Jon Michaelsen's Blog: Ramblings, Excerpts, WIPs, etc., page 23

Excerpt: Drama Queen: A Nicky and Noah Mystery by Joe Cosentino

Drama Queen: A Nicky and Noah Mystery

by

Joe Cosentino

Blurb

It could be curtains for college theatre professor Nicky Abbondanza. With dead bodies popping up all over campus, Nicky must use his drama skills to figure out who is playing the role of murderer before it is lights out for Nicky and his colleagues. Complicating matters is Nicky’s huge crush on Noah Oliver, a gorgeous assistant professor in his department, who may or may not be involved with a cocky graduate assistant…and is also the top suspect for the murders! You will be applauding and shouting Bravo for Joe Cosentino’s fast-paced, side-splittingly funny, edge-of-your-seat, delightfully entertaining novel. Curtain up!

Excerpt:

Surrounded by darkness, I sat tensely watching as a young, beautiful man lay on the floor with blood dripping off his six-pack abs. I held my breath. Another muscular young man stood over the first and looked down with a vengeful gaze and devious smirk. My heart pounded as he strutted through the quiet street in his long flowing cape, weaving from corpse to corpse. His knife, erect, poised. “The Lord is vengeful and strong in wrath. And revenge is oh so sweet,” he said.

“Blackout then lights up!”

Tyler, the technical theatre graduate assistant running the lighting board, hit a button, and our Treemeadow College theatre once again sported its Victorian proscenium, cream-colored walls, maple wood wainscoting, bronze wall sconces, and ruby red stage curtain.

Sitting behind the director’s desk (actually a wooden plank temporarily set up in the center of the audience seating area) I scribbled a last note before shouting, “Good work, everyone! Please get out of costume and make-up as quickly as possible and join me in the first two rows of the house for notes.”

Students scurried about: the actors off the stage; the technicians behind the set securing lighting and prop pieces.

Since it is tech week for my show, I have been working in our Edwardian style theatre every evening alongside our workaholic technical director. Tyler Thompson is our technical theatre professor’s graduate assistant, who like all good technical directors, eats, sleeps, breathes, and basically lives in our Scene Shop behind the stage. Standing at five feet tall with mountainous shoulders, a broad back, powerful arms, thick hands, and stick legs, Tyler rules over all things sound, lights, projections, set pieces, and props at Treemeadow College. When he leaves, we will be at a total loss to find or do anything technical in our theatre.

Sets for plays used to consist of wooden flats screwed together to create the walls of a room or a slide projection of a building. Nowadays no set is worth its weight in a Tony Award if it doesn’t include moving film projections of farmland, urban settings, fireworks, or whatever exterior is called for in a given scene.

“I’ll fix the video of the street scene for tomorrow night, Nicky.” Tyler slumped in a chair next to me as the familiar smell of pepperoni, his staple food, and sawdust stung my nose. He wore his usual techie attire: a soiled white T-shirt under frayed overalls above worn workboats. This look was accented by a gold cross around his neck, tattoos on his arms (like an illustrated book with words, numbers, and pictures), and long, stringy, unwashed hair. Tyler scratched at his beard, a result of him not having shaved (or washed) since we started tech. “I also want to fix the sound cue for the siren, and change a few gels for the red wash across the stage during the murders.”

Before I could thank Tyler, David Samson, Professor of Technical Theatre and our show’s Scenic Designer, barreled down the theatre aisle like a bull in a field of tomatoes, shouting, “Tyler!” David is an imposing six feet two inches tall, weighing about a hundred and eighty pounds with a shaved head.

Tyler froze, and replied like a convicted chemical dumper facing an environmental lynch mob. “Yes, David?”

“You didn’t add in the new light cue I gave you for the top of Act II.”

“I’ll have it for tomorrow night,” Tyler said.

David’s strong features hardened. “Your procrastination and laziness are not acceptable.” He scowled. “Do it now.”

“Sure, David,” Tyler responded as he leapt off the theatre seat and hurried into the lighting booth at the back of the theatre.

I came to Tyler’s defense. “David, Tyler has done an amazing job—”

“Nicky, the pacing of the show is too slow. The blocking isn’t balanced. The actors aren’t committing fully to their roles and to listening to one another. This comes as no surprise to me since our Acting professor is as incompetent as you are, Nicky, as our Directing professor. Unfortunately, it seems you’d rather flirt with one another than get to work! This is a disgrace to our department!” David raised his arms in the air like a preacher facing an unrepentant congregation. “You’re the director, Nicky. And I use that term lightly. Your other shows have been insulting to the intelligence of the audience, but this one has reached the pinnacle of being even worse! Will even you let an audience see this repugnant crap?”

“David, this is not the time or place to have this discussion.”

With the student actors and technicians sitting in the front of the theatre (obliviously texting on their phones), my student stage manager, SuCho, screamed for everyone’s attention, and for me to come to the front of the theatre house to give them my notes. This thankfully sent David off to his office in a huff.

After I had given my first few notes, I noticed Noah Oliver standing in the back of the theatre. Noah is tall and lean with curly blond hair, blue eyes, and the sweetest smile I have ever wanted to kiss in an Assistant Professor. While I teach Theatre History and Play Directing, Noah is our department’s specialist in Acting, and for good reason. Noah is a terrific actor, a creative and passionate teacher, and a wonderful colleague. More importantly, I have had a crush on him since the moment he made his entrance into our humble campus three years ago. Noah is single, gay, and seems to really like me. Why don’t I ask him out? Noah is twenty-eight years young. As a junior professor in my department in need of my vote for tenure this year, if I make a pass at him it could be considered attempted coercion on my part.

It was difficult for me to concentrate on giving my notes to the students since Scotty Bruno, my graduate assistant and Assistant Director of the play, was talking, laughing, and obviously flirting with Noah in the rear of the theatre. I had reason to be concerned. Scotty has bleached blond hair, contact lens turquoise eyes, ultra-white bonded teeth, and muscles as if sculpted by Michelangelo, housed in multi-colored, stuffed shorts and tank top (in winter) that were not unnoticed by Noah. Unless I was becoming nearsighted, I could have sworn that Scotty whispered something into Noah’s ear then handed Noah a box. What the heck is in it? Love letters? Condoms? My heart on a silver platter? 

“Any notes for me, professor?” Paul Amour, my leading man, sat front row center and winked at me. Identifying as bisexual, Paul uses his charms with men and women alike to get their attention. Tall with shiny, wavy black hair climbing down his neck, chiseled features, and a body like a Greek god, getting attention wasn’t too difficult for Paul.

“You were like terrific tonight, Paul. I really believed you were like the murderer!” Ricky Gonzalez, Paul’s co-star and last onstage murder victim, sat next to Paul like an art dealer admiring the Mona Lisa. Ricky is shorter and darker than Paul with a smaller but equally cut physique. After he graduates from college and gets over his crush on Paul, Ricky will no doubt make some guy a wonderful husband.

“Thanks, Ricky.” Paul squeezed one of Ricky’s abdominal muscles.

Ricky beamed like a floodlight.

Kayla Calloway and Jan Annondale, who play murder victims one and two in the play, sat on the other side of Paul to reward their peripheral visions. Zaftig, giggly, and insecure, they hung on Paul’s every word, wishing they could hang on Paul.

“Your fight scenes were totally awesome tonight, Paul,” said Kayla.

Jan added, “And you really like aced your cool monologue at the end of the play.”

Before Paul could sign autographs, I said, “I have five more pages of notes tonight, people. Can I have everyone’s attention?”

As the cast members groaned I noticed that Noah and Scotty had left the theatre (to have a quickie in the lobby?). The students listened while I gave notes for improvement on their diction, movements, timing, reacting on stage (or lack thereof), character development, and emotional levels. After my last note, the students presented me with a blueberry cheesecake (thanks to the organic dairy farm bordering the college), singing “Happy Birthday” in four-part harmony (the lesbians at the lower notes and the gay men hitting the high notes). I was filled with gratitude until I noticed the thirty-five candles on top of the cake (obviously leaked to my students by Eve Harrington, my graduate assistant Scotty Bruno).

Allow me to break the fourth wall a moment—

This is the twentieth play that I have directed. Half of them were prior to my becoming a college professor, meaning when I had a low salary, no benefits, and no job security. Thankfully the fates led me to nabbing the coveted brass ring: a tenure track Assistant Professor position in the Theatre Department at a small, private New England college. This ultimately led to tenure and Associate Professor status with all the benefits it entails (salary, house, medical insurance, pension) and a hopeful promotion to full Professor next year.

My name is Nicky Abbondanza, PHD. The PHD (as an ex-boyfriend used to say before he left me for his life coach) stands for perky, hot, and adorable. He wasn’t much of a speller. My parents told me that my brother got the looks and I got the brains. Since my brother looks like Margaret Thatcher, I wasn’t too hopeful about my academic future.

Thankfully I was a straight B+ student and enjoyed writing academic papers such as “The All Male Acting Ensemble of the Elizabethan Theatre,” “Shakespeare’s Sonnets to His Mystery Male Lover,” and “Christopher Marlowe’s Secret Husband.” Catch my drift?

Because you, gentle reader, are always curious what your leads look like…well, I am over six-feet tall with straight black hair, green eyes, Roman nose, and an average to muscular build; meaning I go to the gym when I’m between boyfriends. I go to the gym a lot. And I’ll come right out and say that I have a huge penis. You might think this an idle boast—doesn’t everyone claim to be well-endowed these days, as if rulers aren’t standard measurements. The truth is my flaccid penis is nine and a quarter inches long and two inches wide. This is according to an ex-boyfriend who measured it while I was writing my dissertation. This blessing, or curse, back in high school caused teasing in the locker room: “Hey, it’s the original foot-long wiener!” At least they didn’t tease me for being gay. It has also solicited numerous more recent calls for “a viewing” at the gym. Finally, it has led to either great joy or incredible horror for anyone who dates me. I know what you are thinking. I should become a porn star. No thanks. I’ll keep my day (and night) job at the college. I don’t even watch porn, except in the evenings when I’m not working, during the day if I’m sick or depressed, on weekends, and during holidays.

Coming from Kansas, I truly am a friend of Dorothy’s who has settled down in Treemeadow, a little college town in Vermont, surrounded by snowcapped mountain landscapes dotted with white church steeples, quaint covered bridges over babbling brooks, and a warm and cozy fireplace burning next to a rainbow flag seen through the window of the LGBT bookstore.

“Thirty-five! Professor, you are well preserved for someone so old.”

“I hope I’m still working at thirty-five.”

To Paul and Ricky, and to all of my students, thirty-five is older than Methuselah.

“The first one back with a piece can feed me,” said Paul with a bad boy grin.

“No food in the theatre.” After laying down the law, SuCho yanked open the theatre doors and the students filed out into the lobby.

Ariella, our Professor of Costuming and the costume designer for the play (with costumes hanging over both arms) carefully made her way off the stage and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“Happy birthday, Nicky.”

“So you’ve heard I’m ancient…and incompetent.”

