Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 25

First Chapter: Goodbye Paradise

Autumn

It should have been just another ordinary day of work and prayer, followed by more work, followed by more prayer. I had endured almost twenty years of those days already. But this one would turn out to be very different.

Also, I had a headache.

It was a crisp November afternoon, and we were out in the dry bean field, gathering in the crop. This was, hands down, my least favorite chore. Every fall we stood out here in the wind, fingertips sliced to bits by the sharp-edged bean hulls, the dried stems clattering in the breeze.

The throbbing at the base of my skull put an extra special twist on the whole experience. Hooray and hallelujah.

When I was a boy, we had a machine to hull the beans. I’d loved that crazy old diesel-fueled hunk of metal. The men had pitched the dried sheaves into one end, and the machine shook them senseless. Beans (and dust) came shooting into a hopper on one side. All the chaff was chucked out of the back, and the work went ten times as fast.

That machine wore out, though. And our Divine Pastor did not replace it. Why would he? It wasn’t his fingers bleeding on the beanstalks.

To entertain myself during our long days of labor, I often took over the compound in my mind — all two thousand acres of dusty Wyoming ranch land. The first thing I always planned (after ex-communicating all the assholes) was to invest in farm machinery, tripling the acreage for our cash crops. In my mind, I built us a shiny, efficient operation, diversified to minimize the risk of crop failure.

I enjoyed these fantasies while standing in that row of beans wearing torn trousers and hand-me-down boots a half size too small. Not a soul at the compound would ever listen to my plans, even if I were stupid enough to share them. I’d learned at an early age never to point out the foolishness of our leadership, or the inefficiencies of our operation.

Nobody wanted to hear this from the skinny kid with slow hands.

Beside me — just a few feet away — stood the other object of my fantasies. Caleb Smith was my best friend. We’d been close since we could barely toddle. There wasn’t a day of my life when I hadn’t counted the faded spray of freckles which stretched across his nose, or admired his slightly crooked smile.

While my elders might have little patience for my farming fantasies, the thoughts I had about Caleb were a punishable sin. He was the last one I saw before I closed my eyes at night and the first person I looked for when I opened them again in the morning.

Even now, as he leaned over the next plant, I coveted his broad chest and fine shoulders. He was quicker than I was at tearing the bean pods off the stalks and liberating the beans with his thumb. They dropped into his bucket with a satisfying clatter. My own slowness was probably due to my habit of stopping to admire Caleb’s rugged-looking hands. 

At night, in my bunk all alone, Caleb’s hands made frequent appearances in all my best dreams.

Again, I pushed aside my sinful fantasies and tried to pick faster. It was my lot in life to be always two steps behind the other young men. For a long time I assumed that I would grow out of my dreamy nature. That I would someday be quick with farm tools and chores. But now that my nineteenth birthday had passed, it was obvious that my skills on the compound would never be praised.

I’d come to accept a lot of things about myself, actually. It’s just that I could never speak any of them aloud.

We had reached the end of a row. Caleb leaned down to yank his bucket around the end of it. But at the last second, he grabbed the handle of mine instead. Before I could even protest, he and my bucket had disappeared around the corner.

His bucket remained at my feet. And it was nearly full to the top.

With my face burning, I did the only conceivable thing. I hefted it, swinging it around the corner, setting it down at my feet, as if I’d picked all those beans myself.

Beside me, Caleb dropped more beans into the bucket formerly known as mine, his tanned hands threading into the dried sheaves the way I’d always wanted them to tangle in my hair.

Biting back a sigh, I grabbed a pod and cracked it in my hand. Discomfort and shame were my constant companions. Caleb covered for my mediocrity as best he could. My best friend had saved my backside too many times to count. And how did I repay him? With sinful, lusty thoughts.

Just another day in Paradise. That’s what they called this place where we lived and worked and prayed when they told us to.

Depressingly, the little kids of The Paradise Ranch didn’t even know that the rest of the world was not like this place. Sometimes I peered into the window of the little schoolhouse where the children were learning to read the Bible. (Only the Bible, and a book about our Divine Pastor. There weren’t any other texts. Poor little souls.)

Until the third grade, Caleb and I went to a real school in Casper. We all did. And man, I loved that place. Teachers pressed books into my hands and told me I was a wonderful student. School was my refuge.

But then, ten years ago, our Divine Pastor decided that the public school was a bad influence, because we came back to Paradise asking for Go-Gurt and Jell-O and Harry Potter. We came home corrupt, wanting things from the sinners’ world.

The elders didn’t like it. So they built the schoolhouse (which is really just a drafty pole barn) and taught us exactly what they wanted us to learn, which is almost nothing.

I haven’t been off the Paradise Ranch since then.

Caleb sees the outside world, though. He’s the first born grandson of an elder, and therefore has a much better standing than I do. He has a valid birth certificate and — even better — a driver’s license. Once a week or so the elders send him out to the post office or to the feed store. Once they sent him to Wal-Mart, and he came back with lots of colorful stories of what he saw there. Bright television screens (we didn’t have any at Paradise, but we’d seen them when we were younger), crazy clothing, and all kinds of food in plastic packages.

There were no stories for me today, though. We couldn’t gossip on a bean harvest day, because there were too many others around to hear us. Though it was nice to be near Caleb. I could even hear the tune he kept humming under his breath.

Singing was not allowed. Caleb was very good at following the rules, but music was his downfall. Some of the compound trucks still had their radios. And since Caleb was handy with engines (and branding cattle, and the ancient tractor, and all the stuff I could never seem to manage) he was often asked to do mechanical maintenance. Even though it was risky, when he worked alone he would sometimes play the radio.

I couldn’t tell which tune he had stuck in his head today, because only little bits of it escaped. But even those breathy sounds made me want to lean in. I wished I could put a hand on his chest and feel the vibration when he hummed.

My head gave a brand new throb of pain, and I dropped some flaky pieces of chaff into the bucket, and had to fish them out.

* * *

The day ended before the never-ending bean field, which meant that we’d have to come back again tomorrow. Carrying my last ungainly bucket, I felt oddly exhausted. I stumbled, nearly spilling all those ill-gotten beans on the ground.

Ezra, the evilest of the bachelors, came running over — but not to help. Instead, he laughed in my face. “The little faggot can’t even carry the beans.”

Do not react, I cautioned myself.

Ezra used the word faggot whenever he felt like it, and not always on me. But I knew what it meant, and when he said it I always felt transparent.

That’s when Caleb arrived at my side, setting down his own bucket without a word. He just loomed there, a quiet wall of support.

Ezra grinned in that mean way he had. “Why do you help the little faggot, anyway? People gonna talk.”

My blood was ice, then. Our whole lives, Caleb had been taking heat for helping me. To hear such ugliness come from Ezra’s mouth terrified me. Because if, even for a second, people believed the things that he had just implied about Caleb? I would die of unhappiness. My sin was my own, and I couldn’t stand to see that ugliness tainting my friend.

Luckily, Caleb had both parentage and competence on his side. He always shook off Ezra’s taunts. When he spoke, his tone was mild. “I help everyone, Ezra,” he said. “Even you. Christian charity? You ever heard of that? You been sleeping through Sunday mass?”

At that, Caleb picked up both our buckets and carried them to the truck. He lifted them as if they weighed no more than two chickens.

* * *

Then it was dinner time, thank the Lord. My headache had spread down my neck and across my shoulders. For once in my stupid life, food did not even sound very appealing.

