Come This Way anthology, excerpt from An Apple a Day by Victor J Banis

Sometimes, a single foot is a journey of discovery....

An Apple a Day in the anthology Come This Way
Publisher: Regal Crest Enterprises, LLC (April 2, 2007)
ISBN-10: 1932300821
ISBN-13: 978-1932300826

Excerpt:

Whoever would have thought, Ben had thought often, that feet would matter so much. Clyde's feet, for instance. His gaze shifted to them. Clyde was younger than he was, no more than twenty, twenty-one at the most. He was good looking, in a countrified way, and even in the baggy overalls and the worn work shirt he was wearing, it was evident that he had a lean, hard body, the overalls bunched, his long legs spread wide, and his feet, his—really—enormous feet…

"Don't you think so, Ben?" Clyde's wife, Maude, asked, snapping him back to reality. He looked surprised at her, blushing as if she might know what he had been thinking about her husband. But, what had he been thinking? Now that it was gone, he couldn't remember.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I guess my mind wandered."

"He does that all the time," Angie said in a scolding voice, "I swear, he's the worst husband, he never pays the least attention to anything I say."

"Of course I do," Ben said; but he could not think now what the others had been talking about, Angie's voice droning on and on like the motor of her sewing machine.

"Chickens," he said in a moment of inspiration. They had been talking about chickens. Chicken feed to start, and then chicken recipes and then…but then his attention had wandered.

He glanced at Clyde and found him smiling faintly, as if he knew where Ben's mind had really been—wherever that was.

"Ben's looking peaked," Maude said. She got up from her chair. "I think we'd better head on home, Clyde."

"Oh, no," I'm fine," Ben said quickly, aware of the resentful glance his wife shot him, but Clyde had stood up now, too, and pulled his watch from his pocket to frown at it briefly.

"Ten o'clock," he said. "Didn't know it had got so late."

Everyone stood up. Ben found the couple mostly boring, but he was sorry at the same time to see them go, sorry to have the slight diversion they provided ended. Nothing to do now but call it a day and go to bed.

"How's Ben coming along, Angie," Maude asked her, just as if Ben weren't standing right there. "Is that new doctor doing him any good?"

"Seems to be," Angie said. "Myself, I can't see the sense of running into the city every week just to have some doctor poke around and stick you with a needle, but Ben seems to have perked up some since he's been going."

Maude looked directly at Ben then. "What'd he say the trouble was, anyway, this new doctor? Your glands, was it?"

"Something like that," Ben said. "You know how doctors are, they like to keep everything mysterious."

"Ain't that the truth," Maude said. "Well, Clyde…"

Ben was glad after all when they had gone and Angie had taken the dirty coffee cups into the kitchen to wash them. She detested letting dirty dishes stand, even a quartet of cups.

He made his way upstairs, to the simple bedroom that he and Angie shared, half pausing at the closed door to the room they used now for storage. He had all but stopped wishing for someone to occupy it.

"The doctor says I can't have any," Angie had explained to him time and time again, and she would get sore when he suggested that they might at least try, until he had given up suggesting it. It wasn't the trying that mattered to him. He had never found that as pleasurable as other men seemed to do. It was just that he would have liked to have a son, and that was, after all, how they were gotten. He suspected that Angie's reluctance had more to do with avoiding what she called "that wickedness" and less to do with any doctor's instructions, but he wasn't about to suggest that either.

He undressed quickly and hung his clothes neatly in the closet, the way she insisted, and put on the long woolen nightshirt that hung on the door. He hated it, hated wearing it, hated the feel of the coarse wool on his body. Once, a long time ago, he had tried sleeping without it, but Angie had been furious, calling him a letch and a sinner and so many other vile names that he had sighed wearily and put the nightshirt on after all, and he had worn it nightly since then, summer or winter.

He heard her footsteps on the stairs and closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He felt the lights go out. Angie always undressed in the dark. He had never understood how she found her own nightgown, or managed to hang up her clothes so neatly. He wondered briefly what she would do if he just got up and crossed over to her bed. How long had it been since he had done that? He couldn't even remember, except that she had complained bitterly when he did so, and sent him back to his own.

After an astonishingly short time, Angie began to snore softly. Ben opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. Oddly, he found himself thinking about Clyde Akins. He felt pretty sure Clyde and Maude didn't fall asleep right away every night. Once, at their house, he had managed to peek into their bedroom and had seen that they shared one enormous bed. Clyde wouldn't even have to get up and walk across the room if he felt the need. He had only to turn on his side, move closer...

An image of Clyde, in bed, sprang into Ben's mind. He rolled onto his own side. His last thoughts as he drifted off to sleep were of Clyde's big feet. He saw them out of the work boots he usually wore. Bare feet. Naked…

#

Spring had lingered this year, and the weather was still pleasant. Later, in summer's heat, the walk into town would be more arduous, but for now it was pleasant. The apple trees were in bloom. It would be late summer, early fall, before they began to harvest them; then, the trips into the city would become impossible. He dreaded that prospect.

For now, though, the trip was no more than a little troublesome. Most of the farm was in orchards. The trees needed some attention in the spring, but that he had done already. There were garden crops, but he worked extra hard on those during the other days so that he could have this one day of the week free.

He wore overalls, much like Clyde's except his were older and one knee was patched, and a blue denim work shirt so faded it was nearly white, and he carried his lunch in a brown paper bag under one arm. He glanced up once at the sun and quickened his pace. The last train left at six thirty. If he missed that, he was out of luck.

#

It was a two hour ride into the city. He got there at eight thirty, and would have to catch the train back at four thirty. Brief, but time enough for his treatment. He passed through the station and was on the street, excitedly aware of the people around him, the cars in the street, the noise, so different from the quiet of the farm.

It was only four blocks to the cheap hotel he had found on his first trip. He went directly there. The man at the desk showed no sign of recognition. He never did, although by this time he was certainly used to seeing the tall farmer in his country clothes come through the swinging door into his diminutive lobby.

They exchanged no more than a half dozen words. Ben paid for the day in advance, and another five dollars for the cheap cardboard suitcase the clerk stored for him. He took that and climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor, to his room.

It was none too clean. Despite the no smoking sign on the wall, someone had smoked there recently and the lingering tobacco scent mingled with the musty odor of a room rarely aired out, and the mattress on the bed sagged alarmingly toward the middle. None of which bothered him in the least. The truth was, he scarcely noticed.

He wasted little time there, just enough to shed his shirt and his overalls, and the long johns he wore under them. He took a skin tight tee shirt from the suitcase and put that on instead, and form fitting levis without nothing between them and his naked flesh, taking a sensual pleasure in the rub of the fabric over his bare genitals. He wore the same boots he had worn on his trip from the farm, but they looked different with the change in costume.

He looked different. It might have been a stranger that gazed back at him from the cracked mirror. He tugged at the bulge of his crotch, pulling himself from left to right, which he had discovered all on his own made everything more prominent. He smiled at himself, trying to feel at ease, but despite the experience of the last several weeks, he still felt nervous each time he descended the stairs, ignoring the clerk who stared at him from behind his shabby desk, going back down to the street.

#

At lunch time, on a nice day, as he knew from previous visits, the little park would be crowded with loungers, all of the benches taken, but it was only midmorning now, and he found an empty bench and sat down, facing the marble fountain. He did not watch the passersby, but kept his eyes shyly downward. All he saw were their feet, an endless parade of them passing by, some hurrying, some shuffling, some looking like they were about to break into dance.

That was how it had begun, really, with feet. An innocent stroll along the beach. Still early in the season, and in the day, time to kill before his first appointment with that new doctor. He had been alone, or so he thought, until he saw the feet. Bare feet, four of them, two facing two.

