now you’re punishing her for working hard to support you all those years?”
“No, she’s punishing me for not wanting any part of her cover-up.”
“Her cover-up?”
Cory nodded. “My mother is drowning herself in work, so she doesn’t have to face reality.”
“What reality?”
“I’m not sure. But it has to do with something that happened a long time ago. When I was a kid, I’d watch her in bed, weeping over her old diary.”
Hm, a mini-mystery. Too bad we don’t have a mystery solver. Wait, we do. Me!
“Did you ever ask your mom about it?”
Cory nodded. “Each time I got her cold shoulder and icy stare.”
“Why don’t you try to comfort her?”
“Isn’t that your job?”
click to purchase
“I’m not her son. You are.” Miles sighed. “I’ve said enough. I hope you and your mother work things out.”
“I wouldn’t waste too much time hoping.”
“Good point.” Miles opened his briefcase and took out his laptop. “My business is the task given to me by my employer.”
Cory groaned. “Are you really going to be my matchmaker?”
Miles’ long index finger revolved around the mousepad. “I’ve done quite a bit of research on the topic. A human being seems to work much more effectively than dating apps.”
Cory flexed his biceps. “I don’t need dating apps.”
“Yes, it seems you’ve been quite active on campus.” Miles opened a file on his computer.
“So have I.”
Cory cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“I did my first interview on campus.”
“You told some guy about my mother’s matchmaking scheme?”
“Not exactly. I said I’m conducting a survey about gay men on campus.”
“Why did he give you any information?”
“Your mother left me an expense account.”
Cory gasped. “You paid someone to talk about me?”
“Pretty much.”
Martin will salivate over this gossip.
Miles read from his computer screen, “Shane Buff, twenty-one, fashion major.”
“I boned him last night.” Cory slid to the edge of his seat. “What did Shane say about me?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“You’re right. He was boring in bed, and out of bed. Shane isn’t right for me anyway. He’s totally into himself.”
Miles smirked. “Studies show opposites attract, so I agree with you there too.”
Cory did a doubletake. “Did you just put me down?”
If the ego fits.
“Cory, it’s pretty clear that you bedded Shane in a lame attempt at punishing your mother for not giving you the attention you crave.”
“Are you a personal assistant or a psychiatrist?”
“I was a business major, but I took some psych classes in college.”
“So you are psychoanalyzing me now?”
“It’s not too difficult. You’re a textbook example of a spoiled child crying out for affection.”
Cory got to his feet. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
“You do if you want to hear what other guys say about you.”
He resumed his seat. “I’m listening.”
“After I complete more interviews, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I don’t think you’ll get very far. Most guys will play with me, but none of them want a relationship.”
“You may have a point.” Miles rubbed his square jaw. “Perhaps I’ve been going at this all wrong.” He tented his fingers. “I need to get to know you better before picking a husband for you.”
Cory chuckled. “I’m sure my mother had lots to say about me.”
“I’d like to hear it from the source. So tell me, what don’t I know about Cory Ultimate?”
Cory shrugged. “My life is pretty much an open book.” He spread his legs, revealing a huge bulge.
“I know you’ve been promiscuous.”
Cory’s eyes turned to brown slits. “Gee, feel free to say whatever you like about me, Miles.”
“No problem.” Miles placed his fingers on the keypad. “But I’m more interested in what you have to say about you.”
Cory unleashed his luscious dimples. “Okay, I’m totally hot, a B student, and a terrific set and lighting designer.”
Not to mention modest.
Cory smirked. “And one day I stand to inherit Ultimate Fashions, which I will sell to the highest bidder before the rest of my mother’s body grows as cold as her heart.”
“Why did you come to Treemeadow College?”
“It’s in Vermont, and my mother lives in California.”
The wonderful faculty in the Theatre Department didn’t attract you?
Miles asked him, “The past murders at this college didn’t frighten you?”
I solved every one of those after only five murders per case!
Cory stared at Miles defiantly. “I’m not afraid to die. Just think, when I’m dead I’ll be as stiff as my mother.”
“You have a smart mouth, kid.”
“I was thinking the same thing about you, assistant.”
Their glances met.
Cory got to his feet again. “Which reminds me. I have to check on the set before the tech rehearsal.”
“Is that what you want to do with your life, be a set designer?”
He looked down at Miles. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“What draws you to the theatre?”
Your wonderful play directing professor?
Cory seemed to ponder the question. “In the theatre, it’s okay to make believe, hide from the world, and create the reality of your choice. When I use my artistic skills, imagination, and technical knowledge to create a set design or a lighting plot, I feel like the master of my universe.”
“Do you want to be a model too?”
“No, I’m just here for the scenery.” Cory grinned.
“Then modeling seems pretty shallow.”
Cory grimaced. “Since we’re talking about goals, why do you want to be a personal assistant? That doesn’t seem like a life’s ambition.”
“It fits my skillset.”
“Creating my mother’s world?”
“No, helping her navigate successfully through the world she’s created.”
Cory smirked. “How selfless.”
“Not really. I take pride in Ulla’s accomplishments as much as in my own.”
“And you’re comfortable living in my mother’s shadow?”
“Just as comfortable as you are living in the shadows of a stage.”
I heard footsteps behind me. So I leapt around the curtain. “Cory, please get into your wardrobe.”
He saluted, leapt onto the runway, and disappeared into the dressing room.
Miles sat toward the center of the house. I headed into the theatre, where I took my usual front row center seat and readied my notepad and pen. Noah sat next to me, offering a supportive hand squeeze. Martin, in a vermillion bowtie and sweater vest, and Ruben, in a matching leisure suit, filed in behind us.
Craning my neck back toward Martin, I whispered, “I have some dish for you later.”
He whispered back, “Forget a word of it and this campus will have another murder—yours!”
Ruben rested an arm around his husband’s small back. “Leave the nice man alone, honey, so he can direct the fashion show.”
Ulla Ultimate came down the runway and took a seat next to Miles.
Finally, Hoss Packer exited down the runway, giving the illusion of a bodybuilding competition rather than a fashion show. When he was seated in the lighting booth toward the rear of the house, I called out, “Let’s pick it up from where we left off last night, everyone.” I noticed Associate Professor of Fashion Tyler Greenway and his student Lila Hekekia enter from the rear of the house and sit in the last row.
The house lights dimmed, and then they went on again. The stage lights came on, and they went out again.
“Hoss, is there a problem?”
“Sorry, Professor. I needed to reset the computer.”
