Eli Easton's Blog, page 23
June 30, 2014
Desktop: The Mating of Michael
“The Mating of Michael” launches today, Jun 30th, 2014! That makes me exceedingly happy. ”Michael” is the first full-length novel I’ve written in m/m romance (it has 73K words). So if you’ve been looking for a ‘longer’ Eli Easton story, this is it. It’s the 3rd in my “Sex in Seattle” series but features a brand new couple and can be read as a stand-alone.
Link to buy “The Mating of Michael” at the Dreamspinner site.
It’s my tradition to do a ‘desktop’ post showing images I used for info and inspiration while writing a book, so here are my images for “The Mating of Michael”.
MICHAEL LAMONT:
Of course, first and foremost is Michael himself. He’s a gay sex surrogate who works with the Expanded Horizons sex clinic in Seattle. Michael is fairly small and beautiful. He has a flirtatious nature and a gentle soul. The inspiration for his ‘exterior shell’ came from Isaiah Garnica, an LA based model. Here are a few of my favorite shots:
JAMES GALLWAY (aka J.C. Guise)
Michael’s love interest is a reclusive science fiction writer who is in a wheelchair thanks to a childhood bout of polio. I describe him as having a large and rangy, almost ‘Lincoln-esque’ face and body. Below is a reference shot I liked, though my James’s legs are withered by the polio.
EXPANDED HORIZONS SEX CLINIC (Where Michael works part-time)
It’s located on Capitol Hill in Seattle (my old stomping ground). It’s fictitious, but I picture the building like this:
ELLIOT BAY BOOK STORE (Capitol Hill, Seattle)
Michael meets James here when he’s doing a book signing
LEM (one of Michael’s patients)
Lem is a sweet man, an older accountant with terrible shyness issues. Here’s my photo reference for Lem:
MARNIE:
Marnie is a regular (non surrogacy) patient of Michael’s in his work for an in-home nursing company. She’s a total hoot! I searched for the most outrageous old lady shots I could find — imagine this times 10!
MOUNT RAINIER PICNIC
Michael decides to act as ‘muse’ to James, and he takes him to several beauty spots near Seattle. They have a picnic here:
STEAMBOAT ROCK AND COULEE DAM (Central Washington)
Two more places Michael takes James
MEDGAR EVERS POOL
James and Michael have their second meeting at this pool in Seattle, which has a lift for disabled swimmers
That’s it for this story. I’m looking forward to seeing your reviews and comments on “The Mating of Michael”!
Eli
June 23, 2014
DSP Sale: The Mating of Michael
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
June 15, 2014
Countdown to Michael — 15 days
“The Mating of Michael” releases on Jun 30. Only 15 more days! Here’s another excerpt to whet your appetite! You can now pre-order it on the Dreamspinner site here.
For those of you who have been asking me for longer stories, Michael is my first full length m/m romance novel at 73K words. Dreamspinner is publishing a paperback also!
Excerpt:
~1~
Seattle, February, 2014
“Gin! Dude, you’re history!”
Tommy laid down a set of fours and a run in hearts and laughed in triumph. The words and the laugh sounded garbled, thanks to the damage to his throat and palate, but Michael understood him just fine.
“Damn, man! You are wicked lucky today.” Michael Lamont shook his head, trying to look disappointed. But he didn’t really mind. Making Tommy laugh was more than worth losing a few card games.
“Well, Monday is my lucky day,” Tommy said with a wink. He pushed his chair away from the table.
“Are you flirting with me?”
“Yup.”
“I see how you are. First, you trounce me, then you try to butter me up. Do you wanna play again?”
Michael asked because he always asked. It was part of their routine. Three rounds of gin, which Tommy won more often than not. After cards came the massage. But Michael asked anyway, even when, like now, Tommy had pushed back from the table and already had the start of an erection in his shorts. The look in his eyes said he’d forgotten all about gin rummy.
“No more cards,” Tommy said quietly.
“Okay, champ.”
Michael stacked the cards neatly while Tommy went over to the bed. A large photo of the Seattle Mariners, inscribed with “To Tommy, best wishes,” and signed by all the players, was framed and hung over Tommy’s bed. He’d gotten that, Tommy had once told Michael, when he was in the hospital after the fire, and they didn’t know if he would live. It was one of Tommy’s most prized possessions.
Tommy dropped his shorts, leaving on his oversized T-shirt and briefs and sat on the edge of the mattress. He watched while Michael put his gym bag on the table and unzipped it. Michael carried everything he needed in there—a large bottle of Eucerin lotion, massage oil, wipes, condoms, a few styles of vibrators, and a few simple toys. He rarely used the toys, but he carried them all the same. He removed his shirt and folded it neatly on the bag before picking up the bottle of Eucerin.