But I took my seat as usual at the end of a bench in our bunkhouse common room.

All the bachelors lived together. Usually around age sixteen, boys moved out of their family houses and into the bunkhouse. There were, at present, twenty-seven family houses on the compound, though the number went up by one or two houses each year. Each house held one man’s family, which meant they were crowded. Since each man had several wives, there were lots of children, too.

Teenage boys were very useful for farm work, of course. But the men did not like having their grown sons in the house. They took up too much space, for one. But also, it was not fit to have lusty young men share a roof with so many women. Since the girls in Paradise were married off at seventeen or eighteen, that meant that the youngest wives were often the same age as the bachelors.

Boys, on the other hand, could never marry as teenagers. The difficulty with polygamy was the imbalance. I had worked this out at a very young age, and naturally kept my conclusions to myself. But if a man deserves four or five wives, and women have boys fifty percent of the time, there are always far too many boys.

A boy in Paradise could expect to wait until he was in his twenties to marry. That gave the compound more than a decade of his farm labor while he tried desperately to prove himself worthy of his own wife and home. 

Evil Ezra was twenty-four already, and probably the next in line to settle down. (I couldn’t wait to see him go, even though he wouldn’t go far.) In our bunkhouse there were twelve men over the age of twenty. Caleb turned twenty last month. I would turn twenty come springtime. There were a slew of teens, too. 

Owing to the math, many of us would never get the chance to marry. But neither would we be welcome to stay on. Five years from now, quite a few of my bunkhouse roommates would be gone from Paradise. Some would run away, but many would be kicked out.

Nobody spoke of this practice, of course. There were many, many idiosyncrasies at Paradise that were not to be mentioned aloud, but the throwing away of half our young men was the ugliest one.

And here’s a sad thing—it often took Caleb and me a day or two to notice that someone had gone missing. We might hear a bachelor say at lunch, “where has Zachariah been today?”

And the question would be met with deep silence.

Then, a day or two later, a story would begin to circulate. Zachariah had been caught behind the tool shed with one of the daughters. Or, Zachariah had worshipped the devil. There was always a crime that was responsible for his downfall. And the crime did not need to sound original, or even plausible. Those who disappeared weren’t around to defend themselves. The ones who disappeared, however, were often the most dispensable among us. The weak and the slow. The ones whose labor would not be missed too badly.

The boys who disappeared looked a lot like me.

Caleb sat down on the bench beside me, folding his big hands in a typical gesture of patience. Whereas I was a pile of nerves, he was a calm giant. His body language was always serene. It was only when I looked into his eyes that I sometimes saw anxiety flickering there. That always gave me a start.

In those rare moments when I caught Caleb wearing a pained expression, he always looked away. Whatever it was that bothered him, it was something he did not want me to see.

And I always had a strong desire to comfort him, which would never be tolerated, of course.

When we were at prayer, I spent a good portion of my time praying for his safekeeping and happiness. The other portion was spent apologizing to God for my sinful preoccupation with him.

As they did before every dinnertime, daughters began to file into the room, each one of them bearing a pan or a dish. It was the families’ job to feed the bachelors three times each day. During an ordinary work week, mealtimes were the only moments when the daughters and the bachelors saw one another. 

There was always supervision. Even now, Elder Michael stood at the head of the table, his serious eyes watching the proceedings, vigilant in the face of possible sin.

The swish of skirts continued. Since the daughters were made to dress alike, in long, roomy pastel dresses of identical design, all the swishes sounded the same.

A plate, napkin, and cutlery were placed in front of me. And I saw a particularly succulent chicken casserole land on the table as well. I kept my eye on it, even though someone quicker than I would probably reach it first, just after the prayer.

There was never quite enough to eat in the bunkhouse. More than two dozen hungry farm workers can put away an awful lot of food. None of us was ever truly full. And nobody ever got fat. Only married men had that privilege. In the family houses, a man was king, with a small army of women and children who were all vying to be the one who pleased him best.

That’s what the Ezras and Calebs of the bunkhouse were working toward — their own little promised land.

One particular skirt swished to a stop behind us. “Evening Caleb,” a soft voice said.

I did not look up for two reasons. In the first place, I did not need my eyes to identify Miriam. She had been a part of our lives since I could remember. Our mothers were all friends. As children, the three of us had climbed onto the school bus together back when that was allowed.

Miriam and Caleb always seemed meant for one another, too. It wasn’t something we talked about. It just was. Caleb showed Miriam the same favor as he showed me, helping her whenever possible. He even had a special smile for Miriam, which I coveted. It was a smile that knew secrets.

The other reason I did not turn around to greet Miriam was as a favor to them both. My lack of notice helped them have a brief and whispered conversation. It was the only sort of conversation they could have, except on those rare occasions when there was some sort of party. A barn raising, or a christening, maybe. Otherwise, the daughters and the bachelors were kept apart.

“I need to speak with you,” she said in the lowest possible tone.

Caleb answered under his breath. “After supper I’ll change the oil on the Tacoma.”

With the message received, Miriam darted away without another word.

Elder Michael began to say a prayer, so I bowed my head. And then there were “amens” and the passing of dishes.

I did, in fact, secure a chunk of the chicken casserole, as well as a rice dish and some potato. This I forced myself to eat, even though I felt ill. Because you did not pass up food in Paradise.

* * *

Two hours later, I lay in my bed, shaking. From fear, not illness.

In front of me, I held my Bible. Quiet prayer was one of the few activities acceptable just before curfew. So I often sat here with the heavy book on my lap, thinking.

Or worrying. And tonight I was definitely doing that.

After our meal, our Divine Pastor had walked into the bunkhouse common room. All conversation stopped, of course. He was accompanied by Elder Michael and two others. 

“It has come to our attention that a handgun has gone missing from the tool shed,” our Divine Pastor said.

I felt Caleb’s body go completely still beside me.

“I must ask,” our Divine Pastor continued, “Which of you was the last to perform an inventory of our supply of tools?”

Lord in heaven. My stomach cramped in distress. Slowly, I raised a shaking hand into the air.

“Joshua,” our Divine Pastor barked. “When was this?”

“T…two weeks ago,” I quavered. “After the pumpkins were in.” I always volunteered for inventory jobs, because it meant brainwork instead of outdoor labor.

“Did you perform the inventory piece by piece? Or do you keep an old list as a guide? I am trying to discern how easily you might have erred. Which might, in turn, help me learn when the gun went missing.”

“I…” I cleared my dry throat, feeling every pair of eyes on me. “I never use my old lists, because if there are new tools then I’d miss them.”

“So. You make a new list each time?”

“Yessir,” I choked out.

“The missing weapon was part of your recent inventory,” Elder Michael said, pinning me with his gaze.

I nodded. It was silent in that room. Nobody even breathed. Because no one else dared draw the attention of an angry elder.

“Do you have anything to say for where it might be?” he asked.

Of course I did not. And many people had access to that storage room. But I would not point this out, because it would sound as if I were desperate to shift blame. “I have no idea, sir,” I said. It was not a great defense, but it was my only move. “I remember the gun. It was new in August.”

The portly elder frowned. “Well then. Tomorrow, first thing, you will come with us to the tool shed and look again at the inventory. We need to know what else may be missing.”

“Yessir,” I’d said.

My stomach had remained in knots ever since.

I had no idea what would happen tomorrow. None at all. It was possible that they really only wanted my assistance. But an inventory was an easy thing to read, with or without help.