“Are you ready now, Hoss?”
He replied, “Ready.”
The house lights dimmed, and the stage lights came up with a lemon glow.
“Magenta not lemon!”
“Sorry, Professor.”
The stage lights turned to magenta, and the runway lights exploded—literally. After Hoss repaired them, we resumed, and the models started down the runway in their bedtime outfits.
Julio Bonero was first in a black leather nightshirt and cap. At the tip of the runway, he spun into a costume malfunction—about six inches long and uncut. As I wrote a note on my pad, Cosmo Capra strutted down the runway in black leather pajamas and slippers—with chocolate stains on his cheek. When he turned, a button popped off his pajama tops. While I wrote frantically, Taavi made his appearance blowing kisses like a rock star at a concert. He smiled and strutted down the runway in black leather footed pajamas featuring pictures of animals.
After Cory showed his stuff in a long black leather T-shirt and slippers, Noah rested a hand on my knee. We said in unison, “Where’s Shane?” It’s a cute couple thing we do. So is solving murder mysteries.
When our question was met by shrugs from the models, I ran up the steps and practically flew across the runway. The dressing room was empty. Across the hall in the sewing room, I found Johnny and Tia (while texting) doing last minute repairs. “Have either of you seen Shane Buff?”
They shook their heads while they worked.
I raced out the sewing room door and scanned the area outside around the building. When I made my way toward the back alleyway, I found a bloodied Shane Buff lying motionless on the stone floor. Next to him was a mannequin streaked with blood. Modeling for Dummies.
Blurb:
It’s spring break at Treemeadow College, and theatre professor Nicky Abbondanza is directing a runway show for the Fashion Department. Joining him are his spouse, theatre professor Noah Oliver, their son Taavi, and their best friend and department head, Martin Anderson. The show, designed by visiting professor Ulla Ultimate, is bound to be the ultimate event of the season. And bound it is with designs featuring black leather and chains. When sexy male models drop faster than their leather chaps, Nicky and Noah will need to use their drama skills to figure out who is taking the term “a cut male model” literally before Nicky and Noah end up steamed in the wardrobe steamer. You will be applauding and shouting Bravo for Joe Cosentino’s fast-paced, side-splittingly funny, edge-of-your-seat entertaining tenth novel in this delightful series. Take your seats. The runway is lighting up with hunky models, volatile designers, bitter exes, newfound lovers, and murder!
Purchase Links:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1025298
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/drama-runway-joe-cosentino/1137112697?ean=2940164095888
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/drama-runway-a-nicky-and-noah-mystery
More About Author Joe Cosentino:
Click for website
Joe
Cosentino was voted Favorite LGBT Mystery, Humorous, and Contemporary Author of
the Year by the readers of Divine
Magazine for Drama Queen. He also
wrote the other novels in the Nicky and Noah mystery series: Drama Muscle, Drama Cruise, Drama Luau,
Drama Detective, Drama Fraternity, Drama
Castle, Drama Dance, Drama Faerie; the Dreamspinner Press novellas: In My Heart/An Infatuation & A
Shooting Star, the Bobby and Paolo Holiday Stories: A Home for the Holidays/The Perfect Gift/The First Noel, The Naked Prince and Other Tales from
Fairyland with Holiday Tales from
Fairyland; the Cozzi Cove series: Cozzi
Cove: Bouncing Back, Cozzi Cove:
Moving Forward, Cozzi Cove: Stepping Out, Cozzi Cove: New Beginnings, Cozzi
Cove: Happy Endings (NineStar Press);andthe Jana Lane mysteries: Paper Doll, Porcelain Doll, Satin Doll,
China Doll, Rag Doll (The Wild Rose Press). He has appeared in principal acting
roles in film, television, and theatre, opposite stars such as Bruce Willis,
Rosie O’Donnell, Nathan Lane, Holland Taylor, and Jason Robards. Joe is
currently Chair of the Department/Professor at a college in upstate New York,
and he is happily married. Joe’s books have received numerous Favorite Book of
the Month Awards and Rainbow Award Honorable Mentions.
Web site: http://www.JoeCosentino.weebly.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/JoeCosentinoauthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JoeCosen
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4071647.Joe_Cosentino
Amazon: Author.to/JoeCosentino
July 25, 2020
Exclusive Excerpt: The Man from Milwaukee by Rick R. Reed
©2020 Rick R. Reed
With The Man from Milwaukee, I tried to keep the reader guessing as my main character, Emory Hughes, descends into madness. This small vignette is the prelude to a murder… But the killer? Hmm…
click to purchaseThe Bartender
He waited around the bar all night for me to close up.
He’d had his eye on me from the first time I served him. He started out a shy boy, all innocent glances from beneath slightly lowered lashes.
But, as he drank more and more—and I’m not one to discourage this, especially when they’re tipping well—he loosened up. The flirting became more outrageous, winking and even, one time, licking his lips as he stared pointedly at my crotch.
I threw him a couple free drinks only because he seemed lonely. The fact that he was fixated on me helped too.
And then, when closing time rolled around and I shouted out my standard cliché, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” he didn’t move. The lights came on. The music on the juke box, Crystal Waters “Gypsy Woman” ended.
I wiped off the bar a final time and reached below it to get my backpack.
“We’re closing, friend. Didn’t you hear me announce last call?”
“That song? The one that was just playing? So dumb to sing about the homeless like that. It trivializes them.”
I nodded. “You got a point there.”
I hoisted the backpack over one arm and then moved out from behind the bar. I looked at him and smiled. “Got to lock up, set the alarm. The owner doesn’t allow customers in here while I do that.”
His face reddened. “Sorry.” He hopped down from his stool. “I got all caught up in just watching you.”
I paused. “You’re sweet.” I touched his cheek and gave him a little peck on the lips. He stepped back, stunned, but he was thrilled. You know, sometimes my tips aren’t in crumpled ones and change.
I motioned with my head toward the door. “Dude. You gotta go.”
He nodded. “Okay.” He stood by the door for a time, watching me.
The slightest tinge of annoyance prompted me to point toward the door. “Now,” I said, smiling to soften the blow.
“Yeah, sure.” He opened the door and outside—freedom.
The night’s mine now. Granville Avenue is flooded with an orangeish light from the streetlamps. An L train passes overhead, and I swear I feel the vibrations through the soles of my combat boots. There’s a couple of guys arguing outside. One’s shouting about the other’s “wandering eye” and says he’ll never be able to trust him again. I shake my head. How many times will I overhear variations on this same fight?
