Monday, July 27, 2009

Aaron's Wait excerpt by Dorien Grey

In Aaron's Wait by Dorien Grey, the second book in the Elliott Smith Mystery series, Aaron Stiles is dead. He’s been dead for four years but doesn’t seem to know it. He’s waiting for his partner Bill to come home, and until that happens, he’s not going anywhere. The trouble is, Bill Somers won’t be coming home—ever—because he’s dead, too. The official verdict was suicide, but...

The last thing Elliot Smith needs in his latest renovation project is a ghost, especially one who won’t let him sell the place until he solves the mystery of who killed Bill. He has John to help with the spectral side of things, but that just leaves him with the quandary of how to get information on the case. After all, he can hardly explain he’s investigating on behalf of one dead man with the assistance of another.

Aaron's Wait
Zumaya Publications, LLC (July 22, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1934841404
ISBN-13: 978-193484140


While he made it a policy to have as little contact as possible with a building’s tenants during the escrow period, he found himself for some reason compelled to talk personally with Mrs. Reinerio regarding her options. He didn’t have her phone number, so he called the Winters to ask for it, and to let them know of his intentions so they’d not think it strange to have him showing up at the building, and as he expected, they had no objections. Mrs. Winters reported that they had found a small condo in a new retirement complex and would be moving within a month of the closing of escrow. He then called Mrs. Reinerio, who said she would be happy to talk with him, and would be home all day.

He drove over after lunch, noting that the weather was definitely turning cooler. Escrow was to close on a Tuesday but, badly as he wanted to get to work immediately, he knew too well that last minute glitches often pushed the close back a day or so, so to be on the safe side he’d made arrangements for the sandblasters to come in the Monday following the official close date. He was fairly sure they could easily complete the work before the weather got too bad, but it was Chicago, and he didn’t want to take any chances.

He was curious, too, about street parking around the new property during the day and was relieved to see it wasn’t too difficult to find a space. He took his time walking up to the building, pausing again to look at its neighbors. He was pleased to confirm his earlier observation that the entire block appeared to be relatively well maintained.

Climbing the steps to the front door, he rang Mrs. Reinerio’s buzzer.

She had opened her door by the time he entered the hall.

“Come in, Mr. Smith,” she said, warmly.

“Elliott, please,” he replied, as he followed her into her apartment, then waited while she closed the door behind him.

“Please sit,” she said. “May I get you some coffee?”

“If you have some made,” he said, taking the indicated chair.

“Of course. I’ll only be a moment.”

As she left the room, Elliott looked around. He’d seen it during the inspection tour of the building, but now had a chance to concentrate on some of the individual items in the room. It was, he decided, definitely a grandmother’s apartment: comfortable, neat, clean, and heavy with an indefinable air of the past.

She returned a minute or so later with a tray on which were two coffee mugs (“I don’t hold much on ceremony,” she said), a creamer, sugar bowl, and small plate with several pieces of coffee cake, which she put on the coffee table in front of Elliott. Waiting until she had taken her own seat across from him, Elliott got right to the point of his visit.

He outlined what he perceived to be her options, emphasizing that he was renovating the building for resale, and that a rent increase under the new owners was almost inevitable.

She sighed. “I was afraid of that,” she said, looking into her coffee cup, then hastily added: “I know it’s not your fault, and that nothing is forever, but I’ve lived here for twenty-five years now, and…”

“I understand,” Elliott said, and he felt he truly did. He then went on to mention one of his own rental properties which had a vacancy at a comparable rent, and that he would be pleased to have her as a tenant. He assured her he would be happy to assist if she needed help with the move itself.

“That’s very kind of you, Elliott,” she said. “Can I have a little time to think it over?”

“Certainly,” Elliott said. “I just wanted…”

There was a knock at the door, which Mrs. Reinerio apparently did not hear, since she showed no reaction to it.

“I think there’s someone at the door,” he said after a moment.

She looked at him and smiled. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “It’s just Aaron. I recognize the knock.”

A shiver ran from the top of his head to his toes.

“Aaron?” he asked. John had already told him, of course, but confirmation from someone with a pulse still startled him

Her smile never faded and there was no change in the casual tone of her voice as she said: “Aaron Stiles. He lives… lived…upstairs,” she said. “He died four years ago, poor dear.”