Flicking back her long, black hair, Ariella said in her usual monotone, “Don’t let the kids get to you, Nicky. And don’t let David get to you either. The show is terrific.”

I unleashed a half smile. “Tell David that.”

“I already did. Right after his tirade about the ‘pedestrian and mundane’ costumes. Nicky, David doesn’t like anything, except David.” Are there tears brimming in her dark eyes? “Nobody knows that better than me.”

“Ariella, I hope this isn’t too personal, but with all of your complaints about David, why do you stay married to him?”

She offered a bitter smile. “That my friend is a very good question.”

Ariella went to the Costume Shop adjacent to the stage. I joined the students who were scattered throughout the theatre lobby licking their plastic forks clean of cheesecake while texting each other in dismay over the rising tuition at the college.

Paul, Ricky, Kayla, and Jan sat on the flared stairway leading to the balcony. Kayla, a beautiful dark-skinned African American, and Jan, a gorgeous pale-skinned Albino, were on either side of olive-skinned Ricky as if forming a three-layer cake. Paul faced them and appeared to be presenting some type of proposal. Since they are the officers of the Theatre Club on campus, I assumed they were discussing club business. As I am the club’s faculty advisor I walked over, leaned on a gold marble column, and overheard their conversation.

Jan whispered, “I don’t know if I can um go through with this, guys.”

Paul arched his massive back and slipped his muscular arm around her quivering shoulder, “Sure you can, Jan. Trust me. I’ll take care of everything.”

As Jan melted, Kayla combed her hair and giggled. “It could be like fun.”

With eyes only for Paul, Ricky said, “If you um want me to do it, Paul, I’m in.”

I made my way to the gold staircase railing, and asked if they needed my help.

“No thanks, professor, we’re cool,” said Paul with a contraction and release of his pectoral muscles to the delight of his cohorts.

“Cool cake, professor.” Kayla and Jan giggled as they each fed a piece to Paul.

Ricky added with a smirk, “Paul and I can like drive you home if you are too old to drive, professor.”

I grimaced. “Very funny.”

I left my students to their private discussion and joined my young graduate assistant seated on a red velvet bench in a turreted area of the lobby. As I dug into my sizable piece of cake, Scotty leaned into me like a cat facing a sardine, “Since it looks like the tech rehearsal will run late, I can teach your morning Theatre History class tomorrow.”

“That won’t be necessary, Scotty.” Just stick your finger down your throat then head to the gym as usual.

“With teaching your classes, assessing and updating curriculum, going to faculty meetings, advising students, writing your articles, advising the theatre club, and directing plays, I worry that you may get sick.”

You’d unleash the bubonic plague if it meant getting my job. I patted his shaved and oiled knee, and said a la Margo Channing, “I’m fine, Scotty. Just leave your notes on tonight’s performance in my office box tomorrow.”

“Am I too late for the party?” My knees dipped as Noah Oliver took off his coat and scarf and stood next to me. “Happy birthday, Nicky!” He winked at me.

Maybe we can adopt seven children, run away to the hills, and start a family singing act.

Scotty leapt from his seat like it was a pogo stick. “Have a piece of cake, Noah. No nuts!”

I beg your pardon?

“Thanks for remembering, Scotty.” Noah sat between Scotty and me and dug into the creamy wonder. Was that a familiar smile between Scotty and Noah?!

Scotty explained as if he was Noah’s husband, “Noah is allergic to nuts, Nicky.”

Hopefully not to mine.

Noah took me in with his baby blue eyes. Did I notice a look of lust in them? “How’s the show going?”

What show? Oh! “We’re all exhausted, frazzled, panicked, and certain of a great opening night.”

Noah squeezed my hand. “You’re an amazing director. The creative way you move your characters around the stage, how the elements of design compliment the story, and your unique vision is thrilling to watch. I expect nothing short of brilliance in this production.” Noah beamed with pride. “And you have some powerful student actors in the show.” Scotty collected our empty plates. “Noah is a terrific acting teacher.” He gazed at Noah with pure adoration. “The students are lucky to have you.”

Since theatre is a collaborative art, I said, “Tyler’s execution of David’s scenic design is amazing, and as usual Tyler has been a total work horse. Ariella’s costumes have an incredible gothic look, but they’re light enough for the students to move around in them.”

Noah whispered in my ear, and I restrained myself from throwing myself on top of him. “Can I speak to you about something…personal?”

“Sure.” How about a June wedding?

While Scotty stared at us with an inquisitive look on his face, Noah led me to a window seat in a corner of the theatre lobby. White snow fell softly outside the window behind us like cotton bits in a glass ball. I could tell something was bothering Noah, and it hurt me that he was hurting.

“I don’t want to take advantage of our friendship.”

Take advantage! “What’s wrong?”

“It’s about my tenure application.”

I thought back to the neurosis, prayers, nightmares, and sheer terror before my tenure decision. “Noah, anybody lucky enough to get a tenure track position nowadays goes through the jitters stage. It’s not fun, but it’s part of the game. I read your application. It’s very strong. All the students and all the faculty in the department like you.”

His head dropped to his chest. “Not everybody.”

David, the self-prescribed technical theatre god, strikes again.

“I went to David’s office while you were giving notes.”

Tongue firmly in cheek, I said, “And the two of you had a cozy little chat about your promising future at Treemeadow College?”

Noah let out an I Love Lucy, “Hah!” then continued. “After complimenting David on the set design for the show, I mentioned my positive student surveys, and my supportive evaluations from Martin as department head.”

“And when you asked if he will support your tenure, David said he’d have to think about it.” I sneered. “That’s what David said to me when I applied for tenure.” I felt my jaw, hands, and knees clench in unison. “His was my only no vote, which I will never forget.”

“I fared worse than you. David came right out and told me I am too easy on my students, and that like most gay men I am too weak to be a dynamic lecturer.”

“That’s a lie. And against the law in this state.”

Noah’s magnificent lips pouted. “David told me that he wouldn’t support my tenure if I gave him a thousand dollars.”

“He’s never supported anyone for tenure. He has voted against every new course and program modification proposal in the department. He even voted against having a department holiday party. But David’s is only one vote.”

Resting his warm hand on my grateful shoulder, Noah said, “Nicky, David is running for department head.”

“He won’t win against Martin.”

Slumping back against the window seat, Noah said, “There are only seven tenured faculty members in our department. David can be very persuasive.”

“Ariella may be David’s wife but she’s her own person, and she likes you a great deal. And I doubt Jackson Grier would support David since David voted against Jackson’s tenure too.”

“I heard Jackson and David arguing in David’s office tonight before I went in to talk to David about my tenure. Jackson slammed the door and left in a huff.”

“What were David and Jackson arguing about?”

Noah’s shrugged. “I heard David criticizing Jackson’s movement and stage combat choreography for the show. Then all I could get were the words, ‘fresh start.’” Soft lines surfaced on Noah’s handsome face. “David could be making deals, offering his support to faculty if he becomes department head and if they vote against my tenure.”

I stood and lifted Noah to his feet. “Come on, young man.”

He looked like a school boy at a fire drill. “Where are we going?”

“Where everyone in our department brings all of our problems.”

A delicious line formed between Noah’s eyes. “Is Martin here at this hour?”

“My bet is yes.” I pushed Noah in front of me, and said grandly, “To the Wizard of Theatre Arts.”

A few minutes later we were in the white stone building next door, which houses our faculty offices, lab theatre, rehearsal hall, and classrooms. Martin was just about to leave his office when Noah and I arrived like the Scarecrow and the Tin Man asking for our special wish.

Our department head is a short, thin, balding man who looks like Pinocchio, if Pinocchio was in his sixties. Besides being a terrific Theatre Management professor, Martin is honest, kind, incredibly competent, and a tireless advocate for everyone and everything in our department. When I grow up, I want to be Martin Anderson.

“Nicky! Noah! Come in. Have a seat.” Pretending he hadn’t been on his way home, Martin surreptitiously slipped off his hat and coat then settled us all on tall, leather wingback chairs around his cherry wood mantel fireplace with china cups filled with hot cocoa in our hands and monogrammed cranberry cloth napkins on our knees. Martin wore his usual wardrobe of a white button-down shirt, black pants, and matching sweater vest and bowtie (cranberry today).

I said, “Working on next term’s budget?”

Martin smiled revealing jagged teeth from biting on too many number two pencils. “The budget, course schedule, and curriculum reports for next term are finished. I was going over student grade appeals.”

Noah’s jaw dropped. “It’s only February. Grade appeals so soon?”

I patted Noah on the head, and said a la W.C. Fields, “The way our students are coddled at home and in high school, there are always grade appeals, my boy.” I took a sip of my sweet cocoa, and asked Martin, “Doesn’t Ruben ever complain about the hours you keep at the college?”

Martin smiled at the picture of him and his husband on his large cherry wood desk. “After over forty years together, we understand each other’s passions…for one another and for our work.”

Ruben is the C.E.O. of a gay rights organization, a devoted husband to Martin, and a loving father to their two adopted children, now grown women with families of their own.

“But enough about me. How’s the show coming?”

“I’ll let you know after opening night…and after I sleep about twenty-four hours.”

“You do terrific work…both of you.”

“Thanks.”

Martin looked like a termite in a wood shed. “Now tell me everything that is going on at rehearsals. Any love affairs among the students? Arguments between the staff? Artistic tempers flaring?”

Besides being an amazing department head, Martin is also an amazing gossip. Though he will keep any secret asked of him in confidence, everything else is fair game for a major Martin chin wag.

I filled Martin in on the latest antics of my cast and crew, including Ricky, Kayla, and Jan’s infatuation with my play’s leading man.

After I ran out of gossip, Noah said tensely, “Martin, we came to see you about David Samson.” Noah rested a shaky elbow on the arm of his chair. “Besides Ariella, who in our department might be swayed by him?”

Martin’s eyes twinkled like the Big Dipper. “I doubt Loptu would be…any longer.”

That peeked my interest. “What does Loptu have against David?”

Martin salivated over each word. “Well, they were once…an item.”

I couldn’t believe our bipolar Playwriting professor was once David’s mistress. “How do you know?”

“Loptu was in here weeping and wailing when David dumped her last week. I held her hand and let her cry on my shoulder…” he grinned, “…while I got the whole story out of her.”

Unleashing his warm heart, Noah asked, “How is Loptu now?”

“Fine, thanks to a steady supply of little red, blue, and green psychotropic wonders from her psychiatrist.”

“Does Ariella know about David and Loptu?” I asked.

Martin giggled merrily. “How could Ariella not know? We are a very small community here at Treemeadow.” Back to Noah’s question, Martin said, “However, Millie will probably do anything David asks.”

My jaw dropped to the cocoa stain on the carpet. “Millie and David are together?”

Martin was nearly orgasmic. “They are glued together like a televangelist and his wig.”

Noticing the look of fear on Noah’s face, I said, “As our Voice and Diction professor, Millie is Noah’s closest colleague. Regardless of her affair with David, she would never do anything to hurt Noah.”