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
The train makes me wonder what I should do next. I could head south, grab a nightcap, a boy for the night…
The door slams shut. I’m alone. I go back behind the bar and grab a glass, pour myself two fingers of Jack Daniels, and down it.
Fortified, I open the door and emerge into the night.
I’m heading toward where I’d left my car parked on Winthrop when a voice calls from the alley running behind the bar. “Hey. Where you headed?”
I stop and backtrack a few steps.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. The alley’s filled with shadows. But I recognize him, barely separate from the dark, leaning against a dumpster. He’s got his pants undone and his hand’s inside, working. I consider moving on, but what the hell? I can fool around with this guy, get my nut, head home, and get a good night’s sleep for once. I’ll save myself a few bucks on drinks too. Save even more if I’d end up going to the baths, which is what I’d probably do if I strike out at a bar.
I pause, looking to my left and my right. No one’s around. It won’t be the first time I’ve hooked up in an alley, and the street’s quiet for now. I think of this one time when I got a blowjob from a cop while a rat watched from beside the dumpster.
I move into the darkness, smiling, my hand whispering across the faded denim of my crotch, already anticipating the buttons being undone.
He gets on his knees as I draw closer.
Blurb:
BLURB
It’s the summer of 1991 and serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer has been arrested. His monstrous crimes inspire dread around the globe. But not so much for Emory Hughes, a closeted young man in Chicago who sees in the cannibal killer a kindred spirit, someone who fights against the dark side of his own nature, as Emory does. He reaches out to Dahmer in prison via letters.
The letters become an escape—from Emory’s mother dying from AIDS, from his uncaring sister, from his dead-end job in downtown Chicago, but most of all, from his own self-hatred.
Dahmer isn’t Emory’s only lifeline as he begins a tentative relationship with Tyler Kay. He falls for him and, just like Dahmer, wonders how he can get Tyler to stay. Emory’s desire for love leads him to confront his own grip on reality. For Tyler, the threat of the mild-mannered Emory seems inconsequential, but not taking the threat seriously is at his own peril.
Can Emory discover the roots of his own madness before it’s too late and he finds himself following in the footsteps of the man from Milwaukee?
BUY :
Amazon Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/Man-Milwaukee-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B08C26Z5TM
Amazon paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Man-Milwaukee-Rick-R-Reed/dp/1648900453
Ninestar Press (40% off): https://ninestarpress.com/product/the-man-from-milwaukee/
BOOK TRAILER:
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QrSs73qY7rc
RICK R. REED
Rick R. Reed is an award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction. He is a Lambda Literary Award finalist. Entertainment Weekly has described his work as “heartrending and sensitive.” Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” Find him at www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA, with his husband, Bruce, and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix, Kodi.
FIND RICK ONLINE :
Facebook Page: www.facebook.com/rickrreedbooks
Twitter: www.twitter.com/rickrreed
Website: http://rickrreedreality.blogspot.com/
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/rick-r-reed
Email: rickrreedbooks@gmail.com
July 18, 2020
Exclusive Excerpt: Drugged to Death: A Jamie Brodie Mystery (Jamie Brodie Mysteries Book 20) by Meg Perry
Kevin was reading the reports Jason Everly had sent. Jon, gloved, was tapping on the unidentified victim’s phone. Kevin asked, “What are you doing?”
“Testing PINs. That kid is somewhere between eighteen and thirty-five, right? With any luck, he was dumb enough to use his birth year as his PIN.”
Kevin scoffed. “No way.”
Jon tapped a few more times. “Way! One nine eight nine. Dumbass.”
“So…we may have a date of birth?”
“Maybe. Let’s see if we have a name.”
Kevin heard the ding of his email notification and turned to his computer. “Hey, here are the names of the task force.”
Jon was still intent on the dead kid’s phone. “Who?”
Kevin scanned the list. “This might not be so bad. Susan Portman’s in charge.”
Jon looked up in interest. “Seriously?”
Before her promotion to the LAPD’s elite Robbery-Homicide Unit, informally known as Homicide Special, Susan Portman was a long-time detective at Pacific Division. She and Jon were partnered there for a couple of years, until Jon transferred to West LA. Susan was an out lesbian whose career began well before the LAPD’s official welcome of LGBT cops. She was fearless.
Kevin asked, “Isn’t Susan the noob at Homicide Special? Why would they give her a task force?”
click to purchase“Maybe they’re testing her. In which case her response will be, ‘bring it on, motherfuckers.’ Who else is on the list?”
“Eric Padilla and Cody Mendoza.”
“Makes sense, since they’ve seen several of these cases.”
“Did you know that Eric used to date Jamie?”
“No, I did not. Padilla is gay? I had no idea.”
“Yeah. They met at a mystery bookstore.”
Jon snorted. “Figures. Who else?”
“Patrick Leong and another ER doc. Padmini Gupta. That’s it. First meeting is tomorrow morning at 8:30, at headquarters.”
“Maybe this won’t be so bad.”
“Maybe.” Kevin’s email dinged again. “Here’s a report from Adam Rabinowitz. The John Doe’s prints are not in the system. They’re searching through missing persons reports, but there are hundreds of possibles, so that’ll take a while. You finding anything?”
“Nothing but text messages. Put on your gloves and you can read ‘em.”
Kevin dug into a drawer for gloves then took the phone from Jon and read. The texts between Lane Swarthout and his co-victim began about four weeks before their deaths.
Is this Lane Swarthout?
Who wants to know?
Call me D. A mutual acquaintance said u want to be more productive.
YES. U can help?
Y.
Nothing permanent. Just for fall term.
Sure. Got just the thing.
Not meth?
I don’t mess with that shit.
Good. What is it?
Something new. Harmless. When can u meet?
Tonight. Where?
Mission Dump Road. Turn south off Mulholland, go about 100 yards.
I’ll find it.
11:30.
CU then. Thx.
Bring cash.
OK.
Not so harmless, after all. The next text exchange began the following day, initiated by the mysterious D.
How’d you do?
AWESOME. Just like you said.
Great. Happy customers R us.
It wore off after about six hours, tho. Can I take 2?
Not yet. Wait a week. Get used to it.
Damn. OK .
Seriously.
I will. Don’t wanna mess it up.
Good man .
That was it. Kevin handed the phone back to Jon. “I guess they made the rest of their arrangements in person.”