My fear was that someone had stolen the gun, knowing the theft would be pinned on me. There was nothing I could do about it. A man cannot prove his innocence. He can only prove another’s guilt.

I had, of course, no idea who took the gun. And it did not matter a whit that I had no reason to take a gun. I had no way to sell it, or curry favor with another for handing it over.

But you must never look for logic in Paradise.

Stewing over the problem wasn’t going to help. It’s just that I didn’t have anything better to think about. Caleb was not here. He was in the garage, changing the oil in the Tacoma.

And kissing Miriam, maybe.

Someday it would happen for real. Caleb would marry a woman. He was just the sort of bachelor who would eventually be granted a wife. When the time came, I would watch the ceremony with horror in my heart. And I would lie awake in the bunkhouse that night, wild with jealousy as he made his bride into a woman.

I forced myself to imagine it from time to time, if only to maintain my grip on reality. Caleb building a house for his bride. Caleb in a wedding suit. 

Caleb removing all his clothes, and spilling his seed into a woman.

When I was twelve, I had seen the act done. I’d been home at an odd time of day, because my mother had asked me to change a couple of lightbulbs after lunch. With my task finished, I’d walked quietly along the upstairs hallway of our house.

At the end of the corridor was the youngest wife’s room. The door had been open a crack. I paused there because I heard the strangest sounds coming from within.

My real father had died when I was four, when he overturned a tractor. The man I’d called “father” ever since had married two of my birth father’s wives, including my mother. His name was Seth.

Seth’s hairy ass was the thing I saw first when I peered into that room.

It took me a moment to realize what I was witnessing. But even when I understood, I could not look away.

It was fascinating.

The breathy grunts he made washed over me like steam. And the way his powerful thighs flexed through each thrust was beautiful to me. He growled and he groaned, and finally he shook. With a cry, he collapsed onto the wife that I’d barely noticed was underneath him. Coming to my senses, I’d snuck away. 

Someday, that would be Caleb. And no amount of wishing otherwise would help.

I stared at the page of my Bible until the letters blurred together.

* * *

Perhaps two hours later, I woke in the dark. The Bible was gone from my hands, but I spotted it on the bedside table. Someone had placed it there for me.

Caleb. 

Even in the darkness, I could see his large form in bed across the room that we shared with two others. He lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head.

Strong and confident, even in his sleep.

There were snores coming from Ezekiel’s and David’s corners of the room, My head did not ache so much now, but I felt hot and irritable. To ease myself, I focused on Caleb’s silent form. His shoulders were wide, taking up a goodly portion of the narrow bed. His legs were long and solid under the quilt.

I wished I could spread my body out on top of his, sinking into all that muscle. I wanted to bury my face in the hollow between his shoulder and neck, breathing in his cottony clean scent.

I wanted so, so many things that I would never have.

My cock began to feel full between my legs.

Lying there, I squeezed my ass together a few times. It had been such an awful, scary day. I deserved a little comfort, didn’t I? Unbidden, my hand slipped beneath the waistband of my boxers. Touching myself was risky. It was a sin, of course, although surely everyone did it sometimes. Even Caleb.

In fact, once when we were sixteen, he asked me to stand guard. We were out by the cow shed, sitting on the hay bales in between jobs. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Sure?”

“I need five minutes alone. Would you stand at the fencepost and wait for me? If somebody comes, just talk to them, and I’ll know to cover up.”

“Okay,” I’d said, “but why?”

He’d rolled his eyes at me. “I have to jerk. It’s a desperate situation. You can take a turn after I do.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Do not look at his dick, I’d ordered myself, scandalized. Do not. I’d marched away immediately, where it was safe. Then I’d stood at that fence post like a sentry, ready to holler at the first sign of anyone.

But not a soul had wandered by. And all the while my ears were peeled, desperately hopeful that I’d hear him come. And I did, though it was just a quick gasp, over practically before it began.

“Your turn?” he asked me about two minutes later. 

“Nope, I’m good,” I stammered, my face the color of a tomato.

“Suit yourself. But if I were you, I’d stay out of the tall grass back there for a day or so.” He’d laughed at this joke, and so I did too.

That was the extent of my sexual experience—watching my step-father plow a teenage wife and listening to my best friend jerk.

And touching myself, of course, which I was doing now. I closed my eyes and ran my hand slowly up and down my shaft. When I did this, I made it a point never to stare at my best friend. He wouldn’t like being the center of my sexual fantasies. And it wasn’t his fault that I was a pervert. 

But who was I kidding? The faceless bodies in my dreams all matched his. And it was his full lips that I so badly wanted to kiss…

I clamped my mouth shut, to avoid making noise. And I sank into my mattress, silently coaxing my body toward climax. I pictured Caleb smiling at me. And I heard him whisper my name…

“Joshua!”

My hand went stock still. Because that whisper was not part of my imagination.

I opened my eyes to see Caleb moving through the shadows. He tiptoed silently to my bed, sitting down on the edge. In the dark, I could see his blue eyes roll at me. Stop it, he mouthed.

Then, as my heart shimmied with surprise, he put an elbow down on my pillow and leaned down, his lips skimming my ear.

My entire brain short-circuited. And then I realized that he was just trying to talk to me in the only way possible at this hour.

“Move over,” he whispered directly into my ear.

Immediately, I rolled onto my side, away from him. Not only did this make room on the mattress, but it pointed my traitorous dick as far away from him as possible. God have mercy on me, I inwardly begged. My friend caught me stroking myself while I was thinking of him.

Hell was waiting for me. No question.

Caleb cupped one of his big hands over my ear, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to hide my reaction. “How can you jerk at a time like this?” he asked, while my heart spasmed. “We need a plan. Like, yesterday.”

“Sorry,” I mouthed, stupidly. I wished the mattress would roll up and swallow me whole.

Caleb gave me a little punch to the shoulder, like he always did. But then he put his hand on my bicep and squeezed. He was always touching me. Caleb was a toucher. That was just his way. It made me crazy half the time, because I wanted those touches to mean something. (They never did.)

“I’m worried,” he said into my ear. “This isn’t good.”

That snapped me out of my own head, and quickly. Because Caleb wasn’t a worrier. In fact, I craned my neck to see just how serious he was.

The most familiar set of eyes blinked back at me from inches away. He beckoned to me, and I put my ear up against his mouth again. “Tomorrow, I need you to be prepared. Just in case. Can you do a few things for me?”

I gave him a little nod.

“Okay, listen. I need you to put on your newest clothes in the morning,” he breathed. “Anything valuable you have, put it in your pockets.”

A chill snaked down my spine. “Really?” I mouthed.

He gave a sad sigh, his warm breath sweeping sweetly down my neck. “Maybe I’m being paranoid. But I’m afraid they’re going to…” he didn’t finish the sentence. Caleb couldn’t stand to say it. Throw you out.

I shivered.

With another sigh, he put his hand on my chest, right in the center. “Do not panic. Maybe it won’t happen tomorrow. But Joshy, it’s coming. And I need you to listen to my instructions.”

Nobody had called me Joshy since we were seven, and eating cookies in his mom’s kitchen. And now my throat was tight.

It’s coming, he’d said. Not only was this terrifying, it meant that I was just as pathetic as I’d always feared. Caleb knew I was useless. He saw.  

“Sh sh sh sh sh,” he said into my ear. His hand closed over mine. “Are you listening? This is important.”

I squeezed his hand to tell him that I was. 