He stood at the side of the bed while Tommy looked at him. Tommy liked to start by gazing at Michael’s chest for a while, and then touching it lightly with his damaged fingers, getting himself aroused. When he was ready, he laid down on his stomach. As always, there were no blankets on the bed, only sheets, so clean they smelled of fabric softener. A few small towels were stacked on the bedside table. Tommy himself had been freshly bathed, and even his ever-present baseball cap looked new. Michael appreciated the effort. He knew Tommy’s mother was very particular about his care. The house was on Lake Washington in the Madrona district and was easily worth several million. But he had a feeling it was Tommy himself who insisted on everything being perfect on Mondays. The thought caused a small ache in Michael’s chest as he gently tugged up the hem of Tommy’s T-shirt and rolled it tight near his shoulders.
Tommy didn’t like to have his shirt removed. Michael thought it gave him a sense of modesty to be able to pull it down over his scars quickly, even if he never did. Michael squeezed a line of lotion up his ravaged back.
Tommy’s life had been devastated one terrible night six years ago. He’d been sleeping over with a friend when the house caught fire. Michael had never been told what had caused the fire or the details of what’d happened, only that Tommy had been severely burned over seventy-percent of his body. Despite years of what must have been painful surgeries, including extensive cosmetic reconstruction, no one would ever look at Tommy and not see a burn victim. No one, that is, except Michael.
His fingertips soothed the lotion into the scar tissue, rubbing in circles. Tommy gave off a little moan.
Michael took his time. He massaged Tommy’s back, then pulled his briefs down and off and worked his arms and legs. The scar tissue had been well cared for. It required daily massage to avoid getting painfully tight. Tommy’s mother or his PT routinely massaged him, but Michael’s massage was different. He kept it sensual rather than functional. He placed both hands on the backs of Tommy’s thighs and massaged firmly up to the cheeks of his ass, repeating the move a dozen times before massaging Tommy’s buttocks. They were only mildly scarred, and Tommy liked to have them handled.
“Wanna turn over,” Tommy said, in a rough voice.
“Go ahead, champ.” Michael removed his hands and let Tommy turn.
Tommy’s penis was mercifully undamaged, thanks to the way he’d protected his core by curling up into a ball. He was fully erect and red. Michael squeezed some lotion on it and stroked for just a minute before moving on to Tommy’s chest and the front of his arms and legs. He knew what Tommy liked, and Tommy liked to take it slow. He liked to make it last, like a favorite dessert he only got once a week. His moans of pleasure were loud, but there was no one to hear. Only Tommy’s mother was in the house on Monday mornings, and she stayed out of the way, tucked away downstairs in the kitchen.
Michael drew his fingertips lightly over Tommy’s belly, causing him to shiver and groan, before finally taking him in hand. Michael was erect too. He always got that way when working with clients. If Tommy had wanted to see or feel Michael, he would have been happy to oblige. But that had never been what Tommy wanted. Nor was this about relieving Tommy of sperm. His hands were damaged, but he could hold his cards and a pen, type on the computer—he could get himself off. No, what Tommy needed from Michael was human touch, loving touch, to feel that he was not alone, that he could have sexual contact with a cute guy his own age, someone who would not look at him with horror. That was a privilege his twenty-one-year-old peers took for granted, gay or straight.
Michael touched Tommy lightly until he indicated with a panted “Go” that he was ready to come. Then Michael stroked him firmly until he climaxed hard.
Michael cleaned Tommy up and pulled his briefs back on. He always wanted to sleep afterward, no talking, no fuss. So Michael leaned over and kissed his cheek, smiling.
“See ya next week, champ. I’ll remember to bring that Stephen King book I’ve been promising. And I swear I’m going to beat you at rummy one of these days, at least two out of three.”
Tommy laughed, opening his eyes only long enough for one last fond look. “In your dreams. Excellent work today, Maestro. Laters.”
“Laters.”
Mrs. Chelsey was waiting for Michael in the kitchen as usual. But this week, when he popped in his head, she looked up at him anxiously.
“Would you like a cup of tea? I made us a pot.”
She’d set the table in the kitchen with two cups and a china pot, like some sort of fancy B&B. Michael hesitated.
“Unless you have to be somewhere?” Mrs. Chelsey’s worried tone said she shouldn’t have presumed.
Michael glanced at his watch. “No, I’m good. I’d love to try that tea.” He smiled and joined her at the table.
Mrs. Chelsey was an attractive brunette in her late forties, her body slender and her face drawn with perpetual worry. Still, she was always very pleasant to Michael.
“How did he seem to you today?” she asked as she poured the tea. “There’s cream and sugar.”
“Black is good, thanks. I got the impression he was a little down when I first got here. But he creamed me at three rounds of gin, and that cheered him up considerably.”
Mrs. Chelsey seemed relieved. “He’s been depressed lately. His friends are all graduating from college, getting married, moving on with their own lives… I’m worried about him.” She eyed Michael’s face with a searching gaze as if somehow he could provide the understanding she needed. “He’s always better on Mondays, though. I can’t tell you how much your visits mean to him.”