“Yeah.” Jon resealed the phone in its evidence bag and initialed the bag with Sharpie. “How do you suppose all those capsules ended up in Lane’s sofa? Lane was helping D. expand his customer base?”
“Sure. And I bet the two of them were trying to figure out how many they could safely take the night they died. Assuming the capsules in the sofa were what Lane and D. took. They may be something else.”
“God, I hope not.” Jon yawned. “What else do we need to do today?”
Kevin shook his head. “Autopsies are tomorrow, preliminary tox screens won’t be back until morning… I can’t think of anything else.”
“And we should probably wait until we meet with Susan and the task force before we try anything cute.”
Kevin laughed. “I don’t ever want to be on Susan’s bad side.”
Jon nodded sagely. “No, you do not. Trust me.”
Blurb:
Called out in the middle of the night.
Pete Ferguson’s call is from his sister; their dad has collapsed and is in intensive care. Pete flies to Tucson to be at his bedside. Jamie Brodie was already concerned for Pete’s emotional well-being, and his worries only grow each time he talks to Pete – who seems to be gradually falling apart.
Kevin Brodie’s call is from his boss, Tim Garcia; there’s been a double overdose at the Powell Library at UCLA. When the standard drug screens come back negative, Kevin and Jon Eckhoff go on the hunt to identify a new pharmaceutical killer.
When Kevin and Jon’s quest leads them in a direction they couldn’t have imagined, Jamie gets answers to some old questions, and is left with two more mysteries.
How is everything that’s happening in LA connected to New Mexico?
And will he and Pete make it through this crisis in one piece?
About Author Meg Perry
From Meg’s website:
“I’ve been writing the Jamie Brodie Mysteries since June 2012. Hard to believe! Jamie is (like me) an academic librarian. Not like me, he’s a gay man, a Rhodes Scholar, a rugby player, a son, brother, uncle…and boyfriend (eventually, husband). Jamie’s boyfriend (eventual husband) is psychology professor Pete Ferguson, and they share a townhouse in Santa Monica, CA.”
July 2, 2020
Exclusive Excerpt: FIRE ON THE ISLAND By Timothy Jay Smith
Vassoula woke up in a lonely bed. It had been lonely since Omar disappeared. She couldn’t bring herself to say died or killed himself because she hoped that, despite how gruesomely the skinheads had cut him, he would miraculously come back to her whole again. In that fantasy she envisioned handsome and dancing the syrtaki better than any Greek, a black stubble generously shadowing his cheeks—his cheeks that went missing.
Omar. He had given her a life when he came into hers. Unless she married, she was destined to remain her wretched mother’s handmaiden; and Vassoula would have nothing to do with the local boys, certainly not enough to marry one. She was darker complected than the Vourvouliani, and the boys, starting in their teens, called her Gypsy bitch for not putting out. She was adopted, so they freely assigned to her any origin that they wanted, but Vassoula knew she wasn’t Gypsy. She was Turkish. A nun at the orphanage disliked her for it, and wanted to be rid of her enough not to mention it to prospective parents. Secretly, Vassoula reveled in her Turkishness. She nurtured it because it nurtured her to know she was different from the people who treated her so harshly, abusing her verbally—and otherwise, as some did eventually, before she was liberated from the orphanage’s form of incarceration to become a servant in another.
Ten years of mopping floors later, Omar arrived in Vourvoulos. Movie star handsome with dark moody eyes, clever and Turkish; she had conjured him many times, dreaming only of men like him when she gave pleasure to herself. Beyond that pleasure, she dreamt of a man to free her from servitude, not trade one enslaved situation for another. Instinctively, Omar understood that. His family, too, had suffered from discrimination for being Turkish, or certainly the consequences of it. Only after she moved in with him did he confess that his family had once lived on the island; an extended family, and prosperous when you added up all their land; land too rocky and scrubby for the Greeks to bother with, though their ancient ancestors had been the first to terrace it. It was those stony plots—sometimes no bigger than four strides long and two deep—that Omar’s peasant ancestors had worked, finding them sufficiently fecund to sustain their families.
All that ended with the Exchange, when the diaspora Turks and Greeks were forced to trade places, overnight becoming refugees in their own countries. Omar’s great grandparents left Vourvoulos with little more than their crying fifteen-year-old son—his grandfather—unable to understand why he had to lose all his friends, Greek and Turkish. Once back in Turkey, they’d never recreate their village no matter how much they would miss it, but instead would flee to relatives if they knew their whereabouts, or be shuffled off to temporary camps—as was Omar’s family—while a useless bureaucracy scrambled to do what little it could for the many tens of thousands like them. Omar’s grandfather, having just wished his boyhood Greek friends a forever farewell, had to do the same to his Turkish mates only a few hours later when their boat made its landing in what still stood of Smyrna.
Though the fires that destroyed the legendary city had been put out, a charred smell hung heavily in the air. On the docks, hucksters and shysters descended on the refugees even as government agents shunted them into buses to take them to a camp—equally rife with hucksters and shysters. Thus began decades of poverty inflicted on Omar’s family starting before he was born. All his growing-up years, he heard reminisces of their lost island: its fresh air, azure sea, and wild lavender roses—a sharp contrast to their stuffy apartment in a shanty neighborhood of sprawling Istanbul.
Omar had simply appeared in Vourvoulos one day, not ten Greek words in his head, and soon became the curiosity of the village. Turks rarely visited the tiny village, and still fewer stayed for more than a night or two, but Omar rented a room for a month, letting his landlady know that he would likely keep it longer. He only did the usual things tourists do—hike in the hills, swim in the sea, learn the four-syllable Greek word for thanks—but that didn’t stop rumors from spreading that he was trafficking drugs or might be a white slaver. Certainly, he was up to no good; no Turk ever had been. Omar, though, was undaunted. At once, he was enamored with the mythical lost island of his storied childhood, and equally glad to escape the grinding conditions back home. He had no intention of leaving.
Omar kept it a secret that his family had lived there for generations. If it were known, he worried it would only stir up fears that he had returned to reclaim property or seek revenge, when he wanted neither. He wanted the idyllic life described from afar, not hardscrabble Istanbul, which was becoming more unbearable under the growing power of intolerant imams. By age twenty-five, he’d made the decision not to spend the rest of his life kowtowing to men who dressed their women in sacks, forbade everyone simple pleasures, and governed through fear. Fending off his mother’s relentless efforts to get him married, he waited tables in two restaurants, earning excellent tips because of his extraordinary good looks. By the time he was thirty, he had saved enough money that he wouldn’t arrive in Greece a penniless refugee, but an immigrant able to sustain himself until he found a way to make a living. He’d gambled and he won.
