Josh Lanyon's Blog, page 75

Christmas Coda 23

Griff and Hamar from OTHER PEOPLE'S WEDDINGS


 
It was like a bad dream.
Or a bad movie.
One of those straight-to-DVD horror flicks where the normally intelligent protagonist has a brain cloud and forgets to bring his phone charger — coincidentally on the very same exact night his car breaks down in the middle of nowhere.
Were Griff sitting in the front row of a theater — or his own living room couch — he’d have been scoffing and making jokes. But instead he was sitting in his car on the loneliest stretch of highway in all of North Dakota. Or so it felt sitting there in the dark as the wind shook the car. Nothing to joke about, that was for sure.
There was not a house, not a light, not a sign of life for as far as he could see. In the far distance he could just make out the silver framework of a couple of power towers. A tumble weed rolled past his stationary car.
This was his own fault. He should never have attended the Armstrong-Conrad wedding this evening. Who the hell got married on Christmas Eve? He had tried to no avail to get Christie (short for Christmas) to rethink her plans. She already shared a birthday with Baby Jesus, did she really want her wedding tied up with the holiday as well? But yes, it appeared she did. Was adamant on the subject. Originally she’d tried for Christmas day itself.
Griff should have stipulated he couldn’t attend the wedding if she insisted on that date. He should have settled with looking in, making sure everything was running smoothly, and ducking out again. But no. Control freak that he was, he’d stayed all the way until the reception was underway. And now here he was stuck by the side of the road on Christmas Eve.
Which would have been bad enough. Getting stuck on any night would have been bad enough. But Christmas Eve? Especially this Christmas Eve which would have been the first he and Hamar Sorenson had spent together since junior high. He could have cried with frustration and disappointment.
Worst of all, he couldn’t even explain to Hamar where he was, why he wasn’t answering the door when Hamar finally managed to get off work and come over to Griff’s, which would be… Griff flicked on the cab light and checked his watch. Hamar should be getting off work right about now.
What would he think when Griff didn’t answer the door? Would he think Griff forgot they were getting together? Or that Griff lost track of the time? Would he think Griff was playing some weird, mean trick? Or maybe Hamar would be delayed. He often was on their date nights. The pitfall of being Sheriff in a small town like Binbell.
Griff groaned. The sound was startling in the vast surrounding silence.
Okay. Get a grip. It wasn’t the end of the world. Yes, it was horribly disappointing. He’d gone to such pains to make sure everything would be perfect tonight, the first of what he hoped might be a lifetime of Christmases together. He’d bought new sheets, warm, super soft, flannel sheets, and he’d prepared — okay, bought — a very special Christmas Eve supper for them, starting off with smoked oysters. A bottle of Dom Perignon was chilling in the fridge.
Everything was as special, as perfect, as Griff could make it because…because he had realized a couple of weeks ago that he loved Hamar. Not the love for someone he’d grown up with, known like a brother, even had a crush on for a brief time, but real love, grown-up love, the kind of love that made the good times so much better and the bad times bearable. The kind of love that could see you all the way through your old age.
And he hoped that Hamar felt the same. They had been seeing each other since the previous February. Hamar seemed happy to spend most of his — admittedly rare — free time with Griff. He was an enthusiastic and attentive lover. But there had been no words of love spoken between them, no indication that Hamar wished their arrangement to become permanent. Anyway, gay marriage was so far still banned in North Dakota, so it was sort of moot.
Damn Christie Armstrong. Well, now Christie Conrad. Would she eventually try to schedule the birth of her first child for this date as well? Probably. That at least would not be Griff’s problem.
He sighed, leaning forward to stare out the windshield at the black sky blazing with stars. At least there was no snow in the immediate forecast — although there was still plenty of it along the side of the road. It was okay. He wasn’t going to freeze to death. He had a wool blanket in the back seat and, Christmas or not, someone would be along this road early tomorrow morning. He’d be fine. He’d explain everything to Hamar when he saw him at Christmas dinner. Griff had been invited to Hamar’s mother’s house tomorrow, so that was something to look forward to.
The house would be full of candles and red tulips and there would be dark beer and glögg — mulled spiced wine — with the Scandinavian cheeses, crackers and liverwurst enjoyed before the fireplace. At dinner there would be pickled herring and tart beet salad and the most delicious mustard-crusted ham. Lots to eat and drink and very good company to share it with.
Griff had bought Hamar a hand carved chess set. They had played chess and checkers a lot as boys and they had recently gotten back to playing board games in the evenings. Was that a good sign or was it a sign they didn’t have enough to talk about?
Griff shivered. He turned around and felt for the wool blanket in the back seat. It was below zero tonight, that was for sure. He hoped he could wait till morning to pee. The idea of getting out in that freezing, wind-scoured, pitch-black night was not a happy one.
He bundled himself in his coat, wrapped the blanket around himself, and put back the car seat. He determinedly shut his eyes.
 
 
He dreamed he was flying through the bitterly cold night on Santa’s sleigh. Griff grabbed the toys and parcels from Santa’s packs and handed them over to an elf who dropped them down into the chimneys below them. Sometimes the elf’s aim was good, but sometimes he missed, and Griff could hear the toys and packages hitting the rooftops. He handed over a chess set, and the elf simply threw it out of the sleigh, and Griff could hear all the pieces knocking on the rooftops as they sailed over.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Griff pried opened his eyes.
KNOCK. KNOCK. “Griff?” Hamar called from outside the car. He tried the door handle. “Griffin, can you hear me?”
Griff sat up and fumbled for the door. The blast of frigid air that blew in made him gasp. But the next moment, Hamar’s warm arms were around him.
“What happened?” Hamar’s voice sounded muffled, he was holding Griff so tight it was hard to breathe. “I’ve been searching for you for hours.”
“I think the alternator went out.”
“Why the hell didn’t you call?”
Griffingrimaced, though Hamar couldn’t see it as Griff’s face was still pressed into the rough front of his sheepskin-lined coat. “The battery is dead on my cell phone.”
“For God’s sake,” Hamar exclaimed. “I was afraid you were in an accident!” He continued to clarify his feelings for the length of time it took to hustle Griffinover to his SUV which was blessedly warm thanks to the blast of a very efficient heater.
“Th-thank you for coming to get me,” Griffin managed between chattering teeth.
Hamar directed all the heater vents his way. “Why aren’t you on the main highway?”
“I was in a hurry to get home, so I, er, took a shortcut.”
Hamar’s face in the wan overhead light said it all. He looked strained and weary, which was sort of gratifying, though mostly Griff just felt guilty. Guilty and grateful. Hamar must have searched every back road from Binbell to Minot.
“Next time you decide to take a shortcut, call me first.”
“Okay.” Griff smiled. Next time sounded very good, even though Griff planned to make sure there were no repeats of this adventure.
Hamar left him defrosting and went to lock up his car. He returned with Griff’s day planner and cell phone.
They stopped at a gas station and convenience store. Griff used the restroom and then joined Hamar in the little café. He drank the two cups of terrible but boiling hot coffee Hamar bought him, and ate a hot pretzel. He felt much better, even if he looked like he’d spent the night on the prairie, which, granted, he had.
“I had such nice plans for last night,” he told Hamar sadly.
Hamar just shook his head. He too looked better after a couple of cups of coffee. More like his usual imperturbable self.
They walked back out to Hamar’s vehicle and climbed inside. Hamar adjusted the rearview mirror, which did not need adjusting, cleared his throat, and said, “I was going to ask you last night, but that didn’t work, so I don’t think I’ll wait for the next perfect moment. I’m just going to ask you.”
“Okay,” Griff said. Hamar sounded brisk and businesslike.
“My annual vacation is next April.”
“Right.” Last year Hamar had gone backpacking with college friends. Griff figured it would be something like that again this year. At least it was only two weeks.
“I think we should go to California and get married.”
Griff’s jaw dropped.
Hamar smiled self-consciously. “You’re a wedding planner. Didn’t you ever want to get married yourself?”
“Well, yes. Of course. I just didn’t think it would be — I didn’t think you would want that.”
Hamar shrugged. “I never thought about it until you. But yes. I want that. With you. Will you marry me?”
Being a wedding planner Griff had imagined every possible romantic variation on this theme. Moonlight, roses, and Prince Charming in a matching tux. But Hamar had not been part of those fantasies. Never. Griff’s feelings for Hamar ran too deep. Dreaming of what could never be with Hamar would simply be too painful.
Nor had a proposal in front of a gas station after a freezing night in his car been part of the fantasy.
But here he was with Hamar, who looked as confident and assured as ever — except for that little trace of uncertainty in his blue eyes — and it looked very much like none of his fantasies were coming true. Reality was so much better.