“I’m not sure where they’d take you. If I had to guess, I’d say the bus station in Casper. They’d pick somewhere far enough away that you wouldn’t try to walk back and steal anything. If it wasn’t Casper, it would be Riverton. Either way, you and I are going to meet up in Casper. Whether this happens tomorrow, or any other time, I need you to get to Casper. Hitchhike if you have to.”

My heart skipped an actual beat, and I spent the next few seconds trying to figure out if I’d heard him right. Slowly, I turned my head on the pillow so that I could see Caleb’s eyes.

We? I mouthed.

Slowly, he nodded. Then he pushed my chin aside so that he could get to my ear again. “We’re going together. But if they toss you one morning and I don’t see it happen, I have to know where to find you.”

All my insides did a nauseous, crazy dance. It was the maddest thing I’d ever heard, and I really did not trust that I’d understood him. I whipped my head to the side again. WHY? I mouthed.

He put his lips so close to my ear that I could feel them tickling my skin. “I have to get out of here. There’s no life for me here. I’ve been saving money, but I don’t have enough yet. I could really use a little more time.”

I’d never been so surprised. Caleb was set up to do very well in Paradise. He would someday be married and have his own house. Everyone liked him, except the jealous ones. And he’d managed to steer clear of trouble even from them. And…

There was one question that I had to ask. I pushed an elbow into the bed and rose up to get near his ear. “What about Miriam?”

Caleb flinched. He whispered to me again. “Elder Asher wants her.”

Oh no! I mouthed.

He gave me a sad nod.

I felt a stab of pain in my chest for Miriam. Asher was not a nice man. At sixty-something years old, he had five wives already. And two others had died, while one had run away. In fact, it was Miriam’s own sister who had escaped from him. One morning she was just gone. Nobody knew where she went. 

What Asher wanted, Asher got. He was the half-brother of our Divine Pastor. If Asher wanted Miriam… I shuddered.

I turned to study Caleb’s serious profile. It was hard to make sense of everything I’d just heard. My best friend thought that I would be taken out like so much garbage tomorrow. Into a world where I knew literally nobody. Penniless, too. And Caleb wanted to run away?

If he couldn’t have Miriam, that made a tiny kernel of sense. I’d always dreaded the thought of him in another’s arms. Perhaps it was the same for him. If he could not stand to watch Miriam marry another man…

I put my hand close to his ear. “You could ask for Miriam first.”

The expression on his face then was hard to read. It was disappointed, maybe. “She wants me to ask,” he whispered. “But I know it will never work.” The pain on his face doubled, and so I did not ask more questions. The fact that Caleb wouldn’t even try was a shock to me, though. He was loyal to a fault.

Abruptly, the snoring from Ezekiel’s corner of our room came to a halt.

I felt Caleb go absolutely still beside me. We could not be caught like this, lying on the same bed. Plotting together was nearly as great a sin as whatever else they might imagine we were doing.

For many long seconds, we lay there like statues. I still had a hold of Caleb’s hand, though, and I squeezed it. He squeezed back, too. 

No matter what happened, I would always remember this night.

An agonizing minute later, Ezekiel began to snore again. Beside me, Caleb relaxed. Then he gripped my hand one more time. Into my ear he said, “the bus station in Casper.” And then he stole silently across the room to his own bed.

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Can’t believe October is almost done already! At least there’s some great releases to read this week while you’re waiting for trick-or-treaters - check these out:

 















































 

First Chapter: Good Boy (WAGs #1)

The Maid of Honor Gig

Jess

Even though the restaurant staff has already done its magic, I’m fussing over the dining table one more time. Each centerpiece gets a last-minute adjustment to make sure the flowers are perfect. A glance out the window shows me that the cloudless sky is already deepening. I’ve timed my brother’s rehearsal dinner so that the first streaks of color will appear over the Pacific just as the appetizer course is served.

The forecast for tomorrow is perfect, too—sunny with a high of seventy-five. Even the weather doesn’t dare interfere with the greatest wedding ever thrown.

Beyond the arched entryway to this private dining room, I hear the pop of a champagne bottle right on schedule. The guests are arriving. I can hear my sister’s laughter just around the corner in the bar area. Sure enough, my mother pokes her head through the doorway.

“Oh, sweetie, you did such a fabulous job!” she exclaims. “This is all so gorgeous! I predict a smashing success!”

“Thank you,” I whisper, adjusting a butter knife that I adjusted two minutes ago.

“You are constantly surprising us, Miss Jessica.” Mom beams at me as she raises her champagne flute to her lips.

Instead of beaming back and accepting Mom’s compliments, I find myself bristling. Because I don’t hear the compliments. I don’t hear the words “fabulous” or “smashing success” or “Miss Jessica,” the nickname my dad gave me when I was three years old.

I hear the word “surprising.”

Translation: My family is surprised I managed to pull off this rehearsal dinner without screwing it up.

“Thanks, Mom.” I muster a smile, and she disappears again, probably to greet another of my five siblings.

I should be out there, too, having a glass of wine and resting on my laurels. But I can’t stop myself from grabbing my notebook out of my bag and eyeballing the page marked Rehearsal Dinner one more time. Name cards—check. White wine ordered and iced—check.

Everything is perfection. Except for me. I’m a freaking wreck. In the first place, planning the perfect wedding is stressful. And in the second place…

“Wesley! J-Bomb!” a loud voice bellows in the next room. “I have arrived!”

The deep timbre of his voice reverberates inside my chest. Blake Riley is on the premises, and my blood pressure doubles.

I fiddle with the silverware again, listening. “Gonna get you both pixilated tonight!” Blake says, and I hear the powerful slap of bro-hugs being dished out. “And who is this beauty?”

My mother begins to gush over Blake, and I feel a chill climb up my spine. As if the wedding weren’t stressful enough, I have to cope with the loudest, brashest, most annoying man I’ve ever met in my life. He’s got a big body, a big personality and…

Fine. He also has the biggest dick I’ve ever seen in my life. But I try not to think about that particular part of his anatomy if I can help it.

My family cannot know about the colossal mistake I made this spring. I can’t give them one more exhibit of my lack of judgment, not when I’m about to announce yet another career change. I’m already the flighty kid. The screw-up.

And I absolutely put the screw in screw-up when I let Blake get me out of my clothes. Trust me, that won’t be happening again. But his presence complicates things. Tomorrow I’m throwing a wedding for three hundred people, including two dozen famous hockey players. Meanwhile, Blake has spent the past month texting me inappropriate wedding ideas and jokes.

And, when I hadn’t replied, a photo of his hand around his junk.

OMG, stop, I’d replied. Anyone could have seen that.

Ha! I knew you were getting these texts!

The man is incorrigible. And now I’ve run out of things to fuss over and straighten. I’m just hiding here in the private dining room, damn it.

I give my hair a quick toss and wet my lips. Then, with my chin held high, I take a deep breath and step into the bar area. I spot my sister Tammy holding a bottle of champagne, so I home in on her without looking at Blake. But I can sense his presence at the end of the bar. He’s a big man with an even bigger personality. Just stepping into the room with him, an awareness of him settles over me, like an itch that needs scratching.

Like poison ivy.

“Here, Jessie!” Tammy says, handing me a glass of the good stuff. “I’m just so impressed with the way you’ve handled Jamie’s big day!”

“Thanks,” I mutter, slugging back a mouthful of bubbly. Tammy heaps more praise on me, and then Mom joins us to heap on more. They had obviously expected me to fail spectacularly, or to quit in the middle of the job. And it brings me no satisfaction to know that the wedding tomorrow is going to be lovely. Because shortly afterward I’ll have to tell everyone that I’m giving up on party planning.