“So you’re saying…” Elliott finally managed to say.

She put her cup down and looked at him. “Yes,” she said pleasantly, “I’m afraid you’ve bought yourself a slightly haunted house.”
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Monday, July 20, 2009

Ignited excerpt by Bryl R Tyne

In Ignited by Bryl R Tyne, Val & Kendra are back at it again, and as usual, they have few qualms about public sex... T-girls need love too. Sometimes, need outweighs time or place...

Fireworks in Orlando-the crowds, Val's attitude, the unbearable Florida humidity ... Can Kendra survive the heat? When public make-up sex inside the prop room of a local art studio turns into an excursion into mind-blowing group sex, Val shows Kendra fireworks like she's never experienced!

Publisher: Noble Romance Publishing (July, 2009)
ISBN: 9781605920467


What the f--?

Val poked his head around the door as it opened, grin plastered cheek to cheek. "Here you are."

No shit . . . . "Do you mind?"

Apparently not; he continued to smile and open the door. I'd never understand men. Specifically--him. "For chrissake, Val, close the--Ow!" I knew that dispenser was a safety hazard "Damnit, Val, just get out until I'm through!"

Never discount his relentlessness. I learned that months ago. His persistence is what brought us together in the first place.


"The door?"

"Kendra, listen . . . ."

What happened to the days when he would leave me to my fits, to sort things out on my own? Sometimes, I wondered.

"You're not wearing it?"

His surprise at my wearing stretch panties instead of a gaff was understandable. We'd argued about it for weeks. Taking chances in exposing any unwanted facets about myself wasn't something I was fond of. He was certain though, and downloading page after page from medical websites, had taken extremes to prove that gaffs were a risk to my well-being. Looking back, I realized today was not the best day to decide to heed his advice. "I don't want to talk about it."

Arms crossed, he leaned against the now-closed door, waiting for me to finish. He twisted to the wall opposite the sink, as I tucked myself between my legs, making sure all features were in place, and pulled up my panties. After flushing, I stopped in front of the mirror for one last makeup check.

Val embraced me from behind,wrapping me in those arms I might have welcomed earlier, but not now. Refusing me space, he hesitated on my hips as I pushed him away. I tried not to dwell on the stuffiness of the room, closed my eyes, and leaned on the sink.

"You're beautiful, Kendra."

"Don't we have a fireworks show to get to?"

My head nearly banged into the mirror as he leaned over me to plant kisses across the back of my neck. Why'd he have to come on so strong, feel so warm, so inviting -- and hard?" I'm sorry."

For what? Why couldn't I be moody without him coming uncorked? Taking it personal. His insecurities irked me. Or was it just dumb perseverance, like that of a faithful dog? Why he tried so hard to please me, I didn't think I'd ever understand. His presence served only to make the closet-sized room that much stuffier. After shrugging him off me, I motioned him to move so I could swing open the door. "Val, come on. Give it a rest."

Squished behind the halfway-open door, Val grumbled as I edged past him and out of the room. But before I cleared the doorway, he had me by the arm. I struggled, trying to get out of his grasp, only to have him tighten his hold. "Damn it, Val!"

"Kendra, stop it!"

I yanked. Cursing, he followed, hitting the sink hard, tripping over his feet, tumbling after me, and taking us both to the floor. A chair piled high with scarves teetered off-kilter by our fall, and we found ourselves smothered in a cushiony blanket of stage props.

As Val pushed to his knees, I flipped over onto my back, tossing scarves and stoles to the side. His clinginess today had me at my wit's end."What the fuck's wrong with you?"


Exposed and trapped, his hands on either side of my head, I fought to wriggle my skirt over my panties. With one hand, he swiped at the neon tangerine orange boa hanging lopsided from his neck. Highlighted by the bright color, his gaze, heavy and dark, pleading for peace. Expression tight, his pouting, bottom lip teased me. Even his faux sternness was cute. Intending to give him my best dirty look, I broke out laughing instead.

"This isn't funny, Kendra."

"Oh,Val." Wrapping a thin stole around his head, I drew him closer,nose to nose, our gazes locked. "I think baby blue is more your col--" His lips covered mine, stealing my words. My breath followed as he lowered himself onto me. He pressed with his tongue, and wanting nothing more at that moment than him inside me, I pulled on the blue silk draped around him. Jesus, I loved what his mouth did for me; those lips, soft but firm, his tongue sliding over then under mine, enticing me to explore him. Though his shadowed face scraped my chin and burned my lips, I remapped his mouth once again, sure I would never tire of ....