Christmas Coda 22

Tim and Luke from THE PARTING GLASS



  “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” Luke said, enunciating around his toothbrush. He wore a large yellow bath towel slung fetchingly around his lean hips, and a dab of shaving cream under his right ear.I drew back from the long mirror over the bathroom counter and the double sinks. “I was trying to think if I should shave or not.”“Why would you want to shave?”“I don’t know.” I frowned at my reflection. “I look okay, right?”“You’re asking for an objective opinion? I’m kind of partial to your looks.”“Okay. Good.”He grinned at me and toothpaste spilled out of his mouth. I laughed. Luke laughed too, rinsed, spat, patted his face with a plushy yellow towel. He straightened, still smiling but serious when he said, “You know, we don’t have to go to this thing tonight.”“Yeah, we do. It’s New Year’s. Karen will be disappointed if we don’t show up.”“She’s going to have a houseful of people. She won’t notice if we’re not there.”“Hey. I’d like to think that’s not true.”“You know what I mean.”I did, yeah. And I appreciated that he was, as usual, looking out for me. We’d been together since May. Well, not immediately togethertogether because it had taken Luke a month to leave his job and put his place on the market, but even when we were apart I felt like we were together. It was a first to feel so secure. To know that whatever came at us, we’d be facing it together. I still found that sort of amazing.“You know what?”His reflection slanted hazel eyes my way in inquiry.“I’m looking forward to tonight.”“Are you?” He looked surprised, and no wonder. For the first two years of my sobriety I’d been afraid to go anywhere, do anything that might put me in proximity with alcohol. Hell, coffee with friends had seemed perilous. Not that I’d had so many friends back then.“I am. I’m not even sure why exactly. I’m looking forward to the new year. And I like the idea of celebrating with friends. I know for sure I’m not going to drink. Plus I’ll have someone to talk to all night. The best looking guy there.”“That’s funny,” Luke said. “I was thinking the same thing.” “That you’re going to be the best looking guy there tonight?” I teased, squeezing past him on my way to the bedroom.He reached back and caught my arm, pulling me back against him. He was smiling as he pressed a Crest-flavored kiss against my mouth. I smiled a kiss back, reached down and unfastened the towel at his waist.

Christmas Coda 21

Julian and David from The Dark Farewell



A child was crying disconsolately from down the dark hall.A woman began to sob, her voice blending in melancholy harmony with that of the child. David, rooted in place at the other end of the hall, shook off his inertia and forced himself forward. But when he reached the closed door of Mrs. Sweet’s parlor in the Greenwich Village brownstone where he and Julian roomed, he stopped.The woman was still sobbing. But now he could hear Julian’s voice, husky with weariness and emotion, speaking to her, comforting her. David could not make out the words. He took off his homburg, turning it uneasily in his gloved hands.Behind the heavy door, another woman’s voice joined in. She sounded shaken. As well she might.The first woman’s voice raised in supplication. Julian spoke reassuringly.Why? Why did Julian persist in this? Knowing how David felt?David became aware that he was standing in a puddle of water. Snow melted from his boots and the shoulders of his ulster, dripping to the parquet floor in soft plops.From the other side of the door came a sudden change in voices, the scrape of chairs, and he moved away from the door, walking a few steps down the hall, going to the window that overlooked the snowy terrace of the brownstone next door.The snow formed tall, white pyramids on the round finials of the stone balustrade. No sign of their neighbor. Maybe today was too cold even for young Mr. Flipkey and his violin. That was not his real name, of course. His real name was Feldleit. David called him Flipkey, which meant nothing, but sounded suitably dismissive. Dismissive because David did not like Mr. Flipkey. Or, more exactly, did not like the fact that Julian did. Liked Mr. Flipkey’s fiddle playing, anyway. Didn’t mind that Flipkey fiddled at all hours of the day and night. No, Julian would walk out onto their own terrace and listen, enrapt, for as long as Flipkey chose to play. As though Flipkey were exercising some enchantment over him.David smiled sourly. At least he didn’t kid himself he was anything but what he was. Jealous.Part of the problem was the way he and Julian had met…The door down the hall opened. David glanced around as two women exited the parlor. They were both young, both fashionably dressed, though the taller was dressed in mourning. The smaller woman supported her sister down the hall and out the door. There was a flash of gray day, a gust of winter’s breath. The evergreen and holly garland knocked against the wainscoting like a ghostly hand.Julian did not appear.David waited, trying to decide.Three days ago he would have gone in at once, intending to soothe and solace, but in truth he would have snapped and scolded. He couldn’t seem to help it. They had been so happy together. For a year — a little more than a year, in fact. David had been happier than he could ever remember. He had nursed Julian through his long illness following the terrible shock of the events of last summer, and they had grown even closer during that quiet, closeted time. Julian had regained his health and, mercifully, the troubling visions seemed to leave him entirely. His fits grew less frequent, less violent. There was no sign the troubling predictions of idiocy, feeble-mindedness, or madness that medical books and physicians alike warned of would materialize.Julian settled into David’s world with every appearance of contentment. He was happy, healthy. He charmed David’s friends with his boyish enthusiasm and exotic beauty. David had fallen ever more deeply, helplessly in love. He had begun to believe that despite the many obstacles, they might really manage some kind of future together.But then, two months ago, the visions had returned. And worse, much worse, Julian had begun to hold séances. He didn’t call them séances. Mrs. Sweet would never have stood for that, but that’s what they amounted to, these private meetings with the grief-stricken. And, as David feared, Julian’s health had begun to suffer. He started having seizures again. Didn’t this prove David’s point? Didn’t Julian understand what he was risking?So David had done what any loving husband would do. He had forbidden Julian to hold any more séances.And Julian — sweet, affectionate, always amenable Julian — had amiably, even a little amusedly, pointed out that David was neither his husband nor his father. And he had gone right ahead and continued to do as he wished.Flabbergasted, furious, three days ago David had finally given Julian an ultimatum. Stop or their connection was at an end.That very evening Julian moved to an empty room on Mrs. Sweet’s top floor.David couldn’t believe it.Of course, Julian had not really moved out. All his belongings were still right where he’d left them, carelessly scattered around their shared rooms. They both knew that was simply a beat, the light strike of one fencing blade against another. No blood drawn, no harm done. Not a real fight. Not then.David had drawn first blood. He had only intended to force a quick and painless surrender for both their sakes. Even one night without Julian in his bed was unbearable. So he had informed Julian he would be spending the holidays in Mainewith his family. He wished Julian a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.Julian had gone white. He had looked shocked and hurt and then angry. Very angry. He had retired to his room — his new room — and had not spoken to David since.David had caught his train, of course. He could not afford to back down. He must not set that precedent. That was what he had told himself as the train drew slowly out of the crowded station and picked up speed. If I back down now…But with every white and snowy mile he grew colder and colder, as though he was setting out for uncharted arctic wastelands and not his family’s estate for a pleasant holiday visit. He had left the train at the very first stop, abandoning his luggage and parcels, fleeing home to find exactly what drove him away in the first place.Now he was truly terrified. He had played his trump card and he had lost.He watched the door to Mrs. Sweet’s parlor but still Julian did not appear.What would Julian say when he did appear? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he was still not speaking to David. Perhaps he would just give him that long, dark, unfathomable look and turn away again. Which was ridiculous because he was completely dependent on David. His grandfather’s estate was still tied up in probate, and probably would be for the foreseeable future.Was that the trouble? Had David inadvertently made Julian feel beholden? Was that why Julian felt he had to defy David, to flout David’s wishes, to risk his own health and sanity? Because the fact of the matter was Julian brought so much more to David than David could ever begin to return…From outside came the sweet spiral of notes as Mr. Flipkey wandered out onto his terrace, violin tucked under his chin. You might think the cold and damp would throw the instrument instantly out of tune, but then again, Mr. Flipkey’s melodies were so foreign and mysterious, who would know if he was playing out of key or not?Sweet though. Sweet and sad, those delicate brushes of bow to strings. Like the beating wings of small birds.A lump formed in David’s throat.What if all Julian really felt for him was gratitude? And now gratitude had turned to resentment?He considered this while Mr. Flipkey continued to play his mournful melody, indifferent to the snowflakes languidly floating down, as though they were white rose petals.What was Julian doing in there? David listened.Silence.Having a fit was not a silent business, so he knew Julian was all right.He could go to his own rooms and then arrange to casually run into Julian at the Christmas Eve gathering Mrs. Sweet would hold tonight. That way he would not look desperate.But he was desperate. He couldn’t help thinking that every minute he let pass was taking Julian further and further from him.The chair scraped in the parlor. David drew his shoulders back, waiting. But Julian still did not appear.Finally David couldn’t stand it another moment, he walked down the hall and waited in the open doorway. It took him a moment to find Julian in the gloom of the room. Julian stood at the window, gazing down at Mr. Flipkey who was still playing his sorrowful music.David felt an instant stab of jealousy.But as he stood there he saw that Julian’s eyes were closed. He was not aware of David, that was clear. The line of his body was weary, his face unguarded and sad.David couldn’t bear the sadness, even though he had wanted Julian to regret his actions. This was grief, not regret, and it made his heart twist in his chest. He dropped his gloves and hat on the parlor table, and approached Julian.The floorboard squeaked. Julian’s eyes flew open. In a matter of seconds his expression changed from disbelief to joy to wary suspicion.For hours David had tried to think of what to say, how he could negotiate a truce that would allow him to save face but still win back Julian. But all his carefully prepared speeches fled.“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.”Tears filled Julian’s dark eyes. “Why did you say it? Why did you end it between us?”“I didn’t mean to. It’s the last thing I want. I’m afraid for you. I’m afraid for us both.”Julian shook his head. “I don’t understand you, David. I’ve tried to do exactly as you wished. Always. Except this one thing. And I can’t help this. It’s who I am.”“But what about all the things we talked about? When you were getting well, we talked about traveling and you maybe one day opening a café or —”Julian put his hands over his eyes. “David.” He lowered his hands, his expression older than David had ever seen it. All at once Julian seemed older than him. “One day. Maybe. It’s just a dream now. We have no way to make that happen. And in the meantime…”“In the meantime you’re having these visions again.” David tried to say it without bitterness, but he was not successful.“Yes.” Julian’s eyes looked black and Harlequin-like. “I don’t want them, but I can’t stop them.”David took Julian’s hands in his, and although David was the one who had walked through the snow, Julian’s skin felt ice cold. “All right. I suppose I have to accept that. But what about the séances? You don’t have to meet these people, you don’t have to listen to their stories, and you sure as hell don’t have to contact their dead relatives. That’s your choice.”Julian shuddered and his hands gripped David’s tighter. “I don’t want to, but how can I refuse? Especially this time of year when so many are remembering and longing for those who have gone before? I can help them. How can I refuse?”“You refuse. That’s all. You simply do it.”Julian shook his head.“Yes,” David insisted. “It’s making you ill. It’ll destroy you. You have to refuse.”Julian pulled his hands free. “I can’t. You’re just making it more difficult for me.”“I’m trying to help you!” David spared a quick look over his shoulder, but Mrs. Sweet would be out in the kitchen preparing the evening meal.Julian said quietly, “If you want to help, don’t ask this of me. Help me. Help me do what I must. Be my strength and my comfort.” In the silence that followed Julian’s words, David realized that Mr. Flipkey had disappeared inside his brownstone once more. The only sound between them was the almost soundless brush of snow against the window.“I don’t know if I can,” David said finally. It was painful to say the words, but it was true.Julian turned from him.Neither spoke as they watched the wall of white grow higher and higher on the window sill.Either way he was going to lose what mattered most to him in the world. At least Julian’s way would make Julian happy, and somehow that seemed the most important thing as David stared into his own bleak vision of the future. He could not bear to picture himself standing here years from now remembering the slump of Julian’s shoulders, the hurt, closed look on Julian’s face before he had turned away.Better to give than receive. Wasn’t that the motto of the season?“But I can try,” David said. “I will try for you.”