“What’s this about?” asked Martin at the edge of his seat.

I stood by my man, or rather by the man I wished was my man. “Tonight David told Noah that he isn’t supporting Noah’s tenure application.”

Martin laughed. “Big news. David has never supported anyone or anything.”

I nodded. “But David said some untrue and probably illegal things to Noah.”

Martin’s curiosity was peeked, a relatively easy task. I filled Martin in on the latest words of wisdom from David to Noah.

When I was finished, Noah’s leg shook nervously, as he said, “My concern is that David might try to poison others in the department against me, and use his running for department head as leverage.”

Martin seemed to grow a foot in stature. “David’s a bully. And the only way to deal with a bully is to stand up to him.” Looking like a mother bear facing a hunter, Martin added, “David tells me that everything I do is wrong. Well, now I will do something that is right.” He put his hand on Noah’s shoulder. “And I promise, we won’t lose you, Noah.” Martin put his arms around us and walked us to the door. “The people in this department mean more to me than you know. I won’t stand idly by when a fox gets into my hen house.” We stopped at the door. Martin looked at us like a father sending his children off to bed. “Go home. Get some rest. And let me take care of David.”

After thanking Martin, Noah and I did exactly that. Unfortunately, each in our own beds.

I woke the next morning to the local news blaring from the radio alarm on my night table. Before I could hit the snooze button, I heard the news announcer’s top story. “Early this morning David Samson, Professor of Technical Theatre, was found dead in his office at Treemeadow College with a knife lodged in his back.”

DRAMA QUEEN (a Nicky and Noah mystery)

a comedy/mystery/romance novel

by JOE COSENTINO

from Lethe Press

paperback, ebook, and audiobook available now

purchase links:

Purchase the audiobook narrated by Michael Gilboe at Amazon at: http://www.amazon.com/Drama-Queen-Nicky-Noah-Mystery/dp/B012O702CW/

Purchase the audiobook at Audible at: http://www.audible.com/pd/Mysteries-Thrillers/Drama-Queen-Audiobook/B012I834LS/ref=a_search_c4_1_9_srTtl?qid=1438019265&sr=1-9 

Purchase the paperback from Lethe Press at: http://www.lethepressbooks.com/store/p303/Drama_Queen%3A_A_Nicky_and_Noah_Mystery.html

Purchase the paperback from Amazon at: http://www.amazon.com/Drama-Queen-Nicky-Noah-Mystery/dp/1590214676/

Purchase the ebook from Smashwords at: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/546002

 

 

Exclusive Excerpt: Straight Up – a new Dan Stagg Mystery by James Lear

Straight Up

by

James Lear

Blurb:

Who is trying to kill the members of an elite special ops team that worked off the radar in Iraq in the ’90s? It’s up to Dan Stagg to track down the survivors — the men with whom he stormed an undefended surveillance station, killing everyone inside. And now, many years later, the team is being targeted in what seems like a series of unrelated attacks.

Dan teams up with his old comrade Al Benson, once a rising star of the USMC, now a respectable married civilian with a few secrets to hide. As they dig deeper into the secrets of the past, Dan discovers that Benson’s looking for more than just answers. An explosive affair threatens everyone’s future, and connects Dan to a past he thought he’d left behind.

Excerpted with Permission From Straight Up: A Dan Stagg Novel

Now, those of you who know me well will have rolled your eyes when I said I worked in a gym. ‘Oh yes, Dan, a gym. A place where guys come and take their clothes off. How convenient.’ I might bust your chops for that, or I might say ‘You’ve got me all wrong, I’m in a relationship now and I don’t fool around,’ and you’d pretend to believe me because you’d prefer to keep your limbs intact. But of course, you’re absolutely right. My official job at The Strong Box – ‘Lowell’s Premier Fitness and Martial Arts Facility’ (ie the only gym in town) – is personal trainer, specializing in kickboxing and other legitimized forms of violence. In between clients, who are sparse, I sit at the front desk, answer the phone, pick up wet towels in the locker room, mop the floors and generally clear up other people’s shit. It’s kind of like working for Uncle Sam, without the killing.

Of course there are opportunities, and yes, I’ve taken them. Not with the members: I can’t afford to lose this job, and the boss made us sign a piece of paper agreeing that any fraternizing with the clients would lead to instant dismissal. I guess a few too many horny housewives got banged up by their personal trainers. They’re safe from me, but their husbands might not be. Nobody need know that. I’m not what you’d call out at work.

I didn’t sign anything about co-workers, though. People move around a lot in the fitness industry – there’s a high staff turnover even in a little joint like the Strong Box, college grads trying to get a toehold in the business, former athletes whose competition days are over, even a few ex-military men like me. They’re all physically fit, and at a rough guess I’d say about 40 per cent of the men could be persuaded. You get talking about your bodies, you hit the showers after locking up at night, you compare abs or delts or whatever fucking muscle you like, and Bob’s your uncle. And it was just as I was putting the key in the ignition that I remembered I was sharing a shift with Lee, the young English guy who was doing a masters in sports science in a college over towards Boston. Like me he was living in cheap rented accommodation in Lowell, like me he was paying the rent by working at the gym, and in the couple of weeks he’d been there we’d really enjoyed complaining about stuff. He was 21, his first time abroad, his first time living away from home, and he was homesick. I guess I should also mention that he was tall and lean and had played rugby back at home, and hoped one day to play for his country. He had the English rose tattooed on his left pectoral muscle. ‘I want to wear that on my shirt one day,’ he said, the first time I saw him naked. If I had my way he’d never wear clothes again, but I just nodded and said something about sport.

He was already waiting when I pulled up to the kerb, leaning against the wall, wearing jeans and a thick sweater and a watch cap; it was September, the days still warm but the mornings cold as ice, a promise of the winter to come. He’d found a patch of thin early sunshine and was basking in it like a lizard, soaking up the warmth. His face was striking rather than handsome, particularly with the strong shadows accentuating his high cheekbones and deep brow. His eyes were close-set, his mouth large; in repose, he could look quite stupid, a brainless meathead. I liked this. I spent my career giving orders to guys like Lee, and I always had a soft spot for the dumb ones. When he heard the car door slamming he opened his eyes and smiled.

‘Dan!’

He stood up straight, pulled his cap off and ran a large hand over his head. The hair was cut in some crazy style, buzzed at the side but long at the top and back, a kind of modified Mohawk that would look fucking awful on anyone over 22. When you’re Lee’s age you can get away with it – just. His nails were bitten down to the quick, and he had a band-aid on his right middle finger.

I shook his hand, then inspected his fingers. ‘What’s the matter, Lee? Can’t you afford regular food? Been eating yourself?’

He pulled his hand away, stuffed it into his pocket, ashamed of the childish habit. ‘Yeah, right, I know.’

He had a habit of mumbling which, combined with a thick London accent and an unfamiliar vocabulary, made communication interesting. ‘How are you mate?’

‘I’m good. You?’

‘Yeah.’ He did a nervous little sidelong smile, hissed between his teeth. ‘All right. Cold innit.’

‘Let’s open up.’ I checked my watch. ‘Half an hour before we let ‘em in.’

‘I need a shower.’ He sniffed his armpit and grimaced. ‘I fucking stink.’

I scratched my 24-hour stubble. ‘And I need a shave. Come on.’

The Strong Box occupied the basement of two retail units, an outdoor clothing store and a tackle and bait shop, accessed by a metal staircase and a tiny front area into which garbage always blew. Our first job was to clear out the night’s debris.

‘I’ll do this,’ I said, opening the door: as the senior employee, I was entrusted with the keys. ‘You go get the water running.’

‘Cheers mate. I owe you.’

Yeah, and I can think of a thousand ways to make you pay, I thought, watching his ass recede into the gloom of the interior. I kicked the trash into a little pile and dumped it in the bin, hoping there were no sharps. Usual stuff: burger wrappings, cigarette butts, cans. I needed to wash my hands.

I could hear the shower as soon as I walked in; good boy, he’d done as he was told, first thing in the morning it could take five minutes for the water to get up to a bearable temperature. The boiler was always breaking down, which made for pissed off members and smelly employees. The Strong Box was not exactly high-end.

 

Releasing September 8, 2015

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Straight-Up-Dan...

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from the new Corey Shaw Mystery by Alex Morgan

Legacy of Hephaestus

by

Alex Morgan

Blurb:

Paranormal sleuth Corey Shaw is wrapping up what’s left of his European vacation by enjoying the beautiful men in Europe.  During his visit, the largest yellow diamond in the world is stolen from a factory in Amsterdam.  On his way home, an attempt is made on his life, and his house is broken into upon his arrival home in Boston. Just as Corey finds the “Lava Diamond”, a professor from Boston College disappears while on sabbatical at Bergen University in Norway.

Drawn into the fray, Corey travels back across the Atlantic to search for the professor only to discover a connection between the missing prof and the “Lava Diamond”.

Excerpt:

As Corey paused to watch, one of the players leaned over the table to line up a shot and glanced up, locking gazes with him. His face split into a big grin. His short crop of curly red hair and blue eyes reminded Corey of Prince Harry of England, only sexier. The man returned his attention to his shot, although his smile remained.

Corey noted the long, sinewy forearms with a vascularity that spoke of strength and musculature. The pool player slid the pool cue back and forth several times through his long, out-stretched fingers, making Corey think he was insinuating something rather than lining up a shot. He thrust the pool stick forward, striking the cue ball, sending it flying across the table where it collided with the 4 ball with a sharp crack. The 4 darted off at an angle, straight into the corner pocket. Murmurs of approval rippled through the spectators.

‘Harry’ straightened up with a slight grin, acknowledging the mutterings of encouragement, and circled the table with his gaze on the remaining balls. His navy blue T-shirt hung over muscular pecs, and the short sleeves had been rolled up, exposing bulging biceps. An emblem on his shirt indicated he worked for a longshoreman company at the port. Or at least the company owned the T-shirt.

His path brought him next to Corey, where he stopped and bent over the table in front of him, bumping him with his round ass, contained in tight blue jeans.

“Sorry,” he said over his shoulder. His tone did not sound apologetic, and Corey nodded with a twitch of an eyebrow.

In an automatic, involuntary move, Corey reached out and placed an open palm on Harry’s back pocket. The ass didn’t yield under his touch.

“Nice,” Corey whispered, and Harry shifted his weight back, pushing into Corey’s hand. He fired off another shot, sinking the next ball.

Corey watched him as he circled the table several times, stopping to line up a shot and sink a third ball. Within a few short minutes, Harry had cleared the table and shook hands with his opponent to a smattering of applause. He turned to face Corey across the room just as another challenger stepped up to him. Harry glanced at Corey as if willing him to be patient and stick around.

Corey nodded again and backed against the wall, out of the way. Harry racked the balls in seconds and broke, sending them in all directions, sinking two. He continued to make short work of his opponent, clearing the table in several turns.

Before the game ended, Corey sought out the bar and ordered two Heinekens. When he returned, Harry was shaking hands with the loser.