Of course, he knew that the feet were not disembodied. He could see where they joined to ankles, and even a bit of calf, and there beyond the feet were bathing suits that must have earlier encased flesh and blood hips before they were cast discarded upon the ground, and shadows discarded there as well, for who needs shadows when the reality is there for the savoring—shadows of torsos and the merest suggestion, but unmistakable for all that, of other limbs. A shadow hand that moved, stroking, and the feet came closer together then, meshed, until they might have been one foundation to a single column of glued-together legs. The toes moved in the sand, wriggling in time to the ragged breathing he could just hear where he stood frozen beyond the bushes. It occurred to him later: if they had looked, they would probably have seen his feet. Maybe seen the shadow of his hand, moving.

#

He did not have to wait long. For whatever reason, he never did. He hadn't sat for more than three or four minutes before a pair of feet slowed as they came near, paused briefly before him. Someone sat down beside Ben on the bench. Ben looked at the shoes, neatly polished oxfords, next to his old boots, and waited for the stranger to speak first.

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Daywalker Legacy excerpt by Amanda Young

Included in Daywalker Legacy by Amanda Young are the stories...The Hard Truth: Blackmailed into claiming a birthright he doesn't want, Cadge Johnson is thrust into a world of politics and intrigue. His only ally is old friend and former lover, Red Taylor -- a Nightfeeder he has kept at arm's length for decades. The sordid past they share is nothing compared to the trials ahead. After nearly a century of love, loss, murder, and deception, only the cold, hard truth will finally set them free...and...Secrets and Lies: After the near genocide of his race, Teague Johnson now spends his life hiding in plain sight. In a city populated by humans and Nightfeeders alike, he and his brother are forced to cloak themselves in forged histories in order to blend in among the hierarchy of society.

Teague's weekly trysts with Kyle Drake give him a reason to anticipate the future -- until Kyle unexpectedly disappears. Afterward, Teague's life is thrust under a microscope, endangering everything he holds dear. Allegiances are tested, and the lines of friendship blur in a race to stop an inhuman killer. Kyle's fate hinges on Teague's ability to untangle the intricate web of secrets and lies before it's too late.

Title: Daywalker Legacy by Amanda Young
Publisher: CreateSpace (January 19, 2010)
ISBN: 1449976689
ISBN13: 9781449976682

Excerpt from Secrets and Lies:

Teague Johnson appeared calm and in control at all times. He’d been accused of being a heartless bastard more than he cared to recall. It was a common enough misconception. No one -- save his older brother Cadge -- had ever been able to see beneath the icy veneer he shared with the world. Teague liked it that way. Especially at rare times like now, when his internal thermostat was set to boil, and he felt anything but composed.

The hard-on he’d woken up with that evening refused to go down. It outlasted an argument with Cadge about his endless obsession with the past and then continued unabated through the nightly procedures to prepare the club for business. Even now, as he walked through the crowd and nodded at people, his balls felt tight and heavy; his dick ached for attention from the one man he had no business fraternizing with.

Teague felt sure Kyle would show up tonight, as he had every Saturday for the last few months, but he was torn about how he should respond. If he were a smart man, he’d walk away and find someone else to fuck. There were bona fide reasons for why he shouldn’t form attachments to a human, regardless of what his dick craved.

To further rattle his concentration, the club was crawling with Nightfeeders and varying forms of shifters. Having so many creatures under the same roof made Teague twitchy. He didn’t mind the shifters so much; they could get a little rougher than necessary at times, but discretion seemed to be coded into their genes. Nightfeeders, however, were a different story. Teague’s skin crawled with thoughts of what they were capable of.

After five years of running Club Oasis and a lifetime of trying to blend in among the lesser subspecies of his own race, he should have been accustomed to being around Nightfeeders. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. The blood-sucking fiends caused too much trouble for him not to be wary -- for the kind of danger they posed to him and his human clientele. The last mess he’d been forced to clean up hadn’t been pretty, and he damn sure didn’t want to find himself in that sort of position again. He’d put safeguards in place to protect his members, but where there was a will, there was a way.

Teague broke away from the herd of people skirting the outer edges of the dance floor and headed across the room. The throng of bodies thinned out the further he walked, and he would’ve sworn the temperature dropped ten degrees. The club was hopping, people packed in like sardines as they swilled liquor and fed off the vibe of party favors and sexual conquests yet to come. Heavy metal music piped through the sound system, the guitar riff electric and wild, like the cacophony of human heartbeats echoing in his ears. He stopped outside the lounge -- a separate area cordoned off and insulated with thick, soundproof sliding glass doors for those members who wanted to socialize without having to scream over the music -- and surveyed the mob with all the enthusiasm of a man facing the gallows of yore.

“Yo, boss man.” Teague glanced at Joe, his right hand man and most trusted bouncer, who stood off to one side grinning like a loon. The flashing lights reflected off his wide forehead as he nodded toward the bar. “Your boy toy is here.”

“What-the-fuck-ever,” Teague scoffed, rolling his eyes. He kept his gaze locked on Joe’s ugly mug, although he yearned to look around for Kyle. The human was quickly becoming an addiction he couldn’t afford.

Joe laughed. “Your boy looks ripe for the pickin’ tonight. You’d better stake your claim before someone sweeps that pretty piece of meat right out from underneath you.”

“Men are not pretty, and he is not my anything.” So what if Teague kept vowing that he would stop fucking the stunning blond. He had yet to follow through with it, although he would have to end things eventually, possibly even later that night. After I have another taste of what Kyle is oh so willing to share. There was no shame in taking advantage of what the other man offered. It wasn’t like Teague had ever promised anything, other than sex.

“Well, you do what you like about the pretty boy, boss, but there are some new members who want to speak to you about reserving the club later this year for a private party. I know it isn’t something you like to do, but they’re waving around cash like it’s Monopoly money.”

Teague sighed. “All right. Go find them and bring them over, but I’m not promising anything.”

“Sure thing, boss. You stay put, and I’ll be right back with them.”

He waited until after Joe walked off before looking for the man who’d consumed his every waking thought and half his dreams to boot. He spotted Kyle leaning against the bar closest to the dance floor; the bright white T-shirt and snug faded jeans made him stand out like a spotlight amid the sea of leather clad partiers.

An aura of innocence clung to Kyle as he gaped at the spectacle around him. With his sandy blond hair, shorn close on the sides and long enough to hang down over his forehead, large expressive eyes reflected his nervousness more than the way he kept a death grip on his beer bottle, he looked like a virgin waiting to be deflowered.

Teague’s intimate knowledge of Kyle belied the man’s appearance. That didn’t prevent the thought of being the one and only to despoil Kyle from making Teague’s dick leak. He reached down and discreetly adjusted his package. I’m definitely getting a piece of that tonight.

Teague spotted Joe approaching, several other men tagging along behind him, and pulled his gaze away from Kyle. There would be plenty of time for dalliances later, after he took care of a little business.


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Paul’s D’Marco excerpt by Leiland Dale

Matt D'Marco has happily settled in his routine for years. Now with a pending divorce, recently promoted Matt's life is about to take an entirely new direction.

Matt's first case as detective turns out to be a challenge. Desperation sets in when all leads in the child serial killer case leave the police department empty handed. Paul Whittington, psychic and medium, may be the only solution in finding a break in the case.

Matt and Paul are forced to work together. But when a work relationship turns into something more, it challenges everything Matt's known about himself, his life, and desires. Then, a turn in the case could put everything at risk.

In the end, can Paul win over Matt's resistance and claim him as his own?

Paul’s D’Marco
Silver Publishing (January 9, 2010)
ASIN: B0036FU1B4

Excerpt:

Walking into the terminal of the tiny airport, I don’t get that feeling of coming home. Yes, this is my hometown, but it’s just too much. Tired of people unable to decide if they want to approach me or avoid me, I left for the preferred isolation of Forks a year or two ago. I find people either avoid me because they’re homophobic or approach me because they’re curious to find out if a deceased relative has a message for them.

All the hustle and bustle of the airport reminds me why I left in the first place. Dealing with the residents of the town is difficult enough but still having to deal with spirits of the dearly departed on top of that, is just too much. The crowds are probably the most difficult with so many spirits so close together. It always feels like they are screaming at the top of their lungs directly in my ear.