Christmas Coda 20

Sean and Dan from THE WHITE KNIGHT (The Dark Horse series)


“Oysters Rockefeller,” I said.
“Gesundheit,” Dan said, from behind a copy of Esquire.
I leaned on the granite counter separating the kitchen from the den where Dan lay ensconced on the sofa. “But what do you think about them?”
He lowered the magazine and said cautiously, “I don’t think a lot about them. I don’t think I’ve ever had them.”
“I was considering cooking them for Saturday.”
For the past month I’d been appearing in a small theater production of The Long Christmas Dinner by Thornton Wilder. Our last performance was this evening, and on Saturday we were hosting a cast party. It was the first party I’d ever hosted, or even co-hosted, in a long…well…ever.
I wanted everything to be exactly right.
“Well,” Dan said thoughtfully — and the fact that he did give it his serious consideration was one of the reasons I loved him so much, “oysters are kind of an acquired taste. They’re expensive too.”
“I don’t care about that. The expense, I mean.”
“Okay, but I’m guessing they don’t make great leftovers.”
“True.” I frowned. Neither of us ate leftovers, so what did that matter?
“Chief, you should make whatever you want to make. If you want to make oysters —”
“It doesn’t have to be oysters. I just want to make something nice. Something special.”
“Anything you make will be nice and special,” Dan assured.
“Now you’re humoring me.”
He laughed, tossed the magazine aside, and joined me in the kitchen. He looped a casual arm around my shoulders as he stood next to me studying the recipe. “They do look good.”
The wind shook the beach house. I glanced out the picture window at the ocean gray and choppy with whitecaps. The white Christmas lights looped over the deck railing twinkled determinedly in the face of the winter gale.
I said, “I wanted to cook them because they’re the same era as the play. I thought that would be fun.”
“I like that idea.”
I liked the smell of his aftershave, grown-up and masculine, like Dan. I liked the fact he hadn’t shaved yet because it was just us home together, relaxing. I liked how he looked in well-worn jeans, a white Henley, and white socks. I never knew how sexy socks could be until I saw Dan walking around my house in his white athletic socks. And I liked the fact that, even if he thought I was being a goof, he pretended to take me seriously.
Because he did take me seriously, even when I was a goof. Because he loved me and cared about what mattered to me. It had taken me a while to catch on to this, to really trust it, but I’d finally figured it out. Love meant never having to be sorry you were a goof.
I said, “You’re going to be here, right?” This was the third time I’d asked. Being a police lieutenant meant Dan’s schedule could be unpredictable. Not that I couldn’t handle this single dinner party on my own, but it would be so much better with Dan. Everything was so much better with Dan.
He turned his head and met my eyes. I was smiling, but he didn’t smile. Or at least his mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, could just as easily turn into a kiss. He said softly, as usual understanding me better than I did myself, “I’ll always be here, Sean.”
 

Christmas Coda 19

 Mitch and Web from LONE STAR.

 “How’s that?” Web asked.
Mitch moaned his pleasure.
“Yeah?” There was a smile in Web’s voice. “How about there?”
“Good…”
“How about right here?”
“Yeaaa — Ouch!”
“Sorry.”
“No, don’t stop! It’s all good.” Mitch pleaded, “Harder, Web…”
Web said with amused exasperation, “I prod any harder and I’m goin’ to puncture your calf muscle.”
Mitch opened his eyes and grinned at Web, and Web’s lean, tanned cheek creased in response. Even in the soft, multi-colored light from the very tall — Texas-sized — Christmas tree, his gaze was very blue, very bright, very tender.
They were lying on the wide, comfortable couch in the front room of the ranch house where Mitch had grown up. Not that it bore a lot of resemblance to that house, not after Web had got done with it. This was their home now, though it was still hard for Mitch to believe it. Seven months since he’d left the American Ballet Theater. Two years since he and Web had first made this plan. There had been times he’d believed they would never make it. And, to be honest, a few times he’d thought they were crazy for trying. But he was here now. Lock, stock, and barrel. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health and in leg cramps.
“How’s that?” Web asked. “Any better?”
Mitch nodded seriously. “Thank you.” He was generally in pain, one way or the other — that was the reality of life as a premier ballet dancer — so he sincerely appreciated physical relief, let alone pleasure.
Web smiled again, as though nothing gave him more satisfaction than to take away Mitch’s aches and pains. He went back to rubbing Mitch’s battered and bruised feet. Mitch sighed his enjoyment. “This is heaven.”
“It’ll do for starters.”
“Someday I’m going to get a pedicure,” Mitch murmured, closing his eyes again.
“You’re off for a week. Get one.”
“Can’t. Maybe when I retire some day. Not while I’m still performing. I need my calluses.” Though not this week. His mouth curved, thinking about the luxury of having a week — an entire week — off. This was one of the advantages of working with a smaller dance company. This afternoon’s Christmas Eve performance had been his final one of the season. He was actually going to have a vacation. A week with Web. Heaven. They hadn’t had a chance to spend this kind of time together since he’d come back to sell the ranch two years ago. It was going to be like a honeymoon.
“You look mighty pleased with yourself,” Web commented.
Mitch laughed. He opened his eyes and sat up, swinging his legs off the couch. “You sure it’s okay about tonight? Nobody’s going to be disappointed if we don’t show up at your parents’? You’re not going to be disappointed to spend Christmas Eve here, just the two of us?”
Web reached over and smoothed the crease between Mitch’s brows with the edge of his thumb. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if it was a problem for anybody.”
“Yes, you would have,” Mitch said. “You think I’m tired and stressed-out and need a break from people. Or people need a break from me.”
Web nodded. “Well, sure. That’s all true, Mitchell. But the fact is, I want this time with you. I want your undivided attention for a few hours.”
Mitch leaned in for a kiss. “Oh you do, do you?”
Web kissed him back with unexpected hunger, and Mitch’s heart did a happy little flip. Sometimes he still had trouble believing things were going to work out, but so far, so good. Because of Web. Because Web made it possible. Made it — almost — easy.
“We’re goin’ to have our own little party tonight. I’ve got a bottle of champagne chilling, supper in the fridge, a dessert that will make you fat just lookin’ at it, and silk sheets on the bed,” Web told him.
“Silk sheets?” Mitch started to laugh.
“Cross my heart.”
“I’ve never had silk sheets. What color are they?”
Web looked reflective. “Not sure. They might be pale green or they might be gray. Maybe you should come and check them out?”
“I’m pretty tired,” Mitch said regretfully. “I think you’d have to car —” His breath whooshed out as Web stood, grabbed his arm, and hoisted him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Mitch began to laugh. “You crazy cowpoke…”
Web was laughing too. He swatted Mitch’s ass. “What do you call this lift again? A press lift?”
“It might be a lifestyle lift…”
“It might at that, Mitchell. It might at that.”
As Web bore him away down the hall, Mitch had a final upside down view of the Christmas tree with its gold and glittering star.

Happy Holidays! Holiday Codas

As some of you -- hopefully most of you! -- will recall, I wrote Christmas codas to some of your favorite stories last year as a little present for my readers. I had many, many requests to bundle those stories into a collection, even if it meant charging for them.