Michael was glad Mrs. Chelsey and Tommy were happy with him, but it was never easy for him to accept compliments. “Just doing my job.”
“You don’t have to play cards with him, though, hang out, and treat him like a friend. That means a lot.”
“Tommy is a friend. He’s a client but… I’m happy to call him a friend.”
Mrs. Chelsey smiled sadly. “My friends would never understand about you. I don’t even… not even Tommy’s father knows that I hired a sex surrogate.”
Michael wanted to argue with her, to say something like “It’s not a big deal”, or “It’s not that unusual.” Because he truly felt that way. But he knew other people—most people—saw sex surrogacy as a very big deal.
Michael loved being a sex surrogate. It felt entirely natural to him. He’d graduated from nursing school at twenty-one and did an internship with a VA hospital in Seattle. A few of the patients there were young, just recovering from injury or PTSD. One in particular, a sweet boy named Wayne, had lost a leg and was severely depressed. Michael was fairly certain Wayne was gay, and he was so devastated by his injury. Sometimes, Wayne would look at Michael, then look away. There was pure need in that look, a need so deep it ran red with blood. Michael had a strong urge to hold Wayne, to comfort him, to, yes, give him relief in any way that he could. Instinctively, he sensed that Wayne needed physical contact, needed someone to make him feel like a man, to remind him that being alive meant the possibility of great pleasure, not just pain.
Of course, as a young nurse, such a thing would have been entirely inappropriate. Michael had never acted on it, but it started him thinking. He researched online for types of therapy that involved touch. That’s when he discovered sex surrogacy. He fell in love with the idea literally at first sight. He applied to the IPSA, the International Professional Surrogates Association, and took their 100-hour course via mail part-time while he worked. A year later, he was licensed.
He believed so strongly that love and intimacy were key components of healing and mental health. But he’d learned that very few people were capable of understanding what he did.
So instead of arguing with Mrs. Chelsey, he just said, “Well… you’re a very cool mom. Tommy is lucky.”
Mrs. Chelsey laughed. “A cool mom would give her son a little weed, not sex. I’ve done the weed too, on occasion.”
Michael looked at her in surprise. He’d never smelled it in Tommy’s room.
“A few years ago when there was more pain,” she explained. “We got it prescribed. Thank God for the Medical Cannabis law. But Tommy doesn’t want it much anymore. Says it makes him fuzzy. Anyway, I just… I feel he’s missing so much in life. Anything I can give him, I will give him.”
She said this last fiercely. Michael’s heart ached for her. He reached over and stroked her hand. “Hey, Tommy is lucky to have you, to have this beautiful home, and to be so well-cared for. You’re doing a great job.”
She clutched desperately at the hand Michael offered and, with the other, took a casual sip of tea as if she hadn’t a care in the world. It reminded Michael of that saying about one hand not knowing what the other was doing.
“I just wish our lives weren’t about me taking care of Tommy. I wish he was out there being a normal twenty-one-year-old, having fun, even getting into a little bit of trouble.”
Michael wasn’t sure what got into him, but he stage-whispered, “Well, he did just have sex upstairs.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
She barked out a laugh. “You don’t say.”
“I have it on good authority.” Michael tried to release her hand, but she clung on. He let her.
Mrs. Chelsey looked down into her cup, took a couple of deep breaths. “It’s my fault, you see. His father and I were newly divorced, and I… I got a little crazy. That night, Tommy didn’t want to go to Samuel’s house. He wanted to stay home, play his video games, and chat with his pal in Norway. But I insisted he go. I had a date.”
Michael swallowed down a painful wave of empathy and rubbed his thumb over the top of her hand.
“I’ll never forgive myself for that.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright.
Michael got up and went over to Tommy’s mother. He hugged her, leaning down and holding her tight. She took the comfort, placing her arms around his back and tilting her face against his shoulder.
“It’s not your fault. A million other times that same scenario would have gone fine. Tommy would have come home the next morning like always. You couldn’t have known.”
She nodded, but she didn’t say anything. She hugged him back for a long moment, the tension of grief thick in her body, until at last, she relaxed. Michael’s mother had worked as an intensive care nurse for a while, and she always said her job was as much about helping the relatives deal with what was happening as it was about the actual patient care. Michael’s job wasn’t often like that, but now he understood what his mother meant. That fire had devastated Tommy’s mom as much as it had Tommy.
Mrs. Chelsey pulled back. “Thank you.”
“Any time. You know, you have needs too, not just Tommy.”
He said it sincerely, but when Mrs. Chelsey quirked an oh really eyebrow, he laughed. “Oh. Um… I didn’t mean those kinds of needs.”
“Good. Because, no offense, Michael, but that would be really weird.”
“Right.” Michael laughed, embarrassed. “Well, on that graceful note, I should probably get going. Thanks for the tea.”
Mrs. Chelsey stood up to show him out. He headed for the kitchen doorway and his gym bag.