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Monday, July 13, 2009

The Final Curtain excerpt by Victor J Banis in the anthology RED by various authors

The Final Curtain by Victor J Banis first appeared in the Winter 2007-2008 issue of the ezine Mysterical-E ( The story is an exercise in Grand Guignol and is included in the anthology RED. The narrator, a touring actor, has been invited to supper with a local arts patron and her preternaturally beautiful young son, Gaylord.

The anthology RED is by multiple authors including 2009 Lambda Award Finalists Victor J Banis, William Maltese and JP Bowie. A gloriously erotic m/m romance, of any genre, any era. Add just a few little items: red, a drink of ice cold water, a cricket, a pebble, the scent of blood oranges. The result? An anthology as versatile and intriguing as it's authors. Red. Who isn't attracted by the color of passion? Due Out soon.

MLR Press (TBA)


"We ate, not in the immense and over-furnished dining room, but in what she rather pretentiously called 'the supper room,' just the three of us at a table only large enough to accommodate us and the excess of china and crystal, and covered with a fringed cloth that draped to the floor. One of those hideous electric chandeliers cast a dirty yellow light over everything and a steam radiator cracked arthritic joints. The air was crowded with the smell of the overcooked pork and boiled cabbage we ate.

"That she and I ate, in any case. Gaylord sipped champagne and nibbled daintily at the fruit of a blood orange, his lips growing redder with each tiny bite. From time to time, a stained tongue flicked out to wipe his lips clean. He wore a silk robe of the same red. I seemed to see him through a veil of red, a haze cast by my lust enflamed senses.

"I could not have been more enchanted. I had passed the time since our brief meeting in my dressing room thinking of nothing but that ethereal young man who now sat next to me, saying little, smiling occasionally with fruited lips and glancing at me from under lashes that any demoiselle might envy.

"I had never known such desire for anyone. I can't explain it. I, so long content with near celibacy, was possessed, devoured by my passion. It was all that I could do to keep my emotions under control and engage in polite conversation with his mother. Gaylord said little, and answered whatever was spoken directly to him in faint monosyllables. I dared not drink the wine the flowed so freely. I drank glass after glass of ice cold water, hoping to chill the fever that had seized me—to no avail.

"All of a sudden, I felt something graze my knee under the concealing cloth, and a moment later a hand, the mere fingertips, really, slid lightly up the inside of my thigh.

"I gasped aloud and looked involuntarily in his direction, but he was looking at neither of us, his expression distant, as if instead of that vulgar room he gazed upon jeweled isles. He sank his teeth into the littlest segment of fruit, rolled it about on his tongue, and swallowed visibly.

"'Is something wrong?' she asked me.

"'No, no,' I said hastily. 'Forgive me, I just recalled something I forgot to do. Please, go on—you were saying?'

"I let my own hand drop under the cloth, but no sooner had my fingers touched his than the intruders were withdrawn. After that, I could scarcely concentrate on keeping the conversation alive, and I have no memory of whether I tasted the food at all.

"Only one thing penetrated this stupor into which I had fallen. As the table was being cleared and coffee served by a thick, sullen woman who was apparently cook and housekeeper, my hostess said to me, 'But, really, that hotel is such an embarrassment. Why don't you come stay here with us for the duration of your visit? We have far more room than we need, and I am sure Gaylord would be glad for the company, wouldn't you, my darling?'"

"'Yes,' he said, in little more than a sigh. That single word pierced my heart. I was in love, smitten beyond reason. I could no more have refused the invitation than flown to the moon.

"When the time came to drive me back to my hotel, she said, 'I'll just get my purse,' and left us alone, for the first time that evening.

"This was the moment for which I had waited, and I leapt to my feet, convinced that I would have those carmine tinted lips pressed to mine, but even as I came about the table, he moved away from it and into the foyer. He took an enormous red peony from a bowl of them at the foot of the stairs, and buried his face in its exuberant petals.

"I hesitated, waiting for some signal from him, but it did not come, and after all too few moments, I heard his mother's footsteps descending the stairs.