They’ll be shaking their heads over me before Jamie and Wes are back from their honeymoon.

“What’s the matter, Miss Jessica?” my mother asks.

Crap. Cindy Canning should’ve gone into law enforcement. I swear this woman can pick out any lie, read any expression to determine whether she’s being played. But no matter how intuitive she is, I refuse to ruin my baby brother’s wedding rehearsal dinner by revealing my insecurities.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I insist. “I mean, look at Jamester. How can anything be wrong when he looks this happy?”

The diversion is successful, and Mom’s face softens as she glances over at her youngest child. Jamie stands beside his fiancé, his hand on the back of Wes’s neck. They’re showing photos of their recent fishing trip to Pat, who runs the hockey camp where they met. All three men are relaxed and smiling.

Jamie is more peaceful and content than I’ve ever seen him, and that’s saying a lot, because his default mode is peaceful and content. Ryan Wesley, his super-successful semi-famous fiancé, on the other hand, is wound a little tighter. But Wes has his reasons.

That’s the real reason this wedding-planning gig was a bit of a challenge. Anyone can hire a tent and a band. The bigger trick is planning a celebration for a man whose family doesn’t speak to him anymore. The press follows him everywhere he goes, which means that I had to reserve everything under pseudonyms. But the two people who should be here tonight balancing out the tidal wave of Canning love and support—Wes’s parents—couldn’t be bothered.

So I planned this dinner—along with the engagement party a few months ago and the ceremony and reception tomorrow—taking care not to expose that gap. There won’t be any wedding favors with baby pictures of the grooms on them, because those photos may no longer exist.

Instead, I chose puck-shaped chocolates, because my brother met Wes at hockey camp.

Most of Wes’s teammates will be at the ceremony tomorrow, but tonight’s dinner is for family, close friends and members of the wedding party. I fill more than one of those roles, since I’m also Jamie’s best woman.

I’ve done the maid-of-honor gig before. Usually I love all the responsibilities that come with it. And if the best man is cute, that’s always a perk. For my friend Wendy’s wedding last summer, the hottie best man and I bailed on the reception midway through and locked ourselves in his hotel room for two days straight.

Won’t happen this time, though. Nopety nope. Because Wes’s best man happens to be—

“What the hell, J-Babe? You didn’t use any of my suggestions!”

Yep—him. Blake has threaded his muscular, bulky self through the crowd to speak to me.

“As usual, I have no idea what you’re babbling about,” I say coolly. But then I make the mistake of lifting my chin to look him in the eye. Why does such an annoying human have to be so freaking attractive? Bright green eyes look back at me, framed by thick lashes. They’re set into a ruggedly handsome face, which is riding atop a dreamboat body. For a split second, I can’t think of a single reason why I don’t like this man.

Blake’s gorgeous eyes narrow at me. “You so know what I’m talking about.” He waves one arm around the candlelit room, and my traitorous gaze notes the delicious way his sculpted body fills his tailored black suit. “Where’s the glitter, eh? And where’s the banner I asked for? The one that’s supposed to read ‘Wesmie 4ever!’”

Oh, right. Now I remember.

“Sorry, dude, but glitter plays no part in a wedding. ‘Wesmie’ is a ridiculous couple name. And banners are strictly reserved for high school proms and retirement parties.” I’ve spent months trying to make sure this event is classy and flawless. And he’d turn it into TackyFest 2016 in a hot second.

Emphasis on hot.

A cocky grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Call me that again.”

“Call you what again?”

“Dude. I’m totally digging it. Reminds me of my fraternity days.”

Blake was a frat boy? Shocking.

“You know,” he continues, “when all the babes would throw themselves at me nilly-willy.”

“Willy-nilly,” I correct.

“Huh?”

“It’s willy-nilly. The willy comes first.”

He winks at me. “I’ll let you have this one, but only because you’re right—the willy always does come first.”

I clench my teeth. This man is impossible. I don’t know what ever compelled me to get naked with him.

Loneliness, a firm voice reminds me.

Right. Loneliness. Plus, that whole girly, I-need-to-feel-desirable curse that comes after a breakup. I might’ve been the one who broke up with Raven, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t feeling vulnerable. Blake and his big stupid dick were there at the right place, at the right time.

Sleeping with him was a mistake, but it’s a mistake I won’t be repeating. Doesn’t matter that he gave me three orgasms in thirty minutes. I will not be tapping that ass again.

“Actually, life’s not all that different from those college days,” he muses. “The babes are still knocking on the old Riley door.” He grins at me. “Sometimes they show up in nothing but a trench coat.”

“Ooooh, sounds kinky.” Sarcasm drips from my tone.

“It is,” he says seriously. “Like as kinky as getting it on in a massage chair.”

I glare at him. He just laughs, that deep, boisterous laugh that seems to come from the center of his soul, because Blake doesn’t do anything half-assed. He laughs the way he lives his life—loud and fierce and without inhibition.

He fucks that way, too.

Argh. Damn it. I don’t want to think about how Blake is in bed. I don’t want to think about him, period.

“I need to speak to the caterer,” I say stiffly. “Go bother someone else.”

“Not until you tell me why you vetoed my idea about life-sized cutouts of the grooms.”

“Because it was childish!” I blurt out, frazzled to the point of anger. “All your ideas were! I was trying to plan a wedding, and you were trying to plan a teenage girl’s Sweet Sixteen!”

He smirks. “Excuuuuuuse me for trying to inject some silliness into your brother’s wedding.” He gestures around the room again, pointing at the gorgeous centerpieces at each table and the flickering candles set up on the ledges spanning the walls. “Maybe if you’d taken some of my suggestions, this shindig wouldn’t be so stuffy.”

“It’s not stuffy. It’s elegant. Now if you’ll please excuse me…” I force myself not to stamp my foot, because that would make me the childish one. And Blake Riley wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be the only screw-up in a family of achievers. Besides, there’s nothing stuffy about the labor of love I’ve done for this wedding. It’s going to be perfect, or I’ll die trying.

It’s too late to convince my almost-brother-in-law to pick a new best man. So I solve the problem the only way I know how—with a gulp of champagne and by marching away from the big oaf.

* * *

Blake

I watch Jess Canning stride away, her long, tanned legs mocking me, her perfect ass sashaying. To look at us, you’d almost think that Jess didn’t like me. But this is just how we are together. Fiery, baby. That little exchange just bought me at least an hour of sweet lovin’. Though at some point I’ll have to stop baiting her so she’ll remember how much she likes to get naked with me.

It’s all about the timing, really. And I’ve always been good with timing. That’s why I had twenty-one goals last season.

And, hell, it’s fun to tease her. She gets a cute little furrow on that smooth, kissable forehead. Her big brown eyes get all flashy, as if Bambi were possessed by a demon. A really hot, fuckable demon with great tits.

At the rate I’m going, she and I won’t be doing the naked salsa until the dessert course. But I can wait. I’m a patient man. And in the meantime, I’m going to feast on seafood with my best buds.

A few minutes later, Jess herds everyone into a dining room overlooking the bay. There’s candlelight and a killer view. The boats in the distance look like toys from here. It’s beautiful.

“What a dump,” I tell Jess as she rushes by to tweak another detail. “I wanted to have the rehearsal dinner at a clam shack on the beach.”

She casts me a glare that burns with pure hatred.