“Oh! Just remembered. I saw something in Sunday’s newspaper, and I clipped it for you.” She took a newspaper page off the refrigerator and brought it over. “Tommy said you like science fiction?”
“Love it.”
“Well, maybe you already know about this, but when I saw it, I thought of you.”
It was an ad for “Science Fiction week” at Elliott Bay Book Company. “Excellent,” Michael said politely. His eyes scanned down the list of events and his heart stopped. “Oh, my God. No way!”
“What is it?”
“J.C. Guise? Seriously?”
Mrs. Chelsey shrugged, obviously not getting it.
“I don’t believe it! J.C. Guise is doing a book signing at Elliott Bay on Friday night. He’s like… my favorite author in the world, and he never does book signings. He’s a legendary recluse. He doesn’t go to conventions, he doesn’t do Twitter or Facebook, he’s a ghost. He has a one-page website that lists his books, and that’s it. I can’t believe this!”
“That does sound exciting.” Mrs. Chelsey looked pleased that her small offering had been so well received.
“Exciting?” Michael laughed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mrs. Chelsey, but right now? I freaking love you.”
******************
HEAVEN CAN’T WAIT:
In other news, my novella Heaven Can’t Wait is now out with Dreamspinner. Check out some new reviews!
My “Desktop” blog post of inspirational images for “Heaven Can’t Wait”
5 stars Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews – “…tangible chemistry going on, a nice touch of slow burning sexual tension and a lovely, sweet romance building up throughout the book that all mixed together culminates into a very enjoyable and satisfying little supernatural love story.”
4.5 stars Boys in Our Books — “Heaven is a quick and easy read I recommend for, well, everybody. Pick it up ASAP, but be sure to put on your favoriteswingy, swishy dress for your Maria von Trapp solo dance.”
Review from Bloggergirls – “If you’re looking for something that’ll simultaneously touch you and make you smile, give this one a try because it definitely affected me! I loved it!”
Eli
June 1, 2014
Desktop: Heaven Can’t Wait
“Heaven Can’t Wait” is a 17K word m/m romance novella that is being published as part of Dreamspinner’s Daily Dose for 2014. It’s also available as a stand-alone novella here.
You can read an excerpt on my site on this page.
Here’s the blurb:
When Brian Matheson dies at nineteen, his soul is in limbo. He has one chance to redeem himself before he’s thrown into a nasty pit. All Brian has to do is save the life of Kevin Anderson, a boy he and his friends tormented for being gay.
Kevin thought he’d finally escaped bullying. But his college roommate, Chuck, and his homophobic pals, prove him wrong. Now he can only wait for another room to open up—and try to keep his eyes off sexy, uber-straight Chuck.
Chuck is struggling to keep up the tough-guy façade everyone expects, but being trapped in a dorm room with the prettiest twink he’s ever seen isn’t helping him keep his feelings hidden.
If Brian can untangle this mess, he’ll deserve his wings
This is my traditional “desktop” post, where I share images I used for inspiration during the writing of “Heaven Can’t Wait”.
Kevin & Chuck:
Above was my visual inspiration for Kevin and Chuck. These guys are Ty Roderick and Max Carter in a scene from Cocky Boys. I really love these two together and the contrast between them physically, so I had them in my head for Chuck and Kevin.
Cole Hall, University of Madison, Wisconsin
My story is set in heaven and on the U. Madison campus. My niece went there and I enjoyed a long walk around the campus one fine spring day. Below is the dorm where Kevin and Chuck share a room.
Peter
I think my favorite character in this story is Peter, the no-nonsense, highly impatient judge that Brian faces in heaven. I knew if I was going to include heaven in a story I couldn’t approach it too seriously as it would quickly get deep and maudlin. So my approach is very lighthearted and humorous–and Peter provides that (and also the title of the story). Here’s my idea of what Peter looks like–Alan Rickman (if he were wearing white robes).
And finally, a little ‘mood’ inspiration.
That’s it for this time. Hope you enjoy reading “Heaven Can’t Wait”.
Eli
May 29, 2014
The Mating of Michael on goodreads
Yay! Only a bit over a month away. It should be appearing on Dreamspinner's Coming Soon page shortly.
Eli
“Mistletoe” in Italian and “Superhero” in audio!
I have a few new releases to celebrate today!
First, “Blame it on the Mistletoe” is now out in Italian from publisher Triskell Edizioni. This is my first Eli Easton foreign edition and it’s very exciting:
http://www.triskelledizioni.it/ebook-tutta-colpa-del-vischio-eli-easton/
Second, “Superhero” is now available in audio! This is my first Eli Easton book done as an audio book. Thanks to Dreamspinner for producing this edition.
Eli
May 17, 2014
Kingdom Come: Just Completed
Yesterday I finished the first edit of “Kingdom Come” and sent it off to beta. ”Kingdom Come” is a murder mystery novel set in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania and it involves the Amish. And there is a m-m romance plotline to it as well.