"He glanced at me then, fleetingly, and smiled an impish, blood red smile. It only made me love him more.

Monday, July 6, 2009 excerpt by Neil Plakcy is a sexy comedy of manners the novel Jane Austen might have written—if she were a gay man living in Miami Beach at the turn of the millennium.

Brian Cohen is handsome, funny and smart, but he’s never been able to get all those good characteristics together enough to score a great job or a great boyfriend. He’s in his early thirties, living in the awesome gay candy store called South Beach, but he’s a man without a plan.

Then his best friend Stella, a gorgeous model, hooks him up with a job helping launch a new gay web site, Brian immediately develops a crush on his handsome, desirable boss, Nick Petrangelis-- but Nick’s happily coupled with a supermodel of his own, Paavo, the Fabulous Finn.

Will the Internet finally connect Brian to the life he’s always dreamed of? Will Nick join the line of hunky men parading through Brian’s bedroom? is more than just a web site—it’s a fast, sexy romp on a narrow island of sand, Art Deco buildings and neon nights.
Publisher: MLR Press (May 19, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1608200361
ISBN-13: 978-1608200368


One late afternoon in September of 1999, I moped around the apartment I shared on South Beach, alternately considering graduate school, celibacy, or becoming one of those guys who stands around in the sun directing traffic around highway construction sites. I was unemployed, I’d been dumped by my latest boyfriend, and there was a huge zit about to pop on my forehead.

Then my best friend Stella, who is one of the top models on Miami Beach, called and told me that if I could get an 8 x 10 glossy down to her agent’s before five, she could get me a day’s work as an extra on a photo shoot.

She had talked me into making up the 8 x 10s a few months before, but I wasn’t fashion model material. My teeth are a bit crooked, my eyebrows have a tendency to grow out in points, like Fu Manchu’s mustache, and I don’t have the right cheekbones. Not to say I’m a dog or anything; I mean, I get my share of stares as I walk down Lincoln Road.

“You’ll be in the background,” Stella said. “I told my agent it was a favor he owed me. Now you’ll owe me one.”

“I owe you my life, Stella.” I’d been dumped by a guy a few weeks before, then I’d lost my job due to budget cuts. Right after that, I’d pinched a nerve in my back that kept me flat on my stomach for hours on end. Stella had been my sole support, bringing me chocolate babka and Dr. Brown’s sodas from the Epicure deli, cheering me with gossip from her photo shoots and commiserating with me about my problems.

At least I’d have some cash toward the rent, I figured. I ran the photo down to her agent’s and found out where I had to go. The next morning the zit had magically disappeared, and I reported for duty to Bobby Maduro Stadium, an ancient ballpark that had long ago been used for spring training. It was located in a slummy area of Miami, not too far from the causeway to South Beach, and by the time I showed up at eight, the prop guys had already been hard at work.

They had laid sod over about half the infield, erected a billboard in front of the old scoreboard, and decorated a quarter of the stadium with pennants and posters. I went to wardrobe, where I was fitted for an old-time baseball uniform, white with blue stripes, with blousy pants and a v-necked jersey. They gave me sneakers and a ball cap and sent me out on the field.

A dozen of us were positioned around the sod. One of the others was this guy Blue, a struggling actor who lives on the first floor of my building and waits tables at a cafĂ© on Lincoln Road. For a while I watched him trying to make time with one of the photographer’s assistants. Then Stella came out in a white dress that looked like Mia Farrow might have worn it in that ill-advised movie version of The Great Gatsby. It was flouncy and ruffled, and she carried a white parasol. The photographer arranged her lounging in the middle of the field, halfway between second base and the pitcher’s mound.

“Fabulous,” he said, moving behind the camera. “Now give me attitude!”

I wasn’t sure what kind of attitude she was supposed to give him, pretending to be some kind of odalisque in the middle of an old-fashioned baseball game, but she seemed to know, and he clicked pictures with an ecstasy I reserve for the bedroom. Until I can get a photographer (or any other man, for that matter) to act like that, I doubt I will be much of a success at high fashion modeling.

The photographer took a bunch of shots of Stella alone, and then called, “Paavo! We are ready for you.”