So I decided to do that, and I decided to add to the existing codas by writing about ten more. I thought I would also included recipes for cocktails and meals within the original stories -- or recipes that just seemed to say an additional something. :-)

I decided that $2.99 would be a fair price given that I am paying for cover art, editing, and formatting.

But I also decided that since the idea behind the codas is to gift readers in thanks for their support and generosity throughout the year, I would also run the codas (most of them, anyway) on my blog site where they could be read for free.

Starting Monday, I'll begin posting the new codas for your enjoyment. The coda collection will not be out until probably the end of next week or so, but it will be available for $2.99 as promised. And I think maybe we'll make this a tradition and every year I'll write new codas and add them to the collection. Maybe. We'll see what the response is this year.

Anyway, the point is, you can read the codas for free or you can buy the collection -- or both! The codas are a little holiday gift to you, my readers. I hope you enjoy them.

Here's the lovely cover by Johanna Ollila, one of the wonderful moderators of my Goodreads group as well as a gifted talented artist.

See you Monday!

ADRIAN BISSON on the Dangerous Ground series

Well, we're done with the first four books. I just want to say how pleased I am with the way the stories turned out -- and I'm looking forward to you giving voice to Will and Taylor in future adventures. So now for our second interview.  Readers wanted me to ask Team Taylor or is it still Team Will?
After the first two books, I was on Team Will. I saw Taylor as potentially a bit flighty and fickle, and worried that he was after the thrill of the forbidden conquest and the newness might wear off. Things have certainly gotten more deep and complicated as the series goes on. I really enjoy the tension in the relationship and the interplay of two very different guys. Two books later, I definitely have more respect for Taylor. He's great at his job and for all his passion he also has dedication. But when it comes down to it, I'm still Team Will!

What is the process for coming up with the different voices/inflections for the different characters? How did you decide Will's voice was Will's voice? Do you test them out?
 Josh Lanyon is such a good writer, his characters instantly take on a life of their own. When I did the original audition back in February, it was just one of several auditions I was doing, and I had never read any of Josh's books. I only had a few pages to draw from, but the voices of Will and Taylor just emerged easily from every description, action, and line of dialog. They came out strong and I never needed to change them.

Will's voice is deeper, to me he seemed like a serious film-noir detective with a touch of Batman, but he has a sense of humor that comes through too. Taylor is lighter, more like my natural voice, more sarcastic and witty. After I'd been doing him for a while I realized that he sounds, to me, kind of like the character Wash, the pilot of Serenity from Firefly.

I don't really test them out ahead of time, I try to just let it intuitively flow from the writing. Two examples stand out as exceptions, though. One was their boss, Greg Cooper. His first appearance was a single line early in Old Poison, and I made that really gruff and deep. I wasn't reading far ahead. When he came back into the story later and was more fleshed-out, he became a much more J. Jonah Jameson voice to me. I had to go through at the end of the project and refine all his parts to make them consistent.

The other exception was David Bradley. I hemmed and hawed and tried several approaches. I really wanted to make him sound just right, but his voice in my head was difficult to make come out of my mouth. He's still the one voice in the series I wish I could do just a bit more justice to.


So how about that David Bradley character? Do you think he keeps getting in the way on purpose?
Okay, this may be controversial, but I think David Bradley is great. I feel for the guy, because from his perspective he and Will would be the best couple (and I think he might be right!) I can't blame him for being jealous, and I think he shows commendable respect and restraint. As much as his presence understandably drives Taylor nuts, Taylor needs to be kept on his toes. Not that I'm accusing Will of being passive-aggressive by letting David circle like a hungry buzzard... from Will's (selfish?) perspective, his confidence in his own boundaries and integrity is solid so he thinks it's sensible and practical to maintain contact. Ugh, Will is just a bit oblivious sometimes.

What has been the most difficult or challenging aspect of narrating the stories up to the point of Dead Run?
My difficulties have all been personal. I took a long time to do these books! I had originally wanted to be finished by the end of June but it took until November 1st. I moved across Indiana, dealt with a devastating breakup of my own a few chapters into Old Poison, and got knocked out with the flu for a few weeks which ravaged my voice.

Besides that, I have a perfectionist streak and struggled with procrastination. Josh Lanyon is a mentor, a patron, and a role model for me and I desperately wanted to deliver my best possible work for him and the fans that voted for me in the narrator selection contest. I'm still a very new narrator honing my craft, and these books were a labor of love. I feel like I came a long way through the process (and went back to completely redo the beginning more than once!) I truly hope that they will be enjoyed.

 How many audio projects have you completed now? Any advice for aspiring narrators?

I completed one book (Monarch, by Michelle Davidson Argyle) prior to these four Dangerous Ground books, and I'm currently working on a fantastic new dystopian sci-fi book by a first-time author, The Fifth Column by Robert Corrado. Then I'm hoping I'll have the privilege of returning to Will and Taylor for Kick Start!

For aspiring narrators, I would say to get a decent mic, screw your courage to the sticking-place, and start submitting auditions! When I serendipitously happened to find Armed and Dangerous and whipped up an audition, it was on my very first day of trying! I could not have imagined then what a thrilling opportunity was around the corner. I can't possibly overstate the tremendous confidence boost and motivation that Josh's narrator contest gave me to launch my journey.

Also, stay hydrated and careful with the pacing!

 Describe the average day of an audio book narrator.

The ideal prototype of my work day is this: Wake up early, have some breakfast and coffee, go for a 60 minute jog, shower. Make some tea and sit down in my closet where I have my mic set up. Record for 60-90 minutes. Then take a break, drink water, and edit. The way I work, a raw recording session boils down to half the length once all the flubs, multiple takes, mistakes, and delays for planes flying overhead, motorcycles driving by, and neighbor's dog barking, etc are edited out. It takes about 3-4 hours of editing and mastering on top of 2 hours of recording to produce an hour of finished audio. So after editing, my voice is rested and I go back in the closet with some more tea to do another 60-90 minute session, then back to the desktop PC to edit that. On a good work day I can make 60-90 minutes of finished audio in 5-8 hours of work, and that's very satisfying. Then I get out of the house and have some fun.

Now, I have to admit that in the long process of producing these books I didn't have a lot of ideal workdays. Many 20-finished-minute days, and many 0-minute days. I've come along way as far as getting the rhythm down and striving for consistency. I'm on track now to do my current 110,000 word, 13-finished-hour project, in 3 weeks.

Ideally I would like to take my mic and laptop and travel while still working! That's the kind of possibility and flexibility that makes this work so appealing to me.


What character was the most fun to narrate? Why? (Can I just interject here that I loved your Nemov.)

Taylor was the most fun to narrate, always! But I did also enjoy the more exotic cast of characters as well. Nemov was very fun. I tried to channel Ivan Dragon from Rocky IV with a touch of Anton Chigurh, Javier Bardem's hitman from No Country For Old Men. I'd never attempted a Russian accent in a recording before, but I think I pulled it off!


Which character in these final two stories was the most difficult to narrate? Why?

Probably Inspector Bonnet from Dead Run, only because of the French accent! All the French in Dead Run was a challenge, I had to draw on all those years of high school French class. It did inspire me to start learning French again with Duolingo, though! I deeply apologize, though, if sneaking suspicion is correct and she sound a bit less like a Parisienne cop and a bit more like a Québécoise fur trapper.

Was there a particular scene in these last two books you think you read especially well? Or that you particularly enjoyed reading?

As with the first two books, I especially enjoy the scenes of interpersonal tension playing out in the relationship of Will and Taylor. It's so well-written and compelling with subtle emotions to portray.
 For gotta-listen-to scenes to recommend to the fans to enjoy, I'll say the sex scenes. You have to get it in audiobook, folks. Whew! I wonder if I'll get fan letters?


Do you have that blog or website up yet? Where can readers/listeners find out more about you and your work?

For now, look me up on Facebook, follow me on Twitter, and keep an eye on my Audible narrator page! Adrien's professional blog is here.



Buy ARMED AND DANGEROUS, the first four Dangerous Ground novellas in audio right here.