Like the hero, Detective Meyer Harris, I was born in Pennsylvania and moved away for college. My husband and I returned 3 years ago and bought a farm here. Although Meyer’s reasons for returning are different than mine, a lot of his feelings about Lancaster County–good and bad–are autobiographical.
“Kingdom Come” also represents a sort of cross-over for me. Before I wrote m/m romance as Eli Easton, I published mysteries and thrillers under another name. ”Kingdom Come” contains both that old writer and the new.
Here’re a few images I used for inspiration of the tone and mood of “Kingdom Come”. It’s something like a m/m version of “Witness” meets “The Killing” (the AMC TV show). NOTE: These are not the official cover, just inspiration images.
And here’s an early excerpt — the first part of chapter 1.
1
The Dead Girl
“We’ve got a dead girl. I need you.”
I blearily looked at the clock. It was five-forty-five a.m. on a Wednesday morning. I hated being woken up early. It ranked right up there with cold coffee and flat tires.
“Where?” I tried to get my mind clear of the bitter murk of a lingering nightmare. I couldn’t remember the details, but I remembered holding Terry’s cold, wet hand as he laid in the street.
Grady gave me the address. “It’s… sensitive,” he added, his voice tight.
“All right.” I didn’t get his meaning. It wasn’t like I was going to stop on the way and alert the media. Still, those two words haunted me as I followed the GPS to the address he gave me. When I drew close I understood.
The address on Grimlace Lane was an Amish farm in the middle of a whole lot of other Amish farms in the borough of Paradise, Pennsylvania. Sensitive like a broken tooth. Murders didn’t happen here, not here.
Even before I parked, my mind started generating theories and scenarios. Dead girl, Grady had said. If it had been natural causes or an accident, like falling down the stairs, Grady wouldn’t have called me in. It had to be murder or at least a suspicious death. A father disciplining his daughter a little too hard? Dottering Grandma dipping into the rat poison rather than the flour?
There were a couple of black-and-whites and an unmarked car—Grady’s—by the barn. The CSI team and coroner had not yet arrived. I didn’t live far from the murder site. I was glad for the head start and the quiet.
I paused outside my car to get a sense of place. The interior of the barn glowed in the cold dark of a winter morning. I took in the classic white shape of a two-story bank barn, the snowy corn fields behind, the glow of lanterns coming from the huge, barely open barn door…. It looked like one of those quaint paintings you see hanging in the local tourist shops with a title like Winter Dawn. I’d only moved back to Pennsylvania eight month ago after spending ten years in Manhattan. I still felt a pang at the quiet beauty of it.
Until I opened the door and slipped inside.
It wasn’t what I expected. It was like some bizarre and horrific game of mixed-up pictures. The warmth of the rough barn wood was lit by a half dozen oil lanterns. Add in the scattered straw, two Jersey cows, and twice as many horses, all watching the proceedings with bland interest from various stalls, and it felt like a cozy step back in time. That vibe did not compute with the dead girl on the floor of the barn. She was most definitely not Amish, which was the first surprise. She was young and beautiful, like something out of a 50’s pulp magazine. She had long, honey blond hair and a face that still had the blush of life thanks to the heavy make-up she wore. She had on a candy pink sweater that molded over taunt breasts and a short gray wool skirt that was pushed up to her hips. She still wore pink underwear, though it looked roughly twisted. Her nails were the same shade as her sweater. Her bare feet, thighs, and hands were blue-white with death, and her neck too, at the line below her jaw where the make-up stopped.
The whole scene felt unreal, like some pretentious performance art, the kind in those Soho galleries Terry had always dragged me too. But then, death always looked unreal.
“Coat? Shoes?” I asked, already taking inventory. Maybe knee-high boots, I thought, reconstructing it in my mind. And thick tights to go with that wool skirt. Even a girl worried more about looks than weather wouldn’t go bare-legged in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania in January.
“They’re not here. We looked.” Grady’s voice was tense. I finally spared him a glance. His face was drawn in a way I’d never seen before, like he was digesting a meal of ground glass.
In that instant, I saw the media attention this could get, the politics, the outrage. I remembered that Amish school shooting a few years back. I hadn’t lived here then, but I’d seen the press. Who hadn’t?
“You sure you want me on this?” I asked him quietly.
“You’re the most experienced homicide detective I’ve got,” Grady said. “I need you, Harris. And I need this wrapped up quickly.”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t agreeing that it could be. My gut said this wasn’t going to be a shut-and-dried case, but I agreed it would be nice. “Who found her? Do we know who she is?”
“Jacob Miller, eleven years old. He’s the son of the Amish farmer who lives here. Poor kid. Came out to milk the cows this morning and found her just like that. The family says they have no idea who she is or how she got here.”
“How many people live on the property?”
“Amos Miller, his wife, and their six children. The oldest, a boy, is fifteen. The youngest is three.”