Collecting my luggage at the carousel I keep an eye out for the police officer my brother-in-law has sent to pick me up. This is just what I need, a babysitter with a badge.

As I step out to the front of the terminal, a police car pulls up to the curb. I wait patiently for the police officer to get out of his car but I’m slowly becoming irate with the spirits talking in my ear.

When the officer steps out of the car and turns to face me, I let out an audible gasp. Never in my life have I ever seen a man this big. A commanding six foot four god towers over me. Muscles like huge irons bars, shoulders wide enough to hinder him from entering a doorway easily. Short light brown tousled hair and those eye…..those brown puppy dog eyes. This was definitely the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I can’t take my eyes off the gorgeous Adonis approaching me. Without realizing it at first, I lick my lips. I can’t move. I stand there, staring, unable to speak.

“Hi. Are you Paul Whittington?” The officer holds out his hand as he approaches me.

“Umm…Yes,” I stammer. I braced myself, knowing I will have a vision the moment we touch. I reach out and shake his hand. Nothing happens. Confused, I pull my hand back. This has never happened to me before.

“The captain sent me to pick you up and bring you to the station before you get settled.” The gravelly voice was giving me goose bumps. Still at a loss for words, I quickly divert my gaze to my luggage. I can’t believe the instant desire I feel when our eyes first connect. I can still feel the trembling of my knees as I try to bring myself under control and shake off the desire surging within me.

“Let’s get your stuff loaded in the back so we can head to the station. The captain wants to speak to you.” I hear the officer mumble something under his breath as he gets into the car but I can’t make out a thing he says.

I turn to the officer. “Are you always this rude, officer? Or is it just part of your charm?”

“Listen, my name is Detective D’Marco not officer. And just so that we understand each other, I’ll make it clear and simple. I don’t believe in the hocus pocus you do and honestly I don’t give a shit. Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours. I have a case to solve and having you hanging around is just giving me more work than I already have. I don’t have the time to be anyone’s babysitter,” he answers rudely as he pulls away from the curb.

I sit staring at the detective in shocked silence. My God. Detective D’Marco is probably the most insufferable and uncouthly person I have ever met. He might be a breathtakingly beautiful Adonis, but still an insufferable ass.

It looks like my life has just become a bit more complicated.

~~

The silence in the car is a welcome reprieve from the chaotic thoughts going around in my head. What the fuck just happened? The moment I get out of the car and see Paul standing at the curb, I’m overwhelmed with lust like I haven’t experienced since I was a teenager. What the hell?

Paul, with the long brown hair with red and blonde streaks falling just below his shoulders, the greenest eyes and the most luscious lips I’ve ever seen on any human being literally makes my knees weak. Remembering Paul bend over, throwing his suitcase in the back of the car has my cock hard in seconds. The five foot seven man sitting next to me in the confined space inside the car is much more impressive than the picture the captain showed me earlier. Much more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever dated, including my ex-wife.

Never in my life have I thought of a man as beautiful.

What the fuck is happening to me? I’m shocked. I divert my attention back to the road trying to get the uneasiness in my stomach and the hardness of my cock to subside.

“So, are you one of the detectives working on this case?” he asks, interrupting the awkward silence and my uncomfortable thoughts.

“Yes. This is a very delicate case and it looks like there might be a leak somewhere in the department. Since the article hit the front page news a couple of days ago, Petersen and I, and now you, are the only ones assigned to this case. We’re keeping a tight leash on it.” I say as I try to keep my attention off the beauty occupying the passenger seat. What?!? I just thought of a man as a beauty! I try to keep my eyes and mind on the road.

Catching movement out the corner of my eye, I turn my head and glance over at Paul and see him looking out the side window trying to discreetly wipe a stray tear from his cheek. I have the intense urge to pull the car over and hold the man in my arms to soothe him. Turning my attention back to the road ahead I wonder what has upset him to bring tears and the sad look to those beautiful eyes.

After a moment of silence I hear him shift in his seat and I can feel his eyes watching me, intently.

“Well, I’ll help where I can. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to give you any information. We’ll need to see where it goes,” he says. I grip the steering wheel tighter, and my knuckles begin to turn white. The urge to reach out a hand to clasp the one on Paul’s lap is overwhelming. I don’t understand what is happening to me. I’ve never felt this way.

My thoughts go back to the latest crime scene, seeing the bodies of the blonde haired boys bring back an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Yeah, we’ll see.” I grunt. “We’ll be at the precinct soon.”

Focusing on the road again, not another word is spoken. I struggle with my thoughts and try to understand why I feel this way and where these feelings are coming from. This is new and I feel shaken. This is far from anything I’ve ever felt in my life. Why do I feel this attraction to another man? It doesn’t make any sense to me. These thoughts begin to cross my mind at a million miles per hour.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see he’s still lost in thought, looking out the window. I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking about right now.

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Mute Witness excerpt by Rick R. Reed

Sean and Austin's perfect world shatters when Sean's eight-year-old son, Jason, vanishes.


Mute Witness
MLR Press (October 2,2009)
ISBN-10: 1608201082
ISBN-13: 978-1608201082

Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

It was one of their rare lazy evenings. Summer, and the evening air was fresh and clean after an afternoon thunderstorm, with just a hint of a breeze. Normally, Sean and Austin were so busy that if they weren’t trying to change something about the little Cape Cod on the Ohio River they had bought a year before—adding a deck, putting in a new kitchen, stripping away years of white paint from the woodwork downstairs—they were too tired to do anything but crawl into bed and pass out, usually before eleven o’clock. Lovemaking, since they had bought the money-and-time-sucking house, had become relegated to weekend afternoons and the occasional early morning.

But today, Thursday, had been an easy one. Austin had called into work, the Benson Pottery, where he was a caster and taken a mental health day. Things had just been too damn busy lately and he needed the break. Waiting until Saturday was out of the question. Sunday seemed farther away than the next millennium.

Sean, a reporter for The Evening View, the local thrice-weekly compilation of ads sandwiched in with a little editorial, had had the day off. The couple had spent the day in Pittsburgh, at the Andy Warhol museum, then had an early dinner at The Grand Concourse (the best Paella on the Monongahela and Allegheny rivers), beat the brutal thunderstorm home, made love (acrobatically, in the kitchen, atop a Butcher’s block), and now the two were curled up in front of the TV. Sean had rented Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and, after a bowl of Jamaican and a couple of vodka and tonics, the two were teary-eyed with laughter.

Sean looked over at his younger boyfriend and thought how lucky he was to have found Austin, especially in a town the size of Summitville, where the population hovered just above ten thousand. Even better, Austin was his fantasy man, with a broad, beefy body that his mother and her friends would have called strapping, sandy blond hair, and the bluest eyes he had ever seen. When Sean had first met him, he thought Austin’s eyes had to be fake: enhanced by those tinted contacts that never looked real. But he found quickly that the young man was simply blessed with arresting eyes to go along with his broad shoulders, dimpled chin, and infectious smile. He wore that smile right now, coming down from a fit of inappropriate laughter after hearing Elizabeth Taylor tell Richard Burton, “I’d divorce you if I thought you were alive.”

A sick sense of humor was yet another thing the pair had in common.

It was what they both would have agreed was a perfect day. Well, Sean might have had one more item to add to the “perfection” list. Having his son, Jason, around for at least part of the time would have been all it would have taken to make the day ideal, but these days, Jason was for the weekends only.

In any case, this was close enough to nirvana. He closed his eyes and let his head loll back on Austin’s shoulder.

Sean was just thinking about slowly undressing Austin and then leading him into the bedroom for round two when the phone rang. Its chirp startled both of them out of the cocoon of warmth that had surrounded them, a cocoon built from good sex, supreme relaxation, and the afore-mentioned Jamaican weed.

Austin: sleepily from under Sean’s arm on the couch, “Don’t get it. Please don’t get it. Just let the machine pick up. I don’t want to talk to anyone. And I don’t want you to, neither.” Sean eyed the little answering machine next to the cordless, wondering when they would enter the 21st century and use voice mail like everyone else. But, unlike voice mail, the machine did allow them to screen calls and for two men who appreciated their privacy, this feature had voice mail beat all to hell.