The risks Omar could not have anticipated were the threats posed by Greece’s internal turmoil, especially its Depression-era economy giving rise to a fascist insurgency. Or so Vassoula was mulling over that morning, after rousing herself from her lonely bed to sip coffee on the terrace, perched high over the village with a clear shot of the long beach stretching into the distance until it melded with the coastline. That view had once brought her such joy, not only for its beauty, but for what it represented: her second escape, and the first into an unexpected freedom. Her first escape had been from the orphanage, the second from her adoptive servitude. She had escaped into Omar’s liberating arms, holding her on that terrace through long talks she had never imagined possible; and when they felt like making love outdoors, they did.
She could almost see him again, walking down that long beach, becoming a speck before turning back. He worked hard, he partied hard, he loved hard—and he needed time alone. He needed a time not to talk to anybody, though he talked to himself, gesticulating and working out whatever needed working out. He did that most mornings while other village men gathered in the kafeneios for their first coffee. Initially Vassoula was suspicious of Omar’s need to be alone, and spied on him through the binoculars, watching him approach Poustis Point because it was there that her father loitered; and sometimes it was there where Omar turned back, but not always, not if he was having a particularly troubling conversation with himself. But never once did he disappear out of sight too long to be accused of her father’s sort of sordid absence.
The morning when it happened, their lovemaking had been especially tender. Only the night before, they had decided to have a baby, and made love then, too. When Omar left for his walk, she felt a special longing—a worried hollowness—and took the binoculars from the cupboard. She knew his body language better than her own and easily spotted him.
Omar, distracted by the conversation with himself, approached Poustis Point. She saw the skinheads before he did. Three of them hovering in the rocks, conferring and planning their attack. Turn back! she wanted to shout. Stop talking to yourself and look up! But her voice would never carry that far.
She saw everything that happened.
She even knew what was said because Omar survived to repeat it.
“Do you have a cigarette?” a skinhead asked.
“I am sorry. I do not smoke.”
“Maybe the problem is, your cigarettes are wet.”
Vassoula saw Omar tip his head questioningly.
“I am sorry. I do not understand.”
“Maybe you help your friends swim across.”
“I do not swim here. I walk here.”
“Did you hear that, guys? He walked here.”
“Then he must’ve walked on water,” a second skinhead scoffed. “With his accent, he wasn’t born here.”
The third added, “He’s probably a Turkish cocksucker.”
“Is that why you’re out here? Hoping to get your cock sucked?”
“Probably by a refugee.”
“Or do you suck theirs?”
The skinheads laughed.
Omar sensed he was in trouble. “I don’t understand.”
“Hear that guys? He doesn’t understand. What can we do to make him understand?”
“I go home,” he said, and pointed to the village. “My wife waits for me.”
Vassoula saw him point. Come back! she was screaming inside.
“You should never have left home,” sneered the first skinhead. “None of your filth should’ve.”
“I go back now.”
Omar turned and took a couple of steps.
“Not so fast,” the first skinhead said. When Omar didn’t stop, he barked, “Hey!”
Omar paused.
Just keep walking! Vassoula begged.
“I’m not finished with you.”
Omar faced the skinhead. “My wife waits for me.”
He turned away again.
The skinhead signaled, and his two pals ran up and grabbed him. Omar struggled to defend himself, but together they managed to wrench his arms behind him.
The first skinhead approached him, menacing him with a knife.
Vassoula, seeing it flash in the morning sun, was going mad. Please God, no! No!
He kicked at the skinhead, who laughed, and stepped around him and put the blade to his throat. “Please don’t,” Omar begged.
“Fucking. Faggot. Filth. Feeding the refugees then fucking them. There’s probably some Arab greasing up his asshole waiting for you behind the rocks.”
“My wife is waiting for me.”
“Fucking bitch is going to wish you never came home.”
Vassoula, through the binoculars, couldn’t make out what happened next. She saw the skinhead flick his knife twice, each time tossing something to the seagulls on the beach. Then they released Omar and his hands instinctively covered his face. For a moment, she thought they had cut out his eyes; and later remembering that first thought, she would wonder if it might not have been more merciful than letting him see his own ruined face.
At that moment, though, she wasn’t thinking of anything except saving Omar, and flew out of the house. “HELP! HELP! Omar’s been stabbed! Help!” she never stopped crying as she flung herself down the village path. A dozen people trailed after her, looking past her wild hair to Omar stumbling toward them. For Vassoula, the blood seeping through his fingers glistened so bright red that the rest of the world turned gray.
They stopped, only feet apart. Vassoula could see they hadn’t cut out his eyes, but what the skinheads had done would forever haunt them. Omar would never see anything the same again. He certainly would never be looked at in the same admiring way.
His eyes pleaded for help as he lowered his hands.
Hers expressed horror when he did.
His knees buckled and he collapsed.
Four men ran up and grabbed his arms and legs to haul him cumbersomely back to the village. Another two trotted alongside, stripped of their shirts that they pressed to his slain cheeks to stem the blood. Vassoula stumbled after them, too shocked by what she had seen to believe it possible; and yet there was Omar, being toted in front of her, the tagalong women ululating their distress as if he had already died. He wouldn’t, not then. He would survive to live a freak’s hell.
That morning, longing for Omar, anguish overwhelmed her. Only thirty years old and doomed to be in mourning for the rest of her life. She couldn’t imagine anyone after Omar. When the skinheads cut away his cheeks, they cut out her heart, and when Omar committed suicide, he killed her, too. She sobbed, wanting the life that had been stolen from them, preferring to join him in death than endure a life without him.
The cats, risking her swift kicks, rubbed against Vassoula’s legs to remind her that they wanted to be fed. She stomped her foot to scatter them and went back inside. Opening the kibble bag sent them into a zigzagging frenzy between her feet, and that time she did kick at them. “Go away!” she cried, and hurled kibble at them, which they dodged before darting around to scarf it down. “I hate you! God I hate you!” she screamed while throwing more handfuls at them. Her laughter was seeded with madness as the animals cowered under the furniture to eat the pellets that rolled there.
Takis walked in and saw the kibble on the floor. “I see you fed the cats.”
“They were hungry.”
“They’re always hungry in the morning.”
“What did you eat for breakfast? Cock?”
“Don’t start.”
“You should never have gone to Australia. Look what it turned you into.”
“I was always like this.”