He may have been ready, but I wasn’t. The man who strolled out of the dugout was the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen. At least 6’2”, with close-cropped blond hair and eyes I later saw were the same shade of blue as the deep water off Key Biscayne. He twirled his shirt over his shoulder with a single finger, and his biceps and abs rippled as he strolled across the verdant field. My jaw dropped open and my knees got weak.

The photographer met him where Stella was lying, and spent the next two hours arranging their bodies and shooting pictures. For my time, I got paid $150, which I was informed would be mailed to me. After turning in my costume to wardrobe and dressing in my own clothes again, I waited for Stella outside the line of big Winnebagos.

She came out a few minutes later, looking perfect as usual, as if she hadn’t spent the better part of the morning sweating in the middle of a baseball field under the hot sun. “Brian! I’m glad you stayed around. I want you to meet someone.”

Paavo emerged from the trailer behind her, and I thought I might pass out. He was even more gorgeous up close and personal than he had been from a distance. “Paavo’s boyfriend is starting a Website,” Stella said. “He needs some help. You need a job. I think it’s a perfect match, don’t you?”

“Hi,” Paavo said, sticking his hand out.

Dumbly, I reached out and shook it. “Nice to meet you,” I mumbled. “You were great out there.”

He frowned. “I take de clothes off and lie around on de ground,” he said. He still retained a slight accent from his native Finland, as if at any moment he might sprout bushy eyebrows and begin bopping around like the Swedish Chef on the Muppets. It didn’t matter; I was in love. Or lust, as Stella pointed out later.
“Here is de card for de Website,” Paavo said, handing me a business card for someone named Nick Petrangelis, whose title was listed as ‘Supreme Webmaster and Grand Pooh-Bah.’ “I call Nick, he vaits for you at de office.”

I didn’t move, so Stella said, “That means now, Brian. You get in your car and you go back across the causeway to the real world.”

“As if South Beach is the real world,” I said.

“It is for us, sweetie.”

≈ ≈ ≈

It was lunchtime by the time I reached Nick Petrangelis’s office. There was no one at the receptionist’s desk so I stood there and called out, “Hello?”

A twenty-something geek in a Pac-Man T-shirt with goofy, dark-rimmed glasses went past on his way to the copier.

“I’m looking for Nick Petrangelis?”

“Second office on the right,” he said, nodding down the hall. “The one that looks like FAO Schwartz exploded in it.”

I got to the second office and peeked around the door jamb. A blond guy, with broad shoulders and big hands, sat behind a cluttered desk, talking on the phone. His sandy blond hair hung down to the collar of his blue and white striped Brooks Brothers shirt.

Though he wasn’t quite as handsome as Paavo, I was smitten. I like my men tall, on the husky side, and there’s something about a button down collar that makes my heart flutter. I loved the sound of his voice, too, a British burr overlaid with New York directness. Though I was there for a job interview, not a date, I couldn’t help wondering how his lips would taste against mine, if he was as sexy naked as he was with his clothes on.

The walls were plastered with posters from every space movie and television show ever screened, from Lost In Space and Star Wars to Plan 9 From Outer Space and Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. One wall had been made into shelves that were packed with action figures and scale models, from the Enterprise to Obi Wan Kenobi, to a bunch of ships and aliens I didn’t recognize.

Nick saw me in the doorway and motioned me in.

“I’m Brian Cohen,” I said in a low voice. “Paavo gave me your card.”

“Sure, sit down,” he said. Into the phone he said, “No, I’m here. I’m listening.”
As soon as he hung up the desk phone, his cellular phone bleeped.

“,” he said. “This is Nick.” He looked at me and shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, after he hung up. “It’s kind of crazy around here. So, Paavo called and said you were looking for a job.”

The desk phone rang again. “Sorry, with the receptionist out sick I’ve got to get this. If I let the programmer or the artist pick up, God knows what’ll happen.”
A tall dyke with spiked purple hair stalked in carrying a bunch of pieces of paper. While Nick was talking, she laid them out on the desk in front of him. “I’m in the middle of three things,” he whispered to her.

“You’re always in the middle of three things,” she said. She looked at me. “If he’s not on the phone, he’s on the Internet or in a meeting or out of the office. How am I supposed to get this goddamned site designed if I don’t get any feedback?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I shrugged. I always find the very aggressive dykes a little scary. I mean, I know we’re supposed to be one big rainbow family, but what do we have in common after all? She likes pussy, I like dick. I have a lot more mutual interests with straight women like Stella. At least we can compare notes on the men we’ve slept with.