Irregulars Holiday Codas - JASON'S SIDECAR by Ginn Hale

Jason’s SidecarGinn Hale  Jason frowned at himself in the mirror, yanking the uncomfortable noose of his tie in an attempt to get the thing straight. Somehow every adjustment he made only worsened the situation. Also it suddenly struck him that instead of recreating the stylishly ruffled look his hairdresser had managed with a single drop of gel, Jason had transformed the mop of his thick brown hair into something suggesting a bird’s nest in the aftermath of a hurricane.
 And for that matter, did his black shoes really go with the russet suit he’d chosen?
 His cat, Princess sauntered over, swiping her long red body across his pant legs and depositing a fine coat of shed hair before bounding up to her regular bird-watching perch on his widow sill. Jason wasn’t certain if she was having fun at his expense or was just trying to be encouraging in her own way. Meeting her approving gaze he decided to believe the latter.
 “Thanks,” Jason told her. “It does add a dash of color and domesticity to the look.”
 He heard Henry’s soft laughter from behind him.
   Then he caught sight of Henry’s reflection in the mirror and felt his hand clench harder on his already mangled tie. He’d always found Henry striking, but washed, shaved and dressed in a sharp suit he looked like another man altogether—like one of those polished, assured heroes from a spy film—tall, tan and rugged in a way that made Jason’s mouth go dry.
 How could he go from a scruffy Philip Marlowe to a blond James Bond in twenty minutes?
 “Are you trying to strangle yourself to get out of this?” Henry asked as he met his gaze in the mirror. “Because we could save your life and just cancel—”
 “No. I want to go.” Jason assured him. And he did, but there was just so much uncertainty in meeting these people who he wanted so badly to like him. “I just can’t get this tie—”
 “Well, the first step would be to stop choking yourself with it. Here, let me.” Henry pulled the length of gold silk from Jason’s hands.
 “Windsor or Pratt?” Henry asked and for a moment Jason thought he was speaking in another language, but then he remembered all those diagrams he’d been studying online.
 “I was trying for a full Windsor.”
 “The knot of kings, huh?” With the nonchalance of decades of practice Henry effortlessly retied the Windsor knot and then straightened the collar of Jason’s shirt. There was something so comforting about meeting Henry’s eyes—seeing the affection in his gaze—and feeling his large, sure hands brushing so gently over the tender skin of his throat and then briefly caressing the short hair at the back of his neck.
 “Nervous?” Henry asked.
 “Yeah,” Jason admitted at last. “A little.”
 “Look, you know that you don’t have to introduce me to them.” Henry said. “I’m not going to be offended if you go solo—”
 “No, that’s exactly what I don’t want,” Jason said quickly. “The last thing I need is to be all alone with them. I barely know most of their names. The only one I’ve ever met in person is Bubbie Tillie, and that was one of the most awkward conversations I’ve ever had.”
  Jason had been so excited, after months and months of searching to at last locate on of his father’s a living relatives. At the time he hadn’t thought that there might have been a reason his grandmother hadn’t been involved in his childhood. Nor had he considered how having him standing in front of her might remind her of how badly she and her son had parted ways and how brutally he’d been murdered ten years later.
 Still she’d been kind enough to invite him to join the family’s Hanukah gathering. And when he’d risen from her kitchen table, and thanked her for the tea, she’d stood as well and then hesitantly reached out and hugged him to her frail body. Jason had returned her embrace gingerly as if she were a fragile piece of bone china, rather than a living person. 
 Even now, he experienced a twinge of guilt, remembering his thoughts. Because he knew he was comparing her unfairly to an ideal grandmother—some woman who probably never existed outside of commercials for cookie dough and schmaltzy holiday films but who had come to represent his only knowledge of what extended family meant.
 Or maybe he was thinking of Gunther’s mother, Mrs. Heartman, who, despite her terrifying appearance had clasped him to her bony breast like a beloved teddy bear and almost spun him off his feet when she’d welcomed him and Henry to their Summer Solstice celebration.
 “Henry’s said so much about you,” Mrs. Heartman had told him and then laughed, the blood red slits of her eyes crinkling into crescents. “Your really gave those Sidhe royalists a well needed kick in the teeth, didn’t you?”
 After that it had been easy to mingle and joke with the odd and alien beings who attended the gathering. Gunther and Keith had flown back from DC for the occasion and Jason spent some time chatting with Gunther’s tattooed, surly lover. Jason found him charming in the way he spoke so off handedly of Gunther, while watching his back like a love-struck teenager. Jason almost thought he could see little white hearts puffing off of the man and drifting after Gunther, but then he’d realized it was just steam rising from the vegetable grill that the Keith worked over.
   After the night of barbeque, fireworks and many cups of goblin cider had ended, Mr. and Mrs. Heartman had told Jason that he was welcome in their home. Bleary and tired as he’d been, he’d felt so thankful for their acceptance that it embarrassed him.
 When he’d met his biological mother for the first time she’d looked at him with the perfect calm of beautifully carved marble and informed him that she would have devoured him at birth if she’d had her way. His biological father had murdered and tortured countless men and women in his quest to capture and gut Jason. He’d died trying. No love lost there.
  But Bubbie Tillie’s estranged son—Levi—had raised Jason and showered him with the wit and affection that he’d needed to survive later foster homes and psychiatric hospitals.
 Jason didn’t know if he was just deluding himself, but it felt important to him to reach out to his father’s relations, to try to find what he could of a family. At least that had been his thought when he’d hired the detective who had eventually tracked the Shamir clan down in Los Angeles. But now the reality of this gathering began to terrify him. They didn’t know him—they probably didn’t want to know him. Fear of rejection welled up in Jason, feeling as inescapable as the sorcerous Stone of Fal, buried in his bones.
  They’re going to hate me.
 Henry studied him, his blue eyes shining like gas flames.
 “You’re gonna be fine,” Henry said. Jason couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “And I won’t be offended if you want this just to be you and your family—”
 “No! I can’t—I really want you there with me.” 
    “Sure but aren’t the new relations going to find it a little…queer?” Henry raised his blond brows.
 “No... I mean, I don’t think so. Bubbie Tillie said that it would be fine if I brought along a friend.” Jason scowled at himself in the mirror. “Do you mind?”
 “Always happy to oblige,” Henry replied and they both knew that he was humoring Jason.
 “Thank you,” Jason told him. “I really wouldn’t have asked except that you always seem to know how to be yourself and still talk to normal people. And I… I really don’t.”
 “Okay, okay I’ll be your conversational wingman. But honestly, Jason, you’ll do fine. You’re smart, good looking, and rich, who wouldn’t want you for a relation?”
 “My birth parents come springing to mind, just off the bat—”
 Henry grabbed him and shut him up with a hard, insistent kiss. The earthy taste and rough feel of him made Jason’s mouth almost water from wanting more of him. He invaded and invited Jason’s excited responses with confidence. Jason ran his hands over Henry’s solid body instinctively searching for the heat of his naked skin.  He found the buckle of Henry’s belt.
 But then Henry pulled back, looking flushed and breathless.
  “You’re not going anywhere tonight, if we keep this up.” Henry’s right hand still rested on Jason’s hip.
 “You started it.”
 “Yeah well…” Henry ran his scarred hand through his blonde hair disheveling a few very gold strands and then gave Jason a crooked smile. “It was supposed to be reassuring. Calm you down a little.”
 “Seriously?” Jason laughed at the idea of that hot, demanding kiss calming anyone down.
 Henry shrugged and Jason understood. He’d been willing to distract Jason, even take the blame for keeping him in bed the entire evening if that was what Jason really needed. And he might just need it—but not until after he’d faced what faint hope he had with the remains of his father’s family.
   Jason drew in a deep breath building a calming blue melody in his mind—the chill of ice and mint filled his lungs while a lattice of cerulean blue dew formed a radiant halo over his head—then he released both spell and breath to wash the tension and arousal from his flesh.
 “Wow, minty fresh.” Henry gave a short laugh. “I guess that means we’re off to eat latkes, then.”
 Jason nodded, snatched up his coat, then at the last minute decided to wear his glasses as well. The evening was already going to be awkward, the last thing he needed was to get caught gawking at some gape-faced vampire or shimmering fairy that happened to be strolling past Bubbie Tillie’s wide windows.
 ##
  What Jason hadn’t counted on was that the unearthly creature he needed to stop staring at would be at the dinner party, crouching on the cream carpet wearing only a rhinestone-studded collar and leash. The scrawny brownie sported a little crest of curling pink hair on the top of his head as well as matching nail polish on his fingers and toes.  Though by studying the creature directly through the enchanted lenses of his glasses Jason was able to see what everyone else in the room saw—a snaggletoothed, knee-high mutt that looked like a cross between a Chinese-crested Chihuahua and a battered brown shoe. It had been recently taken to a groomer—thus the dyed pink hair and painted nails. Even from across the room, and disguised by some spell Jason could see that the thing looked miserable.
 According to Bubbie Tillie, the creature had been abandoned to the care of Jason’s pretty thirty-something cousin, Sarah, after its previous owner had died Jason had heard the story earlier but hadn’t really registered it amid the flurry of introductions to his aunt, uncles, their wives, his five cousins, their spouses and dates as well as a herd of nieces and nephews— every one of whom looked more comfortable in their upwardly-mobile ensembles than Jason felt with this designer tie around his neck.
 They gathered in the spacious, ivory, gold and beige living room, while a maid prepared the dining room for their meal. An elegantly dressed brunette in her fifties, poured drinks and from her amused expression and eclectic offerings Jason guessed that she was bartending for the challenge of it more than anything else.
 The Shamir clan made for a large and intimidating crowd, counting no less than four doctors—two of them surgeons—three lawyers, two nurses, an architect, a professor of theology and a psychiatrist among them. The men, all of them shorter than Jason and most older, affected hard, white smiles as they circled Jason and shook his hand with mechanically firm grips.
  Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Jason noted the touch of amusement in Henry’s expression as he, too, received their polished, professional greetings. Though most of them faltered slightly when they noted his missing finger. Jason overheard one of the lawyers inquire about the injury. Henry informed him gravely that he’d lost the digit in an egg-rolling accident.
 Most of the women air kissed Jason’s cheeks, enveloping him in the alien scents of cosmetics and floral perfumes, and then exclaimed at how delighted they were that he’d gotten in touch with Bubbie Tillie after all this time. But it wasn’t delight that Jason read in their beautifully made-up faces; it was suspicion. He could see them searching his angular Sihde features and bronze skin for any resemblance of their own pale, soft, human heritage and finding none.
 And he supposed they had every right to distrust a young man who appeared seemingly from nowhere, claiming to be a long-lost relation. In the month since he’d contacted Bubbie Tillie he had no doubt that several of her children had hired detectives of their own to have him and his claims investigated.
 He wondered if they’d flipped through pictures of him with his arms wrapped around Henry, attempting to steal sly kisses. Did they already know he studied music at Berkley or that he often strolled the park in the company of a vivid red cat? Undoubtedly they’d uncovered records of his years bouncing between foster homes and psychiatric hospitals. With that many medical specialists in one family they would have the resources and connections to obtain his files, he had no doubt. Half of them probably thought he was crazy.