“You’re going to end up just like father, hiding behind rocks to have sex.”
“No I’m not. I’m going back to Australia where I don’t have to hide behind rocks to have sex. Why did you hate him so much? Didn’t you feel sorry for him at all?”
“He was pathetic. He settled for Zeeta because he’d been caught doing something with another man one time. He didn’t try to explain it away as a youthful experiment or some drunken mistake. Or that he’d been seduced against his will. Over one incident, he settled for her, for a nothing life. What kind of man is that?”
“A gay man in Greece,” Takis answered. “Most of them end up unhappily married. Sometimes you forget that he rescued us from the orphanage. They both did.”
“I don’t forget. I only wish they had been different parents.”
He poured kibble into a bowl, which brought the cats running. “They were who they were.”
“Neither one of them had a life, especially him, because of your kind of love.”
“You’re as bad as the rest,” Takis said. “What kind of life could he have had? He was never going to have a relationship with a man. Not a real one.”
“Is Nick the right man for you?”
“Yeah, only he doesn’t live in Melbourne.”
“I didn’t know there were types, only faggots.”
“Okay, he is a faggot, if that’s the word you want to use. He’s also an FBI agent,” Takis boasted.
“FBI?”
“The American police.”
“I know what FBI is.”
“So he’s not a faggot in the way you think.”
“He must be investigating the fires,” Vassoula suggested. “Why else would he be here?”
“He says he’s writing a book.”
“Be careful what you say to him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He might try to make a connection to you. In fact, he might have come looking for you.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
###
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Website: https://www.timothyjaysmith.com
Twitter: @timothyjaysmith
Blurb:
For lovers of crime fiction and the allure of the Greek islands, Fire on the Island is the perfect summer read.
** “Smith offers the perfect blend of intrigue, romance, and travelogue.”—Publishers Weekly **
FIRE ON THE ISLAND is a playful, romantic thriller set in contemporary Greece, with a gay Greek-American FBI agent, who is undercover on the island to investigate a series of mysterious fires. Set against the very real refugee crisis on the beautiful, sun-drenched Greek islands, this novel paints a loving portrait of a community in crisis. As the island residents grapple with declining tourism, poverty, refugees, family feuds, and a perilously damaged church, an arsonist invades their midst.
Nick Damigos, the FBI agent, arrives on the island just in time to witness the latest fire and save a beloved truffle-sniffing dog. Hailed as a hero and embraced by the community, Nick finds himself drawn to Takis, a young bartender who becomes his primary suspect, which is a problem because they’re having an affair. Theirs is not the only complicated romance in the community and Takis isn’t the only suspicious character on the island. The priest is an art forger, a young Albanian waiter harbors a secret, the captain of the coast guard station seems to have his own agenda, and the village itself hides a violent history. Nick has to unravel the truth in time to prevent catastrophe, as he comes to terms with his own past trauma. In saving the village, he will go a long way toward saving himself.
A long time devotee of the Greek islands, Smith paints the setting with gorgeous color and empathy, ushering in a new romantic thriller with the charm of Zorba the Greek while shedding bright light on the very real challenges of life in contemporary Greece.
More about Author Timothy Jay Smith
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Raised crisscrossing America pulling a small green trailer behind the family car, Timothy Jay Smith developed a ceaseless wanderlust that has taken him around the world many times. En route, he’s found the characters that people his work. Polish cops and Greek fishermen, mercenaries and arms dealers, child prostitutes and wannabe terrorists, Indian Chiefs and Indian tailors: he’s hung with them all in an unparalleled international career that saw him smuggle banned plays from behind the Iron Curtain, maneuver through Occupied Territories, represent the U.S. at the highest levels of foreign governments, and stowaway aboard a ‘devil’s barge’ for a three-day crossing from Cape Verde that landed him in an African jail.
Tim brings the same energy to his writing that he brought to a distinguished career, and as a result, he has won top honors for his novels, screenplays and stage plays in numerous prestigious competitions. Fire on the Island won the Gold Medal in the 2017 Faulkner-Wisdom Competition for the Novel (for unpublished novels), and his screenplay adaptation of it was named Best Indie Script by WriteMovies. Another novel, The Fourth Courier, set in Poland, published in 2019 by Arcade Publishing, was a finalist for Best Gay Novel in the 2020 Lambda Literary Awards. Previously, he won the Paris Prize for Fiction (now the Paris Literary Prize) for his novel, A Vision of Angels. Kirkus Reviews called Cooper’s Promise “literary dynamite” and selected it as one of the Best Books of 2012.
Tim was nominated for the 2018 Pushcart Prize. His stage play, How High the Moon, won the prestigious Stanley Drama Award, and his screenplays have won competitions sponsored by the American Screenwriters Association, WriteMovies, Houston WorldFest, Rhode Island International Film Festival, Fresh Voices, StoryPros, and the Hollywood Screenwriting Institute. He is the founder of the Smith Prize for Political Theater.
June 27, 2020
Exclusive Excerpt from Three Wrong Turns in the Desert by Neil Plakcy
As Aidan unlocked the front door Liam said, “Not bad. Though I expected you to be staying in a hotel.”
The tiny, metal-grilled elevator had been out of service since Aidan had moved in, so they climbed the two flights to his apartment. Aidan’s pulse was racing, all thoughts of the dead man in the street gone. He imagined how quickly he and Liam would strip their clothes off, how good it would feel to be in the big man’s arms, how much he wanted to kiss those full, dry lips.
The skinny brown dog was lying in front of Aidan’s door, as she had been every time he’d come home since he moved in. He wondered if she had lived with whoever had the apartment before him, or if she’d adopted him as a soft touch.
“Your dog?” Liam asked, as Aidan bent down to scratch behind her ears, and she rolled over.
“I guess. I feed her, and she sleeps with me, but she’s on her own during the day.”
“Dogs are good,” Liam said. “She bark?”
“Don’t know,” Aidan said, opening the door.
Liam’s cell phone rang as they walked inside, and he stepped over to the French doors that led out to a narrow balcony to take the call. While he did so, Aidan pulled bottles of cold water from the half-size refrigerator. He poured some water into a bowl for the dog, and she lapped it up eagerly.
click to purchaseHis dick strained against his shorts and he felt trapped by his T-shirt. He was ready to strip naked and offer himself up to Liam as soon as the big man got off the phone.
As Aidan returned to the living room, Liam snapped his phone shut and looked at him. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
Aidan’s romantic fantasies evaporated in an instant. They had been too foolish to come true anyway, he thought.