Sean let the phone ring its customary four rings, although his tendency would have been to answer it. But if this would make Austin happy, then he was willing to do it. Especially since he had things in mind for Austin that did not involve the telephone. Things that would erase their fatigue and perhaps keep them up the better part of the night. Sean grinned.

On the fourth ring, Sean pressed the pause button on the remote control and sat up straighter to listen.

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” Austin whispered in Sean’s ear, flicking his earlobe with his tongue and giving his crotch a playful squeeze.

And then the moment shattered.

Shelley’s voice, almost unfamiliar under the veneer of tension that made it higher, quicker, came through. Shelley and Sean had been married once upon a time and their union had produced Jason, the best little boy in the world. As soon as Sean heard Shelley’s voice he thought of his son, who shared his dark hair, green eyes, wiry frame, and his fascination with stories.

“Sean? Sean, I hope you’re there. This is important. Please pick up.” There was a slight pause. “It’s about Jason. He...”

Before she could say anything else, Sean sprinted for the phone in the entryway. “Shelley? Sorry, I was...”

“Jason is missing.”

“What?”

And then Sean heard her begin to sob and the relaxation in all of his muscles vanished, replaced by a tightness that felt like steel bands snapping taut across his muscles. Blood rushed in his ears; his heart began to pound. A queasy nausea rose up in his gut.

“Jason never came home tonight,” Shelley sobbed. “I don’t know where he is. Please say he’s with you.”

Sean sat down on the little oak chair in front of the desk. Well, collapsed into the chair was more like it. “Shelley, I’m sorry, but he’s not here. Don’t you think I would have called if he had come here? How long’s he been gone?” Sean rubbed the back of his neck, his mouth curiously dry. He glanced out the window at the complete darkness.

“I went to work at six and he wasn’t home yet.” She blew out a sigh. “But, you know, we just thought he was horsing around in the woods or something and lost track of time. Then I called Paul and...”

“Wait a minute, Shelley. It’s a quarter ‘til eleven.”

“I know. I know.”

“Why didn’t you call sooner? You mean to tell me you’re just starting to look? Christ, he’s eight years old.”

“I thought he would’ve come home while I was on my shift. Paul was here and he fell asleep and...”

“Paul. Great.” Sean rubbed his sweaty palms against his thighs.

“Please Sean, it’s not the time. I fucked up. Okay? Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I need some help finding our son.”

She was right. In spite of the thoughts running through his head, most of them centering around how he and Austin would have been better parents, but the courts couldn’t see that, all they could see was a little boy growing up under the wings of two queers, Sean knew she was right.

This was an emergency.

He looked over at his partner, who was sitting up, alert on the couch, concern making his fair features somehow darker, eyebrows pulling together, mouth open as if to say something. Austin mouthed, “What’s wrong?”

“Just a minute, Shelley.” Sean covered the receiver with his hand. “Jason has disappeared. They haven’t seen him since this afternoon.” Sean closed his eyes to try and center himself; this was feeling unreal, like a nightmare come to life. The room shifted, like he was drunk. He wished away any high the Jamaican he had smoked earlier brought on, but it wasn’t that easy. A feeling of giddy dread pulsed through his veins, electric.

This is how it feels, he thought, to be totally helpless.

Austin got up from the couch and began rubbing the cords in Sean’s neck, which had tightened into iron.

Sean swallowed, trying to summon up some spit. “You haven’t seen him all day?”

“That’s right and I don’t need the accusations. You know how it is around here in the summertime. Kids play outside until it starts getting dark. It was like that for you. It was like that for me.”

“I’m sorry. Listen, we’ll be right over.”

“‘Kay.” There was a pause. “Sean? Would you mind just coming alone? Paul...”

“For Christ’s sake, Shelley.” Sean hung the phone up.

“I’m going over there. See what I can do to help.”

“Let me throw something on.” Austin stood, his blue eyes alive with concern and sympathy.

“No.” Sean practically winced at the look of surprise on his lover’s face. He bit his lower lip and added, “I mean, maybe you should stay here in case anyone calls.”

Austin frowned.

“Like Jason, Austin. Like Jason.” Sean groped in a desk drawer near the front door and pulled out his cell. “I’ll have this on me so you can reach me. Okay?”

Sean was out the door before Austin had the chance to offer any sort of rebuttal.

* * *

By the time he pulled up in the driveway, Sean was hoping, without much optimism, that Jason would have come home during the time it took him to drive over to Shelley’s. He even had a vision of his knobby-kneed little son running out the back, screen door slamming behind him, and calling, “Daddy!”. He ran a trembling hand through his close-cropped dark hair and yanked on his mustache. Even under the best of circumstances, he didn’t particularly like going in that house: Paul and Shelley had done their best to make sure he never felt comfortable there. When was the last time he’d been inside? He couldn’t remember. Usually, he just gave a couple of toots on the horn when he picked up Jason and out the boy would run, nylon weekend bag in hand.

It had been easy. Unlike his divorce from Shelley six years ago...

But thoughts like that were for another time. Weren’t crises supposed to draw people together?

He took the back porch steps two at a time and could see them both waiting through the screen door. The light in the kitchen seemed unusually bright and the silence of his ex-wife and her husband, sitting at the table, heads bowed, erased any hope that Jason had already returned home.

Sean gave a couple taps on the screen door to alert them to his presence and went inside.

Shelley stood. “Sean! God, I’m so glad you’re here.” Then she glanced over at Paul to see how he would take what she had just said, but he was looking at once bleary-eyed and dour. “I mean, Paul and I have been worried sick.”

“Have you called the police and reported him missing yet?”

Paul stood. “Of course we did that. As soon as Shel got home from the diner. What do you think?” Paul’s large frame looked imposing. He was the kind of man at whose hands Sean had always received taunting and torture. A man’s man, with no tolerance for sissies like him. He had heard from Jason the names Paul had called Sean, the snide remarks about his masculinity, and the none-too-subtle hints that he, Paul, would make a fitter father for Jason.

Sean ignored the big man, with his glowering good looks and the smell of beer and perspiration that wafted off him. Sean caught his ex-wife’s gaze. “What do you say we take a little ride? Check out his favorite haunts? Just do a little searching on our own?”

Shelley was already heading toward the door. Paul was behind her. Shelley stopped and turned at the sound of his footfalls. “No.”

Paul’s mouth dropped open.

Shelley grinned, the little half smile looking sickly on her pale, worried features. Sean wondered then if he ever beat her. “I mean, someone has to be here in case he comes home or the police call.” She then turned back to Sean. “They’re on the way over here right now. Paul, you’ve got his school picture, right?”

Paul consulted the ceiling. “It’s right where you left it, dear. On the kitchen cabinet.”

Sean could see the 5 x 7 color photo lying near a stack of newspapers.

“Just give them the picture. The guy I talked to on the phone said they could make signs.” She paused. “If necessary.”

* * *

As Sean drove through the night, he battled a feeling of sick helplessness. If something horrible had happened to Jason, he couldn’t bear the thought of it. The loss would rob him of more than just an only son, it would rob him of a life.

He didn’t know how he could go on.

He had to fight back accusatory words, so he turned the radio on. He pushed the button that was set on the classical station in Pittsburgh and the car was filled with trumpets: Pachelbel’s Canon. Shelley had always despised his love of classical music, but tonight he thought she might find it soothing.

And it gave them a way to deal with the silence and the anxiety, which thrummed in the car like a third presence.

“Have you checked the woods across from the house?”

“Paul went out there a little while ago, with a flashlight. He knows right where Jason has his little fort built.” She brushed away a tear. “There was nothing there, except for his iPod and a couple apples in a plastic bag.”

Sean bit his lower lip. “He would never leave the iPod. He loved it. Loves it.” Sean and Austin had given him the iPod Shuffle just last Christmas and the little boy went everywhere with it.