More vehicles pulled up outside. The forensics team no doubt. I was gratified that Grady had called me in first. It was good to see the scene before it turned into a lab.
“Can you hold them outside for five minutes?” I asked Grady.
He nodded and went out.
I pulled on some latex gloves, then looked at the body, bending down to get as close to it as I could without touching it. The left side of her head, towards the back, was matted with blood and had the look of a compromised skull. The death blow? I tried to imagine what had happened. The killer—he or she——had probably come up behind the victim, struck her with something heavy. The autopsy would tell us more. I didn’t think it had happened here. There were no signs of a disturbance or the blood you’d expect from a head wound, and it just felt wrong. I carefully pulled up her hip a bit and looked at the underside of her back and thigh. Very minor lividity. She hadn’t been in this position long—no more than six hours. And I noticed something else—her clothes were wet. I rubbed a bit of her wool skirt and sweater between my fingers to be sure—and came away with dampness on the latex. She wasn’t soaked now, and her skin was dry, so she’d been here long enough to dry out, but she’s been very wet at some point. I could see now that her hair wasn’t just styled in a casual damp-dry curl, it had been recently wet, probably post-mortem along with her clothes.
I straightened frowning. It was odd. We’d had two inches of snow the previous afternoon, but it was too cold for rain. If the body had been left outside in the snow would it have gotten this wet? Maybe the M.E. could tell me.
Since I was sure she hadn’t been killed in the barn, I checked the floor for drag marks. The floor was wooden planks kept so clean there was no straw or dirt in which drag marks would show, but there were traces of wet prints. Then again, the boy who’d found the body had been in the barn and so had Grady and the uniforms, and me too. I carefully examined the girl’s bare feet. There was no broken skin, no sign her feet had been dragged through the snow or across rough boards.
The killer was strong. He’d carried her in here and laid her down. Which meant he’d arranged her like this—pulled up her skirt, splayed her thighs. He’d wanted it to look sexual. Why?
The doors opened. Grady and the forensics team stood in the doorway.
“Blacklight this whole area,” I requested. “And this floor—see if you can get any prints or traffic patterns off it. Don’t let anyone in until that’s done. I’m going to look outside.” I looked at Grady. “The M.E.?”
“Should be here any minute.”
“Good. Make sure she’s tested for any signs of penetration, consensual or otherwise.”
“Right.”
Grady barked orders. The crime scene technicians—a pair I knew by name only, Jill and Anthony—pulled on blue coveralls and booties just outside the door. This was only the sixth homicide needing real investigation I’d been on since moving back to Lancaster—the others had been cut-and-dried domestic or gang violence. I was still impressed that the department had decent tools and protocol, even though I knew that was just big city arrogance talking.
I left them to it and went out to find my killer’s tracks in the snow.
* * *
This winter had been harsh this year. In fact, it was shaping up to be the worst in decades. We’d had a white Christmas and then it never really left. The fresh two inches we’d gotten the day before had covered up an older foot or two of dirty snow and ice. Thanks to a low of the 20’s overnight, the fresh snow had a dry, powdery surface that showed no signs of melting. It still wasn’t fun to walk on, though, due to the underlying grunge. It said a lot about the killer if he’d carried her body over any distance.
There was a neatly shoveled path from the house to the barn and in front of the barn doors. Most of the snow in the central open area between the house and the barn had been stomped down, from feet both human and animal. It didn’t take me long to spot a deep set of prints heading off across an open field that was otherwise pristine. The line of prints came and went, the ‘leaving’ prints sometimes laying over the approaching prints. They showed a sole like a work boot and they were as large as my own feet. They came from, and returned to, a distant copse of trees. I bent over to examine one of the prints close to the barn. It had definitely been made since the last snowfall.
A few minutes later, I got my first look at Amos Miller, the Amish farmer who owned the property. Grady called him out and showed him the tracks. Miller looked to be in his mid-forties with dark brown hair and a long, unkempt beard. His face was round and solemn. I said nothing, just observed. There’d be time later to question Miller and everyone else on the property. Right now those tracks were glowing in my brain like they were covered in radioactive dust.
They say the first forty-eight hours are critical in a homicide case, and that’s true, but, frankly, a lot of murders can be solved in the first eight hours. Sometimes it’s obvious—the boyfriend standing there with a guilty look and blood under his nails rambling about a ‘masked robber’. Sometimes the neighbors can tell you they heard a knock-down, drag-out fight. And sometimes… there are tracks in the snow.
“Nah. I didn’t make them prints and ain’t no reason for my boys to be out there.” He said ‘there’ as dah, his German accent as broad as his face. “But lemme ask ’em just to be sure.”
He started to stomp away. I called after him. “Bring them out here, please.”
Grady shot me an assessing look, but he didn’t argue. I wanted to see their faces as they denied it—assuming they did.
First impression of Amos Miller? He looked worried. Then again, he was an Amish farmer with two boys in their teens. A beautiful young English girl—the Amish called everyone who was not Amish ‘English’—was dead and spread-eagle in his barn. I’d be worried too.