Not wanting to look too eager or desperate, he approached the pool player with a slow pace. Harry looked up with a beautiful smile as Corey proffered the beer.

“Bedankt,” Harry said.

“Good game,” Corey said, taking a sip and hoping the gorgeous man understood him.

“Do you play?” Harry asked in perfect English and took a swig.

“I’ve dabbled now and then.”

“You’re American,” Harry said. “On holiday?”

“Only a couple of days. Then I go to Oslo before heading home.”

“Perhaps I could show you some of the sights of our beautiful city,” Harry said with a suggestive wink.

“I like what I see in here.” Corey returned the gesture.

 

Wilde City Press: Alex Morgan

http://www.wildecity.com/authors/alex...

EXCERPT: Lloyd A Meeker’s new Russ Morgan Mystery – Blood and Dirt

Blood and Dirt

by

Lloyd A Meeker

Blurb:

Family squabbles can be murder. Psychic PI Russ Morgan investigates a vandalized marijuana grow in Mesa County Colorado, landing in the middle of a ferocious family feud that’s escalating in a hurry. Five siblings fight over the family ranch as it staggers on the brink of bankruptcy, marijuana its only salvation. Not everyone agrees, but only one of them is willing to kill to make a point. Russ also has a personal puzzle to solve as he questions his deepening relationship with Colin Stewart, a man half his age. His rational mind says being with Colin is the fast track to heartbreak, but it feels grounding, sane, and good. Now, that’s really dangerous…

Set-up:

Evan Landry wants to hire Russ to find out who wrecked his sister Sarah’s legal marijuana grow, located on the family ranch in Mesa County, Colorado. Landry want his step-sister Marianne to be the guilty party, and expects Russ to prove it. The Ellis/Landry family has marinated in toxic animosity for years. Evan is in Russ’ Denver office, in their first meeting. The first half of this scene is at Clare London’s site… http://clarelondon.com/2015/08/21/llo...

Excerpt:

I couldn’t deny family intrigue was fascinating to me. Over the years, I’d encountered a long parade of bizarre relationships, toxic secrets, competition for affection or mere attention, and vendettas. However, I’d also seen reconciliations and witnessed the most beautiful demonstrations of compassion and forgiveness and understanding. I smiled at my own discovery. Maybe I had just figured out why I’d become a specialist in family complexities.

I stuck out my hand. “Yes, I’ll take your assignment. I’ve never had anything to do with marijuana cultivation, so this should be especially educational.”

“Good.” Landry gave my hand a perfunctory shake that said my answer was no surprise to him—he’d expected my agreement before he walked in. At the same moment, he slid his other hand into a jacket pocket and handed me a check. Already made out to me. “A retainer,” he said with cool nonchalance. “You don’t need to create an invoice until you’re done, then we can see what’s left to cover.”

Nodding, I tucked the check into my desk drawer and pulled out my simple one-page engagement letter.

“Now,” Landry said as we finished up the formalities, “you get all the dirty laundry.”

I got ready to take notes.

It was a convoluted story, with all the elements of a classic family melodrama, a perfect breeding ground for bad blood. Stanford Ellis, the current owner of the Ellis Ranch, was in his sixties. He’d married young, and sired three children: Stanford Jr., Marianne, and William, who everybody called Billy even though he was now in his late twenties.

When Billy was four, Mrs. Ellis decided the rancher’s life was no longer for her and disappeared, leaving her husband with three small children to raise and a ranch to run.

Stanford, being an old-school rancher, knew that a rancher needed a wife, so he got himself another one—Carolyn Landry, who already had two children of her own by a previous marriage.

Although Carolyn had frequently asked Stanford to formally adopt her two children Evan and Sarah, he’d refused. Maybe it was some vestige of arrogance about the Ellis name and Ellis blood that prevented him from saying yes. Maybe it was something else, but while Stanford Sr. was perfectly decent to his second wife, the two children she had brought into the family remained Landrys.

According to Landry, Stanford Sr. might have been obstinate about that particular issue but was indecisive about everything else. After Carolyn’s death, his refusal to take a firm stand with his brood left the children to cope with each other without many boundaries except, strangely, at the dinner table. There, Stanford controlled everyone’s behavior with a dictator’s fist.

By middle school, an internecine rivalry had begun, with the Ellis children pitted not only against the Landrys, but against each other as well. Each child developed their own way of fighting or at least coping.

Sarah had become something of a Birkenstock hippie, spending more time with animals and plants than people. She did passably well at school and began working for the local rancher’s co-op after graduation.

When she could show that marijuana was a viable cash crop, she negotiated a very favorable lease with Stanford Sr. for space in an old barn the ranch no longer used, complete with water rights.

Evan had stayed under the radar of family conflict as much as possible until he came out in high school, then he defiantly took on all comers. He’d escaped as soon as he could, moving to Denver where being gay wasn’t such a big deal, got a grunt job in a restaurant and learned the business as he worked his way up to chef, managing partner, and, finally, owner.

Stanford Jr. had never really accomplished much of anything. He was smart but chronically unrealistic. He daydreamed, was undisciplined and grandiose, and drank far too much and too often. Marianne was the most social of the Ellis children and went off to study journalism after high school. She was now part of the TV news team at the Grand Junction station. She made sure she was part of all the social circles on the western slope that counted, few as those were.

Billy wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer but was kind and reliable. He and Ellis Senior did all the physical work on the ranch. Billy had gone through high school as a member of Future Farmers of America and 4-H. He’d raised prize-winning animals to show at the county fair. He was born to be a rancher.

Stanford Sr. had made the competition and distrust among the siblings worse by making vague promises and threats about who would inherit parts of the ranch land when he died, and the story changed all the time.

Maybe he thought that was the only club he had to maintain control, but whatever the reason, the lion’s share of blame for sibling animosity rested at the patriarch’s door, as far as Evan Landry was concerned.

“Even though our family dynamic puts a nest of vipers to shame,” Landry said, winding up his story, “Ellis insists that when we are on ranch property, we all eat dinner together.” He gave me a joyless smile. “And you’ll get to join us in that unique pleasure on Monday night.”

That didn’t sound particularly attractive to me.

Landry stood and shrugged his sport jacket into place. “Arrive at the ranch as soon as you can. I’ll introduce you to Stanford Sr. before dinner. He’s promised everyone’s full cooperation, and he’s the only person who can make that promise. So you’ll be operating under his aegis as well as mine.”

He laughed bitterly. “My aegis is not half as far-reaching as Stanford’s, so stay alert. The only reason I’m still tolerated on the property is because I’ve got money and because Sarah’s marijuana operation is now a more reliable income stream than the ranching operation.”

He shook his head. “The Ellises have the land, and the Landrys have the money. You’d think that would offer an easy solution, but family blood and pride seem thicker than poverty and envy. Or their cure.”

“How do I get to you on Monday?”

“Oh, right.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out another piece of paper. “I sketched this map. It’s easy. It’s on the west side of the Gunnison. South of Grand Junction to Whitewater on 51, then west on 141 a few miles. You’ll see the sign for Ellis Ranch, north side of the road. Get there no later than four o’clock. Call me if you get lost.”

We shook hands again, me agreeing to his instructions. He let himself out, and I watched him cross the street toward a high-end Mercedes sedan. Its lights blinked, ready and obedient, as he approached. Evan Landry was used to being the boss.

 

 

Interviewing the Talented, Multi-Genre Author of Sunset Lake; John Inman

 

John, thank you so much for taking time to answer some questions for members of the Gay Mystery-Thriller-Suspense Fiction Facebook group.—-

I’m thrilled to be here.  Thanks for having me.

Let’s start off with, where do you live?—- 

I live in beautiful San Diego, home of the 2015 GayRomLit get-together in October!  Woohoo!  There are so many people I want to meet I can’t wait.  This will be my first writer’s convention.  I’m a little nervous but it should be a lot of fun.

Without getting too personal, would you share a little about your home life?—-

I’m married.  My husband’s name is John too.  We’ve been together for ten years and married for two and we live in the South Park section of the city.  We have two cats, Max and Leo, who think they own the place.  For exercise I walk about 10 miles a day and for fun I read, watch movies, and piddle around in the yard.  That’s about it.  Oh, and we take in as many stage shows as we can.   For my birthday last month, John took me to see a production of Cabaret.  It was great.

I’ve read somewhere that you only recently began submitting your writing for publication; How long have you been writing and why did it take you so long to submit to publishers?  ——

That’s not quite accurate.  I’ve  been writing fiction since I was a kid.  I spent my whole life submitting stuff to publishers and never got my foot in the door anywhere.  It was only after I ran across the website for Dreamspinner Press, and after I got to know the wonderful Elizabeth North, who runs the place, that I ever received an acceptance letter.   I was sixty before I sold my first book.  Since then, I think I just signed my 24th contract, or thereabouts.  I write fast even if I did get off to a slow start.  It just goes to show, you should never give up.

Do you get to write full-time or are you maintaining an evil day job?—-

I’m retired so I’m one of the lucky few who can write full time.  I usually crank out 3 or 4 hours at the computer every morning pecking away at whatever story I’m working on at the time then I go back to it several times during the course of the day.  When I’m in the middle of a story I don’t think of much of anything else.  The other John seems to understand and stays the hell out of my way. Poor guy. Right now I’m just finishing up a romantic thriller titled, MY BUSBOY.  I should have it off to DSP in a couple of weeks.  Don’t know what I’ll work on next.  Maybe another comedy.

Is A Hard Winter Rain your first novel? Can you share a little of where you got your inspiration for the story and how long it took you to write it?—-

Rain wasn’t my first novel, but it was up there.  When I wrote Rain I was still working so it took me longer to finish. Don’t remember how long exactly.  Almost a year, I think, since I was working and didn’t have a lot of time to write, plus Rain is longer than a lot of the other novels.  It’s still a favorite of mine though.  I was so thrilled when DSP picked it up.  It was one of the first ones they bought.  I walked on air for a week after that.  I’m not exaggerating when I say it was the greatest thrill of my life, bar none.  As for inspiration, I was a hairdresser for forty years and I wanted to write something about a character in that field.  I’m not as butch as the guy in the book, but I was able to draw on a lot of stuff knowing the business the way I did.  I remember also being excited about incorporating the weather into that story.  We had just had a rainy winter in San Diego and I thought the storms would make a great backdrop for a thriller.

You’re known in much of your writing for comic flair, including in stories with a gay mystery/thriller theme, such as Hobbled and Spirit. Is it important to you to include some humor in your writing?—-

I don’t know how important it is, all I know is I seem to do it.  I can’t help myself.  I think every good piece of fiction needs a little humor to lighten the load of a heavy story.  Sometimes I know I go a little overboard — haha — but like I said, I can’t seem to help myself.  I try to write what I like to read, and since I like to read humor, that’s what I do.

I read an interview you did with author Carole Cummings where she described you as DSP Publication’s “answer to Stephen King” – that’s a very impressive compliment. Have you always had a special place in your heart for horror?—-

I almost fell off my chair when I saw she had written that.  First of all, because he’s one of my idols, and second of all because I would never compare myself to Stephen King.  In my opinion, as far as horror goes, nobody matches the King.  Just being mentioned in the same sentence with him was enough to make me swoon.  Do 65-year-old gay men swoon?  I don’t know.  Maybe it was just a stroke.