“I know,” Shelley whispered. “I know.”

“How about his friends? I suppose you’ve called around.”

Shelley answered in a voice barely above a whisper. “Friends, classmates. Christ, practically everyone he’s ever bumped into in his whole life.”

“No luck?”

“Yes, Sean, I had a lot of luck. Actually this is just a ploy to get you alone. I thought I’d take another crack at seeing if I could convert you.”

Sean sighed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I’m so damn worried. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Sean pointed the car toward the river, deciding not to call Shelley on saying that it was the worst thing that ever happened to her. She was upset; her terror and anxiety wafted off her like a scent. The Ohio curved along the town of Summitville and even though Jason had been warned, over and over, to keep away from its muddy banks, both parents were certain that wouldn’t keep him away. Parental warnings had failed to keep generations of boys, including Sean, away from the allure of the river.

Both grew silent, thinking things they didn’t want to: the number of boys over the years who had been claimed by the Ohio’s treacherous and unpredictable currents.

Would they find Jason washed up on a bank? Or worse, would the current carry his body downstream, to turn up days later when everyone concerned would be fragile from lack of sleep and worry?

Sean steered the car down a bumpy road, filled with potholes, and headed toward the river. In front of the two of them, cooling towers from Summitville Power, one of the nation’s first nuclear power plants, rose up against the night sky, tiny lights on the towers blinking in the darkness. The towers, sentinels against the dark and starless night, gave an almost surreal feel to their venture. Wafts of steam came off the tops of the two towers, to be snatched up by the wind.

After they had passed the small neighborhood filled with decrepit tiny homes, sheathed in peeling paint or tarpaper masquerading as brick, called Little England for as long as anyone could remember, Sean pulled the car over to the side of the road. Just ahead of them, the road dead-ended. Beyond where the cinders ended was a large grassy field that backed up to Summitville Power. For as long as Sean could remember, kids had been coming here: as prepubescents to explore the tall grassy fields nourished by the river and later, to smoke and make out.

Sean swallowed hard. If Jason was in this field, there was no way they would find him safe. Sean was gripped by a numbness that made his movements those of an automaton, doing each action separately, right down to putting one foot in front of the other.

He wished he had some optimistic words for Shelley, wished he had some optimism for himself. But what answer could there possibly be for an eight-year-old boy, smart and always well-behaved, to be out now, after a thunderstorm and hedging in on midnight? Still, he kept a part of his mind open for something he hadn’t thought of.

The air, after the storm, had a slight chill to it. Shelley wrapped her arms around herself and Sean noticed, for the first time, how much she still looked like a child. Her thin build, barely clinging to a frame little more than five feet tall, gave her a waifish appearance. The baggy T-shirt and jeans she wore did little to dispel the illusion that Sean had a child along with him. Her reddish brown hair was pulled back away from her face, a face unlined, but now creased by worry and dread.

“It’s going to be okay,” Sean said to his ex-wife. “There’s got to be something we’re not thinking of.”

Shelley said nothing as the two of them stepped over a chain that supposedly barred anyone from entering the field.

The ground beneath them squished with each step they took and as they progressed, their feet sank deeper into the mud, causing them to have to pull their feet out sometimes, with a loud sucking noise once the foot was freed. An odor of fish wafted up from the river.

“He’s not here,” Shelley said. “This is pointless. We should be home so we can talk to the police when they get there.”

“Paul can handle that. Besides, I’ve got my cell phone and I assume you do, too.”

Shelley looked at him then, her eyes bright with tears in the darkness. She didn’t need to say anything.

“Let’s hurry.”

Movement was tough, what with the damp and the sliver of a moon hidden behind slate gray clouds.

As their gaze roamed the darkened empty fields, Shelley grabbed Sean’s arm suddenly. “There! Oh God, do you see it?”

And Sean followed Shelley’s gaze and her trembling finger to what he first saw as just more high, yellowing grass and weeds. And then he noticed how some of the vegetation was tramped down.

And then he saw the little red Converse shoe.

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The Nan Tu (The Southern Migration) - Southern Swallow Book II excerpt by Edward C Patterson

“We all lived in the shadow of K’ai-feng’s ashes now. No denying it. However safe we felt, the world hung by a silken thread.” So begins the second book of the Southern Swallow series — The Nan Tu (The Southern Migration) by Edward C Patteron, and like the first book, The Academician, it is told by K’u Ko-ling, servant to the Grand Tutor, Li K’ai-men. The Emperor Kao has proclaimed that his court and government will migrate to the south, a progress filled with adventure, intrigue, war and tragedy, thus setting a series of events in play that shaped the Middle Kingdom.

Set on the broad canvas of Sung Dynasty China, The Nan Tu is a tale of love, separation and sacrifice. Yet heroes emerge from the ashes and restoration is within their grasp. From the mountain lairs of bandits to the sweep of the fleet at sea, The Nan Tu will transport you to a world that should have never been forgotten. Still, there are more important things than empires and history. There’s love and destiny — the destiny of Li K’ai-men’s relics and the enlistment of his helpmates to guard over the membrane of time.

The Nan Tu - Southern Swallow Book II
Publisher: CreateSpace
ISBN: 1449994202

Excerpt:

Chapter One
The Dragon’s Teeth
1

We all lived in the shadow of K’ai-feng’s ashes now. No denying it. However safe we felt, either under the cold towers of Ch’i-chou or within the remnant palaces at Ying-t’ien, the world hung by a silken thread. The barbarians were poised to cut that thread. Who could prevent it? The new emperor, my lord, Prince Kang? He ascended the throne like a parrot in a cage, looking for a nod to do so. My master, Li K’ai-men? He had a clear eye, a keen mind and a bag of paranormal tricks, but he couldn’t stay the tide. Would it be the generals? They proclaimed their worth and vitality. Yet, not one could guarantee our safety.

I did know one thing. This vast land — this land in disunion and turmoil would not be put to rights by me — K’u Ko-ling, poor son of a cowcumber farmer from Gui-lin. I had already lived several lives beyond most piss ant farmers, and now was set to take my ease on the battlements, watching the world crumble. When it did, I would touch my master’s hand and find some recourse in his secret magic, but as long as he remained the Grand Tutor to the Emperor Kao, I was stuck in the latrine.

There’s no easy exit for those who serve . . . not even for a boy prince now elevated to the dragon throne. Heaven chooses her sons, but Heaven leaves them to find their own way. It seems unfair to me. I mean, it’s like being struck by lightning and putting out the fire with your own piss. Not a keen prospect. Still, if we were to survive these times, we depended upon this youth, who preferred riding to ruling.

I am an ignorant fool, never expected to understand the contours of politics. All I needed was my daily bowl of noodles and a woman once a week, now that my fat-ass wife was off with my mistress in the wilds at Nan-chang. Still, I had seen too much to put aside my instincts.

These men — the Emperor, my master, the hive of generals, the sea of misguided bureaucrats, officials and academicians — they all looked for approval. Heaven usually intervened with a comet or the birth of a three-headed cow, but the only unusual occurrence was the absence of unusual occurrences. With the Jurchen still hovering across the northern border and a rival dynasty nominally ruling at K’ai-feng, the world looked for legitimacy. The world looked to the wilds at Nan-chang, to that wily fox — the old Dowager Empress, the only legitimate creature in the Empire by dint of her long-standing maternity as the Mother of the Nation.

Now I scarcely recall my real mother, but if the Dowager Empress were my mother, I would have spent my days hiding in the latrine. What must have gone through His Majesty’s head while he waited for the blessing of this woman? And to think that my mistress and my master’s heartfelt companion, Fu Lin-t’o, were hostages at Nan-chang, along with my fat-ass wife. But the less I say about her, the better.

2

In the central hall’s dim light, the Dowager Empress sat in silent thought, playing with the dragon’s teeth, although she knew they were two small pearls dangling from a golden pendant — this pendant pinned to her robes. Yang Yu-yuan saw that the assembly waited upon her, the full Nan-chang court hushed in her presence. Tao Fan stood like a statue, casting a long shadow across the hall. Nearby, Lady Lin and the Princess Chia sat on cushions. And there were others — some summoned and some not, but all waiting on the Imperial silence while the Empress pondered her finger, caressing the dragon’s teeth.