What kind of mental case was this guy? First the take-charge attitude, now this about-face to anger. And Aidan had done the stupidest thing imaginable. He’d brought this stranger back to his apartment. This was what being out of the dating pool did; it dulled your senses, let you get caught up in a moment too easily. You wasted your time on fantasy when you should have been alert.
Aidan remembered a personal safety training course he’d taken at one of the colleges where he’d taught. If a student became angry or violent, you had to talk to him calmly, try to defuse the tension.
“I’m sorry. I guess I never told you my name. Aidan Greene. I’m from Philadelphia, and I just got to Tunis three days ago. I start teaching ESL at the École International on Monday.”
“Fuck me,” Liam said, but from the tone of his voice Aidan could tell it was an expletive rather than an invitation. “No chance you’re also a courier from New York planning to head out into the desert? Go by the alias Charles Carlucci?”
“I think you should go,” Aidan said, trying to keep the tremors out of his voice. He walked over to the door and put his hand on the knob. “I won’t say anything or do anything. I promise. Just don’t hurt me.”
Liam looked disgusted. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I’m a bodyguard, and I thought you were my client.” He stood framed in the bright glare from the French doors.
Light cascaded off his perfect body, and Aidan could see his square chest under the loose vest. He even thought he could make out the shadow of a semi-erect dick beneath the loose cotton of Liam’s shorts.
Aidan stepped toward Liam. The light in the living room was beautiful, dazzling and slightly yellow. Behind Liam, through the French doors, Aidan saw sunlight glinting off the dome of the Zitouna mosque. In the distance he heard a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer.
“You always meet your clients in bars?”
“This one was twitchy. He wanted to meet me on my turf. Didn’t trust anybody.” He grimaced. “Turns out he was right. That must have been him who got shot in front of the bar.”
Aidan was confused. “Then you’re not gay?”
Liam snorted. “What the hell does that have to do with the situation?” He looked at Aidan, and then burst into laughter. “You thought I…” He laughed again.
Aidan thought he would fall through the floor with embarrassment. What a fool he’d been to consider that this god of a man was gay—and interested in him. Not only had Blake betrayed him—now he knew for a fact that he couldn’t even trust his own body, his own instincts. Look at how he’d narrowly escaped danger the day before, running from those boys.
He needed to lock himself up in his apartment, play with the dog and teach his students, and shut down everything else. “Thank you very much for that charming opinion of my sexual attractiveness,” he said. “And now, like I said before, I think you should leave.”
Before Aidan realized Liam was moving, the big bodyguard was right next to him, his arms wrapped around Aidan, his lips on Aidan’s lips.
Aidan hadn’t kissed anyone but Blake in years, and it had been a long time since Blake had really kissed him. Liam’s lips were chapped, and his beard was rough, but there was such passion in the kiss that Aidan’s head spun. With his big hands, Liam pulled Aidan close, their bodies meshed together, and Aidan felt the smooth leather of Liam’s vest, the heat rising from his bare chest.
Aidan understood the meaning of the word swoon. He felt light on his feet, his heart racing, all sensation gathered at those points where his body met Liam’s. Inhaling Liam’s lavender scent, mixed with sweat and musk. Those lips! Pressed against his own, at first confused, now yielding, his mouth opening a little against the assault. Liam’s arms wrapped around him, pulling their bodies close.
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2wUBom9
Other vendors: https://www.books2read.com/threewrongturns
More About author, Neil Plakcy
Neil Plakcy’s websiteNeil Plakcy has written or edited over three dozen novels and short stories in mystery, romance and erotica. To research the Angus Green series, he participated in the FBI’s sixteen-week citizen’s academy, practiced at a shooting range, and visited numerous gay bars in Fort Lauderdale. (Seriously, it was research.)
He is an assistant professor of English at Broward College in South Florida, and has been a construction manager, a computer game producer, and a web developer – all experiences he uses in his fiction. His website is www.mahubooks.com.
June 20, 2020
Exclusive Excerpt: A Body on the Hill (A Mitch O’Reilly Mystery Book 2) by Brad Shreve
A Body on the Hill (A Mitch O’Reilly Mystery #2)
I paced from the entrance to the office to the side of his desk. He kept looking over like he was distracted, but never said anything. Each time I walked, I’d go a little farther past his desk and a little closer to the exit door, so I could unlock it.
I broke the silence. “Do you mind if we talk while you work?”
“As long as it’s not too distracting. It’s not more about your investigation, is it? I don’t know how much more I can tell.”
“This is about Rachel Roundtree.”
He swiveled his chair toward me and crossed his arms. “I know Rachel very well.”
“You do?”
“Yes, every six months to a year she performs here. I make out her checks and hand them to Luna to give to her. In other words, I know how to spell her name and that’s it.”
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“You’ve never met her at all?”
“No.”
“How about Zach Pickering? What do you know about him?”
He dropped the pen in his hand on to the desk. “The answer to that is even more of a nothing. I don’t know anyone with the name Zach, or with the last name Pickering. I don’t think I can help you further, do you?”
It was at that moment my opportunity arose. Wesley stretched out his arms to crack his knuckles, knocking his inbox to the floor in front of his desk.
I asked, “Do you need a little help?”
“No, thanks. Everything goes in a specific order.”
While Wesley fumbled with his paperwork on one side of his desk, I cautiously backed up on the other side until I reached the exit door. I stepped forward when he was half standing, but papers slipped out of his hands and back to the floor.
This time I wasn’t so hesitant. I looked around and turned the tiny lock on the doorknob. A glance over my shoulder showed me he was still scrambling on the floor, giving me enough time to unlock the deadbolt. I slid back beside his desk just as he stood again.
“What a day this has been,” he said.
“Maybe it’d be good for you to relax at home.”
“You know what?” He smiled and smacked his hand on the desk. “I think you’re right. It is time for me to go.” His cell phone rang.
“Hello? Yes, it’s Wesley…I don’t need to come up there. It’s not my responsibility… …No, Luna is not here…No…No, I will not come up there…No…No, I will not…I’ll be right there.”
“Trouble?” I asked.
“It sounds like an employee, or likely a guest, got their hands into one of our tills upstairs and the supervisor is out of his mind. Says he doesn’t want to go to jail for the missing money.”
“Happen often?”
“It’s rare, but no time to talk. I need to get up there.” He grabbed my elbow. “Why don’t I notify the bartender that you’re waiting for Luna, and you can have a couple of drinks on the house. How about we leave a voicemail for her to find you there?”