You write in many genres; M/M Romance, Horror, Mystery/Thriller, all very well received from your fans. Do you feel you have different fans per sub-genre, or do they cross over?—-  

I had never really thought about it.  I do know some of my loyal readers that I’ve gotten to know tell me they prefer comedy or romance, and sometimes those are the ones who aren’t too crazy about horror.  But like I said before, I strive to write what I like to read, and I pretty much like to read everything.  With every new book I write I try to shoot for something different than what I’ve written before.  That’s why I never thought I’d ever write a series.  I thought I would be too bored.  Fooled me.  Somehow when I did Serenading Stanley, I fell in love with the characters so much I had to bring them back.  The third Belladonna Arms book comes out August 17th and I’m already thinking about a fourth. So never say never.

Where do you get your ideas for a story; tell us about how you can up with your latest release “Sunset Lake”?—-

Sunset Lake is the closest thing to autobiographical that I’ve ever written.  I don’t mean the plot — I haven’t killed any little old ladies, I swear — but I mean as far as the setting goes.  Nine Mile may not really exist but it is absolutely a dead ringer for the little farming community where I grew up in Indiana.  A lot of the characters in the story are people I knew growing up as well.  Mrs. Shanahan for instance, lived on an adjoining farm.  The lady who died at her piano in the story was actually a maiden aunt of mine and she really did sit in the closet with a cat on her lap during thunderstorms.  Sunset Lake was a stripper pit that everyone used to swim in and it was just as beautiful as the one in the story.  There’s a lot of me in that story.  A lot of the way I grew up, a lot of the morals I still believe in.  I don’t think anyone comes from a farming community like that but that it leaves a mark on you, and over all I think the marks are an asset to the person you become in later life.  There’s a lot of love to be found in an environment like that.  A lot of honesty.  A lot of goodness.  It’s a healthy way to grow up.  Which doesn’t really explain why I decided to kill them all in my book.

And as for horror having a special place in my heart?  You bet.  I love writing horror.  There are no constraints when you’re writing horror.  Anything goes.  You can steer your reader anywhere your imagination wants to take him without any boundaries of reality to stand in your way.  It’s fun trying to scare that person out there holding your book in the middle of the night, all alone with nothing but your words to keep them company.  I like the spooky, gory stuff.   I like it in movies and I like it in the books I read.  For me, there’s nothing remotely resembling work about writing a horror story.  It’s just plain fun.

Last question; can you share with us a little about your current release and/or WIP?—-

The novel I’m just finishing up, MY BUSBOY — I have one scene left to write and then some editing — is a love story between a well-known writer and a busboy he meets at his favorite neighborhood restaurant.  As most of my stories do, it takes place in San Diego.  For conflict, we have a crazy ass stalker who’s driving the writer nuts, and before the story is over the stalker goes off the deep end and becomes truly dangerous.  You have to watch those fans, haha, you never know what they’re going to do.  I’m pleased with the way the story is ending up.  In fact, I just wrote most of the big “battle” scene this morning over a pot and a half of coffee.  I’ll probably have to tone it down a little bit after the caffeine wears off.  This is one of those novels, unlike A Hard Winter Rain, where the romantic part of the story takes center stage.  It’s a very sweet book, I think.  Even with all the action at the end.  I hope people will like it.

On behalf of the Gay Mystery-Thriller-Suspense Fiction Facebook Group, thank you so much for sharing your time with us and answering questions fans of the genre would like to know.—-

I’m really honored that you asked me.  I hope we can do it again some time.  It’s been a lot of fun.

Find John Inman on the web:

Website:

http://www.johninmanauthor.com/John_Inmans_Site/Welcome.html

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/John-Inman/e/B005MJ3S6W/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

Goodreads:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/709667.John_Inman

Dreamspinner Press

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/AuthorArcade/john-inman

 

Excerpt: New Lesbian Mystery by Kate McLachlan – Ten Little Lesbians

Ten Little Lesbians

by

Kate Mac

Blurb:

Ten women, guests at the lesbian-owned Adelheid Inn, are stranded in the Cascade Mountains after a mudslide closes the only road out. One goes missing. One is killed. More than one is not who she pretends to be, and every one of them has a secret. When another woman is attacked, it become clear there’s a killer in their midst, and it has to be one of them.

Is it Beatrice, the judge, surly and sad after the death of her long-term partner? Or her niece, Tish, angry and sullen at being kept under Beatrice’s thumb? Or is it Carmen, Beatrice’s childhood friend who lured her to the Inn under false pretenses?

It couldn’t be the Mormon girls, Amy and Dakota. Or could it? Perhaps it’s Paula, the gallant butch, or her date, the lovely and silent Veronica. A blind woman couldn’t do it, but is Jess really blind? And what about Holly, the hotel manager who is just a bit too perky, or Lila, the mysterious owner of the hotel?

One thing quickly becomes clear. They’d better find out, before there are none.

Excerpt:

BEATRICE WAS THE first down for breakfast but someone, either Holly or the invisible Lila, had transformed the dining room into a breakfast buffet. A tray of ice on the sideboard held milk, juice, hard-boiled eggs, jam, and butter. Beside that was a coffee maker, an assortment of coffees, a toaster, three kinds of sliced bread, a tray with donuts, and several boxes of cereal. On the table were stacks of bowls, plates, utensils, glasses and cups.

Beatrice tucked a brew pack into the coffee maker and moved to the French doors. She opened them and looked out at a partially covered patio with white wicker chairs and tables. The sun was shining and the air was still and warm. Probably too warm. Heavy clouds hovered over the mountains, which were very near, and promised a storm later on. She took her coffee to a round table for four in the shaded half of the patio and sat. It might be her last chance to have coffee outside until spring, so she might as well take advantage of it.

She had been there only a moment when she heard movement from the lounge. She looked up, and Paula appeared in the doorway with a mug in her hand.

Drat. Of all people.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Paula sat in a swing lounge on the edge of the patio.

“Morning,” Beatrice said.

“Oh come on, Bea, you can act a little better than that. At least pretend you don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Beatrice said.

“Well, you don’t love me.”

“No, I don’t love you.”

“Damn, you’re honest.” Paula kicked the ground to set her swing in motion. “Anyone else up?”

“I haven’t seen anyone,” Beatrice said, “but someone set out the breakfast things.”

“I meant guests.” Paula took a sip from her mug. “So what’s the story about your niece? Trish?”

“Tish.”

“She’s kind of cute. Probably get fat when she’s older, though. Curvy girls do.”

“Leave her alone,” Beatrice said. “She’s too young for you. Besides, you have a date here, remember? A skinny one.”

Paula made a face. “She’s a dud. So how are you doing? I haven’t seen you since Leigh’s funeral. Are you dating yet?”

Beatrice felt like she’d just been punched. A lot of people had asked her if she was ready to date, and it was common for people to mention Leigh’s death, but no one had ever linked the two together like that, as if one were the cause of the other. “Shut up,” she whispered harshly. “Don’t talk about Leigh.”

“Geez, I’m sorry,” Paula said, but not like she was sorry at all. “It’s been four years, hasn’t it?”

It had been three years, seven months, two-hundred and fifteen days, but Beatrice didn’t bother telling Paula that.

Jess stepped onto the patio at that moment and Beatrice was spared from having to respond. Jess carried her cane in one hand and a bowl with a spoon in the other. She wore cargo shorts and an orange T-shirt that said “Caution: Slippery When Wet.”

“Good morning, Jess,” Beatrice said, and added, “There are two tables out here, one round and one square, and eight chairs. And a swing.”

“But I’m on it,” Paula said. There was room on the swing for three people, but Paula spread her legs wide, like a man, to claim it all.

“Good morning.” Jess moved forward and guided herself around the chairs until she found one in the sun. She sat and ate her cereal without speaking again.

Beatrice finished her coffee and tried to quell the painful throbbing of her heart caused by Paula’s thoughtless words. She was about to rise and get another cup when Carmen appeared in the doorway. She had a glass of milk in one hand and a plate with donuts in the other, and she was grinning. She joined Beatrice at her table. Beatrice settled back down. She couldn’t leave Carmen to fend with Paula by herself.

“Look,” Carmen said. “They’re homemade.” She took a bite.

“Donuts for breakfast?” Paula asked.

Carmen looked up, saw Paula, and her face turned brick red. She spit the bite of donut out onto the plate.

Beatrice felt her stomach turn, not at the gooey mess on the plate, but at Carmen’s whipped puppy demeanor around Paula.

“It’s not your business what she eats,” Beatrice said.

“It was my business when we were together,” Paula said, “but she wouldn’t listen to me then either. She just kept getting fatter and fatter.”

“It was not your business then either,” Beatrice said. “Unless you’re feeding a small child, it’s never your business what someone else puts in her body.”

“No, it’s all right,” Carmen said, pushing the plate away. “I don’t need to eat this.”

“It’s my business when I’m putting my business in her body,” Paula said and laughed.

“God, what are you, sixteen?” Beatrice pushed the plate of donuts back at Carmen. “Eat what you want.”

Carmen blinked at the plate and bit her lip.

A thumping signaled the arrival of Tish. She paused in the doorway and rested her armpits on the crutches. Her denim skirt was already short, and the crutches hiked it up even further so that her ass nearly hung out. Paula was right. Tish had a cute little body now, but she would probably be fat someday.

“Can somebody get me some breakfast?” Tish asked.

Not even a please. When did the girl become so graceless? She’d been such a sweet kid. She had rough times, of course, and her coming out had been brutal, but she’d always been polite, at least. Beatrice had let her go the last few years. Things seemed so much easier for gay and lesbian youth these days, and she’d thought Tish didn’t need or want guidance from an aunt thirty years her senior. That was a mistake, she realized now. Somehow during that time, the Tish she knew had gotten lost.

Nobody responded to Tish’s plea, and Beatrice felt the others eye her. She was the correct person to help, but she didn’t want to reward Tish’s rudeness.

“Aunt Bea?” Tish asked, disrespect in the very tone of her voice, and Beatrice wanted to send her to her room without any breakfast at all.

Jess stood. “I’ll help.”

Beatrice flushed and rose from her chair. “No, no, I’ll do it. Sit down, Jess. You too, Tish. I’ll bring you something.”

Tish clomped onto the patio and joined Jess at her table.

The breakfast room was dark after the brightness of the patio, and it took a moment for Beatrice’s eyes to adjust. She popped a couple slices of raisin bread into the toaster and poured a glass of orange juice. She turned to lean against the sideboard while the bread toasted and was surprised to see Veronica sitting at the table. She wore crisp yellow capris and a white top, daisy fresh, but when she looked up Beatrice saw that her eyes were swollen. Either she hadn’t slept much the night before, or she’d been crying.

“Good morning,” Beatrice said.