Yessss. My dick gives a little twitch of impatience.

There are name cards on the tables so everyone knows where to sit. Mine is on the opposite end of the long table from Jess. I know she did that just so we could stare longingly at each other from a distance.

I take my seat beside her brother Scott. “Dude. Are you wearing your weapon right now?” I ask him. If I couldn’t be a hockey player, I’d be a cop like Scott.

“Uh, no,” Scott says. “No need to show up to my brother’s wedding packing heat.”

“Bummer. Can I play with the siren in your cruiser, then?” I’ve always wanted to do that.

“Since I made detective, I don’t have a cruiser anymore. So no more siren.”

“What a rip!” I thump him on the back. “What’s the point of being a cop if you don’t get all the gear?”

He picks up his menu card, so I pick up mine. There’s a list of all the tasty things we’re going to eat. On the cover there’s a black-and-white map of Lake Placid, New York, even though we’re in Marin County, California right now. Jamie and my teammate Wes met in Lake Placid, and that’s why Jess put it on the card.

I can’t help myself—I pull out my phone and text her. Shoulda gone with my suggestion. The pic of two lobsters humping? Sets the mood for the bachelor party later.

Her reply takes a minute to arrive. Stop texting me or I’ll block you.

Yup. She wants me.

Waiters begin to bring out food, so I have to concentrate. I’m serious about my food. I mean, you don’t get to be this size without knowing your chow. Luckily, the restaurant doesn’t disappoint. We have a fabulous shrimp cocktail and a ceviche so tangy and delicious that it makes me want to cry. Then it’s on to lobster tail and potato-crusted salmon and peppercorn tuna.

I’m in heaven.

When the plates are cleared, it’s time for dessert. But I have to set aside my chocolate mousse temporarily for a very important reason. It’s time to roast the groom and the groom, and I can’t let J-Babe beat me to it. In fact, it looks like she’s making a move, so I hurry to stand up first. I move so fast that I hear my chair thunk to the floor behind me, but it’s all good because now I have everyone’s attention.

“Ladies and gentlebeasts,” I begin.

At the other end of the table Jess’s beautiful brown eyes narrow.

“As Wes’s best man, it’s my obligation to embarrass him tonight.”

There’s a ripple of laughter, and Wes just shakes his head.

“But it’s not gonna be easy,” I admit. “’Cause Ryan Wesley is a helluva friend and a helluva teammate. I mean, the guy is full of shenanigans. But the man who witnessed all of those—the public nudity in Lake Placid and the drunkenness and the trespassing—is marrying him tomorrow. And he wouldn’t give me the dirt I need.”

That gets me another laugh.

“This year he played a season of hockey that was the opposite of embarrassing, so there’s no material there. Honestly? The only thing that’s embarrassing these days about Wes is how much he loves Jamie.”

“Awwww,” the whole family says in unison.

Wes looks at his coffee cup.

“I mean, I could just stand up here and tell you some of the stupid shit that Wesley has said. Like that night in the bar after a game against Philly, he argued—vehemently, I might add—that penguins weren’t mammals.” I give a little chuckle just remembering that ridiculousness. “He wanted me to believe they’re birds.”

“They are,” Jess mutters under her breath, because she loves to bait me.

“But I thought it would be more fun…” I wave to the waiter who’s watching from the door, and he carries in the extra-big tablet I rented for this. I get up and stand where everyone can see me, and I fire the thing up. “…to let Wesley embarrass himself, you know? It turns out that he wasn’t always such a great hockey player and such a studly guy. Thought you all should know.” Then I press play on the video I made and hold it up.

The sound is working—that’s good. The first strains of U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” emerge from the speakers on this thing. The intro text I made lights the screen, and it reads, Ryan Wesley, Ladies and Gentlemen. Then it changes to say, Super Stud. The first picture dissolves into focus, and it’s a two-year-old Wes gripping a hockey stick in his chubby little hand, looking quite deranged.

There’s a gasp from the other end of the table. Jess’s eyes are the size of my dessert plate.

“Awwww!” Cindy Canning says, clutching her heart.

“Look at you!” Jamie crows, reaching over to rub his fiancé’s back. Wes just leans forward, staring at the screen in confusion.

“It’s a good thing the Toronto management didn’t have access to these babies.” I chuckle as the next photo fills the screen. It’s Wesley in a snowsuit at age five, I think, those fierce eyes already recognizable. He’s on a pond somewhere, skating hard after two kids about twice his size. He doesn’t have a prayer of catching them. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

But nobody’s laughing. Jamie has his arm around his boyfriend now, and his eyes look a little shiny. Cindy Canning is standing behind them both, an arm around each shoulder. And everyone else is smiling.

“Where on earth did you get these?” someone murmurs.

Then comes the really good stuff. A video clip plays of Wesley at eight, kitted out in a full uniform, a determined look in his eyes. He sends a slapshot toward the goal and…misses! And because I’m just that funny, the clip is followed by Wesley missing shots on goal three more times at various ages. There’s one where he’s kind of tiny and skating face-first into a snow bank.

Finally, I get a laugh. Tough crowd here tonight.

More pictures flash on the screen—Wesley at twelve, accepting a trophy. Wesley with a mouth full of braces and a serious case of bedhead. The music swells because my video is coming to an end.

“Brace yourselves,” I tell my audience.

Next we get Wesley at fourteen, grinning, a big pimple right on his nose.

The final shot is my pièce de résistance. It’s the only photo I had to steal. I took it out of Wesley’s wallet one night in D.C. during the playoffs. We were all so exhausted after the overtime period of our game that a single glass of whiskey made us drunk and silly. I’d swiped the photo and had it scanned by the hotel concierge. (Tipped the guy twenty bucks.) It was safely back in Wesley’s wallet a half-hour later.

There’s a chorus of awwwws and sighs as the photo of sixteen-year-old Jamie and Wes together fills the screen. They’re standing on top of a hiking trail somewhere near Lake Placid. Jamie is making a goofy face, but Wes is looking at him with such love that it gives me a big ol’ ache in my chest just to see it.

I check my teammate’s face and find red spots on his cheekbones. Maybe he thinks I’ve embarrassed him with this picture, because it reveals so much. But I haven’t. It’s only embarrassing to declare your love for someone who then betrays you with it.

That kind of shit only happens to me, though. My two friends here are solid.

The show is over, so I click the tablet off and hand it back to the waiter who’s keeping it for me. (Tipped him twenty bucks.) My chocolate mousse is still waiting for me, thank you, baby Jesus. As I tuck in, my phone buzzes with a text. Hoping it’s from my date to the wedding tomorrow, I eagerly glance at the screen.

But it’s from Jess. Where on earth did you get the pictures and video?????

Stop texting me, I reply. Don’t want to have to block you.

From the other end of the table, she gives me an evil look.

Yeah, it’s on.

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New Releases: Week of October 20th!

I am so excited to be sharing this release week with so many incredible authors. Don’t forget to check out Moonlighter as well as these great releases!

Now Live: Moonlighter!

Only in my family could a professional hockey player earning seven million dollars a year be considered a slacker.

I’m at the height of my athletic career. Yet my arrogant brother is always trying to recruit me into the family business: a global security company so secretive that I don’t even know its name. 

Pass, thanks. I don’t need a summer job. 

But the jerk ambushes me with a damsel in distress. That damsel is Alex, the competitive, sassy girl I knew when we were kids. Now she’s a drop-dead gorgeous woman in deep trouble.