He came back with three boys. The youngest was small and still a child. That was probably Jacob, the eleven-year-old who’d found the body. His face was blank, like he was in shock. The next one up looked to be around thirteen, just starting puberty. He was thin with a rather awkward nose and oversized hands he still hadn’t grown into. His father introduced him as Ham. The oldest, Wayne, had to be the fifteen-year-old that Grady mentioned, the oldest child. All three were decent-looking boys in that wholesome, bowl-cut way of Amish youth. The older two looked excited but not guilty. I suppose it was quite an event, having a dead body found on your farm. I wondered if the older boys had been in the barn to see the girl since their little brother’s discovery. Knowing how large families worked, I couldn’t imagine they hadn’t.
Each of the boys looked at the tracks and shook his head. “Nah,” the oldest added for good measure. “Ain’t from me.”
“Any of you recognize that print?” I asked. “Does it look like boots you’ve seen before?”
They all craned forward to look. Amos stroked his beard. “Just look like boots. Maybe. You can check all ours if you like. We’ve nothin’ to hide.”
I nodded at Grady. We’d definitely want the crime team to inventory every pair of shoes and boots in the house.
“Would you all mind stepping over here for me?” I lead them over to the other side of the ice-and-gravel drive where there was some untouched snow. “Youngest to oldest, one at a time.”
The youngest stepped forward into the snow with both feet, then back. The others mimicked his actions obediently, including Amos Miller.
“Thank you. That’s all for now. I’ll want to speak to you a bit later, so please stay home.”
They went back inside and Grady and I compared the tracks. All three of the boys had visibly smaller feet than the tracks in the snow. Amos’s prints were possibly large enough but didn’t have the same sole pattern. Besides, I was sure Grady wasn’t missing the fact that the prints came and went from the trees since the prints heading that direction overlaid the ones approaching the barn.
“Ronks Road is over there beyond those woods.” Grady sounded hopeful as he pointed across the field. “Can it be that easy?”
“Don’t!”
Grady cocked an eyebrow at me.
“You’ll jinx it. Never say the word ‘easy’. That’s inviting Murphy and his six cousins.”
Grady smirked a bit. “Well if the killer dumped her here, he had to come from somewhere.”
I grunted. I knew what Grady was thinking. I was thinking it too. A car of rowdy youth, or maybe just a guy and his hot date. A girl ends up dead and he/they get the bright idea to dump her on an Amish farm. They drive out here, park, cross a snowy cornfield and leave her in a random barn.
It sounded like a stupid teenage prank, only it was murder and possibly an attempt to frame someone else. That was a lot of prison years of serious. A story like that—it would make the press happy and Grady fucking ecstatic, especially if we could nab the guy who wore those boots by tonight.
“Get a photographer and a recorder and let’s go,” I said, feeling only a moment’s silent regret over my suede oxfords. I should have worn my snow boots.
Eli
May 3, 2014
When M/M Goes Wild
I love contemporary m/m romances, as those on who follow my goodreads reviews (or even this blog) know. However, after reading hundreds of such books, I sometimes get a yen for something a little different.
I grew up reading horror: Stephen King, John Saul, Dean Koonz, Anne Rice. Every book I read in high school—and that was a lot—had a shiny black cover. You know the books I mean. I also love science fiction movies (I Robot, Bladerunner, 2001, Matrix, District 9, Battlestar Gallactica). In a previous incarnation as an author I wrote thrillers and sci-fi in the 90’s.
So after getting addiction to m/m romance, and writing some contemporaries of my own, I find the “weird” and the “wild” creeping back in. After all – a plotty plot, some chills and thrills, and m/m sex. What could be better than that?
Some of my favorite “Wild” m/m stand alone stories:
Bone Rider by J. Fally – A ‘first contact’ story that reads like a best selling thriller. Excellent plotting and characters, plus an unusual and hot m/m romance, make this a must-read for m/m fans.
Kraken by M. Caspian – A wonderful blend of horror and m/m romance, in Kraken a man visits an island only to become trapped there and in a dubious consent relationship with something that has… tentacles. Creepy and compelling.
Billy’s Bones by Jamie Fessenden – A dark murder mystery/psychological thriller as well as a m/m romance, Billy’s Bones is an excellent story that will keep you hooked.
Wilde Stories: Year’s Best Gay Speculative Fiction anthologies:
This series collects the year’s best in gay fiction. Not all of them are romance, but all are worth reading. My story “Caress” from Dreamspinner’s “Steamed Up” anthology will appear in the 2014 volume.
https://www.goodreads.com/series/65283-wilde-stories
Some good free stories from LHNB 2013:
Prisoner 374215 by Angel Martinez — Sci-fi dystopian story about a man who no longer remembers who he was – angsty, dark and sweet!
The Sentinel by Eden Winters – Sci-fi story about a part android soldier who deserts in order to save a baby. ”Terminator” meets a gay version of “Two Men and a Baby”.