“Good morning.” Veronica’s voice was husky, and Beatrice guessed crying.

“Paula’s on the patio,” Beatrice said.

“I know,” Veronica said. “That’s why I’m staying in here.”

Beatrice liked Veronica, she decided. “If you need to get away from her,” she said, “just let me know. I’ll help.”

The toast popped up, and Beatrice was still buttering it when Dakota barreled into the room clad in nothing but a thin ribbed tank top and boxer shorts.

“Have you seen Amy? Have you?”

“No,” Beatrice said. “Not today.”

Veronica shook her head.

Dakota ran out the French doors. “Have any of you seen Amy this morning?”

Beatrice heard a chorus of no’s. She followed Dakota outside and set the toast and juice in front of Tish.

“She’s gone,” Dakota said.

 

 

Excerpt: The Orion Mask – a new novel by author Greg Herren

The Orion Mask

by

Greg Herren

Blurb:

Heath Brandon’s mother died when he was barely three years old. His father never spoke about her, or her family. So when her family reaches out to him after his father’s death, Heath decides to make the trip to Louisiana to get to know the only family he has left.But he soon learns that there was a lot more to his mother’s death than he ever knew…and the beautiful old mansion on the Mississippi River has many secrets, secrets someone would kill to protect.And the key to everything that happened when he was a child just might be hidden in his own memory

 

Excerpt:

The Runway Bar was weathered and old, and had gone through many different iterations and name changes over the years. Someone had told me it had been built during Prohibition, when Bay City was a popular destination for rum runners smuggling contraband liquor into Florida from Cuba. Located a block or so away from the airport entrance, it was a popular after work watering hole for airport employees. The icy air conditioning blasted me in the face when I opened the door and walked inside. Some of my co-workers were there, sharing a couple of pitchers of beer in their uniforms. An old Garth Brooks tune was blaring from the jukebox. I saw Jerry Channing sitting at a small table back in a corner, nursing a Corona with a wedge of lemon floating inside the bottle. I walked back to where he was sitting and sat down across from him. “All right,” I said. “I’m here. What is this about?”

“I’m interested in your mother.” He tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “What did your father tell you about Genevieve?” He said it familiarly, like he’d known her, as he picked up the bottle and took a drink.

“He refused to talk about her, so he didn’t tell me anything.” I replied, ordering a bottle of beer from the waitress who’d materialized while I was speaking. Once she moved away, I shrugged slightly. “So I don’t really know much about her, other than what I could find on-line. She was a painter. She killed herself. That’s pretty much it.” And the one time my father talked about her, he said she was an evil woman. But you don’t need to know that. “Did you know her?”

“She lived and died before the Internet,” Jerry said with a shake of his head, ignoring my question. “Believe me, if the Internet had been what it is today when she died, there would be plenty about her for you to find. Although your grandfather did a really good job keeping it all quiet, and out of the papers. That must have cost him a pretty penny, but I imagine he thought—still thinks—it was worth it. The Legendre name is damned important to him.”

The waitress set my beer down on the table, and he paid for it. Once she left, I asked, “Why was it such a big deal to keep it out of the papers? Was it because she was a Catholic? And suicide was a sin?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me you don’t even know how she died?”

“She committed suicide when I was three years old.” I sipped my beer. “Big deal.”

“She committed suicide?” He took a deep breath and stared at me, a puzzled look on his face. “I—you know, maybe I was wrong, and this isn’t such a great idea. I mean, I thought you at least knew some of this. I don’t know if I should be the one to tell you the truth.”

“The truth? There’s more?” I heard my father’s voice, shouting in my head again, you mother was an evil woman. “I told you my father refused to talk about her. He got angry if she was ever mentioned, so how would I know anything other than what I can find on-line?”

He watched me as the jukebox switched from Garth Brooks to Toby Keith’s “I Love This Bar.” He took another drink, almost draining the bottle empty. “Your mother was—it was more than just a suicide, Heath. Your mother was having an affair. She was cheating on your father. She killed her lover and took her own life.”

No wonder Dad didn’t want to talk about her! I saw the pain on his reddened face again as he shouted those words at me. Your mother was an evil woman!

I shook my head, hoping my shock didn’t register on my face. “All he told me was she killed herself, that she didn’t love either him or me enough to go on living. He didn’t say anything about an affair.” I said, picking the label off my beer. The amber bottle was covered with condensation. I felt oddly numb, and even more sympathetic for Dad. How awful that must have been for him!

“And you’ve never met any of your mother’s family?” His face was unreadable, and he was speaking in a professional monotone.

I stared at him. “I—“ I stopped myself from finishing the sentence. “No. All I know about the Legendres is what I’ve read on the website for their estate. Chambord.” I raised my chin. “They’ve never once tried to reach out to me. Not once, in all the years since she—since she died. They don’t care about me, so why should I care about them? The Legendres can go to hell.”

My words were strong, were what I’d always believed, yet I could feel doubt forming, creeping in. Are you sure? Dad didn’t tell me everything. Maybe there’s more to the story…

“Are you sure?” His facial expression didn’t change. “Family is everything to your grandfather—and your mother was your grandparents’ favorite child. I can’t believe your grandmother Nina died without ever trying to see you, to see Genevieve’s only child.” He leaned towards me. “Are you sure they never reached out to you? From everything I’ve been told, your father was really angry when he left Louisiana—not that I can blame him, given what happened. Maybe they tried and he wouldn’t let them?”

I stared at him, remembering how angry my father had been when he told me the truth. He’d been angrier than I’d ever seen him. He wasn’t a man with a temper, he rarely got angry, and he had a lot of patience.

Your mother was an evil woman.

 

Excerpt: Barbara Winkes’ “Indiscretions” – A Carpenter / Harding novel

Indiscretions – A Carpenter / Harding novel

by

Barbara Winkes

Blurb:

After surviving an attack by a stranger, rookie officer Ellie Harding decides to put herself first and make bold moves in both her career and her private life, refusing to let the traumatic incident get her off track.

Detective Jordan Carpenter faces the decision whether to remain in a disastrous, but long-term relationship or give in to the attraction she feels for her younger colleague. Her partner Bethany isn’t willing to let go, of Jordan or the case, a sadistic killer who murders women for behavior he considers immoral.

Can they find him before he strikes again?

Excerpt:

After waking in a cold sweat for the second time, Ellie decided she had enough and got out of bed at 4:37 a.m. Bright and early enough for you, Detective? She hadn’t meant to, but she had already changed habits. For the longest time, she’d wear heels in the morning on her way to work and change back into them after her shift. Lately, the sound of heels on the pavement made her uncomfortable. She knew it would abate with time. Why not hurry the process along? They might not be able to catch the bastard who had jumped her, but if she could assist catching the killer Jordan and her team were after, it would go a long way towards making her feel safer again.

Determined, she slipped into a pair of pumps. Sometime this week, she might even go out with her friends again. If Jordan told her no another time, to hell with her. Ellie would have no problem finding someone else in her pursuit for pleasure.

Jordan wore jeans and a white buttoned down shirt this morning. Ellie had little time to admire her, because they dove into the disturbing reality of the case on the table right away.

“The common theme here seems to be some relationship trouble. This is one thing we know about all the victims so far, a recent breakup. Two of the women straight, one lesbian. The question is where does he find them? Lori Gleason told me she found dates in a chat room. She signed up after her divorce.”

Ellie had done her best to get herself up to date with the facts. Gleason was currently recovering in the hospital. Isabel Hayes’ body had been found behind a dumpster five weeks ago, and the first victim, Eleanor Campbell, had been discovered by trespassing teenagers. The trespassing became rapidly irrelevant, and the high school kids had been taught the lesson of a lifetime in what could happen if you walked into a creepy abandoned building.

“How can we be so sure it’s the same killer?” Jensen asked. “I imagine Hayes would not hang out in the same chat room, for obvious reasons.”

Ellie could see the hint of indulgence on the detectives’ faces. Jordan, however, addressed the question. She pointed to Hayes’ crime scene photo.

“You better hope there aren’t more like him out there. The victims’ injuries are consistent. The rope fibers match. You are right insofar as their life circumstances were different. Gleason preferred the chat room. Isabel Hayes preferred bars. Eleanor Campbell, as far as we know, was the only one in a committed relationship, but the husband’s alibi checks out.”

“He hates women. Sexually active women. Maybe he got rejected.” Ellie didn’t realize she’d said this out loud until all eyes were on her. She shrugged. Ellie had done a lot of reading on why some men hated on women, from her undergraduate days on. A lot of those theories had come back to her lately.

“That’s a possibility.” Jordan’s reaction was rather reserved. “It’s all theory at this point. What we need is to find the link between all those women. They lived in different neighborhoods, but in a relatively small distance. He’s probably local, can’t or won’t travel. I want you to concentrate on the dates from the chat room so far. We have the data from Lori’s computer, every date, every conversation. Look closely for anything suspicious.”

“What about Gleason’s ex?” Jensen inquired.

“He’s coming back from a business trip in Europe. I expect him this afternoon. Meanwhile, let’s hope Lori will remember more.”

Ellie got up, but waited until everyone was beginning their own work. Two of the other detectives left. Jordan, sensing her hesitation, came over to her.

“Lori Gleason…was she raped?” Ellie asked. She hated how all of a sudden, her voice sounded small.

“The rape kit came back negative.” Jordan’s tone was calm and detached, but there was concern in her gaze. They both knew that left a lot of other possibilities. “Will you be okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Okay then. Go find the perfect match online.”

Ellie couldn’t help it, even the probably innocent suggestion brought heat to her face, and lower regions. What kind of person did that make her? They had a job to do, because some women had suffered far worse abuse than she had, and besides, Jordan had a girlfriend. Reason was not helpful.

“More like a date with the devil,” she said lightly. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

“No problem. You still owe me a beer.”

For the next fifteen minutes or so, Ellie kept wondering if she’d really heard her say it. However, her fantasies were certainly not priority. She read pages after pages of emails Lori Gleason had exchanged with potential dates, the tone always ranging from flirty to definitely not safe for work. She felt a bit sick, knowing this was the kind of behavior a man would hardly ever be criticized for. Someone had taken offense, kidnapped, beaten and cut her, would have killed her if the neighbors hadn’t called the police. Because she flirted with men on the internet? Because she enjoyed dating and possibly, sex? The world was fucked up.

She winced at the suggestion of a threesome, and Lori’s response, aware of how easy it was to let one’s own sensibilities and boundaries seep into judgment. As long as they kept it safe, who was she—or anyone—to blame them?

“My friend would like to join us,” Lori had written. “When can we meet?” The date had never come to pass, because of Lori’s abduction. Unless…Ellie stared at the printout until the letters started blurring in front of her eyes. Of course two straight people dating and considering a third party was not the same as Isabel enjoying the lesbian nightlife, except to a sexist murderer it might be. Maybe Eleanor’s marriage hadn’t been that happy after all, and she’d had a secret of her own—they could be looking at a hate crime. Jordan was right. This was a theory, and only one of many possible at this point. They had to stick to the facts.