So guess who’s on a flight to Hawaii?

It’s going to be a long week in paradise. My job is keeping Alex safe, while her job is torturing me with her tiny bikinis. Or maybe we’re torturing each other. It’s all snark and flirting until the threat against Alex gets serious. And this jock must become her major league protector. 

Moonlighter is a stand-alone novel. No cliffhangers, no prior experience necessary. Contains: hackers, hockey players, and a hotel room with only one bed.  

Now live at: Amazon | Apple | Nook | KoboGet the audio

(New) Cover Reveal: Moonlighter

With just a few days to spare until the release of Moonlighter, the decision was made to change the cover to something that better fits the style of the book. Big thanks to Hang Le for creating yet another gorgeous cover! Keep scrolling for info:

Only in my family could a professional hockey player earning seven million dollars a year be considered a slacker.

I’m at the height of my athletic career. Yet my arrogant brother is always trying to recruit me into the family business: a global security company so secretive that I don’t even know its name. 

Pass, thanks. I don’t need a summer job. 

But the jerk ambushes me with a damsel in distress. That damsel is Alex, the competitive, sassy girl I knew when we were kids. Now she’s a drop-dead gorgeous woman in deep trouble.

So guess who’s on a flight to Hawaii?

It’s going to be a long week in paradise. My job is keeping Alex safe, while her job is torturing me with her tiny bikinis. Or maybe we’re torturing each other. It’s all snark and flirting until the threat against Alex gets serious. And this jock must become her major league protector. 

Moonlighter is a stand-alone novel. No cliffhangers, no prior experience necessary. Contains: hackers, hockey players, and a hotel room with only one bed.  

Amazon | Apple | Nook | Kobo 

First Chapter: Moonlighter

Early July

Eric

Reporting for a lunch date at my family’s security firm is always trippy.

At first glance, the converted old factory building on West 18th Street might belong to any company. The lobby—with its sleek, industrial furnishings and employee turnstiles— is carefully nondescript. There’s no sign, though. That’s your first clue. No logo. No name.

My brother likes secrets. So much so that I don’t actually know the legal name of this place. To outsiders—such as me—Max refers to it as The Company. The family joke is that I’ll learn the name in his will after he dies.

“But what if I die first?” I always ask.

“You won’t,” is his reply. “Your line of work is safer than mine.”

And that’s saying something, since I’m a professional hockey player. My workdays are spent facing down a dozen guys with big sticks who are trying to crush me like a bug.

I approach the receptionist behind the imposing reception desk. She looks normal enough. She’s pretty hot, honestly. Although she’s probably trained in a dozen ways to kill me. My brother likes to hire sweet young things with a military background and serious skills at the firing range.

“Hi there,” I say as she waves me forward. I happen to know that the desk itself is bulletproof. And there’s an armored cabinet at the receptionist’s feet, should she wish to make herself scarce. And those are just the security features that I know about. “I’m Eric Bayer, and I have a lunch date with the assholes who run this place.”

The young woman blinks. And then her eyes light up with recognition. After all, I look a lot like a scruffier, less intense version of her boss. She gives me a big, flirtatious smile. “Nice to meet you, Eric Bayer.”

I hold my breath, because what comes next is crucial for her job security.

There’s a beat of hesitation on her side of the desk. But then she does exactly the right thing. “Can I see some ID?”

“Of course.” I slide my driver’s license across the granite countertop, happy that she got it right. Even if she recognizes me from TV—and my team got a whole lot of publicity this past month—the poor thing would have been fired if she didn’t verify my identity.

My brother is a ruthless employer. And kind of a dick. But he can’t afford to make mistakes. His clients’ lives are on the line.

The receptionist scans my ID. Then she pretends to scrutinize it. But we both know that a computer is currently checking my driver’s license number against a database of known undesirables. And because there are approximately seventeen cameras focused on me at the moment, a human is also watching somewhere, and weighing in on whether or not I’ll be allowed upstairs.

There’s a soft chime, after which a little green light on her desk winks on.

I grin. “You know what that means.”

“Congratulations on not being an imposter. Here’s your pass and your ID.” She takes another appreciative glance at my photo before handing it back. She looks me dead in the eye and drops her voice to a sultry whisper that makes “Have a nice lunch” sound dirty.

“You know it.” I throw in a wink to amuse whomever is manning the control room right now. Maybe I’ll ask for her number on my way out.

But first, lunch. I move my ass toward the elevators. The doors part as I arrive. I step inside, and they close again.

A sensor has already scanned the chip on my visitor’s pass, so the moment the doors close, the car begins to rise toward the sixth floor. The elevator buttons wouldn’t even work if I pressed one. Only employees can choose a destination, and only if they’re approved to go there.

It’s like an even more paranoid version of the Death Star. Although, I’ve been promised tacos, and I don’t think the dark lord eats Mexican.

Buying me lunch is no strain, because my brother and my dad have made several billion dollars together. And they did it by being the two most paranoid men in Manhattan.

I glide slowly higher, past five floors I’ve never visited. But presumably they’re filled with busy employees. My father started this company when I was eleven years old. Before that, he had a couple of successful decades as a naval intelligence officer, and then as a police chief on Long Island, where I grew up.

In my father’s hands, The Company was an ordinary private security firm. Back then it even had a name—Bayer Security. If you had some money and needed to keep your family safe, you could call Carl Bayer to set up a discreet security detail.

But then, about ten years ago, my brother left his government job. Although he was never allowed to say so, I’m pretty sure he used to be a CIA analyst specializing in cyber security.

So Max joined Dad’s firm, offering to help Dad branch out into e-security as well as physical security. I thought their partnership wouldn’t last the week. It’s generous to say that Dad and Max both have strong personalities. The less generous version is that Dad’s kind of a cheerful tyrant and Max is a broody asshole.

Besides—Dad’s gumshoe security work and Max’s hacker skills didn’t seem to have much in common.

But what do I know? The firm took off like a rocket and never looked back. They made their billions by chaining Max’s genius brain to Dad’s New York connections.

Not only did my brother accurately predict the importance of cybersecurity, he was one of the first geniuses on the scene. As security evolved from muscles and guns to a cyber arms race, he and Dad—plus Max’s college roommate—began writing the code and designing the tools that keep captains of industry safe and their data secure. They also license a few of their toys to other security companies and probably the government.

It’s the most successful company that you’ve never heard of.

In contrast, I’ve been a professional athlete for fifteen years. I make seven million dollars a year, and I’m basically the family slacker.

The elevator doors part on the sixth floor. I step out into a vast open space. This is no typical C-suite of plush offices. It looks more like a Silicon Valley startup, with brightly colored furniture and a big kitchen along one wall. There are offices up here, but the majority of the floor space remains open for collaboration and for testing whatever The Company needs to test. Weapons, maybe. Or detection devices. Facial recognition software imbedded in sunglasses. Tiny drones disguised as dragonflies. A phone signal jammer that looks like an ordinary pencil eraser.

Fun times on the sixth floor. I’m just here for the tacos.

My brother is sitting in his office, talking a mile a minute into his earpiece, his hands typing furiously at the same time. The office window looks normal until you happen to glance at the computer screen. Its display looks black, but that’s only a trick. The glass in his office window blocks light waves from his monitor so that nobody passing by can read what’s on his screen.

The first time he showed me that glass in action, I thought it was amazing. “Jesus, really?” I’d said, ducking in and out of the office to see the difference. “You’re getting a patent for that, right?”