A wintry wind blew through the gray hall, making it too cold to sit long without shivering, or so Fu Lin-t’o thought. He was among the summoned, sitting behind his mistress, Mei Lin, Li K’ai-men’s wife. Fu had sat for two watches, the chill creeping into his feet — feet that still ached from his injuries. He had been managing to walk with the aid of Chou Bei, the steward. However, Chou Bei was not there today, remaining behind with the household women. So Fu Lin-t’o’s support came from Mei Lin, who was heavy with child and barely able to buttress a full-grown man. Mei Lin’s son, Li Pao-xien was also present and squirming. In fact, many children had been summoned, including three-year-old Prince Meng.

Why did the old lady want the children? Fu Lin-t'o thought.

There was yet another sitting on the cushions — Lady Lin, a scion of the original founding bloodline, and her son, an older boy, perhaps four, who constantly broke the silence with his chirping lip-bubbles, amusing Fu Lin-t’o, who called the boy Sparrow. Sparrow was regal despite his age and conduct. He was the Count of Wei. Every one of the Count of Wei’s chirps elicited a grumble from the Dowager Empress, who still pondered in the silence and played with her twin pearls.

“You must be quiet,” Lady Lin whispered to her son. “Be like Prince Meng.”

Fu Lin-t’o was thankful that Prince Meng was quiet today. He was usually a handful, and Li Pao-xien was generally loud. Fu felt like a child, waiting in this unnatural silence. If he could run, he would have attempted it, but the hall was stocked with grim warriors — local generals who mourned for the loss of the capital. The Dowager had summoned some, although others just drifted in from broken commands.

Finally, the Dowager stirred, her formidable headdress nodding to Tao Fan. Her ermines shimmered in the dim light. Tao Fan approached her, bowing to catch his mistress’ whispered command. Then, the eunuch turned about, his pruny, gloomy face directed at Mei Lin. He approached her, his baton pounding. Fu Lin-t’o stirred, and prepared to stand. However, Tao Fan noticed the attempt and squelched it.

“I suggest, Master Fu, that you take your ease.”

“As you wish, Lord Tao.”

“I am not a lord, nor will I ever be one.”

Tao Fan’s voice carried through the hall, the entire assembly hugging his every word. He turned to Princess Chia.

“My mistress wants the child.”

Princess Chia nodded, and then stood. The amah followed her as she shuffled to the throne.

“The other one too,” the Dowager commanded.

Tao Fan glanced at Lady Lin and the Count of Wei. She too was upstanding, guiding her son toward the formidable woman.

“The Grand Tutor’s lady also, and his spawn.”

Tao Fan nodded. Mei Lin gathered herself and Li Pao-xien with difficulty. Fu Lin-t’o disregarded Tao Fan’s command. He tottered to those misshapen things that once he had called feet.

“You must stay,” Tao Fan said.

“Mistress,” Fu said, ignoring the eunuch. “Give me my nephew’s hand.”

Mei Lin complied, and then together they trundled toward the throne.

“Desist,” Tao Fan shouted, pounding his baton twice upon the floor. He evidently had forgotten that Fu Lin-t’o had saved his skin in their flight from K’ai-feng. It was always the way with the palace vermin. Fu ignored him, fully expecting the next pounding of the baton to be across his back.

“Let him come,” Yu-yuan croaked. “It is befitting that the paramour should lead the brat.”

Once they reached the first step beneath this icy lady, they bowed deeply, awaiting her bidding. Li Pao-xien squirmed under Fu’s grasp, but Fu pulled him firmly forward. It was not easy, because the pain in his injured feet, especially the right one, was excruciating. Fu did all he could to maintain proper form. Still, the Dowager held them in her gaze, staring to each in turn, all the while fiddling with those damned pearls.

I would dearly love to tear that pendant from her chest and stick it up her ass, Fu Lin-t’o thought.

His eyes shifted to Mei Lin, who trembled. Was this fear or the cold? Probably both. Finally, Her Majesty, the immortal Dowager Empress Yang Yu-yuan, stood. Everyone knelt, a relief from the standing. Fu heard armor clattering, brocades rustling and an anticipated murmuring that, after two full watches, the great woman was about to let the commandments fly.

3

“Is Prince Meng well?” she asked Princess Chia.

“With all my heart, Your Majesty. He is as healthy a baby as you could ever see.”

“Ugly then, is he not, the gods cursing us.”

The Princess smiled, and then nodded.

“Ugliest child under Heaven, Your Majesty.”

“Good. The descendants of T’ai-tsung always have been wretches and always shall be so.” She turned toward Lady Lin. “And how is your son?”

“Blessed with good health, Your Majesty.”

“Ugly also?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“But less so than Prince Meng,” the Dowager suggested. “A fairer child and thus drawing Heaven’s jealousy.”

“Fairer than his cousin,” Lady Lin confirmed.

“It has always been the way with the descendants of T’ai-tsu that they are fairer and thus losing their turn in line. Still, the two great lineages stand before me as I look to Heaven for the signs.”

Suddenly, she gazed at Mei Lin. Her hand went to the pendant again.

“When Heaven favors a new claimant of the mandate, there are signs,” the Dowager continued. “I have searched my heart for such signs. The Emperor Ch’ing still lives. It was unfortunate that he retired me to this fortress instead of allowing me my place at court, but he still lives. Thus, we have an Emperor still . . . and a dynasty.”

The audience murmured again, especially the military component. Fu Lin-t’o thought these words might have stirred them to some cause — a common thread among them. The Emperor may have been captured. He may have been dragged off with his father and the entire court, save one. However, that didn’t mean his reign was over. In fact, a new reign period had not been proclaimed.

Suddenly, the murmur increased. A gentleman drifted through the rear portals, his arms held high like trophies. It was Xie K’o-chia, the Councilor of the Left Bureau of Military Affairs, long associated with the Dowager Empress. In fact, Li K’ai-men once told Fu Lin-t’o that Xie K’o-chia was a creature of that woman — that woman who would control the world.

“Councilor Xie,” Yang Yu-yuan said, and then sat again.

The man came forward, his entourage few and dusty; his sandals muddied and his coat not the finest. He smelled of horse. He evidently did not observe protocol before delivering his tidings, although he was two watches late. He bowed.

“My lady,” Xie K’o-chia said. “May Heaven watch over your sacred heart. May the wisdom of the House of Chao stir from your tongue and give us peace.”

“Peace,” she said. “Peace is the one thing we do not have. Tell me. Does Chang Pang-chang and his flatulent dynasty still stand at K’ai-feng?”

“It does not, my lady. General Tsung Tse has retaken the capital.”

Yu-yuan smiled for the first time since she called this court gathering.

“Chang Pang-chang is dead then?”

“He lives.”

She stood, her arm sweeping the air, her finger pointing to her creature. Xie K’o-chia squinted, but did not budge.

“I demand that Chang Pang-chang be executed at once,” she shouted.

“My lady,” Xie said, his demeanor respectful, but firm. “Please forgive my boldness, but as your councilor I must remind you that such a proclamation is reserved for His Majesty, may he live ten thousand years.”

The Empress spit, returning to her seat with a thump.

“Who rules here? In this place, Xie K’o-chia, who rules here?”

“Within these walls, my lady, you do. Within this aging heart, you do. But as for all-under-Heaven, that is a question on which we solicit your grace to consider.”

“Well, at least, I rule your heart, Xie K’o-chia. I will rest easy tonight knowing that. As for my brother-in-law’s children, I believe we have an issue that will not disappear — unless we have a sign that Heaven favors one of them.”

Xie K’o-chia bowed again.

“My lady, might I suggest that we do have a sign.”

The hall murmured again. Breastplates rattled. Fu Lin-t’o prepared for the worst. If this sign acknowledged that the captured Emperor was still the Son of Heaven, this woman would proclaim herself regent in his absence. Fu was sure of it.