“I know you’ve been hurt before, and the same is true for me. I want to meet someone who’s committed, who won’t let me down. If you can be that person, I promise you won’t regret it,” said one of the answers Lori had gotten. There might be some people going onto these sites who were honestly looking for a relationship, love. It was hard not to get paranoid. Everybody had something to hide. One of them had sent a poem. Another had promised a trip to an exotic location Lori wouldn’t ever forget.

At least Mr. Threesome with whom the most recent correspondence had taken place, had written emails from his work account. This would be an interesting visit, Ellie thought as she looked up the company, a computer firm, and jotted down the address. The location was right in the center of the circle in which the women had been found.

Jordan, much to Ellie’s disappointment, didn’t send her and Jensen to talk to Lori’s date. Instead, and Ellie realized soon that she was getting the much better deal, she took her to see Lori Gleason. The ride to the hospital was a tad awkward, as Ellie sat straight up, trying not to stare, at Jordan, at her hands on the steering wheel, imagining these hands doing something else instead. She forced herself to keep her gaze straight ahead, focus.

The smells and sounds of the hospital hit her hard. She hadn’t been in here since the night she’d been attacked, and the sensory memories put a jarring halt to her inappropriate thoughts.

There was a uniformed officer in front of Lori Gleason’s room, greeting them briefly. He confirmed with Jordan that no unauthorized person had tried to approach Lori, and they went inside.

Ellie stopped in her tracks at her first look at Gleason. The instant panic on the patient’s face that abated only when she realized her visitors were with the police, the bruises…without a doubt, her injuries were graver than Ellie’s had been, but she had a hard time stopping the unwelcome trip down memory lane.

Jordan introduced her to Lori Gleason, and the woman gave a faint smile that slipped from her face so quickly Ellie might have imagined it.

“How are you today, Ms. Gleason?” Jordan asked, keeping her tone soft, non-threatening.

The blank expression, either from medication or self-protection, told Ellie they weren’t likely to get a lot of information out of her. Gleason shrugged and winced, the movement causing her pain.

“We reached your ex-husband. He was on a business trip, and is coming in today.” The news seemed neither helpful nor upsetting for Lori.

 

“He wouldn’t do anything like that. We had a good marriage.”

“Why did you get divorced?”

“Am I under suspicion for anything?”

Ellie thought to herself that she probably would have reacted the same way.

“No, of course not,” Jordan reassured her. “It’s important for us to figure out why you were targeted.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’ve been wracking my brain every waking moment. I don’t know anymore than I’ve told you. You probably saw the chats by now. I’ve had a few dates. Those were decent people, or at least I assumed so. There’s nothing else I can tell you.”

“I know it’s hard,” Ellie said, stepping forward. Gleason shot her a suspicious look. She showed emotion, which, Ellie assumed, was better than lethargy. Maybe she knew something that hadn’t come to mind yet.

“What do you know?”

“I was attacked some weeks ago. Would you mind?” She pointed to the visitor’s chair, and Lori shook her head.

“Why are you telling me this? You got away—obviously.”

“So did you. I want you to know that it will take some time, but details will come back to you, and that’s not a bad thing. It means you’ll be able to work through them, now that you’re safe.”

Lori’s expression spoke volumes. At this point, it would be hard for her to believe she’d ever feel safe again. Ellie could sympathize. “I’m sure the last thing you want right now is for us to bother you with questions,” she continued. “I hated everyone who asked me about it, I wanted them all to forget about it, so I’d be able to. First of all, I learned it doesn’t work that way. Second, we want this man in prison, so he can never hurt anyone else. So, if there’s anything you can think of, that comes back to you, please let us know.”

“It was dark. He was wearing a mask. I woke up in that basement, and I never saw his face. I’m trying, damn it.”

“I know.” Ellie suppressed the urge to take the woman’s hand. There were situations when touch meant no comfort, on the contrary, it could make a person want to jump out of their skin. “Please know that we’re doing everything we can. You beat the son of a bitch already. You lived.”

Due to a coincidence, but still. Ellie had the uncomfortable feeling that the woman was able to read her mind. They both had been lucky to benefit from the quick thinking and kindness of strangers. What did it mean? The world wasn’t ever safe, no matter how much you tried to prepare for the worst.

“Did they get him?” Lori asked, startling her. “The guy who attacked you, was he arrested?”

Ellie was tempted to lie to her, but she thought the woman deserved better. “No.” Lori’s face fell. “Which doesn’t mean anything for your case. He left traces, people like that make mistakes. We’ll catch him. I promise.”

 

Excerpt: Book #4 in the Dick Hardesty Mystery Series – The Hired Man by Dorien Grey

“The Hired Man“ is the fourth book of the Dick Hardesty Mystery series to be reissued by Untreed Reads publishing. It centers around murder and intrigue in an exclusive gay male escort service. E-book releases

Excerpt:

Lunch turned out to be an incredible crab salad with a side dish of fresh fruit–slices of honeydew melon, cantaloupe, watermelon, and sprinkled with fresh raspberries.

We small-talked pleasantly through lunch, and Johnnie Mae returned with coffee, then took the empty dishes back to the house on the same tray.

“So tell us, Mr. Hardesty,” Mrs. Glick said as we drank our coffee, “what was it you wanted to ask?”

I glanced quickly at Mr. Glick and thought I noticed just a flicker of…what?…discomfort? …cross his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual expression of complete composure. I felt suddenly very awkward, not really knowing what to say.

Gary caught on instantly. “Perhaps I should excuse myself,” he said with a small smile, but Mrs. Glick reached out and touched his arm.

“Nonsense,” she said. “I’m sure whatever Mr. Hardesty has to ask isn’t privileged…” she glanced at me, “is it, Mr. Hardesty.”

“Well, no…it’s just a general question about the escorts’ services.”

“Please,” Mr. Glick said, “ask.”

I took what wasn’t obviously apparent was a deep breath. “I understand that each of the escorts is selected partly for their ability to cater to…specific…client requests, with each one providing a different area of expertise.”

Jeezus, Hardesty! You want to try that one again, in English? my mind asked.

Mr. Glick gave a very small smile of amusement. “That’s true, yes.”

Oh, to hell with pussyfooting, I decided. “Are any of your escorts bisexual?” I asked.

There was a long silence, until Mrs. Glick said “Well, we understand that several of the escorts have had heterosexual experiences, yes.”

I recognized sidestepping when I saw it, and pushed ahead. “Yes, and I realize that a large number of your clients are themselves bisexual, but do any of your escorts specialize in requests for bisexual activity involving women?”

Another awkward silence, until….

“That would be me,” Gary said with a smile, his eyes fixed on mine.

 

E-book:

http://www.amazon.com/Hired-Dick-Hard...

Paperback:

http://store.untreedreads.com/index.p...

 

 

 

Excerpt: Still Waters (Memoirs of the Human Wraiths) by F.E. Feeley Jr.

Still Waters

by

F.E. Feeley Jr.

 

Excerpt:

SUMMERTIME HAD come to the Great Lake State of Michigan and to the little town of Promise. A quaint little burg down I-96, where those considered low-income still earned triple digits, far from the hustle and slums of Detroit, Promise boasted magnificent shops and stretches of beautiful homes with deep yards and nice cars. The high school, home of the Indians, was state of the art, modern, the curriculum tough, and the teachers’ salaries kept them happy. The town was truly the land of milk and honey for those wealthy enough to afford it. A picture of the modern Gilded Age, where everything in town was connected by telephone wires and gossip like spindly threads of a spider’s web. When a new family moved in, the lines hummed, and before the family could finish unpacking, several neighbors would show up at their door with baskets, pies, or fresh flowers from their gardens to welcome them to the neighborhood. Which, on the outside, looked pleasant enough, but these little visits were less a welcome wagon and more of an interview, and the people who came, less like neighbors and more like spies. These spies not only assessed the people themselves but their belongings. All the information gathered would be traded via the telephone wires that crisscrossed over their new neighbor’s home, without the new family being aware. It was a test of sorts, given to these new tenants, of whether or not they would be accepted into the social circles of the locals. If you made enough money, voted Republican, and believed Barack Obama was the Antichrist—if you drove the right car, were fashionably religious, and never wore white shoes after Labor Day—you were accepted with open arms. You were automatically welcomed into their circles if you had enough money to purchase a home on Promise Lake, the most expensive of the residential areas, and were dragged into the who’s who of the town. All the others—the ones who lived in subdivisions run by associations, where Labrador retrievers and red begonias in copper pots were all the rage this season—had to work just a little bit harder. The kids, however, were luckier than their triple-digit parents. Promise High School, for whatever reason, always boasted a rebellious streak along with high grades. It was almost fashionable to kick against the pricks as hard as possible there. They longed for the day when they could get out, far away from having to be under their parents’ roofs, and silently vowed to themselves to always vote Democrat. The kids sensed something was amiss. They couldn’t quite figure it out, but deep down they knew that Promise was unlike most places where what you got was what you saw. Something deeper than greed, envy, and lust ran amuck. Other far more malignant things traversed in the deep shadows between shops and back alleys. That night the weather was balmy, but the wind blew through the trees so hard that branches whipped and leaves sighed as if pleased to be cooled from the heat of the day. Above, thousands of stars dotted the night sky as the moon shone orange across the surface of the still lake. These same winds forced the clouds to pass overhead quickly as the moon cast its glow on the earth below before being covered once more, like a game of peek-a-boo with the world. The water’s surface broke only by the occasional jump of a fish as it surfaced for a mayfly that had strayed too close to the water. The lake rippled out in tiny waves until it settled again, making the surface of the lake a still mirror reflecting the sky once more. Around the shore, houses sat quiet and still that Wednesday night in May. The humidity was thick, floating in the air like strands of ancient memory, wispy and tendril-like. It swirled around street lamps, which dotted the deserted concrete walkway that stretched around the far side of the lake. In the center of the lake sat an island, dark and quiet. Its many trees reached up toward heaven as if in supplication to some long-dead god. The island was large—big enough at least to build a large home upon it, but no one had ever tried. No one wanted to. The stories that surrounded this island kept everyone away, except of course for the silly high school kids sent across on a dare. Legends old and urban hovered over that little piece of earth, and the locals whispered about them to their children who were being naughty. Stories of an ancient people who once roamed the lands of Michigan, stories about curses, and stories about what would happen should they not behave themselves and clean their plates. The children listened with wide-eyed fascination.