 Or maybe worse.
  Tillie Shamir was not a poor woman, and playing a long lost grandson wasn’t unheard of as a con game.
 It was with those thoughts rolling through his mind, as well as a feeling of sudden nostalgia as he took in the large menorah waiting on a console table next to the window, that Jason caught his cousin Sarah’s explanation for the plastic dog kennel that she lugged into the house.
 “I couldn’t leave him alone. Last night I came home and he’d nearly chewed through the back door.” Sarah slid the kennel between to beige armchairs. “I have no idea what I’m going to do with him.”
 “Just take it to the pound.” That response came from the eldest uncle, Dr. David Shamir, just before he turned to ask Henry if he attended Berkley along with Jason.
 “Doubt they’d admit me,” Henry had responded with a grin and then added. “I work for NATO—mostly in the field but I’m on holiday right now.”
 It turned out to be the doctor’s wife, Ellen, who enjoyed concocting cocktails.  She handed Henry something called a vesper and bestowed a sidecar upon Jason. He cradled his glass in his palm, too nervous to trust himself to drink. All around him pieces of conversation rose and fell. Investments advice, entertainment commentary, gripes and punch lines, washed over Jason, disjointed from their meaning and filling the air like the bright colors of birdcalls.
 Two of Jason’s young nieces careened past the long ivory couch, the skirts of their pastel dresses trailing them like tracers, while a slightly older nephew played at chasing them. Jason preformed a series of dance steps to avoid both the girls and their giggling pursuer. He made his way between clots of his unfamiliar relatives to reach Bubbie Tillie.
 She smiled a little warily—and he realized that she’d grown more uncertain of him since they’d last spoken. He presented her with the box of chocolates he’d spent the last three weeks securing. She glanced down at the gold box, with its frill of thick ribbon and the flowery foil tag designating the dark chocolate selection as pareve. She looked back up at Jason questioningly.
 “These are my favorite, but how did you know?”
 “I remembered dad buying them for my mom once and saying that you loved them,” Jason told her though he regretted it almost immediately. Bubbie Tillie’s smile dimmed with sorrow the moment he mentioned his father. From across the room he noticed his youngest aunt, the psychiatrist, scowl at him.
 “Well, thank you,” Bubbie Tillie told him but then she turned away and set the box of chocolates on an end table beside one of her many decorative vases. A gaggle of her granddaughters bounced to her side asking if they could light the menorah this year and if there would be latkes at dinner and if her cook had made a special dessert for them. Bubbie Tillie instantly brightened as she took in the circle of noisy little girls. She said something that inspired gleeful cries from them but Jason didn’t catch her words.
 His cousin Sarah’s exasperated conversation with her sister and their uncle David swelled through the room.
 “I was in shock,” Sarah pushed a lock of her curly brown hair back from her round face. “What was I going to do?  There she was standing on my doorstep telling me that her mother had just been shot by a burglar and asking me if I could watch the dog for the night. Of course I said I would.”
 “But it’s been three weeks now, right?” her sister commented—Jason thought her name was Abby. “And nobody’s come for it.”
 Sarah shook her head, “I went over but the old woman’s house is completely empty. No sign of her daughter or anyone anywhere.” 
          “So take the mutt to the pound,” Uncle David repeated. He accepted another drink from his wife.
 “But it bites,” Sarah objected. “And it’s ugly and really, really old. They’ll just put it down.”
 “That might be for the best,” Uncle David replied.
 “Not if the owners come back and ask for it. What would I tell them?”
  Jason’s vague interest in the conversation fell away as he noticed Henry beckoning to him. He crossed through the amiable chaos of myriad adult conversations and rambunctious children.
 “You look…” Henry trailed off with a frown. “Are you okay?”
 “Yeah. I’m fine. I was just thinking of the last time I celebrated.”
 “With your dad?” Henry asked.
 Jason gazed at the menorah waiting there on the table and nodded. It was so much more ornate and elegant than the funky clay one that his father and he had made together, when Jason had been six. Jason’s mother had laughed at it but then agreed with Jason that what it really needed was blue glitter and a few dinosaur stickers.
 The people gathered here would probably have been offended at the sight of the thing, but it had given Jason such joy and he’d always felt incredibly proud when he’d seen it shining in the window of their rundown apartment.
 Horrifyingly Jason felt his chest tighten at the memory. He closed his eyes against their sudden sting. It wasn’t like him to get so choked up.
 “Damn it, Jason—” Henry muttered under his breath.
 Jason glanced back to him to see Henry’s troubled expression.
 “I’m okay, really. It’s just, you know…” He forced a smile but couldn’t maintain it.
 “Sure you are,” Henry replied quietly. He took the untouched drink from Jason’s hand and set it aside on a decorative table. “Orphans and family holidays mix about as nicely as bleach and ammonia.”
 “What?” Jason glanced up in time to catch the concern in Henry’s expression.
 “Tear gas,” Henry replied. “ Seriously. Do you need me to get you out of here?”
 “No. I really am alright.” Just having the offer, strangely made Jason feel a little better. “But maybe you could put your arm around me.”
 “With pleasure.” Henry caught Jason’s shoulder and pulled him closer.
 Jason had suspected that many members of the family had been watching him surreptitiously. The wide variety of startled expressions that appeared all across the room as he leaned into Henry only confirmed as much.
 Somehow remembering that crooked, homemade menorah and the joy it had brought him, freed Jason from caring so very much about the opinions of these strangers. He didn’t hate them—in fact he felt a genuine warmth for Bubbie Tillie and he suspected that if he got to know Sarah he might like her as well—but they were strangers and he wasn’t about to give their values more importance than his own happiness.
 “So are you two—” Abby began, but just at that moment the dog burst free of its kennel. It dashed frantically around the room barking, while Sarah and several other family members attempted to catch it. The youngest children squealed or laughed as the small creature shot past. At last Sarah grasped hold of the dog’s trailing leash and animal came to a lurching halt.
 It had been at that moment then, as Jason looked over the rims of his glasses that he caught sight of the gasping creature’s true form and realized that a naked brownie, with long drooping ears and fingers like spider legs, crouched on the carpet before them all. The polish coloring his fingernails and toenails looked weird against the knotted tough mahogany of his hands and feet. His pink hair hung in strings over his snouty face and obscured one gleaming black eye. 
  “He keeps getting out of his kennel somehow.” Sarah gripped the pink leash so tightly that Jason could see her knuckles turning white.
 “Where did you say you got him again?” Jason asked, and Henry gave him a quizzical look. Jason knew better than to simply blurt out the truth, not only would the Shamirs think that he needed to be shipped back to St.Mary’s for another round of electroshock therapy, but the Secrecy Act strictly forbid such revelations to the common public. He could get them all in trouble.
 So, meeting Henry’s gaze meaningfully he simply said, “He is not a dog… from a breed I’ve ever seen before.”
 Casually, Henry glanced down at his watch and Jason noted a flickering green number lighting up the point of the minute hand. Henry’s attention shifted immediately to the brownie. Jason wondered if he was silently trying to crack through the spell disguising the creature.
 “No one knows what breed it is but it belonged to Sarahs’s old witch of a neighbor,” Abby announced. “She died and her daughter just left the thing with Sarah. What was their name again? Puce or something like that?”
 “She wasn’t a witch. She was just cranky,” Sarah replied. “And her name was duPuce.”
 “DuPuce…” Henry repeated then he looked to Sarah. “Mara duPuce?”
 “Yeah…” Sarah blinked at Henry like he’d preformed a magic trick. “You know her?”
 Henry nodded, but he appeared none too happy. Jason knew better than to ask why. More than likely this related to NIAD, which meant the woman—if she was a woman—had likely broken some law.
  “Well, great,” Uncle David snapped. “Maybe you two can take the mutt off Sarah’s hands. In the mean time can we please get him back in that crate.”
 Uncle David’s wife took the empty glass from his hand. 
 “I’m allergic.” She sounded almost apologetic. 
 The brownie sighed heavily and, with an expression of profound melancholy, let flow a stream of bright yellow urine against the leg of Bubbie Tillie’s filigreed end table. 
 “Oh for god’s sake!” Uncle David shouted, suddenly red-faced.
 One of the younger boys laughed only to be swatted by his sister. Two of the girls howled in excited revulsion.
 “Oh no! I am so sorry!” Sarah turned to Bubbie Tillie, pale with mortification. Bubbie Tillie simply shrugged.
 “After five children, I promise you I’ve seen worse,” Bubbie Tillie assured her. “The maid will get it anyway.”
  Sarah beamed at her grandmother. But then the leash slipped from Sarah’s hand as the brownie made a break for the dining room doorway. It dodged between the family members, tearing across the carpet on its elongated fingers as much as its spindly legs. A cacophony of shouts came from the children but none of them carried over the boom of Henry’s voice.
 “Stanley Longfinger!” Henry roared.
 The brownie stopped suddenly and spun around to look at Henry… As did everyone else in the room.
 “Stanley,” Henry said more softly and he knelt down onto one knee. “It’s Henry, remember? Come here and let me get you back home.”
 The brownie stood motionless for a moment then with a weirdly distorted yip he raced to Henry, pressing himself up against his leg.
 “You really do know him?” Sarah said.
 “Yeah, well it’s a long, weird story,” Henry replied. “But Stanley’s real family have been looking for him for a while now.”
 A silence fell over the room. For the first time Jason thought he could clearly hear Bubbie Tillie’s maid setting the places at the table in the dining room. None of the other Shamirs seemed to know quite what to do.  Henry crouched down and removed the leash from the collar, hanging around the brownie’s neck.
 “You mean he didn’t belong to Mrs. duPuce?” Sarah asked at last.
 “No,” Henry replied. “He was abducted along with some twenty others.”
 “Really?” Abby asked.
 Henry nodded.
 “Okay, so you have to tell us…” Sarah rolled her hand.
 Henry sighed and seemed to take measure of the people gathered around him then he glanced to Jason and smiled just a little.
  “A couple weeks ago duPuce got wind that the law was onto her. She and her partners ditched everything they could and made tracks for the border.” Very gently Henry patted the brownie’s bony shoulder.
 “How do you know all this?” Uncle David demanded.
 “Work. Mrs. duPuce has links to an international crime organization.”
 “Of dognappers ?” Sarah asked.
 “ Human traffickers. The Cruella stuff was just duPuce’s hobby,” Henry replied. “Anyway I can’t go into it in detail; a lot’s still under investigation.”
 Again that confused silence filled the room. Jason had to suppress a laugh. These were definitely not people who lived among the surreal and strange.
  He could see that Uncle David wanted to object to Henry’s story, while Sarah and Abby obviously preferred to believe it to be in some way true. Degrees of excitement and skepticism showed on the faces of the adults and children alike. Though Bubbie Tillie seemed to be looking at the dog itself and Jason could see the gentleness and compassion in her expression. Then she glanced to Jason and their eyes met. She smiled at him and for the first time he recognized his father’s tender expression in her face. 
 “Well, if you’ll all excuse me a minute,” Henry said. “I really ought to call this in and see if I can’t get Stanley back where he belongs. His family’s been pretty torn up since he went missing.”
 Henry fished a sleek black NIAD phone from his pocket but then paused to assess Jason.