“Speak,” she said, fidgeting with the pearl pendant.

“That K’ai-feng was taken and the House of Chao deflowered,” Xie Ko-chia said, “is a sign of Heaven’s intemperance with your nephew, the Emperor Ch’ing. Prince Kang, the Duke of Ch’i is the only free remaining son of the retired-Emperor Hui. Again the succession goes to a brother.”

“He is too young,” Yu-yuan snapped.

Or not young enough, Fu Lin-t’o thought.

“He was declared Emperor by the northeastern divisions under Han Shr-chung,” Xie Ko-chia said.

“So he has teeth behind his claim.”

“I have heard, my lady, that he’s reluctant to ascend the dragon throne, but the signs are with him.”

The Empress stared at the Princess Chia as if to say this is your fault. You have given us an alternative, but alas you are here instead of with your husband.

“Signs? You keep saying there are signs, but you only tell me of human frailty and the strength of arms. Heaven does not speak in such terms.”

She rubbed the pendant.

“He was proclaimed in the shadow of Mount T’ai,” Xie said.

“Mere geography.”

“Then, we must also consider the number. The number . . . nine.”

Yu-yuan’s face puckered. She appeared disturbed, as if a cricket made a nest in her robes.

“Nine?”

“Nine, my lady.”

“Yes,” she whispered. Her face brightened to its full dimness. “Yes. Nine.”

“Nine dragons seen across the sun.”

“True.”

“Nine Emperors have ruled the Great Sung.”

“Nine, indeed.”

Yu-yuan’s husband was number seven; unlucky number, that.

“Prince Kang is the ninth son.”

Yang Yu-yuan twitched at this. A grin blossomed across her face, but then vanished as she slowly stood, stretching to her full stature, her ermines cascading to the floor.

“The ninth son,” she said. “That he is. The ninth and the one I loved most. The one I nurtured at my breast. Indeed, that is the sign, Xie K’o-chia.” She turned to Tao Fan, who slammed his baton to the floor three times. “Let the royal seal be offered to the ninth son of my brother-in-law, the retired-Emperor Hui. And may we hold true to the will of Heaven and the nine dragons that have dotted the sun.”

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NIGHTLIFE excerpt by Dale Lazarov & Bastian Jonsson

NIGHTLIFE, written and edited by Dale Lazarov, drawn by Bastian Jonsson and colored by Yann Duminil, is a collection of three gay erotic comics set in different kinds of nightlife. The first story is “Hard Cases” in which two very sexy singer-songwriters — the guys on the cover of the book — meet at an open mike in a gay bar and hook up to take their creativity and skills into the bedroom. In “Layover”, a young handsome businessman and a leonine muscledaddy meet at an airport bar. When all flights are cancelled, they turn the setback in their travel plans into an overnight affair to remember. The third and last story in the book, “Closing Time”, features a hot, scary biker bouncer and a muscly/hairy/scruffy punk boy.

NightLife
Publisher: Bruno Gmunder Verlag GmbH(November, 2009)
ISBN 10: 3867870446
ISBN 13: 9783867870443

Excerpt:


















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LA Boneyard excerpt by P A Brown

In the third book in the L.A. series, featuring Christopher Bellamere and David Eric Laine, evil is pursued from a shallow grave in Griffith Park, to the streets of West Hollywood and into the dark heart of the gang-infested streets of East L.A.

Detective David Eric Laine is no stranger to violence and brutality, but even he is taken back at the sheer viciousness of the murder of two pregnant Ukrainian women. This was just the beginning of a baffling case which would lead from their shallow grave to a bucolic bungalow community in West Hollywood, tree-lined and tranquil, to the heart of the gang-infested streets of East Los Angeles, and points in between.

LA Boneyard
MLR Press (November, 2009)
ISBN: 978-1-60820-018-4 (ebook)
978-1-60820-017-7 (print)

Excerpt:

Friday, 8:20 AM, Vista del Valle Drive, Griffith Park, Los Angeles

Something had done a number on the corpse.

The early morning call-out had been brief and to the point. Griffith Park. Shallow grave. Mutilated arm. Probably wild animals.

LAPD homicide detective David Eric Laine hoped it was animals. He crouched beside the makeshift grave, behind the screen of freshly broken branches and crushed vegetation, studying the exposed arm with the manicured nails and winking diamond ring; the animals had nearly worked off the bone. Wondering what her final moments had been like. Knowing it had been ugly. He looked beyond the grave, visualizing. Had he raped her? Had that been the last indignity she had suffered, before the ultimate one?

Overhead, dense black clouds roiled across the western sky, a late Pineapple Express had roared in last night, straight from Hawaii, promising more rain in an already wet spring. The chaparral and Ceanothus had started their seasonal bloom, thin green shoots emerging from what had once been desiccated limbs. Under foot the moisture retaining hydro-mulch, spread after the ravaging 2007 and 2008 fires, soaked his feet, chilling his skin. The steady thump-thump of the LAPD airship called in to do an aerial survey echoed his heartbeat, driving him relentlessly, as unforgiving of failure as he was.

David scanned the ground, taking in the fresh horse tracks, and the fading coyote spore. The animals had scattered when the woman who found the body nearly rode her horse over them. She stood with her shoulder touching her horse’s neck, the animal’s reins still held in her gloved hand. Blindly she touched the burnished chestnut coat, seeking comfort. David turned away; he had nothing to give her. His promises were for the dead. They didn’t ask for guarantees. They didn’t get angry when he was called away in the middle of the night to do his job.

“So what have we got?” he asked.

The first officer on the scene, Donald Lessing, pulled out his notes, “I received a call at seven-fifty-six AM that a body had been discovered in a shallow grave. My partner and I were dispatched, and arrived about fifteen minutes later.” He indicated his partner, a paunchy, silver-haired Asian, who was adding a second loop of barrier tape to keep out the curious, then indicated the equestrienne, “We found Mrs. Rosenfield right about where she is now. She was pretty upset.”

“I’m sure the last thing she expected to find was a dead body on her morning ride.”

“Yes sir.”

Nothing could be done to process the crime scene until the photographers had taken their shots. Everything had to be kept intact to preserve possible evidence. They had the time; the body wasn’t going anywhere. In the distance, thunder rumbled. He amended that, maybe they didn’t have so much time.

David studied the dark, crouching clouds, and wondered if Chris would get over his snit long enough to close the windows against the coming rain. Otherwise their newly refinished oak floors were going to get a soaking. One more thing for Chris to get pissed at. He retraced his steps and approached the horse and rider.

He pulled out a notebook and twisted his arm around to check the time, only to discover he wasn’t wearing his watch. Right, he’d stuffed it into his jacket pocket after he’d left an angry Chris in bed this morning. Chris always seemed to be angry these days. He got that way when he was between jobs.

He drew out the Rolex Chris had given him for his fortieth birthday and wrote the exact time, the crime scene location, and his own name and rank. David studied the watch ruefully. He had told Chris a gift like that was too extravagant, but Chris wouldn’t listen. “You deserve it,” he had said. “You put up with me for four years, didn’t you?” Still, David took it off when he could; out of sight of Chris, who took it as a personal affront when he didn’t wear it all the time. David was a Timex kind of guy. Even after four years he never got comfortable with the easy wealth Chris displayed.

Mrs. Rosenfield looked young. David doubted she was more than twenty-five. Under normal circumstances she would have been attractive—large, doe eyes, soft hair flying loose from under her riding helmet. But now her face was pale, and her eyes were glassy with shock. David pushed aside his sympathy and assembled his cop face; the one Chris hated so much, claiming it made him look cold and robotic. Well, there were times when cold and robotic was the right way.

She wore a tailored riding outfit and boots that gleamed, even in the sunless light. A pulse beat in her throat, like a wounded animal.

“Mrs. Rosenfield,” he said. “I’m Detective David Eric Laine. Could I have your full name, please?”