The heat made its way back now that summer was again upon them, and people were happy to have it. After a long, frozen winter, summer would bring revelers, travelers, and sunbathers to the shore of the spring-fed lake. Soon Memorial Day would be upon them. Barbeques would be held in the small segment of the lake that was a state park, where sand had been trucked in to make a small beach and families would frolic in the shallow, unusually cool water. On the lake, fishermen would take their little boats out and cast lines, and on July Fourth the township would host a fireworks display as it had done for the past twenty years or so. Promise was a good place to raise a family. Income was high and crime was low. For the adults, it was still a work night, even if the majority of them made their own schedules. Most of the adults there dealt with the end of the school year, with graduation parties on the weekends and trips to Cedar Point with the younger children. Come September they would be escorting their new college students to university either in Ann Arbor or Lansing, or even down to the biggest football rival, Ohio. It was the kind of night that inspired young lovers to their first kiss and old lovers to wrap an arm around the shoulder of their loved one as they rocked in their front-porch swings. The fragrance of freshly cut grass and evening dew hung so heavy and sweet you could almost taste the nectar of the flowers. On the horizon, far off to the west, heavy clouds brought the promise of a rain shower later in the evening as lightning zigzagged with celestial arcs, illuminating the clouds. It wasn’t close enough yet to hear thunder, but it would come, and in the morning the roses, which had just begun to bloom steadily, would drip when the beads of rain they’d collected became too heavy to stay on their tender petals. That night was also heavily shadowed. As the breeze bent the sturdiest of trees and swung around their leaves, the branches and limbs cast darkness in mysterious and elongated shapes. It was the kind of night that scared children at two in the morning as tree limbs scratched at windows, when the familiar became phantoms that made them crawl into their parents’ beds. Being home alone would cause a person to turn on lights and fall asleep watching television just to drown out the sound of the whistling winds. The music of the night was a trade-off—inspiration and fear. Life, the perfect neutral referee, would host both joy and tears. In the ever-spinning lottery that was the world, all one had to do to play was breathe.


Bret Williams wasn’t worried about the cost of college that fall or about going to campus to find a job to supplement his income, even though he had acceptance letters from all three schools, two of which were nearly begging him to attend due to his SAT scores. He wasn’t thinking about buying books, finding housing, or cleaning out his room, which his mother had begged him to do before he left for school in the fall. She had meekly informed him that she would be turning his bedroom into a sewing room once he vacated. Bret didn’t mind. They didn’t really want him back, and to be honest, he didn’t want to come back. Not after what they’d done. Not after what they’d said. Bret’s parents had fallen into the snares of those concerned more with wealth and image than family and home. His mother, a former ballet instructor, now stayed home and “took care” of her husband. Bret’s father worked to “take care” of his wife and son. They used to be happy, back when they were struggling to make it, but all that had changed when money became the focus of their lives. Bret was able to handle most of it, rolled his eyes about the rest, and ignored the worst—well, that was until it became personal. Mom and Dad became Elle May and Doug, two people he didn’t recognize anymore. That night, Bret’s stomach was in terrible knots with those thoughts and with another as he left the police station for the thirteenth time already this week. He braked hard at a stop sign and quickly grabbed hold of the stack of paper on the passenger seat to keep it from flying forward and spilling into the floorboard of the car. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the photo he had been staring at for the past few days. Adam’s face grinned back at him from the black-and-white photo, his eyes dancing with mirth as if he knew a secret—as if he knew where he was and refused to tell Bret. Adam was handsome and kept his blond hair carelessly long though it easily fit underneath his swimmer’s cap on the high school team, where they’d met three years ago.


With a sigh, Bret sat back in the driver’s seat and whispered, “Where are you, baby?”


“Your breast-stroke needs work” came a voice through the din of slamming lockers and shuffling feet. Bret, lost in his own stormy thoughts, nearly jumped out of his skin. Looking to the right of where he sat, he continued two feet upward to muscular thighs and the white-towel-clad waist of the person standing next to him. Sitting back, he skipped the muscular abdominals and chest he had admired from afar since the beginning of the semester, straight up to the face of Adam Woolsey, the best swimmer on the team. Adam’s piercing blue eyes looked at him sympathetically, unlike everyone else on the team after Bret had brought down their average score. Bret felt his face heat up for the briefest moment but then dissipate as he cast his eyes back to the floor. “Yeah.” “Dude, really, don’t sweat it. It just takes practice and style. You’re new here, right?” Adam asked, sitting next to Bret. “Yeah. I transferred from Belleville High at the end of last year. My dad got a new job,” Bret said with a smirk. “I’m Adam, nice to meet you.” He extended a hand. Bret swallowed hard. “Bret. Same here,” he said, shaking Adam’s hand. It was solid and warm despite them having climbed out of the cold pool a few minutes prior when Coach had launched into his tirade at Bret—how he’d better shape up if he planned on staying on the team. Bodies around Bret and Adam shuffled flip-flop-clad feet along, avoiding slick spots, into the waiting steam and soap of the locker room showers. “You’re not a swimmer, are you?” Adam asked. “Nah, I was a gymnast, but we don’t have a program like that here,” Bret said, removing his shirt. “You’ve got a great body, but I see where the problem is. As a gymnast, you train different, your muscles are more square. Swimmers’ muscles tend to be longer and smooth. We can change that, but it’s going to take practice, is all,” he said with an inviting smile and a welcoming gaze. Bret nodded. “I’m down for a change.” “Good. We’ll meet after school every day for an hour. Do you have wheels of your own?”


“Meh… yeah, but I haven’t put the engine back in yet,” Bret said, thinking about the 1970 GTO he’d found at a junkyard and was restoring. “Oh, no sweat, then, you can always hitch a ride with me. Anyway, we’ll start today. Come on, let’s shower, otherwise we’ll be late for fourth period.”


And with that, it had begun….


A CAR horn honked behind him, jarring Bret out of the memory. They didn’t wait for him to move, just whipped around while someone yelled out their window. In anger Bret flipped them off as they tore through the intersection and down the road. He threw the photo flier back atop the stack and wiped away the tears that came too quickly as of late. Biting his tongue to stave them off, he flipped on the radio and turned it up. “…search continues tonight for missing high school graduate and three-time state swim champion Adam Woolsey. Authorities have said that its possible Adam has left town and there is no sign of foul play, but there has been no word from him in several days. Stay with….” Bret drove through the intersection and passed Promise High School before making his way home, listening to the radio as he turned left at the next intersection. He rode up Willis Drive, the road parallel to the lake, and eventually pulled into his parents’ driveway. Killing the ignition, he sat back and sighed. He wanted to go into that house as badly as he wanted a bullet hole between his eyes, but it was just for a few more days. The Woolseys had told him to stay with them, but with Adam missing, they were so upset, Bret didn’t want to be a burden on them and a constant reminder that Adam was gone. Angrily he opened the car door and was met by the deep bark of his dog Kaiser. He walked around to the back door, inserted his key, and met the tail-wagging one-hundred-pound German shepherd he and Adam had bought together last year. At least someone in this house is happy to see me. Bret reached down and petted the dog’s silky fur. Kaiser sat back on his haunches and brought a paw up, and Bret knelt to scratch his neck. “We’re still looking for your Adam.” The dog whined and nuzzled his hand.


“Bret, is that you?” his mother called from deeper inside the house. “No, it’s the fucking Boston Strangler, who has a key to the house,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Bret?” she called again, obviously not hearing him. “Yeah! It’s me, Ma!” he said again. He motioned for Kaiser to move, and the dog backed up enough to allow him to ascend the stairs into the kitchen, but stayed right at his heels, sniffing the backs of his pant legs, trying to figure out where he’d been and who he’d been with. Bret swiped backward with his hand. “Get out of my butt!” The dog reared his head before Bret could make contact with his nose. Mrs. Elle May Williams came into the kitchen with hope in her eyes. “Have you heard anything about Aaron?” she asked politely. “You mean Adam,” Bret said, annoyed with the same smile she offered him every time. “Yes, him. Any word?” She looked at him expectantly. She loathed Adam. Loathed what Adam meant to him, who they’d been, what they were. Bret felt the anger rise like bile in him, but he just shook his head as Kaiser nudged at his hand, feeling the tension in the room. “Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up just fine,” she said. “Your father will be home in a few days. You may want to get a head start finding campus housing. I mean, the fall is coming quickly, and it’ll take your mind off your friend.” “Fiancé,” Bret replied. “Excuse me?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Fiancé, Mother. I am not leaving behind someone I love because—” “Please, don’t try to dignify what the both of you do as love.” “Oh, right. Because that’s what you and Dad have? Tell me, when Dad had his affair with—what was her name… Jessica?—was that love as well?” Bret fired back with a smile on his lips. His mother’s lips puckered, and he watched as her fury grew. “You little son of a bitch, how dare you—” she said, growing furious, but Bret put up a hand. “Tell the truth? Look, let’s just keep from jumping on the merry-go-round of knives, shall we? Stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. Deal?” he asked.


“Fine. But I will be telling your father when he gets back,” she sniffed, putting her hands on her hips and then dropping them in outrage as Bret suddenly burst into laughter. “Oh no,” he said, grabbing his heart. “Oh, please don’t tell Daddy. What will I do with his disapproval?” “Oh, you don’t care much about his approval, I know. Your father cheated on me because he couldn’t handle having a gay son. It disgusted him,” she said venomously. The statement would have hurt him if he hadn’t turned her off a long time ago. He still wanted to slap her. But instead, he decided he’d hit another way. “Mother, your husband cheated on you because when we moved here, his wife became Queen Ice Bitch of Promise Lake. That, and Jessica was twenty-three. So don’t put your Stepford bullshit on me,” he fired back. She took an angry step forward, and Kaiser let out a menacing growl that caused her to hesitate. However, the look of fury on her face was replaced with one of stone calm, something that scared Bret even more than their heated war of words. She was beginning another “how dare you” statement, which had become common since her discovery of Bret’s sexuality, when Kaiser let out a series of very loud barks that caused them both to jump. The reflection of two lights across the kitchen wall caused Bret to turn as a car pulled into the driveway. “Kaiser, come on,” he said, snapping his fingers. The dog turned from the window and looked at Bret before wagging his tail and following him on his way to the stairs that led up to his room. “Where are you going?” his mother demanded, and Bret turned and was about to respond when a car door slammed and a voice tore through the night—and right into his heart. “Bret! Bret!” The voice sobbed and broke the second time. The tortured sound hit him like a truck. His heart skipped, and the truth he was yet to discover, the hand fate had held, was shown for the first time. Bret’s mouth went dry as his throat constricted, and he swore if he were to try to step forward, he would fall flat, but with another shout of “Bret!” he ran forward. He knew the voice, and Kaiser was hot on his heels while his mother complained about the racket they were causing.


Bret hit the door, his heart lodged in his throat and his knees trembling. Kaiser rushed between his legs to the person standing in the light of the car. Bret’s view was obscured as the beams from the headlights stole his night vision, but Kaiser knew the newcomer and got out of their way as they came into focus. It was Timmy, Adam’s older brother, and the look on his face screamed through Bret’s body like electricity as realization dawned horribly in his mind. The cards were being laid out on the table. “No.” Bret sobbed, shook his head, and brought his hand up to his mouth. As if shaking his head would somehow slay the dragon, he reached out for Timmy as his knees finally gave out on him. Timmy fell too as he gathered Bret in his arms, as Adam’s mother and father shrouded both boys in grief. Kaiser, unsure of what was happening, raised his head toward the sky and let out his own mournful wail as they wept, their tears soaking the parched concrete driveway with the truth. Adam wouldn’t be coming home.