 “I’ll be quick,” Henry assured him and Jason knew that he could have made an excuse and it he wished slipped away with Henry. But he realized that he wanted to see that big menorah all lit up and to share a dinner with these strangers, whom he might one day call his family.
 “ I know. I’m good here,” Jason assured him.
 Then with Stanley the brownie following on his heels Henry slipped outside into the balmy L.A. afternoon.
 The moment the door fell closed behind him, Abby spun on Jason.
 “Is he for real—”
 “Are you and he dating?” Sarah demanded over her sister’s question.
 “Yes,” Jason replied to both of them.
  “That is so cool!” Sarah exclaimed and Abby too looked thrilled, though Jason wasn’t entirely sure if it was because they now had a gay cousin or because their gay cousin was dating some kind of animal-rescuing, secret agent.
 “It does have its moments,” Jason responded.
 He picked up his glass and finally tried the sidecar. It tasted of brandy and oranges.  He’d expected something much more dry and bitter, but now found this surprisingly sweet and warming. 

Irregulars Holiday Codas - LOVE IN THE TUNDRA by Astrid Amara

Kirkenes, Norway got zero daylight hours in December, and only a smidgen of dawn between nine in the morning and one o’clock in the afternoon. So Silas August fully expected the walk to the cabin he rented with Deven Shaw to be in utter darkness. What he hadn’t planned on was a snow storm presenting whiteout conditions and making each step cold and cumbersome.
As he trudged through knee-deep drifts and pulled his scarf tighter around his wind-burned face, he could hear Deven’s voice in his head: “What did you expect from a winter vacation in the Arctic Circle?”
But Silas had picked Kirkenes over other tourist destinations in the Laplands because he’d read its location on the coastline leant it a more temperate climate.
Temperate was clearly relative.
The worst was that the blizzard obstructed the few landmarks of the outskirts of town, and he discovered he was on the wrong road only after walking a good quarter mile down it. His feet ached; he had blisters on both soles thanks to not properly breaking in his hiking boots before the trip. Honestly he hadn’t expected to do much walking. They’d taken a dog sled ride, driven snowmobiles to a traditional Saavi tent for Christmas dinner, and were transported to an outcropping where they could witness the most incredible display of Northern Lights he’d ever imagined.
But Deven had wanted to walk back. And while the long trek through the ice had been breathtakingly beautiful, it had ruined Silas’s feet and contributed to Deven’s cold symptoms. By the time they had reached the cabin Deven had a fever, a sore throat, and was coughing incessantly.
Romantic getaway, indeed.
But Silas really couldn’t complain, since the idea of spending Christmas in the Laplands had been his, after all.
The previous year, Deven and he had traveled to the Caribbeanfor the holidays. And while Silas had appreciated the opportunity to work on a tan and get in some warm ocean snorkeling and locally prepared conch, it didn’t take all of his detective skills to recognize how the constant sunlight hurt Deven’s eyes.
After the holiday they’d even seen a specialist in NIAD about the spell that altered Deven’s eyesight all those years ago. The ophthalmologist had told them Deven’s dark-adapted eyesight had been enchanted too long ago, and was so much part of his vision now he risked going blind entirely if they attempted to reverse the spell.
It was then that Silas knew their next vacation couldn’t be anywhere as relentlessly sunny as the Caribbean, or Mexico, or even Hawaii, all of Silas’s favorite destinations.
Instead, he’d started researching the darkest places on earth.
The gesture had been well-received and Silas was grateful to see his lover in such obvious high spirits. And he was surprised himself how stunning this stark, frozen landscape could be. But moments like this, trudging to a simple cabin with swollen feet and a frozen face, made him really long for a good beach palapa and a drink, preferably served in a coconut.
At last he spotted the cabin, and hurried inside. He hoped Deven was in bed resting with a hot cup of tea.
“I come bearing some suspiciously Swedish wine and ice cold arctic char, and a Norwegian coleslaw that the store owner promised does not contain ludevisk.” Silas dropped the packages on the carved wooden counter that separated the small cooking area from the main room of the cabin. Deven had created a roaring fire and had pulled the heavy comforter off the bed and laid it beside the fireplace.
Candles were lit around the cabin as well, emitting a sweet beeswax smell.
“Are you feeling better?” Silas called out as he tore off the layers of cold-weather garments.
There was even a bottle of wine already chilling in a pot full of ice. And Mozart’s Requiem Massplayed from Silas’s laptop.
“You like it?”
Deven stepped from the bathroom, completely nude. While Silas liked to think this was his Christmas present, he knew that Deven spent his time naked whenever he could. The only kind of clothing he wore growing up in Aztaw had been enchanted corn husk armor, so if given the opportunity to eschew garments, he usually did.
Silas took a moment to simply admire the planes of Deven’s beautiful body. His handsomeness seemed all the more remarkable for Deven’s utter lack of self-consciousness about it. He’d learned to feel many things in the three years since returning to the human realm, but his unconventional upbringing permanently affected the awareness of his own appeal.
Deven’s muscles were less pronounced than when they first became lovers – two years of working as a consultant for the department meant Deven spent more time at a computer than chasing down demons, and he’d allowed a thin layer of flesh to cover his sinewy frame.
If anything, it added to his beauty. His long, dark limbs moved like shadows in the firelight, only the glints of old scars catching the light.
Silas took in the bouquet of flowers, the rose petals leading to the bed, the smell of beeswax melting from the candles, and choked back a laugh.
“I’m going to take one guess. You read a magazine article on romantic getaways.”
Deven’s anxious expression immediately collapsed. “Shit. I got something wrong, didn’t I?”
Silas laughed. He stepped out of his snow boots and moved closer. “Not wrong exactly. What was the name of the magazine?”
“Cosmopolitan.”
“Thought so. It’s a magazine for women.”
Deven glanced at his efforts. “Oh. So all these effects are...”
“Sort of a feminine version of a fantasy getaway, is all I’m saying. Except for the music, of course.”
Deven frowned. “It said soothing classical music would create a romantic mood.”
“They probably didn’t have a funeral mass in mind.” 
Deven looked disappointed, and Silas chastised himself for enjoying it so much. The truth was, Deven did a pretty damn adorable pout when he screwed things up, which happened less and less frequently these days. So Silas took a moment to savor it, told himself he was being a dick, then moved in to make amends.
“I love it all, Deven. Thank you.” He put his arms around Deven’s warm body and drew him in for a kiss. Deven returned the kiss, but pulled back.
“You’re freezing.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I just walked a mile in the snow.”
Deven sighed. “I should go blow out the candles and pick up the rose petals.”
“It’s the thought that counts.”
“You always say that,” Deven complained.
“I always mean it.” Silas kissed him again, and Deven responded more this time, moving closer, his hands reaching around Silas’s back and down to gently stroke Silas’s ass.
“I’m also supposed to give you a back massage with soothing oil by the fire,” Deven mumbled against Silas’s lips.
Silas continued to kiss him, mouth lifting in a smile. He pulled off his shirt. “Oh yeah? What kind of soothing oil did they recommend? Lavender? Chrysanthemum blossom?”
Deven smiled. “I couldn’t find anything in the airport gift section so I just went with our Bodyglide anal lube, since it claims to also serve as a massage oil that won’t block pores.”
“Clever.”
They kissed again. Silas ran his hands up Deven’s neck to cup his face, surreptitiously feeling for fever.
“I’m fine,” Deven insisted. “Whatever was ailing me was gone by this afternoon. Come sit by the fire with me.”
“I feel a little overdressed for the occasion, but all right.” Silas followed Deven, admiring Deven’s backside as he knelt down to sit cross-legged by the fire. Deven sat close enough to burn the average man, but growing up in the human equivalent of hell, he had an impressive tolerance for heat and discomfort.