“Danielle,” she said. “Just call me Danielle.” Her gaze darted toward the grave. “Who is it? Do you know—?”

“No, ma’am, Danielle, we don’t know that yet. Can you take me back to when you first spotted something out of the ordinary?”

“S-sure.” She visibly collected herself, her hand going out to stroke her horse’s neck. “Toby and I were on our morning ride, when these coyotes came racing right out under our noses—I thought they were attacking us at first. You hear about how bold they’ve gotten over the years.”

“Yes, ma’am.” What coyotes could do was frightening. What people could do to each other was so much worse. “What then?”

“Once they ran away I realized they were just as scared as we were. I was going to head back home. I’m supposed to be to work at ten.” She shook her head, a strand of hair falling over her eyes. She swept it aside with a kidskin gloved hand. “I guess I should call my boss. I don’t think I’ll be in today—” Her voice broke.

“Yes, ma’am,” David said gently. “What was the first thing you noticed before the coyotes appeared?”

“Toby spooked.” Rosenfield grimaced. “I guess when he got wind of them. He nearly dumped me. That was when I saw the arm. I screamed. That must have scared them away without taking...taking it with them.” The grimace deepened and the flesh around her mouth whitened.

More thunder cracked, closer this time. She looked around uneasily.

“Anything else you can recall about your ride?” David asked even more gently, knowing she was very close to losing it. “Before you noticed anything amiss?”

”We rode by the Roosevelt Municipal golf course,” she said. “I go that way all the time. Usually it’s so peaceful...”

“You see anybody on the links?”

“Two players, and a caddie.” Rosenfield squinted as she recalled her morning. “I don’t pay much attention to the golfers, unless they’re driving carts. Sometimes they spook Toby.”

“Would you recognize the golfers if you saw them again?”

“W-what? You don’t think they had anything to do with this, do you?”

“It’s just standard procedure,” David assured her. “Look, I know this is tough. Even cops can have a hard time stumbling across something like this. If you like, I can give you the number of a victim’s support group. They can help you with this, if you want.”

“T-thank you. I don’t think that’s necessary...”

David handed her the card anyway. “You might change your mind. I hear they’re good.”

She slipped the card into her jacket pocket. He knew she wouldn’t call. He’d seen it before. Misplaced pride would keep her from seeking help. “What did you see then?” he prompted.

“I didn’t know what it was at first, then I thought it was a mannequin.” She gave a short bark of laughter, quickly stifled. “That someone had stolen a storefront dummy and was playing a gag. It was only after I saw the teeth marks that I knew.” She swallowed convulsively and David wondered if she was going to be sick. The human arm had been heavily gnawed by strong jaws. He distracted her as smoothly as he could.

“I need you to come down to the station, to make a formal statement. I can send someone out to get you if you like—”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll drive myself. Will I have to go to court?”

“I won’t lie to you. It depends on the D.A., and whether a suspect is found, and it all makes it to court. But I’m sure someone from the prosecutor’s office will be in touch with you if it becomes necessary.”

David watched her stiffly remount her horse and urge it back onto the trail. They broke into a fast trot before they were out of sight. He very much doubted she would ever ride this peaceful trail again.

Out of the corner of his eye, David saw a white Pontiac Firehawk, splattered with debris from the previous night’s rain, pull up beside the LAPD crime scene van. It was driven by a lithe, dark-skinned Latino man, with that young urban scruffy beard thing going on. Chris, always quick to adopt new fads, had tried it once, until David complained that it was like kissing five o’clock shadow, all day long, and he reluctantly shaved it off.

The Latino climbed out of the low-slung car. He surveyed the scene of controlled chaos with dark eyes, taking in everything in a sweeping glance, before he shrouded them with a pair of Ray Bans. He looked like he just stepped out of GQ, sharp creases on his wool dress pants and sedate black and blue tie. He wore his gold detective’s badge on a chain around his neck. David caught a glimpse of his Beretta nine under his LAPD blue nylon wind breaker. Incongruously, he wore a pair of hand-tooled black and blue Tony Lamas boots instead of the usual military gear most new detectives favored. David wouldn’t be surprised if he had a closet full of Levis and Stetsons at home. He was a tall man, though not as tall as David’s six-four, dark-skinned, with high cheek bones. His eyes were dark and dangerous. Too dangerous for David’s taste.

The guy was going to spell trouble.

Already the eyes of the two female SID criminologists kept straying his way. David had heard rumors about the guy, even before he was assigned to Northeast; he’d ignored them at the time, like he ignored all the trash talk around the squad room. In the stories the guy was a wannabe actor. David had heard — and dismissed — the story about his involvement with a producer’s wife that had ended messily. The tabloid press had been all over it. Maybe the guy had a problem keeping his dick in his pants. Maybe he was only guilty of bad judgment. He wouldn’t be the first. Cops and badge bunnies went together like chili and fries.

David extended his hand and introduced himself. Might as well give the guy the benefit of a doubt, he didn’t like it when people jumped to conclusions about him. Being one of the few openly gay detectives carried its own baggage. “Glad to have you on board.”

“Thank you, sir,” the detective said. “Detective Jairo Garcia Hernandez.” He pronounced it Yairo. “Most gringos call me Jerry.” His smile was all teeth and David knew he was being tested by the new D.

He’d nip that one in the bud before it went south. “I think I can handle Jairo.” He gave the word a Spanish lilt. The guy wasn’t going to catch this gringo ignorant of the language. Good looking or not, he was just another rookie D.

Jairo saw the Rolex on his wrist and whistled. “Nice watch. Your wife give you that?”

“No, I’m not married,” David said. Deciding to make small talk, he ventured,“You?”

“Yes.”

“How’s that going for you?” Cops loved marriage; so many of them did it so often.

“Fine.” Jairo grew defensive. “You gonna tell me that’s gonna change? Already got that from my smart-ass sergeant first time I showed up for roll-call.”

“It’s hard,” was all David said. “Marriage is a work in progress.”

“So you were married? She divorce you?”

David shrugged. He finally slipped the Rolex off and tucked it back into his inner pocket, over his heart. It would be safer there, away from nosy rookies. “It’s complicated.” Then he saw Jairo had noticed the plain gold band he wore on his left ring finger. The gold band Chris had given him following the first year they had lived together. He closed his hands into fists, but made no attempt to hide the thing. What was the use? He was almost as notorious in the LAPD as Mark Fuhrman.

Jairo’s disingenuous eyes widened. “You’re the... you’re him.”

David saw something glitter on the ground at the entrance to the crime scene, and crouched down to study it. It was a bottle cap. Still, he signaled a photographer over to take a picture. Sometimes the littlest things proved useful. Sometimes they were just litter. All around them crime scene techs were placing evidence flags, and doing their best to catch everything, before the skies opened up. He was glad to see that the victim’s hands had been bagged, covering the ring he had seen earlier.

“You can say it, you know.” David stood up and brushed debris off his pants. “I’m the gay cop.”


Jairo flushed and looked away. “Yes, sir.”

Now what was that all about? Surely as soon as he knew who his latest senior partner was going to be, Jairo would have known all about David’s sordid “secret.” He would have found all kinds of officers eager to share the scuttlebutt about who he’d been saddled with. “That’s Detective, Hernandez.” David was already beginning to miss Martinez, his partner of ten years. He had been reassigned to South-Central, for the next six months, to work a gang detail. They had forged a tight partnership; a partnership that even David’s abrupt outing over four years ago had not disrupted. David wasn’t looking forward to breaking in the new kid, even if he was, as rumor also claimed, top of his graduating class. Good grades, like good looks, weren’t everything.

He moved around to stand beside the grave again. A tarp had been laid over the torn earth to protect against the coming storm. He thought he could still see the outline of the arm. He glanced sideways when a flash of lightning illuminated the dense brush. He almost felt sorry for the boots who was going to have to guard this site all night.

He turned back to face the grave and its nameless victim. Jairo came up to stand beside him. David kept his eyes on the tarp, ignoring the man beside him.

“I’ll find him,” he promised.

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