With his eyes, Nick motioned me to take a look at the samples. There were five different designs. “They’re for the background of the pages,” the dyke said to me. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the Internet.”

“I know how to find my way to the naked pictures.”

She glared at me. “He has to pick one so I can get on with the layout. I’ve got to know what kind of background I’m working with.”

“Which one’s your favorite?”

While she looked at them, I considered her. She wore an orange crop top that read “I Hate This Place and I’m Leaving Soon,” khaki shorts, and combat boots, and she had three silver hoops in each ear. “I like this one the best,” she said, pointing to a retro fifties design that could have been lifted from the Formica on my parents’ kitchen cabinets. “But it’s too aggressive. I guess we should go with one of these.” She pointed to a couple that I had to agree were kind of boring.

“What about this one?” I pointed to a pattern of stylized symbols. Two male symbols, two female symbols, in a repeating design.

“Don’t you think it’s too strong?” she asked. “I mean, it might detract from the other pictures.”

“Couldn’t you fade it out?” I asked. “I have this friend who knows Photoshop, and he’s always doing effects like that.”

She considered. “Yeah, that might work.” She looked at Nick. “You like that idea?”

He smiled and nodded.

“Good. Thank you. For Christ’s sake.” She gathered her samples and stalked to the door, where she stopped and turned. “I’m Leslie,” she said. “Leslie Shulewitz.”

“Shalom,” I said. “Brian Cohen.”

“I knew it would take getting another Yid in here to get things moving,” she said. “Welcome aboard the SS”

Nick hung up, but barely had time to say, “Thanks,” before his cell bleated again. Then the desk phone rang. He looked at me and then at the phone.

What the hell, I thought, and picked it up. “”

The voice on the other end was frantic. “I can’t do this. I can’t. It’s too much!”

“What’s the matter?”

“My computer crashed!” he wailed.

“Bummer, dude. Did you try restarting it?”

“Yes, I restarted it,” he mimicked back at me. “But I hadn’t saved my document and now it’s gone! I promised Leslie I’d have it this afternoon, and now she’ll cut my balls off and make them into a mobile to hang over her desk.”

I decided to avoid Leslie’s office based on that description. “What program were you using? Word?”

I established that he had been using Word, with Windows XP, and got him to open up Windows Explorer. “Do I have to shut down Word first?”

“Nope. Now go to the C:\windows\temp directory. Anything there?”

“A bunch of files that end in .tmp.”

“Good. Now go to View, Arrange Icons, by date. Anything that’s dated today?”

“Yeah, there’s this tilde wrl file.”

“Great! That’s your file. Double click on it, and you should jump to word.”

“It’s there! There’s some junk at the front but I can deal with that. Oh, you’re a genius! I love you! Can I bear your children?”

“Not right now, thanks. Remember to save your stuff as you’re working.”

He gave me a big smooch that I was sure Nick Petrangelis could hear through the phone and hung up. Nick hung up at the same time.

“It’s kind of a zoo around here,” he said.

“I can see.”

“You seem like you know how to handle yourself.”

I shrugged.

“No, you’re good,” he said. “You worked in an office before?”

We had a couple of minutes together before the phone rang again. I ran through my work experience, Nick nodding and asking the occasional question. “I need an office manager,” he said when I was finished. “Someone who can also be my executive assistant, who can pitch in and do whatever needs to be done. A kind of jack of all trades. You think you can do that?”

“I was an assistant stage manager, and a stage manager, in New York. It’s just the kind of thing I did there.”

The phone rang again. I stood up to go. “Listen, I can come back sometime when you’re not busy.”

“No, don’t go,” Nick said. He had a puppy dog look in his blue eyes that I fell for there and then. It was as if Paavo had never existed, nor had the idiot who had dumped me the month before. There was only Nick. A gorgeous man who was already taken.

“Get me a copy of your resume, will you? For the file. We’ll talk about salary and benefits when things calm down, like after five, OK? There’s a ton of stuff on the desk in the office next door,” he said. “See what you can figure out.” He picked up the phone. “, this is Nick.”

I had a job. I looked up at the poster from Lost In Space, and even though I could imagine that robot was waving his metallic claws and saying “Danger, Will Robinson!”, I went next door and got to work.

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