When You Were Pixels by Julio-Alexi Genao – A highly rated bittersweet sci-fi story with a hurt/comfort, enemies-to-lovers theme.
You Get Full Credit For Being Alive by Cari Z. – I would classify this as a thriller with a m/m romance subplot. Really well-written assassin/thriller characters and plot.
The gothika anthology series
My love of this writing type of fiction inspired me to start a new series of anthologies of gothic horror/fantasy stories with a m/m romance twist. I brainstormed with Jamie Fessenden and gothika was born. The first volume, “Stitch” came out Apr 21, 2014, and includes novellas by myself, Jamie, Kim Fielding and Sue Brown. All of the stories in “Stitch” have a Frankenstine/made man theme. Each subsequent volume of gothika will have a different theme (the next one is called “Bones” and features Voodoo—it’s due out Halloween 2014).
I love all the stories in “Stitch”, which isn’t surprising given the fact that I love all the authors. Kim’s story “The Golem of Mala Lubovnya” is set in 17th century Eastern Europe and retells the golem legend with a lovely m/m spin. “Watchworks” by Jamie Fessenden is set in Victorian London and involves a watchmaker and his unusual new client. (hot!) “Made For Aaron” by Sue Brown is a mostly contemporary story about a man who is rescued by an unlikely ally after being sent to an asylum for being homosexual. My story, “Reparation” is set on a dystopian sci-fi planet but don’t let that scare you off—it’s a moody “Wuthering Heights” type story featuring a huge and sexy cyborg named Knox.
Go Wild
Check out “Stitch” of any of these other stories and take a walk on the wild side of m/m romance. You might be surprised at how much you like the change of pace.
You can read an excerpt from my “Stitch” story here.
Eli Easton
Guest Kim Fielding: Heating Up Already?
Okay, so it’s barely May and aleady it’s in the upper 90s around here. I am stubbornly refusing to turn on the air conditioning–despite having a cold. I will suffer.
The temptation in weather like this is to turn to something light and frothy. A beach read, right? Preferably one that actually occurs at the beach. If you’re looking for that, I offer my novellaTreasure, which you can download for free here. Or maybe you want a road trip story, like my soon-to-be-released Motel. Pool. Or a vacation tale like Venetian Masks.
But you know what? I think you ought to be contrary. As those temps climb and the days grow longer, I think you should curl up with something a little dark. Something with monsters. Like our new anthology, Stitch, of course. It contains novellas by Sue Brown, Eli Easton, Jamie Fessenden, and me, each of which will make you think about what it really means to be human. Maybe you’ll even be cooled a bit with a chill up your spine–or else heated up with some steamy lovin’.
The four of us will be joined by B.G. Thomas for a second book in the Gothika series; this book will contain voodoo stories. Mine’s called “The Dance” and was submitted today. That book should release in time for Halloween.
In the meantime, pour yourself something cold and admire this cover:
Kim Fielding.
From Eli: thanks for being on my blog, Kim! As you know, I love all of your stuff. Looking forward to Motel. Pool. And your story in “Stitch” is not to be missed.
May 1, 2014
The Bird – just completed
NOTE: This is a TEMPORARY cover, not a final cover. I just made it for my own iPad version.
It always feels great to turn in a finished story to the publisher. Today I turned in a novella called “The Bird”, which will be part of an anthology called “Bones” and is the second in the gothika series (the first was the just-released “Stitch”).
The idea behind gothika is a series of anthologies that contain a few quality novellas with a common theme written by known m/m romance authors. Each story has a gothic romance flavor. ”Stitch” has stories by myself, Jamie Fessenden, Kim Fielding, and Sue Brown and had a Frankenstein/made man theme. ”Bones” will include those same authors plus B.G. Thomas and has a Voodoo theme.
The photo I used on my *TEMP* cover is from the movie “Wide Sargasso Sea” starring Nathaniel Parker. I’ve always loved films set in the West Indies during the British colonial days. Stories like “Island of Dr. Moreau”, “I Walked with a Zombie”, the Night Gallery episode known as “The Caterpiller” where a man visiting the islands has an earwig crawl into his ear. There’s something about the mystique of the islands set up against the stiff-upper-lip British which makes for great horror–and hot sex.
Here’s a *TEMP* blurb for “The Bird”:
Colin Hastings is sent to Jamaica in 1870 to save his father’s sugar cane plantation. If he succeeds, he can marry his fiancée back in London and take his place in proper English society. But Colin finds more than he bargained for on the island. His curiosity about Obeah, the native folk magic, leads him to agree to a dangerous ritual where he is offered his heart’s most secret desire. Colin has buried his sexuality deep inside himself. When that desire is exposed and placed into a bird, Colin becomes haunted by the creature. Is the bird a horror or his one chance at a life worth living?
I’ll post more about “The Bird” and the other stories on “Bones” closer to publication.
Eli