Deven clearly wanted Silas to sit across from him, but the sight of Deven’s genitals within touching distance changed his plans. Instead Silas curled around Deven, removing his own clothes awkwardly while trying to maintain their embrace.
Deven laughed as Silas ineptly attempted to pull a sock off his left foot without removing his arm from around Deven’s waist.
“Want some help with that?” Deven offered.
“All I can get, thanks.”
Deven removed Silas’s socks, then frowned at the blisters under his toes. “That looks painful.”
Silas was busy nuzzling the warm, masculine smelling skin of Deven’s neck. “Hmmm?”
“Why didn’t you tell me your feet were in such poor condition? You need a foot massage more than a back massage.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“I would have gone to the store instead of you,” Deven said.
“With a fever of a hundred? I think not.”
“I’d be fine.”
Silas snorted against Deven’s neck. “Of course you would. You will always be fine, until one day you are dead. You don’t get it, do you?”
Deven turned in his arms to stare at him. His green eyes were always beautiful to Silas, but in the firelight they seemed as mythical as the northern lights that, the previous day, swirled above them in such dramatic majesty.
“Get what?” Deven asked.
Silas swallowed. He’d thought of many ways to have this conversation, and he wasn’t sure this was the best time. But it had been nagging at him all day, as Deven forced his sick body through the motions without even once pausing for a rest.
“You don’t get how much this pisses me off,” Silas said.
Deven frowned, and made as if to speak, but Silas put his hand over Deven’s mouth.
“Shut up. I’m not done,” Silas said. “I love you. I’ll say it until I’m blue in the face. I love you at work, and I love you when I’m shooting my load, and I love you when we’re fighting, and I love you when you’re snoring into my arm pit.”
“I don’t snore—“
“Shut it. But the thing you don’t get is that I don’t get to love you, I don’t get to have you, if you are dead.”
Deven scowled. But he didn’t say anything.
Silas’s heart beat faster. He had to get it out now or never. “You take crazy chances. You dismiss aches and pains. You even ignored it when your hand caught on fire at that one bust, telling me it wasn’t anything a little ice and ibuprofen couldn’t cure. And now this – ill, in the middle of the fucking north pole, and you have a complete disregard of your own health.”
“I’m not going to die of a cold, Silas,” Deven started, but Silas shook his head.
“Not this time, but some time you will!” His voice was rising. “You take shitty care of yourself. I can’t make you improve for your own good, but I can beg you to take care of yourself for me. Don’t fucking make me imagine what my life would be like if I lost you now.” Silas glanced at the fire angrily, hating his own weakness, his own desperate need for a companion.
Because between them, it might have been Deven who was the novice when it came to life in San Francisco, sex, and being in a relationship, but it was Silas who was the more dependent, that had been obvious from the start. He hadn’t known the depths of his own bitter loneliness until Deven entered his life. Now that he had someone to share his time with, Deven was all he thought of. And the idea of losing him, like he’d lost Jake all those years ago...
No. He wouldn’t let it happen. He’d summon death gods and hunt up vampires, do whatever it took to keep Deven beside him.
“Hey.”
Silas didn’t look at Deven, still too emotional. Deven gripped him by the jaw and forced him to make eye contact.
“Look at me,” Deven demanded.
Silas looked at him. Deven appeared frustrated.
“I’m trying. I’m trying as hard as I can. And trust me – I don’t want to die any more than you don’t want me to.”
“I doubt that—“
“I’m serious.” Deven caressed Silas’s face. “I know I still make a lot of mistakes. But I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well, good, because I bought more than just char at the store.” Silas felt foolish now, but he’d already made a spectacle of himself, he might as well go all the way with it.
He hunted through his discarded trouser pockets and fished out the Sami reindeer leather and silver ring he’d purchased at the tourist trap on his way into town. It wasn’t very traditional as far as rings went, but it was simple, and dark brown, and Silas thought Deven might like it.
“I got this for you, but then realized giving you a ring might be suggestive of some other meaning,” Silas explained hurriedly, noting Deven’s blank expression. “So then I almost didn’t give it to you, and then I realized I didn’t care if it had another meaning. In fact I wanted it to have another meaning. I wanted it to mean what a man giving another man a ring should mean.”
Deven blinked at the ring, then up at Silas. “I  understood 10 percent of that.”
Silas laughed, despite himself, amazed at his own nervousness. “I guess I’m... fuck. You can put the rest of this together, can’t you?”
“I grew up in Aztaw. I know nothing of human traditions.” Deven said it convincingly, but the smirk in his expression told Silas that Deven knew exactly what the gift of a ring meant, and was torturing him.
“You bastard,” Silas said. “Here, take this goddamn ring and marry me, will you?”
“Well, when you put it that sweetly...” Deven took the ring and slipped it effortlessly on his middle finger. Then he frowned. “That’s wrong.”
“Correct hand, wrong finger,” Silas said gently. He grabbed Deven’s left hand and took the ring off and slipped it onto Deven’s ring finger. It was a little big, and would need to be adjusted, but it looked good against his dark skin.
“Your hand is trembling,” Deven said softly. Silas stared at his hand on Deven’s. Indeed it was.
“It’s negative five out there.” He swallowed. “And I just proposed, for fuck’s sake. Cut me some slack.”
Deven didn’t get emotional, or cry, or mock him, which were all the reactions Silas imagined normal men might engage in when presented with such an awkward proposal. Instead, Deven simply smiled his natural, careless grin, the kind that stole all the light from the room, the kind that banished the awful marks on his neck and the unnatural glow of his eyes and left behind a young, beautiful man, brilliant and brave and charming, and Silas felt as though the breath sucked from his lungs.
“I accept your marriage proposal,” Deven said solemnly. Then he laughed. “See? Women’s magazine or not, I knew that article wouldn’t lead me astray!”
Silas breathed out a sigh of relief, and gripped Deven to him. They simply held each other by the fire for a long moment before he said, “so that was your plan all along? With the rose petals and the beeswax?”
“Actually, no, I was just trying to seduce you into trying that sex toy you brought along, but the proposal is even better.”
Silas grinned. ”Let’s have both then. You know I’m wild about ass play. Just as long as we have enough lube left for this foot massage you’re promising me.”
Deven held his hand up for examination. They both stared at the silver of his ring, catching the firelight. What had seemed like a cute idea, then a terrible idea, then a stupid one, now seemed like the best decision Silas had ever made. The ring looked like it belonged on Deven, and the idea of it symbolizing the two of them made him feel, for the first time in years, content.
“Hey, what’s a traditional proposal in Aztaw like?” Silas asked, curious.
“The male soldier kidnaps the female he’s interested in and sells her into slavery, usually forcing her to work for the House of the Lord he serves. He later buys her freedom on the assumption she’ll marry him. Then he slits his penis with a razor and bleeds it on a bone of an enemy soldier he has killed and presents this to her to wear around her neck.”
Silas winced. “Fuck. There is nothinggood about that place.”
Deven shrugged. “After a wedding ceremony they make hot corn popsicles? That’s a good thing.”
Siles stared.
“Hey, it was your idea to try and find the good parts of my past, remember?” Deven complained.
“Right, right, I’m sorry.”
“So what first?” Deven asked, resting his hand on Silas’s aching foot. “Massage or sex toy?” Deven grinned. “Or a massage leading to sex toy? Or, less appealing, sex toy tapering disappointingly into a foot massage?”
Silas snorted. “Come on. After all these years you should guess what my answer would be.”
“I’ll go get the condoms then.”
Silas rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “That’s my man!”
Deven solemnly held his hand over his heart. “For now, and for a long time to come.”
 
 

IRREGULARS ON SALE!

One day only. Starting today, December 5th at 10:00 a.m., the Irregulars anthology is on sale at Weightless Books. For twenty-four hours you can purchase the book for $1.99.

This is an exclusive arrangement with Weightless Books. We shall not see its like again. Or something like that.

Happy Holidays!