Wesley left Luna the message and escorted me through the restaurant to the front lobby. Josie jumped from her seat and followed several paces behind. When we reached the seating station, the young woman who chastised me earlier spoke up.”
“Wesley, this man—”
“I’m in a rush, Anna, would you please escort Mr. O’Reilly to the lounge and set him up with some drinks.”
“You know who he is?”
“Of course, I do. Please tell the bartender the drinks are on Luna.” He trotted up the stairs to the club.
“Goodnight, Wesley,” I said.
“Follow me, sir,” the attendant said. “I’ll talk with the bartender.”
“One moment, please, miss. I need to have a discussion with my cohort.”
She backed away, grabbed some menus, and escorted a family of five to a table near the front window.
“I’m going outside, Josie. I need you to stay back and ensure Wesley does not get into his office before I get out.”
“How are you getting in there. He locked it.”
“No worries, I can get in from outside.”
“How do you expect me to stop him if he comes back?”
“Trip him.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Tell him you want to apply for a job. He’ll tell you he’s too busy, and you’ll need to demand the right. Be crazy. You know, act normal.”
“Not funny, Lil’ Bro.”
I told the woman at the front desk that I was leaving for a while, but Josie was staying behind to wait for Luna. I exited the building and strolled around to the small alley between the club and the bank building next door. As expected, the door opened with no hesitation when I turned the knob.
Wesley’s mad rush out of the office left a nice unprotected computer for me to get my hands on. My biggest concern was that a lock screen would have been timed to close before I got there, but apparently, he didn’t have one on. I threw my finger down on the space bar the instant I hit the room just to be on the safe side.
Having no idea what I was looking for, I put in my thumb drive and dragged every spreadsheet I saw into it. Wages, invoices, profits and losses, tips, and more.
As I waited for a file called Inventory 2, Wesley started clamoring in the hall outside the office.
“Young lady, I told you, I do not take applications. The people at the front counter will be happy to help you. Now let go of my arm.”
I dove behind a file cabinet when I heard a key going into the lock.
“Oh, Wesley, please don’t be so mean to me,” Josie cooed.
“Excuse me? Who are you?”
The file completed downloading, so I dragged the next one into the thumb drive.
“You don’t recognize me, Wesley? I’m so hurt.”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“I sure have seen you. I see you a lot.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Wesley was flustered.
“I sit right over there, at that dining table several times a week, so I can watch you come and go.”
“Are you a mad woman?”
“I don’t know about mad, but I’m crazy. Crazy for you.”
There was a loud thud against the door. I believe it was Wesley’s back being pushed against it.
“Dear God. Is this your insane way of finding a job?”
“It’s you that I want to give a job, but not the kind that has you waiting tables.”
I clenched a hand across my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Fear and hysteria were battling inside my head. Josie was doing a great job of stalling the man, but she was going to get me caught if I couldn’t hold back from cracking up. There was another bang against the door. It was softer this time.
Wesley said, “Move away from that door before I call security. I’m giving you ten seconds.”
“Don’t you find me attractive?” Josie wept.
“Oh, for the love of God! I think you’re a lovely young woman, but I’m a married man.”
“Happily?”
“Yes, very happy.” His voice had gotten more tense and stern.
“I’m happy that you’re happy, but I have no doubt I can make you happier.”
“I’ve had enough of you. I’m calling security. You need to be in an institution.”
There was a smack followed by a crack.
“Look what you did to my cell phone?”
“I didn’t mean for you to drop it.”
“What on earth do you mean? You slapped it right out of my hand.”
“Janet,” Wesley called out. “Would you call security immediately.” His voice quivered with a mix of fear and anger. “Now you’ve done it. Security will be here any second.”
“I’m giving up, Wesley! It’s obvious you’re unable to love me the way I love you.”
The sound of Wesley hitting the door happened again. “Let go of my shirt. What are you doing?”
“I want a kiss goodbye, but I know you won’t give it to me,” Josie sobbed. “I guess I should go.”
“That would be a good idea. Let me escort you out.”
“You’re going with me?”
“Right out the front door.”
While they walked away, I took the chance to download at least one more file. I wanted to ensure I got as many as I could to Harold. Once it completed downloading, I locked the deadbolt and doorknob, and cautiously stepped into the hall. I locked the office door behind me as Wesley came around the corner.
“What are you doing here? You were going to wait in the bar for Luna to get back.”
“I was, but I need to get going. I was just going to leave her a note.”
“I need to get out of here. Call and leave her a voicemail or send her a text.”
“Good idea. I’ll try that.”
Wesley unlocked his door and stomped into his office.
“Good night, Mitch.” He slammed the door.
“Good night, Wesley,” I said under my breath as I walked to the lobby.
I forwarded the files to Harold that night.
Blurb:
PI Mitch O’Reilly is hired by big-time Hollywood director T.J. Mooney to follow his son Austin who is starting an acting career without riding the coattails of his powerful father. T.J. isn’t happy his beloved son has changed his last name and chooses to live in a sketchy apartment and not the family mansion in Bel Air.
To Mitch, it’s another routine stakeout until Austin’s body is found on the hill below the Hollywood Sign. Was the body left there to send a message? If so, deciphering that message could lead Mitch to solving the crime.
Bio:
After growing up in Michigan and North Carolina, I crisscrossed the country while working in the hotel industry. In addition to working in hotels as a bellman, front desk clerk, and reservation call center director, I managed coffee houses, waited tables, sold potato chips off a truck, and even hawked pre-burial funeral plans.
Author Brad Shreve’s WebsiteWhere the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak developed my first interests in art and storytelling. I’d spend hours on the floor sketching and painting and writing stories.
My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George gave me my first inklings that I’d like to be a novelist someday. Authors Lawrence Block, Sue Grafton, Gregory Mcdonald and Robet B. Parker, influenced my love of mystery.
I was delighted when I discovered the gay mystery subgenre and the list of writers who inspired me to follow this more comfortable direction are too numerous to mention.
Though my interest in writing began at an early age, entering the hotel business soon after graduation steered me in a different direction. The secretary, the big office and a prestigious title were great for the ego but weren’t all that fulfilling.
As a grownup I was thinking of what I wanted to do when I became a bigger grownup and the answer was obvious. My fingertips have been on the keyboard ever since.
I’m a proud dad, beach bum, and coffee house squatter.
I currently live in the Los Angeles South Bay with my husband, Maurice.
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Book:
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