“No fucking way!” Max had looked appalled. “Only losers get patents. You have to disclose too much information. Patents are for suckers.”

If we didn’t look vaguely alike, it would be hard to guess we share a gene pool.

Dad’s office door is open, but he’s not inside. So I scan the wide-open areas, looking for his silver hair.

But it’s busy up here. Two young women are perched on an indescribable piece of furniture. It’s a bright salmon-colored sofa that’s shaped like a cresting wave. They’re having a discussion which involves wild gesticulation and frequent references to a laptop on the table in front of them.

Then there’s the two guys who are testing some kind of electronic device over against the wall. One of them is standing with his arms and legs spread, while the other one waves a hand-held gizmo at his body. I can’t make any sense of it. But there’s a ringing sound, and the two guys let out a whoop and high-five each other in an obvious nerdgasm.

And people think my job is weird.

I finally spot my father at the other end of the space, inside a conference room resembling a glassed-in tank. Dad’s assistant—Shelby—spots me approaching and opens the door. “Come in, Eric!” she says. “He’s in a feisty mood today, though. Careful.”

My father has been in a feisty mood for seventy-six years, and we both know it. “Hey, pops. What’s happening?”

“Eric.” He stands up and gives me a bear hug. My dad is an affectionate man. Part of the reason his firm grew so fast (even before my genius brother got involved) is that he’s such a magnetic person. He knows everyone in New York City, and he’s not afraid to hug ‘em all. “Great to see ya. Shame about game seven.”

“Isn’t it?” I try to keep my expression neutral, but it’s going to be a while until I feel okay about it. We lost in the last game of the final round. We were literally one goal away from the Stanley Cup. I played on an aching knee, with a barely healed shoulder. I gave it everything I had, and my everything wasn’t quite enough.

“Sit, sit, sit!” Dad offers me a conference room chair like it’s a royal throne. Although, given the money they throw around, it might cost as much.

I sit down and lean back into the leather seat. “Where’s this taco joint, anyway? Is it in the neighborhood?”

“Listen,” Dad says. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Hmm?” I’m busy sizing him up, because I haven’t seen him in a while, and he’s getting on in years. He was forty when Max was born, and forty-two when I came along.

But I have to admit he looks as heathy as ever. He’s dressed in khaki pants and a button down, but there’s a very fit body under the starched fabric. He has a closet full of the same J. Press blue oxfords, which the housekeeper irons each week and rehangs in his closet.

The scent of Niagara shirt starch—the kind in the spray can? It’s the scent of my childhood.

“You look good, Dad. You still working out?” Ten years ago I set him up with a personal trainer for his birthday. I was twenty-five and making seven figures a year and it still seemed to both of us like an extravagant gift. But now he and Max could buy and sell me ten times over.

“Twice a week!” Dad crows. “But listen—this favor…”

“I’m on vacation,” I say preemptively. “Our season lasted as long as a season can last, so I only get a few more weeks off. I plan to enjoy them.”

“A few weeks,” my dad says slowly. “We only need one. Two, tops.”

“For what?” Now I’m alarmed. “I’m just here for lunch.”

In truth, my schedule is flexible. When it became clear that we’d finally make the playoffs, not one guy on the team wanted to pick the date for his vacation getaway. We didn’t want to jinx ourselves.

It didn’t help. Now we’re home again, with no parade to plan and no cup to carry down the Brooklyn Promenade.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not a busy man. I need to work out like a beast this summer. I’ve already drawn up my cardio and gym schedules. I need to reach peak performance just as training camp starts again in August.

My dad is still talking, though. “This client is a lovely young woman,” he’s saying. “Her only crime was to date a man who isn’t as nice as he seemed.”

“Bummer,” I say carefully. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“She broke up with him, and he didn’t take it well.”

“That’s a dick move,” I empathize. “But I’m sure you guys can keep her safe.”

“No, you will,” says Max from the doorway. And when I look up, he’s smirking at me.

“No, I won’t,” I push back from the table. “Let’s go, okay? I’m starved.”

“We’re staying right here,” Dad says. “Scout is bringing in the food from some food cart she loves. She says the flavors are outta this world.”

Something tells me they’d need to be the best tacos in the galaxy to make up for whatever Max and my father are trying to railroad me into right now. “I’m just here for lunch. You guys know that, right?”

“Ah, there’s our client now.”

I look up to see a beautiful woman striding toward the conference room in shiny high heels. For a second I get a little stuck staring at the lower half of her, because there are legs for days. But because I’ve learned to be subtle in my thirty-four years, I lift my gaze—past the mango-colored designer suit, and the sweep of long shiny hair—to take in her pristine face.

Oh, hell. It’s a familiar face. A very beautiful one, but not one I wanted to see today. Alex Engels and I have history—but not the simple, sexual kind.

Nothing about Alex is simple, in fact. She’s the most successful female CEO in America. Her father was one of my dad’s first corporate clients. The first time I met her, I was thirteen and she was eleven. We were friends. Briefly, anyway.

It was the summer just after my mother left the family for good. My father was trying to get his private security business off the ground. He was scrambling for childcare, so he brought me to stay at the Engels mansion on Martha’s Vineyard, while my father flew around the world protecting Alex’s father.

I was a very angry boy back then. Not the best company. But Alex was lonely, too. She was an only child who’d also lost her mother. So she put up with me. We became the kind of reluctant friends that lonely middle-schoolers can still be when their hormones haven’t kicked in yet.

Which is to say that she badgered me into all kinds of activities that summer, and I let her. We biked. We swam. We spied on the entire staff of the Engels estate, and invented secret machinations for everyone coming and going. We eluded our fathers, her summertime nanny, the tennis instructor and anyone else who might have tried to rein us in.

It was probably just what my wounded little soul needed.

But after that, I didn’t see her for years. Twenty-one years, to be exact. I found myself doing this math just three months ago when a chance event brought us face to face at a black tie party in Bal Harbor, Florida.

That moment went poorly. And now I am inwardly cringing as Alex draws near. My father gallantly sweeps open the door to the conference room and beckons her inside. “Alex! You lovely thing. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Hey, Alex,” Max says, reaching out to shake her hand. “Thanks for coming downtown.”

“No, thank you for handling my crisis on short notice,” she says in that silky voice of hers. This lady was born with poise. I’ve only seen her flustered once in my life.

Unfortunately, that one instance was last time we met.

“…And you remember my younger son, Eric,” my father says.

I see Alex stiffen. Then her gaze swings toward me, where I’m staying out of the way in the corner, trying to guess how to play this.

“Eric,” she says quietly. “Of course I remember Eric.” But then two bright spots appear on her cheekbones. And if this were a Disney movie, her nose would start to grow right now from that lie she just told. Because when Alex and I saw each other in April, she did not, in fact, remember me.

Kids, it was awkward.

New Releases: Week of October 13th!

Hooray for new releases this week! It’ll definitely help you pass the time until my release of Moonlighter next week

Have 3 Audible Credits on Me!

I’ve got an amazing giveaway happening! You can enter on the form below or click right here: https://geni.us/AudibleGiveawayOct2019

Cover Reveal: Man Cuffed

This week I revealed the cover for my upcoming release with Tanya Eby - Man Cuffed! We had so much fun writing the Man Hands series that we just knew we needed to write another story, and Sadie’s sister Meg was just the girl we needed. It’s coming November 19th - keep scrolling for more info!

PS: Big thanks to Christine Covey for once again making the perfect cover!